IN THE GARDEN

‘Father’s in a horrid temper.  Did anything go wrong?’ said Rose, when Leonora reached Hillport.

‘No,’ Leonora replied.  ‘Where is he?’

‘In the drawing-room.  He says he won’t have any tea.’

’You must remember, my dear, that your father has been through a great deal this last day or two.’

‘So have all of us, as far as that goes,’ Rose stated ruthlessly.  ‘However——­’ She turned away, shrugging her shoulders.

Leonora wondered by means of what sad experience Rose would ultimately discover that, whereas men have the right to cry out when they are hurt, it is the whole business of a woman’s life to suffer in cheerful silence.  She sat with the girls during tea, drinking a cup for the sake of form, and giving them disconnected items of information about the funeral, which at their own passionate request they had been excused from attending.  The talk was carried on in low tones, so that the rattle of a spoon in a saucer sounded loud and distinct.  And in the drawing-room John steadily perused the ‘Signal,’ column by column, from the announcement of ‘Pink Dominoes’ at the Hanbridge Theatre Royal on the first page, to the bait of a sporting bookmaker in Holland at the end of the last.  The evening was desolating, but Leonora endured it with philosophy, because she appreciated John’s state of mind.

It was the disclosure of the legacy of two hundred and fifty pounds to Fred Ryley, and of the recent conditional revocation of that legacy, which had galled her husband’s sensibilities by bringing home to him what he had lost through Aunt Hannah’s sudden death and through the senile whim of Uncle Meshach to alter his will.  He could well have tolerated Meshach’s refusal to distribute Aunt Hannah’s savings immediately (Leonora thought), had the old man’s original testament remained uncancelled.  Once upon a time, Ryley, the despised poor relation, the offspring of an outcast from the family, was to have been put off with two hundred and fifty pounds, and the bulk of the Myatt joint fortune was to have passed in any case to John.  The withdrawal of the paltry legacy, as shown in the codicil, was the outward and irritating sign that Ryley had been lifted from his humble position to the level of John himself.  John, of course, had known months ago that he and Ryley stood level in the hazard of gaining the inheritance, but the history of the legacy, revealed after the funeral, aroused his disgusted imagination, as it had not been roused before.

He was beaten; and, more important, he knew it now; he had the incensed, futile, malevolent, devil-may-care feeling of being beaten.  He bitterly invited Fate not to stop at half-measures but to come on and do her worst.  And Fate, with that mysterious responsiveness which often distinguishes her movements, came on.  ’Of course!  I might have expected it!’ John exclaimed savagely, two days later, when he received a circular to the effect that a small