Living Alone

  CHAPTER II

  THE COMMITTEE COMES TO MAGIC

  I don't suppose for a moment that you know Mitten Island: it is adifficult place to get to; you have to change 'buses seven times, goingfrom Kensington, and you have to cross the river by means of a ferry. OnMitten Island there is a model village, consisting of several hundredhouses, two churches, and one shop.

  It was the sixth member who discovered, after the committee meeting,that the address on the forsaken broomstick's collar was: Number 100Beautiful Way, Mitten Island, London.

  The sixth member, although she was a member of committees, was neither areal expert in, nor a real lover of, Doing Good. In Doing Good, I think,we have got into bad habits. We try in groups to do good to theindividual, whereas, if good is to be done, it would seem more likely,and more consonant with precedent, that the individual might do it tothe group. Without the smile of a Treasurer we cannot unloose ourpurse-strings; without the sanction of a Chairman we have no courage;without Minutes we have no memory. There is hardly one of us who woulddare to give a flannelette nightgown to a Factory Girl who had SteppedAside, without a committee to lay the blame on, should the Factory Girl,fortified by the flannelette nightgown, take Further Steps Aside.

  The sixth member was only too apt to put her trust in committees.Herself she did not trust at all, though she thought herself quite agood creature, as selves go. She had come to London two years ago, witha little trunk and a lot of good intentions as her only possessions, andshe had paid the inevitable penalty for her earnestness. It is a sadthing to see any one of naturally healthy and rebellious tendency strayinto the flat path of Charity. Gay heedless young people set theirunwary feet between the flowery borders of that path, the thin air ofresigned thanks breathed by the deserving poor mounts to their headslike wine; committees lie in wait for them on every side; hostels andsettlements entice them fatally to break their journey at every mile;they run rejoicing to their doom, and I think shall eventually findthemselves without escape, elected eternal life-members of the Committeethat sits around the glassy sea.

  The sixth member was saved by a merciful inefficiency of temperamentfrom attaining the vortex of her whirlpool of charity. To be in thevortex is, I believe, almost always to see less. The bull's eye isgenerally blind.

  The sixth member was a person who, where Social Work was concerned, didmore or less as she was told, without doing it particularly well. Theresult, very properly, was that all the work which a committeeeuphemistically calls "organising work" was left to her. Organising workconsists of sitting in 'buses bound for remote quarters of London, andringing the bells of people who are almost always found to be away for afortnight. The sixth member had been ordered to organise the return ofthe broomstick to its owner.

  Perhaps it would be more practical to call the sixth member Sarah Brown.

  The bereaved owner of the broomstick was washing her hair at Number 100Beautiful Way, Mitten Island. She was washing it behind the counter ofher shop. She was the manageress of the only shop on Mitten Island. Itwas a general shop, but made a speciality of such goods as Happiness andMagic. Unfortunately Happiness is rather difficult to get in war-time.Sometimes there was quite a queue outside the shop when it opened, andsometimes there was a card outside, saying politely: "Sorry, it's no usewaiting. I haven't any." Of course the shop also sold Sunlight Soap, andit was with Sunlight Soap that the shop-lady was washing her hair,because it was Sunday, and this was a comparatively cheap amusement. Shehad no money. She had meant to go down to the offices of her employerafter breakfast, to borrow some of the salary that would be due to hernext week. But then she found that she had left her broomsticksomewhere. As a rule Harold--for that was the broomstick's name--wasfairly independent, and could find his way home alone, but when he gotmislaid and left in strange hands, and particularly when kindly finderstook him to Scotland Yard, he often lost his head. You, in yourinnocence, are suggesting that his owner might have borrowed anotherbroomstick from stock. But you have no idea what arduous work it is,breaking in a wild broomstick to the saddle. It sometimes takes days,and is not really suitable work for a woman, even in war-time. Often thebrutes are savage, and always they are obstinate. The shop-lady couldnot afford to go to the City by Tube, not to mention the ferry fare,which was rather expensive and erratic, not being L.C.C. Of course aflash of lightning is generally available for magic people. But it isconsidered not only unpatriotic but bad form to use lightning inwar-time.

