Transcriber’s Note Italic text displayed as: _italic_ BEAUTIFUL END BY THE SAME AUTHOR CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME THE LONELY PLOUGH THE OLD ROAD FROM SPAIN [Illustration: “The yew’s tall finger pointing to the sky”] [Illustration: “Nobody’s shadow could tread on your heels”] BEAUTIFUL END BY CONSTANCE HOLME “Houses not made with hands” MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49 RUPERT STREET LONDON, W. 1 _Published 1918_ “THE PLACE FOR WHICH I CRY” AUTHOR’S NOTE The author wishes to state that no character in this book is drawn from any living person. BEAUTIFUL END I She put her hand to the curtain for the last time and drew back. Very reluctantly she admitted to herself that now there was nothing left to do. Here was the room really finished at last, and none of her wistful glances from side to side could find her a fresh task. She had lingered over it as long as she possibly could, but now the pleasant work had really come to an end. Everything had to come to an end so that other things might begin, but the hours of toil had been so sweet that she hated to let them go. The room seemed full of the tunes she had sung as she painted and scrubbed, full of plans and pleased thoughts and thrills of housewifely pride. It stood, of course, for so very much more than just a simply-furnished chamber in a simple house. It stood, for instance, for the end of a self-reproach marring a happiness otherwise complete. It meant the comforting of a hurt which still troubled her kind soul, however unwillingly it had been wrought. It meant return and renewal on better lines, the rebuilding of ancient things with better hands.... In the upstairs room of the marsh farmhouse there was a great pleasantness and peace. The early evening sun drove straight towards it from the west, and through its deep-set eyes sent shining ladders all across the floor. Only the corners of the room stayed dim and aloof. Now that all was done, and so thoroughly done, she was puzzled to find herself depressed. Perhaps it was nothing more than the nervous doubt which foreruns every great moment just at the last. Perhaps it was just the regret that lies like a sigh under the chant of pride in a finished task. Certainly, nobody else would ever see the room exactly as it looked to herself. Nobody would see, as she could see, not only the finished whole, but the work and the joy that had made it what it was. That meant, of course, that when she passed out for the last time, the room’s own perfect moment would pass as well. Therefore she lingered and looked, hoping for the chance of a further touch, but however she looked, she could think of nothing else.