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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for
+eBook #54801 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/54801)
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-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: The Garden Without Walls
-
-Author: Coningsby Dawson
-
-Release Date: May 28, 2017 [EBook #54801]
-Last Updated: October 4, 2018
-
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-
-By Coningsby Dawson
-
-New York: Grosset & Dunlap
-
-Publishers
-
-1913
-
-[Illustration: 0001]
-
-[Illustration: 0005]
-
-
-
-
-BOOK I--THE WALLED-IN GARDEN
-
-
-_And God planted a garden and drove out man; and he placed at the east
-of Eden angels and the flame of a sword._
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I--MY MOTHER
-
-It happened about six in the morning, in a large red room. A bar of
-sunlight streamed in at the window, in which dust-motes were dancing by
-the thousand. A man and woman were lying in bed; I was standing up in my
-cot, plucking at the woman with my podgy fingers. She stirred, turned,
-rubbed her eyes, smiled, stretched out her arms, and drew me under the
-bed-clothes beside her. The man slept on.
-
-This is my earliest recollection. If it be true that the soul is born
-not at the same time as the body, but at a later period with the first
-glimmering of memory, then this was the morning on which my soul groped
-its way into the world.
-
-I have sometimes thought that I have never grown wiser than the
-knowledge contained in that first recollection. Nothing that I have to
-record in this book will carry me much further. The scene is symbolic:
-a little child, inarticulate, early awakened in a sunlit room, vainly
-striving to make life answer questions. Do we ever get beyond that? The
-woman is Nature. The man is God. The room is the world--for me it has
-always been filled with sunlight.
-
-My mother I remember as very tall and patient, vaguely beautiful and
-smiling. I can recall hardly anything she said--only her atmosphere and
-the fragrance of violets which seemed always to cling about her. I know
-that she took me out beneath the stars one night; there was frost on the
-ground and church-bells were ringing. And I know that one summer’s
-day, on a holiday at Ransby, she led me through lanes far out into the
-country till my legs were very tired. We came to a large white house,
-standing in a parkland. There we hid behind a clump of trees for hours.
-A horseman came riding down the avenue. My mother ran out from behind
-the trees and tried to make him speak with her. She held me up to show
-me to him, and grasped his rein to make him halt. He said something
-angrily, set spurs to his horse, and disappeared at a gallop. She began
-to cry, telling me that the man was her father. I was too tired to pay
-much attention. She had to carry me most of the way home. It was dark
-when we entered Ransby.
-
-In London some months later--it must have been wintertime, for we were
-sitting by the fire-light--she took me in her arms and asked me if I
-would like to have a sister. I refused stoutly. At dawn I was wakened
-by hurrying feet on the staircase. Next day I was given a new box of
-soldiers to keep me quiet. A lot of strange people stole in and out the
-house as if they owned it. I never saw my mother again.
-
-All I had known of her had been so shy and gentle that it was a good
-deal of a surprise to me to learn years later that, as a girl, she had
-been considered rather dashing. She had been called “The gay Miss Fannie
-Evrard” and her marriage with my father had begun with an elopement. Her
-father was Sir Charles Evrard, brother-in-law to the Earl of Lovegrove;
-my father’s folk were ship-chandlers in Ransby, outfitting vessels for
-the Baltic trade.
-
-The inequality of the match, as far as social position was concerned,
-made life in Ransby impossible. My father was only a reporter on the
-local paper at the time of his escapade; the Evrards lived at Woadley
-Hall and were reckoned among the big people in the county. It must have
-been to this house that my mother took me on that dusty summer’s day.
-
-After his marriage my father settled down in London, gaining his living
-as a free-lance journalist. I believe he was very poor at the start. He
-did not re-visit Ransby until years later. Pride prevented. My mother
-returned as often as finances would allow, in the vain hope of a
-reconciliation with her family. On these occasions she would stay at the
-ship-chandler’s, and was an object of curiosity and commiseration among
-the neighbors.
-
-Most of the facts which lie outside my own recollection were
-communicated to me by my grandmother. She never got over her amazement
-at her son’s audacity. It was without parallel in her experience until
-I attempted to repeat his performance with an entirely individual
-variation. She never tired of rehearsing the details; it was noticeable
-that she always referred to my mother as “Miss Fannie.”
-
-“Often and often,” she would say, “have I seen Miss Fannie come
-a-prancin’ down the High Street with her groom a-followin’. She was
-always mounted on a gray horse, with a touch of red about her. Sometimes
-it was a red feather in her hat and sometimes a scarlet cloak. When Sir
-Charles rode beside her you could see the pride in his eye. She was his
-only child.”
-
-After my small sister failed to arrive someone must have told me that
-my mother had gone to find her. I would sit for hours at the window,
-watching for her homecoming.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II--THE MAGIC CARPET
-
-I was born in South London on a crowded street lying off the Old
-Kent Road. It was here that my mother died. When I was about six, a
-false-dawn came in my father’s prospects, on the promise of which he
-moved northward to the suburb of Stoke Newington.
-
-At the time of which I write, Stoke Newington still retained a village
-atmosphere. The houses, for the most part, were old, bow-windowed,
-and quaint. Many of them were occupied by leisured people--retired
-city-merchants, maiden-ladies, and widows, who came there because it
-was reasonable in price without being shabby. It was a backwater of the
-surging stream of London life where one found time to grow flowers, read
-books, and be kindly. Its red, tree-shaded streets witnessed many an
-old-fashioned love-affair. The early morning was filled with country
-sounds--singing of birds, creaking of wooden-gates, and cock-crowing.
-
-Our house was situated in Pope Lane, a blind alley overgrown with limes.
-It had posts set up at the entrance to prevent wheel-traffic. You could
-not see the houses from the lane, so steeply did the walls rise up on
-either side. It led nowhere and was a mere tunnel dotted with doors.
-Did the doors open by chance as you were passing, you caught glimpses
-of kitchen-gardens, shrubberies, and well-kept lawns. We rarely saw our
-neighbors. Each door hid a mystery, on which a child could exercise his
-fancy.
-
-My father was too strenuously engaged in wringing an income out of
-reluctant editors to pay much attention to my upbringing. In moving to
-Pope Lane, he had made an increase in his expenditure which, as events
-proved, his prospects did not warrant. The keeping up of appearances was
-a continuous and unrelenting fight. Early in the morning he was at his
-desk; the last thing in the evening, when I ventured into his study to
-bid him good-night, his pen was still toiling industriously across
-the page. His mornings were spent in hack-work, preparing special
-articles on contemporary economics for a group of daily papers. His
-evenings were given over to the writing of books which he hoped would
-bring him fame, many of which are still unpublished.
-
-He coveted fame and despised it. He wrote to please himself and
-expected praise. He was an unpractical idealist, always planning huge
-undertakings for which there was no market. His most important work,
-which occupied twenty years of his life, was _The History of Human
-Progress_. It was really a history of human selfishness, written
-to prove that every act which has dug man out of the mire, however
-seemingly sacrificial and noble, had for its initial motive an
-enlightened self-interest. He never managed to get it before the public.
-It was disillusionizing. We all know that we are selfish, but we all
-hope that with luck we could be heroes.
-
-The trouble with my father was that he was an emotionalist ashamed of
-his emotions. He wanted to be scrupulously just, and feared that his
-sentiments would weaken his judgments. Temperamentally he was willing
-to believe everything. But he had read Herbert Spencer and admired the
-academic mind; consequently he off-set his natural predisposition to
-faith by re-acting from everything accepted, and scrawled across the
-page of recorded altruism a gigantic note of interrogation. He gave
-to strangers and little boys the impression of being cynical and hard,
-whereas he had within him the smoldering enthusiasms and compassion
-which go to the kindling of martyrs and saints. He was planned for a man
-of action, but had turned aside to grope after phantoms in the mazes of
-the mind. His career is typical of the nineteenth century and sedentary
-modes of life.
-
-Looking back I often wonder if he would not have been happier as a
-ship-chandler, moving among jolly sea-captains, following his father’s
-trade. How many hours, mounting into years, he wasted on literary
-failures--hours which might have been spent on people and friendships.
-As a child I rarely saw him save at meal-times, and then he was
-pre-occupied. For some years after my mother’s death he was afraid to
-love anyone too dearly.
-
-He solved the problem of my immediate existence by locking the door into
-the lane, and giving me the freedom of the garden. I can recall it in
-every phase. Other and more recent memories have passed away, but,
-when I close my eyes and think back, I am there again. Moss-grown walks
-spread before me. Peaches on the wall ripen. I catch the fragrance of
-box, basking in sunshine. I see my father’s study-window and the ivy
-blown across the pane. He is seated at his desk, writing, writing. His
-face is turned away. His head is supported on his hand as though weary.
-I am wondering why it is that grown people never play, and why it is
-that they shut smaller people up always within walls.
-
-I saw nothing of the outside world except on Sundays. My father used to
-lead me as far as the parish church, and call for me when service was
-ended. He never came inside. His intellectual integrity forbade it. He
-was an agnostic. My mother, knowing this, had made him promise to take
-me. He kept his word exactly.
-
-Few friends called on us. My companions were cooks and housemaids. I
-borrowed my impressions of life, as most children do, from the lower
-orders of society. A servant is a prisoner; so is a child. Both are
-subject to tyranny, and both are dependent for their happiness on
-omnipotent persons’ moods and fortunes. A maidservant is always dreaming
-of a day when she will marry a lord, and drive up in a glittering
-carriage to patronize her old employer. A child, sensitive to
-misunderstanding, has similar visions of a far-off triumph which will
-consist in heaping coals of fire. He will heap them kindly and for his
-parents’ good, but unmistakably.
-
-It was in Pope Lane that I first began to dream of a garden without
-walls. As I grew older I became curious, and fretted at the narrowness
-of my restraint. What happened over there in the great beyond? Rumors
-came to me; sometimes it was the roar of London to the southward;
-sometimes it was the sing-song of a mower traversing a neighbor’s lawn.
-I dreamt of an unwalled garden, through which a child might wander on
-forever--an Eden, where each step revealed a new beauty and a fresh
-surprise, where flowers grew always and there were no doors to lock.
-
-It was a book which gave the first impulse to this thought; in a sense
-it was responsible for the entire trend of my character and life. In
-recent years I have tried to procure a copy. All traces of it seem to
-have vanished. If I ever knew the name of the author I have forgotten
-it. I am even uncertain of the exact title. I believe it was called _The
-Magic Carpet_.
-
-Mine was a big red copy. The color came off when your hands got sticky.
-It had to be supported on the knees when read, or the arms got tired. It
-was a story of children, ordered about by day, who by night went forth
-invisible to wander the world, riding on the nursery carpet. Absurd!
-Yes, but this carpet happened to be magic. All you had to do was to
-seat yourself upon it, hold on tight, and wish where you wanted to be
-carried. In a trice you were beyond the reach of adults, flying over
-roofs and spires, post-haste to the land of your desire. In that book
-little boys ate as much as they liked and never had stomach-ache. They
-defeated whole armies of cannibals without a scratch. They rescued fair
-ladies, as old as housemaids, but ten times more beautiful, who wanted
-to marry them. No one seemed to know that they were little. No one
-condescended or told them to run away and wash their faces. Nobody went
-to school. Everybody was polite.
-
-The pictures which illustrated the adventures still seem in remembrance
-the finest in the world. They typify the spirit of romance, the soul
-of youth, the revolt against limitations. They appealed to the lawless
-element within me, which still yearns to straddle the stallion of the
-world and go plunging bare-back through space.
-
-I tried every carpet in the house, but none of ours were magic. I lay
-awake imagining the lands, I would visit if I had it. I would go to
-my mother first, and try to bring her back. I remembered vaguely how
-care-free my father had been when we had had her with us. Perhaps, if
-she returned, he would be happy. Then an inspiration came; there was
-one carpet which I had _not_ tested--it lay before the fire-place in
-my father’s study. But how should I get at it? Only in the hours of
-darkness was it different from any other carpet, and in the evenings my
-father was always there. I never doubted but that this was the carpet;
-its difficulty of access proved it.
-
-One night I lay awake, pinching myself to stave off sleep. It was
-winter. Outside I could hear the trees cracking beneath the weight of
-snow upon their boughs. The servants came to bed. I saw them pass my
-door, casting long shadows, screening their candles with their hands
-lest the light should strike across my eyes and rouse me. I waited to
-hear the study-door open and close. In waiting I began to drowse. I came
-to myself with a shudder. What hour it was I could not guess. I got
-out of bed. Stealing to the top of the stairs I looked down; all was
-blackness. Listening, I could hear the heavy breathing of sleepers.
-Bare-footed, I crept down into the hall, clinging to the banisters. The
-air was bitter. I was frightened. Each step I took seemed to cause the
-house to groan and tremble. The door of the study stood open. By the
-light of the fire, dying in the grate, I could just make out the carpet.
-Darting across the threshold, I knelt upon it. “Take me to Mama,”
- I whispered. The minutes ticked by; it did not stir. I spoke again;
-nothing happened.
-
-I heard a sound in the doorway--a sudden catching of the breath. I
-turned. My father was standing, watching me. I did not scream or
-cry out. He came toward me through the darkness. What with fear of
-consequences and disappointment, I fell to sobbing.
-
-I think he must have seen and overheard everything, for, with a
-tenderness which had something hungry and awful about it, he gathered me
-in his arms. Without a word of question or explanation, he carried me up
-to bed. Before he left, he halted as though he were trying to utter some
-thought which refused to get said. Suddenly he bent above the pillow,
-just as my mother used to do, and kissed me on the forehead. His cheeks
-were salty.
-
-As my eyes closed, a strange thing happened. The snow lay on the ground
-and there were no flowers, but the room was filled with the fragrance of
-violets.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III--THE SPUFFLER
-
-One day there was a ring at the door in the lane, followed by a loud
-and impatient rat-a-tat. A gentleman, who was a stranger to me, hurled
-himself across the threshold. He wore the frown of one who is intensely
-in earnest, whose mind is very much occupied. His mustaches were the
-fiercest and most eager that I ever saw on any man. They stuck out at
-right angles from under his nose like a pair of shaving-brushes. They
-were of an extraordinary purplish color, and would have done credit to a
-pirate. But his dress was more clerical than sea-faring. It consisted
-of a black frock coat, bound with braid at the edges where the cloth was
-fretted; his vest was low-cut to display an ocean of white shirt, above
-which a small tie of black silk wobbled. Hurrying up the path, tugging
-at his bushy eye-brows, he disappeared into the house. The last I saw of
-him was a red bandana handkerchief, streaming like a danger-signal
-from his coat-tail pocket. I thought he must be one of those hostile
-publishers my father talked about or, at the very least, an editor.
-
-Hetty, the maid, came into the garden looking worried. She did not stand
-on the steps and yell, as was customary, as though daring me to disobey
-her. She caught up her skirts with a dignified air and spoke my name
-softly, employing the honeyed tones with which she enticed our milkman
-every morning. I perceived at once that something momentous had
-occurred, and came out from behind the bushes. Then I saw the reason for
-her sudden change of manners--the purple mustached stranger was watching
-us from behind the curtains of my father’s study-window. I was
-most agreeably and unpresentably grubby. Hetty was distressed at my
-appearance; I knew she was by the way she kept hurting my hand and
-muttering to me to hide behind her.
-
-When we got inside the house she became voluble, but only in whispers.
-
-“Now, Master Dante, I can’t ’elp it if the soap do get into your
-mouth. You’ve got to be a clean boy fer once in yer h’existence. It may
-mean h’everythin’. That gent’s some relation o’ yourn. ’E’s goin’ to
-take you away wiv him, an’ he may ’ave money. I shall ’ate to lose
-yer. Now let’s look at yer neck.”
-
-She scrubbed away at my face till it was scarlet; she let the water from
-the flannel trickle down my back. I was too awe-inspired to wriggle; by
-some occult power the dreadful personage downstairs might learn about
-it. Having been pitched into my Sunday sailor-suit and squeezed into a
-pair of new boots and prickly stockings, I was bundled into the august
-presence.
-
-When I entered he was straddling the fire-place carpet--the one which
-ought to have been magic--and waggling his coat-tails with his hands.
-
-My father rose from his chair. “This is your great-uncle, Obadiah
-Spreckles. Come and be introduced, Dante.”
-
-Up to now I had never heard of such a relative, but I came timidly
-forward and shook hands.
-
-“A fine little fellow. A very fine little fellow, and the image of his
-mother,” said my great-uncle.
-
-My father winced at the mention of my mother. My great-uncle spread his
-legs still wider and addressed me in a jerky important manner.
-
-“Got a lot of dogs and cats. Got a goat and a cow. Got some hens. Got up
-early this morning. Saw the sun shining. Thought you might like to take
-a look at ’em, young man.”
-
-Turning to my father, “Well, Cardover, I must be going. I’ll take good
-care of him and all that. I’m very busy--hardly a moment to spare.”
-
-Before I knew what had happened, I had said good-bye to my father and
-was standing in the lane alone with my strange uncle.
-
-When the door had banged and he knew that no grownup could see him,
-he changed his manner. His hurry left him. Placing his hands on my
-shoulders, he looked down into my face, laughing. “Now for a good time,
-old chap.”
-
-At the end of the lane, where the posts blocked the passage, stood a
-little dog-cart and pony. My bag was stowed under the seat; at a click
-of the tongue from my uncle, the little beast started up like the wind.
-
-It was a bright June morning. The sky was intensely blue and cloudless.
-The air was full of flower-fragrance and dreamy somnolence. I had seen
-so little of the world that everything was vivid to me, and touched with
-the vagrant poetry of romance. Tram-lines were streaks of silver down
-the streets, shops were palaces, cabbies gentlemen who plied their
-trade because they loved horses. Postmen going their rounds were
-philanthropists. Everyone was free, doing what he liked, and happy.
-In my child’s way I realized that neither my father nor myself was
-typical--not all little boys were locked in gardens and not all grown
-men slaved from morning to midnight. A great lump came into my throat.
-It would have been quite easy to cry, I was so glad.
-
-Uncle Obadiah kept chatting away, telling me that the name of his little
-mare was Dollie and how he came to buy her. “Couldn’t afford it, you
-know, old chap. She costs me ten shillings a week for fodder. But when I
-saw that coster whacking her, and she looked up into my eyes when I went
-to stop him, I just couldn’t resist her. She seemed to be asking me to
-buy her, and I did. You should have heard what your Aunt Lavinia said.”
-
-All the way along the streets he kept pointing with his whip to things
-that he thought were interesting. He engaged me in conversation--a thing
-which no one had thought worth doing. He asked me questions which were
-not senseless, and seemed to suppose that a child had reasoning powers.
-I was flattered, and began to surprise myself by the boldness of the
-things I said.
-
-We rattled down the City Road, past the Mansion House, over London
-Bridge to the Elephant and Castle, and so out toward Dulwich till we
-came within sight of the Crystal Palace.
-
-He began to slow down and grow pensive, as though working out a problem.
-“You see, she’ll have lunch ready. She’s expecting us. She’s very
-precise about the keeping of hours and won’t like it.” Then, “Hang it
-all. We may as well have a holiday now we’re out.”
-
-Shaking loose the reins we started forward again, racing everything we
-met upon the road. My uncle’s high spirits returned. I don’t know where
-we went. I know there were woods and farm-houses. We stopped for lunch
-at a village-inn. It stood on the edge of a gorse-common. On the common
-a donkey was grazing. A flock of geese wandered across it. Boys were
-playing cricket against a tree-stump. Several great wagons, piled high
-with vegetables, were drawn up, the horses with their heads deep in
-nose-bags.
-
-We had our meal in the tap-room with the wagoners. While they were
-present my uncle assumed his pontifical manner, addressing me as
-“young man” and them as “my good fellows.” He was very dignified, and
-benevolent, and haughty. They were much impressed. But when they had
-left and we were alone, he winked his eye at me solemnly, as much as to
-say “that was all pretense. Now let’s be natural,” and entered once more
-into my boy’s world of escapades and gilded shadows.
-
-While the mare rested, we strolled round. In a hollow of the woods we
-came across a gipsy encampment. Three yellow caravans were drawn up
-together. A fire was burning in the open, over which an iron pot was
-suspended from a bough. A fierce, gaudily clad woman was bent above it
-stirring. She looked up at sound of our approach and the big ear-rings
-which dropped upon her neck jangled. Recognizing my uncle she nodded,
-and allowed us to sit down and watch her. Presently a rough man came out
-of the woods and threw himself down beside us. A young woman returned
-from fortune-telling, with her baby in a shawl across her shoulders.
-Bowls were brought out, and we had a second lunch from the great pot
-bubbling on the fire. Pipes were produced; the women smoked as well as
-the men. My uncle asked them where they had been and how they had fared
-since last he saw them. I listened intently to their answers; it seemed
-that they must have discovered the boundless garden of which I had only
-dreamt.
-
-In the dog-cart on the homeward journey, I learnt that my uncle was
-acquainted with a number of queer people. “Everybody’s interesting,
-Dante,” he said, by way of excuse and explanation; “it’s never safe to
-despise anyone.”
-
-In course of conversation he informed me that he had always longed to be
-a gipsy, but had never dared. When I asked why not, he answered shortly,
-“Your Aunt Lavinia--she’s not like us and wouldn’t understand.”
-
-“But if there wasn’t any Aunt Lavinia--would you dare then?”
-
-“I might have to,” he said, smiling grimly.
-
-I didn’t know at all what he meant. He didn’t intend I should. After all
-these years those words, chance-spoken to a child, remain with me. They
-were as near to a confession that his wife supported him as was possible
-for a proud man.
-
-My grandmother Cardover at Ransby, whose sister he had married, had a
-habit of nicknaming people with words of her own invention. She called
-my great-uncle The Spuffler. Whether the verb _to Spuffle_ is Suffolk
-dialect or a word of her own coining, I have never been able to find
-out--but in its hostile sense it described him exactly.
-
-A spuffler is a gay pretender, who hides his lack of success beneath the
-importance of his manners. Time is his one possession, and to him it is
-valueless; yet he tries to impress the world with its extreme rarity.
-A spuffler is always in a hurry; he talks loudly. He plays a game of
-make-believe that he is a person of far-reaching authority; he deceives
-others and almost deceives himself. He is usually small in stature and
-not infrequently bald-headed. In conversing he makes an imaginary lather
-with his hands and points his finger, at you. He may splutter and spit
-when he gets excited; but this is accidental and not necessary.
-The prime requisite is that he should affect the prosperity of a
-bank-president and be dependent on some quite obscure source for his
-pocket-money. Since I have lived in America I have become familiar with
-a word which is very similar--_a bluffer_. But a bluffer is a conscious
-liar and may be a humorist, whereas a spuffler does all in his power to
-deceive himself and is always in dead earnest.
-
-It is a curious fact that the men whom I loved best as a child were
-all three incompetents in the worldly sense. They were clever, but they
-lacked the faculty of marketing their talents. They were boys in
-men’s bodies. With children they had the hearts of children and were
-delightful. With business men their light-heartedness counted as
-irresponsibility and was a drawback. In two out of the three cases
-named, the disappointments which resulted from continual defeat produced
-vices. Only my Uncle Obadiah, clad in his armor of unpierceable
-spuffle, rode through the ranks of life scatheless, with his sweetness
-unembittered and his integrity untarnished. But they were all good men.
-
-Through the June twilight we returned to the outskirts of London. We
-turned in at a ruined gateway, and rode through a tunnel of overhanging
-trees where laburnum blazed through the dusk. A long rambling house grew
-up before us. At one time it must have been the country estate of some
-city-merchant. At sound of our wheels on the gravel, the front-door
-opened and a little lady stepped out to greet us. She was neat and
-speckless as a hospital nurse. Her body was slim and dainty as a girl’s.
-There was an air of decision and restraint about her, which was in
-direct opposition to my uncle’s hurried geniality.
-
-When we had halted, she lifted me out of the dog-cart and carried me
-into the house to a large room at the back, which looked into a shadowy
-garden and a paddock beyond. It seemed older and more opulent than any
-house I had known as yet. There was so much space about it.
-
-My uncle came in from stabling Dollie. “Well, Lavinia, I couldn’t get
-home to lunch. Very sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.”
-
-He darted a look across at me, wondering how much I had told her.
-The secret was established; I knew that I must hold my tongue. I knew
-something else--that he was afraid of her. Throughout the meal he kept
-up a stream of strenuous pretense, discussing large plans aloud with
-himself. What they were I cannot now remember. I suppose my grandmother
-would have called them spuffle. Suddenly he rose from the table, saying
-that he had a lot of letters to answer and excused himself. But when I
-went into his room an hour later to bid him good-night, he was sitting
-before his desk, doing nothing in particular, biting the end of his pen.
-
-When my aunt and I were left together I felt very lonely at first. She
-had sat so silent all through supper.
-
-But when the door had closed, she turned to me laughing. I knew at once
-that, like most grown-ups when they are together, she had only been
-shamming. Now she was-going to be real.
-
-“Did you have a good day in the country?” she asked. “Oh, he can’t
-deceive me; I could tell by the dust on the wheels.”
-
-Then, realizing, I suppose, that it was not fair to pump me, she stopped
-asking questions and began to speak about myself. She drew up a chair
-to the window and sat with me in the dark with her arms about me. She
-seemed extraordinarily young, and when her silky gray hair touched my
-cheek as she bent above me, I wondered what had made my uncle say that
-she wasn’t like us and wouldn’t understand.
-
-They each had their secret world of desire: his was the open road, where
-liberty was and lack of convention; hers was a home with fire-light and
-children. She was childless. Into both these worlds a little boy might
-enter. That night as I lay awake in bed I was puzzled. Why was it that
-grown people were so funny, and could never be real with one another?
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV--RUTHITA
-
-It was my Uncle Obadiah who first opened my eyes to the mysteries of
-the animal world. In so doing he flung wide a door into happiness which
-many a wiser man has neglected. He derived nearly all his pleasures from
-the cheerful little things of life. A curious sympathy existed between
-him and the lower creation. All the cats and dogs in the district were
-his friends. He attributed to them almost human personalities, and gave
-them special names of his own choosing. It was a wonderful day for me
-when he first made me realize that all-surrounding was a kingdom of
-beasts and birds of which I, who had always been ruled, might be ruler.
-
-In the paddock which lay between the garden and orchard, he had his
-own especial kingdom. His subjects were a cow, a goat, some very
-domestically inclined rabbits, about a hundred hens, and innumerable
-London sparrows. The latter he had trained to fly down from the trees
-and settle on his shoulders when he whistled.
-
-Early in the morning we would go there together; the first duty of
-the day was to feed the menagerie. How distinctly I can recall those
-scenes--the dewy lawn, dappled golden by sunlight falling through
-leaves, the droning of bees setting forth from hives on their day’s
-excursion, the smoke slowly rising in the summer stillness from distant
-chimney-pots, and my uncle’s voice making excited guesses at how many
-eggs we should gather.
-
-Eggs represented almost his sole contribution to the family income.
-Among his many Eldorados was the persistent belief that he could make
-his fortune at poultryraising. He would talk to me about it for hours
-as we worked in the garden, like a man inspired, making lightning
-calculations of the sums he would one day realize. He was continually
-experimenting and crossing breeds with a view to producing a more
-prolific strain of layers. He had a dream that one day he would produce
-the finest strain of fowl in the world. He would call it _The Spreckles_
---his name would be immortalized. He would be justified in the eyes of
-Aunt Lavinia; and success would justify him in the eyes of all men.
-
-Meanwhile my aunt declared that Obad spent more time and thought on that
-blest live-stock than he would ever see back in money. “Obad” was her
-contraction for his name; when she spoke to him sharply it sounded like
-her opinion of his character. But, in her own way, she was fond of him.
-Perhaps she had come to love his very failings as we do the faults of
-our friends. She was secretly proud of her own capacity; her thwarted
-mother-instinct found an outlet in the sense of his dependence.
-Nevertheless, the great fundamental cleavage lay between them: she lived
-in an anxious world where tradesmen’s bills required punctual payment;
-his world was a careless playground in which no defeat was ever final.
-She was stable in her moods, self-reliant and tenaciously courageous.
-He was forever changing: with adults he was like a house in mourning,
-shuttered, austere, grave; but should a youngster pass by, the blinds
-were jerked aside and a laughing face peered out.
-
-His most important make-believe was that he was a benefactor
-of humanity. He held honorary positions of secretary to various
-philanthropic societies--_The Society for the Housing of Gipsies; The
-Society for the Assisting of Decrepit Ladies_, etc. The positions were
-honorary because he could find no one willing to pay him. He worked for
-nothing because he was ashamed of being forever out of employment. He
-got great credit for his services among charitable people; the annual
-votes of thanks which he received helped to bolster up his self-respect
-throughout the year.
-
-As I grew older and more observant, I used to wonder what had induced my
-aunt to marry him. Again it was my Grandmother Cardover who told me, “He
-spuffled Lavinia into it, my dear.” It seems that he caught her by the
-vast commercial and humanitarian possibilities of one of his many plans.
-When she awoke to the fact that her husband was not a man, but the
-incarnation of perpetual boyhood, she may have been disappointed, but
-she did not show it. Like a sensible woman, instead of crying her eyes
-out, she set about earning a livelihood. Uncle Obad had one marketable
-asset--his religion and the friends he gained by it. She took a decayed
-mansion in Charity Grove and established a Christian Boarding House. All
-her lodgers were young men, and by that proud subterfuge of poverty they
-were known as paying-guests.
-
-The only Christian feature that I can remember about her establishment
-was that my uncle said grace before all meals at which the lodgers
-were present. At the midday meal, from which they were absent, it was
-omitted. The Christian Boarding House idea caught on with provincial
-parents whose sons were moving up to the city for the first time; it
-seemed to guarantee home morals. The sons soon perceived how matters
-stood and buried their agnostic prejudices beneath good feeding.
-
-A general atmosphere of obligation was created by my aunt in her
-husband’s favor; she always spoke as though it was very kind of so
-public a man as Mr. Spreckles to squander his scanty privacy by letting
-paying-guests share his roof. She made such a gallant show with what she
-earned that everyone thought her husband had a private fortune, which
-enabled him to live in such style and give so much time to charitable
-works. She would hint as much in conversing with her friends, and
-invariably feigned the greatest pride and contentment in his activities.
-Thanks to his spuffling and her courage, there were not five people
-outside the family who ever guessed the true circumstances.
-
-But when all is said, the real business of my Uncle Obad’s life was not
-philanthropy or running a boardinghouse, but poultry-raising. It was
-he who gave me the old white hen, without which I might never have
-met Ruthita. My money-making instincts were roused by his talk of the
-profits to be derived from eggs. I was enthusiastic to follow in his
-footsteps. To this end, at the hour of parting, when I was returning to
-Pope Lane, he gave me an ancient white Leghorn. He did not tell me she
-was ancient; he recommended her to me as belonging to a strain that
-could never get broody.
-
-On the long drive home across London, my grief at leaving Charity
-Grove was partly mitigated by my new possession. It was a tremendous
-experience to feel that I had it in my power to make a live thing, even
-though it were but a hen, sad or happy. I discussed with Uncle Obad all
-the care that was necessary for egg-production. I got him to work out
-sums for me. If my hen were to lay an egg every other day throughout the
-year, how much money would I make by selling each egg to my father at a
-penny? I felt that the foundations of my financial fortunes were secure.
-The genuineness of my expectations made my uncle restless and ashamed;
-he knew that the hen had passed her first youth, and suggested that
-pepper in her food might help matters.
-
-It was supper-time when I arrived home. I let the hen loose on the
-lawn to stretch her legs. My father was busy as usual, but he delayed a
-little longer over the meal in honor of my home-coming.
-
-Some of the things I blurted out about my uncle must have revealed to
-him the comradeship that lay between us. He had risen from the table,
-but he sat down again. “You have known your uncle just a fortnight,” he
-said, “and yet you seem to have told him more about yourself than you
-have told me in all these years. Why is it, Dante? You’re not afraid of
-me? It can’t be that.” We were both of us shy. He reached over and took
-my hand, repeating, “It can’t be that.”
-
-He knew that it was that and so did I. Yet he was hungry for my
-affection. He was making an unaccustomed effort to win my confidence and
-draw me out. But he spoke to me as though I was a grown man, whereas my
-uncle to get near me had become himself a child. If he had only talked
-to me about my white hen, I should have chattered. But I was awed by his
-embarrassment, and remained silent and unresponsive.
-
-He went on to tell me that all the time he was away from me in his study
-he was working for my sake. “I want to have the money to give you a good
-start in life. I never had it. You must succeed where I have failed.”
-
-I understood very little of what he was saying except that money and
-success seemed to be the same. That was the way Uncle Obad had talked
-about poultry-raising. I had no idea where money came from or how it was
-obtained. I must have asked him some question about it, for I recall one
-of the phrases he used in replying, “A man succeeds not by what he does,
-but by the things at which he has aimed.”
-
-The red sun fell behind the trees while we talked, peered above my
-father’s shoulder, and sank out of sight. It was dusk when I ran into
-the garden.
-
-I felt prisoned again--the door into the lane was locked and the walls
-were all about me. The lamp in my father’s study was kindled and flung a
-bar of light across the shrubbery. He was working to get the money that
-I might be allowed to work. I didn’t like the idea. I didn’t want to
-work. Why couldn’t one drive always through the sunshine, pulling up at
-taverns and sitting beside gipsy camp-fires?
-
-I commenced to search for the white hen and so forgot these economic
-complications. Here and there I came across places where she had
-been scrabbing, but I could see her nowhere. At last I discovered her
-roosting on the branch of an apple-tree which grew close by the wall at
-the end of the garden. I spoke to her kindly, but she refused to come
-down. She was too high up for me to reach her from the ground. When I
-scattered grain, she blinked at me knowingly, as much as to say, “Surely
-you don’t think I’m as big a fool as that.” It seemed to me that she was
-grieving for all the cocks and hens to whom she had said farewell. She
-was embittered against me because she was solitary. I explained to her
-that, if she’d lay eggs, I’d buy her a husband. She remained skeptical
-of my good intentions. There was nothing for it--but to climb. I could
-hear the leaves shaking and the apples bumping on the ground; my hand
-was stretched out to catch her when, with a hoarse scream of defiance,
-she flapped her wings and disappeared into the great nothingness over
-our neighbor’s wall.
-
-Unless the white hen had blazed the trail, I might have remained in the
-walled-in garden for years without ever daring to discover a way out.
-I was too excited at this crisis to measure my temerity. In my fear of
-losing her I did a thing undreamt of and unplanned--I swung myself from
-the branch on to the top of the brickwork and dropped on the other side.
-A bed of currant bushes broke my fall. I got upon my feet scratched and
-dazed.
-
-The first thing I saw was a long stretch of grass bordered by flowers.
-At the end of it was a small two-storied house, gabled and with verandas
-running round it. In one of the upper-story windows a light was burning;
-all the rest was in darkness. In the middle of the lawn I could see my
-white hen strutting in a very stately manner. I stole up behind her,
-but she began clucking. In my fear of discovery, I lost all patience and
-commenced to chase her vigorously. I ran her at last into a bed of peas,
-where she became entangled. I had her in my arms when I heard a voice,
-“Who are you?”
-
-Turning suddenly, I found that a little girl was standing close behind
-me.
-
-“My name’s Dante.”
-
-“And mine’s Ruthita.”
-
-We stared at one another through the dusk. I had never spoken to a
-little girl and for some reason, difficult to explain, commenced to
-tremble. It was not fear that caused it, but something strong and
-emotional.
-
-“Dante,” she whispered. “How pretty!” Then, “Where do you live?”
-
-I jerked my thumb in the direction of the wall.
-
-“You climbed over?”
