Free Day's End and Other Stories by H. E. Bates Page A

every movement seemed to grow sadder and graver, as if in mourning for the irrecoverable year which the party celebrated.
    Soon she vanished, the candles were one by one blown out by the ecstatic breath of the little boy. Pipes were lit, the old man coughed and hummed tunes, every one sighed. But Nicoll was conscious of nothing except that every few moments something beautiful passed and repassed him, making him glowing and sensitive.
    â€˜You’d never dream she was sixteen,’ whispered the old woman. ‘She’s like her mother, too.’
    â€˜Yes. And how tall she is,’ was all he answered.
    But the old woman said nothing in return, and hesat in silence, watching the door where he expected Irene to come in.
    He was invited to join some sort of game but refused, folded his hands over his knees and sat with an air of resignation. Then the door opened and a draught blew in various sounds. Among them he heard a voice calling ‘Irene, Irene!’ a sound of pattering feet, and some crockery set down.
    The door was shut and for a long time never opened again. At his side the old woman grumbled in whispers about the chilly nights, the little boy talked to himself, and at Nicoll the girl in red would now and then smile. There was a song, he applauded unconsciously and noticed the men were playing whist in one corner. The door was opened. Irene’s mother came in. He was disappointed.
    He began to wonder where the secret of her beauty lay. Then some one came in and said it was raining, and immediately he thought of the September dusk, the trees moving gently as if shrugging their dark shoulders against the falling dampness, and the ground drenched and hidden by leaves giving out fragrance. And just as it was impossible to say where the secret of that beauty lay he once more sat in contemplation about her.
    Soon afterwards he suddenly went out. In the dark passage he heard her voice and, seeing light coming from under a door in a sharp streak, went in without waiting to discover who was there. He asked:
    â€˜Will you give me a drink of water?’
    Irene smiled and disappeared. As if in a dream he heard the glass filling fiercely and in the room behind voices mixed with the moan of a violin some one had just struck up. Irene seemed gone for a long time. When he saw her return it was with a sensation of fear, as if he expected her to dash the water into his face and wake him. Sagging drops still hung on the lip of the glass as she held it just under his face.
    For a minute nothing happened and, as though listening to the violin, they each stood there with an air of anticipation. Then Nicoll took the glass and without drinking said to her:
    â€˜It’s been very long since I saw you.’
    Because his remark seemed foolish and mundane he gulped some of the water quickly, then stared at her, saw her murmur ‘Yes,’ and return his stare. He could say nothing.
    â€˜It’s been five years,’ she said at last.
    He found her voice quiet and that it went with the rest of her being as harmoniously as the colour of a flower with its plant and made her beauty singular and touching.
    â€˜And you’re sixteen, to-day!’ he exclaimed. ‘I can’t imagine it. It’s not possible.’
    â€˜That’s grandfather playing the violin,’ she said. ‘When you think of it, that seems just as silly, but it’s true.’
    He laughed, held up the glass, saw pinkish, shadowy shapes swimming behind and in it and drank.
    â€˜I ought to have wished you many happy returns long ago,’ he said.
    She smiled as if in a flood of bewilderment, which he could not understand, and suddenly asked:
    â€˜Is it true a candle fell off the cake? Is it? I wasn’t there. Is it true?’
    â€˜Yes. It’s quite right,’ he replied. ‘It burnt a hole in the table-cloth, that’s all.’
    â€˜It’s bad luck!’
    â€˜Oh! that’s so silly. It