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Now her head sank down on her chest, for her con science always talked loudly to her when she thought of Adelaide Toole. For Adelaide Toole's bitterness lay at her door. She said as always, I couldn't help it, I didn't start it.

And this time she added, Did I? Did I?

She was looking towards the gap where the beech had once stood and through it towards the fells, and it was as if she was speaking to someone out there, for she whispered aloud now beseechingly, "It wasn't my fault, was it?" She lifted her hands from between her knees and, leaning forward, placed them on the rimed iron of the balcony. It was as she did this that she heard her family return and an unusual commotion below her on the drive. Immediately she straightened up and sat still. And she told herself not to move, let them find her here.

It would not prove to them, how could it, that she was on the threshold of a new life, but it would show them that she had at last ousted fear, and therefore there was no longer any necessity for worrying, or whispered family councils concerning her. In a few minutes the room was plunged into light, and she turned around to face them. After staring wide-eyed at her across the distance of the large bedroom, they rushed to her, they poured over her, exclaiming, touching, patting, clearing and darling-ing, oh-ing and ah-ing.

Beatrice, plump, solid, already maternal as if the mother of twelve instead of a scarcely two-year-old was crying "Oh, what's happened?

Come in out of the cold. Oh! You're frozen, just feel your hands.

"

And Stephen, already the gangling, lanky parson in embryo, exclaimed,

"Are you all right? What possessed you?"

Then Jane, a week off seventeen and not yet old enough to be diplomatic, really spoke for them all when she said, "Oh, Mammy, you did give us a scare. Why did you put the lights out?"

With a movement of her head Grace Rouse spread her smile across them and said gently, "I wanted to."

In their amazement they could not resist looking at each other, and she turned from them in time to stop herself saying, "Don't worry, your Christmas is not going to be spoilt; there are not going to be any scenes. Don't worry, my dears."

"I'll get you a hot drink and I'll also have a word with Peggy."

Beatrice's voice was very matronly now.

"The light wasn't on outside either. The whole front of the house in darkness. I can't remember ever seeing it like that before ... well, not for years. As Jane said, it scared the wits out of us. Sit down there, dear." She put her hands on her mother's shoulders to press her into a chair, and repeated, "I'll bring you a hot drink."

Grace smiled rather sorrowfully to herself. Beatrice was very solicitous; she had been solicitous since she arrived yesterday. She wanted something not for her self, of course, but for Gerald. Gerald would be wanting a loan, another loan. She had felt it coming for some time. Well, she was sorry but he was going to be disappointed. She hoped he didn't ask tonight, for her refusal would blur the festive atmosphere, and she didn't want that. No, she hoped he would leave it until Boxing Day, just before they returned home. Gently she disengaged herself from her eldest daughter's hand, saying, "Don't fuss me, Beatrice. I'm perfectly all right, dear, and I'm going downstairs." She walked away from them towards the door, and there she turned and surveyed them, and as if they were children once again and she was explaining something to them that was a little out of their depth, she said, "You can't stand still. Your grandfather used to say,

" If you don't push on forward, you'll be kicked back. " I think I'll push on." Then she laughed, a reflection of the joy-tinted laughter that had at one time characterised her. And on this she opened the door quickly and went out on to the landing, for she knew she was embarrassing them.

She had taken three soundless steps when she stopped again, her narrowed eyes drawn across the wide space that was furnished more like a room than a landing, to the head of the stairs where hung the picture of her late husband. The heavy, gold-enamelled openwork frame stood out from the white wall, with the painting of the man in his dark clerical attire appearing to be painted on the wall itself, the whole giving the impression of three dimensions. She was used to the picture, she passed it countless times each day, but she never looked at it, at least not with her eyes, yet her mind was nearly always on it. Even now she did not look at the figure but the frame. The top was entwined in flowers, live flowers that would surely die tomorrow, and at the bottom, clipped into the frame, were two vases, and these were filled with anemones.

Jane was at her side now, her voice soothingly soft, almost a whisper.