-
-I nodded. She laughed softly. “Could you do it again? Oh, do come often,
-often. I’m so lonely, and we could play together.”
-
-Just then the voice of Hetty began to call in the distance,
-
-“Dan-tee, Dan-tee, where are you? Come to bed di-rectly.”
-
-Her voice drew nearer. She was searching for me, and passed quite close
-to us on the other side of the wall. We could hear the indignant rustle
-of her skirt and her heavy breathing with bending down so low to peer
-under bushes.
-
-Ruthita came near to me so that I had my first glimpse of her eyes in
-the dark--eyes which were always to haunt me. Her hands were clasped
-against her throat in eagerness--she seemed to be standing tiptoe.
-“Don’t tell,” she pleaded. “It’s our secret. But come again to-morrow.”
-
-I promised.
-
-She watched me scrambling for a foot-hold in the wall. When I sat
-astride it, just before I vanished, she waved her hand.
-
-The white hen had lost her importance in my thoughts;
-I bundled her into the tool-house, and then surrendered to Hetty. Hetty
-was very cross. She wanted to discover where I had been hiding, but I
-wouldn’t tell her. When she left me, I crept out of bed and knelt beside
-the window for a long time gazing down into the blackness.
-
-Far away a bird was calling. The tall trees waved their arms. The moon
-leapt out of clouds, and the branches reached up to touch her with their
-fingers. A little beam of light struggled free and ran about the garden.
-I tried to tell myself it was Ruthita.
-
-The garden seemed less of a prison now--rather a place of magic and
-enchantment.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V--MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY
-
-Next morning I was up early. Spiders’ webs were still crystal with dew
-in the garden; they had not yet been tattered by the sun lifting up the
-flowers’ heads. I had no hope that I would see Ruthita, but I wanted to
-peep across the wall while everyone was in bed and there was no one to
-observe me.
-
-I had covered half the distance to the apple-tree, when I heard a sound
-of voices. They came from behind the tool-house. I fisted my hands and
-listened. A man and woman were conversing, but in such low tones that I
-could hear nothing that was said. I made sure they were thieves who had
-heard about my hen, and had come to rob me. I looked back at the windows
-of our house. All the blinds were lowered; everyone was sleeping. There
-was no sign of life anywhere, save the hopping of early risen blackbirds
-between bushes in search of early risen worms. With a quickly beating
-heart I crouched beside the wall, advancing under cover of a row of
-sunflowers. Looking out from between their stalks, I discovered a man
-sitting on a wheelbarrow; a woman was balanced on his knee with her arm
-about his neck. The woman was Hetty and the man was our gardener.
-
-Hetty was wearing her starched print-dress, ready to begin her morning’s
-work. She wasn’t a bit scornful or solemn, but was laughing and
-wriggling and tossing her head. She seemed quite a different person
-from the stern, moral housemaid, God’s intimate friend, who told me
-everything that God had thought about me through the day when at night
-she was putting me to bed. Up to that moment it had never occurred to me
-that she was pretty, but now her cheeks were flushed and the sun was
-in her rumpled hair. While I watched, our gardener drew her close and
-kissed her. She squeaked like a little mouse, and pretended to struggle
-to free herself.
-
-I never dreamt that grown people ever behaved like that. I hadn’t the
-faintest notion what she was doing or why she was doing it; but I knew
-that it was something secret, and silly, and beautiful. I also had the
-feeling that it was something pleasant and wrong, just like the things
-I most enjoyed doing, for which I was punished. I wanted to withdraw and
-tried to; but tripped over the sunflowers and fell.
-
-Hetty and the gardener sprang apart. I knew what was going to happen
-next; I had caught them being natural--they were going to commence
-shamming. The gardener became very busy, piling his tools into the
-barrow. Hetty, talking in her cold and distant manner, said to him, “And
-don’t forget the lettuce for breakfast, John. Master’s very partic’lar
-about it.”
-
-I came from my hiding, thrusting my hands deep in my pockets, as though
-I kept my courage there and was frightened of its dropping out. The
-gardener’s back was towards me, but he caught sight of me from between
-his legs. He just stopped like that with his face growing redder, his
-mouth wide-open, and stared. Hetty didn’t look as pretty as she had been
-looking, but before she could say anything I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t
-mean to. I came to see my fowl---- but I won’t tell.”
-
-“Bless ’is little ’eart,” cried John; “I thought it were ’is Pa, I
-wuz that scared.”
-
-Hetty knelt down beside me and rocked me to and fro half-hysterically,
-making me promise again and again that I would never tell.
-
-“Was you doin’ somethin’ wrong?” I asked. “What was you doin’?”
-
-They looked foolishly at one another.
-
-All that day they kept me near them on one pretext or another, afraid
-to let me get away from them. I had never known them so sensible and
-obliging; they did all kinds of things for me that they had never done
-before. After breakfast, while Hetty was dusting, John built me a little
-fowl-run. In the afternoon, while he was cutting the grass, Hetty sat
-with me beneath the apple-tree and told me what life meant. She spoke
-in whispers like a conspirator, and all the time that she was talking, I
-could hear Ruthita humming just the other side of the wall.
-
-As I understood it, this was what she told me. When you first get here,
-_here_ being the world, you own nothing; and know nothing. Then, as you
-grow up, you know something but still own nothing. That’s why you’re
-ordered about and told not to do all the things that you want most to
-do. You can only please yourself when nobody’s looking and must obey
-nearly everyone until you get money. There are several ways of getting
-it, and the pleasantest is sweet-hearting.
-
-Here I interrupted her to inquire what was sweet-hearting. “Well,”
- she said, turning her face away and looking dreamily at John, who was
-pushing the mower across the lawn, “sweet-heartin’s what you saw me and
-John doin’.”
-
-“Does it always have to be done before breakfast?”
-
-She threw back her head and laughed, swaying backwards and forwards.
-Then she became solemn and answered, “I ’ave to do it before breakfast
-’cause I’m a servant. But I does it of evenin’s on my night out.”
-
-She went on to tell me that sweet-hearting was the first step towards
-freedom and money. The second step was a honeymoon, which consisted in
-going away with a person of the other sex for a week to some place where
-you weren’t known. When you came back to the people who knew you, they
-said you were married. So marriage was the third and last step. After
-that you were given a house, and money, and all the things for which you
-had always yearned. You had other people, who were like you were before
-you went sweet-hearting, to take your orders, and run your errands, and
-say “Sir” or “Madam.” Sometimes when you came back from your honeymoon,
-you found children in the house.
-
-So through that long summer’s afternoon beneath the apple-tree, with the
-leaves gently stirring and the sound of Ruthita humming across the wall,
-I gained my first lesson in sexology and domestic economics. It solved a
-good many problems by which I had been puzzled. For instance, why Uncle
-Obad had a pony and I hadn’t; why I was sent to bed always at the same
-hour and my father went only when he chose; why big people could lose
-their tempers without being wicked, whereas God was always angry when
-I did it. There was only one thing that I couldn’t understand: why two
-boys couldn’t go on a honeymoon together, or two girls, and have the
-same results follow. Except for this, the riddle of society was now
-solved as far as I was concerned. Marriage seemed a thousand times more
-wonderful than the magic carpet.
-
-I was tremendously interested in the possibilities of sweet-hearting and
-promised to help Hetty all I could. In return she declared that, when
-she was married, she would persuade my father to let her take me out of
-the garden.
-
-That evening I crept over the wall and found Ruthita waiting. She was
-a slim dainty little figure, clad in a short white dress. She had
-great gray eyes, and long black hair and lashes. Her voice was soft and
-caressing, like the twittering of a bird in the ivy when one wakens on a
-summer morning. I told her in hurried whispers what I had discovered.
-It was all news to her. She slipped her hand into mine while I spoke and
-nestled closer.
-
-“Little boy,” she whispered when I had ended, “you _are_ funny! You come
-climbing over the garden-wall and you tell me everything.”
-
-An old man came out of the house and began to pace up and down the
-walks. His head was bent forward on his chest and he had a big red scar
-on his forehead. A cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. He carried
-a stick in his hand on which he leant heavily. Ruthita said he was her
-grandfather. Soon he began to call for her, and she had to go to him.
-
-Little by little I learnt her story. Her grandfather was a French
-general. He had fought in the Franco-Prussian War until the Fall of the
-Empire and Proclamation of the Republic. Shortly after the flight of the
-Empress Eugénie he had come to England in disgust. His son, Ruthita’s
-father, had stayed behind and been cut to pieces in the Siege of Paris.
-Ruthita’s mother was an Englishwoman. She had never recovered from the
-shock of her husband’s death. It was her light that I saw burning in the
-bedroom window of evenings. They were almost poor now and lived in great
-seclusion. The grandfather had dropped his rank and was known as plain
-Monsieur Favart. So Ruthita was even a closer prisoner than myself.
-
-What did we talk about in those first stolen hours of’ childish
-friendship? I asked her once when we were grown up, but she could not
-tell me. Perhaps we did not say much. We felt together--felt the
-mystery of the enchanted unseen world. Why, the pigeons strutting on the
-housetops had seen more than we had; and they were not half as old as we
-were! They spread their wings, soared up into the clouds, and vanished.
-We told one another stories of where they went; but long before the
-stories were ended Monsieur Favart would come searching for Ruthita or
-the voice of Hetty would ring through the dusk, calling me to bed. Then
-I would lie awake and imagine myself a pigeon, and finish the story to
-myself.
-
-The great beauty of our meetings was that they were undiscovered. It was
-always I who went to Ruthita--she was nothing of a climber, and the red
-bricks and green moss would have left tell-tale marks upon her dress. We
-had a nest of straw behind the currant bushes. Here, with backs against
-the hard wall and fingers digging in the cool damp earth, we would sit
-and wonder, talking in whispers, of all the mysteries that lay before
-us. Ruthita had vague memories of Paris, of soldiers marching and the
-beating of drums. Sometimes she would sing French songs to me, of which
-she would translate the meaning between each verse. My contribution
-to our little store of knowledge was limited to what I have written in
-these few chapters.
-
-I don’t know at what stage in the proceedings our great idea occurred.
-It must have been in the early autumn, for the evenings were drawing in
-and often it was chilly. I had been talking about Hetty, when suddenly I
-exclaimed, “Why can’t we do that?”
-
-“Do what?” she questioned.
-
-“Get married!”
-
-Then I reminded her of the extreme simplicity of marriage as explained
-by our housemaid. All we had to do was to slip out of the garden for
-a few days, and then come back. We should find a house ready for us.
-Perhaps I should have a pony like Uncle Obad, and, instead of dolls,
-Ruthita would have real babies. It was the real babies that caught her
-fancy. Because of her mother, she needed a little persuading. “What will
-she do wivout me?”
-
-“And what would she do if you’d never been borned?” I said.
-
-Ruthita had five shillings in her money-box. I had only a shilling;
-for the white hen, in spite of pepper, had failed to lay any eggs. Six
-shillings seemed to us a fortune--ample to provide for the honeymoon of
-two small children.
-
-The gate from Monsieur Favart’s garden was never locked: that was
-evidently our easiest way out.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI--THE YONDER LAND
-
-What did we hope to find that autumn morning when we slipped through
-that narrow door, forsaking the walls? It was all a guess to us--what
-lay beyond; but we knew that it must be something splendid. Of one thing
-we were quite certain: that at the end of a few days we should have
-grown tall; we should return to Pope Lane a man and woman. The little
-house would be there waiting, magically built in our hours of absence.
-Perhaps work had been begun already upon the babies that Ruthita wanted.
-
-For the first time I had kissed her that morning, awkwardly and shyly,
-feeling that somehow it was proper. At any rate, Hetty and our gardener
-always kissed when they got the chance and no one was looking.
-
-Monsieur Favart’s door swung to behind us. We ran as quickly as our legs
-would carry us. The fear of pursuit was upon us. Pinned to the pillow of
-each of our empty beds was a sheet of paper on which was scrawled, “_Gon
-to git Maried.”_
-
-When at last we halted for breath, we seemed to have covered many miles
-of our journey. We were standing in a long, quaint street. On one side
-flowed a river, railed in so we couldn’t get near it. On the other
-side stood an irregular row of substantial houses, for the most part
-creeper-covered. No faces appeared in the houses’ windows. No one passed
-up or down the street. It was as yet too early. It seemed that the world
-was empty, and that we and the birds were its only tenants. We turned
-to the right, half-walking, half-running. I held Ruthita’s hand tightly;
-the feel of it gave me courage.
-
-We must have made a queer pair in the mellow autumn sunlight. Ruthita
-wore a white dress with a red cloak flung over it. On her head was a
-yellow straw poke-bonnet, which made her face look strangely small.
-She had on black shoes, fastened by a single strap, and black and white
-socks which, when she ran, kept dropping.
-
-We had no idea of direction, but just hurried on with a vague idea that
-we must keep moving forward.
-
-Presently we came across a drover, driving a flock of bewildered, tired
-sheep. He was a lame man. He had an inflamed red face and one of his
-eyes was out. When he wanted to make his flock move faster, he jabbed
-viciously at their tails with a pointed stick and started hopping from
-side to side, barking like a dog. He passed right by us, saying nothing,
-waving a red flag in his left hand with which he would sometimes mop
-his forehead. We followed. We followed him through streets of shops all
-shuttered; we followed him up a broad-paved hill; we followed him down a
-winding lane to a bridge across a river, beyond which lay marshes. Then
-he turned and called to us.
-
-“Little master, where be you goin’ and why be you followin’?”
-
-To the country, I told him, to find the forest. I wanted to show Ruthita
-the unwalled garden through which my uncle had led me.
-
-The man screwed up his one eye, and gazed upon us shrewdly. “You be wery
-small to be goin’ to the forest. But so be you’re travellin’ along my
-route you might as well ’elp an old feller.”
-
-We made our bargain with him. We would help him with his sheep, if he
-would guide us to the forest. We ran beside him across the short, crisp
-grass, imitating his cries to prevent the sheep from scattering. He told
-us that he had driven them from Epping up to London, but that times were
-cruel bad and the farmer who employed him had been unable to sell
-them. “It’s cruel ’ard on a man o’ my years,” he kept saying, “cruel
-’ard.”
-
-When I asked him what was cruel hard, he shook his head as though
-language failed to express his wrongs: “The world in gineral.”
-
-There was one of the sheep whose leg was broken. It kept lagging behind
-the rest, which made the man jab at it furiously. Ruthita’s eyes filled
-with tears of indignation when she saw it. She stamped her little foot
-and insisted that he should not do it. The man pushed back his battered
-hat and scratched his forehead, staring at her. He seemed embarrassed
-and tried to excuse himself. “Humans is humans, miss, and sheep is
-sheep. It makes an old chap, made in Gawd’s h’image, kind o’ bitter
-to ’ave to spend his days a-scampering after a crowd o’ silly
-quadrupeds. But if yer don’t like it, I won’t do it.”
-
-The river wound round about us. Sometimes it would leave us, but always
-it came flowing after us, in great circles as though lonely and eager
-for our company. On its banks stood occasional taverns, gaily painted,
-with wooden tables set before them. The grass about them was trodden
-bare, showing that they were often populous; but now they were deserted.
-Big barges lay sleepily at anchor, basking in the sun.
-
-The drover commenced speaking again. “I’m an old soldier, I am. I
-lost me eye and got lamed in the wars; and now they makes game o’ my
-h’infirmities and calls me----”
-
-The name they called him was evidently too dreadful. He sighed heavily.
-
-“Poor man,” said Ruthita, slipping her hand into his horny palm. “What
-do they call you?”
-
-“Old-Dot-and-Carry-One, ’cause o’ the way I walks. It’s woundin’. It
-’urts me feelin’s, after the way I’ve served me country.”
-
-We seated ourselves by the muddy river-bank, while the sheep grazed and
-rested. Far in the distance trees broke the level of the sky-line, so I
-knew that we were going in the right direction and our guide was to be
-trusted. Dot-and-Carry-One produced a loaf of bread from his pocket and,
-dividing it into three pieces, shared it with us.
-
-Little by little he gave us his confidence, telling us of the world
-as he knew it. “It’s a place o’ wimen and war. To the h’eye wot’s
-prejoodiced there’s nothin’ else in it. But your h’eye ain’t
-prejoodiced, and don’t yer never let it git so, young miss and master.
-I’ve seen lots. I wuz in the Crimea and I wuz in h’India, but I never
-yet seen the country where a man can’t be ’appy if he wants.
-There’s music, an’ there’s nature, an’ there’s marriage. Now music for
-h’instance.”
-
-He produced from his ragged coat a penny whistle and trilled out a tune
-upon it. While he played he looked as merry a fellow as one could hope
-to meet in a day’s march. The sheep stopped cropping to gaze at us. We
-clapped our hands and asked him to go on.
-
-He shook his head and replaced his pipe. “Then there’s nature. Just now
-I wuz complainin’. But supposin’ I do drive sheep back and forth, how
-many men wuz up in Lun’non to see the sunrise this mornin’? I never
-miss it, ’ceptin’ when I’m drunk. I knows the seasons o’ the bloomin’
-flowers, Gawd bless ’em, and can h’imitate the birds’ songs and call
-’em to me. That’s somethin’. An’ if I don’t sleep in a stuffy bed, which
-would be better, for me rheumatics, I can count the stars and have the
-grass for coverin’. And then there’s marriage----”
-
-He paused. His eye became moist and his face gentle. “I ’ad a little
-nipper and a girl once.”
-
-That was all. We wanted to ask him questions about marriage, but he
-pulled his hat down over his eyes and lay back, refusing to answer.
-
-Ruthita and I guarded the sheep and kept them from straying, while he
-slept. We made chains out of flowers, and, taking off our shoes and
-socks, paddled in the water. Then Ruthita grew tired and, leaning
-against my shoulder, persuaded me to tell her the story of where we were
-going. Before the tale was ended, her eyes were closed and her lips were
-parted. My arms began to ache terribly; I wondered whether it was with
-holding her or because I was growing. I hoped it was because I was
-growing.
-
-Dot-and-Carry-One woke up. He looked at the sun. “Time we wuz h’orf,” he
-remarked shortly.
-
-We had not gone far along the river-bank when we came to a tavern on our
-side of the water. Ruthita said that she was thirsty, so we entered.
-The drover spread himself out on a bench and, soliciting my invitation,
-called for “a pint of strong.” Good beer, he said, never hurt any man if
-taken in moderation.
-
-We must have sat for the best part of the morning, watching him toss off
-pot after pot while we gritted our feet on the sanded floor. For each
-pot he thanked us, taking off his battered hat to Ruthita and blowing
-away the froth from the top in our honor. He explained to all and sundry
-that we wuz his little nipper and girl wot he had losht. He losht us
-years ago, so long he could hardly remember. The tavern-girl entered
-into a discussion with him, saying that we could not be more than nine
-and that he was at least seventy. He became angry, demanding whether a
-man of seventy hadn’t lived long enough to know his own children, and
-what bloody indifference it made to her, anyway.
-
-It occurred to me that it might be just possible that he really was
-Ruthita’s father. I had no idea what dying meant. I had been told that
-the dead were not really dead--only gone. So I thought that death might
-mean not being with your friends in the garden. I half expected to find
-my mother in the forest, just as I had hoped to bring her back on the
-magic carpet. So when Dot-and-Carry-One was so positive, I asked him if
-he had heard of the Siege of Paris. He was in a mood when he had heard
-of everything, been everywhere, and had had every important person for a
-friend. Of course he had heard of the Siege of Paris; if it hadn’t been
-for him, to-day there wouldn’t be any Paris. When I told him of General
-Favart, he wept copiously and called for another pot.
-
-The tavern-girl told him that that must be his last, and he said that it
-was cruel ’ard the way an old soldier were persecooted. When we had
-paid for his drinks, we discovered that we had only three shillings and
-eightpence left of our little stock of money. The tavern-girl said we
-were poor h’innercent lambs and she should set the police on him. The
-drover told her that spring, not autumn, was the lambing season.
-
-All through the long and drowsy afternoon we wandered on.
-Dot-and-Carry-One seemed in no great hurry to reach his destination.
-Beer had had a transfiguring effect upon him. He lurched along jauntily,
-his hat cocked sideways on his head, winking with his one good eye at
-any girls we met in our path. His cares and sense of injustice were
-forgotten. He told us tales of his wars, painting tremendous and bloody
-scenes of carnage. He slew whole armies that afternoon, and at the end
-of each battle he was left alone, wounded but dauntless, with the dead
-’uns piled high about him. He went into grisly details of the manner
-of their dying, and stopped now and then to show us with his stick
-the different ways in which you could kill a man with a sword. Cockney
-lovers on the river gaped after us, resting on their oars. They saw
-nothing but an intoxicated old ruffian in charge of a flock of sheep and
-two small children. But we were in hero-land, and Dot-and-Carry-One was
-our giant-killer.
-
-When Ruthita got tired, he hoisted her on to his shoulders, where she
-rode straddling his neck, with her hands clasped about his forehead.
-The forest, like a green silent army, with its flags unfurled marched
-nearer. The sun sank lower behind us; our long lean shadows ran on
-before us till they lay across the backs of the sheep.
-
-We left the marshes and entered on a white dusty road. Carriages and
-coaches and wagons kept passing, which made the sheep bewildered. They
-kept turning this way and that, bleating pitifully. Ruthita had to walk
-again, while Dot-and-Carry-One barked and waved his stick to keep the
-flock from scattering. The night came on and we were hungry. At last
-Ruthita’s legs gave out and she sat down by the roadside crying, saying
-that she was frightened and could go no further. Then Dot-and-Carry-One
-drove his flock into the forest, and borrowed a shilling from me and
-left us, promising to go and buy food with it.
-
-The sheep lay down about the roots of the trees, and we pillowed our
-heads against their woolly backs. The silence became intense; the last
-of the twilight vanished. I was glad when Ruthita put her arms round my
-neck, for I too was nervous though I would not own it. We waited for the
-drover to return, and in waiting slept.
-
-I woke with a start. The moon was shining; long paths of silver had been
-hewn between the trees. The fleece of the kneeling sheep was sparkling
-and dewy. Far down one of the paths I could see a limping figure
-approaching. He was shouting and singing and stabbing at his shadow. As
-he came nearer I could distinctly see that he held a bottle in his hand.
-Something warned me. I roused Ruthita, telling her to make no sound. We
-ran till we were breathless and the shouting could be no more heard.
-
-Trees grew wider apart where we had halted. Far away a flare of
-light shone up; as we watched we saw that people passed before it.
-Hand-in-hand we advanced. Something groaned quite near us. We commenced
-to run, but, looking back, saw that it was only a tethered donkey. We
-came to the outskirts of the crowd. We wanted company badly. Burrowing
-under arms and legs we made our way to the front. A great linen sheet
-was stretched between two trees. Set up on iron rings before it was a
-line of cocoanuts. On either side flaring naphtha-lamps were burning.
-About thirty yards away from the sheet a woman was serving out wooden
-balls. Between the sheet and the cocoanuts a man was darting up and
-down, dodging the balls as they were thrown and returning them. The man
-and woman were calling out together, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a
-penny. Every ball ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes. ’Ere you are, sir.
-Two for the children and one for the missis. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies
-a penny.”
-
-Whether a cocoanut went down or stayed up, they continued to assert in
-a hoarse, cracked monotone that it had fallen. Their faces were dripping
-with perspiration. The man returned the balls and the woman served them
-out again mechanically. The throwers took off their coats and hurled
-furiously, to the accompaniment of the shrill staccato chatter of the
-crowd.
-
-Ruthita and I stood blinking in the semi-darkness, our eyes dazzled
-by the lamps. Suddenly I called out, and pushing my way between the
-throwers, commenced running up the pitch. The man behind the cocoanuts,
-realizing that the balls had ceased coming, stopped dodging and looked
-up to see what was the matter. Just then an impatient thrower hurled a
-ball which went whizzing over me, missed the cocoanuts, and hit the man
-on the head, splitting his eyebrow. I was terribly afraid that he would
-topple over and lie still, like Dot-and-Carry-One had told me men did in
-battle. Instead of that, when I came within reach of him he clutched me
-angrily by the shoulder, asking me what the devil I meant. The blood,
-creeping down his face in a slow trickle, made him look twice as fierce
-as when I had first met him with my Uncle Obad by the gipsy campfire. He
-drew me near to one of the lamps, smearing his forehead with the back of
-his hand. He recognized me.
-
-“Oh, it’s you, you young cuss, is it?”
-
-Just then the fortune-telling girl came up, whom I had seen before with
-the baby on her back. She was carrying Ruthita.
-
-“Here, Lilith,” he said, speaking gruffly, “take ’im to your tent.”
-
-Then he commenced again, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every
-ball ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes,” etc.
-
-I was glad to creep into the cool darkness, clinging close to Lilith’s
-skirt. I was a little boy now, with scarcely a desire to be a husband.
-When I looked across my shoulder the game was in full swing. The woman
-was serving out the balls; the crowd was paying its pennies; the man was
-dodging up and down before the sheet, avoiding the balls and returning
-them. I heaved a sigh of relief; then he had not succumbed--he was not
-yet a dead’un.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII--THE OPEN WORLD
-
-That night in the tent I slept soundly, with the fortuneteller’s arm
-about me and my head nearly touching Ruthita’s across her breast. The
-soft rise and fall of her bosom made me dream of my mother.
-
-Glimmerings of the early autumn sunrise crept in through holes in the
-canvas. I raised myself cautiously and gazed at the woman who had cared
-for me. I call her a woman, for she seemed to me a woman then; she
-was about seventeen--little more than a girl. Her face was gentle and
-passionate; her jet black hair streamed down in a torrent across
-her tawny throat and breast. She smiled in her sleep and murmured to
-herself; the arm which clasped Ruthita kept twitching, as though to draw
-her nearer. While I watched, her eyes opened; she said nothing, but lay
-smiling up at me. Presently she put her free arm about my neck, and drew
-me down so my cheek rested against hers. She turned her head and I saw
-that, though she looked happy, there were tears on her long dark lashes.
-Her lips moved and I knew what she wanted. Putting my arms about her, I
-kissed her good-morning.
-
-Rousing Ruthita, she raised the flap of the tent and we slipped out.
-Mists were drifting across the woodland, pink and golden where the
-sunrise caught them, but lavender in the shadows. It was a quiet fairy
-world, like the face of a sleeping woman, which was pale with dew upon
-the forehead and copper and bronze with the streaming hair of faded
-foliage. Outside the door the grass was blackened in a circle where
-a gipsy fire had burnt. The yellow caravan stood near. In and out the
-bracken rabbits were hopping, nibbling at the cool green turf. The
-gipsy’s lurcher watched them, crouched with his nose between his paws,
-waiting his opportunity to steal closer. Lilith set about gathering
-brushwood for the fire and we helped her.
-
-“Ruthie, am I taller?”
-
-She eyed me judicially and shook her curls. “No. But p’raps we shall
-grow tall quite suddenly, when the honeymoon is ended.”
-
-I was beginning to have my doubts of that, so I changed the subject.
-“Lilith has a baby. She carries it on her back.”
-
-“Where does she keep it now?” asked Ruthita. “It wasn’t on her back
-last night in the tent.” Then she commenced to hop about like an eager,
-excited little bird. “I shall ask her. I shall ask her, Dante, and
-she’ll let me hold it.”
-
-But when we ran to Lilith her back was straight and unbulgy. And when we
-asked her where she kept the baby, she dropped the bundle of sticks she
-was carrying and sank to her knees, with her hands pressed against her
-breast. She swayed to and fro, with her eyes closed, muttering in a
-strange language. Then she bent forward, kissing the ground and chanting
-words which sounded like, “Coroon! Coroon! Oh, dearie, come back. Come
-back!”
-
-We heard the door of the caravan open. Lilith sprang to her feet and
-picked up her sticks as though ashamed of what she had been doing. The
-fierce man stood on the caravan steps. He strode across the grass to
-Lilith and laid his hand on her shoulder with a rough gesture which was
-almost kindly. “The wind blows, sister,” he said, “and it sinks behind
-the moon. The flowers grow, sister, and they fall beneath the earth.
-Where they have gone there is rest.”
-
-He passed on, whistling to his lurcher. The gaudily dressed woman came
-out; while he was gone, the fire was kindled and breakfast was prepared.
-
-During breakfast a great discussion arose in their strange language.
-When it was ended, Lilith took us with her into the tent. She closed
-the flap carefully and began to undress us. While she was doing it she
-explained matters. She told us that the man was too busy just now with
-the cocoanut-shies to spare time to go and fetch my uncle to us. In a
-few days he would go, but meanwhile we must stay with them in camp. She
-said that they were good gipsies, but no one would believe it if they
-saw us with them. They would have to make us like gipsy children so
-no one would suspect. So she daubed our bodies all over a light brown
-color, and she stained my hair because it was flaxen. Then she gave us
-ragged clothes, without shoes or stockings, and dug a hole in the ground
-and hid ours. She was curious to know what had brought us to the
-forest; but we would not tell. We had the child’s feeling that telling
-a grown-up would break the spell--we should never be married then, the
-little house would never be built, and none of the other pleasant things
-would happen. We should have to go back to the garden again and live
-always within walls.
-
-Those days spent in our first dash for freedom stand out in my memory as
-among the happiest. I ate of the forbidden fruit of romance and reaped
-no penalties. Ruthita cried at times for her mother; but I had only to
-remind her of the babies she would have, and her courage returned.
-
-The smell of the camp-fire is in my nostrils as I write; I can feel
-again the cool nakedness of unpaved woodlands beneath my feet and open
-skies above my head. I see Ruthita unsubdued and bare-legged, plunging
-shoulder-high into golden bracken, shouting with natural gladness,
-followed by the gipsy boys and girls. We tasted life in its fullness for
-the first time, she and I, on that fantastic honeymoon of ours. We felt
-in our bones and flesh the simple ecstasy of being alive--the wide,
-sweet cleanness of the open world. And remembering, I wonder now, as
-I wondered then, why men have toiled to learn everything except to be
-happy, and have labored with so much heaviness to build cities when the
-tent and the camp-fire might be theirs.
-
-Books, schoolmasters, and universities have taught me much since then.
-They have spattered the windows of my soul with knowledge to prevent my
-looking out. Luckily I discovered what they were doing and stopped the
-rascals. But I knew more things that were essentially godlike before
-they commenced their work. The major part of what they taught me was a
-weariness to the flesh in the learning, and a burden to the brain when
-learnt. Of how many days of shouting and sunshine they robbed me with
-their mistaken kindness. Of what worth is a Euclid problem at forty,
-when compared with the memory of a childhood’s day of flowers, and
-meadows, and happiness?
-
-For twenty years my father sat prisoner at a desk, unbeautifully and
-doggedly driving his pen across countless pages that he might be able to
-buy me wisdom. With all his years of sacrifice and my years of laborious
-study, he gave me nothing which was half so valuable as that which a boy
-of nine stole for himself in his ignorance in the forest. There I learnt
-that the sound of wind in trees is the finest music in the world; that
-the power to feel in one’s own body the wholesome beauties of nature is
-more rewarding than wealth; that to know how to abandon oneself to
-the simple kindness of living people is a wiser knowledge than all the
-elaborate and codified wisdom of the dead.
-
-We roamed the countryside with Lilith by day, listening to her telling
-fortunes. By night we slept in her arms in the tent. Only one thing
-was forbidden us--to speak with strangers. But there was one man who
-recognized us in spite of that. It was on the first morning. We were
-sitting by the side of the road with the fierce man; he was showing us
-how to make a snare for a rabbit. We were so interested that we did not
-notice a flock of sheep approaching until they were quite close. Then
-I looked up and caught the eye of old Dot-and-Carry One burning in his
-head, glaring out at us as if it would fly from its socket. He would
-have spoken had he dared, but just then the fierce man saw him. He sank
-his chin upon his breast and, for all that he was “a human, made in
-Gawd’s h’image,” limped away into the distance in a cloud of dust, as
-meekly sheepish as any of the sheep he followed.
-
-Ruthita spent a lot of her time in searching for Lilith’s baby. She
-wanted so badly to hold it. We felt quite certain that she had hidden
-it somewhere, as she had our clothes. Even if it was a dead’un, it was
-absurd to suppose that a person so clever as to tell fortunes should
-not know where it might be found. We determined to watch her. We thought
-that if her baby was really dead and she went to it by stealth, then
-by following her we should be able to find my mother and, perhaps,
-Ruthita’s father. Ruthita had already abandoned the dread that
-Dot-and-Carry-One had had anything to do with her entrance into the
-world.
-
-Naphtha-lamps were extinguished. The crowd of merrymakers had departed.
-I was roused by Lilith stirring. Very gently she eased her arm
-from under me. I kept my eyes tightly shut and feigned that I was
-undisturbed. Cautiously she pulled aside the flap of the tent and stole
-out. I rose to my feet when she had gone. Ruthita was sleeping soundly,
-her small face cushioned in her hand. Without waking her I followed.
-
-Near to the caravan the camp-fire smoldered, making a splash of red
-like a pool of blood in the blackness. As I watched, it was momentarily
-blotted out by a moving shadow. The lurcher shook himself and growled.
-Lilith’s voice reached me, telling him to lie down. A bank of cloud lay
-across the moon, but I knew the way she went by the rustle of the fallen
-leaves, turning beneath her tread. I followed her down the glades of the
-forest, peering after her, glancing behind me at the slightest sound,
-timid lest I might lose her, timid lest I might lose myself, stealing on
-tiptoe into the unknown with sobbing, stifled breath. The ground began
-to descend into a hollow at the bottom of which a pond lay black and
-sullen. A tall beech stood at its edge, spreading out its branches and
-leaning across it as if to hide it. The leaves beneath her footsteps
-ceased to stir.
-
-When I could no longer hear her, a horrible, choking sense of solitude
-took hold of me. What if she had entered into the tree and should never
-return? Without her, how should I find my way back? I crept as near
-the pond as I dared, and crouched among the dead leaves, trembling.
-The water began to splash. “Someone,” I thought, “is rising out of it.”
- Little waves, washing in the rushes, caused the brittle reeds to shake
-and shiver, whispering in terror among themselves. A low sing-song
-muttering commenced. It came from the middle of the pond. I tried to
-stop breathing. It seemed quite possible that the baby was hidden there.
-
-The bank of cloud trailed across the sky. The yellow harvest moon
-dipped, broad and smiling, into the latticework of boughs which roofed
-the dell.
-
-In the middle of the pond, knee-deep, Lilith stood. She had cast aside
-her Romany rags and rose from the water tall and splendid. Her tawny
-body was a gold statue glistening beneath the moon. Her night-black
-hair fell sheer from her shoulders like a silken shadow. She was bending
-forward, peering eagerly beneath the water’s surface, whispering hurried
-love-words. Of all that she said I could only catch the words, “Coroon.
-Coroon. Come back, little dearest. Come back.” She laughed gladly and
-held out her arms, as though there drifted up towards her that which she
-sought. I could see nothing, for her back was towards me. Still lower
-she bent till her lips kissed the water’s surface; plunging her arms in
-elbow-deep, she seemed to support the thing which she saw there.
-
-“Lilith, oh Lilith!” I cried.
-
-She started and turned. I feared she was going to be angry. “Show me my
-Mama,” I whispered.
-
-She put her finger to her lips, and beckoned, and nodded.
-
-Hastily I undressed, tossing my rags beside hers. I waded out to where
-she was standing. The night air was chilly. She gave me her hand and
-drew me to her. Placing me before her, so that I could gaze into the
-pond like a mirror, she chanted over and over a low, wild tune. She
-peered above my shoulders. At first I could see only my own reflection
-and hers. Then, as she sang, the water moved, the inky blackness
-reddened; I forgot everything, the cold, Lilith, my terror, and lived
-only in that which was coming.
