Anne Severn and the Fieldings. Sinclair May

into the old nursery that was the schoolroom now, and found Eliot there, examining a fly's leg under his microscope. It was Eliot that he wanted..

      "I say, you know, Mum's making a jolly mistake about that kid. Trying to go on as if she was Anne's mother. You can see it makes her sick. It would me, if my mother was dead."

      Eliot looked as if he wasn't listening, absorbed in his fly's leg.

      "Somebody's got to tell her."

      "Are you going to," said Eliot, "or shall I?"

      "Neither. I shall get Dad to. He'll do it best."

      vii

      Robert Fielding didn't do it all at once. He put it off till Adeline gave him his chance. He found her alone in the library and she had begun it.

      "Robert, I don't know what to do about that child."

      "Which child?"

      "Anne. She's been here five weeks, and I've done everything I know, and she hasn't shown me a scrap of affection. It's pretty hard if I'm to house and feed the little thing and look after her like a mother and get nothing. Nothing but half a cold little face to kiss night and morning. It isn't good enough."

      "For Anne?"

      "For me, my dear. Trying to be a mother to somebody else's child who doesn't love you, and isn't going to love you."

      "Don't try then."

      "Don't try?"

      "Don't try and be a mother to her. That's what Anne doesn't like."

      They had got as far as that when John Severn stood in the doorway. He was retreating before their appearance of communion when she called him back.

      "Don't go, John. We want you. Here's Robert telling me not to be a mother to Anne."

      "And here's Adeline worrying because she thinks Anne isn't going to love her."

      Severn sat down, considering it.

      "It takes time," he said.

      She looked at him, smiling under lowered brows.

      "Time to love me?"

      "Time for Anne to love you. She—she's so desperately faithful."

      The dressing-bell clanged from the belfry. Robert left them to finish a discussion that he found embarrassing.

      "I said I'd try to be a mother to her. I have tried, John; but the little thing won't let me."

      "Don't try too hard. Robert's right. Don't—don't be a mother to her."

      "What am I to be?"

      "Oh, anything you like. A presence. A heavenly apparition. An impossible ideal. Anything but that."

      "Do you think she's going to hold out for ever?"

      "Only against that. As long as she remembers. It puts her off."

      "She doesn't object to Robert being a father to her."

      "No. Because he's a better father than I am; and she knows it."

      Adeline flushed. She understood the implication and was hurt, unreasonably. He saw her unreasonableness and her pain.

      "My dear Adeline, Anne's mother will always be Anne's mother. I was never anywhere beside Alice. I've had to choose between the Government of India and my daughter. You'll observe that I don't try to be a father to Anne; and that, in consequence, Anne likes me. But she'll love Robert."

      "And 'like' me? If I don't try."

      "Give her time. Give her time."

      He rose, smiling down at her.

      "You think I'm unreasonable?"

      "The least bit in the world. For the moment."

      "My dear John, if I didn't love your little girl I wouldn't care."

      "Love her. Love her. She'll love you too, in her rum way. She's fighting you now. She wouldn't fight if she didn't feel she was beaten. Nobody could hold out against you long."

      She looked at the clock.

      "Heavens! I must go and dress."

      She thought: "He didn't hold out against me, poor dear, five minutes. I suppose he'll always remember that I jilted him for Robert."

      And now he wanted her to see that if Anne's mother would be always Anne's mother, his wife would be always his wife. Was he desperately faithful, too? Always?

      How could he have been? It was characteristic of Alice Severn that when she had to choose between her husband and her daughter she had chosen Anne. It was characteristic of John that when he had to choose between his wife and his Government, he had not chosen Alice. He must have had adventures out in India, conducted with the discretion becoming in a Commissioner and a Member of the Legislative Council, but adventures. Perhaps he was going back to one of them.

      Severn dressed hastily and went into the schoolroom where Anne sat reading in her solitary hour between supper time and bed-time. He took her on his knee, and she snuggled there, rubbing her head against his shoulder. He thought of Adeline, teasing, teasing for the child's caresses, and every time repulsed.

      "Anne," he said, "don't you think you can love Auntie Adeline?"

      Anne straightened herself. She looked at him with candid eyes. "I don't know, Daddy, really, if I can."

      "Can't you love her a little?"

      "I—I would, if she wouldn't try—"

      "Try?"

      "To do like Mummy did."

      Robert was right. He knew it, but he wanted to be sure.

      Anne went on. "It's no use, you see, her trying. It only makes me think of Mummy more."

      "Don't you want to think of her?"

      "Yes. But I want to think by myself, and Auntie Adeline keeps on getting in the way."

      "Still, she's awfully kind to you, isn't she?"

      "Awfully."

      "And you mustn't hurt her feelings."

      "Have I? I didn't mean to."

      "You wouldn't if you loved her."

      "You haven't ever hurt her feelings, have you, Daddy?"

      "No."

      "Well, you see, it's because I keep on thinking about Mummy. I want her back—I want her so awfully."

      "I know, Anne, I know."

      Anne's mind burrowed under, turning on its tracks, coming out suddenly.

      "Do you love Auntie Adeline, Daddy?"

      It was terrible, but he owned that he had brought it on himself.

      "I can't say. I've known her such a long time; before you were born."

      "Before you married Mummy!"

      "Yes."

      "Well, won't it do if I love Uncle Robert and Eliot and Colin? And

       Jerrold?"

      That night he said to Adeline, "I know who'll take my place when I'm gone."

      "Who? Robert?"

      "No, Jerrold."

      In another week he had sailed for India and Ambala.

      * * * * *

      viii

      Jerrold was brave.

      When Colin upset the schoolroom lamp Jerrold wrapped it in the tablecloth and threw it out of the window just in time. He put the chain on Billy, the sheep-dog, when he went