  The shop was not expecting customers on Sunday, but its manageress hadhardly got her head well into the basin when somebody entered. She stoodup dripping.

  "Is Miss Thelma Bennett Watkins at home?" asked Sarah Brown, after apause, during which she made her characteristic effort to remember whatshe had come for.

  "No," said the other. "But do take a seat. We met last night, you mayremember. Perhaps you wouldn't mind lending me one-and-twopence to buytwo chops for our luncheon. I've got an extra coupon. There's tinnedsalmon in stock, but I don't advise it."

  "I've only got sevenpence, just enough to take me home," answered SarahBrown. "But I can pawn my ear-rings."

  I dare say you have never been in a position to notice that there is nopawn-shop on Mitten Island. The inhabitants of model villages alwayshave assured incomes and pose as lilies of the field. Sarah Brown andher hostess sat down on the counter without regret to a luncheonconsisting of one orange, found by the guest in her bag and divided, andtwo thin captain biscuits from stock. They were both used to dissolvingvisions of impossible chops, both were cheerfully familiar with thefeeling of light tragedy which invades you towards six o'clock P.M., ifyou have not been able to afford a meal since breakfast.

  "Now look here," said Sarah Brown, as she plunged her pocket-knife intothe orange. "Would you mind telling me--are you a fairy, or athird-floor-back, or anything of that sort? I won't register it, or putit on the case-paper, I promise, though if you are superhuman in any wayI shall be seriously tempted."

  "I am a Witch," said the witch.

  Now witches and wizards, as you perhaps know, are people who are bornfor the first time. I suppose we have all passed through this fairexperience, we must all have had our chance of making magic. But to mostof us it came in the boring beginning of time, and we wasted our bestspells on plesiosauri, and protoplasms, and angels with flaming swords,all of whom knew magic too, and were not impressed. Witches and wizardsare now rare, though not so rare as you think. Remembering nothing, theyknow nothing, and are not bored. They have to learn everything from thevery beginning, except magic, which is the only really original sin. Tothe magic eye, magic alone is commonplace, everything else is unknown,unguessed, and undespised. Magic people are always obvious--so obviousthat we veteran souls can rarely understand them,--they are neversubtle, and though they are new, they are never Modern. You may tellthem in your cynical way that to-day is the only real day, and thatthere is nothing more unmentionable than yesterday except the daybefore. They will admire your cleverness very much, but the next momentyou will find the witch sobbing over Tennyson, or the wizard smiling atthe quaint fancies of Sir Edwin Landseer. You cannot really stir upmagic people with ordinary human people. You and I have climbed over ourthousand lives to a too dreadfully subtle eminence. In our day--in ourmany days--we have adored everything conceivable, and now we have tofall back on the inconceivable. We stand our idols on their heads, it isnewer to do so, and we think we prefer them upside down. Talkingconstantly, we reel blindfold through eternity, and perhaps if we arelucky, once or twice in a score of lives, the blindfolding handkerchiefslips, and we wriggle one eye free, and see gods like trees walking. ByJove, that gives us enough to talk about for two or three lives! Witchesand wizards are not blinded by having a Point of View. They just look,and are very much surprised and interested.

  All witches and wizards are born strangely and die violently. They aredescended always from old mysterious breeds, from women who wroughtdomestic magic and perished for its sake, and from men who wrought otherm
agic among lost causes and wars without gain, and fell and died, stillsurprised, still interested, with their faces among flowers. All men whodie so are not wizards, nor are all martyred and adventuring womenwitches, but all such bring a potential strain of magic into their line.

  "A witch," said Sarah Brown. "Of course. I have been trying to rememberwhat broomsticks reminded me of. A witch, of course. I have alwayswished to be friends with a witch."

  The witch was unaware that the proper answer to this was: "Oh, my Dear,_do_ let's. Do you know I had quite a _crush_ on you from the firstminute." She did not answer at all, and Sarah Brown, who was tired ofproper answers, was not sorry. Nevertheless the pause seemed a littleempty, so she filled it herself, saying pedantically: "Of course I don'tbelieve friendship is an end in itself. Only a means to an end."