-
-In the bottom of the pool, infinitely distant, a picture grew. It came
-so near that I thought it would touch me; I became a part of it. I saw
-my mother. She was seated by a fire in an unlighted room. A little boy
-lay in her lap with his arms about her. She glanced up at me smiling
-faintly, gazing into my eyes directly. For a moment I saw her
-distinctly, and caught again the fragrance of violets that clung about
-her. The water rippled and the vision died away in smoke and cloud.
-Lilith gathered me to her cold wet breast and carried me to the shore
-and dressed me. Without knowing why, I knew that this was a happening
-that I must not tell.
-
-We returned to camp. Woods were stirring. Shadows were thinning. Dawn
-was breaking. The coldness in the air became intense. We threw branches
-on the fire and blew the smoldering embers, till sparks began to fly
-and twigs to crackle. Lilith sat with me in her arms, and hushed and
-mothered me. I was not ashamed; for five years I had wanted just that.
-I was glad that she understood. Ruthita could not see me; nobody but the
-dawn would ever know. So I fell asleep and went back to the fragrance of
-violets, the fire, and the cosy darkened room.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII--RECAPTURED
-
-Ruthita and I were terribly puzzled about that baby. We couldn’t make
-out how it had found its way into the world. We supposed that God had
-made a mistake in sending it to Lilith, and that was why He had taken it
-back.
-
-Our difficulty rose from the fact that Lilith did not appear ever to
-have been married. The fierce man was not her husband. So far as we
-could discover from the gipsy children she had never had a husband.
-Then she couldn’t have had a honeymoon: and, if she had never had a
-honeymoon, she oughtn’t to have had a baby. Our ideas on the question of
-birth were utterly disorganized. There was only one explanation--that
-we had been misinformed by Hetty and people could have babies
-by themselves. The effect of this conjecture on Ruthita was
-revolutionizing: it made our honeymoon unnecessary and me entirely
-dispensable. She had only been persuaded to elope for the sake of
-exchanging dolls for babies, and now it appeared she could have them
-and her mother as well. I had no argument left with which to combat her
-desire to return. There was only one way of arriving at the truth on the
-subject, and that was by inquiring of Lilith. Neither of us would have
-done this for worlds after the way she had cried when we found that her
-back was no longer bulgy.
-
-The days grew shorter and the forest became bare. We could see long
-distances now between the tree-trunks; it was as though the branches had
-fisted their hands. Holiday-seekers came to the cocoanut-shies less and
-less. The fierce man, whom we learnt to call G’liath, had hardly any
-bruises on his face and hands; he dodged the balls easily. The few
-chance throwers had no crowd to make them reckless; they shied singly
-now and not in showers. The gaudily dressed woman lost her hoarseness.
-She no longer had to shout night and morning, “Two shies a penny. Two
-shies a penny. Every ball ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes,” etc. Why
-should she? There was no one to get excited--nobody to pay her pennies.
-Instead she sat by the fire, weaving wicker-baskets, watching the
-pearl-colored smoke go up in whiffs and eddies. Though she seldom said
-anything, she had taken a fancy to Ruthita and would spread for her a
-corner of her skirt that she might sit beside her while she worked.
-
-Every day as Ruthita became more sure that she could have a baby all by
-herself, she wanted to go home more badly. One evening the gaudy woman
-found her crying. She told G’liath that next morning he must harness in
-his little moke and go for Mr. Spreckles. I did not hear her tell him,
-but Lilith told me when she came to lie down beside me in the tent.
-
-That night she held me closer. I could feel her heart thumping. She
-roused me continually in the darkness to ask me needless questions.
-Whether I would ever forget her. “No.” Whether I would like to see her
-again. “Yes.” Whether I would like to become a gipsy. “Wouldn’t I!”
-
-She was silent for so long that I began to drowse. I awoke with the
-tightening of her arms about me. When I lifted my face to hers, she
-commenced to kiss me passionately. “You shall. You shall,” she said.
-“I’ll make a gipsy of you, so you’ll always remember and never be
-content with their closed-in world. They’ll take you from me to-morrow,
-but your heart will never be theirs.”
-
-I didn’t understand, but at dawn she showed me. Frost lay on the ground.
-Every little blade of grass was stiff and sword-like. It was as though
-the hair of the world had turned white from shock and was standing on
-end.
-
-She led me away through the tall stark forest to a glade so secret that
-no one could observe us. At first I thought she was escaping with me,
-carrying me off to her gipsy-land. But she made me kneel down beside
-her. As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little
-knife from beneath her dress, and pricked her wrist and mine so that
-they bled. She held her hand beneath our wrists, catching the blood in
-her palm so it mingled. Then she let it drip through her fingers, making
-scarlet stains on the frosted turf.
-
-As it fell she spoke to the grass and the trees and the air, telling
-them that I was hers and, because our blood was mingled, was one of
-them. “Whenever he hears your voice,” she said, “it will speak to him
-of me. If he goes where you do not grow, oh grass, then the trees shall
-call him back. If he goes where you do not grow, oh trees, then the wind
-shall tell him. His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men.
-When he hears your voice, oh grass, or your voice, oh trees, or your
-voice, oh winds, he shall turn his face from walls and come back. Though
-he leaves us he shall always hear us calling, for he is ours!”
-
-And it seemed to me when her voice had ceased that I heard the grass
-nodding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping through
-the trees, stooping their leafless branches as though they gave assent.
-
-That morning for the first time we had breakfast in the caravan. After
-breakfast Lilith and I went out together, hand-in-hand. G’liath was
-harnessing in his donkey. We watched him drive down the road and vanish.
-I did not want to go back and he knew it; he looked ashamed of
-himself. The country was bitter and cheerless; it had an atmosphere of
-parting--everything was withered. Birds huddled close on branches with
-ruffled feathers. Fields were harsh and cracked.
-
-“Little brother,” Lilith said, “one day you will be a man. Until then
-they will keep you prisoner and try to make you forget all the things
-which you and I have learnt. They will tell you that the trees have no
-voices: that it is only the wind that stirs them. They will tell you
-that rivers are only water flowing. But remember that out in the open
-they are all waiting for you, and that the other people who have no
-bodies are there.”
-
-I thought of the picture I had seen in the pool and knew what she meant.
-
-Towards evening we returned to the camp. The melancholy autumn twilight
-lay about us; in the heart of it the fire burnt red. We sat round it in
-silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and listening
-for G’liath coming back. “Ruthita,” I whispered, “do you think we shall
-find the little house?”
-
-She shook her head doubtfully, as if she scarcely cared. She was
-thinking of the lighted room, perhaps, and the long white bed, where her
-mother was eagerly awaiting her.
-
-Coming up the road we heard a sharp tap-a-tap. Dancing in and out the
-tree-trunks we saw the golden eyes of carriage-lamps. The dog-cart and
-Dollie came into sight and halted; my Uncle Obad jumped out. He had come
-alone to fetch us; I was glad of that. I could explain things to him
-so much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand.
-Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his
-arms. All he could say was, “Well, well, well!” His face was beaming;
-every little wrinkle in his face was trembling. He hugged me so tightly
-that he took away my breath. I didn’t get a chance to speak until he had
-set me down. Then I said, “Uncle Obad, this is Ruthita.”
-
-He held out his hand to her gravely. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs.
-Dante Cardover,” he said. Then, because she was such a little girl and
-her face looked so thin and wistful, he took her in his arms and hugged
-her as well.
-
-Suddenly the gaudy woman remembered that we were still clothed in our
-gipsy rags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but
-Uncle Obad wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on carrying us off to Pope
-Lane just as we were.
-
-It was night when he said, “Dollie is rested; we must be going.” When we
-rose to our feet to say good-by, Lilith was not there. He lifted us into
-the dog-cart and wrapped rugs about our shoulders to make us cozy. Then
-he jumped in beside us and we had our last look at the camp. The gaudy
-woman was standing up by the fire with her children huddled about her
-skirts. I could see the gleam of her ear-rings shaking, the lighted
-window of the caravan in the background, and the lurcher sneaking in and
-out the shadows. G’liath and his donkey travelled slowly; they had not
-returned when we left. Uncle Obad cracked his whip; we started forward
-across the turf and were soon bowling between the dim skeletons of trees
-down the hard road homeward.
-
-Ruthita crept closer to me. She may have been cold and she may have been
-lonely, but I think she was just feeling how flat things were now
-our great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now,
-womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and
-then she drew her fingers across my face--a little love-trick she had.
-She leant her head against my shoulder and was soon sleeping soundly.
-
-“Old chap, why did you do it?”
-
-I looked up at my uncle; I could not see his face because of the
-darkness. His voice was very solemn and kindly.
-
-“We couldn’t see anything in the garden,” I said; “we wanted to find
-where the pigeons went.”
-
-“But why did you take the little girl?”
-
-I hesitated about telling. It might spoil what was left of the magic;
-I still had a faint hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might
-have grown into a man. And then, in telling, I might do Hetty a damage.
-Instead of answering, I asked him a question.
-
-“When you’re married, you get everything you want, don’t you?”
-
-“That depends on what you call everything, Dante.”
-
-“Well, money, and a house, and a pony, and babies.”
-
-“Not always.”
-
-He spoke softly. Then I knew I oughtn’t to have mentioned babies,
-because, like Lilith, he hadn’t any.
-
-“It wasn’t I who wanted the babies,” I explained hurriedly; “that was
-Ruthie. She wanted them instead of dolls to play with. I wanted to be
-allowed to go in and out, like the children with the magic carpet.”
-
-He knew at once what I meant. “You didn’t want to have grown people
-always bothering, telling you to do this and not to do that, and locking
-doors behind you? You wanted always to be free and jolly, like you and
-I are together? And you thought that you could be like that if you were
-married?”
-
-He slowed Dollie down to a walk.
-
-“Little man, you’ve been trying to get just what everyone’s reaching
-after. When you’re a boy you say, ‘I’ll have it when I’m a man.’ When
-you’re a man you say, ‘I’ll have it when I’m married.’ You’ve been
-searching for perpetual happiness. You’ll never have it in this world,
-Dante. And don’t you see why you’ll never have it? You hurt other people
-in trying to get it. Your father and Ruthita’s mother, all of us have
-been very anxious. I’ve often been tempted to run away myself because
-I’m not much use to anybody. But that would mean leaving someone I love;
-so I’ve had to stop on and face it out. You ran away to enjoy yourself,
-and other people were sorry. Other people always have to be sorry when a
-fellow does that.”
-
-He shook the reins over Dollie and she commenced to trot again.
-Presently he said, half-speaking to himself, “There’s a better word than
-happiness, and that’s duty. If a chap does his duty the best he can, he
-makes other folk happy. Then he finds his own happiness by accident,
-within himself. I’m a queer one to be talking--I’m not awfully
-successful. I’ve run away a little. But you must do better. And if you
-can’t bear things, just _imagine_. What’s the difference between the
-things you really have and the things you pretend? Imagination is the
-magic carpet; you can pretend yourself anything and anywhere. If you’ve
-learnt that secret, they can lock all the doors--it won’t matter. I
-can’t put it plainer; there are things that it isn’t right for you to
-understand--this business about marriage. You’ll know when you’re a man.
-Now promise that you’ll never run away again.”
-
-I promised.
-
-When we got to Pope Lane it must have been very late. I suppose I fell
-asleep on the journey, for I remember nothing more until the light
-flashed in my eyes and my father was bending over me. Ruthita wasn’t
-there; she had been left already at her mother’s house. My father had me
-in his arms. He was standing in the hall. The door was wide open and my
-uncle was going down the steps, calling “Good-night” as he went. Behind
-me I could see Hetty peering over the banisters in a gray flannel
-nightdress--her night-dresses were all of gray flannel. When my father
-turned, she scuttled away like a frightened rabbit.
-
-He carried me into his study--just as I was, clad in my gipsy rags--and
-closed the door behind him with a slam. His lamp on the table was turned
-low. The floor was littered with books and papers. A fire in the hearth
-was burning brightly. He drew up an easy-chair to the blaze and sat
-down, still holding me to him. I was always timid with my father,
-especially when we were alone together. This time I was very conscious
-of wrong-doing. I waited to hear him say something; but he remained
-silent, staring into the fire. The lamp flickered lower and lower, and
-went out.
-
-“Father, I--I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
-
-Then I saw that he was crying. His tears splashed down. His face had
-lost that stem look. I was shaken by his sobs as he held me.
-
-“Little son. My little son,” he whispered.
-
-The room grew fainter. The pictures on the walls became shadowy. My eyes
-opened and closed. When I awoke the gray light of morning was stealing
-in at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly.
-My father was sitting in the easy-chair, his head sunk forward--but his
-arms were still about me.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX--THE SNOW LADY
-
-My father never asked me why I had run away or where I had gone.
-His tongue was ever stubborn at loving with words. With Hetty it was
-different. When my father had wakened and let me out of his arms to go
-upstairs and dress, she caught me into her bosom and half-smothered me,
-scolding and comforting by turns. Her corsets hurt me and her starched
-print-dress was harsh; I was glad when she left off and set me down on
-the bed.
-
-“And who ever ’eard the likes o’ that,” she said: “a little boy to run
-away from his dear Pa and take with ’im a little sweet-’eart as we
-never knew ’e ’ad. Oh, the deceit of children for all they looks so
-h’innercent! And ’ere was your dear Pa a-tearin’ all the ’air out of
-’is ’ead. And ’ere was me and John--we couldn’t do no work and
-we couldn’t do nothin’ for thinkin’ where you’d went. And there was you
-a-livin’ with those dirty gipsies and wearin’ their dirty rags------”
-
-“They’re not dirty,” I interrupted, “and I shan’t like you if you talk
-like that.”
-
-“Well, I’m only tellin’ you the truth; you was always perwerse and
-’eadstrong.”
-
-“You didn’t tell me the truth when you told me about marriage,” I said.
-“Everything’s just the same as when we left. We ar’n’t any taller, and
-we hav’n’t got a little house, and----”
-
-She sat back on her heels and stared at me. “Oh, Lor,” she burst out,
-“was that why you did it?” And then she began to laugh and laugh. Her
-face grew red and again she fell upon me, until her corsets cut into me
-to such an extent that I called to her to leave off.
-
-“What I told you was gorspel true,” she said solemnly, “but you didn’t
-understand. That’s wot ’appens to wimmen when they goes away with men.
-I wasn’t speakin’ of little boys and girls. But it’ll never ’appen to
-you when you grow up if you tell anybody wot I said.”
-
-That morning after breakfast, instead of going into his study to work,
-my father led me round to the Favarts’. As we came up the path I saw
-Ruthita at the window watching for us. Monsieur Favart opened the door
-to our knock. He said something to my father in French, shook me by the
-hand gravely, and led the way upstairs. We entered a room at the back of
-the house, overlooking the garden. A lady, almost as small as Ruthita,
-was lying on a couch with cushions piled behind her head. She was
-dressed completely in white; she had dark eyes and white hair, and a
-face that somehow surprised you because it was so young and little. From
-the first I called her the Snow Lady to myself.
-
-She held out her hand to me and then, instead, put her arm about my
-waist, smiling up at me. “So you are Dante, the little boy who wanted to
-marry my little girl?”
-
-Her voice was more soft and emotional than any voice I had ever heard.
-It held me, and kept me from noticing anything but her. It seemed as
-though all the eagerness of living, which other people spend in motion,
-was stored up in that long white throat of hers and delicate scarlet
-mouth.
-
-“You can’t marry Ruth yet, you know,” she said; “you hav’n’t any money.
-But if you like, you may go and kiss her.”
-
-She turned me about and there was Ruthita standing behind me. I did what
-I was told, shyly and perfunctorily. There was no sense of pleasure in
-doing what you were ordered to do just to amuse grown people. The Snow
-Lady laughed gaily. “There, take him out into the garden, Ruthita, and
-teach him to do it properly.”
-
-As I left the room, I saw that my father had taken my place by the
-couch. Monsieur Favart was looking out of the window, his hands folded
-on the head of his cane and his chin resting on them.
-
-We played in the garden together, but much of the charm had gone out of
-our playing now that it was allowed. The game we played was gipsies in
-the forest. We gathered leaves and made a fire, pretending we were
-again in camp. I was G’liath; Ruthita was sometimes the gaudy woman and
-sometimes Lilith telling fortunes. But the pretense was tame after the
-reality.
-
-“Ruthie,” I said, “we ar’n’t married. What Hettie told me was all swank.
-It’s only true of men and women, and not of boys and girls.”
-
-“But we can grow older.”
-
-“Yes. But it’ll take ages.”
-
-She folded her hands in her pinafore nervously.
-
-“We can go on loving till then,” she said.
-
-On the way home my father told me that he liked Ruthita--liked her so
-much that he had arranged with Madam Favart to have a door cut in the
-wall between the two gardens so that we could go in and out. I didn’t
-tell him that I preferred climbing over; he could scarcely guess it for
-himself. There was no excitement in being pushed into the open and told
-to go and play with Ruthita. It was all too easy. The fun had been in
-no one knowing that I did play with such a little girl--not even knowing
-that there was a Ruthita in the world. We tried to overcome this by
-always pretending that we were doing wrong when we were together. We
-would hide when we heard anybody coming. I despised the door and only
-went through it when a grown person was present, otherwise I entered
-by way of the apple-tree and the wall. My father caught me at it, and
-couldn’t understand why I did it. Hetty said it was because I liked
-being grubby.
-
-Through the gray autumn months I wandered the garden, listening to the
-dead leaves whispering together. “They’ll take you from me, but your
-heart will never be theirs,” Lilith had said, and I tried to fancy that
-the rustling of leaves was Lilith’s voice calling. It was curious how
-she had plucked out my affections and made them hers.
-
-Often I would steal into the tool-house and tell the white hen all about
-it. But she also was a source of disillusionment. After long waiting I
-found one egg in her nest. I thought she must be as glad about it as I
-was, so left it there a little while for her to look at. I thought the
-sight of it would spur her on to more ambitious endeavors. But when
-I came back her beak was yellowy and the egg had vanished. After this
-unnatural act of cannibalism I told her no more secrets; she had proved
-herself unworthy. Shortly afterwards she died--perhaps of remorse. I
-made my peace with her by placing her in a cardboard shoe-box for a
-coffin and giving her a most handsome funeral.
-
-One evening, when I had been put to bed, I stole to the window to gaze
-into the blackness. I saw a man with a lantern go across our lawn and
-disappear by the apple-tree through the door in the wall. After that I
-watched. Nearly every night it happened. I was always too sleepy to
-stay awake to see at what hour he came back. But I knew that he did come
-back, for with the first fall of snow I traced his returning
-footsteps. They came from Monsieur Favart’s door and entered in at our
-study-window. So I guessed that the man was my father.
-
-Madam Favart seemed to be growing stronger; she was able to get up and
-walk about. Sometimes I would go into her house for tea, and she would
-sit by the firelight and tell Ruthita and myself stories. She used
-to try and get me to climb on her knee while she told them. I always
-refused, because my mother used to do that. The Snow Lady used to laugh
-at me and say, “Ruthita, Dante won’t make love to Mother. Isn’t he
-silly?” Then I would grow sulky and sit as far off as I could.
-
-When Christmas came round, the Favarts were invited over to spend it
-with us. The Snow Lady brought a bunch of misletoe with her and hung it
-about our house. After dinner the General fell asleep in his chair, and
-we children played hide and seek together. I wanted to hide so securely
-that Ruthita would never catch me. It was getting dark, and I knew
-that she wouldn’t hunt for me in my father’s study. I was a little awed
-myself at going there. I pushed open the door. The room was unlighted. I
-entered, and then halted at the sound of voices whispering. Standing
-in the window, silhouetted against the snow, were my father and Madam
-Favart. He was holding a sprig of misletoe over her; his arm was about
-her, and they were leaning breast to breast. She saw me first and
-started back from him, just as Hetty had done when I found her with
-John. Then my father, turning sharply, saw me. He called to me sternly,
-“Dante, what are you doing, sir?” He sounded almost afraid because I had
-been watching. Then he called again more softly, “Dante, my boy, come
-here.”
-
-But a strange rebellious horror possessed me. It seemed as though
-something were tearing out my heart. I was angry, fiercely angry because
-he had been disloyal to my mother. At that moment I hated him, but hated
-Madam Favart much worse. I knew now why she had told me stories, and why
-she had wanted me to climb on her knee, and why she had tried to force
-me to make love to her. I rushed from the room and down the passage.
-Ruthita ran out laughing to catch me, but I pushed her aside roughly
-and unjustly. I wanted to get away by myself and fled out into the
-snow-covered garden. My father came to the door and called. But Madam
-Favart was with him; I could see by the gaslight, which fell behind
-them, the way she pressed towards him. I could hear her merry contralto
-laugh, and refused to answer.
-
-“He’ll come by himself,” she said.
-
-When the door closed and they left me, I felt miserably lonely. They had
-been wicked and they were not sorry. Hetty said that God was twice as
-angry with you for not being sorry as He was with you for doing wrong.
-Hetty knew everything about God; she used to hold long conversations
-with Him every night in her gray flannel nightdress. Soon the snow began
-to melt into my shoes and the frost to nip my fingers. I wished they
-would come out again and call me.
-
-I became pathetic over the fact that it was Christmas. I pictured to
-myself a possible death as a result of exposure. I saw myself dying in
-a beautiful calm, forgiving everybody, and with everybody kneeling by my
-bedside shaken with sobbing; the sobs of Madam Favart and my father were
-to be the loudest. I was to be stretching out long white hands, trying
-to quiet them; but their sense of guilt was to have placed them beyond
-all bounds of consolation. Every time I tried to comfort them they were
-to cry twice as hard. Then I saw my funeral and the big lily wreaths:
-“From his broken-hearted father”; “From Madam Favart with sincere
-regrets”; “From Hetty who told God untruths about him”; “From Ruthita
-who loved him.” And in the midst of these tokens of grief I lay fully
-conscious of everything, arrayed in a gray flannel nightshirt, opening
-one eye when no one was looking, and winking at Uncle Obad.
-
-I began to feel little pangs of hunger, and my pride gave way before
-them. Reluctantly I stole nearer the house and peeked into the
-study. They were all there seated round the fire, callously enjoying
-themselves. The secret was plainly out--my father was holding Madam
-Favart’s hand. Ruthita was cuddled against my father’s shoulder; she was
-evidently reconciled rather more than stoically. I tapped on the pane.
-The old General saw me. He signed to the others to remain still.
-He threw up the window and lifted me into the warmth. I believe he
-understood. Perhaps he felt just as I was feeling. At any rate, when
-it was decreed that I should go to bed at once and drink hot gruel, he
-slipped a crown-piece into my hand and looked as though he hadn’t done
-it.
-
-Within a month the marriage was celebrated, my father being a methodical
-man who hated delays and loved shortcuts. It was a vicarious affair;
-Ruthita and I had taken the honeymoon, and our parents were married. If
-Uncle Obad hadn’t given me the white hen, and the hen hadn’t flown over
-the wall, and I hadn’t followed, these things would never have happened.
-
-I grew to admire the Snow Lady immensely. She always called me her
-little lover. She never ordered me to do anything or played the mother,
-but flirted with me and trusted to my chivalry to recognize her wants.
-We played a game of pretending. It had only one disadvantage, that it
-shut Ruthita out from our game, for one couldn’t court two ladies at
-once. I learnt to kiss Ruthita as a habit and to take her, as boys will
-their sisters, for granted. It is only on looking back that I realize
-how beautiful and gentle she really was, and what life would have been
-without her.
-
-General Favart lived in the other house through the door in the wall.
-He came to visit us rarely. He leant more heavily on his cane, and his
-cloak seemed to have become blacker, his hair whiter, and his scar more
-prominent. He could scarcely speak a word of English, so I never knew
-what he thought. But it seemed to me he was sorrowing. One day we
-children were told that he was dead; after that the door between the two
-gardens was taken down and the hole in the wall bricked up.
-
-
-
-
-BOOK II--THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS
-
-
-_And man returned to the ground out of which he was taken, and his wife
-bare children and he builded walls. But thou shalt think an evil thought
-and say, “I will go up to the land of unwalled villages._”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I--THE RED HOUSE
-
-
-Dante, it’s time you went to school.”
-
-For the past three years, since he had married the Snow Lady, my father
-had given me lessons in his study for the last hour of every morning
-before lunch. It had been the Snow Lady’s idea; she said I was growing
-up a perfect ignoramus.
-
-My father tilted up his spectacles to his forehead, and gazed across
-the table at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he repeated, “I’ll be sorry to lose
-you, my boy; but it’s time you went to school.”
-
-He was to lose me; then I was to go away! My heart sank, and leapt, and
-sank again with a dreadful joy of expectation. In my childish way I had
-always been impatient of the present--a Columbus ceaselessly watching
-for the first trace of seaweed broken loose from the shores of the
-unknown. Change, which at mid-life we so bitterly resent, was at that
-time life’s great allurement.
-
-The school selected was one of the smaller public-schools, lying fifteen
-miles distant from Stoke Newington. It was called the Red House and
-stood on Eden Hill. It was situated in lovely country, so my father
-said, and had for its head-master a man with whom he was slightly
-acquainted, whose name was the Reverend Robert Sneard.
-
-For the next few weeks I was a semi-hero. Ruthita regarded me with the
-kind of pitying awe that a bullock inspires in children, when they meet
-it being driven lowing along a road to be slaughtered. Everyone became
-busy over preparations for my departure--even the Snow Lady, who seldom
-worked. I was allowed to sit up quite late, watching her pretty fingers
-flashing the needle in and out the flannel that grew into shirts for
-me to wear. Ruthita would snuggle up beside me, her long black curls
-tickling my cheek. There were lengthy silences. Then Ruthita would look
-up at her mother and say, “Mumsie, I don’t know whatever we shall do
-without him.” And sometimes, when she said it, the Snow Lady would laugh
-in her Frenchy way and answer, “Why, Ruthita, what’s one little boy?
-He’s so tiny; he won’t leave much empty space.” But once, it was the
-night before I left, she choked in the middle of her laughing and took
-us both into her arms, telling us that she loved us equally. “I can’t
-think what I’ll do without my little lover,” she said.
-
-Of a sudden I had become a person of importance. The servants no longer
-made a worry of doing things for me. They watched me going about the
-house as though it were for the last time, and spoke of me to one
-another as, “Poor little chap.” I had only to express a want to have it
-gratified. I was treated as the State treats a condemned criminal on the
-day of his execution, when they let him choose his breakfast. I gloried
-in my eminence.
-
-It was arranged that my uncle should drive me to the Red House. Before I
-went, I was loaded with good advice. My father sent for me to his study
-one night and, with considerable embarrassment, alluded to subjects of
-which I had no knowledge, imploring me to listen to no evil companions
-but to keep pure. His language was so delicately veiled that I was none
-the wiser. I thought he referred to such boyish peccadilloes as jam
-stealing and telling lies. Even the Snow Lady, who took delight in being
-frivolous, read me a moral story concerning the rapid degeneration,
-through cigarettes and beer-drinking, of a boy with the face of an
-angel. Neither of these temptations was mine, and I had never regarded
-myself as particularly angelic in appearance. They beat about the bush,
-hunting ghostly passions with allegories.
-
-I noticed that Ruthita would absent herself for an hour or more at a
-stretch. When I followed her up to her room the door was locked, and
-she would beseech me with tears in her voice not to peek through the
-key-hole. The mystery was explained when she presented me with a knitted
-muffler, the wool for which she had purchased from her own savings.
-I came across it, moth-eaten and faded, in my old school play-box the
-other day. It was cold weather when she made it, for a little girl to
-sit in a bedroom without a fire. I hope I thanked her sufficiently and
-did not accept her surprise as though it were expected.
-
-On an afternoon in January I departed. Then I realized for the first
-time what going away from home meant. The horror of the unknown, not the
-adventure, pressed upon me. We all pretended to be very gay--all except
-Hetty, who threw her apron over her head and, in the old scripture
-phrase, lifted up her voice and wept. They accompanied me out of the
-garden, down Pope Lane, to where the dog-cart was tethered. I mounted
-reluctantly, stretching out the last moment to its greatest length, and
-took my place beside Uncle Obad. My father had his pen behind his ear,
-I remember. It seemed to me as though the pen were saying, “Hurry up now
-and get off. Your father can’t waste all day over little boys.” Dollie
-lifted her head and began to trot. The Snow Lady waved and waved,
-smiling bravely. Then Ruthita broke from the group and ran after us down
-the long red street for a little way. We turned a corner and they were
-lost to sight.
-
-I drew nearer to my uncle, pressing Ruthita’s muffler to my lips and
-gazing straight before me.
-
-“What--what’ll it be like?”
-
-He shook his head. “Couldn’t say,” he muttered huskily.
-
-After about an hour’s driving, he broke the silence with a kindly effort
-to make conversation. He told me that we were on the Great North Road,
-where there used to be highwaymen. He spoke of Dick Turpin and some of
-his exploits. He pointed out a public-house at which highwaymen used to
-stay. He could not stir my imagination--it was otherwise occupied. I
-was wondering why I should be sent to school, if my going made everyone
-unhappy. I was picturing the snug nursery, with the lamp unlighted, and
-the fire burning, and Ruthita seated all alone on the rug before the
-fire.
-
-We left the Great North Road, striking across country, through frosty
-lanes. My uncle ceased speaking; he himself was uninterested in what he
-had been saying. We passed groups of children playing before clustered
-cottages, and laborers plodding homeward whistling. It seemed strange to
-me that they should all be so cheerful and should not realize what was
-happening inside me.
-
-We came in sight of the Red House. It could be seen at a great distance,
-for it stood out gauntly on the crest of Eden Hill, and the sunset lay
-behind it. In the lowlands night was falling; lights were springing
-up, twinkling cheerfully. But the Red House did not impress me as
-cheerful--it had no lights, and struck me with the chill and repression
-that one feels in passing by a prison.
-
-“Well, old chap, we’re nearly there,” said my uncle with a futile
-attempt to be jolly.
-
-I darted out my hand and dragged on the reins. “Don’t--don’t drive so
-fast. Let Dollie walk.”
-
-He looked down at me slantwise. “You’ve got to be brave, old chap.
-Nothing’s as bad as it seems at the time. Nothing’s so bad that it
-can’t be lived through. Why, one day you’ll be looking back and telling
-yourself that these were your happiest days.”
-
-Despite his optimisms, he did as I requested and let Dollie walk the
-rest of the way. While she climbed the hill, we got out and walked
-beside her. My uncle put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a
-half-crown. He balanced it in his palm; tossed it; put it back into his
-pocket; drew it out again. “Here, Dante,” he said at last, “see what
-I’ve found. You’d best take it.”
-
-As we approached nearer, he was again moved to generosity. He was moved
-three times, to be exact; each time he considered the matter carefully,
-then rushed the coin at me. He gave me seven shillings in all. I am sure
-he could ill afford them.
-
-At the top of the hill he beckoned me to jump into the trap. It was
-fitting, I suppose, that we should drive up to my place of confinement
-grandly. Then a great idea seized me. My box was under the seat behind.
-I had all my belongings with me. There were no walls to restrain us now.
-
-“Uncle,” I whispered, “I don’t want to go there. You once said you were
-tired of houses. Why shouldn’t we run away?”
-
-He heard the tremble in my voice. He lifted me in beside him and drove
-along the outside of the school-walls, not entering at the gate.
-
-“It’s beastly hard,” he said, “and the trouble is that I can’t explain
-it. All through life you’ll be wanting to run away, and all through
-life, if you’re not a coward, you won’t be able. You see, people have to
-earn a living in this world, and to earn a living they must be educated.
-Your father’s trying to give you the best education he can, and he means
-to be kind. But it’s a darned shame, this not being able to do what
-you like. I can’t run away with you, old chap. There’s nothing for it;
-you’ve just got to bear it.”
-
-He stopped, searching for words. He wanted to tell me something really
-comforting and wasn’t content with what he had said. He found it.
-Turning round in the dogcart, he threw his arm about my shoulder and
-pointed above my head, “Look up, there.” I raised my eyes and saw the
-blue black sky like an inverted cup, with a red smudge round the western
-rim where a mouth of blood had stained it. One by one the silver stars
-were coming out and disappearing, like tiny bubbles which break and form
-again. As I looked, night seemed to deepen; horizons dropped back; the
-earth fell away. The sky was no longer a cup; it was nothing measurable.
-It was a drifting sea of freedom, and I was part of it.
-
-“They can rob you of a lot of things,” my uncle said, “but they can
-never take that from you. It’s like the world of your imagination,
-something that can’t be stolen, and that you can’t sell, and that you
-can’t buy. It’s always yours.”
-
-We drove through the gate to the main entrance. My box was deposited
-in the hall. My uncle shook hands with me in formal manner when he said
-good-by, for the school-porter was present. He turned round sharply to
-cut proceedings short, and disappeared into the night. I listened to his
-wheels growing fainter. For the first time I was utterly alone.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II--CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH COMFORTERS
-
-In delicate schoolboy slang, I was a new-bug--a thing to be poked and
-despised, and not to be spoken to for the first few days. There were
-other new-bugs, which was some consolation; but we were too shy to get
-acquainted. We moped about the playground sullen and solitary, like
-crows on a plowed field. Every now and then some privileged person, who
-was not a new-bug, would bang our shins with a hockey-stick; after which
-we would hop about on one leg for a time, looking more like crows than
-ever.
-
-The Snow Lady had packed fifty oranges in my box. I made holes in the
-tops of them with my thumb and rammed in lumps of sugar, sucking out the
-juice. Not because I was greedy, but because there seemed nothing else
-to do, I ate every one of the fifty the first day. The following night I
-was ill, which did not help my popularity. One dark-haired person, about
-my own age, with a jolly freckled face, took particular offense at my
-misdemeanor. His real name was Buzzard, but he was nicknamed the Bantam
-because of his size and his temper. He never said a word about the
-oranges, but he punished me for having been ill by stamping on my toes.
-He did this whenever he passed me, looking in the opposite direction in
-an absent-minded fashion. My quietness in putting up with him seemed to
-irritate him.
-
-The afternoon was frosty; I was hobbling miserably about the playground
-with Ruthita’s muffler round my throat. It was a delicate baby-pink, and
-the Bantam easily caught sight of it. He came up and jerking it from me,
-trod on it. I had never fought in my life, but my wretchedness made me
-reckless. I thought of little Ruthita and the long cold hours she
-had spent in making it. It seemed that he had insulted her. I hit him
-savagely on the nose.
-
-Immediately there were cries of, “A fight! A fight!” Games were stopped.
-Boys came running from every direction. Even the new-bugs lifted up
-their heads and began to take an interest in the landscape.
-
-“Now you’ve done it,” the Bantam shouted.
-
-He started out, accompanied by the crowd to the bottom of the
-playground. I followed. The laboratory, a long black shed, stood there,
-with a roof of galvanized iron and rows of bottles arranged in the
-windows. Behind it we were out of sight of masters, unless they happened
-to be carrying on experiments inside.
-
-A ring was formed. The Bantam commenced to take off his coat and collar.
-I did likewise. A horrid sickening sense of defenselessness came over
-me. I experienced what the early Christians must have felt when they
-gazed round the eager amphitheatre, and heard the lions roaring.
-
-A big fellow stepped up. “Here, new-bug, d’you know how to fight?”
-
-When I shook my head, he grinned at me cheerfully. “Hold your arms well
-up, double your fists, and go for him.”
-
-The advice was more easy to give than to put into action. The Bantam was
-on top of me in a flash. He made for my face at first, but I lowered my
-head and kept my arms up, so he was content to pummel me about the body.
