next overcome by the unspeakable queerness of the fact that she should be sitting in an arm-chair, in the morning, in the middle of the world. Who were the people moving in the house—moving things from one place to another? And life, what was that? It was only a light passing over the surface and vanishing, as in time she would vanish, though the furniture in the room would remain. Her dissolution became so complete that she could not raise her finger any more, and sat perfectly still, listening and looking always at the same spot. It became stranger and stranger. She was overcome with awe that things should exist at all…. She forgot that she had any fingers to raise…. The things that existed were so immense and so desolate…. She continued to be conscious of these vast masses of substance for a long stretch of time, the clock still ticking in the midst of the universal silence.
“Come in,” she said mechanically, for a string in her brain seemed to be pulled by a persistent knocking at the door. With great slowness the door opened and a tall human being came towards her, holding out her arm and saying:
“What am I to say to this?”
The utter absurdity of a woman coming into a room with a piece of paper in her hand amazed Rachel.
“I don’t know what to answer, or who Terence Hewet is,” Helen continued, in the toneless voice of a ghost. She put a paper before Rachel on which were written the incredible words:
DEAR MRS. AMBROSE—I am getting up a picnic for next Friday, when we propose to start at eleven-thirty if the weather is fine, and to make the ascent of Monte Rosa. It will take some time, but the view should be magnificent. It would give me great pleasure if you and Miss Vinrace would consent to be of the party.—
Yours sincerely, TERENCE HEWET
Rachel read the words aloud to make herself believe in them. For the same reason she put her hand on Helen’s shoulder.
“Books—books—books,” said Helen, in her absentminded way. “More new books—I wonder what you find in them….”
For the second time Rachel read the letter, but to herself. This time, instead of seeming vague as ghosts, each word was astonishingly prominent; they came out as the tops of mountains come through a mist. Friday—eleven-thirty—Miss Vinrace. The blood began to run in her veins; she felt her eyes brighten.
“We must go,” she said, rather surprising Helen by her decision. “We must certainly go”—such was the relief of finding that things still happened, and indeed they appeared the brighter for the mist surrounding them.
“Monte Rosa—that’s the mountain over there, isn’t it?” said Helen; “but Hewet—who’s he? One of the young men Ridley met, I suppose. Shall I say yes, then? It may be dreadfully dull.”
She took the letter back and went, for the messenger was waiting for her answer.
The party which had been suggested a few nights ago in Mr. Hirst’s bedroom had taken shape and was the source of great satisfaction to Mr. Hewet, who had seldom used his practical abilities, and was pleased to find them equal to the strain. His invitations had been universally accepted, which was the more encouraging as they had been issued against Hirst’s advice to people who were very dull, not at all suited to each other, and sure not to come.
“Undoubtedly,” he said, as he twirled and untwirled a note signed Helen Ambrose, “the gifts needed to make a great commander have been absurdly overrated. About half the intellectual effort which is needed to review a book of modern poetry has enabled me to get together seven or eight people, of opposite sexes, at the same spot at the same hour on the same day. What else is generalship, Hirst? What more did Wellington do on the field of Waterloo? It’s like counting the number of pebbles of a path, tedious but not difficult.”
He was sitting in his bedroom, one leg over the arm of the chair, and Hirst was writing a letter opposite. Hirst was quick to point out that all the difficulties remained.
“For instance, here are two women you’ve never seen. Suppose one of them suffers from mountain-sickness, as my sister does, and the other—”
“Oh, the women are for you,” Hewet interrupted. “I asked them solely for your benefit. What you want, Hirst, you know, is the society of young women of your own age. You don’t know how to get on with women, which is a great defect, considering that half the world consists of women.”
Hirst groaned that he was quite aware of that.
But Hewet’s complacency was a little chilled as he walked with Hirst to the place where a general meeting had been appointed. He wondered why on earth he had asked these people, and what one really expected to get from bunching human beings up together.
“Cows,” he reflected, “draw together in a field; ships in a calm; and we’re just the same when we’ve nothing else to do. But why do we do it?—is it to prevent ourselves from seeing to the bottom of things” (he stopped by a stream and began stirring it with his walking-stick and clouding the water with mud), “making cities and mountains and whole universes out of nothing, or do we really love each other, or do we, on the other hand, live in a state of perpetual uncertainty, knowing nothing, leaping from moment to moment as from world to world?—which is, on the whole, the view I incline to.”
He jumped over the stream; Hirst went round and joined him, remarking that he had long ceased to look for the reason of any human action.
Half a mile further, they came to a group of plane trees and the salmon-pink farmhouse standing by the stream which had been chosen as meeting-place. It was a shady spot, lying conveniently just where the hill sprung out from the flat. Between the thin stems of the plane trees the young men could see little knots of donkeys pasturing, and a tall woman rubbing the nose of one of them, while another woman was kneeling by the stream lapping water out of her palms.
As they entered the shady place, Helen looked up and then held out her hand.
“I must introduce myself,” she said. “I am Mrs. Ambrose.”
Having shaken hands, she said, “That’s my niece.”
Rachel approached awkwardly. She held out her hand, but withdrew it. “It’s all wet,” she said.
Scarcely had they spoken, when the first carriage drew up.
The donkeys were quickly jerked into attention, and the second carriage arrived. By degrees the grove filled with people—the Elliots, the Thornburys, Mr. Venning and Susan, Miss Allan, Evelyn Murgatroyd, and Mr. Perrott. Mr. Hirst acted the part of hoarse energetic sheep-dog. By means of a few words of caustic Latin he had the animals marshalled, and by inclining a sharp shoulder he lifted the ladies. “What Hewet fails to understand,” he remarked, “is that we must break the back of the ascent before midday.” He was assisting a young lady, by name Evelyn Murgatroyd, as he spoke. She rose light as a bubble to her seat. With a feather drooping from a broad-brimmed hat, in white from top to toe, she looked like a gallant lady of the time of Charles the First leading royalist troops into action.
“Ride with me,” she commanded; and, as soon as Hirst had swung himself across a mule, the two started, leading the cavalcade.
“You’re not to call me Miss Murgatroyd. I hate it,” she said. “My name’s Evelyn. What’s yours?”
“St. John,” he said.
“I like that,” said Evelyn. “And what’s your friend’s name?”