  "I don't know what you mean," said the witch, after wrestlingconscientiously with this remark for a minute. "Do tell me--do you knowyourself, or are you just saying it to see what it means?"

  Sarah Brown was obviously damped by this, and the witch added kindly: "Ibet you twopence you don't know what this place is."

  "A shop," said Sarah Brown, who was sitting on the counter.

  "It is a sort of convent and monastery mixed," replied the witch. "I amconnected with it officially. I undertook to manage it, yet I forgetwhat the proper word for me is. Not undertaker, is it?"

  "Superintendent or secretary," suggested Sarah Brown moodily.

  "Superintendent, I think," said the witch. "At least I know Peony callsme Soup. Do you live alone?"

  "Yes."

  "Then you ought to live here. This is the only place in the world of itskind. The name of this house is Living Alone. I'll read you theprospectus."

  She fell suddenly upon her knees and began fighting with a drawer. Thedrawer was evidently one of the many descendants of the SwordExcalibur--none but the appointed hand could draw it forth. The witch,after a struggle, passed this test, and produced a parchment coveredwith large childish printing in red ink.

  "My employer made up this," said the witch. "And the ferryman wrote itout for us."

  This is the prospectus:

  The name of this house is Living Alone.

  It is meant to provide for the needs of those who dislike hotels, clubs, settlements, hostels, boarding-houses, and lodgings only less than their own homes; who detest landladies, waiters, husbands and wives, charwomen, and all forms of lookers after. This house is a monastery and a convent for monks and nuns dedicated to unknown gods. Men and women who are tired of being laboriously kind to their bodies, who like to be a little uncomfortable and quite uncared for, who love to live from week to week without speaking, except to confide their destinations to 'bus-conductors, who are weary of woolly decorations, aspidistras, and the eternal two generations of roses which riot among blue ribbons on hireling wall-papers, who are ignorant of the science of tipping and thanking, who do not know how to cook yet hate to be cooked for, will here find the thing they have desired, and something else as well.

  There are six cells in this house, and no common sitting-room. Guests wishing to address each other must do so on the stairs, or in the shop. Each cell has whitewashed walls, and contains a small deal table, one wooden chair, a hard bed, a tin bath, and a little inconvenient fireplace. No guest may bring into the house more than can be carried out again in one large suit-case. Carpets, rugs, mirrors, and any single garment costing more than three guineas, are prohibited. Any guest proved to have made use of a taxi, or to have travelled anywhere first class, or to have bought cigarettes or sweets costing more than three shillings a hundred or eighteenpence a pound respectively, or to have paid more than three and sixpence (war-tax included) for a seat in any place of entertainment, will be instantly expelled. Dogs, cats, goldfish, and other superhuman companions are encouraged.

  Working guests are preferred, but if not at work, guests must spend at least eighteen hours out of the twenty-four entirely alone. No guest may entertain or be entertained except under special license obtainable from the Superintendent.

  There is a pump in the back yard. There is no telephone, no electric light, no hot water system, no attendance, and no modern comfort whatever. Tradesmen are forbidden to call. There is no charge for residence in this house.

  "It certainly sounds an unusual place," admitted Sarah Brown. "Is thehouse always full?"

  "Never," said the witch. "A lot of people can swallow everything but thelast clause. We have at present one guest, called Peony."

  She replaced the prospectus in the drawer, which she then tried to shut.While she was engaged in this thundering endeavour, Sarah Brown noticedthat the drawer was full of the little paper packets which she had seenthe day before in the witch's possession.

  "What do you do with your magic?" she asked.

  "Oh, many things. Chiefly I use it as an ingredient for happiness,sometimes to remind people, and sometimes to make them forget. It seemsto me that some people take happiness rather tragically."

  "I find," said Sarah Brown, rather sententiously, "that I always owe myhappiness to earth, never to heaven."

  "How d'you mean heaven?" said the witch. "I know nothing about heaven.When I used to work in the City, I bought a little book about heaven toread in the Tube every morning. I thought I should grow daily better.But I couldn't see that I did."