-He hurt, and hurt badly; I had never been treated so roughly.
-
-Something happened. Perhaps it was a fierce realization of the injustice
-of everything--the injustice of being sent there by people whom I loved,
-the injustice of not being spoken to, the injustice of the boys jeering
-because I was getting thrashed. I felt that I did not care how much I
-got damaged if only I might kill the Bantam. He thumped me on the nose
-as I looked up; my eyes filled with tears. I dashed in at him, banging
-him about the head. I heard his teeth rattle. I heard the shouting,
-“Hurrah! Go it, new-bug. Well done, new-bug.” In front of me the wintry
-sunset lay red. I remember wondering whether it was sunset or blood.
-Then the Bantam tried to turn and run. I caught him behind the ear. He
-tripped up and fell. I stood over him, doubtful whether he were dead.
-Just then the door of the laboratory opened. The boys began to scatter,
-shouting to one another, “The Creature! Here he comes. The Creature!”
- The Bantam picked himself up and followed the crowd.
-
-A man came round the side of the shed. He looked something like
-Dot-and-Carry-One, only he was smaller. His hair was the color of a
-badger’s, shaggy and unbrushed. His face was stubbly and besmirched with
-different colored chalks from his fingers. His clothes were stained and
-baggy. He approached sideways, crabwise, in a great hurry, with one hand
-stretched out behind and one in front, like flappers. His gestures
-were those of a servant in a Chinese etching; they made him absurdly
-conspicuous by their self-belittlement. Beyond everything, he was dirty.
-
-“What they been beating you for?” he inquired in his shorthand way of
-talking. “You hit him first! What for?” He pulled a stump of a pencil
-out of his mouth as though he were drawing a tooth. After that I could
-hear him more clearly. “A muffler? He trod on it? Well, that’s nothing
-to fight about. Oh, your sister gave it you? That’s different.”
-
-The last two sentences were spoken very gently--quite unlike the rest,
-which had been angry. “Humph! His sister gave it him!”
-
-He took me by the hand and led me into the shed, closing the door behind
-him. An iron stove was burning. The outside was red hot; it glowered
-through the dusk. Running round the sides of the room were taps and
-basins, and above them bottles. Ranged on the table in the middle were
-stands, bunsen-burners and retorts. He went silently about his work. He
-was melting sulphur in a crucible.
-
-Every now and then the sulphur caught and burnt with a violet flame; and
-all the while it made a suffocating smell.
-
-I felt scared. I didn’t know what he was going to do with me. The boys
-had called him The Creature, which sounded very dreadful. He had dragged
-me into his den just like the ogres the Snow Lady read about.
-
-Presently his experiment ended. He gave me a seat by the stove, and came
-and sat beside me. He didn’t look at all fierce now. He struck me as old
-and discouraged.
-
-“Always fight for your sister,” he said. Then after a pause, “What’s she
-called?”
-
-I found myself telling him that she wasn’t really my sister, that her
-name was Ruthita, and that she had knitted me the muffler. He patted me
-on the knee as I talked. He might almost have been The Spuffler.
-
-“Boys are horrid beasts,” he said. “They don’t mean to be unkind. They
-don’t think--that’s all. Soon you’ll be one of them.”
-
-He led the way out of the laboratory, turning the key behind him. The
-bell in the tower was ringing for supper. The school was all lit up.
-He climbed the railing which divided the playground from the football
-field, telling me to follow. We passed across the meadows to the
-village, which lay on the northward side of Eden Hill; it snuggled
-among trees. The cottages were straw-thatched. Frost glistened on the
-window-panes, behind which lamps were set. Unmelted snow glimmered here
-and there in the gardens in patches among cabbage stumps. We turned in
-at a gate. The Creature raised the latch of the door and we entered.
-
-How cozy the little house was after the bare stone corridors and cold,
-boarded dormitories. All the furnishings of the room into which he led
-me were worn and out-of-date; but they had a homelike look about them
-which atoned for their shabbiness. The walls bulged. Pictures hung awry
-upon them. The springs of the sofa had burst; you sank to an unexpected
-depth when you sat upon it. The carpet was threadbare; patch-work rugs
-covered the worst places. Yet for all its poverty, you knew that it
-was a room in which people had loved and been kind to one another. An
-atmosphere of memory hung about it.
-
-The Creature appeared to be his own house-keeper. He left me alone while
-he went somewhere into the back to get things ready. I could hear him
-striking matches and jingling cups against saucers.
-
-As I sat looking curiously round at wax-fruit in glass-cases and a
-stuffed owl on the mantel-shelf, the door was pushed open gently. An
-old lady entered. She trod so lightly, gliding her feet along the floor,
-that I should not have heard her save for the turning of the handle.
-She was dressed from head to foot in clinging muslin. Her face and hands
-were so frail and white that you could almost see through them. Her
-faded hair fell disordered and scanty about her shoulders. Her eyes were
-unnaturally large and luminous. She showed no surprise at seeing me.
-She looked at me so stealthily that she seemed to establish a secret.
-Crossing her hands on her breast she courtesied, and then asked me as
-odd a question as was ever addressed to a little boy. “Are you my Lord?”
-
-“If you please, mam,” I faltered, “I’m Dante Cardover.”
-
-Her look of intense eagerness faded, and one of almost childish
-disappointment took its place. She moved slowly about the room, from
-corner to corner, bowing to people whom I could not see and whispering
-to herself.
-
-My host came shuffling along the passage. He was carrying a tea-tray.
-When he saw the woman, he set it hurriedly down on the table and went
-quietly towards her. “Gipie,” he said, “Egypt, we’re not alone; we have
-a guest. Tell them to go away.”
-
-He spoke to her soothingly, as though she were a child. Her eyes
-narrowed, the strained far-away expression left her face. She made a
-motion with her hand, dismissing the invisible persons. He led her to
-me. It was strange to see a grown woman follow so obediently.
-
-“Gipie,” he said, “I want you to listen to me. This boy is my friend.
-They were fighting him up there,” jerking his head in the direction of
-the school. “He’s lonely; so I brought him to you. Tell him that you
-care.”
-
-The old lady lifted her hands to my shoulders--such pale hands. “I’m
-sorry,” she said. It was like a child repeating a lesson.
-
-He introduced us. “This is my sister, Egypt; and this is Dante
-Cardover.”
-
-I don’t know what we talked about. I can only remember that the little
-old man and woman were kind to me and gave me courage. There are
-desolate moments in life when one hour of sympathy calls out more
-gratitude than years of easy friendship.
-
-That night as the Creature walked back with me from his cottage, he told
-me to come to him whenever I was lonely. At the Red House he explained
-my absence to the house-master. I went upstairs to the dormitory, with
-its rows of twelve white beds down either side, feeling that I had
-parted from a friend.
-
-As I undressed in the darkness the Bantam spoke to me. “Didn’t mean to
-fight you, Cardover. Make it up.”
-
-So I made it up that night with the boy whose nose I had punched. He was
-a decent little chap when off his dignity. We began to make confidences
-in whispers; I suppose the darkness helped us. He told me that his
-father was in India and that he hadn’t got a mother. I told him about
-the Snow Lady, and Hetty, and Uncle Obad; I didn’t tell him about
-Ruthita because of the muffler. Then I began to ask him about the
-Creature. I wanted to know if that was his name. The Bantam laughed.
-“Course not. He’s Murdoch the stinks’ master. We call him the Creature
-’cause he looks like one. Weren’t you funky when he took you to his
-rabbit-hutch? Was Lady Zion there?”
-
-“Lady Zion?”
-
-“Yes. Lady Zion Holy Ghost she calls herself. She’s his sister, and
-she’s balmy.”
-
-He was going to enter into some interesting details about her, when the
-monitor and the elder boys came up. He hid his face in the pillow and
-pretended to be sleeping soundly.
-
-“The Bantam needs hair-brushing,” the monitor announced. “Here you, wake
-up. You’re shamming.” He pulled the clothes off the Bantam’s bed with
-one jerk. The Bantam sat up, rubbing his eyes with a good imitation of
-having just awakened.
-
-“Out you come.”
-
-One boy held his hands and another his legs, bending his body into a
-praying attitude. He fought like a demon, but to no purpose. They yanked
-his night-shirt up, while the monitor laid into him with the bristly
-side of a hairbrush. He addressed him between each blow. “That’s one for
-bullying a new-bug. And that’s another for fighting. And that’s another
-for being licked and getting in a funk, etc.” By the time they had done
-he was sobbing bitterly. Then the light went out.
-
-I suppose I ought to have been glad at being avenged; but I wasn’t.
-Somehow I felt that the big boys had punished him not from a sense of
-justice, but only because they were big and wanted to amuse themselves.
-Then I got to thinking what a long way off India was, and how dreadful
-it must make a boy feel never to see his father. It had been a long
-while dark in the dormitory and almost everyone was breathing heavily.
-I stretched out my hand across the narrow alley which separated me from
-the Bantam.
-
-“Bantam,” I whispered.
-
-He snuffled.
-
-“Bantam.”
-
-I felt his fingers clutch my hand. I crept out and put my arms about
-him. Then I got into his bed and curled up beside him, and so we both
-were comforted.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III--THE WORLD OF BOYS
-
-The Bantam and I became great friends. He was a brave daredevil
-little chap, prematurely hardened by the absence of home influences
-to make the best of life’s vicissitudes. Within an hour of having been
-beaten, he would be gay again as ever. He was a soldier’s son, and never
-wasted time in pitying himself. He was greedy for joy, as I am to this
-day, and we contrived to find it together.
-
-Yet, when I look back, the making of happiness at the Red House seems to
-me to have been very much like manufacturing bricks without straw. I am
-amazed at our success. Very slight provision was made for our comfort.
-Our daily routine was in no way superior to that of a barrack; the only
-difference was that they drilled our heads instead of our arms and
-legs. The feminine influence was entirely lacking, and a good deal of
-brutality resulted. If the parents could have guessed half the shocking
-things that their fresh-faced innocent looking darlings did and said in
-the three months of each term that they were away from home, they would
-have been broken-hearted. And yet they might have guessed. For here
-were we, young animals in every stage of adolescence, herded together in
-class-rooms and dormitories, uninformed about ourselves, with only paid
-people to care for us.
-
-Apart from the masters we governed ourselves by a secret code of honor.
-One of the favorite diversions, when things were dull, was to find some
-boy who was unpopular, in a breach of schoolboy etiquette. He would
-then be led into a class-room, held down over a desk, and thrashed with
-hockey-sticks. I have seen a boy receive as many as ninety strokes, laid
-on by various young barbarians who took a pride in seeing who could hit
-hardest. Usually at the end of it the victim was nearly fainting,
-and would be lame for days after. The masters knew all about such
-proceedings, but they were too indifferent to interfere. They boasted
-that they trusted to the school’s sense of justice.
-
-A boy, who was at all sensitive, went about in a state of terror. If
-you escaped hockey-sticks by day, there was always the dormitory and
-hair-brush to be dreaded. The way to get beyond the dread of such
-possibilities was to make yourself popular, and the easiest way to
-become popular was to play ingenious pranks on the masters.
-
-The glorious hours of liberty that broke up the monotonous round of
-tasks stand out in vivid contrast to the discipline. We lived for them
-and kept charts of the days, because this seemed to bring them nearer.
-There were two half-holidays a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays, on
-which, if sufficient excuse were given, we were allowed to go out of
-the school-grounds. If the permission were withheld, we broke bounds
-and took the risk of discovery and consequent thrashings. These stolen
-expeditions had a zest about them that made them the more pleasurable.
-
-The Bantam and I did most things together. We had a common fund of
-money. His memories of India lent a touch of romance to our friendship.
-He would spin long yarns of man-eating tigers and terrible battles with
-hill-tribes. He had a lurid imagination and added some fresh detail each
-time he told his tales. Not to be behindhand, I narrated my escape to
-the forest--leaving out the Ruthita part of it--and how Lilith had made
-me a gipsy.
-
-These stories became a secret between us which we shared with no one.
-We created for ourselves a mirage world which we called IT. In IT we had
-only to speak of things and they happened. In IT there were man-eating
-tigers to whom we threw our masters when they had been unpleasant to us.
-We would drag them by their feet through the jungle, and then let out
-a low blood-thirsty wailing sound. Immediately we had done it, we would
-drop our victim and climb trees, for we could hear the tigers coming.
-The victim was bound so he couldn’t run away and while he lay there
-“in the long rank grass with bulging eyes,” we would remind him of his
-crimes committed at the Red House. The account of his tortures and dying
-words would become a dialogue between the Bantam and myself.
-
-“Then the tiger seized him by the arm and chawed him,” the Bantam would
-say.
-
-“And the other tiger seized him by the leg, pulling in an opposite
-direction,” said I.
-
-“Then old Sneard looked up at me, with imploring eyes. ‘I’ve been a
-beast,’ he moaned, ‘and you were always a good boy. Call them off for
-the sake of my little girl.’ But I only laughed sepulchrally,” said the
-Bantam.
-
-“Your little girl will be jolly well glad when you’re dead,” said I.
-
-“Everybody will be glad,” said the Bantam. “And then a third tiger crept
-out of the bushes and bit off his head, putting an end to his agony.”
-
-“You needn’t have killed him so soon,” I would expostulate
-discontentedly. “I’d got something else I wanted to do to him.”
-
-“All right,” the Bantam would assent cheerfully; “let’s kill him again.”
-
-So real was this land of IT to us, that we would shout with excitement
-as we reached the climax of our narrations. The English fields through
-which we wandered became swamps, deserts, and forests at will.
-
-It became part of our game to pretend that we might meet Lilith any day.
-Often we would break bounds, stealing down country lanes and peering
-through hedges, hoping that at the next turn we should discover her
-seated before her camp-fire. Hope deferred never curbed our eagerness;
-we always believed that we should meet her next time.
-
-If we did not meet Lilith, we met someone equally strange--Lady Zion,
-the Creature’s sister. It was the Bantam who told me all about her.
-“She’s wrong up there,” he said, tapping his forehead. “She thinks she’s
-something out of the Bible; that’s why she calls herself Lady Zion Holy
-Ghost. She goes about the country dressed in white, riding on a donkey,
-muttering to herself, looking for someone she can never find. She thinks
-that she’s in love with old Sneard, and that he don’t care for her. They
-say that once he was going to marry her and then threw her over. That’s
-what sent her balmy.”
-
-When I grew older I learnt the truth about the Creature and his sister.
-He became a firm friend of mine before schooldays were ended. He was a
-man who possessed a faculty for not getting on in the world which, had
-it been of value, would have amounted to genius. Anyone else with his
-brains and instinct for daring guess-work in scientific experiment,
-would have made a reputation. Instead of which he pottered his life
-out at the Red House, defending his sister and allowing himself to be
-imposed on both by boys and masters.
-
-Popularity was the armor which permitted you to do almost anything with
-impunity. A boy would take almost any chance to get it. Very early in my
-school experience the Bantam thought out a plan which he invited me to
-share--with the dire result that I was brought into intimate contact
-with Mr. Sneard.
-
-Every night between seven and eight the lower forms assembled to prepare
-their next day’s lessons. The Creature usually presided, chiefly because
-he was good-natured and the other masters were lazy. It was part of
-his penance. The room in which we assembled was illumined by oil-lamps,
-which hung low on chains from the ceiling. If the chimney of one of
-these broke, the light became so bad in that quarter that work was
-suspended until it had been replaced. The Bantam conceived the happy
-idea of persuading them to break in an almost undiscoverable manner. It
-was simplicity itself--to spit across the room so skilfully as to hit
-the chimney, whereupon the moisture on the hot glass would cause it to
-crack. We practised at sticks and gate-posts in the fields at first;
-having become more or less proficient, we practised aiming at objects
-above our heads. This was more difficult. Our progress was slow; it was
-dry work. Still, within a month we considered ourselves adepts.
-
-One night in prep we put our plan to the test. The Creature was seated
-at his raised desk, absorbed in some scientific work. The Bantam,
-judging his distance carefully, took aim and the chimney cracked.
-As soon as the lamp-boy had been sent for and the chimney had been
-replaced, it was my turn. I was no less successful. For a week prep
-was disorganized; every night the same thing happened. I felt secretly
-ashamed of myself, for I knew that I was behaving meanly to a man who
-had always been kind in his dealings with me; but I was intoxicated with
-popularity. The Bantam and I were the heroes of the hour. Boys who had
-never condescended to speak to us, now offered us their next week’s
-pocket-money to instruct them in an art in which we excelled. Games were
-abandoned. All over the play-ground groups of young ruffians might be
-seen industriously spitting at some object by the hour together.
-
-I suppose the Creature must have watched us from the laboratory and
-put two and two together. One night, when three chimneys had broken in
-succession, he caught me in mid-act. I say he caught me, but he did not
-so much as look up from the book he was reading. He just said, without
-raising his head, “Cardover, you must report yourself to Mr. Sneard
-to-morrow.”
-
-To have to report oneself to Mr. Sneard was the worst punishment that
-an under-master could measure out. Somehow it had never entered my head
-that the Creature would be so severe as that. Why, I might get expelled
-or publicly thrashed! My imagination conjured up all sorts of disgraces
-and grisly penalties.
-
-That night in the dormitory the Bantam told me of a way in which I might
-save myself; it was my first lesson in the value of diplomacy in helping
-one out of ticklish situations. It appeared that Mr. Sneard was always
-lenient with a boy who professed conversion.
-
-Next day as I was hesitating outside his private room, screwing up my
-courage to tap, the Bantam sidled up behind me. “I’m going too,” he
-said. Before I could dissuade him, he had turned the handle.
-
-Sneard was a sallow cadaverous person; he affected side-whiskers and
-had red hair. He wore clerical attire, the vest of which was very
-much spotted through his nearsightedness when he ate at table. He was
-probably the least scholarly master in the school, but he owed his
-position to his manners. They were unctuous, and had the reputation of
-going down with the parents. I suppose that was how he caught my father.
-He composed hymns, which he set to music and compelled us to sing on
-Sundays. They were mostly of the self-abasement order, in which we spoke
-of ourselves as worms and besought the Almighty not to tread on us. For
-years my mental picture of God was that of a gigantic school-master in
-holy orders, very similar in appearance to Sneard himself.
-
-When we entered, he was seated behind his desk writing. He prolonged our
-suspense by pretending not to see us for a while. Suddenly he cast aside
-his pen and wheeled round in a storm of furious anger. When he spoke, it
-sounded like a dog yapping.
-
-“You young blackguards, what’s this I hear about you?”
-
-He forced us to tell him the stupid details of our offense. He could
-have had no sense of humor, for while we were speaking he covered his
-eyes with his hand as though staggered with horror at the enormity of
-our depravity. Later experience has taught me that what he meant us to
-believe was that he was engaged in prayer.
-
-When in small throaty whispers we had finished our confession, he looked
-up at us. “Your poor, poor fathers,” he said, “one in India and one my
-friend! What shall I tell them? How shall I break this news to them?”
-
-Then he straightened himself in his chair. “There’s nothing else for it;
-Cardover, it’s over there. Will you please fetch it?”
-
-He pointed to a cane in the corner, which leant against a book-shelf. It
-was at this crisis that the Bantam made use of his stratagem.
-
-“If you please, sir, I’ve been troubled about my soul again.” Then he
-added loyally, “And Cardover’s been lying awake of nights thinking about
-hell.”
-
-If the truth be told I had been lying awake imagining Sneard being bled
-to death very slowly, and very torturingly, by a hill-tribe. But Sneard
-caught at the bait. “I am glad to hear it. Cardover, before I cane you,
-come here and tell me about your views on hell.”
-
-Before we left him, great crocodile tears were streaming from our eyes
-by reason of knuckles rubbed in vigorously. We were not punished.
-The last sight I had of Sneard he was gazing with holy joy at a great
-oil-painting of himself which hung above his desk.
-
-Most of the boys in the Red House were converted many times--as often
-as they came within reach of the birch. Sneard made much coin out of
-referring to these touching spiritual experiences in public gatherings
-of parents. I have never been able to decide whether we really did
-fool him. I am inclined to believe that his eyes were wide open to our
-hypocrisy, but that he found it paid to encourage it. Part of his salary
-was derived from percentages on the tuition fees of all boys over a
-certain number. He found that the best card to play with parents for the
-attracting of new pupils, was a statement of the numerous conversions
-which were brought about through his influence.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV--NEW HORIZONS
-
-
-The Bantam and I won immunity from bullying in a quite unexpected
-manner.
-
-Our beds stood next together. Every night the younger boys were sent up
-to the dormitory at nine; fifteen minutes later the lights were turned
-out. The upper-classmen didn’t come up till ten. For three-quarters
-of an hour each night we could whisper together in comparative
-privacy about IT, going on wildest excursions in our hidden land. Not
-unnaturally the curiosity of the other small boys of our dormitory was
-aroused--they wanted to share our secret, and we wouldn’t let them. We
-were quite their match if it came to a fight, which was all the more
-irritating. We steadily refused to fight with them, or play with them,
-or to tell them anything. They became sulky and suspicious; in their
-opinion our conversation was too low to bear repetition. I suppose one
-of them must have sneaked to Cow--Cow was monitor of our dormitory.
-One night he came up early and on tiptoe. The first thing I knew he was
-standing in the darkness looking down on me, where I lay whispering on
-the Bantam’s bed. I was fairly caught.
-
-“Young’un, what’s that you’re saying?” he asked sternly.
-
-To have told him would have spoilt everything. Only when my night-shirt
-had been stripped off and I saw that a grand gala-night of hair-brushing
-was being planned, did I venture an explanation.
-
-“I was only telling the Bantam a story.”
-
-“That’s a lie. Let’s hear it,” said the Cow.
-
-“I can’t begin when you’ve got my shirt,” I expostulated. “Let me get
-back into bed; then I’ll tell you.”
-
-It was arranged that I should be given a respite while the older boys
-undressed. Once safe in bed, I set my imagination galloping.
-
-“Once upon a time,” I commenced, “there was a great pirate and he was
-known as the Pirate King. He had a wife called One-Eye, and she was the
-only person he was afraid of in all the world. He sailed the blood-red
-seas with a crew of smugglers and highwaymen, most of whom he had
-rescued at the last minute from the gallows. They were devoted to him,
-and the vessel in which he sailed was called _The Damn_.”
-
-The name of the vessel fetched them. There was no more talk of
-hair-brushing. At half-past ten the light went out and we heard old
-Sneard shuffling down the passage, going his final round of inspection.
-At each door he halted, lifting his candle above his head and craning
-out his long thin neck. Satisfied that all was in order, he shuffled on
-to his own quarters and we heard his door slam. That night I must have
-lain in the darkness recounting the adventures of the Pirate King till
-long past twelve. Every now and then a voice would interrupt me from one
-of the narrow white beds, asking a question. I fell asleep in the midst
-of my recounting.
-
-After that it became a practice that each night a fresh development in
-the life of this wonderful man should be unfolded. It was a good deal
-of a tax on the imagination, but the Bantam came to my help, and we told
-the story turn and turn about. We told how _The Damn_ sailed into Peru
-and came back blood-drenched and treasure-laden; how the Pirate King took
-strange maidens to his breast in coloring all the way from alabaster
-to ebony, and what his wife One-Eye had to say about it; how the Pirate
-King could never be defeated and became so strong that he made himself
-Pope till he got tired of it. Discrepancies in chronology caused us no
-more inconvenience than they usually do historic novelists. In our world
-Joan of Arc and Julius Cæsar were contemporaries. They met for the first
-time as prisoners, when they were introduced by the Pirate King on board
-_The Damn_. It was owing to the Roman Emperor that the Maid escaped and
-survived to be burnt.
-
-But the part which found most favor was that which described the sack of
-London, and how the boys of the Red House enlisted with the pirates and
-took all the masters, except the Creature, out to sea and made them walk
-the plank. I refused to allow the Creature to be murdered.
-
-When the story became personal, the Bantam and I discovered ourselves
-the possessors of unlimited power. We were lords of the other boys’
-destinies. We could make them heroes or cowards, give them fair maidens
-or forget to say anything about them. Frequently we received bribes to
-let the giver down easily or to make him appear more valiant. I’m afraid
-we drifted into being tyrants, like Nero and all the other men
-whose wills have been absolute, and took our revenge with the rod of
-imagination. In the middle of some thrilling escapade of the pirates,
-when only courage could save them from calamity, we would tell how one
-of the boys in a near-by bed turned traitor and went over to the enemy.
-
-Out of the darkness would come an angry voice, “I didn’t, you little
-beasts. You know quite well, I didn’t.”
-
-“Oh, yes, you did,” we would say, and proceed to make him appear yet
-more infamous. If he expostulated too frequently, arms would be reached
-out and a shower of boots would fly about his head.
-
-Our reputation spread beyond the dormitory; the history of the Pirate
-King, his wife One-Eye, and the good ship _Damn_, became a kind of
-school epic in which all the latest happenings at the Red House were
-chronicled. No one dared to offend us, small as we were. Like Benvenuto
-Cellini, sniffing his way through Europe and petulantly turning his
-back on kings and cardinals with impunity, we attained the successful
-genius’s privilege of being detested for our persons, but treasured for
-our accomplishments. So at last we were popular in a fashion.
-
-What contrasts of experience we had in those days!
-
-The crestfallen returns to the Red House, with play-boxes stuffed with
-feeble comfort in the shape of chocolates and cake; the long monotony
-of term-time with the dull lessons, the birchings, the flashes of
-excitement on half-holidays and the counting of the weeks till vacations
-came round; then the wild burst of enthusiasm when trunks were packed
-and Sneard had offered up his customary prayer in his accustomed
-language, and we set off shouting on the homeward journey.
-
-All the discipline and captivity were a small price to pay for the
-gladness of those home-comings. Ruthita would be at the end of the Lane
-waiting for me, a little shy at first but undeniably happy. The
-Snow Lady would be on the door-step, her pretty face all aglow with
-merriment. My father would forsake his study for the night and sit down
-to talk to me with all the leisure and courtesy that he usually reserved
-for grown men. Until they got used to me again I could upset my tea at
-table, slide down the banisters, and tramp through the house with muddy
-boots--no one rebuked me for fear the welcome should be spoiled. The
-Snow Lady called me The Fatted Calf, wilfully misinterpreting the Bible
-parable. Little by little Ruthita would lose her shyness; then we would
-begin to plan all the things we would do in the seemingly inexhaustible
-period of freedom that lay before us. In those days weeks were as long
-as years are now.
-
-There was once a time when I had no secrets from Ruthita. But a change
-was creeping over us almost imperceptibly, forming little rifts of
-reserve which widened. Walls of a new and more subtle kind were growing
-up about us, dividing us for a time from one another and from everybody
-else.
-
-There was one holiday in which I became friendly with a butcher-boy. He
-was a guinea-pig fancier; I arranged to buy one from him for a shilling.
-My intention was to give it to Ruthita on her birthday. I told no one of
-my plan--it was to be a surprise. A little hutch was knocked up in the
-tool-shed which the old white hen had tenanted.
-
-The night before the birthday the butcher-boy came, and smuggled the
-little creature in at the gate. Next morning I wakened early. Ruthita
-was standing beside my bed in her long white night-gown, beneath which
-her rosy toes peeped out. When I had kissed her, she seemed surprised
-that I had no present for her. I became mysterious. “You wait until I’m
-dressed,” I said.
-
-Slipping into my clothes I ran into the garden to get things ready. To
-my unspeakable astonishment when I looked into the hutch, I found three
-guinea-pigs, two of them very tiny, where only one had been the night
-before. I felt that something shameful and indelicate had happened.
-Exactly what I could not say, but something that I could not tell
-Ruthita. When she traced me down to the tool-shed, I drove her away
-almost angrily; I felt that I was secretly disgraced.
-
-That morning when the butcher-boy called for orders, I took him aside. I
-sold him back the three guinea-pigs for ninepence, and thought the loss
-of threepence a cheap price to pay to rid myself of such embarrassment.
-The butcher-boy grinned broadly and winked in a knowing manner. To me
-it was all very serious, and with a boy’s pride I did not invite
-enlightenment. I took Ruthita out and let her choose her own present up
-to the value of ninepence. I lied to her, saying that that was what I
-had intended.
-
-Arguing by analogy from this experience, I gradually came to realize
-that all about me was a world of passion, the first boundaries of which
-I was just beginning to traverse.
-
-The Bantam, having no home to go to, would sometimes return with me to
-Pope Lane for the vacation; the Snow Lady was attracted by his freckled
-face and impudently upturned nose. In the early years he, Ruthita, and
-I would play together. Then, as we grew more boyish, we would play games
-in which she could not share. But at last a time came when I found that
-it was I who was excluded.
-
-I found that Ruthita and the Bantam had a way of going off and hiding
-themselves. It was quite evident that they had secrets which they kept
-from me. An understanding lay between them in which I could not share. I
-became irritable and began to watch.
-
-One summer evening after tea I could not find them, The gate into the
-Lane was unlatched; I followed. There was a deserted house no great way
-distant, standing shuttered in the midst of overgrown grounds. We had
-found a bar broken in the railings, and there the Bantam and I played
-highwaymen. Naturally I thought of this haunt first.
-
-Creeping through the long grass I came upon them. The Bantam had his
-arm about Ruthita’s waist. She was tossing back her hair; her face was
-radiant. I could only catch a glimpse of her sideways, but it came home
-to me that the qualities in her which, in my blindness, I had taken for
-granted, were beautiful and rare. As I watched, the Bantam kissed
-her. She drew back her head, glad and yet ashamed. I crept away with
-a strange sense of forlornness in my heart; they had stumbled across a
-pleasure of which I was ignorant.
-
-Poor little Ruthita!--it was short-lived. Hetty, having quarreled with
-the gardener, had not married. What I had seen, she also saw a few days
-later and told my father. He was very angry. I can see Ruthita now, with
-her long spindly legs and short skirts, standing up demurely to take her
-scolding. I listened to the scorching words my father spoke to her; the
-burden of his talk was that her conduct was unladylike. I came to her
-defense with the remark, “But, father, she only did what I saw you and
-the Snow Lady doing.”
-
-That night I went to bed supperless and I had no more pocket-money for
-a week. The Bantam’s visit was cut short; he was bundled back to the Red
-House. I was sent down to Ransby to stay with my Grandmother Cardover. I
-have the fixed remembrance of Ruthita’s eyes very red with weeping.
-The utmost comfort I could give her was the promise that I would carry
-messages of her eternal faithfulness to her lover on my return to
-school.
-
-The world had grown very complicated. Love was either wicked or stupid.
-Hetty had acted as though it was wicked when I caught her with John; my
-father, when I had caught him, as though it was stupid. Yet he was not
-ashamed of love now that he was married. I could not see why Ruthita
-should be so scolded for doing what her mother did every day.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V--THE AWAKENING
-
-
-At a distance I had been sorry for the Bantam, but at close quarters
-his hopeless passion for Ruthita bored me. On my return to the Red House
-he overwhelmed me with a flood of maudlin confessions. There was nothing
-pleased him better than to get me alone, so that he could outline to me
-his impossible plans for an early marriage. He talked of running away to
-sea and making his fortune in a distant land. It sounded all very easy.
-His only fear was that in his long absence Ruthita might be forced to
-marry some other fellow. “Dante,” he would say, “you’re a lucky chap to
-have been always near her.”
-
-This kind of talk irritated me, partly because I was jealous of an
-ecstasy which I could not understand, and partly because I had known
-Ruthita so many years that I thought I knew her exact value a good deal
-better than the Bantam. There was something very absurd, too, in the
-contrast between this gawky boy, with his downy face and clumsy hands,
-and these exaggerated expressions of sentiment. I began to avoid him; at
-that time I did not know why, but now I know it was because of the herd
-spirit which shuns abnormality.
-
-Nevertheless he had stirred something latent within me. My days became
-haunted with alluring conjectures; beneath the cold formality of human
-faces and manners I caught glimpses of a boisterous ruffianly passion.
-Sometimes it would repel me, making me unspeakably sad; but more often
-it swept me away in a torrent of inexplicable riotous happiness. I
-had come to an age when, shut him up as you may in the garden of
-unenlightenment, a boy must hear from beyond the walls the pagan pipes
-and the dancing feet of Pan.
-
-Of nights I would lie awake, still and tense, reasoning my way forward
-and forward, out of the fairy tales of childhood into reality. Sometimes
-I would bury my face in my pillow, half glad and half ashamed of my
-strange, new knowledge. Now all the glory of the flesh in the Classics,
-which before had slipped by me when encountered as a schoolboy’s task,
-burned in my brain with the vehement fire of immemorial romance.
-
-Old Sneard had a terrifying sermon, which he was fond of preaching on
-Sunday evenings when the chapel was full of shadows. His heated face,
-startlingly illumined by the pulpit-lamps, would take on the furious
-earnestness of an accusing angel as he leant out towards us describing
-the spiritual tortures of the damned. He spoke in symbolic language of
-the causes which led up to damnation. Until quite lately I had wondered
-what in the world he could be driving at. His text was, “Son of man,
-hast thou seen what the elders of the house of Israel do in the dark,
-every man in his chambers of imagery?” The grotesque unreality of
-likening a group of school-boys to the elders of Israel never occurred
-to me; I was too carried away by the reality of sin itself and the
-terror of what was said. When service was ended I would steal up the
-stone stairway to the dormitory in silence, almost fearful that my
-guilt might be betrayed by my shadow....
-
-It was summer-time. Those of us who professed an interest in entomology
-were permitted during the hour between prep and supper to rove the
-country with butterfly-nets. The results of these expeditions were given
-to the school natural history museum; most of the boys hunted in pairs.
-Things being as they were between myself and the Bantam, I preferred to
-go by myself.
-
-All day it had been raining. The sky was still damp with heavy clouds
-and the evening fell early. I slipped out into the cool wet dusk, eager
-to be solitary. Some boys were kicking a ball and called to me to come
-and play with them. In my anxiety not to be delayed, I doubled up my
-fists and ran. They followed in pursuit, but soon their shouts and
-laughter grew fainter, till presently I was alone in a dim, green world.
-The air was exquisitely fragrant with earth and flower smells. Far away
-between the trees of Eden Hill a watery sunset faded palely. Nearer at
-hand dog-roses and convolvuli glimmered in the hedges.
-
-I threw myself down in the dripping grass, lying full-length on my
-back, so that I could watch the stars struggle out between the edges
-of clouds. Oh, the sense of freedom and wideness, and the sheer joy
-of being at large in the world! I listened to the stillness of
-the twilight, which is a stillness made up of an infinity of tiny
-sounds--birds settling into their nests, trees whispering together, and
-flowers drawing closer their fragile petals to shut out the cold night
-air. I told myself that all the little creatures of the fields
-and hedgerows were tucking one another safe in bed. Then, as if to
-contradict me, the sudden passion of the nightingale wandered down the
-stairway of the silence, each note separately poignant, like glances of
-a lover who halts and looks back from every step as he descends. From
-far away the passion was answered, and again it was returned.
-
-A great White Admiral fluttered over my head. I picked up my net and
-was after it. So, in a second, the boy within me proved himself stronger
-than the man. But the butterfly refused to let me get near it and would
-never settle long enough for me to catch it.
-
-I followed from field to field, till at last it came to the
-cricket-ground and made a final desperate effort to escape me by flying
-over the hedge into the private garden of Sneard’s house. His garden
-was forbidden territory, but the twilight made me bold to forget that.
-Breaking through the hedge I followed, running tiptoe down a path which
-ended in a summer-house. The White Admiral settled on a rosebush; I was
-in the act of netting it when I heard someone stirring. Standing in the
-doorway of the summerhouse was a girl about as tall as myself. We eyed
-one another through the dusk in silence. Her face was indistinct and in
-shadow.
