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FOR a second there was a silence so intense that it could be felt. Then Miss Ravensdale gave a little gasp and Mr. Bellairs clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“I suppose it might seem like that,” Charles admitted. “But one day I hope you will meet my brother. Then you will realise how unjust such a thought is.”

For a moment Judith’s lips moved silently and her hands clenched and unclenched. Then, without another word, she turned abruptly and fled into the house.

Mr. Bellairs laid a hand on Miss Ravensdale’s arm as she half rose in her chair.

“No!” he said authoritatively. “Leave her alone! She is in no mood to listen to common sense!”

Miss Ravensdale sank back, troubled, yet seeing that he was right.

Linda caught Desmond’s eye and made a slight movement of her head to which he, as cautiously, replied.

Linda stood up.

“I am sure you will forgive us if we go now, Miss Ravensdale,” she said pleasantly. “We are working people, you know, and we keep early hours!”

It was charmingly done and even Miss Ravensdale, who, as Linda had suspected, did not like her very much, had to admit it. If, too, there occurred to her the thought that it was a pity Linda’s good manners showed Judith up to even greater disadvantage, perhaps that was natural enough.

When the Enstones had gone, Mr. Bellairs got slowly to his feet.

“Oh, you’re not going as well, are you, Hugh?” Miss Ravensdale asked forlornly.

He smiled reassuringly.

“No, my dear. But I promised that I would spare the Parletts a little time this evening, with your permission. They are a bit worried about that young nephew of theirs—he will certainly get himself into trouble one day—and I may be able to help!”

He went slowly into the house, and Charles saw that Miss Ravensdale’s fine eyes followed him until he was out of sight. Then she turned to Charles.

“I am very sorry,” she said simply, and he did not attempt to misunderstand her.

“How was it she did not know?” he asked.

“When you first came, I suggested that she should read the letters which you wrote to me, but she did not do so,” Miss Ravensdale explained, and then, apologetically: “I must admit that I wasn’t sorry because, knowing Judith’s prejudice about having anyone, I realised that she would say something like that! After all, she was on the look-out for something—anything— that would ” she stopped abruptly.

“That would get rid of me,” Charles finished. “Yes, I know.” He paused and went on more slowly. “You know, Miss Ravensdale, I have come to the conclusion that my first decision was the right one. I am not the man for this job!”

Miss Ravensdale turned and searched his face with grave, penetrating eyes.

“But you are hot going!” she stated rather than asked.

“I am not going,” he repeated. “If only because—I am rather an obstinate man.”

“Yes, I think you are,” she agreed candidly. “But you can’t be finding it easy ”

"“I’m not,” he admitted. “But—never mind about that, Miss Ravensdale. Will it hurt you to tell me more about your brother? I have a feeling that it will help me to get to the bottom of something I heard the other day. Otherwise, I would not probe.”

“It’s all right,” she assured him quietly. “What is it that you want to know?”

He hesitated, less because he did not know what to say than because he wanted to make it very clear to her.

“The thing I heard was this,” he said slowly. “I was having a look at Shawbury’s bull with him—a magnificent animal. And I asked him if he was showing it at the local Agricultural Show. He looked at me sideways and instead of answering me, he asked me another question. It was: ‘Is Windygates showing Trumpeter?’ When I said that we were, he said: ‘No, mister, I’m not showing!’ Of course, I tried to get to the bottom of it, but all he would say was that it didn’t always pay a tenant farmer to win prizes.”

“I don’t understand,” Miss Ravensdale said slowly.

“Nor did I at first. Then I got it. Shawbury’s farm actually belongs to Judith, doesn’t it? And Shawbury rents it? Well, I gather that he is not the only one of your brother’s tenants who realised that he was not the sort of man who could brook opposition. In other words, a Windygates bull carried off the cup year after year because there was no serious competition.”

“Mr. Saxilby!” Miss Ravensdale gasped.