  Sarah Brown was naturally astonished to meet any one who did not knowall about heaven. But she continued the pursuit of her ideas onhappiness. Sarah Brown meant to write a book some day, if she could finda really inspiring exercise-book to start in. She thought herselfrather good at ideas--poor Sarah Brown, she simply had to be confidentabout something. She was only inwardly articulate, I think, notoutwardly at all, but sometimes she could talk about herself.

  "Heaven has given me wretched health, but never gave me youth enough tomake the wretchedness adventurous," she went on. "Heaven gave me a thinskin, but never gave me the natural and comforting affections. Heavenprobably meant to make a noble woman of me by encrusting me indisabilities, but it left out the necessary nobility at the last moment;it left out, in fact, all the compensations. But luckily I have foundthe compensations for myself; I just had to find something. Men andwomen have given me everything that such as I could expect. I have nevermet with reasonless enmity, never met with meanness, never met withanything more unbearable than natural indifference, from any man orwoman. I have been, I may say, a burden and a bore all over the world; Ihave been an ill and fretful stranger within all men's gates; I haveasked much and given nothing; I have never been a friend. Nobody hasever expected any return from me, yet nothing was grudged. Landladies,policemen, chorus girls, social bounders, prostitutes, the naturalenemies, one would say, of such as I, have given me kindness, and oftenmuch that they could not easily spare, and always amusement anddistraction...."

  "Ah, how you interest and excite me," said the witch, whose attentionhad been frankly wandering. "You are exactly the sort of person we wantin this house."

  "But--ill?" said Sarah Brown pessimistically. "Oh, witch, I have been sowearisome to every one, so constantly ill. The first thing I get to knowabout a new hostess or a landlady is always the colour of herdressing-gown by candlelight, or whether she has one."

  "Illnesses are never bad here," said the witch. "I bet you twopence I'vegot something in the shop that would make you well. Three fingers ofhappiness, neat and hot, at night--"

  "But, witch--oh, witch--this is the worst of all. My ears are failingme--I think I am going deaf...."

  "You can hear what I say," said the witch.

  "Yes, I can hear what you say, but when most people talk I am like aprisoner locked up; and every day there are more and more locked doorsbetween me and the world. You do not know how horrible it is."

  "Oh, well," said the witch, "as long as you can hear magic you will notl
ack a key to your prison. Sometimes it's better not to hear the otherthings. You are the ideal guest for the House of Living Alone."

  "I'll go and fetch David my Dog and Humphrey my Suit-case," said SarahBrown.

  At that moment a taxi was heard to arrive at the other side of theferry, and the ferryman's voice was heard shouting: "All right, allright, I'll be there in half a tick."

  "I hope this isn't Peony in a taxi," said the witch. "I get so tired ofexpelling guests. She's been drawing her money, which may have beentempting."

  They listened.

  They heard someone alight from the ferry-boat, and the voice of MissMeta Mostyn Ford asking the ferryman: "Do you know anything about ayoung woman of the name of Watkins, living at Number 100 BeautifulWay----"

  "No, he doesn't," shouted the witch, opening the shop door. "But do stepin. We met yesterday, you may remember. I'll ask the ferryman to gethalf-a-dozen halfpenny buns for tea, if you will be so kind as to lendme threepence. We don't bake ourselves."

  "I have had tea, thank you," said Miss Ford. "I have just come from alittle gathering of friends on the other side of the river, and Ithought I would call here on my way home. I had noted your address----"

  She started as she came in and saw Sarah Brown, and added in hercommittee voice: "I had noted your address, because I never mind howmuch trouble I take in following up a promising case."

  Sarah Brown, on first hearing that trenchant voice, had lost her headand begun to hide under the counter. But the biscuit-tins refused tomake room, so she drew herself up and smiled politely.

  "How good of you to go to a little gathering of friends," said thewitch, obviously trying to behave like a real human person. "I never do,except now and then by mistake. And even then I only stay when there aregrassy sandwiches to eat. Once there were grassy sandwiches mixed withbits of hard-boiled egg, and then I stayed to supper. You didn't havesuch luck, I see, or you would look happier."

