tion. And, hard as it is
for youth to be in the wrong, Susan would have hinted at reconciliation
if James had not been so rich. The riches of James offended Susan's
independence. Not for millions would she have exposed herself to the
suspicion that she had broken her oath because her stepuncle was a
wealthy and childless man. She was, of course, wrong. Nor was this her
only indiscretion. She was so ridiculously indiscreet as to influence
her husband in such a way that he actually succeeded in life. Had James
perceived them to be struggling in poverty, he might conceivably have
gone over to them and helped them, in an orgy of forgiving charity. But
the success of young Rathbone falsified his predictions utterly, and
was, further, an affront to him. Thus the quarrel slowly crystallised
into a permanent estrangement, a passive feud. Everybody got thoroughly
accustomed to it, and thought nothing of it, it being a social
phenomenon not at all unique of its kind in the Five Towns. When,
fifteen years later, Rathbone died in mid-career, people thought that
the feud would end. But it did not. James wrote a letter of condolence
to his niece, and even sent it to Longshaw by special messenger in the
tramcar; but he had not heard of the death until the day of the funeral,
and Mrs. Rathbone did not reply to his letter. Her independence and
sensitiveness were again in the wrong. James did no more. You could not
expect him to have done more. Mrs. Rathbone, like many widows of
successful men, was "left poorly off." But she "managed." Once, five
years before the scene on the park terrace, Mrs. Rathbone and James had
encountered one another by hazard on the platform of Knype Railway
Station. Destiny hesitated while Susan waited for James's recognition
and James waited for Susan's recognition. Both of them waited too long.
Destiny averted its head and drew back, and the relatives passed on
their ways without speaking. James observed with interest a girl of
twenty by Susan's side--her daughter. This daughter of Susan's was now
sharing the park bench with him. Hence the hidden drama of their
meeting, of his speech, of her reply.

"And what's your name, lass?"

"Helen."

"Helen what?"

"Helen, great-stepuncle," said she.

He laughed; and she laughed also. The fact was that he had been aware
of her name, vaguely. It had come to him, on the wind, or by some bird's
wing, although none of his acquaintances had been courageous enough to
sp