-
-“You don’t know how you frightened me.”
-
-Directly she spoke I knew that she was not Beatrice Sneard, as I had
-dreaded. Her voice was too friendly; it had in it the lazy caressing
-quality of a summer’s afternoon when bees are humming in and out of
-flowers. Her way of pronouncing words was halting and slightly foreign.
-In after years I came to know just how much power of temptation her
-voice possessed.
-
-“I suppose you’re not allowed in here,” she said; “but you needn’t
-worry--I shan’t tell.”
-
-The boy in me prompted me to answer, “You can tell if you care to.”
-
-She gave a secret little laugh. “But I shan’t.”
-
-After all my gallant imaginings of what I would do on a like occasion,
-I stood before her awkwardly, tongue-tied and ungracious--so far removed
-are dreams from reality. The White Admiral, tired with the long pursuit,
-still clung to the rose’s petals. Across misty fields nightingales
-called, casting the love-spell, and the moon, in intermittent flashes,
-caused the dripping foliage to glisten.
-
-She rested her hand on my arm--such a small white hand--and drew me into
-the seclusion of the summerhouse.
-
-“You’re not afraid of girls, are you?” she questioned, and then
-inconsequently, “I’m awfully lonely.”
-
-There was a note of appeal in her tones, so I found my tongue and asked
-why she was lonely.
-
-“Because I quarrel with Beatrice--we don’t get on together. Do you know,
-she thinks all you boys are simply horrid persons?”
-
-“Perhaps we are,” I said. “Most people think that.”
-
-“But I don’t,” she answered promptly.
-
-Gradually my constraint left me. She had an easy kindness and assurance
-in her manner that I had never found in any other girl. She slipped her
-hand into mine; made bold by the darkness of the summer-house, I held it
-tightly.
-
-“I like you. I like you very much,” she whispered.
-
-“But you’ve never spoken to me before. Why should you like the?”
-
-She turned her face to mine, so that our lips were quite near together.
-“I suppose because I’m a girl.”
-
-The bell for supper began to ring. I pretended not to hear it. Through
-the roses across the lawn I saw Sneard stand in his study-window,
-struggling into his gown. Then the window became dark and I knew that he
-had gone to read evening prayers.
-
-“The bell is ringing,” she said at last. “If you don’t go, you’ll get
-punished.”
-
-“If it’s for your sake, I don’t care.”
-
-She pushed me gently from her. “Go away now. If you get into trouble,
-you’ll not be able to come back tomorrow.”
-
-She ran down the path with me as far as the hedge. The bell was at its
-last strokes, swinging slower and slower. At the hedge we halted. I knew
-what I wanted to do; my whole body ached to take her in my arms
-and kiss her. But something stronger than will--the habit of
-restraint--prevented. Some paces away on the other side of the hedge I
-remembered that I did not even know her name. Without halting I called
-back to her questioning, and as I ran the answer followed me through the
-shadows, “Fiesole.”
-
-After the monitors had come up and the lights had been put out, I waited
-for an hour till all the dormitory was sleeping; then, very stealthily,
-I edged myself out of bed. Standing upright, I listened to make sure
-that I was undetected. I stole out into the corridor bare-foot. I feared
-to dress lest anyone should be aroused. In my long linen night-gown I
-tiptoed down the corridor, down the stairs, and entered the fifth-form
-class-room. Throwing up the window I climbed out.
-
-An English summer’s night lay before me in all its silver splendor--huge
-shadows of trees, scented coolness of the air, and damp smoothness of
-turf beneath my tread. The exultation of life’s bigness and cleanness
-came upon me. I knew now that it was right to be proud of the body and
-to love the body. Oh, why had it been left to a glimpse in the dusk of a
-young girl’s face to teach me that? At a rush I had become possessed
-of all the codes of mediaeval chivalry. Every woman, however old
-or unpleasing, was for Fiesole’s sake most perfect--a person to be
-worshiped; for in serving her I should be serving Fiesole. What a name
-to have! How all her perfectness was summed up in the beauty of those
-full vowel sounds, _Fi-es-sol-le_.
-
-I trespassed again in the garden. In the quiet of the rose-scented night
-I entered the summer-house.
-
-Far away the nightingales sang on. There were words to their chanting
-now and their song was no, longer melancholy. And these were the words
-as I heard them: “_Fiesole--Fiesole--Fiesole. Love in the world. Love in
-the world. Glad--glad--glad._”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI--WHAT IS LOVE?
-
-My secret was too big and beautiful to keep to myself. There was no one
-I could tell it to save the Bantam. But the Bantam had grown shy of me;
-he knew that within myself I had been laughing at him. He turned away
-when I tried to catch his eye, and bent with unaccustomed diligence
-above his lessons.
-
-Not till after lunch did I get a chance to approach him. All the other
-boys had changed into flannels and had hurried off to the cricket-nets.
-I wandered into the empty playground and there found him seated alone
-in a corner. His knees were drawn up so that his chin rested on them; in
-his eyes was a far-away sorrowful expression. I halted before him.
-
-“Bantam.”
-
-He did not look up, but I knew by the twitching of his hands that he had
-heard.
-
-“Bantam, I’ve got something to tell you.”
-
-Slowly he turned his head. He was acting the part of Hamlet and I was
-vastly impressed. “Is it about Ruthita?”
-
-“Partly. But it’s happened to me too, Bantam.”
-
-“Wot?”
-
-“A girl.”
-
-A genuine look of live-boy astonishment overspread his countenance.
-“A girl!” he ejaculated. “But there ar’n’t any about--unless you mean
-Pigtails.”
-
-Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being
-leveled at me.
-
-“If you say that again, I’ll punch your head.”
-
-“Oh, so it is Pigtails.” He rose to his feet lazily and began to take
-off his jacket. “Come on and punch it.”
-
-But a fight wasn’t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him
-with my hands held down.
-
-“Silly ass, how could it be Pigtails? Do I look that sort? It’s another
-girl. I came to you ’cause you’re in love, and you’ll understand. I’ve
-been a beast to you--won’t you be friends?”
-
-I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager
-for sympathy, however, to be discouraged.
-
-“She’s called Fiesole,” I said. “Isn’t that beautiful?”
-
-“Ruthita’s better.”
-
-“She’s got gold hair with just a little--a little red in it.”
-
-“I prefer black.”
-
-“I’m not talking about Ruthita; I’m telling you about Fiesole.”
-
-“I know that,” said the Bantam; “you never do talk about Ruthita now.”
-
-I walked away from him angrily in the direction I had taken on the
-previous evening. As I approached the nets I saw a little group of
-spectators. Then I made out the clerical figure of Sneard and the figure
-of Pigtails dressed in gray, and between them a slim white girl. Behind
-me I heard the pit-a-pat of running feet on the turf. The Bantam flung
-his arm about my shoulders, saying, “I’ve been a beast and you’ve been a
-beast; but we won’t be beasts any longer.” Then, following the direction
-of my eyes, “What are you staring at? Is that her? My eye, she’s a
-topper!”
-
-He prodded me to go forward. When I showed reluctance, he used almost
-Fiesole’s words, “Why, surely, Dante, you ar’n’t afraid of a girl!”
-
-I was afraid, and always have been wherever my affections are concerned.
-But I wasn’t going to own it just then. I let him slip his arm through
-mine, and we sauntered forward together. Through the soft summer air
-came the sharp _click_ of the ball as it glanced off the bat, and the
-long cheer which followed as the wicket went down. Fiesole turned,
-clapping her hands, and our eyes met. Then she ceased to look at me; her
-gaze rested on the Bantam, while a half-smile played about her mouth.
-A pang of jealousy shot through me. With the instinctive egotism of
-the male, I felt that by the mere fact of loving her I had made her
-my property. However, Pigtails came to my rescue, for I saw her jolt
-Fiesole with her elbow; her shocked voice reached me, saying, “Cousin
-Fiesole, whatever are you staring at?”
-
-I tugged at the Bantam’s sleeve and we turned away.
-
-“My golly, but she is a ripper,” he whispered....
-
-As the distance grew between us and her, he kept glancing across his
-shoulder and once halted completely to gaze back. I envied him his
-effrontery. My fate from the beginning has been to run away from the
-women I love--and then to regret it.
-
-We had entered into another field and were passing a laburnum tree,
-when the Bantam drew up sharply. He pointed to its blossom all gold and
-yellow. “The color of her hair,” he said, and promptly threw himself
-under it, lying on his back, gazing up at its burning foliage. The sun
-filtered down through its leaves upon us, making fantastic patterns on
-our hands and faces. The field was tall in hay, ready for the cutting,
-so we had the boy’s delight of being completely hidden from the world.
-
-“What’s the color of her eyes?” he asked presently.
-
-“Don’t know; it was dusk when I saw her. I expect it’s the same as
-Ruthita’s.”
-
-“Who is she?”
-
-“Met her in Sneard’s garden--Pigtails called her ‘cousin’ just now.”
-
-“She’s called Fiesole! Pretty name. How it suits her.”
-
-“Not prettier than Ruthita,” I said.
-
-He sat up and grinned at me. “Who’re you getting at? You wanted me to
-say all that half-an-hour ago in the playground; now I’ve said it. I can
-think she’s pretty, can’t I, and still love Ruthita best?”
-
-“But you oughtn’t to love her at all,” I expostulated with a growing
-sense of indignant proprietorship.
-
-“Look here,” explained the Bantam seriously, “you’re jealous. That’s
-the way I felt about you when you told me that you weren’t Ruthita’s
-brother; I quite understand. But if I’m to marry Ruthita, I shall be
-your brother-in-law. Sha’n’t I? And if you marry Fiesole, she’ll be my
-sister-inlaw. Won’t she? Well then, I’ve got a right to be pleased about
-her.”
-
-I took him at his word and told him everything that had happened and all
-that I knew about her. Continually he would break in with feverish words
-of surprise and flattery, leading me on still further to confess myself.
-In the magic world of that summer’s afternoon no difficulties seemed
-insuperable. Married we could and would be. Parents and schoolmasters
-only existed for one purpose--to prevent boys and girls who fell in love
-from marrying: that was why grown-ups had all the money. In a natural
-state of society, where men lived in the woods, and wore skins, and
-carried clubs, these injustices would not happen.
-
-So we unbosomed ourselves, only understanding vaguely the immensities
-that love and marriage meant. Then the bell for four o’clock school
-began calling and, like the slaves we were, we returned, on the run, to
-the Red House.
-
-We found that we were not the only persons to be inflamed by the beauty
-of Fiesole. All the boys were talking about her. One of our chief fears
-was set at rest--her surname was not Sneard, but Cortona. Her father
-had been a famous Italian actor married to Sneard’s sister, and both her
-parents fortunately were dead. She had quite a lot of money and had come
-from a convent at Tours, where she was being educated, to stay with
-her uncle on a visit of undetermined length or brevity. This news had
-all been gathered by the Cow, who had that curious faculty for worming
-out information which some boys possess. He had extracted it from
-the groundman, who had extracted it from Sneard’s gardener, who had
-extracted it from Sneard’s housemaid, with whom he was on more than
-friendly terms--so of course it was authentic.
-
-That evening after prep I again stole out. The Bantam showed himself
-very impertinent--he wanted to come with me. I had great difficulty
-in persuading him that it wasn’t necessary. I found Fiesole in the
-summer-house. She was subdued and wistful, and insisted on asking
-questions about that nice boy she had seen with me. I told her frankly
-that he was engaged to my sister, and gave her a graphic account of
-how my father had turned him out of Pope Lane. I fear I made him seem
-altogether too romantic. She made careful inquiries about the appearance
-of Ruthita, which I took as a sign of encouragement--a foreknowledge
-that sooner or later I intended to ask her to become one of my family.
-When the bell rang for prayers and we parted, I held her hand a little
-longer, but experienced my old reluctance in the matter of kissing.
-
-Next morning fate played me a scurvy trick; I woke with a bad sore
-throat, due I suppose to my escapade of the night earlier, and was sent
-to the infirmary. On the evening of the day I came out, which was four
-days later, I was summoned after prep to report myself to the doctor.
-This made me late in getting to the summer-house.
-
-The bell for prayers had commenced to ring as I got there. I was
-climbing through the hedge when I heard footsteps on the garden path.
-There were two children standing hushed amid the roses, the one with
-face tremulously uplifted, the other looking down with eager eyes. As I
-watched their lips met. It was impossible for me to stir without making
-my presence known. One of them came bolting into me, going out by the
-way I was entering. We rolled over and I recognized the Bantam. Fiesole,
-hearing the angry voices of two boys quarreling, ran. And so I got my
-first experience of the lightness of woman’s affection.
-
-However, if I was seeking a revenge, I got it. Before the end of the
-summer term Pigtails became suspicious, and discovered the Cow in the
-summer-house with the fickle Fiesole. The Cow, because he was a monitor,
-was expelled and I was appointed in his place--Mordecai and Haman after
-a fashion. Fiesole, on account of her kissing propensities, was regarded
-as a dangerous person and sent away. I was a grown man when next I met
-her.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII--THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SPUFFLER
-
-It was during the last week of the summer term, while I was
-convalescing from Fiesole’s sudden exit and was beginning to forgive the
-Bantam his treachery, that the magic personality of George Rapson first
-flashed into my little world.
-
-I was sitting listlessly at my desk one sunshiny morning. The window at
-my side was open, commanding a view of the school garden, the driveway
-leading through it, and beyond that of the sleepy village street. Below
-the window grew a bed of lavender whose fragrance, drifting in, made
-me forgetful of the book which lay before me and of the master at the
-black-board chalking up dull problems in algebra. I was dreaming as
-usual, telling myself a story of what I would do if old Sneard should
-pop his head inside the door and say, “My dear Cardover, you have worked
-so well that I intend to make an example of you by giving you this day
-as a holiday.”
-
-Just then the master at the board turned round and jumped me into a
-realization of the present. “Cardover, you will please stand up and
-repeat my explanation of this problem.”
-
-I stood up and gazed stupidly at the medley of signs and abbreviated
-formulae, hoping to discover some clue of reasoning in their apparent
-meaninglessness. “Well?”
-
-“If you please, sir, I wasn’t attending.”
-
-“I thought not. If you had been, you would have known that I have not
-explained it yet. You will come to me after class and--”
-
-But his sentence was never ended. At that moment the head of every boy
-turned as one head; yes, and even the head of the master turned. Up the
-driveway came the sound of prancing hoofs, the soft crunch of wheels in
-the gravel, and cries of, “Whoa, girl! Steady there, steady.”
-
-Past the window flashed a high yellow dog-cart, drawn by a tandem of
-spirited chestnuts. A tiger in livery and top-hat sat behind with arms
-folded, superbly aware of his own magnificence. Between the wheels ran
-a Dalmatian, a plum-pudding dog as we used to call them. On the high
-front-seat were two men, equally gorgeous. The one who drove wore a
-large fawn coat with enormous pearl buttons, distinctly horsey in cut
-and fashion. On his head was a tall beaver hat. He was a massively built
-man and had the appearance of a sporting aristocrat. To make him more
-splendid, he was young, with a bronzed complexion, full red lips, and
-finely chiseled features. His companion looked like a Methodist parson,
-trying to pass as a racing gent. He was attired in a light tweed suit of
-a rather pronounced black and white check. On his head was a gray
-felt hat, and in his button-hole blazed a scarlet geranium. They were
-laughing in deep full-throated guffaws as they whizzed past, with the
-sun flashing on their wheels and harness. The tiger and the Dalmatian
-were the only solemn things about them. What was my surprise to have
-recognized in the second man a relative?
-
-“It’s my uncle!”
-
-Even the master, so recently bent on my humiliation, seemed to hold
-his breath in regarding the nephew of so resplendent a person. Here was
-poetic justice with a vengeance. Most of the boys’ friends, if they were
-too rich to walk from the station when they came to visit them, crawled
-up the hill in a musty creaking cab, with hard wooden seats, and two or
-three handfuls of straw on the floor, more or less dirty. In the history
-of the Red House no boy’s relative had dashed up to visit him with such
-a barbaric clatter and display of wealth. Ah, if Fiesole had been there
-to envy me, how she would have blamed herself for her falseness!
-
-“Cardover, you may sit down.”
-
-The master turned again to the black-board, forgetting the threatened
-penalty. The boys eyed me above the covers of their books, and awaited
-further developments.
-
-The door opened and Sneard peered round on us shortsightedly. A pleased
-smile played about the corners of his diplomatic mouth. His happiness at
-receiving such distinguished callers seemed to have had an effect upon
-his hair, turning it to a yet more fiery red. Usually when he spoke he
-snapped, but now his tones were as fluty as he could make them with so
-little practice.
-
-Turning to the master, “Is Dante Cardover here?” he inquired. When I was
-pointed out to him he said, “Mr. George Rapson is here and with him your
-uncle, Mr. Spreckles. You may take a holiday, Dante, and go out with
-them.”
-
-I rose from my seat in an ecstasy of bewilderment. What under the sun
-had happened that old Sneard should call me Dante, and who was Mr.
-George Rapson? As I picked my way through the labyrinth of forms and
-desks; getting glimpses of my school-mates’ lengthened faces, I felt
-that I was taking the sunlight from the room by my good fortune as I
-left.
-
-I followed Sneard to his study, which I had so often visited on such
-different errands. Even now as I crossed its threshold, I could not
-quite shake off my accustomed clammy dread. The Spuffler, catching sight
-of me, ran forward in his gayest manner. “Ah, Dante, old chap, it’s good
-to see you. Rapson’s heard so much about you that he couldn’t keep away
-any longer. ‘Spreckles,’ he said, ‘you’ve got to introduce me. It’s
-Dante, Dante, all day long. You can’t talk of anyone else.’ So here we
-are. Rapson, this is my nephew.”
-
-Mr. Rapson grabbed me by the shoulder with a large white hand and gazed
-down on me. There was a jolly-dog air about him combined with a big
-healthy strength, which made one both like and fear him from the first.
-And there was so much of him to like; he was over six foot in height and
-proportionately built in breadth. “Hm! Dante. Glad to meet you. Let’s
-get out.”
-
-Sneard wanted me to put on my Sunday suit, but Mr. Rapson wouldn’t
-hear of it. “Hated clothes when I was a kid. Still think we ought to go
-naked. Let him be as he is. He’s got nothing to spoil and therefore’ll
-enjoy himself.”
-
-Without waiting for a reply, he nodded to Sneard, heaved his great
-shoulders through the doorway, so down the hall and out on to the steps
-where the tiger was holding the horses’ heads.
-
-“Just like Rapson,” my uncle said. “Masterful fellow. Makes up his mind
-and then goes ahead. Good-day, Mr. Sneard. Oh, yes, we’ll take care of
-him and bring him back.”
-
-They took me up in front beside them; the whip cracked and the tiger
-sprang away from the leader. Off we sped, down the hill and into the
-valley, winding in and out of overgrown lanes where we had to duck our
-heads to avoid the boughs; then out again with fields on either side of
-us, up hill and down dale never slackening, with the wind on our cheeks
-and the sun in our faces. Mr. Rapson’s attention was completely taken
-up with his driving; it needed to be, for he swung round corners and
-squeezed between farm-wagons in outrageously reckless fashion. I watched
-his strong masterful hands, how they gathered in the reins and forced
-the horses to obedience. My eyes wandered up him and rested on his face:
-the face of a man a little over thirty, calm and yet when stern almost
-cruelly determined, with a shapely beak of a Roman nose planted squarely
-in the middle of it--a sign-post to his purpose.
-
-Then I glanced at my uncle with his fashionable checks and scarlet
-geranium. I remembered that my grandmother called him the Spuffler, and
-wondered what she would call him now, could she see him. That nervous
-air he had had, of at once asserting and apologizing for himself with
-a pitiful display of bluster, had vanished. He carried himself with the
-jaunty confidence of a middle-aged gentleman unsubdued by the world--one
-who knew how to be dignified when necessary, but who preferred
-at present to relax. Above all he conveyed the impression of one
-beautifully fond of life’s simple pleasures and quietly composed in a
-happy self-respect. What had done it? Was it George Rapson, or had he at
-last had success with one of his poultry experiments?
-
-Perhaps he guessed some of the inquiries that were running through my
-head, for, as I crouched near him in the little space allotted me on our
-high up perch, he squeezed my hand, hinting at some great secret, for
-the telling of which we must be alone by our two selves.
-
-With foam flying from the horses’ mouths we entered Richmond and
-glittered down those quaint and narrow streets, which have always seemed
-to me more like streets of a seaport than of an inland town. We turned
-a corner; full before us drifted up the long and shadowy quiet of the
-Thames.
-
-Mr. Rapson refused to be sociable until he had seen to the rubbing down
-and stabling of his horses; so we two wandered off together along the
-miniature quays, where boatmen with a deep-sea sailor’s swagger pulled
-clay pipes from their mouths and wished us a cheerfully mercenary
-“Good-mornin’.”
-
-My curiosity was inarticulate with a multitude of crowding questions. I
-couldn’t make my choice which to ask first. I watched the swans sail
-in and out the tethered boats, and racked my brain for words. Then I
-blurted out, “What does it all mean, Uncle Obad?”
-
-His eyes filled with tears. “My boy, it means success.”
-
-I mumbled something typically boylike and inadequate about being “jolly
-glad.” He slipped his arm through mine with that endearing familiarity
-he had, as though I were a man. He was too excited to sit down, so we
-strolled along the quays, under the creeper-covered redbrick walls of
-the houses, and out of Richmond along the open river-bank.
-
-“No one ever believed that I’d do it, Dante. I don’t think you did
-yourself. They all said, ‘Oh, Spreckles! Ha, the fellow who twiddles his
-thumbs while his wife works!’ They didn’t say it to my face--they didn’t
-dare. But that was what they thought about me. I seemed a failure--a
-good-natured incompetent. Even people who liked me felt ashamed of
-me--I mean people who were dear to me, living in the same house. Women
-want their husbands to measure up to the standards of other men. It’s
-natural--I don’t blame ’em. But, you know, I never had a chance, old
-chap--never seemed to find my right kind of work. I couldn’t do little
-things well. I’m one of those imperial men who need something big to
-bring the best out of’ ’em. And now I’ve got it--I’ve got it, Dante.”
-
-I caught his excitement, and begged him to tell me what this wonderful
-something was that had so suddenly transformed him from a nobody into
-a powerful person. I felt sure he was powerful, apart from anything he
-said, for he radiated opulence. He halted in the middle of the tow-path,
-gripping me by the shoulders, laughing into my face and bidding me
-guess. I guessed everything possible and impossible. Losing patience,
-“It’s diamond mines,” he burst out.
-
-“But how did you get ’em, Uncle Obad, and where?”
-
-For an instant I had a wild vision of men with pickaxes, shovels, and
-miners’ lamps, digging down into the bowels of the Christian Boarding
-House.
-
-We seated ourselves on the bank with legs dangling above the water,
-and he told me. It seemed that Mr. George Rapson was the cause of this
-meteoric rise to prosperity. In April he had come to stay at Charity
-Grove as an ordinary paying-guest. From the first he was extraordinary
-and had amazed them with his wealth--his horses, his clothes, his
-friends, and his lavish manners. Most of his fellow boarders were
-struggling young men, who earned two pounds a week in the City and paid
-twenty-five shillings for their keep and lodging. On the start they only
-knew that he was a South African, holiday-making in England. Little by
-little he let out that he was interested in diamond mines, and later
-that he owned _The Ethiopian_, one of the most promising properties
-of its kind in the world. The more communicative he became, the more
-surprised they were that he should make his head-quarters at a Christian
-Boarding House. There seemed no reason why he should not pay a higher
-price and enjoy the advantages of a secular environment.
-
-One night he took my uncle into his room, locked the door, and let
-the cat out of the bag. It was my uncle and his personality that had
-attracted him. He had seen his name as secretary to so many thriving
-philanthropic societies that he had been led to appreciate his worth
-as an organizer. He wanted his help. He had come to England to unload a
-number of shares in _The Ethiopian_ diamond mines, but it had to be
-done quietly and without advertisement. He had a number of unscrupulous
-enemies in the mining world who wanted to merge his property with
-theirs. They had tried to crowd him out in various ways--once by
-bringing about a law-suit to dispute his title to his holdings. If they
-should get wind that shares in _The Ethiopian_ were to be bought in the
-open market, they would buy up every share in sight in an effort to gain
-control. Therefore it was necessary that business should be carried on
-in a private manner, and as far as possible through channels of personal
-friendship rather than those of the City and the Stock Exchange.
-
-He had studied my uncle carefully and was convinced that he was just the
-man for the work. He proposed giving him a salary of one thousand pounds
-a year to act as his English agent, and a five-per-cent commission on
-all sales of shares that he was instrumental in effecting. His chief
-service was to consist in supplying lists of names and addresses of
-the moneyed religious public, and in applying his influence to the
-attracting of purchasers. The lists were of course to be culled mainly
-from the contributors to the charitable societies of which he was
-secretary. In fact, what the proposal amounted to, as I see it now, was
-that my uncle’s integrity, well-known among religious circles, was to
-guarantee the worth of the shares.
-
-“It’s a close secret, Dante,” my uncle said. “Rapson won’t let me tell
-anyone, not even your Aunt Lavinia, the basis of our understanding.
-But I had to tell somebody; happiness isn’t happiness when you keep its
-reason to yourself. So I’ve told you, because we’ve had so many secrets
-together.”
-
-We sat on, quite forgetful of time, watching the sleepy flowing of the
-river, building castles in the air. Last month they had declared their
-half-yearly dividend and it had amounted to twenty per cent. Since
-then the sale of shares had quickened enormously. Why, there was one
-morning’s mail when my uncle’s commissions alone had amounted to fifty
-pounds. Think of that--and it was only the beginning! Then we commenced
-to reckon how much he would have in five years, if his commissions
-amounted always to fifty pounds a morning, and he made a rule to spend
-nothing but his salary. It was the old childish game which had first
-made us chummy, of so many hens laying so many eggs, and how much would
-we have at the end of a twelvemonth.
-
-He could afford to joke now concerning the penury of his lean years
-before the great Rapson had put in an appearance. He even made fun of
-his own _spuffing_, and laughed as he told me how much economy those
-odd shillings and half-crowns, which he used to give me in such a large
-manner, had cost him.
-
-“But it’s all over now,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m going to be
-an important man. People are beginning to look up to me already. Who
-knows?--one day I may enter Parliament. I’m moving in a different social
-set--Rapson’s friends. He’s very well-connected. They’re a little gay
-and larky, you know; your Aunt Lavinia don’t quite know what to make of
-’em. She’ll get over that. Oh, but it’s a big new world for me, Dante,
-and there’s heaps of things to do in it that I never knew about.”
-
-On our way back the great George Rapson himself met us, and we found
-that we’d been gone an hour. He told us that he’d ordered lunch at a
-little inn, called _The White Cross_--one which hung over the river.
-
-How proud I was to walk beside him as we re-entered Richmond! Everyone
-turned to stare after him as he passed, with his long fawn coat open and
-flapping, his easy rollicking laugh, his great height and distinguished
-presence. And I, Dante Cardover, was by way of being the friend of such
-a man! The gates of romance were indeed opening.
-
-_The White Cross Inn_ had separate balconies, built out from each of
-its second-story windows. In one of these our table was set. The little
-tiger helped the maid of the inn to wait upon us. And what a meal we
-had!--salmon and salad and fowl, stuffed veal and pine-apple, dates,
-almonds, and raisins--everything that a boy could ask to have. Up the
-walls of the inn climbed rambler roses and tumbled over the sides of the
-balcony. Beneath us lay the river, like a silver snake, lazily uncurled,
-sunning itself in great green meadows.
-
-“This is to be your day, Dante,” Mr. Rapson said. “We brought some of
-these things from London because we knew you liked ’em. You discovered
-your Uncle Obad before I did, and when no one else had. He’s told me all
-about it. Here’s your very good health.”
-
-The tiger, who had been drawing the cork out of a large green bottle
-about half as tall as himself, now poured out a golden foamy liquid. I
-found one glass of it had the same care-freeing effect that the holding
-of Fiesole’s hand in the summer-house had had. I felt myself at ease in
-the world, and began to speak of the Reverend Robert Sneard as “jolly
-old Sneard,” and of all people who had authority over me with tolerant
-contempt. I gazed back from the security of my temporary Canaan, and
-gave my entertainers a whimsical account of my perilous journey through
-the wilderness of boyhood. It was wonderful even to myself how suddenly
-my shyness had vanished.
-
-Mr. Rapson seemed highly amused. “You’ll do, young’un,” he said.
-
-Then, little by little, he began to speak of Africa--the dust, the
-Kaffirs, and the wide, parched veldt. He spoke of adventures with lions
-far up in the interior, and of how he had once been an ivory-hunter
-before he struck it lucky in the south. “I ran away from home when I was
-a youngster of twenty and all because of a girl.” He nodded at me wisely
-across the table, “Keep clear of the girlies, they’re the devil.”
-
-I thought of Fiesole and inquired if some girls weren’t quite attractive
-devils. My uncle looked shocked in a genial fashion at this very free
-use of a forbidden word--the fear of Aunt Lavinia purged his vocabulary
-even when she was absent. But Mr. Rapson went red in the face and
-smacked his hands together, laughing loudly. “Of course they’re
-attractive; else how’d they tempt us?”
-
-A punt, which had stolen up beneath our balcony, now caught his
-attention. A girl in a gown of flowered muslin, with a broad pink sash
-about her waist, was standing in the stern. She was alone, and all the
-river formed a landscape for her daintiness.
-
-Mr. Rapson stared hard at her; her back was towards us. “Seem to know
-her hair,” he muttered. He half rose. “By George, it’s Kitty!”
-
-Leaning far out over the balcony he called to her impulsively, “Kitty!
-Kitty!”
-
-Very leisurely she lifted up to him a small flushed face, all laughter
-and naughtiness, and waved her hand. She was as pretty as love and a
-summer’s day could make a woman--but I wasn’t supposed to be old enough
-to observe such things as that.
-
-She brought her punt in to the bank, while Mr. Rapson went down to help
-her out. When he gave her his hand to steady her, she kept it in hers.
-As she glanced mischievously up at him I heard her say, “Why, George,
-you terror, who’d have thought of meeting you here!”
-
-He whispered something to her with a frown; she dropped him a mocking
-courtesy.
-
-When he brought her up on to the balcony, he introduced her as his
-cousin Kitty. She bowed to us with a roguish grace, clinging close to
-his arm. “Now, Kitty,” he said, freeing himself, “you’ve got to behave.”
-
-Seeing that my uncle was looking at her in a puzzled manner, she took
-the center of the stage without embarrassment, explaining, “Georgie and
-I are very old friends and I’ve not seen him, oh, for ages.”
-
-When they had told her how they happened to be there and that it was my
-day, and that they had stolen me away from my lessons, she swung round
-on me with a kind of rapture. “Oh, what darlings to do that! And what a
-nice boy!” Without further ado she patted my face and kissed me. It was
-a new sensation. I blushed furiously, and was both pleased and abashed.
-“You may be older than I am,” I thought; “but you’re only a girl. In
-three years I could marry you.”
-
-She was like a happy little dog in a meadow; never still, sending up
-birds--following nothing and chasing everything. In her conversation she
-gamboled about and never ceased gamboling. She didn’t sit quietly like
-the Snow Lady and all the other ladies of my acquaintance, putting in
-a word now and then, but letting the men do the talking. She made
-everybody look at her--perhaps, because she was so well worth looking
-at. Even before she had kissed me I was in love with her.
-
-Mr. Rapson seemed a little nervous, and she appeared to delight in his
-fear of her daring.
-
-“Georgie’s always had a passion for me,” she said, “though he won’t own
-it.” Then suddenly, seeing the troubled expression on his face, “How
-much has the poor dear told you about himself?”
-
-She wriggled out of me something of the story of his doings. She eyed
-him archly from under her big hat and, when I had ended, leant across
-the table so their faces nearly met. “How many lions did my Georgie kill
-in Africa?”
-
-“Be quiet, you little devil,” he laughed, seizing her by the hands.
-
-The employment of that forbidden word set me wondering whether this was
-the girl for love of whom he first went wandering. But she looked too
-young for that.
-
-We went into her punt and drifted down the river with the current. She
-played the madcap all the way, speaking to him often in baby language.
-He seemed to be amused by it, as a St. Bernard might be amused by the
-impertinence of a terrier. When she got too bold he would hold her hands
-until she was quiet, overpowering her with his great strength much the
-same as he did his horses. Then she would turn her attentions to me for
-a time, and I would make believe to myself she was Fiesole. My uncle
-looked on like a benevolent Father Christmas, dignified and smiling.
-
-Dusk was settling when we started on the return journey. We found that
-we had drifted further than we had intended. Mr. Rapson took the pole
-and did the punting. Miss Kitty sang to him, she said to encourage him.
-I think it must have been then that I first heard _Twickenham Ferry_.
-She had to leave off part way through the last verse I remember. She
-said that the mist from the river choked her; but I, lying on the
-cushions beside her, somehow gathered the impression that she was nearly
-crying. When she broke down, under cover of darkness I got my hand into
-hers, and then she slipped her arm about me. After that she was very
-subdued and silent. My uncle fell off to sleep, and Mr. Rapson kept his
-face turned away from us, busy with his punting. I wondered if, after
-all, Miss Kitty was happy.
-
-It was night when we arrived. She insisted on parting with us at the
-landing, saying that her houseboat was just across the river and she
-could take the punt home quite well unaccompanied. We had said good-by
-and were walking along the quay, when Rapson left us and ran back. I saw
-him come close and bend over her. They seemed to be whispering together.
-Then she pushed out into the river; the lights of the town held her for
-a time; darkness closed in behind her and she vanished.
-
-On the drive back to the Red House I grew drowsy.
-
-I tried to keep my eyes open, but even the soft moonlight seemed
-dazzling. The meadows and tall trees stealing by, ceased to stand out
-separate, but became a blur. The sharp _trit-trot, trit-trot_ of the
-horses’ hoofs on the hard macadam road lulled me by their monotonous
-regularity.
-
-When I came to myself I heard my uncle saying, “I like that little
-cousin of yours, Rapson; she’s charming and different from any woman
-that I ever met.”
-
-“Daresay she is,” Rapson answered, dryly; “you’ve led such a sheltered
-life. Of course she isn’t my cousin.”
-
-“Who is she, then?”
-
-“Oh, a nymph.”
-
-“A nymph! You have the better of me there. That’s a classical allusion,
-no doubt. I don’t understand.”
-
-“Never mind, papa,” Mr. Rapson said cheerfully; “I didn’t think you
-would understand. It’s just as well.”
-
-Then he commenced speaking to his horses. “So, girl! Steady there!
-Steady!”
-
-I rubbed my eyes, and saw that we were ascending Eden Hill.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII--MONEY AND HAPPINESS
-
-Deep down in their secret hearts all the Spuffler’s relations had felt
-that his permanent failure to get on in the world was a kind of disgrace
-to themselves. They resented it, but as a rule kept quiet about it
-“for the sake of poor Lavinia.” My aunt was always “poor Lavinia,” when
-mentioned by her family. Before strangers, needless to say, they helped
-him to keep up his pretense of importance and spoke of him with respect.
-But the thought that a man who had intermarried with them, should have
-lowered his wife to the keeping of a boarding-house rankled. Even as
-a child I was conscious that my close attachment to my uncle Obad was
-regarded with disapprobation. He was the Ishmael of our tribe.
-
-At first none of his relatives would believe in his mushroom prosperity.