  "I don't go to my friends for their food, but for their ideas," saidMiss Ford.

  Sarah Brown was gliding towards the door.

  "Oh, don't go," said the witch, who did not recognise tact when she metit. "I have sent Harold the Broomstick for your Dog David and yourSuit-case Humphrey. He is an excellent packer and very clean in hisperson and work. Please, please, don't go. Do you know, I live inconstant dread of being left alone with a clever person."

  "I must apologise for my intrusion, in that case," said Miss Ford, withdignity. "I repeat, I only came because I saw yours was an exceptionalcase."

  There was a very long silence in the growing dusk. The moon couldalready be seen through the glass door, rising, pushing vigorously asidethe thickets of the crowded sky. A crack across the corner of the glasswas lighted up, and looked like a little sprig of lightning, pluckedfrom a passing storm and preserved in the glass.

  Miss Ford suddenly began to talk in a very quick and confused way. Anysane hearer would have known that she was talking by mistake, that shewas possessed by some distressingly Anti-Ford spirit, and that nothingshe might say in parenthesis like this ought to be remembered againsther.

  "Oh, God," said Miss Ford, "I have come because I am hungry, hungry forwhat you spoke of last night, in the dark.... You spoke of an Aprilsea--clashing of cymbals was the expression you used, wasn't it? Youspoke of a shore of brown diamonds flat to the ruffled sea ... andwhite sandhills under a thin veil of grass ... and tamarisks all blownone way...."

  "Well?" said the witch.

  "Well," faltered Miss Ford. "I think I came to ask you ... whether youknew of nice lodgings there ... plain wholesome bath ... respectablecooking, hot and cold ..."

  Her voice faded away pathetically.

  There was a sudden shattering, as the door burst open, and a dog and asuit-case were swept in by a brisk broomstick.

  "I am so sorry, Miss Watkins," said Miss Ford stiffly. Her face wasscarlet--neat and formal again now, but scarlet.--"I am so sorry if Ihave talked nonsense. I am rather run down, I think, too much work, fourimportant meetings yesterday. I sometimes think I shall break down. Ihave such alarming nerve-storms."

  She looked nervously at Sarah Brown. It is always tiresome to meetfellow-members of committees in private life, especially if one is in amood for having nerve-storms. People may be excellent in a philanthropicway, of course, and yet impossible socially.

  But Sarah Brown had heard very little. She always found Miss Ford'svoice difficult. She was on her knees asking her dog David what it hadfelt like, coming. But David was still too much dazed to say much.

  "You must not think," said Miss Ford, "that because I am a practicalworker I have no understanding of Inner Meanings. On the contrary, Ihave perhaps wasted too much of my time on spiritual matters. That iswhy I take quite a personal and special interest in your case. I had agreat friend, now in the trenches, alas, who possessed Power. He used tocome to my Wednesdays--at least I used to invite him to come, but he wasdreamy like you and constantly mistook the date. He helped meenormously, and I miss him.... Well, the truest charity should beanything but formal, I think, and I saw at a glance that your case wasexceptional, and that you also were Occult----"

  "How d'you mean--occult?" asked the witch. "Do you mean just knowingmagic?"

  "A strange mixture," mused Miss Ford self-consciously. It is impossibleto muse aloud without self-consciousness. "A strange and ratherinteresting mixture of naivete and power. The question is--power to whatextent? Miss Watkins, I want you to come to one of my Wednesdays to meetone or two people who might possibly help you to a job--lecturing, youknow. Lectures on hypnotism or spiritualism, with experiments, arealways popular. You certainly have Power, you only want a littleadvertisement to be a real help to many people."

  "How d'you mean--advertisement?" asked the witch. "This newadvertisement stunt is one of the problems that tire my head. I amawfully worried by problems. The world seems to be ruled by posters now.People look to the hoardings for information about their duty. Why don'twe paste up the ten commandments on all the walls and all the 'buses,and be done with it?"