“I know. Not pretty, is it? But I didn’t leave it there. I looked up records. The last time another farmer had the prize-winning bull was in 1946. A man named Heriot. His farm is now in the hands of a man named Williams. Heriot left the district within a year of the show. It seems that one disaster after another befell him. His ricks were burned, his hens refused to lay, his pigs sickened and died. He left the district practically a ruined man!”

“But you are not suggesting ”

Charles rubbed his chin meditatively.

“People don’t talk nowadays about the evil eye,” he said thoughtfully. “But I suspect they still believe in it! But leaving superstition out of it, there are quite a lot of people about here who feel that they owed your brother a grudge. Doubtless they came to lay every catastrophe at his door, but—there must have been some foundation to it. I want to know—how much?”

Miss Ravensdale hesitated.

“Quite a lot, I am afraid. You—and they—are quite right. He could not bear to be opposed, and defeat simply infuriated him. Of course, witchcraft is sheer nonsense! But I remember the occasion. I remember hearing my brother say that Heriot must be taught his place! Of course, what chiefly annoyed him was that Heriot really was a bad farmer. Lazy and ignorant. That bull was sheer luck! His disasters were due to his own carelessness and mismanagement. But—they all have had sufficient reason for
some
complaint. An incident like Heriot’s farm adds fuel to the fire.”

“Yes,” Charles agreed. “Now, Miss Ravensdale, is it any use telling Judith this?”

In their absorption, neither of them noticed his use of Judith’s Christian name. Miss Ravensdale pondered.

“What are you afraid of?” she asked.

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” he said slowly, “that the feeling against Judith is not entirely because she is a girl. Rather it is that, though some of them at least had a grudge against her father, he was too strong a man for them to hit back at. But it is a different story now. Judith is genuinely competent where farming is concerned. Her opinions are well worth listening to. But in the nature of things, she cannot dominate them as a man could do. And yet she behaves as though she could. Do you understand, Miss Ravensdale?”

She leaned forward, her face strained and white.

“Just what is it you are afraid of, Mr. Saxilby?” she asked again in a whisper.

“I am afraid,” he said deliberately, “that sooner or later someone will pay off to Judith the grudges they owe her father. And that is why I say, is it any good telling her?”

“No!” her aunt said decisively. “Not yet! Even if it is a risk, you must wait until you have more proof! She would just not listen!”

Charles got up, a dim, looming shadow in the twilight.

“I was afraid you would say that,” he admitted. “Certain, in fact, after tonight. Well, I’ll just have to keep my eyes skinned, that’s all!” He kicked a stone moodily with his shoe. “By the way, there is just one other thing. I wonder if your brother ever realised how lucky he was to have a daughter and not a son!”

"Lucky!”

“Yes. Don’t you see—no rivalry! If Judith had been a boy, there would have come a time when your brother would have realised that his son was quicker-witted, more virile than he. I doubt if he would have liked it! Inevitably, there would have been clashes—the more so if the son had been like his father! As it was, a girl could be made to feel that she was inferior clay! And her adoration for her father tended to keep her young. That sort of unreasoning love does, you know. Many a man has discovered that there is no stronger rival than the father of the girl he wants to marry. You see, a very strong love for parents is a looking-backwards to childhood all the time. The other sort of love is looking forwards, usurping for oneself the rank of parenthood. Yes, your brother was lucky!”

Miss Ravensdale sighed.

“It sounds only too true. But—what about Judith? Can things ever come right for her?”

A subtle change came into Charles’s voice. It became guarded, impersonal.

“Time will show!” And with a quick nod he strolled off into the darkness.

Miss Ravensdale was left to await Mr. Bellairs’ return alone, but with a great deal about which to think.

*

And Judith? She had rushed into the house up to her own room and had flung herself down on her bed.

He had done it again! Somehow or other he had twisted her words so that he had put her in the wrong! And, at the same time, he had at least given the impression that there was nothing for which he himself could be blamed. Judith’s strong little hands clenched and unclenched as her anger mounted. If only he would meet her openly and fairly, but he was so evasive— it gave her a sense of impotence that she could not get at grips with this man whom she disliked and mistrusted so much. Suddenly she sat up. Had Aunt Harriet known about this relationship? Had she deliberately kept quiet about it—that was rather horrible to think of, because of course it meant that she had not really got the well-being either of Judith herself or Windygates at heart.