"I put them there, I've been thinking about him all day. It's over a year now ... and ... well ... Grace moved forward away from her youngest daughter towards the head of the stairs and when there she did not stop, but as she passed the picture the eyes of her mind looked up at it and a voice from the dark depths of her which would not be repressed cried, " Blast you! "

Before her feet touched the second step the fear was back and she was attacking yet beseeching it at the same time: "No! No! Don't start again, don't think like that. That kind of talk must stop too. There must be no more vileness. Let it end. For God's sake, let it end. I'm afraid no more." The voice in her head took this up and yelled with a semblance of the old panic. No more. Do you hear? I'm not afraid any more.

By the time she stepped into the hall there was only the echo of the voice with her, and she paused a moment and drew in a shuddering breath before looking round at her family walking in single file down the stairs, their expressions perturbed, each in its own way. Swiftly she put out her hand and caught that of Jane and drew her close. This action deepened their perplexity, 1 but on Jane's face there was also a look of surprised pleasure as hand in hand they crossed the hall towards the drawing-room.

Beatrice and Stephen did not follow them. After an exchange of glances they moved down the stairs into| the hall and turned towards a narrow passage and to| a door at the far end, and just as Beatrice was about to go into the room the sound of her husband's voice coming from the direction of the kitchen, where he was having a jocular exchange with Rosie Davidson, Peggy Mather's occasional help, made her pause and wait until he came into sight. Across the distance she beckoned to him, and when he joined them the grin slid from his face and he asked in an undertone, "What's up?"

Beatrice made no reply but went into the study, the two men following her, and not until the door was closed and she had seated herself in a great leather chair by the side of the fire did she answer her husband.

She said briefly, "It's mother."

"Oh!" It was expressive, and Gerald paused before he went on, "What's wrong now?"

"Nothing's wrong; apparently everything seems to be all right. You'll never believe it but we found her in her room with all the lights out, standing on the balcony. Didn't we, Stephen?"

Stephen had taken up his position with his back to the fire. He liked standing this way . his father had always stood like it. Winter or summer, his father had taken up this position, with his back to the fireplace . he could always feel his father's presence strongly in this room.

He realised that the eyes of his sister and brother- in-law were hard on him and that he hadn't answered Beatrice's question. He stretched himself, neck upwards, again in the manner of his father, giving the impression that he had been debating his reply, then he said, "She seems no longer afraid of the dark. In fact, I would say she's no longer afraid of anything."

"Well, it's long overdue." Gerald twitched his tweed trousers well up his legs before sitting down opposite his wife.

"It's a pity she couldn't have got over her nerves earlier, it would have saved us all a lot of worry."

"And Daddy." Beatrice looked towards the desk that stood between the two windows which were replicas of those in the room directly above.

The desk was long and solid and took up quite a large space between the windows. The only articles on it now were an inkstand, a tray, a blotting pad and a framed photograph. It was at the photograph that Beatrice was looking, and her eyes showed a film of moisture as she murmured, "Poor Daddy." The door of her conscience was tightly closed as she thought this.

Gerald uncrossed his legs, then, pulling a pipe from his pocket, he proceeded to fill it while he repeated to himself, "Poor Daddy." Well, there was no doubt he had had a time of it, but to be honest with himself, it was a phrase Gerald frequently used, to be honest with himself he had felt no real sadness at his father-in-law's departure, even though the old fellow had always, except on one notable occasion, been decent to him. To his mind he was a type you couldn't get to the bottom of. Hearty and all that, jocular, always ready to help you, with advice at any rate, but still there was a something . he had never felt easy in his presence. Yet of the two, give him the old man every time, for his mother-in-law, j he had to admit, gave him the willies. If the old man ^ had never made him feel entirely at ease, she always | made him feel darned uncomfortable.

She looked at i you as if you were something the cat had brought in, with that air about her as if she were royalty. And after ; all, what was she? A coal merchant's daughter, that's all j she was.