  "Now listen, Miss Watkins," persisted Miss Ford. "I want you to meetBernard Tovey, the painter, and Ivy MacBee, who founded the AspirationClub, and Frere, the editor of _I Wonder_, and several other regularWednesday friends of mine, all interested in the Occult. It would be areal opportunity for you."

  "I am afraid you will be very angry with me," said the witch presentlyin a hollow voice. "If I was occult last night--I'm awfully sorry, butit must have been a fluke. I seem to have said so much last nightwithout knowing it. I'm afraid I was showing off a little."

  The painful tears of confession were in her eyes, but she added,changing the subject: "Do you live alone?"

  "Yes, absolutely," said Miss Ford. "My friends call me a perfect hermit.I hardly ever have visitors in my spare room, it makes so much work formy three maids."

  "I suppose you wouldn't care to divorce your three maids and come andlive here," suggested the witch. "I could of course cure you of thenerve-storms you speak of. Or rather I could help you to havenerve-storms all the time, without any stagnant grown-upness in between.Then you wouldn't notice the nerve-storms. This house is a sort ofnursing home and college combined. I'll read you the prospectus."

  * * * * *

  "Very amusing," said Miss Ford, after waiting a minute to see if therewas any more of the prospectus. She had quite recovered herself, and waswearing the brisk acute expression that deceived her into claiming asense of humour. "But why all those uncomfortable rules? And why thatdiscouragement of social intercourse? I am afraid the average person ofthe class you cater for does not recognise the duty of socialintercourse."

  "This house," replied the witch, "caters for people who are outsideaverages. The ferryman says that people who are content to be averageare lowering the general standard. I wish you could have met Peony, theonly guest up to now, but she is out, and may be a teeny bit drunk whenshe comes in. She has gone to draw her money."
r />   "What sort of money?" asked Miss Ford, who was always interested in thesources of income of the Poor.

  "Soldier's allotment. Unmarried wife."

  The expression of Miss Ford's face tactfully wiped away this baldunfortunate statement from the surface of the conversation. "And how doyou make your boarding-house pay," she asked, "if there is no charge forresidence?"

  "How d'you mean--pay?" asked the witch. "Pay whom? And what with? Lookhere, if you will come and live here you shall have a little Wednesdayevery week on the stairs, under license from me. Harold the Broomstickis apt to shirk cleaning the stairs, but as it happens, he is keepingcompany with an O-Cedar Mop in Kentish Town, and I've no doubt she wouldcome over and do the stairs thoroughly every Tuesday night. Besides, wehave overalls in stock at only two and eleven three----"

  "Oh, I like your merry mood," said Miss Ford, laughing heartily. "Youmust remember to talk like that when you come to my Wednesdays. Most ofmy friends are utter Socialists, and believe in bridging as far aspossible the gulf between one class and another, so you needn't feelshy or awkward."

  The splashing of the ferry-boat was once more heard, and then the shopquaked a little as a heavy foot alighted on the landing-stage. Theferryman was heard saying: "I don't know any party of that name, but Ibelieve the young woman at the shop can help you."

  Lady Arabel Higgins entered the shop.

  "What, Meta, you here? And Sarah Brown? What a too dretfully funnycoincidence. Well, Angela dear, I made a note of your address yesterday,and then lost the note--too dretfully like me. So I rang up the Mayor,and he said he also had made a note, and he would come and show me theway. But I didn't wait for him. I wanted to talk to you about----"

  "Well, I must truly be going," interrupted Sarah Brown. "I'll just nipacross to the Brown Borough and find a pawn-shop, being hungry."

  "There is no need for any one to move on my account," said Lady Arabel."You all heard what Angela said last night in her little address to thecommittee in the dark. I don't know why she addressed her remarksparticularly at me, but as she did so, there is no secret in the matter.Of course, just at first, it seemed dretful to me that any one shouldknow or speak about it. I cannot understand how you knew, Angela; I amtrying not to understand...."

  She took up a thin captain biscuit and bit it absent-mindedly. Ittrembled in her hand like a leaf.