Everybody seemed to be siding with the Saxilby man. Even Linda. She had seemed to enjoy talking to him. Had gone out of her way to be charming. And her dress—

Judith got up slowly from the bed and went over to the long mirror that she so rarely consulted. It was rather a shock to see the reflection of herself with the picture of Linda still so fresh in her mind.

She scowled heavily. For the first time she realised that there was something wrong with the dress. But even her new perception could not tell her what it was. She put her hand behind and gathered lumps of material together in it so that, for the moment it was a better fit. That, she supposed, improved things. At least she looked a better shape. But there was still something wrong. Disparagingly she tore off the offending garment and then went over to her dressing-table. From a drawer she took a big silk square that Linda had given her last Christmas. She had never worn it because she felt that its bright scarlet just didn’t fit in with any of her other clothes. But now she folded it cornerwise and draped it round her slim shoulders, knotting it in front so that it was like a fichu. Then she went slowly over to the glass again and examined the result. Her eyes widened. Whether you liked it or not, you had to admit that it was striking in its effect, particularly as she was wearing a white silk slip which suddenly looked rather like a well-tailored dress. .

Perhaps that was what was wrong, Judith thought. Perhaps she ought to wear bright colours and sharp contrasts. Perhaps, if she dressed differently, people would treat her differently.

Suddenly, with an expression of repugnance, she tore off the scarf and threw it on to the floor with the blue frock. It lay there, glowing, vital, like newly spilled blood.

Turning her back on it, Judith began to dress hurriedly in her working clothes. She felt more comfortable in them—and somehow safer.

After all, why should one trouble to dress up just for the sake of other people? They ought to accept one for what one was, not because one flattered them and asked in return for flattery. If people really cared for one another, that was the way it would be. And if they didn’t care, what did clothes matter?

She went quietly down the back staircase and out into the silent night. She had heard the Enstones drive off—it was impossible not to hear Desmond’s car if one was anywhere near, or to mistake it for any other. Mr. Bellairs’ gentle, precise voice she could hear as she went past the Parletts’ sitting-room, and Charles—

Her chin jutted out belligerently. Better for Charles if he were to keep out of the way!

She circled the house stealthily, taking advantage of every bush and shadow, and at last she was sufficiently far away for it not to matter if anyone did see or hear her. As hard as she could, she raced down the drive, to turn off at a. little by-path which led into the woods.

Suddenly she heard a voice—and knew that it was Charles’s.

“Who’s that?” he asked sharply. And she heard footsteps crunching over last year’s leaves.

Holding her breath, Judith melted into the shadows and waited, still and silent. For a time she heard Charles beating about in the undergrowth, and once he passed so near to her that if she had put out her hand she could have touched him. Then he evidently concluded that there was no one there, for he turned and walked slowly to the drive again.

And after a while, Judith ventured out. She made her way so surely that it was obvious she had some particular destination in mind, and that was the case.

For in the very heart of the little wood, she came to a clearing into which the moonlight poured, making it an enchanted spot. Across the ground lay a section of a tree-trunk which made such a comfortable support if one sat on the ground just in front of it that Judith had come to the conclusion that someone else must have found this sanctuary and come to it many times. It gave her a feeling of happiness such as one gets in sharing some beloved object with someone who also appreciates it. She never felt lonely here—or at odds with the world.

So now, confidently, she sat down and leaned back against the trunk, her face turned up to the moon. To herself she had called it Lob’s wood, for surely here, if anywhere, one could forget old mistakes and make new beginnings.

But to-night, for the first time, the charm failed. Everything was just the same. The moon, the dark shadows around her, the mournful hoot of owls and the little squeakings and scurryings of small night creatures. All the same. Only she was different. Not part of the picture or the paradise.

She waited awhile, her eyes closed, but it was no use. The restlessness, the unanswered question in her heart, did not lessen. If anything, the beauty of the night only served to make them worse, until at last, with a sigh, she got up and slowly retraced her steps.