Of course . he gave a little tucking laugh:;! to himself . he wouldn't have minded being that| particular coal merchant's son and having a share of I the dibs he had left. She must be rotten with money. I Yet with all of it she was as mean as muck. A clarty 1

thousand to Beatty for a wedding present. He would | like to bet she could have given her five and never I missed it. True, she had settled another thousand on j Yvonne when she was born, but she had tied that up | so it couldn't be touched until the child was twenty-one. 5 She might have been near barmy these past few years, but her business faculties hadn't been impaired, that was a certainty. Now there lay before him the job of tapping her.

His tongue came out and rubbed the fringe of his short, fair moustache.

What if for some reason she didn't catch on to the idea and Livsey sold his share of the garage elsewhere . ? She couldn't do it. What was seven thousand to her, anyway? Pin money. Just look at this house, like a luxury hotel, with the stuff that was in it. But the snag was, she didn't like him. He knew she didn't like him, so what if she didn't rise to the offer? The thought was unbearable and brought him almost with a spring to his feet. This action had to be explained to the startled and enquiring glances of his wife and brother-in-law, and, never at a loss, he asked quickly, "Where's Yvonne? I've just thought, I've never heard her. Is she asleep?"

"Asleep! No, don't be silly. She's at Miss Shawcross's. She begged me to let her stay for half an hour or so. Stephen and I had just slipped down to the church, and she was finishing the altar. She would have us go back with her to the house. She talked all the time about the new man. She can't stand him, she still considers it Daddy's church, she always will."

Gerald made no comment on this, but he thought, Daft old bitch.

Another one rotten with money. Why was it women who were always left money? Buttoning up his coat, he looked at Beatrice and said abruptly,

"We'd better go down and fetch her, she'll be sick with excitement and you know what that means. And then we've got the tree and the parcels to see to."

At the reminder of the Christmas chores Beatrice sighed, letting out a hissing breath that spoke of boredom.

When she had left the room, followed by her husband, Stephen, his back still to the fire, started a swaying movement. From his toes to his heels, his eyes half closed, his hands, his back, his buttocks and calves soothingly warm, he rocked himself gently into a reverie. He liked this room, he loved it. He looked upon it as his; in fact the whole house was his. Well, as good as, he was the only son. Beatrice had a place of her own, and the way things were going Jane wouldn't be long before she left too. That would be determined tomorrow, he supposed, when the man turned up. He wondered for a moment what he might be like. That he was a lecturer at one of the colleges in Durham was something, anyway; she wasn't letting herself down like Beatrice had done in marrying Gerald Spencer. Beatrice had hurt him over Spencer more than he would care to admit. Spencer was a type, and that had been proved conclusively when the marriage had to be rushed. Funny about that. The business had upset his father terribly yet he remembered his mother hadn't turned a hair. He knew exactly how his father had felt about it, for he had felt the same, nauseated, repulsed in some way the whole thing was beastly.

The swaying which had lulled began again, and almost with a challenge his thinking made a statement.

"You'll never marry," it said, and he took it up. No, he'd never marry because priests should never marry;

you couldn't serve two masters, and as far as he could make out a wife was a master. And then there was the other side of it, the physical side. He actually shuddered on this thought. The Catholic Church had an advantage over the Church of England in the fact that they forbade their priests to marry. He sometimes wished, but just faintly, that he was in the Church of Rome. There the pattern was all cut out. There you were really a priest and your actions decided for you, but could you be a priest with a wife and children hanging around you? No, the title reverend or vicar was more suitable. He suddenly stopped his rocking and chided himself for his cynicism. But immediately he reverted to it. It was no good hoodwinking himself, he wanted to be known as a priest, not a vicar or a parson or a reverend. A thought coming directly on top of this minor explosion caused his lids to blink rapidly over his near-sighted hazel eyes:

Would his mother marry again? The thought settled itself and continued. That's if she became really . quite all right. She had money and was still youngish and was what could be called good-looking.