of houses on their edge.  He looked at the deep ditch that surrounded the outermost field; then turning his head looked again at the heath, its bleak contours mounting gradually till they showed an ugly ridge beyond which the downs swelled up soft and vague against the hanging curtain of clouds.  And he thought of what lay on the far side of this long grass rampart of down country—­the fat-soiled valley, the other railway line, the trains from the West of England, full of queer people, running by night as well as by day.

As he passed the Barradine Arms, he saw three louts leaning against a dry bit of wall under the eaves of an outhouse.  They stared at him stupidly, not speaking or touching their caps, just loutishly staring; and he stared at them with black severity.  He thought how he himself had been like one of those oafs, living in a cottage not so many miles from this spot.  No one now seemed to remember his humble birth, his unhappy youth, his sordid home.  Other people forgot everything; while he could forget nothing.

At the Cross Roads he drew rein for a moment, as if undecided as to which way to turn.  Before going home he had to pay a business call, and his destination was straight ahead of him, about four miles off as the crow flies.  The quickest way to get there, the line nearest to the crow’s line, would be to leave the road here and ride through Hadleigh Wood, under the bare beeches, among the somber pines, along the gloomy rides; and the alternative route would be to turn to the right, hold to the open road, and follow its deflected course past the Abbey gates and park, and all round the wild forest.  That way would be three miles longer than the other way.  He turned his horse’s head to the right; and as he went on by the road, he was thinking of the terrible chapter in his life that closed with the death of Mr. Barradine.

Nearly fifteen years ago; yet in all that time, although dwelling so near to the tragic fateful wood, he had been into it only once—­and then he had gone there with the hounds and jolly loud-voiced riders, cub-hunting, on a bright September morning.  The wood symbolized everything that he wished to forget.  And he thought that if he were really a rich man—­not a poor little well-to-do trader, but a fabulous millionaire—­he’d buy all this woodland, cut down every tree, chase away every shadow, and grow corn in the sunlight.  He would buy woodland and parkland too—­he would burn Aunt Petherick’s hidden cottage, the Abbey with its inner, outer and middle courtyards, yes, and its church also; he would burn and fell, and grub and plough, and then plant the seeds of corn that symbolize the resurrection of life; and the sun should shine on a wide yellow sea, with waves of hope rippling across it as the ripened ears bowed and rose; and there should be no trace or stain to mark the submerged slime that had held corruption and death.  Then, if he could do that, he would have nothing to remind him of all he had gone through in the past.