-Perhaps, they did not want to believe in it; it would entail the
-sacrifice of life-long prejudices. They pooh-poohed it as the most
-extravagant example of his fantastic spuffling. On my return home
-for the summer holidays I very soon became aware of an atmosphere of
-half-humorous contempt whenever his name was mentioned. Once when I took
-up the cudgels for him, declaring that he was really a great man, the
-Snow Lady patted my hand gently, calling me “a blessed young optimist.”
- My father, who rarely lost his temper, told me I was speaking on a
-subject concerning which I was profoundly ignorant.
-
-On a visit to Charity Grove I was grieved to find that even Aunt Lavinia
-was skeptical. Despite the jingling of money in my uncle’s pockets, she
-insisted on living in the old proud hand-to-mouth fashion, making the
-spending capacity of each penny go its furthest. Her house was still
-understaffed in the matter of servants--servants who could be procured
-at the lowest wages. She still did her shopping in the lower-class
-districts, where men cried their wares on the pavement beneath flaring
-naphtha-lamps and slatternly women elbowed your ribs and mauled
-everything with dirty hands before they purchased. Here housekeeping
-could be contrived on the smallest outlay of capital.
-
-Uncle Obad might go to fashionable tailors; she clothed herself in
-black, because it wore longest and could be turned. She listened to his
-latest optimisms a little wearily with a sadly smiling countenance, as
-a mother might listen to the plans for walking of a child hopelessly
-crippled. She had heard him speak bravely so many, many times, and had
-been disappointed, that she had permanently made up her mind that she
-would have to go on earning the living for both of them all her life.
-
-Yet she loved him as well as a woman could a man for whom she was
-only sorry; she was constantly on the watch to defend him from the
-disapprobation of the world. But she refused ever again to be beguiled
-into believing that he would take his place with other men. So, when
-he told her that they didn’t need to keep on the boarding-house, she
-scarcely halted long enough in her work to listen to him. And when he
-said that he could now afford her a hundred pounds for dress, she bent
-her head lower to hide a smile, for she didn’t want to wound him. And
-when he brought her home a diamond bracelet, she tried to find out where
-it had been purchased in order that she might return it on the quiet.
-
-Gradually, however, she began to be persuaded that this time it wasn’t
-all bluster. The gallantry of his attitude towards herself was the
-unaccountable element. Not so long ago it had been she who was the man
-about the house, and he had been a kind of grown-up boy. Once she had
-allowed him to kiss her; now he kissed her masterfully as by right of
-conquest. He had become a man at last, after halting at the hobbledehoy
-stage for fifty years. He treated her boldly as a lover, striving to
-draw out her womanhood. He was making up the long arrears of affection
-which, up to this time, he had not felt himself worthy to display.
-
-One evening in the garden he tore the bandage of doubt from her eyes. I
-was there when it happened. We were down in the paddock, the home of
-the fowls, where so many of our dreams had taken place. The gaunt London
-houses to the right of us were doing their best to shut out the sunset.
-Aunt Lavinia began to wonder how much the little hay-crop would fetch
-this year. She was disappointed because it had grown so thin, and there
-seemed no promise of rain.
-
-“It doesn’t matter, my dear,” said my uncle cheerfully.
-
-“Obad, how can you say that!”
-
-He pressed up to her flushing like a boy, placing his arms about her and
-lifting her face. “Lavinia, are you never going to trust me?”
-
-The sudden tenderness and reproach in his voice stabbed her heart into
-wakefulness. When she spoke, her words came like a cry: “Oh, Obad, how I
-wish I could believe it true this time!”
-
-“But it is true, my dearest.”
-
-I stole away, and did not see them again till an hour later when they
-wandered by me arm-in-arm through the wistful twilight. Within a week I
-knew that she had accepted his prosperity as a fact, for he gave her a
-blue silk dress and she wore it. But he had harder work in getting
-her to give up the boarding-house. His great argument was that Rapson
-advised it--it would advance their social standing. She fenced and
-hesitated, but finally promised on the condition that he was still
-succeeding in November.
-
-I think it must have been the news of her surrender that sapped the last
-foundation of my father’s skepticism. At any rate, shortly after this,
-when my uncle by special invitation came over to Pope Lane, he was given
-one of my father’s best cigars as befitted a rich relative. The best
-glass and silver were put out. We all had unsoiled serviettes and
-observed uncomfortable company manners. In the afternoon he was carried
-off to my father’s study and remained there till long past the tea-hour.
-
-Later my father told me the subject of their discussion. By dint of
-hard saving he had put by two thousand pounds for planting me out in the
-world, part of which was to pay for my Oxford education. Having heard of
-that half-yearly twenty-per-cent dividend which the _Ethiopian_ shares
-had paid and that they were still being issued privately, at par value,
-he was inclined to entrust his money to my uncle, if he could prove the
-investment sound. If the mines were as good as they appeared to be, he
-would get four hundred pounds a year in interest--which would make all
-the difference to our ease of life. There was another consultation; the
-next thing I knew the important step had been taken.
-
-All our power of dreaming now broke loose. It became our favorite
-pastime to sit together and plan how we would spend the four hundred
-pounds.
-
-“Why, it’s an income in itself,” my father would exclaim; “I shall be
-freed forever from the drudgery of hack-work.”
-
-And the Snow Lady would say, “Now you’ll be able to turn your mind to
-the really important things of life--the big books which you’ve always
-hoped to write.”
-
-And Ruthita would sidle up to him in her half-shy way, and rub her cheek
-against his face, saying nothing.
-
-A wonderful kindliness nowadays entered into all our domestic relations.
-My father’s weary industry, which had sent us all tiptoeing about
-the house, began to relax. Even for him work lost something of its
-sacredness now that money was in sight. He no longer frowned and refused
-to look up if anyone trespassed into his study. On the contrary, he
-seemed glad of the excuse for laying aside his pen and discussing what
-place in the whole wide world we should choose, when we were free to
-live where we liked.
-
-It should be somewhere in Italy--Florence, perhaps. For years it had
-been his unattainable dream to live among olive-groves of the Arno
-valley. We read up guide-books and histories about it. Soon we were
-quite familiar with the Pitti Palace, the Ponte Vecchio, and the
-view from the Viale dei Colli at sundown. These and many places with
-beautiful and large-sounding names, became the stock-in-trade of
-our conversation. And the brave, looked-down-on Spuffler was the
-faery-godmother who had made these dreams realities.
-
-A tangible proof of the promised change in our financial status was
-experienced by myself on my return to school in a more liberal
-allowance of pocket-money. As yet it was only a promised change, for the
-half-yearly dividend would not be declared until January, and would not
-be paid till a month later.
-
-What one might call “a reflected proof” came when we went over to spend
-Christmas with Uncle Obad at Chelsea.
-
-Yes, Aunt Lavinia had succumbed to her good fortune. The Christian
-Boarding House had been abandoned and a fine old house had been rented,
-standing nearly at the corner of Cheyne Row, looking out across the
-river to Battersea.
-
-On Christmas Eve my uncle’s carriage came to fetch us. That was a
-surprise in itself. It was his present to Aunt Lavinia, all brand new--a
-roomy brougham, with two gray horses, and a coachman in livery. From
-this it will be seen that he had not kept his bargain with himself, made
-that day at Richmond, to live only on his salary.
-
-A slight fall of snow was on the ground; across London we drove, the
-merriest little family in all that shopping crowd. We had scarcely
-pulled up against the pavement and had our first peep of the fine big
-house, when the front-door flew open, letting out a flood of light
-which rippled to the carriage like a golden carpet unrolled across white
-satin.
-
-There stood Uncle Obad, frock-coated and glorious, with Aunt Lavinia
-beside him, dressed all in lavender--not at all the prim, businesslike
-little woman, half widow, half hospital nurse, of my earliest
-recollection. She was as beaming and excited as a young girl, and
-greeted the Snow Lady by throwing her arms about her and whispering,
-“Oh, doesn’t it seem all too good to be true?”
-
-The Snow Lady kissed her gaily on both cheeks, saying, “True enough, my
-dear. At any rate, Obad’s carriage was very real.”
-
-How changed we were from the solemn polite personages who had considered
-it a point in our favor that we knew how to bottle our emotions. We
-laughed and rollicked, and made quite poor jokes seem brilliant by the
-sparkle with which we told or received them. And all this was done
-by money; in our case, merely by the promise of money! When a boy
-remembered what we all had been, it was a transformation which called
-for reflection.
-
-My uncle with his jolly rich-relative manner was the focus-point of our
-attentions. Aunt Lavinia and, in fact, we all felt flat whenever he went
-out of the room. She followed after him like a little dog, with dumb
-admiring eyes, waiting to be petted. She told the Snow Lady that she
-couldn’t blame herself enough and could never make it up to him, for
-having lived with him in the same house all those years without having
-discovered his goodness. Then, as ladies will, they kissed for the
-twentieth time and did a little glad crying together.
-
-So the stern grayness, which comes of a too frequent pondering on a
-diminishing bank-account, had vanished from the faces of our elders.
-Ruthita and I looked on and wondered. A great house had something to
-do with it, and heavy carpets, and wide fire-places, and fine shiny
-furniture, but underlying it all was money.
-
-Christmas Eve I was awakened by the playing of waits outside my window.
-I looked out at the broad black river, with the ropes of stars, which
-were the lights of bridges, flung across it. And I looked at the
-untrodden snow, stretching far down the Embankment, gleaming and
-shadowy, making London seem a far-away, forgotten country. Then fumbling
-in the darkness, I looked in my stocking and drew out a slip of paper.
-By the light of a match, I discovered it to be a check from my aunt and
-uncle for fifty pounds. Comparing notes in my night-gown with Ruthita
-next morning, I found that she had another for the same amount.
-
-Ah, but that was something like a Christmas! Never a twenty-fifth of
-December comes round but I remember it. My father summed it all up when
-he said, “Well, Obad, now you’ve struck it lucky, you certainly know how
-to be generous.”
-
-He certainly did, and proved amply that only poverty had prevented him
-in former days from being the best loved man in the family. Only one
-person roused more admiration than my uncle, and that was Mr. Rapson.
-My father had never met him, so he had been invited to the Christmas
-dinner. At the last moment he had excused himself, saying that he had
-an unavoidable engagement with a lady. However, he turned up late in the
-evening with Miss Kitty on his arm and a fur-coat on his back. Somehow
-they both seemed articles of clothing; he wore them with such perfect
-assurance, as though they were so much a part of himself. In the hall he
-took off his fur-coat, and then he had only Miss Kitty to wear.
-
-It was awe-inspiring to see the deference that was paid him and the ease
-with which he accepted every attention. My father, with the sincerest
-simplicity, almost thanked him to his face for selling him _The
-Ethiopian_ shares.
-
-Of course he had to tell his lion-stories and how he went hunting
-ivory in Africa. My uncle trotted him about as though he were a horse,
-reminding him of all his paces. Mr. Rapson was _his_ discovery--_his_
-property. We all sat round and hero-worshiped. Miss Kitty seemed
-overwhelmed by the greatness of the house and the general luxury.
-
-She appeared particularly shy of the ladies. After she had gone they
-declared her to be a dumb, doll-like little creature, with her quiet
-eyes and honey-colored hair. I sniggered, and they said, “What’s the
-matter with the boy? Why are you gurgling, Dante?”
-
-I was thinking of another occasion, when she was neither dumb nor
-doll-like.
-
-Now, quite contrary to her behavior at Richmond, she remained almost
-motionless on the chair in which Mr. Rapson had placed her, looking like
-a beautiful obedient piece of jewelry, waiting till her owner got ready
-to claim her. Only at parting did she show me any sign of recollection
-and then, while all eyes were occupied with Mr. Rapson, she whispered,
-“You were good to me at Richmond. I don’t forget.”
-
-We stayed with my uncle four days. To us children it was a kind of
-tragedy when we left. “We must do this every year,” my uncle said.
-
-“If we ar’n’t in Florence,” my father replied gaily.
-
-Going back to school this time was a sore trial--it meant moving out
-of the zone of excitement. It seemed that every day something new must
-happen; and then there was so much to talk about. However, I got my
-pleasure another way--by the things I let out at school, with a boy’s
-natural boastfulness, about my uncle. I found myself, what I had always
-desired to be, genuinely and extremely popular. Money again! I let them
-know that they would probably only have the privilege of my society for
-a little while as, in all likelihood, I should be living in Florence
-next year.
-
-This term two events happened, intimately related to one another in
-their effect upon my career, though at the time no one could have
-suspected any connection between them.
-
-Lady Zion, the Creature’s sister, had certainly got more crazy in the
-years that had elapsed since I first met her. The winter was a heavy
-one and the snow fell far into February; yet nothing could restrain her,
-short of an asylum, from wandering about in the bleakest weather all
-over the countryside. Sometimes she would stay out far into the night,
-and on several occasions the Creature and I had to go out and search for
-her. I have seen her pass me five miles from home, riding on her little
-ass, talking to herself, all unaware of anything around her.
-
-She was a temptation to the village-boys, and they would frequently
-torment her. The antagonism between the Red House and the village ran
-high. In a sense she was school property; we would make a chance of
-rescuing her an excuse for a free-fight. This meant that when the enemy
-found her alone, they took the opportunity of displaying their spite.
-
-On the fourteenth of February she had been out all day. No one had seen
-her; by nightfall she had not returned. The Creature got permission to
-have me go out with him to hunt for her. It was necessary that someone
-should go with him because he was short-sighted. We investigated all her
-favorite haunts, but found not a trace of her. We inquired of farmers
-and travelers on the road, but heard nothing satisfactory. If she had
-gone by field-routes this was not remarkable, for all the country was
-covered with snow. Her white draped figure against the white landscape
-made it easy for her to escape observation.
-
-The poor old Creature was getting worried; we had been three hours
-searching and hadn’t got a clue. I did my best to cheer him, and at last
-proposed that we should return to his cottage as sometimes the donkey
-had brought her back of himself.
-
-From the point where we then stood our shortest route lay cross-country
-through a wood, skirting a little dell. Under the trees it was very dark
-although the moon was shining, for the trees grew close together. We
-were passing by the dell when I happened to look aside. The moonlight,
-falling across it, showed me something standing there. I asked the
-Creature to wait while I went and examined it. As I got nearer, I saw it
-was alive; then I recognized Lady Zion’s donkey. It had halted over what
-appeared to be a drift of snow. On coming closer I saw that it was Lady
-Zion herself. Something warned me not to call her brother.
-
-Bending down, I turned her over and drew the straggling hair from off
-her face. There was a red gash in her forehead and red upon the snow. By
-the fear that seized me when I touched her, I knew.
-
-Coming back to the Creature I told him it was nothing--I had been
-mistaken. At the school-house I made an excuse to leave him while he
-went on to the cottage. When he was out of sight I ran panic-stricken
-to Sneard’s study and told him. The two of us, without giving the alarm,
-returned to the wood and brought her home. The Creature was just setting
-out again when we reached the cottage. By the limp way in which she hung
-across the donkey’s back, he realized at a glance what had happened.
-Catching her in his arms, he dragged her down on to the road and,
-kneeling over her, commenced to sob and sob like an animal, not using
-any words, in a low moaning monotone.
-
-One by one windows in the village-street were thrown open; frowsy heads
-stuck out; lights began to grope across the panes; the sleeping houses
-woke and a promiscuous crowd of half-clad people gathered. Above the
-intermittent babel of questions and answers was the constant sound of
-the Creature’s sobbing.
-
-Next morning the news of Lady Zion’s death was common property.
-Detectives came down from London and a thorough effort was made to trace
-the murderer. Near the spot in the dell where she had been discovered,
-half-a-dozen snowballs lay scattered. It was supposed that a village-boy
-had come across her there, and in one of the snowballs he had thrown,
-purposely or accidentally, had buried a stone; then, seeing her fall,
-had run away in terror.
-
-At the school various rumors went the round. The one which found most
-favor, though we all knew it to be untrue, was that Sneard had done
-it. His supposed motive was his well-known annoyance at Lady Zion’s
-irritating obsession that he had once loved her.
-
-In the midst of this excitement, while the London detectives were
-still hunting, I received a telegram from my father, unexplained and
-peremptory, “_Return immediately. Bring all belongings._”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX--THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES
-
-Of course the telegram was connected in some way with the payment of the
-first half-yearly dividend. Perhaps my father had decided on an instant
-removal to Italy. So my schoolmates thought as they stood enviously
-watching me pack.
-
-Towards evening I stepped into the village’s one and only cab. I shook
-the dust of the Red House from my feet without regret. With the
-intense selfishness of youth, my own hope for the future made me almost
-forgetful of the Creature’s tragedy.
-
-It was about eight o’clock when I reached Pope Lane. All the front of
-the house was in darkness. I tugged vigorously at the bell, feeling a
-little slighted that none of them had been on the look-out. Directly
-the door opened, I rushed in with a mouthful of excited questions. Hetty
-stared at me disapprovingly. “Don’t make so much noise, Master Dante,”
- she said; “your mother and Miss Ruthita ’ave ’ad a worryin’ day and
-’ave gorn to bed. They didn’t know you was comin’.”
-
-I noticed that the stairway was unlighted, that the gas in the hall was
-on the jet, and that Hetty herself was partly prepared for bed. I was
-beginning to explain to her about the telegram, speaking below my breath
-the way one does when death is in the house. Just then my father came
-out from his study. His pen was behind his ear and his shoulders looked
-stoopy. His face had the worn expression of the old days, which came
-from overwork.
-
-“Father, why did you send for me?”
-
-He led me into the study, closing the door behind him.
-
-“You’ve got to be brave.”
-
-At his words my heart sank. My eyes retreated from his face. I wanted to
-lengthen out the minutes until I should know the worst.
-
-“My boy, your Uncle Obad’s gone to smash. We’ve lost everything.”
-
-He seated himself at the table, his head supported on his hand. He had
-tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as much as to say, “Of course
-this is just what we all expected.” But I could see that hope had
-gone out of him. I wanted to say something decent and comforting; but
-everything that came to me seemed too grandiloquent. There was nothing
-adequate that could be said. Florence, realization of dreams, respite
-from drudgery--all the happiness that money alone could purchase and
-that had seemed so accessible, was now placed apparently forever beyond
-reach of his hand.
-
-He took his pen from behind his ear and commenced aimlessly stabbing the
-blotting-pad.
-
-He spoke again, looking away from me. “That money was yours. I saved it
-for you. It was for giving you a chance in the world. I ought to have
-known that your uncle wasn’t to be trusted--he’s never been able to earn
-a living by honest work. But there, I don’t blame him as much as I blame
-myself. I must have been mad.”
-
-“Shan’t we get anything back?”
-
-He shook his head. “This fellow Rapson is a common swindler, from what
-I can make out. He simply used your uncle. He may never have had any
-diamond mines. If he had, they were worthless. He doesn’t appear to have
-had any capital except what he got by your uncle selling his shares. He
-paid his one dividend last summer in order to tempt investors, and now
-he’s decamped. We shan’t see a penny back.”
-
-I tried to tell him that he needn’t worry for my sake--I could work.
-
-“Yes, yes,” he said, “that’s why I sent for you. Of course your fees are
-all paid for this term; but if you’ve got to enter the commercial world,
-the sooner the better. You’ve come to an age when every day spent at
-school is a day wasted, unless you’re going to enter a profession. You
-can’t get a University education without money and, in any case, it’s
-worse than valueless unless you have the money to back it.”
-
-“But I don’t mind working,” I assured him; “I shall be glad to work.
-P’raps by starting early I’ll be able to earn a lot of money and help
-you one day, Dad.”
-
-He frowned at my cheerfulness; he had finished with optimism forever.
-“You don’t know what you’re saying. Money isn’t so easily earned. It
-took me fifteen years of pinching and scraping to save two thousand
-pounds.” Then, conscious of ungraciousness, he added, “But I like your
-spirit, Dante, and it was good of you to say that.”
-
-His fear of heroics and sentiment made him rise quickly and turn out the
-lamp.
-
-“Best go to bed.”
-
-I groped my way upstairs through the darkened house. There was
-something unnatural about its darkness. Its silence was not the silence
-of a house in which people were sleeping, but one in which they lay
-without rest staring into the shadows. In my bedroom I felt it indecent
-to light the gas. I sat by the window, looking out across gardens to
-our neighbors’ illumined windows. Someone was playing a piano; it seemed
-disgustingly bad taste on their part to do that when we had lost two
-thousand pounds.
-
-My thought veered round. What after all were two thousand pounds to
-be so miserable about! I began to feel annoyed with my father that he
-should have made such a fuss about it. I was sure that neither the Snow
-Lady nor Ruthita had wanted to go to bed so early. Probably he didn’t
-really want to himself. He just got the idea into his head, and had
-forced it on the family. In our house, until Mr. Rapson came along, it
-had always been like that: he punished us, instead of the people who had
-hurt him, by the moods that resulted from his disappointments. Why, if
-it was simply a matter of my going to work, I rather liked the prospect.
-Anyhow, it was for the most part my concern. And then I remembered how
-sad he had looked, and was sorry that such thoughts had come into my
-head.
-
-A tap at my door made me jump up conscience-stricken. “It’s only
-Ruthita,” a low voice said.
-
-She crept in noiselessly as a shadow. Her warm arms went about my
-neck, drawing my face down to hers. “Oh, Dannie, I’m so, so sorry,” she
-whispered.
-
-“What about?”
-
-“Because I’ve never missed welcoming you home ever since you went to
-school, and you needed me most of all this evening--and because you’ve
-got to go to work.”
-
-“That doesn’t matter, Ruthie. If I go to work I’ll earn money, and then
-I’ll be able to do things for you.”
-
-“For me! Oh, you darling!” Then she thought a minute and her face
-clouded. “But no, if you go to work you’ll marry. That’s what always
-happens.”
-
-She stood gazing up at me, her face looking frailer and purer than ever
-in the darkness. She had slipped on a long blue dressing-gown to come
-and see me, and her long black hair hung loose about her. Just below the
-edge of her gown her small pale feet showed out. Then I realized for
-the first time that she had changed as I had changed; we were no longer
-children. Perhaps the same wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring,
-had come to her. For her also the walls of childhood, which had shut out
-the far horizon, were crumbling. Then, with an overwhelming reverence, I
-became aware of the strange fascination of her appealing beauty.
-
-She snuggled herself beside me in the window. We spoke beneath our
-breath in the hushed voices of conspirators, lest we should be heard by
-my father.
-
-“I couldn’t sleep,” she said apologetically. “I was lonely, so I came to
-you. Everything and everybody seem so sad.”
-
-“It was your thoughts that were sad, Ruthie. What were you thinking
-about?”
-
-She rubbed her cheek against mine shyly and I felt her tremble. “I
-was thinking about you. We’re growing up, Dante. You may go away and
-forget--forget all about me and the Snow Lady.”
-
-“I shan’t,” I denied stoutly.
-
-To which she replied, “But people do.”
-
-“Do what?”
-
-“Forget. And then I’m not your sister really--only by pretense.”
-
-“Look here,” I said, “you say that when boys earn money they marry. I
-don’t think I ever shall because--well, because of something that has
-happened. So why shouldn’t you and I agree to live always together, the
-same as we do now?”
-
-She said that that would be grand; she would be a little mother to me.
-But she wanted to know what made me so sure that I would always be a
-bachelor. With the sincere absurdity of youth, the more absurd because
-of its sincerity, I confided my passion for Fiesole. “After what she
-has done,” I said, “I could never marry her; and yet I love her too well
-ever to marry anybody else. I can only love golden hair now, and the
-golden hair of another girl would always remind me of Fiesole.”
-
-Ruthita was silent. Then I remembered that her hair was black and saw
-that I had been clumsy in my sentiment, so I added, “But, Ruthie, in a
-sister I think black hair is the prettiest color in the world.”
-
-After she had tiptoed away to her room and I had crept into bed, I lay
-awake thinking over her words--that she was only my sister by pretense.
-
-Next day my father called me to him. “You had fifty pounds given you
-last Christmas. I want you to let me have it.”
-
-I supposed that he wanted me to lend it to him, so I gave him my book
-and we went together to the savings bank and drew it out. I noticed that
-he drew out Ruthita’s fifty pounds as well. We climbed on to the top of
-an omnibus; nothing was said about where we were going.
-
-He had bought a paper and I read it across his arm as we journeyed.
-As he turned over from the first page my eye caught a column headed
-DISAPPEARANCE OF GEORGE RAPSON. Underneath was a complete account of the
-whole affair.
-
-My uncle had been interviewed by a reporter and had given a generously
-indiscreet history of the catastrophe from beginning to end. He tried to
-defend Rapson, and by his own innocent disclosures pilloried himself
-as a sanguine, gullible old ass. He insisted on believing in Rapson’s
-integrity. Things looked queer of course, but sooner or later there
-would be an explanation, satisfactory to everybody. What the nature of
-that explanation was likely to be he could not tell, but he hoped for
-the best. He was reported as having said that Mr. Rapson had repeatedly
-referred to secret enemies in the financial world. This was the reason
-he had given to Mr. Spreckles for not disposing of his shares through
-the ordinary channels.
-
-Mr. Spreckles stated in his interview that, on the evening of the third
-of January, Rapson had called at his house. He seemed excited and said
-that certain plots were culminating against his interests which made an
-instant and secret visit to South Africa essential. He had not hinted at
-anything definitely serious, but, on the contrary, had given orders for
-the declaration of the half-yearly dividend, payment of which would
-not fall due till February. That evening he had disappeared; since then
-nothing had been heard of him. When four weeks later Mr. Spreckles drew
-checks on Rapson’s bank-account for payment of the dividends, they were
-all returned to him dishonored. A month previously, on the morning of
-January the third, Rapson had withdrawn every penny.
-
-All the names of the people who had lost money in the adventure were
-appended. For the most part they were wealthy widows and spinsters,
-heavy contributors to various philanthropies, just the kind of people
-who would lack the business judgment which would have prevented them
-from entering into such a gamble. My father’s name was the exception,
-and was given special attention, being headed _A Hard Case_. “Mr.
-Cardover, having endured in his early life the humiliations and
-struggles which not infrequently fall to the lot of an ambitious
-penniless young man, had determined that his son, Dante, should not
-suffer a like embittering experience. To this end he had saved two
-thousand pounds to start his son on a professional career. This boy was
-Mr. Spreckles’ favorite nephew. Mr. Spreckles quotes the fact that it
-was he who induced Mr. Cardover to invest this money in _The Ethiopian
-Diamond Mines_ as proof of his own honest belief in the value of the
-shares. The boy will probably now have to be withdrawn from the Red
-House, where he is being educated. Was it likely, Mr. Spreckles asked,
-that he would have been a party to the ruin of those whom he loved best,
-if he had for a moment suspected that the investment was not all that it
-was represented?”
-
-I had proceeded so far with my reading, when my father crushed the paper
-viciously into a ball and tossed it over the side of the bus. For the
-first time within my remembrance I heard him swear. He was so overcome
-with irritation that he had to alight and walk it off. He kept throwing
-out jerky odds and ends of exclamations, speaking partly to me, partly
-to himself.
-
-“The bungling ass!”
-
-“Why did he need to drag our names into it?”
-
-“A regular windbag!”
-
-“First picks my pocket, then advertises my poverty. Thinks that he
-can prove himself honest by doing that!” I put in a feeble word for my
-uncle, hinting that he didn’t mean any harm and that it was easy to be
-wise after the event.
-
-“That’s the worst of people like your Uncle Spreckles,” my father
-retorted hotly; “they never do mean any harm, and yet they’re always
-getting into interminable messes.” The storm worked itself out; we
-climbed on to another bus. At the end of an hour the streets became
-familiar, and I knew that we were nearing Chelsea.
-
-We got down within a stone’s throw of my uncle’s house. There it stood
-overlooking the river, shut in with its wrought-iron palings, red and
-comfortable, and outwardly prosperous as when we had parted on its
-steps, promising to come again next Christmas if we weren’t in Florence.
-But when we attempted to enter, we had proof that its outward
-appearance was a sham. The glory had departed, and with it had gone the
-white-capped servants.
-
-The door was opened to us on the chain. A slatternly kitchen-maid peered
-out through the crack. She commenced to address us at once in a voice of
-high-pitched, impudent defiance.
-
-“Wot yer want? Mr. Spreckles ain’t ’ere, I tell yer. Yer the fortieth
-party this mornin’ that’s come nosin’ rawnd. D’ye think I’ve got nothin’
-ter do ’cept run up and darn stairs h’answering bells? It’s a shime
-the waie yer all piles inter one man. I calls it disgustin’. A better
-master a girl never ’ad.”
-
-I loved her for those words. They were the first that I had heard spoken
-in my uncle’s defense. She was uttering all the pent up anger and sense
-of injustice that I had been too cowardly to express. Even on my father
-her fierce working-class loyalty to the under-dog had its effect.
-
-“My good girl,” he said, “you mustn’t talk to me like that. I’m Mr.
-Cardover, who was staying here last Christmas.”
-
-Her manner changed audibly, literally audibly, at his tone of implied
-sympathy. She boo-hooed unrestrainedly as she slipped back the chain,
-permitting us to enter.
-
-“I begs yer pardon, Mr. Cardover,” she sniveled, dusting her eyes with
-her dirty apron. “I’m kind o’ unnerved. My poor dear master’s got so
-many h’enemies nar; I didn’t rekernize yer as ’is friend. Yer see, the
-moment this ’ere ’appened all the other servants left like a pack o’
-rats. They didn’t love ’im the waie I did; I come along wiv ’im
-from the boardin’ ’arse. This mornin’ ’e gives me notice, ’e did.
-‘Car’line, I carn’t pay yer no more wyges,’ ’e says. ‘Gawd bless yer,’
-says I, ‘an’ if yer carn’t, wot does that matter? I ain’t one of yer
-’igh and mighty, lawdy-dah hussies that I should desert yer.’ Oh,
-Mr. Cardover, it’s a shime the loife they’re leadin’ the poor man.
-But there, if they sends ’im to prison, I’ll never agen put me nose
-h’insoide a church nor say no prayers. I’ll just believe there ain’t no
-Gawd in the world. The landlord, ’e’s in there h’at present wiv’im,
-a-naggin’ at ’im. I was listenin’ at the key’ole when yer rang the
-bell. But there, I’m keepin’ yer witin’! Won’t yer step into the drarin’
-room till ’e’s by ’imself? H’excuse me dirty ’ands. I ’as to do
-h’everythin’ for ’im--there’s only me and the master; even the Missis
-’as left.”
-
-As she was closing the door behind her, my father called after her,
-“Mrs. Spreckles left! That’s astounding. Why has she done that?”
-
-The tousled hair and red eyes re-appeared for a second. “Gorn back to
-start up the bo-ordin’ ’arse,” she stammered with a sob.
-
-How different the room looked from when we were last in it! The cushions
-on the sofa were awry. The windows winked at you wickedly, one blind
-lowered and the other up. It had the bewildered, disheveled swaggerness
-of a last night’s reveler betrayed by the sunrise.
-
-Since Caroline had spoken my mind out for me, I felt awkward alone with
-my father. I was afraid of what he might say presently.
-
-I picked up a small, handsomely bound volume from the table while
-we were waiting. I began turning the pages, and found that it was
-a collected edition of tracts, written by my uncle and ostensibly
-addressed to young men. They had been a kind of stealthy advertisement
-of The Christian Boarding-House, calculated to make maiden aunts, into
-whose hands they fell, sit up and feel immediately that the author
-was the very person for influencing the morals of their giddy nephews.
-Through the persuasive saintliness expressed in these tracts Uncle Obad
-had procured many of his paying-guests. My eye was arrested by the
-title of one of them, THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES. I read, “One of our
-greatest poets has written of finding love in huts where poor men lie.
-Oh, that young men might be brought to ponder the truth contained in
-those words! What is more difficult to obtain than love in the whole
-world? Can riches buy love? Nay, but on the contrary love and wealth are
-rarely found together. Many a powerful financier and belted earl would
-give all that he has in exchange for love. Young men, when you come
-to die, which of all your possessions can you carry with you to an
-after-world? Then, at least, you will learn the deceitfulness of riches.
-You thought you had everything; too late you know that you had nothing.
-Even in this life some men live to learn that gold is but a phantom--a
-vampire phantom destroying friendship.”
-
-I had got so far when footsteps and voices, loud in contention, sounded
-in the hall. “You’ve got to be out of here in a fortnight, d’yer
-understand? You’re letting down my property the longer you stay here.
-You’re giving my house a bad name. The address is in all the papers;
-people are already pointing it out. I won’t stand it. That’s my last
-word.”
-
-The front door slammed. I heard the chain being put up. The handle of
-the drawing-room door turned hesitatingly and my uncle entered. He still
-wore the clothes of affluence, and yet the impression he made was one of
-shabbiness. He seemed to have shrunk. His jolly John Bull confidence
-had vanished and had been replaced by the hurried, appeasing manner of a
-solicitor of charity. He avoided our eyes and commenced talking at once,
-presumably to prevent my father from talking. He did not offer to shake
-hands. “Well, Cardover, this is good of you. I hardly expected it. And,
-’pon my word, there’s Dante. I’ve been having a worried time of it.
-I’m a badly misunderstood man. But there, adversity has one advantage:
-it teaches us who _are_ our friends. When the little storm has blown
-over I shall know who to drop from my acquaintance. This sudden
-departure of Rapson has had a very unfortunate effect--most
-unfortunate. I expect a letter from him by every mail; then I’ll be able
-to explain matters. A good fellow, Rapson. A capital fellow. As straight
-as they make ’em. One of the best. Still, I wish he’d told me more
-of his movements; for the moment affairs are a trifle awkward, I must
-confess.”
-
-He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and sank down on the sofa
-with the air of one who, being among pleasant companions, brushes aside
-unpleasant topics. “Well, how’s Dante?” he asked, turning to me, “and
-how’s the Red House?”
-
-I didn’t know how to answer. The question seemed so inappropriate and
-irrelevant. All the kindness which lay between us made such conversation
-a cruel farce. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, and yet I daren’t
-in my father’s presence. I realized that such cheeriness on my uncle’s
-part was an insult, and yet I understood its motive.
-
-My father’s face had hardened. He had expected some apology, some sign
-of humility, or at least some direct appeal to his sympathy. If any of
-these things had happened after what Caroline had said, I believe he
-would have responded. But this insincere praise of the archculprit and
-ostrich-like refusal to face facts simply angered him. He rose to his
-feet with the restrained impatience of a just man; the drawn sternness
-of his mouth was terrible. His voice had a steely coldness that pierced
-through all pretenses.
-
-“Stop this nonsense, Obad,” he said sharply. “Don’t you realize that
-you’ve ruined me? Won’t you ever play the man? You know very well that
-Rapson will never come back, unless the police bring him. You’ve been
-the tool of a conspiracy to swindle the public; it was your religious
-standing that made the swindle possible. No one’s called you a thief as
-yet, but that’s what everyone’s thinking. I know you’re not a thief, but
-you’ve been guilty of the grossest negligence. Can’t you bring home
-to yourself the disgrace of that? You’ve always been a shirker of
-responsibility. For years you’ve let your wife do all the work. And now,
-when through your silly optimism you’ve brought dishonor on the family,
-you still persist in hiding behind shams. I tell you, Obad, you’re a
-coward; you’re trying to evade the moral consequences of your actions.
-If you can’t feel shame now, you must be utterly worthless. Your
-attitude is an offense against every right-thinking man. I didn’t set
-out this morning with the intention of speaking to you like this. But
-your present conduct and that idiotic interview in the newspapers have
-made me alter my mind about you. To many men they would prove you nearly
-as big a rascal as Rapson.”
