That was what he had brought her to.

CHAPTER XXIX

The rain cleared off, the mist lifted, and at nine o’clock it was a fine day for Peggy’s birthday.  Even Scale, where it stretched its flat avenues into the country, showed golden in the warm and brilliant air.

The household in Prior Street had been up early, making preparations for the day.  Peggy had waked before it was light, to feel her presents which lay beside her on her bed; and, by the time Majendie’s sail had passed Fawlness Point, she was up and dressed, waiting for him.

Anne had to break it to her gently that perhaps he would not be home in time for eight-o’clock breakfast.  Then the child’s mouth trembled, and Anne comforted her, half-smiling and half-afraid.

“Ah, Peggy, Peggy,” she said, as she rocked her against her breast, “What shall I do with you?  Your little heart is too big for your little body.”

Anne’s terror had not left her in three years.  It was always with her now.  The child was bound to suffer.  She was a little mass of throbbing nerves, of trembling emotions.

Yet Anne herself was happier.  The three years had passed smoothly over her.  Her motherhood had laid its fine, soft, finishing touch upon her.  Her face, her body, had rounded and ripened, year after slow year, to an abiding beauty, born of her tenderness.  At thirty-five Anne Majendie had reached the perfect moment of her physical maturity.

Her mind was no longer harassed by anxiety about her husband.  He seemed to have settled down.  He had ceased to be uncertain in his temper, by turns irritable and depressed.  He had parted with the heaviness which had once roused her aversion, and had recovered his personal distinction, the slender refinement of his youth.  She rejoiced in his well-being.  She attributed it, partly to his open-air habits, partly to the spiritual growth begun in him at the time of his sister’s death.

She desired no change in their relations, no further understanding, no closer intimacy.

To Anne’s mind, her husband’s attitude to her was perfect.  The passion that had been her fear had left him.  He waited on her hand and foot, with humble, heart-rending devotion.  He let her see that he adored her with discretion, at a distance, as a divinely, incomprehensibly high and holy thing.

Her household life had simplified itself.  Her days passed in noiseless, equable procession.  Many hours had been given back to her empty after Edith’s death.  She had filled them with interests outside her home, with visiting the poor in the district round All Souls, with evening classes for shop-girls, with “Rescue” work.  Not an hour of her day was idle.  At the end of the three years Mrs. Majendie was known in Scale by her broad charities and by her saintly life.