  "Yes, it is true that Rrchud isn't like other women's boys. You know it,Meta. Angela evidently knows it, and--at least since yesterday--I knowthat I know it. His not being able to read or write--I always knew in myheart that my old worn-out tag--'We can't all be literarygeniuses'--didn't meet the case. His way of disappearing and neverexplaining.... Do you know, I have only once seen him with other boys,doing the same as other boys, and that was when I saw him marching withhundreds of real boys ... in 1914.... It was the happiest day I everhad, I thought after all that I had borne a real boy. Well, then, asyou know, he couldn't get a commission, couldn't even get his stripe,poor darling. He deserted twice--pure absence of mind--it was always thesame from a child--'I wanted to see further,' he'd say, and of courseworse in the trenches. Why, you know it all, Angela dear--at least,perhaps not quite all. I should like to tell you--because you said thatabout the splendour of being the mother of Rrchud....

  "Pinehurst--my husband, he is a doctor, you know--had that same passionfor seeing further. He was often ill in London. I said it was asthma,but he said it was not being able to see far enough. We were in Americafor Rrchud's birth, and Pinehurst insisted on going West. I took theprecaution of having a good nurse with me. Pinehurst said the East wasfull of little obstacles, and people's eyes had sucked all the secretsout of the horizon, he said. I like Cape Cod, but he said there wasalways a wall of sea round those flat wet places. We stayed in ablacksmith's spare room on the desert of Wyoming, but even that horizonseemed a little higher than we, and one clear day, in a pink sunrise, wesaw something that might have been a dream, my dears, and might havebeen the Rockies. Pinehurst couldn't stand that, we pushed west--sotahsome. We climbed a little narrow track up a mountain, in a lightbuggy that a goldminer lent us. Oh, of course, you'll think us mad,Meta, but, do you know, we actually found the world's edge, a place withno horizon; we looked between ragged pine trees, and saw over theshoulders of great old violet mountains--we saw right down into thestars for ever.... There was a tower of rocks--rose-red rocks in slopinglayers--sunny hot by day, my dears, and a great shelter by night. Youknow, the little dark clouds walk alone upon the mountain tops atsunset--as you said, Angela--they are like trees, and sometimes likefaces, and sometimes like the shadows of little bent gipsies.... I usedto look at the mountains and think: 'What am I about, to be so worriedand so small, in sight of such an enormous storm of mountains under agold sky?' I think of those rocks often at night, standing just as weleft them, all by themselves, under that unnatural moon,--it was anunnatural moon on the edge of the world there,--all by themselves, withno watching eyes to spoil them, as Pinehurst used to say, not even one'sown eyes.... You'll say that adventure--my one adventure--wasimpossible, Meta. Yes, it was. Rrchud was an impossible boy, born on animpossible day, in an impossible place. Ah, my poor Rrchud.... My dears,I am talking dretful nonsense. We were mad. You'd have to knowPinehurst, really, to understand it. Ah, we can never find our mountainagain. I can never forgive Pinehurst...."

  "You can never repay Pinehurst," said the witch.

  Lady Arabel did not seem to hear. For a long time there was nothing tobe heard but Sarah Brown, murmuring to her Dog David. You must excuseher, and remember that she lived most utterly alone. She was lockedinside herself, and the solitary barred window in her prison wallcommanded only a view of the Dog David.

  Rrchud's mother said at last: "I really came to tell you that Rrchudcame back on leave unexpectedly last night. Of course you must meethim--"

  "Rrchud home!" exclaimed Miss Ford. "How odd! I was just telling MissWatkins about his Power, and how strongly she reminded me of him. Dotell him to keep Wednesday afternoon free."

  Lady Arabel, ignoring Miss Ford by mistake, said to the witch: "Will youcome on Tuesday to tea or supper?"

  "Supper, please," said the witch instantly. Tact, I repeat, was astranger to her, so she added: "I will bring Sarah Brown too. I bet youtwopence she hasn't had a decent meal for days."

  And then the Mayor arrived. The witch saw at once that there was somesecret understanding between him and her that she did not understand.Her magic escapades often left her in this position. However, she winkedback hopefully. But she was not a skilled winker. Everybody--even theDog David--saw her doing it, and Miss Ford looked a little offended.