-
-My uncle had sat with his body crouched forward, his knees apart, his
-hands knitted together, and his eyes fixed on the carpet while my father
-had been talking. Now that there was silence he did not stir. I watched
-the bald spot on his head, how the yellow skin crinkled and went tight
-again as he bunched up and relaxed his brows. He looked so kindly and
-yet so ineffectual. My father had flayed him naked with his words. He
-had accused him of not being a man; but that was why I loved him. It was
-his unworldliness that had made it possible for him to penetrate so
-far into a child’s world. Caroline snuffled on the other side of the
-keyhole.
-
-My uncle pulled apart his hands and raised his head. “You’ve said some
-harsh things, Cardover. You’ve reminded me about Lavinia; I didn’t need
-to be told that. I may be a fool, but I’m not a scoundrel. I can only
-say that I’m sorry for what’s happened. I was well-meaning; I did it for
-the best. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”
-
-“There’s just this.” My father handed him an envelope. “It may help you
-to do the right thing in paying the investors a little of what’s left.
-Of course you’ll have to sell off everything and pay them as much as you
-can.
-
-“But what is this you’ve given me?”
-
-“The hundred pounds you gave to Dante and Ruthita at Christmas.”
-
-He flushed crimson; then the blood drained away from his hands and face,
-leaving them ashy gray. His lip trembled, so that I feared terribly he
-was going to cry with the bitterness of his humiliation.
-
-“But--but it was a gift to them. I didn’t expect this. Won’t you let
-them keep it? I should like them to keep it. It’ll make so little
-difference to the whole amount.”
-
-“My dear Obad, when will you appreciate the fact that everything you
-have given away or have, is the result of another man’s theft?”
-
-My uncle glanced round the room furtively, taking in the meaning of
-those words. It had been my father’s purpose to make him ashamed; that
-was amply accomplished now. He huddled back into the sofa, a broken man.
-He had been stabbed through his affections into a knowledge of reality.
-
-My father beckoned to me and turned. I stretched out my hand and touched
-my uncle. He took no notice. The sunlight streamed in on the creased
-bald head, the dust, and the forfeited splendor. Reluctantly I tiptoed
-out and was met in the hall by the hot indignant eyes of Caroline,
-accusing me of treachery across the banisters.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X--THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE
-
-In after years it became a habit with my father to say grimly that
-Uncle Obad’s Christmas dinner was the most expensive he had ever
-eaten--it had cost him two thousand pounds. This was the only reference
-to the unfortunate past that he permitted himself. On calm reflection
-I think he was a little sorry for the caustic frankness of some of his
-remarks; he was willing to forget them. Besides, as it happened, one of
-my uncle’s least forgivable offenses--the mentioning of our names to the
-newspaper men--resulted in an extraordinary stroke of luck.
-
-A week after our visit to Chelsea, my father received a letter. It was
-from a firm of lawyers and stated that a friend, who had read of our
-loss, was anxious to provide the money for my education; the only
-condition made was that he should be allowed to remain anonymous.
-
-At first my father flatly refused to put himself under such an
-obligation to an unknown person. “One would think that we were paupers,”
- he said; “such an offer may be kindly meant, but it’s insulting.”
-
-He was so sensitive on the subject that we none of us dared to argue the
-matter. We considered the affair as closed, and began to consider what
-walk of business I should enter. Then we discovered that my father had
-gone off on the quiet and interviewed the lawyers; as a consequence,
-a second and more pressing letter arrived, stating that the anonymous
-benefactor would be gravely disappointed if we did not accept. He was
-childless and had often wished to do something for me. My father’s
-misfortune was his opportunity.
-
-Our curiosity was piqued. Who of our friends or acquaintance was
-childless? We ran over the names of all possible benefactors--a task not
-difficult, for we had few friends.
-
-The name of my mother’s father, Sir Charles Evrard, was suggested. He
-fitted the description exactly; the long estrangement which had resulted
-from my father’s elopement supplied the motive for his desire to
-suppress his personality.
-
-Out of this guess Ruthita wove for me a romantic future, opening to my
-astonished imagination a career more congenial than any I had dreamt in
-my boldest moments. Up to this time, save for whispered hints from my
-grandmother Cardover, no mention had been made of my mother’s family.
-My father’s plebeian pride had never recovered from the shock and
-humiliation of his early years. At first out of jealous purpose,
-latterly from force of habit and the delicacy which men feel after
-re-marriage, he had allowed me to grow up in almost entire ignorance of
-my maternal traditions.
-
-Now that the subject had to be discussed he became obstinately silent to
-the point of sullenness. The Snow Lady came to the rescue. “Leave him to
-me,” she said; “I know how to manage him, my dear.”
-
-She laid it tactfully before him that he had no right to let his
-personal likes or dislikes prevent me from climbing back into my
-mother’s rank in society. I was my grandfather’s nearest kin and, if our
-surmise proved correct, this might be Sir Charles’s first step towards
-a reconciliation--a step which might end in his making his will in my
-favor.
-
-Grandmother Cardover was communicated with and instructed to report on
-the lie of the country. She replied that folks said that old Sir Charles
-was wonderfully softened. She also informed us that Lord Halloway, the
-next of kin to myself, had been up to some more of his devilry and
-was in disgrace with his uncle. This time it was to do with a Ransby
-bathing-machine man’s daughter. Lord Halloway was my second-cousin, the
-Earl of Lovegrove’s son and heir. His Christian name was Denville; I
-came to know him less formally in later days as Denny Halloway.
-
-I was packed off to my grandmother, ostensibly for a week’s holiday at
-Ransby--in reality to put our hazard to the test.
-
-Ransby to-day is a little sleepy seaside town. The trade has gone away
-from it. Every summer thousands of holiday-makers from London invade it
-with foreign, feverish gaiety; when they are gone it relapses into its
-contented old-world quiet. In my boyhood, however, it was a place of
-provincial bustle and importance. The sailing vessels from the Baltic
-crowded its harbor, lying shoulder to shoulder against its quays,
-unloading their cargoes of tallow and timber and hemp. Now all that
-remains is the herring fishery and the manufacture of nets.
-
-Grandmother Cardover’s house stood near the harbor; from the street we
-could see the bare masts of the shipping lying at rest. In the front
-on the ground-floor was the shop, piled high with the necessaries of
-sea-going travel. There were coils of rope in the doorway, and anchors
-and sacks of ship’s biscuits; a little further in tarpaulin and oil-skin
-jackets hung from the ceiling, interspersed with smoked hams; and, at
-the back, stood rows of cheeses and upturned barrels on which ear-ringed
-sailor-men would sit and chat.
-
-Behind the counter was a door, with windows draped with red curtains.
-It led into what was called the keeping-room, a cozy parlor in which we
-took our meals, while through the window in the door we could watch
-the customers enter. The keeping-room had its own peculiar smell,
-comfortable and homelike. I scarcely know how to describe it; it was a
-mixture of ozone, coffee, and baking bread. Out of the keeping-room lay
-the kitchen, with its floor of red bricks and its burnished pots and
-pans hung in rows along the walls. It was my grandmother’s boast that
-the floor was so speckless that you could eat a meal off it. Across the
-courtyard at the back lay the bakehouse, with its great hollow ovens and
-troughs in which men with naked feet trod out the dough.
-
-Grandmother had never been out of Ransby save to visit us at Pope Lane,
-and this rarely. Even then, after a fortnight she was glad to get back.
-She said that Ransby was better than London; you weren’t crowded
-and knew everyone you met. The streets of London were filled with
-stranger-windows and stranger-faces, whereas in Ransby every house was
-familiar and had its story.
-
-She carried, strung from a belt about her waist, all the keys of
-her bins and cupboards. You knew when she was coming by the way they
-jangled. She was a widow, and perfectly happy. On Sundays she attended
-the Methodist Chapel in the High Street, with its grave black pulpit and
-high-backed pews. On week-days she marshaled her sea-captains, handsome
-bearded men, and entertained them at her table. In spite of younger
-rivals, who tried to win their patronage from her by cuts in prices, she
-held their custom by her honest personality. I believe many of them made
-her offers of marriage, for she was still comely to look at; she refused
-them as lovers and kept them as friends. She usually dressed in black,
-with a gold locket containing the hair of her husband, many years dead,
-hung about her neck. Her hair was arranged in two rows of corkscrew
-curls, which reached down to her shoulders from under a prim white cap.
-She had a trick of making them waggle when she wished to be emphatic.
-She was a good deal of a gossip, was by instinct an antiquary, and had
-a lively sense of wit which was kept in check by a genuine piety--in
-short, she was a thoroughly wholesome, capable, loving woman. The type
-to which she belonged is now quickly vanishing--that of the more than
-middle-aged person who knows how to grow old usefully and graciously:
-a woman of the lower-middle class not chagrined by her station, who
-acknowledged cheerfully that she had her superiors and, demanding
-respect from others, gave respect ungrudgingly where it was due. She was
-a shop-keeper proud of her shop-keeping.
-
-That week at Ransby was a kind of tiptoe glory. My Grannie took me very
-seriously; she had under her roof a boy who would surely be a baronet,
-perhaps a lord, and maybe an earl. What had only been an expectation
-with us was for her a certainty. The floodgate of her reminiscence
-was opened wide; she swept me far out into the romantic past with her
-accounts of my mother’s ancestry. The Evrards were no upstart nobility;
-they had their roots in history. She could tell me how they returned
-from exile with King Charles, or how they sailed out with Raleigh to
-destroy the Armada. But I liked to hear best about my mother, how she
-rode into Ransby under her scarlet plumes, on her great gray horse, with
-her flower face; and how my father caught sight of her and loved her.
-
-I began to understand my father in a new way, entirely sympathetic.
-He was a man who had tasted the best of life at the first. There was
-something epic about his sorrow.
-
-These conversations usually took place in the keeping-room at night. The
-shutters of the shop had been put up. The gas was unlighted. The flames
-of the fire, dancing in the grate, split the darkness into shadows which
-groped across the walls. Everything was hushed and cozy. My Grannie,
-seated opposite to me, on the other side of the fireplace, would bend
-forward in her chair as she talked; when she came to exciting passages
-her little gray curls would bob, or to passages of sentiment she would
-remove her shiny spectacles to wipe her eyes. If she stopped at a loss
-for the next topic, all I had to say was, “And how did Sir Charles
-Evrard look, Grannie, when he came to you that first morning after they
-had run away?”
-
-“He looked, as he has always looked, my dear, an aristocrat.”
-
-“But how did he treat you? Wasn’t he angry?”
-
-“Angry with a woman! Certainly not. He treated me like a courtly
-gentleman--with respect. He dismounts and comes into my shop as
-leisurely as though he had only stepped in to exchange the greetings
-of the day. He raises his hat to me as he enters. ‘A fine day, Mrs.
-Cardover,’ he says.
-
-“‘A fine day, Sir Charles, but inclined to blow up squally,’ says I.
-
-“Then he turns his face away and inquires, ‘If it’s not troubling you,
-can I see your son this morning?’
-
-“‘He went to London early,’ says I.
-
-“He puts his hand to his throat quickly, as if he were choking. Then he
-asks huskily, still not looking at me, ‘Did he go alone?’
-
-“‘That, Sir Charles, is more than I can say.’
-
-“‘Quite right. Quite right.’ And he speaks so quickly that he startles
-me.
-
-“Then he turns round, trying to smile, and shows me a face all old and
-pale. ‘A very fine day for someone; but it’s true what you say, it’ll
-blow up squally later.’
-
-“And with that he leaves me, raising his hat, and rides away.”
-
-“And you knew all the time?” I ask.
-
-“We both knew all the time,” she replies.
-
-During the daytime we went through the flat wind-swept country on
-excursions to Woadley Hall. Our hope was that we might meet Sir Charles,
-and that he would recognize me. Unfortunately, on the afternoon of my
-arrival he had a hunting accident, and kept the house during all the
-period of my stay. My nearest approach to seeing him was one evening,
-when the winter dusk had gathered early; I hid in the shrubbery outside
-the library and saw his shadow fall across the blind. He seemed to stand
-near the window listening. We were not more than two yards separated. I
-wonder, did some instinct, subtler than the five senses, let him know of
-the starved yearning that was calling to him out there in the dark?
-How those long watches in Woadley Park stirred up memories, and made my
-mother live again!
-
-When the week had expired, I returned to Pope Lane. The offer was
-re-debated and at last accepted. I went back to the Red House and there
-learnt the fickleness of popularity. My uncle’s downfall had caused me
-to become a far less exalted person. My influence was gone; a period of
-persecution threatened. The Bantam alone stood by me; even in his eyes I
-was a Samson shorn of his glory. The renewed, half-shy interest taken in
-me by the Creature was a doubtful asset. Our friendship was a coalition
-of two weaknesses, and resulted in nothing profitable in the way of
-social strength. He did his best to make things up to me. He was almost
-womanly in his kindness. Now that Lady Zion was gone he felt a great
-emptiness in life; he borrowed me that, in some measure, I might fill
-her place. He told Sneard that he wished to coach me that I might sit
-for a scholarship at Oxford. Permission was granted, so we both got off
-prep.
-
-Evening after evening I would spend at his cottage, the lamp lighted and
-the books spread out on the table. He decided that I was not much good
-at natural science, and declared that I must specialize in history. He
-was a genius in his way, and had amazing stores of information. When he
-overcame his hesitating shyness, he showed himself a scholar of erudite
-knowledge and intrepid imagination. He had a passion for antiquity that
-amounted to idolatry, and a faculty which was almost uncanny for making
-the dead world live again. While he spoke I would forget his shabbiness,
-his chalk-stained hands, uncouth gestures, and revolting untidiness. He
-was a magician who unlocked the doors of the storied past; he owned the
-right-of-way through all men’s minds, from Homer to Herbert Spencer.
-When he spoke of soldiers, his air was bullying and defiant. But it was
-when he spoke of women that he spoke with his heart. Then, all unaware
-of what he was doing, he pulled aside the curtains and let me gaze in
-upon the empty rooms of his life. It was he who pointed out to me that,
-with rare exceptions, it is not the virtuous but only the beautiful
-women that the world remembers.
-
-It was odd to think what images of loveliness went to and fro behind
-that soiled mask of outward personality, in the hidden temples of
-his brain. The Creature was a man you had to love or dislike, to know
-altogether or not to know at all. In that last year and a half at the
-Red House, when he tapped me on the shoulder and led me away by the
-revelation of his curious secret charm, I got both to know and to love
-him.
-
-And yet there was always fear in my friendship. He was queer like his
-sister before him. Her death seemed to have unbalanced his reason; it
-was a weakness that grew upon him. He seemed to have lost his power of
-distinguishing between the present and the imaginary or the past. Often
-in the cottage he would forget that his sister was not still alive and,
-rising from the table, would look beyond me as if he saw her, or would
-go out into the passage and call to her. Nothing in the cottage had been
-changed since her departure. Her belongings lay untouched, just where
-she had left them, as though her return was hourly expected.
-
-He fell into the way of imitating her gestures, and humming snatches of
-her crazy songs. He would tumble over the precipice into the abyss of
-insanity without warning, in the middle of being rational; and would
-clamber back just as suddenly, apparently without knowledge of where he
-had gone. Of one of her songs he was extremely fond. I had often heard
-Lady Zion sing it as she rode between the hedges, and had been made
-aware of her approach long before I caught sight of her:--
-
-               “All the chimneys in our town
-
-               Wake from death when the cold comes down;
-
-               Through the summer against the sky
-
-               Tall, and silent, and stark they lie--
-
-               But every chimney in our town
-
-               Starts to breathe when the cold comes down.”
-
-Some safe-guarding astuteness prevented him from showing his weakness
-at the Red House; and I was too fond of him to tell. To the rest of the
-boys he was only the grubby, somewhat eccentric little “stinks” master.
-Nevertheless, sane or insane, it was through the Creature’s efforts
-that, after a year of coaching, I won a history scholarship at Lazarus
-for eighty pounds.
-
-Still, eighty pounds would not carry me to Oxford. It became a worrying
-problem to my family exactly what my grandfather, if he were my
-benefactor, had meant by “undertaking the expenses of my education.” His
-generosity might be co-terminous with my school-days. A month after the
-winning of the scholarship the lawyers wrote, setting our minds at rest
-and congratulating me on my success in the name of their client. This
-letter was gratifying in more than a monetary sense--it was a sign that
-the anonymous friend was keeping a close watch on my doings.
-
-Since the interview at Chelsea there had been no intercourse between my
-father and Uncle Obad. I had once contrived to see my uncle by stealth,
-but the first question he had asked me was, did I come with my father’s
-knowledge. When I could not give him that assurance, he had sorrowfully
-refused to have anything to do with me. At the time I shrank from
-mentioning the matter to my father; so for a year and a half my uncle
-and his doings had dropped completely out of my life.
-
-But my treatment of him weighed on my conscience. My last term at school
-had ended. It was August, and in October I expected to go up to Oxford.
-With my scholarship and the money the lawyers sent me I should soon be
-a self-supporting person. Already I thought myself a man. I felt that on
-the whole my father’s quarrel with my uncle was reasonable, but I could
-not see why I should be made to share it. So one day as I got up from
-breakfast, I mentioned casually that I was going to run over to Charity
-Grove.
-
-It was just such another golden morning as the one of ten years earlier,
-when I had driven for the first time across London behind Dollie. What
-a big important person the Spuffler had seemed to me then! How wonderful
-that he, a grown-up, should take so much trouble to be friendly to
-a little chap! Then my mind wandered back over all his repeated
-kindness--all that he had stood for in the past as a harbor of refuge
-from the stormy misunderstandings of childhood. He and the Creature,
-both failures and generally despised, were two of the best men that I
-had ever met. Whatever his faults, he still was splendid.
-
-I came to the Christian Boarding House, and passed up the driveway shut
-in with heavy evergreens. Caroline, tousled of hair, all loose ends,
-girt about her middle with a sackcloth apron, was on her knees bricking
-the steps. She did not recognize me. The Mistress was out shopping, she
-said, but the Master was in the paddock. “Ah, yes,” I thought, “feeding
-the fowls.”
-
-I passed through the decayed old rooms, with their heavy shabby
-furniture, so evidently picked up cheap at auctions; then I passed out
-through the French windows into the cool garden, where sunshine dappled
-the lawn, struggling with difficulty through the crowded branches. At
-the gate into the paddock I halted. There he was with a can of water in
-his hand, fussing, in and out his coops and hutches, so extremely busy,
-as though the future of the world depended on his efforts. I suppose
-he was still evolving that strain of perpetually laying hens, The
-Spreckles, which was to bring him fame and fortune.
-
-I called to him, “Uncle Obad.”
-
-When he had recovered from his emotion, I soon found that the old fellow
-had long ago emerged from all personal sense of disgrace with his usual
-corklike irrepressibility. He chatted with me cheerily, calling me, “Old
-chap,” just as though nothing painful had happened to separate us.
-On being ousted from Chelsea, he had immediately dropped back, with
-something like a sigh of relief, into his former world of momentous
-trifles--philanthropy and fowls. “We lived at a terrible pace, old chap.
-It was wearing us out. We couldn’t have stood it.”
-
-He spoke as if the abdication of his brief period of affluence had
-been voluntary. I scented here one of his spuffling explanations to his
-neighbors for his precipitate return to the boarding-house.
-
-On inquiry I found that all his philanthropic societies had forgiven
-and taken him back. After sulking a while and flirting with various
-paid secretaries, they had agreed for economy’s sake to let bygones be
-bygones. They had been unable to find any other person who would serve
-them as loyally without salary, and who at the same time was able
-to offer up such beautiful extempore prayers. The list of their
-contributors had afforded Rapson his happiest hunting-ground. Procuring
-my uncle’s services for nothing was their only way of getting anything
-back.
-
-“And what about Rapson?” I asked. “Do you still believe in him?”
-
-He shook his head dolefully. “I begin to lose faith, Dante; I begin to
-doubt.”
-
-“But have you heard from him since he went away?”
-
-“Never a word.”
-
-He hesitated and then he said, “There’s Kitty, you know. He didn’t do
-the straight thing by her. No, I’m afraid Rapson wasn’t a good man.”
-
-At mention of Kitty I pricked up my ears; I had often wondered about
-her. “What had Kitty to do with him?” I asked. “Were they engaged?”
-
-“No, unfortunately.”
-
-“In love?”
-
-“Perhaps.”
-
-“Married?”
-
-“I wish they had been. After he’d left her, she was awfully cut up. I
-did what I could for her. You remember that hundred pounds?”
-
-“My father--at Chelsea--the Christmas present?”
-
-“Yes. I couldn’t keep it. I gave it to her.”
-
-“You always have to be giving something,” I said.
-
-We were sitting on an upturned barrow in the paddock when this
-conversation took place. I thought how characteristic of Uncle Obad that
-was--to be helping others at a time when he himself was most in need of
-help. But his kindness knew no seasons. Then I began, as a very young
-man will, to think of Kitty, and, because of her frailty, to picture her
-through a haze of romance.
-
-“Where’s Kitty now?” I asked.
-
-“She’s in a photographer’s at Oxford. She serves behind a counter. But,
-come, you’ve not told me yet what you think of my fowls.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI--STAR-DUST DAYS
-
-The walls of the garden had fallen. Childhood was ended and with it all
-those absurd, aching fears lest I should never be a man and lest time
-might be a stationary, unescapable present, with no trap-doors giving
-access to the future. The experiment of life had begun in earnest, and
-the adventure.
-
-That first October night of my residence at Oxford is forever memorable.
-Before leaving Pope Lane I had been led aside by my father. He had taken
-it for granted that I was now capable of a man’s follies and had warned
-me against them. Somehow his assumption that I had it in my choice to
-become a Don Juan warmed my heart; it impressed me as a tribute to my
-manhood--a tacit acknowledgment that I was a free agent. Free at last!
-
-I did not understand one-tenth part of all that he hinted at. But his
-presumption that I did understand seemed to me a form of compliment. To
-ask for an explanation was a heroism of which I was not capable. So I
-left home clad in the armor of ignorance to do battle with the world.
-
-Ruthita wanted to accompany me to the station. I would not let her. She
-was weepy in private; I knew that in public she would be worse. I had
-inherited my father’s dread of sentiment and his fear lest other people
-should construe it as weakness.
-
-At Paddington I met the Bantam; we were entering the same college
-and traveled up together. We chose our places in a “smoker” by way of
-emphasizing to ourselves our emancipation. We tried to appear ordinary
-and at ease; beneath our mask of carelessness we felt delightfully bold
-and bad. In our carriage were three undergraduates, finished products
-of indifferent haughtiness. Though no more than a year our seniors, they
-loaded their pipes and puffed away without fear or furtiveness. They
-affected to be unaware of us. They were infinitely bored in manner and
-addressed the porters in a tone of lackadaisical, frigid tolerance. What
-masterfulness! And yet one term of Oxford would give us the right to
-be like that!--we, who so recently had been liable to be told that
-children must be seen and not heard. The assurance of these youthful men
-imperiled our courage.
-
-As we neared Iffley, the domes and spires of the Mecca of dreamers swam
-up. The sky was pearl-colored without a cloud. Strewn throughout its
-great emptiness was the luminous dust of stars. All the tinsel ambitions
-which had lately stirred me were forgotten as the home of lost causes
-claimed me. I grew large within myself as, in watching its advance
-behind the river above the tree-tops, I merged my personality in this
-vision of architectural romance. Leaning against the horizon, stretching
-up and up, out of the murk of dusk and the blood-red decay of foliage,
-it symbolized for me all the yearning after perfection and the
-passionate desire for freedom that had always lain hidden in my heart.
-I wanted to be like that--the thing that gray pyramided stone seen at
-twilight can alone express--wise, unimpassioned, lovely, immutable.
-
-We came to a standstill in the shabby station, which of all stations is
-probably the best beloved.
-
-“Thank the Lord, we’re here at last.”
-
-In a hansom, with a sporting cabby for our driver, we rattled through
-the ancient lamp-lit town where the ghosts of the dead summer rustled
-and reddened against the walls. Past the Castle we sped, through Carfax,
-down the High, past Oriel and Christ Church till we drew up with a jerk
-at Lazarus. Whatever we had suffered in the train in the way of lowered
-opinion of self was now made up to us; the servility of the College
-porter and scouts was eloquent of respect. We were undoubtedly persons
-of importance. If we wanted further proof of it, this awaited us in the
-pile of communications from Oxford tradesmen, notified beforehand of our
-coming, humbly soliciting our patronage.
-
-The Bantam’s room and mine were next door to one another in Augustine’s
-Quad; fires were burning in the grates to bid us welcome. The scout, who
-acted as guide, seized the opportunity to sell us each a second-hand
-tin bath, a coal-scuttle, and a kettle at very much more than their
-first-hand prices. We felt no resentment. His deferential manner was
-worth the extra.
-
-Just as we had commenced unpacking, the bell began to toll. We slipped
-on our gowns and followed the throng into a vaulted, dimly-lighted
-hall, where we dined at long tables off ancient silver, and had beer set
-before us. Surely we were men!
-
-That night the Bantam and I sat far into the small, cold hours of the
-morning; there was no one to worry us to go to bed. When the Bantam had
-left, I lay awake in a state of bewildered ecstasy. I had become aware
-in the last ten hours of my unchartered personality. I realized that
-my life was my own to command, to make or mar. As the bells above the
-sleeping city rang out time’s progress, all the pageant of the lads of
-other ages, who had come up to Oxford star-eyed, as I had come, passed
-before me. When the withered leaves tapped against the walls, I could
-fancy that it was their footfall. They had come with a chance equal to
-mine; at the end of a few years they had departed. Some had succeeded
-and some had failed. Of all that great army which now stretched
-bivouacked throughout eternity, only the latest recruits were in sight.
-The scholar-monks, the soldier-saints, the ruffian-students of early
-centuries, the cavaliers, the philosophers, and the statesmen,
-together with the roisterers of the rank and file, were all equally and
-completely gone.
-
-In the silence of my narrow room, with the flickering fire dying in the
-hearth, there brooded over me the shadowy darkness of the ages. What
-religion does for some men, for me the gray poetry of this poignant
-city accomplished. I had become aware that from henceforth the ultimate
-responsibility for my actions must rest forever with myself. I was
-strangely unafraid of this knowledge.
-
-They were dim dawn-days that followed, when the air was filled with
-star-dust--neither with suns, nor moons, nor stars, only with the
-excitement of their promise. My world was at twilight, blurred and
-mysterious; only the huge design was clearly discernible--the cracks
-and imperfections were concealed from me, shrouded in dusk. I lived in
-a land of ideals, drawing my rules of conduct from the realism of the
-classics--a realism which even to the Greeks and Romans was only an
-aspiration, never a practice. Existence had for me all the piquant
-fascination which comes of half-knowledge--the charming allurement,
-leaving room for speculation, which the glimpse of a girl’s face has at
-nightfall. It was an age when all things seemed possible, because all
-were untested.
-
-Gradually, out of the wilderness of strange faces, some became more
-familiar than others; little groups of friends began to form. The
-instinctive principle on which my set came together was enthusiastic
-rebellion against convention and eager curiosity concerning existence.
-One by one, without appointing any place of meeting, we would drift into
-some man’s room. This usually occurred about eight in the evening, after
-dinner in hall. The lamp would be left unlighted; the couch would be
-drawn near the fire; then we would commence a conversation which was
-half jesting and half confessional.
-
-Under the cloak of laughing cynicism we hid a desperate purpose. We
-wanted to know about life. We sought in each new face to discover if
-it could tell us. We had nothing to guide us but the carefully prepared
-disclosures which had been vouchsafed us in our homes. We had risen at
-a bound into a man’s estate, and still retained a boy’s knowledge. We
-realized that life was bigger, bolder, more adventurous, more disastrous
-than we had reckoned. Why was it that some men failed, while others had
-success? What external pressures caused the difference in achievement
-between Napoleon, for instance, and Charles Lamb? Who was responsible
-for our varying personalities? Where did our own responsibility begin,
-and where did it end?
-
-The problems we argued predated the Decalogue, yet to us they were
-eternally original and personal. We attacked them with youthful
-insolence. The authority of no social institution was safe from our
-irreverence. We accepted nothing, neither religion, nor marriage; we had
-to go back to the beginning and re-mint truth for ourselves. Our real
-object in coming together was that we might pool our scraps of actual
-experience, and out of these materials fashion our conjectures.
-
-There was one topic of inexhaustible interest. It permeated all our
-inquiry--_woman_. We knew so little about her; but we knew that she held
-the key opening the door to all romance. What gay cavaliers we could
-be in discussing her, and how sheepish in the presence of one concrete
-specimen of her sex--especially if she were beautiful, and not a
-relative!
-
-All the adventures we had ever heard of seemed now within our grasp.
-Woman was the great unknown to us. We knew next to nothing of the
-penalties--only the romance.
-
-Little by little the boldest among us, recognizing that talk led
-nowhere, began to put matters to the test. The same shy restraint that
-had made me afraid of Fiesole when she had tempted me to kiss her, made
-me an onlooker now. A saving common sense prompted me to await the proof
-of events. I acted on instinct, not on principle. The difference between
-myself and some of my friends was a difference of temperament. Perhaps
-it was a difference between daring and cowardice. There are times when
-our weaknesses appear to be virtues, preserving us from shipwreck. I was
-capable of tempestuous thoughts; while they remained thoughts I could
-clothe them with idealism and glamor. But I was incapable of impassioned
-acts; their atmosphere would be beyond my control--the atmosphere
-of inevitable vulgarity which results from contemporary reality. My
-observation of unrestraint taught me that unrestraint was ugly. In
-short, I had a pagan imagination at war with a puritan conscience.
-
-In my day, there was no right or wrong in undergraduate Oxford--no moral
-or immoral. Every conventional principle of conduct which we had learnt,
-we flung into the crucible of new experience to be melted down and, out
-of the ordeal, minted afresh.
-
-We divided ourselves into two classes: those who experimented and
-those who watched. There was only one sin in our calendar--not to be
-a gentleman. To be a gentleman, in our sense of the word, was to be a
-sportsman and to have good manners.
-
-In our private methods of thought we were uninterfered with by those in
-authority. The University’s methods of disciplining our actions were,
-and still are, a survival of mediævalism. If an undergraduate was seen
-speaking to a lady, he had to be able to prove her pedigree or run the
-risk of being sent down. At nine o’clock Big Tom rang; ten minutes later
-every college-door was shut and a fine was imposed for knocking in or
-out. In the streets the proctors and their bulldogs commenced to go the
-rounds. Until twelve a man was safe in the streets, provided he appeared
-to be innocently employed and wore his cap and gown. Knocking into
-college after twelve was a grave offense.
-
-If a man observed these rules or was crafty, he might investigate life
-to his heart’s content. Public opinion was extremely lenient. Conduct
-was a purely personal matter as long as it did not inconvenience anybody
-else. If a man had the all-atoning social grace, and was careful not to
-get caught in an incriminating act, though everybody knew about it from
-his own lips afterwards, he was not censured.
-
-My cousin, Lord Halloway, had been a Lazarus man. Oxford still treasured
-the memory of his amorous exploits.
-
-He had been a good deal of a dare-devil and was regarded as something of
-a hero; he inspired us with awe, for, despite his recklessness, he had
-played the game gaily and escaped detection. The impression that this
-kind of thing created was that indiscretions were only indiscreet when
-they were bungled. Punishment seemed the penalty for discovery--not for
-the sin itself. Naturally it was the foolish and less flagrant sinners
-who got caught. For instance, there was the Bantam.
-
-The first term the Bantam watched and listened. There were occasions
-when he was a little shocked. When Christmas came round, having no home
-to go to, he kept on his rooms in college, and spent the vacation in
-residence. I returned to Pope Lane, and found that the womanliness of
-Ruthita and the Snow Lady had a sanitary effect. The wholesome sweetness
-of their affection, after the hot-house discussions of a group of
-boyish men, came like a breath of pure air. I fell back into the old
-trustfulness. I recognized that society had secret restraints and
-delicacies, a disclosure of the motives for which was not yet allowable;
-at the proper season life would explain itself.
-
-When college re-assembled I noticed a change in the Bantam. He was
-soulful and sentimental--he took more pains with his dressing. He was
-continually slipping off by himself; when he returned he volunteered no
-information as to the purpose of his errand. When the eternal problem
-of woman was discussed, he smiled in a wise and melancholy manner. If
-he contributed a remark, it was not a guess, but had the air of
-authoritative finality. One night I tackled him. “What have you been up
-to, Bantam? You know too much.”
-
-He twisted his pipe in his mouth pensively. “She’s the sweetest little
-girl in the world.”
-
-He would not tell me her name. He had pledged her his word not to do
-that. There was a reason--she was working, and she belonged to too high
-a rank in society to work. She wished to remain obscure, until she could
-re-instate herself. She was a Cinderella who would one day emerge from
-poverty into splendor. The Bantam said his emotions were almost too
-sacred to talk about. Nevertheless, he meandered on with his mystery
-from midnight to three o’clock. She was a lady and terribly persecuted.
-He had come to her rescue just at the identical moment when a good
-influence was most needed. All through the Christmas Vac he had
-acted the big brother’s part, shielding her from temptation. She was
-lovely--there lay the pity of it.
-
-I pointed out that there were ten thousand ways of flirting with girls,
-and that this was the most dangerous. His white knighthood was
-affronted by that word _flirting_. He became indignant and said I was no
-gentleman.
-
-As time went on, acquaintance after acquaintance would drop in to see
-me, and would hint gravely at a deep and romantic passion which the
-Bantam had imparted to them alone. When I informed them that I also
-was in his confidence, they would repeat to me the same vague story of
-persecuted loveliness, but always with embellishments. By and by, the
-embellishments varied so irreconcilably that I began to suspect that
-they referred to more than one girl.
-
-Most of us were in love with love in those days; we were all quite
-certain that an incandescent purifying passion lay ahead of us. It might
-knock at our door any hour--and then our particular problem would be
-solved. This hope was rarely mentioned. To one another we strove to give
-the impression of being cynical and careless. Yet always, beneath our
-pose of flippancy, we were seeking the face pre-destined to be for us
-the most beautiful in all the world. For myself, I was feverishly
-eager in its quest. I would scour the green-gray uplands of the Thames,
-telling myself that she might lie hidden in the cheerful quiet of some
-thatched farm. Every new landscape became the possible setting for
-my individual romance. I lived each day in expectancy of her coming.
-Sometimes at nightfall I would pause outside a lighted shop-window,
-arrested by a girl’s profile, and would pretend to myself that I had
-found her. That was how Rossetti found Miss Siddall; perhaps that was
-how it would happen to myself. One thing was certain: whenever and
-wherever I found her, whether in the guise of shop-girl, dairy-maid, or
-lady, for me the golden age would commence. I stalked through life on
-the airy stilts of an æsthetic optimism.
-
-Ah, but the Bantam, he was all for doing! If he could not find the love
-he wanted, he would seize the next best. Yet he would never admit that
-he was in love. He deceived himself into believing that he acted on the
-most altruistic motives. If others misunderstood him, it was because
-they were of grosser fiber. Other men, doing the things he did,
-laughingly acknowledged their rakishness; he, however, considered
-himself a self-appointed knight-errant to ladies in distress. He became
-involved in endless entanglements. It was by appealing to his higher
-nature with some pitiful story, that his transient attractions caught
-him.
-
-I never knew a man so unfortunate in his genius for discovering lonely
-maidens in need of his protection. He always meant to be noble and
-virtuous, but his temperament was not sufficiently frigid to carry him
-safely through such ticklish adventures. He never learnt when to leave
-off; his fatal and theatric conception of chivalry continually led him
-on to situations more powerfully tempting. It would be easy to explain
-him by saying that he was a sentimental ass. But so were we all. The
-Bantam came to his ruin because he was lonely, because he had no social
-means of meeting women who were his equals, and because he was
-too kind-hearted; but mainly because he attributed to all women
-indiscriminately a virtue which unfortunately they do not all possess.
