"As for writing stories and being true to one's gift—I could not write them if I were not here, even. I am at an end of my source for a time. Life has brought me no flow. I want to write, but differently, —far more steadily."
She believed that she could not express the change that had taken place in her even in letters, though indeed her letters were radiant with happiness:
"And yet I realise as I write, all this is no use. An old personality is trying to get back to the outside and observe, and it's not true to the facts at all. What I write seems so petty. In fact I cannot express myself in writing just now. The old mechanism isn't mine any longer and I can't control the new. I just have to talk this baby talk."
"I am not in a mood for books at present," she wrote finally, shortly before Christmas, "though I know that in future I shall want to write them more than anything else. But different books."
What those "different books" would have been we shall never know. She was seized by a sudden and fatal haemorrhage on the evening of January 9th. She is buried in the communal cemetery of Avon near Fontainebleau. On her gravestone are inscribed the words of Shakespeare she chose for the title-page of "Bliss," words which had long been cherished by her and were to prove prophetic :
" But I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety."
THE DOVES’ NEST
AFTER lunch Milly and her mother were sitting as usual on the balcony beyond the salon, admiring for the five hundredth time the stocks, the roses, the small, bright grass beneath the palms, and the oranges against a wavy line of blue, when a card was brought them by Marie. Visitors at the Villa Martin were very rare. True, the English clergyman, Mr. Sandi-man, had called, and he had come a second time with his wife to tea. But an awful thing had happened on that second occasion. Mother had made a mistake. She had said “More tea, Mr. Sandybags?” Oh, what a frightful thing to have happened! How could she have done it? Milly still flamed at the thought. And he had evidently not forgiven them; he’d never come again. So this card put them both into quite a flutter.
Mr. Walter Prodger, they read. And then an American address, so very much abbreviated that neither of them understood it. Walter Prodger? But they’d never heard of him. Mother looked from the card to Milly.
“Prodger, dear?” she asked mildly, as though helping Milly to a slice of a never-before-tasted pudding.
And Milly seemed to be holding her plate back in the way she answered “I — don’t — know, Mother.”
“These are the occasions,” said Mother, becoming a little flustered, “when one does so feel the need of our dear English servants. Now if I could just say, ‘What is he like, Annie?’ I should know whether to see him or not. But he may be some common man, selling something — one of those American inventions for peeling things, you know, dear. Or he may even be some kind of foreign sharper.” Mother winced at the hard, bright little word as though she had given herself a dig with her embroidery scissors.
But here Marie smiled at Milly and murmured, “C’est un très beau Monsieur.”
“What does she say, dear?”
“She says he looks very nice, Mother.”
“Well, we’d better — —” began Mother.
“Where is he now, I wonder.”
Marie answered “In the vestibule, Madame.”
In the hall! Mother jumped up, seriously alarmed. In the hall, with all those valuable little foreign things that didn’t belong to them scattered over the tables.
“Show him in, Marie. Come, Milly, come dear. We will see him in the salon. Oh, why isn’t Miss Anderson here?” almost wailed Mother.
But Miss Anderson, Mother’s new companion, never was on the spot when she was wanted. She had been engaged to be a comfort, a support to them both. Fond of travelling, a cheerful disposition, a good packer and so on. And then, when they had come all this way and taken the Villa Martin and moved in, she had turned out to be a Roman Catholic. Half her time, more than half, was spent wearing out the knees of her skirts in cold churches. It was really too...
The door opened. A middle-aged, cleanshaven, very well dressed stranger stood bowing before them. His bow was stately. Milly saw it pleased Mother very much; she bowed her Queen Alexandra bow back. As for Milly, she never could bow. She smiled, feeling shy, but deeply interested.
“Have I the pleasure,” said the stranger very courteously, with a strong American accent, “of speaking with Mrs. Wyndham Fawcett?”
“I am Mrs. Fawcett,” said Mother, graciously, “and this is my daughter, Mildred.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Fawcett.” And the stranger shot a fresh, chill hand at Milly, who grasped it just in time before it was gone again.
“Won’t you sit down?” said Mother, and she waved faintly at all the gilt chairs.
“Thank you, I will,” said the stranger.
Down he sat, still solemn, crossing his legs, and, most surprisingly, his arms as well. His face looked at them over his dark arms as over a gate.
“Milly, sit down, dear.”
So Milly sat down, too, on the Madame Recamier couch, and traced a filet lace flower with her finger. There was a little pause. She saw the stranger swallow; Mother’s fan opened and shut.
Then he said “I took the liberty of calling, Mrs. Fawcett, because I had the pleasure of your husband’s acquaintance in the States when he was lecturing there some years ago. I should like very much to renoo our — well — I venture to hope we might call it friendship. Is he with you at present? Are you expecting him out? I noticed his name was not mentioned in the local paper. But I put that down to a foreign custom, perhaps — giving precedence to the lady.”
And here the stranger looked as though he might be going to smile.
But as a matter of fact it was extremely awkward. Mother’s mouth shook. Milly squeezed her hands between her knees, but she watched hard from under her eyebrows. Good, noble little Mummy! How Milly admired her as she heard her say, gently and quite simply, “I am sorry to say my husband died two years ago.” Mr. Prodger gave a great start. “Did he?” He thrust out his under lip, frowned, pondered. “I am truly sorry to hear that, Mrs. Fawcett. I hope you’ll believe me when I say I had no idea your husband had... passed over.”
“Of course.” Mother softly stroked her skirt.
“I do trust,” said Mr. Prodger, more seriously still, “that my inquiry didn’t give you too much pain.”
“No, no. It’s quite all right,” said the gentle voice.
But Mr. Prodger insisted. “You’re sure? You’re positive?”
At that Mother raised her head and gave him one of her still, bright, exalted glances that Milly knew so well. “I’m not in the least hurt,” she said, as one might say it from the midst of the fiery furnace.
Mr. Prodger looked relieved. He changed his attitude and continued. “I hope this regrettable circumstance will not deprive me of your — —”
“Oh, certainly not. We shall be delighted. We are always so pleased to know any one who — —” Mother gave a little bound, a little flutter. She flew from her shadowy branch on to a sunny one. “Is this your first visit to the Riviera?”
“It is,” said Mr. Prodger. “The fact is I was in Florence until recently. But I took a heavy cold there — —”
“Florence so damp,” cooed Mother.
“And the doctor