Stephen clung to this little, grey box of a woman as a drowning man will cling to a spar. Puddle’s very hardness was somehow consoling—it seemed concrete, a thing you could trust, could rely on, and their friendship that had flourished as a green bay-tree grew into something more stalwart and much more enduring. And surely the two of them had need of their friendship, for now there was little happiness at Morton; Sir Philip and Anna were deeply unhappy—degraded they would feel by their ceaseless quarrels.
Sir Philip would think: “I must tell her the truth—I must tell her what I believe to be the truth about Stephen.” He would go in search of his wife, but having found her would stand there tongue-tied, with his eyes full of pity.
And one day Anna suddenly burst out weeping, for no reason except that she felt his great pity. Not knowing and not caring why he pitied, she wept, so that all he could do was to console her.
They clung together like penitent children. “Anna, forgive me.”
“Forgive me, Philip—” For in between quarrels they were sometimes like children, naively asking each other’s forgiveness.
Sir Philip’s resolution weakened and waned as he kissed the tears from her poor, reddened eyelids. He thought: “Tomorrow—tomorrow I’ll tell her—I can’t bear to make her more unhappy today.”
So the weeks drifted by and still he had not spoken; summer came and went, giving place to the autumn. Yet one more Christmas visited Morton, and still Sir Philip had not spoken.
XIV
I
February came bringing snowstorms with it, the heaviest known for many a year. The hills lay folded in swathes of whiteness, and so did the valleys at the foot of the hills, and so did the spacious gardens of Morton—it was all one vast panorama of whiteness. The lakes froze, and the beech trees had crystalline branches, while their luminous carpet of leaves grew brittle so that it crackled now underfoot, the only sound in the frozen stillness of that place that was always infinitely still. Peter, the arrogant swan, turned friendly, and he and his family now welcomed Stephen who fed them every morning and evening, and they glad enough to partake of her bounty. On the lawn Anna set out a tray for the birds, with chopped suet, seed, and small mounds of breadcrumbs; and down at the stables old Williams spread straw in wide rings for exercising the horses who could not be taken beyond the yard, so bad were the roads around Morton.
The gardens lay placidly under the snow, in no way perturbed or disconcerted. Only one inmate of theirs felt anxious, and that was the ancient and wide-boughed cedar, for the weight of the snow made an ache in its branches—its branches were brittle like an old man’s bones; that was why the cedar felt anxious. But it could not cry out or shake off its torment; no, it could only endure with patience, hoping that Anna would take note of its trouble, since she sat in its shade summer after summer—since once long ago she had sat in its shade dreaming of the son she would bear her husband. And one morning Anna did notice its plight, and she called Sir Philip, who hurried from his study.
She said: “Look, Philip! I’m afraid for my cedar—it’s all weighted down—I feel worried about it.”
Then Sir Philip sent in to Upton for chain, and for stout pads of felt to support the branches; and he himself must direct the gardeners while they climbed into the tree and pushed off the snow; and he himself must see to the placing of the stout felt pads, lest the branches be galled. Because he loved Anna who loved the cedar, he must stand underneath it directing the gardeners.
A sudden and horrible sound of rending. “Sir, look out! Sir Philip, look out, sir, it’s giving!”
A crash, and then silence—a horrible silence, far worse than that horrible sound of rending.
“Sir Philip—oh, Gawd, it’s over ’is chest! It’s crushed in ’is chest—it’s the big branch wot’s given! Someone go for the doctor—go quick for Doctor Evans. Oh, Gawd, ’is mouth’s bleedin’—it’s crushed in ’is chest—Won’t nobody go for the doctor?”
The grave, rather pompous voice of Mr. Hopkins: “Steady, Thomas, it’s no good losin’ your head. Robert, you’d best slip over to the stables and tell Burton to go in the car for the doctor. You, Thomas, give me a hand with this bough—steady on—ease it off a bit to the right, now lift! Steady on, keep more to the right—now then, gently, gently, man—lift!”
Sir Philip lay very still on the snow, and the blood oozed slowly from between his lips. He looked monstrously tall as he lay on that whiteness, very straight, with his long legs stretched out to their fullest, so that Thomas said foolishly: “Don’t ’e be big—I don’t know as I ever noticed before—”
And now someone came scuttling over the snow, panting, stumbling, hopping grotesquely—old Williams, hatless and in his shirt sleeves—and as he came on he kept calling out something: “Master, oh, Master!” And he hopped grotesquely as he came on over the slippery snow. “Master, Master—oh, Master!”
They found a hurdle, and with dreadful care they placed the master of Morton upon it, and with dreadful slowness they carried the hurdle over the lawn, and in through the door that Sir Philip himself had left standing ajar.
Slowly they carried him into the hall, and even more slowly his tired eyes opened, and he whispered: “Where’s Stephen? I want—the child.”
And old Williams muttered thickly: “She’s comin’, Master—she be comin’ down the stairs; she’s here, Sir Philip.”
Then Sir Philip tried to move, and he spoke quite loudly: “Stephen! Where are you? I want you, child—”
She went to him, saying never a word, but she thought: “He’s dying—my
