did they come from, Mother Dimble?” asked Jane.
“Treasure of Logres, dears, treasure of Logres,” said Mrs. Dimble. “Perhaps from beyond the Moon or before the flood. Now, Jane.”
Jane could see nothing specially appropriate in the robe which the others agreed in putting on her. Blue was, indeed, her colour, but she thought of something a little more austere and dignified. Left to her own judgement, she would have called this a little “fussy.” But when she saw the others all clap their hands, she submitted. Indeed, it did not now occur to her to do otherwise, and the whole matter was forgotten a moment later in the excitement of choosing a robe for Mother Dimble.
“Something quiet,” she said. “I’m an old woman and I don’t want to be ridiculous.”
“This wouldn’t do at all,” said Camilla, walking down the long row of hanging splendours, herself like a meteor as she passed against that background of purple and gold and scarlet and soft snow and elusive opal, of fur, silk, velvet, taffeta, and brocade. “That’s lovely,” she said, “but not for you. And oh!—look at that. But it wouldn’t do. I don’t see anything . . .”
“Here! Oh, do come and look! Come here,” cried Ivy, as if she were afraid her discovery would run away unless the others attended to it quickly.
“Oh! Yes, yes, indeed,” said Jane.
“Certainly,” said Camilla.
“Put it on, Mother Dimble,” said Ivy. “You know you got to.” It was of that almost tyrannous flame colour which Jane had seen in her vision down in the lodge, but differently cut, with fur about the great copper brooch that clasped the throat, with long sleeves and hangings from them. And there went with it a many-cornered cap. And they had no sooner clasped the robe than all were astonished, none more than Jane, though indeed she had had best reason to foresee the result. For now this provincial wife of a rather obscure scholar, this respectable and barren woman with grey hair and double chin, stood before her, not to be mistaken, as a kind of priestess or sybil, the servant of some prehistoric goddess of fertility—an old tribal matriarch, mother of mothers, grave, formidable, and august. A long staff, curiously carved as if a snake twined up it, was apparently part of the costume: they put it in her hand.
“Am I awful?” said Mother Dimble, looking in turn at the three silent faces.
“You look lovely,” said Ivy.
“It is exactly right,” said Camilla.
Jane took up the old lady’s hand and kissed it. “Darling,” she said, “aweful, in the old sense, is just what you do look.”
“What are the men going to wear?” asked Camilla suddenly.
“They can’t very well go in fancy dress, can they?” said Ivy. “Not if they’re cooking and bringing things in and out all the time. And I must say if this is to be the last night and all I do think we ought to have done the dinner, anyway. Let them do as they like about the wine. And what they’ll do with that goose is more than I like to think, because I don’t believe that Mr. MacPhee ever roasted a bird in his life, whatever he says.”
“They can’t spoil the oysters, anyway,” said Camilla.
“That’s right,” said Ivy. “Nor the plum pudding, not really. Still, I’d like just to go down and take a look.”
“You’d better not,” said Jane with a laugh. “You know what he’s like when he’s in charge in the kitchen.”
“I’m not afraid of him,” said Ivy, almost, but not quite, putting out her tongue. And in her present dress the gesture was not uncomely.
“You needn’t be in the least worried about the dinner, girls,” said Mother Dimble. “He will do it very well. Always provided he and my husband don’t get into a philosophical argument just when they ought to be dishing up. Let’s go and enjoy ourselves. How very warm it is in here.”
“’s lovely,” said Ivy.
At that moment the whole room shook from end to end.
“What on earth’s that?” said Jane.
“If the war was still on I’d have said it was a bomb,” said Ivy.
“Come and look,” said Camilla, who had regained her composure sooner than any of the others and was now at the window which looked west towards the valley of the Wynd. “Oh, look!” she said again. “No. It’s not fire. And it’s not searchlights. And it’s not forked lightning. Ugh! . . . there’s another shock. And there . . . Look at that. It’s as bright as day there beyond the church. What am I talking about, it’s only three o’clock. It’s brighter than day. And the heat!”
“It has begun,” said Mother Dimble.
III
At about the same time that morning when Mark had climbed into the lorry, Feverstone, not much hurt but a good deal shaken, climbed out of the stolen car. That car had ended its course upside down in a deep ditch, and Feverstone, always ready to look on the bright side, reflected as he extricated himself that things might have been worse—it might have been his own car. The snow was deep in the ditch and he was very wet. As he stood up and looked about him he saw that he was not alone. A tall and massive figure in a black cassock was before him, about five yards distant. Its back was towards him, and it was already walking steadily away. “Hi!” shouted Feverstone. The other turned and looked at him in silence for a second or two; then it resumed its walk. Feverstone felt at once that this was not the sort of man he would get on with—in fact he had never liked the look of anyone less. Nor could he, in his broken and soaking pumps, follow the four-mile-an-hour stride of those booted feet. He did not attempt it. The black figure came to a gate, there stopped and made a whinnying noise. He was apparently talking to a horse across the gate. Next moment (Feverstone did not quite see how it happened) the man was over the gate and on the horse’s back and off at a canter across a wide field that rose milk-white to the sky-line.
Feverstone had no idea where he was, but clearly the first thing to do was to reach a road. It took him much longer than he expected. It was not freezing now and deep puddles lay hidden beneath the snow in many places. At the bottom of the first hill he came to such a morass that he was driven to abandon the track of the Roman road and try striking across the fields. The decision was fatal. It kept him for two hours looking for gaps in hedges and trying to reach things that looked like roads from a distance but turned out to be nothing of the sort when one reached them. He had always hated the country and always hated weather, and he was not at any time fond of walking.
Near twelve o’clock he found a road with no signposts that led him an hour later into a main road. Here, thank heavens, there was a fair amount of traffic, both cars and pedestrians, all going one way. The first three cars took no notice of his signals. The fourth stopped. “Quick. In you get,” said the driver.
“Going to Edgestow?” asked Feverstone, his hand on the door.
“Good Lord, no!” said the other. “There’s Edgestow!” (and he pointed behind him)—“if you want to go there.” The man seemed surprised and considerably excited.
In the end there was nothing for it but walking. Every vehicle was going away from Edgestow, none