-
-He sinned accidentally and therefore carelessly--not wisely, but too
-well. A man like Lord Halloway sinned of set purpose and laid his plans
-ahead; so far as society’s opinion of him was concerned he came off
-comparatively scatheless. The worst that was ever said of him was that
-he was a gay dog. Women even seemed to like him for it. I suppose he
-intrigued their fancy, and made them long to reform him. From this I
-learnt that the gaping sins of a gay dog are more easily forgiven than
-the peccadilloes of a sentimental donkey.
-
-In the Easter Vacation of our first year at Oxford, the Bantam stayed at
-Putney. In the same house was an actress, very beautiful and more sorely
-used by the world than even the first girl. In the summer-time there
-was a widow at Torquay. In the beginning of our second year of residence
-there was a bar-maid at Henley. After that they followed in rapid
-succession. Wherever he went he found some woman starving for his
-sympathy. They were all ladies and phenomena of beauty, to judge from
-his accounts.
-
-When he came to make confession to me, it was a little difficult to
-follow which particular lady he was talking about. He never mentioned
-them by name, and seemed to try to give the impression that they were
-one composite person.
-
-One evening I got him with his back to the wall. “Bantam, who is this
-Oxford girl--the first one you got to know about?”
-
-Then he admitted that she was a shop-girl. I knew what that meant: some
-of the Oxford tradesmen engaged girls for the prettiness of their faces,
-that they might attract custom by flirting with the undergrads. Little
-by little I narrowed him down in his general statements till I had
-guessed the shop in which she worked.
-
-“Is she a good girl?” I asked.
-
-Instead of taking offense, he answered, “Dante, the thought of her
-goodness often makes me ashamed of myself.”
-
-It was evident, though he would not admit it, that this affair at least
-was serious.
-
-“Then why does she stay there?”
-
-“She can’t help herself.”
-
-“Why can’t she help herself?”
-
-“She’s an orphan and has a living to earn. She’s afraid to get out of a
-situation.”
-
-“But what good are you doing her?”
-
-“Helping her to keep up her courage by letting her know that one man
-respects her.”
-
-“Don’t you think she may get to expect more than that?”
-
-“Certainly not. Why should she?”
-
-“Just because girls do,” I said. “Do you write her letters?”
-
-“Sometimes.”
-
-“What do you write about?”
-
-He wouldn’t tell me that. Next day I went down to the shop to
-investigate matters. Since the Bantam wouldn’t listen to sense, I
-intended to hint to the girl the danger of what she was doing. Of course
-she could never marry him; but I was morally certain that that was what
-she was aiming at.
-
-The shop was a stationer’s. I had chosen an hour in the afternoon
-when it was likely to be empty, everyone being engaged in some form
-of athletics. I entered and saw a daintily gowned woman with her back
-turned towards me. She was all in white. Her waist was of the smallest.
-She had a mass of honey-colored hair. She swung about at sound of my
-footstep.
-
-“Why, Kitty, of all people in the world! I didn’t expect to find you
-here.”
-
-“As good as old times,” she said. “I’ve often seen you pass the window,
-but I thought you wouldn’t want to know me.”
-
-“And why not?”
-
-“Because of what happened.”
-
-“Rapson?”
-
-She flushed and hung her head. I wondered if she meant what I thought
-she meant.
-
-I hated to see her sad; she looked so young and pretty. I began to ask
-her what she was doing.
-
-“Doing! Minding shop, remembering, growing old, and earning my living.
-It’s just horrid to be here, Dante. I have to watch you ’Varsity men
-having a good time--and once I belonged to your set. And they come in
-and stare at me, and pay me silly compliments--and I have to smile and
-pretend I like it. That’s what I’m paid for. They don’t know how I hate
-them. When they have their sweethearts and sisters up, they walk past me
-as though they never knew me.”
-
-“But are they all like that?”
-
-She smiled, and I knew she loved him. When she spoke her voice trembled.
-“There’s one of them is different.”
-
-“Kitty, he’s the one I came to talk about.”
-
-With instinctive foreknowledge of the purpose of my errand, her face
-became tragic. “His father’s in India,” I explained. “From what I hear
-of him he’s very proud. If the Bantam made a marriage that could in any
-way be regarded as imprudent, he’d cut him off. He’d be ruined. You know
-how it would be; the world would turn its back on him.”
-
-“What do we care about the world?” she said. “The world’s a coward.”
-
-It was wonderful how coldly practical I could become in dealing with
-another man’s heart affairs--I, who spent my time dreaming of the most
-extraordinarily unconventional marriages.
-
-“The world may be a coward, Kitty, but you have to live in it. Besides,
-are you sure that the Bantam really cares for you? Have you told him
-everything?”
-
-She stared into my eyes across the counter with frightened fascination.
-I knew that I was acting like a brute and I despised myself. I had
-hardly meant to ask her the last question--it had slipped out. While we
-gazed at one another there drifted through my memory all the scenes of
-that day at Richmond--the gaiety of it, and the hunger with which she
-had clutched me to her as we punted back in the dark. I understood
-what this little bit of love must mean to her after her experience of
-disillusion.
-
-“No, I have not told him. I daren’t. I’m afraid to lose him. Oh, Dante,
-don’t tell him; it’s my one last chance to be good.”
-
-“But you’ve got to tell him, Kitty. If his love’s worth anything, he’ll
-forgive you. He’d be sure to find out after marriage.”
-
-“I don’t care about marriage,” she whispered desperately.
-
-“Even then, you ought to tell him.”
-
-A customer came into the shop. We tumbled from our height of emotion. It
-was another example of how reality makes all things prosaic. She had
-to compose herself, and go and serve him. He had come to admire her
-and showed a tendency to dawdle. His purchase was the excuse for his
-presence. I had an opportunity to watch her--how charmingly fresh
-she looked and how girlish. And yet she was three years older than
-myself--that seemed incredible. At last the customer went.
-
-“Kitty, I feel I’ve been a horrid beast to you--it’s so often like that
-when one speaks the truth. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I want to see you
-happy. I’ll not interfere. You must do what you feel to be right about
-it.” And with that I left her.
-
-The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with
-training, going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little
-of him. The night before the races he came into my room. He looked
-brilliantly healthy--lean and tanned.
-
-“Are you alone?”
-
-“You can see I am. What’s the trouble?”
-
-He sank into a chair and grinned at me. “It’s all up. I’ve been an awful
-ass.”
-
-“How?”
-
-“I wrote two letters; one to the widow at Torquay and the other to the
-actress. They were nice friendly letters, but far too personal. I put
-’em in the wrong envelopes.”
-
-“And they’ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your
-infidelity. Poor old Bantam!”
-
-“They haven’t. They’re keeping them as proof. They’ve both struck out
-the same line of action and talk about a breach of promise suit. They’re
-both coming to see me to-morrow, and they’re sure to meet. There’ll be a
-gay old row, and I shall get kicked out of Lazarus.”
-
-I whistled.
-
-“You may well whistle,” he said, ridiculously puckering his mouth; “it’s
-a serious affair. Here have I been trying to be decent to two women, and
-they’re going to try to make me out a kind of letter-writing Bluebeard.
-I know quite well I’ve written silly things to them that could be
-construed in a horribly damaging manner. I only meant to be cheery,
-you know, but I see now that there’ve been times when I’ve crossed the
-boundary of mere friendship. They can both make a case against me I
-suspect and so can all the other girls. Once the thing leaks into the
-papers, they’ll all swoop down like a lot of vultures to see what they
-can get.”
-
-“What are you going to do about it?”
-
-“I can run away to-night without leaving any address. That would leave
-the crew in the lurch; we’d get bumped every night on the river--so I
-can’t do that. I can stop and face it out--let my pater in for all kinds
-of expense in the way of damages, and get sent down. Or I can marry one
-of ’em, and so shut all the others’ mouths. It isn’t money they’re
-wanting--it’s me as a husband. Isn’t it a gay old world?”
-
-He pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and thrust out
-his legs. He didn’t seem adequately desperate--in fact he gave the
-impression of being glad this thing had happened. I was puzzling over
-what I ought to say to him, when it occurred to me that I hadn’t offered
-any expression of sympathy; I told him I was awfully sorry.
-
-“Needn’t be. You see, there’s only one girl I greatly care about,
-and she’s just all the world. She had a mishap some years back with
-a cad--she only told me a month ago, and because of it she refused to
-marry me. She’s got it into her head that I’m too good for her. Well,
-now I can prove to her that it’s the other way about.”
-
-The Bantam ruffled his hair. He spoke with genuine feeling; this was
-quite different from any of his former confessions. He moistened his
-lips nervously, and turned away his eyes from me. “There are some
-girls,” he said, “who never need to be forgiven. Whatever they’ve done
-and whatever they’re doing, doesn’t matter. They seem always too pure
-for us men.”
-
-I leant forward and took his hand. I felt proud of him. “I’ll stand by
-you, old chap. How can I help?”
-
-“By being awfully decent to these two women to-morrow. Take ’em out on
-the river and keep ’em quiet. Drug ’em with flattery. They’re both
-of them immensely good-looking. P’raps if you treat ’em well, they’ll
-be ashamed to make a row. Then, when Eights’ Week is over and the crew
-doesn’t want me any longer, I’ll slip up to London, and establish a
-residence, and get married.”
-
-As he was going out of the room I called him back. “What’s the name of
-the girl you’re going to marry?”
-
-“Kitty,” he whispered below his breath, as though it were a word too
-sacred to mention.
-
-The widow from Torquay arrived next morning; so did the actress from
-Putney. I let each one suppose that the other was my near relative, and
-never left them for a moment together, lest they should discover their
-error. I gave them separately to understand that their troubles would
-be satisfactorily settled. I made much of the rigors of training, which
-compelled the Bantam to absent himself. They didn’t meet him until after
-they had seen him racing, by which time he had become a kind of hero to
-them. I saw them safely off at the station by different trains--so the
-crash was averted. When Eights’ Week was ended the Bantam vanished,
-without explanation to the college. A month later I attended his
-wedding.
-
-Kitty had asked permission to invite one guest--she wouldn’t tell us
-his name. When we three had assembled in the little Church of Old St.
-Mary’s, Stoke Newington, who should come fussing up the aisle but
-my uncle, the Spuffler. He wore a frayed frock-coat; the end of his
-handkerchief was hanging out of his tail-pocket, as usual.
-
-All through the service he gave himself such important airs that the
-clergyman took it for granted that the bride was his daughter.
-
-We jumped into a couple of hansoms and drove down to Verrey’s to lunch.
-The Bantam said he knew he couldn’t afford it, but he was determined to
-have one good meal before he busted. We had a private room set apart
-for us. The Spuffler tasted the best champagne he had drunk since his
-fiasco. It made him reflective. He kept on telling us that life was
-a switchback--an affair of ups and downs. The Bantam cut him short by
-proposing a toast to all the ladies he hadn’t married. And I sat and
-stared at Kitty, with her cornflower eyes and sky-blue dress, and
-wondered where my eyes had been that I hadn’t married her myself.
-
-We went to the Parks and took a boat on the Serpentine. It was there
-that the Bantam let his bomb burst: he was sailing on the _Celtic_,
-via New York, for Canada. He felt sure his father would disown him for
-having spoilt his Oxford opportunities, so he was going to start life
-afresh in a land where no one would remember.
-
-In the autumn, when I returned to Lazarus, I had an opportunity to judge
-how the world treats breakers of convention. No one had a good word
-to say for the Bantam. Everybody was eager to disclaim him as his
-friend--he had married a shop-girl. Yet Halloway, who sinned cavalierly
-without twinge of conscience or attempt at reparation, was spoken
-of, even by persons who had never known him, with a kind of tolerant,
-admiring affection. So much for what this taught me of social morality.
-Playing safe, and not ethical right or wrong, was the standard of
-conventional righteousness.
-
-Star-dust days were drawing to an end. The grim, inevitable facts of
-life were looming larger and nearer. Romance was slowly giving way
-before reality. It was the last year at Oxford for most of the men in
-my set. Conversations began to take a practical turn, as to how a living
-might be earned. For myself, I listened with a languid interest. These
-discussions did not concern my future. I expected that my grandfather
-would continue my allowance. I should not be forced to sell myself by
-doing uncongenial, remunerative kinds of work. I should have time to
-mature. I wanted to make a study of the Renaissance. About twenty years
-hence I should publish a book; then I should be famous. Meanwhile I
-should collect my facts, and probably enter Parliament as member for
-Ransby.
-
-It was wonderful how bravely confident we were. We gazed into the
-future without fear or tremor. We all knew that we were sure of success.
-Already we were picking out the winners--the naturally great men, who
-would arrive at the top of the tree with the first effort. It was
-a belief among us that genius was nothing more than concentrated
-will-power. Then something happened which startled me into a novel
-display of energy.
-
-Ever since leaving the Red House, the Creature had written me once a
-week, usually on a Sunday, with clockwork regularity. One Monday I went
-to the porter’s lodge for my mail and missed his letter. The following
-morning, glancing down the paper, my eye was attracted by a headline
-which read, TRAGIC DEATH OF A SCHOOLMASTER. The news-item announced the
-death of Mr. Murdoch, science master of the Red House. It appeared that
-the boys had gone down to the laboratory to attend the experimental
-chemistry class. On opening the door they had been driven back by a
-powerful smell of gas, but not before they had caught a glimpse of Mr.
-Murdoch fallen in a heap upon the floor. When the room was entered it
-was quite evident that the death was not accidental. Every burner in the
-room was full on, and the ventilators were stopped with rags.
-
-Some days later I received a legal letter informing me that the Creature
-had left a will in my favor. His total estate amounted to three hundred
-pounds. I was requested to call at the lawyer’s office. I got leave of
-absence from my college and went to London. There I learnt that at the
-time that the will had been made, a little over five years ago, the
-value of the estate had been a thousand pounds. Of this I had already
-received over seven hundred, remitted to me by his lawyers from time to
-time according to his instructions. He had originally saved the money
-in order that he might provide for his sister in the event of his dying
-first. On her death, he had executed the present will, making me his
-heir.
-
-So Sir Charles Evrard was not the author of my prosperity! The
-disappointment of the discovery robbed me for an instant of all sense
-of gratitude. I felt almost angry with the Creature for having been the
-innocent cause of all this building of air-castles. This was the second
-time that fortune had led me on to expect, only to trick me when the
-future seemed secure. The uncertainty of everything unnerved me. Life
-seemed to pucker its brows and stare down at me with a frown. All
-the money that had been spent on my education had taught me nothing
-immediately useful--and now I had a living to earn.
-
-Luckily, just about this time, it was suggested to me that, after I had
-taken my Finals, I should enter for some of the history fellowships in
-the autumn. It was expected that I would gain an easy First; if I did
-that, I had a fair chance of winning a fellowship at my own college.
-
-Now that my fool’s paradise had melted into nothingness, I felt the
-spur of necessity, and commenced to work strenuously. Gradually a higher
-motive than the mere hope of reward began to actuate my energy. I wanted
-to be what the Creature had hoped for me. Now that he was gone, he
-became very near to me. He was always haunting my memory. He had robbed
-himself that he might give me my chance. I felt humbled that I should
-have spent his money with so free a hand, while he had been living in
-comparative poverty. I could picture just how he looked that morning
-when the boys burst into the laboratory. His hands were stained with
-chalk. His uncombed hair fell back from his wrinkled forehead. He
-was wearing the same old clothes--the tweed jacket and gray flannel
-trousers--that I knew so well. Probably he looked both tired and dirty,
-and a little disreputable.
-
-I reproached myself for the shortness of my letters to him. I saw now,
-in the light of after events, how I might have been a strength to him.
-He had given me everything; I had given him nothing. His fineness of
-feeling had led him to prevent my gratitude. Never by the slightest hint
-had he left me room to guess that I was beholden to him. And now he was
-beyond reach of thanks.
-
-I recalled how I had teased him as a youngster, and had courted
-popularity at his expense. When I was most angry against myself, I would
-drift back into the class-room where the boys were baiting him, and
-would hear him making his peace-offering, “Penthil, Cardover? Penthil,
-Buzzard? Want a penthil?” And then, in spite of indignation, I had to
-laugh.
-
-When Finals came on I won my First and in the autumn gained a history
-fellowship at Lazarus. It was worth two hundred pounds a year. It
-allowed me ample time to travel and was tenable for seven years, on the
-condition that I did not marry.
-
-
-
-
-BOOK III--THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-
-
-_And behind them a flame burneth: and the land is as the garden of Eden
-before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness._
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I--I MEET HER
-
-
-It was June and wind was in the tree-tops. All the world was rustling
-and birds were calling.
-
-For the past seven months, since the winning of my fellowship, I had
-been over-working and making myself brain-sick with thought. I was
-twenty-three, and had arrived at “the broken-toy age” when a young man,
-having pulled this plaything of a universe to pieces, begins to doubt
-his own omniscience--his capacity to put it together. The more I sought
-help from philosophies, the more I came to see that they were all
-imperfect. No one had yet evolved a theory which had not at some point
-to be bridged by faith--that beautiful optimism which is nothing less
-than the hearsay of the heart. I was all for logic these days.
-
-So, when I heard the June wind laughing in the trees, I tossed my books
-aside. I left my doubts all disorderly upon the shelves to grow dusty,
-and ran away. I would seek for the garden without walls. Having failed
-to find it in libraries, I would search for it through the open country.
-I had only two certainties to guide me--that I was young, and that the
-world was growing lovelier every day.
-
-I came down to quaint little Ransby, perched high and red above the old
-sea-wall. Life was taken so much for granted there. No one inquired into
-its why or wherefore. Everything that happened was accepted with a quiet
-stoicism, as “sent from God.” When the waves rumbled on the shore, they
-said the sea was talking to itself. When a crew sailed out and never
-returned, they said “God took them.” When times were bad, they looked
-back and remembered how times were worse before. No one ever really
-died there, for in the small interests of a quiet community nothing was
-forgotten--all the characteristic differences and shades of personality
-were treasured in memory, and so the dead lived on. Life for them was
-an affair of compensations. “If there weren’t no partin’s, there’d be no
-meetin’s,” my grandmother used to say. And death was explained after the
-same simple fashion. Every pious Ransbyite believed that heaven would be
-another Ransby, with no more storms and an empty churchyard.
-
-I traveled down from London by an afternoon train. Shortly after six we
-struck the Broads, or inland waterways, which now narrow into rivers,
-now widen into lakes, flowing sluggishly through fat marshes to the sea.
-On the left hand as we flashed by, one caught glimpses of the spread
-arms of windmills slowly turning, pumping meadows dry, or jutting
-above gray sedges the ochre-colored sails of wherries plodding like
-cart-horses from Ransby up to Norwich. Startled by the clamor of our
-passage, a lonely heron would spring up and float indignantly away
-into the distant quiet. Now we would come to a field of wheat faintly
-yellowing in the summer sunshine. Between green-gold stalks would flash
-the scarlet of the Suffolk poppy. Across the desecrated silence we
-hurled the grime and commotion of cities, leaving an ugly blur of
-gradually thinning smoke behind.
-
-The evening glow was beginning. Picked out in gold, windows of thatched
-cottages and steeples of sleeping hamlets burnt for an instant splendid
-in the landscape. A child, warned of our approach, clambered on a
-stile, and waved; laborers, plodding homeward with scythes across their
-shoulders, halted to watch us go by. We burst as a disturbing element
-into the midst of these rustic lives; in our sullen hurry, they had
-hardly noticed us before we had vanished.
-
-With the country fragrance of newly-mown hay there began to mingle the
-tar and salt of a seaport. We swayed across the tresseled bridge, where
-the Broads met the harbor. Ozone, smell of fish and sea-weed assailed
-our nostrils. Houses grew up about us. Blunt red chimneys, like
-misshapen thumbs, jabbed the blue of the horizon; above them tall masts
-of ships speared the sky. With rush and roar we invaded the ancient
-town, defiling its Dutch appearance of neatness, and affronting with
-our gadabout swagger its peaceful sense of home-abiding. We came to a
-standstill in the station; all was clatter and excitement.
-
-The visitors’ season was just commencing. The platform was crowded
-with Londoners greeting one another. Drawn up on the other side of the
-platform, parallel with the train, was a line of cabbies, most of whom
-were standing up in their seats, shouting and gesticulating. They had a
-touch of the sea about them--a weatherbeaten look of jolliness.
-
-As I got out, my eye was attracted to a little girl who was climbing
-down from a neighboring compartment. She was unlike any English
-child--she lacked the sturdy robustness. My attention was caught by the
-dainty faeriness of her appearance. She wore a foamy white muslin dress,
-cut very short, with spreading flounces of lace about it. It was caught
-up here and there with pink baby-bows of ribbon. Her delicate arms were
-bare from the elbow. She was small-boned and slender. Her skirt scarcely
-reached to her knees, so that nearly half her tiny height seemed to
-consist of legs. She had the slightness and moved with the grace of
-a child-dancer escaped from a ballet. But what completed her baby
-perfection was the profusion of flaxen curls, which streamed down from
-her shoulders to her waist. She saw me looking at her and laughed up
-with roguish frankness.
-
-Having secured my luggage, I was pushing my way out of the station
-through the long line of visitors and porters, when I saw the child
-standing bewildered by herself. In the crowd she had become separated
-from whoever was taking care of her. I spoke to her, but she was crying
-too bitterly to answer. Setting down my bags, I tried to comfort her,
-saying that I would stay with her till she was found. Suddenly her face
-lit up and she darted from my side. I had a hurried vision of a lady
-pushing her way towards her. While she was stooping to take the little
-girl in her arms, I made off as quickly as I was able. Like my father, I
-detested a scene, and had a morbid horror of being thanked.
-
-How good it was to smell the salt of the sea again. I passed up the
-harbor where the fishing-fleet lay moored against the quay-side, and
-sailormen, with hands deep in trouser-flaps, leant against whatever came
-handiest, pulling meditatively at short clay pipes. The business of the
-day was over. Folk were tenacious of their leisure in Ransby; they had a
-knack, peculiarly their own, of filling the evening with an undercurrent
-sense of gaiety. Though townsmen, they were villagers at heart. When
-work was done, they polished themselves up and sat outside their houses
-or came into the streets to exchange the news of the day. I turned from
-the harbor and passed down the snug quiet street in which stood the
-house with CARDOVER painted above the doorway.
-
-As I approached, the bake-house boy was putting the last shutter into
-place against the window. I entered the darkened shop on tiptoe, picking
-my way through anchors, sacks of ships’ biscuit, and coils of rope, till
-I could peer through the glass-panel of the door into the keeping-room.
-I loved to surprise the little old lady with the gray corkscrew curls
-and rosy cheeks, so that for once she might appear undignified. But, as
-I peered through, I met her eyes.
-
-“Why, Dante, my boy,” she cried, reaching up to put her arms round me,
-“how you have grown!”
-
-I was always a boy to her; she would never let herself think that I had
-ceased to grow, for then I should have ceased to be a child.
-
-We sat down to a typically Ransby meal, which they call high-tea. There
-were Ransby shrimps and Ransby bloaters on the table; everything was of
-local flavor, and most of it was home-made. “You can’t get things like
-them in Lun’non,” Grandmother Cardover said, falling back into her
-Suffolk dialect.
-
-That night we talked of Sir Charles Evrard. Rumor proclaimed that Lord
-Halloway had finally ruined his chances in that direction by his latest
-escapade. It concerned a pretty housemaid at Woadley Hall, and the
-affair had actually been carried on under Sir Charles’s very nose, as
-one might say. The girl was the daughter of a gamekeeper on the estate
-and----! Well there, my Grannie might as well tell me everything!--there
-was going to be a baby. All that was known for certain was that Mr.
-Thomas, the gamekeeper--a ’ighly respectable man, my dear--had gone up
-to the Hall with a whip in his hand and had asked to see Master Denny.
-The old Squire, hearing him at the door, had gone out to give him some
-instructions about the pheasantry. Mr. Thomas had given him a piece of
-his mind. And Sir Charles, having more than he could conveniently do
-with, had made a present to Denny Halloway of a bit of his mind. After
-which Master Denny had left hurriedly for parts unknown. It was said
-that he had returned to Oxford, to read for Holy Orders as a sort of
-atonement. It was my grandmother’s opinion that the marriage-service
-wasn’t much in his line.
-
-So we rambled on, and the underlying hint of it all was that I had come
-to Ransby in the nick of time to make hay while the sun was shining.
-
-“Grannie, you’ll never get me worked up over that again,” I told her.
-
-“Well but, if his Lordship don’t inherit, who’s goin’ to?” she
-persisted. “I tell you, Dante, he’s got to make you his heir--he can’t
-help it. The whole town’s talking about it. Sir Evrard’s bailiff hisself
-was in here to-day and I says to him, ‘Mr. Mobbs, who’s going to be
-master now at Woadley Hall when the dear old Squire dies?’ And he
-answers me respectful-like, ‘It don’t do to be previous about such
-matters, Mrs. Cardover; but if you and me was to speak out our minds,
-I daresay we should guess the same.’ ‘Is Sir Charles as wild with Lord
-Halloway as folks do say?’ I asks him. Like a prudent man he wouldn’t
-commit hisself to words; but he throws up his hands and rolls his eyes.
-Now what d’you think of that? If you knew Mobbs as I know him, you’d see
-it was a sign which way the wind is blowing.”
-
-I was trying to think otherwise. I had banished this expectation from my
-mind and wasn’t anxious to court another disappointment.
-
-“If it happens that way, it will happen that way,” said I.
-
-But my grandmother wasn’t in favor of such indifferent fatalism. She
-loved to picture me in possession of Woadley. She commenced to describe
-to me all its farmlands and broad acres. She spoke so much as if they
-were already mine that at last I began to dream again. So we rambled
-on until at five minutes to midnight the grandfather clock cleared its
-throat, getting ready to strike.
-
-“Lawks-a-daisy me,” she exclaimed, “there’s that clock crocking for
-twelve! How you do get your poor old Grannie on talking!”
-
-We lit our candles and climbed the narrow stairs to bed. Outside my
-bedroom-door she halted. I wondered what else she had to tell me.
-Holding her candle high, so that its light fell down upon her laughing
-face, she made me a mocking courtesy, saying, “Good-night, Sir Dante
-Cardover.”
-
-Next morning I was up early. As I dressed I could smell the bread being
-carried steaming out of the bakehouse. Looking out of my window into the
-red-brick courtyard I could see men’s figures, white with flour-dust,
-going to and fro. The morning was clear and sparkling, as though washed
-clean by rain. The sun was dazzling and the wind was blowing. From the
-harbor came the creaking of sails being hoisted, and the cheery bustle
-of vessels getting under way. Of all places this was home. My spirits
-rose. I laughed, remembering the cobwebs of theories which had tangled
-up my brain. Nothing seemed to matter here, save the wholesome fact of
-being alive.
-
-After breakfast I stepped out into the street and wandered up toward the
-harbor. The townsmen knew me and greeted me as I went by. I caught them
-looking after me with a new curiosity in their gaze. I began to
-wonder whether I had made some absurd mistake in my dressing. I grew
-uncomfortable and had an insane desire to see what kind of a spectacle
-my back presented. I tried to use shop-windows as mirrors, twisting
-my neck to catch glimpses of myself. Then there occurred to me what my
-grandmother had said to me on the previous night. So it _was_ true, and
-all the town was talking about me!
-
-As I approached the chemist shop at the top of the road, Fenwick, the
-chemist, was sunning himself in the doorway.
-
-“Why, Mr. Cardover!” he exclaimed, stepping out on to the pavement
-and seizing my hand with unaccustomed effusiveness. Then, lowering his
-voice, “Suppose you’ve heard about Lord Halloway?”
-
-I nodded.
-
-“It’s lucky to be you,” he added knowingly. “But, there, I always did
-tell your Grannie that luck would turn your way.”
-
-I passed on through the sunshine in a wild elation. What if it were true
-this time? I asked myself. What if it were really true?
-
-Ransby is built like a bent arm, jutting out into the sea, following the
-line of the coast. At the extreme point of the elbow, where I was now
-standing, is the wooden pier, on which the visitors parade. Running
-from the elbow to the shoulder is the sheltered south beach and the
-esplanade, given up to visitors and boarding-houses. These terminate in
-the distance in a steep headland, on which stands the little village
-of Pakewold. On the other side of the pier is the harbor, entering
-or departing out of which fishing vessels and merchantmen may be seen
-almost any hour of the day. From the elbow to the finger tips, running
-northward, is the bleak north beach, gnawed at by the sea and bullied
-by every wind that blows. Here it is that most of the wrecks take place.
-The older portion of the town, climbing northward from the harbor,
-overhangs it, scarred and weather-beaten. Where the town ends, seven
-miles of crumbling gorse-grown cliff continue the barricade.
-
-Separating the town from the north beach, stretch the denes--a broad
-strip of grassy sand, on which fishing-nets are dried. Parallel with
-the denes is the gray sea-wall; and beyond the wall a shingle beach,
-low-lying and defended at intervals by breakwaters. Here the waves are
-continually attacking: on the calmest day there is anger in their moan.
-From far away one can hear the scream of pebbles dragged down as the
-waves recede, the long sigh which follows the weariness of defeat, and
-the loud thunder as the water hurls itself in a renewed attack along the
-coast. On the denes stands a lighthouse, warning vessels not to come too
-close; for, when the east wind lashes itself into a fury, the sea leaps
-the wall and pours across the denes to the foot of the town, like an
-invading host. A vessel caught in the tide-race at such a time, is flung
-far inland and left there stranded when the waves have gone back to
-their place. Facing the denes, lying several miles out in the German
-Ocean, are a line of sand-banks; between them and the shore is a
-channel, known as the Ransby Roads, which affords safe anchorage to
-vessels. Beyond the Roads and out of sight, lies the coast of Holland.
-
-I turned my steps to the northward, passing through the harbor where
-groups of ear-ringed fisher-folk were unloading smacks, encouraging one
-another with hoarse, barbaric cries. I stopped now and then to listen to
-the musical sing-song conversation of East Anglia, so neighborly and so
-kindly. Here and there mounds of silver herring gleamed in the morning
-sunshine. The constant sound of ropes tip-tapping as the breeze stirred
-them, sails flapping and water washing against wooden piles, filled the
-air with the energy and adventure of sturdy life.
-
-The exultation of living whipped the wildness in my veins. As I left
-the harbor, striking out across the denes, I caught the sound of
-breakers--the long, low rumble of revolt. Girls were at work, their hair
-tumbled, their skirts blown about, catching up nets spread out on
-the grass beneath their feet and mending the holes. Some of them were
-singing, some of them were laughing, some of them were silent, dreaming,
-perhaps, of sailor-lovers who were far away.
-
-As I advanced, I left all human sounds behind. The red town, piled high
-on the cliff, grew dwarfed in the distance. I entered into a world of
-nature and loneliness. Larks sprang from under my feet and rose into the
-air caroling. Overhead the besom of the wind was busy, sweeping the
-sky. From cliffs came the shy, old-fashioned fragrance of wall-flowers
-nestling in crannies. Yellow furze ran like a flame through the bracken.
-Far out from shore waves leapt and flashed, clapping their hands in
-the maddening sunshine. My cheeks were damp and my lips were salt with
-in-blown spray. It was one of those mornings of exultation which come to
-us rarely and only in youth, when the joy of the flesh is roused within
-us, we know not why, and every nerve is set tingling with health--and
-the world, as seen through our eyes, clothes itself afresh to symbolize
-the gay abandon of our mood.
-
-The fluttering of something white, low down by the water’s edge, caught
-my attention. Out of sheer idleness I became curious. It was about a
-quarter of a mile distant when I first had sight of it. Just behind it
-lay the battered hull of an old wreck, masts shorn away and leaning
-over on its side. A sea-gull wheeled above the prow, flew out to sea and
-returned again, showing that it had been disturbed and was distressed.
-
-As I approached, I discovered the white thing to be the stooping figure
-of a child; by her hair I recognized her. Her skirts were kilted up
-about her tiny waist and she was bare-legged. I could see no one with
-her, so I waited till she should look up, lest I should frighten her.
-Then, “Hulloa, little ’un,” I shouted. “Going to let me come and play
-with you?”
-
-She spread apart her small legs, like an infant Napoleon, and brushed
-back the curls from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion. She
-looked even prettier and more faery than she had on the previous night.
-
-“Why, you ith the man what found me!” she cried.
-
-She made such speed as she could across the pebbles to greet me. It was
-hard going for her bare little feet. When she came opposite to me, she
-halted with a solemn childish air of dignity. “I want to fank you,” she
-said, “and tho doth Vi.”
-
-She stood gazing at me shyly. When I bent down to take her hand in mine,
-she pursed her mouth, showing me what was expected.
-
-I asked her what she was playing. She shook her curls, at a loss for
-words. “Jest thomething,” she said, and invited me to come and join.
-
-I took her in my arms to save her the rough return journey. She showed
-no fear of me. Soon we were chatting on the lonely beach, firm friends,
-quite gaily together. She showed me the channel she had scooped out,
-leading into the miniature harbor. Every time the surf ran up the shore
-the harbor filled with water. In the basin was a piece of wood, which
-floated when the surf ran in, and stranded when it receded.
-
-“What’s that?” I asked her.
-
-“That’s our thip.”
-
-“What’s the name of our ship?”
-
-“I fordet--it’s the big thip in what we came over.”
-
-“Who’s we?”
-
-“Why, me and Vi.”
-
-We set to work to make the harbor wider, going on our knees side by
-side. I thought of a fine plan--to start the ship at the beginning of
-the channel, that so it might ride in on the in-rush of the water. The
-little girl was delighted and leant over my shoulder, brushing my face
-with her blown about hair, and clapping her hands as she watched
-the success of the experiment. In the excitement of the game, we had
-forgotten about everyone but our two selves, when we heard a voice
-calling, “Dorrie, darling! Dorrie, darling! Are you all right?”
-
-I turned round, but could see no one--only the lonely length of the
-shore and the black wreck blistering in the wind and sunshine.
-
-“Yeth, I’m all right,” piped the little girl.
-
-Then she explained to me, “That wath Vi.”
-
-“And who are you?” I asked her.
-
-“I’m Dorrie.”
-
-For me the zest had gone out of the game. I kept turning my head, trying
-to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice. It had sounded so lazy and
-pleasant that I was anxious to see what Vi looked like; but then I was
-not sure that my company would prove so welcome to a grownup as it had
-to Dorrie. To run away would have looked foolish--as though there were
-something of which to be ashamed; and then there was nowhere to run to
-in that wide open space. Yet my intrusion was so unconventional that I
-did not feel comfortable in staying.
-
-A slim figure in a white sailor dress came out from the wreck. She had
-been bathing, for she wore neither shoes nor stockings, and her hair was
-hanging loose about her shoulders to dry. She started at sight of me,
-and seemed, for a moment, to hesitate as to whether she should retire. I
-rose from my knees, holding Dorrie’s hand, and stood waiting.
-
-I could not help gazing at her; we looked straight into one another’s
-eyes. Hers were the color of violets, grave and loyal. They seemed to
-stare right into my mind, reading all that I had thought and all that I
-had desired. Her face was of the brilliant and transparent paleness that
-goes with fair complexions sometimes. In contrast her lips were scarlet,
-and her brows delicately but firmly penciled. Her features were softly
-molded and regular, her figure upright and lithe. She appeared brimful
-of energy, a good deal of which was probably nervous. And her hair was
-glorious. It was flaxen like Dorrie’s; the salt of the sea had given to
-it a bronzy touch in the shadows. She was neither short nor tall, but
-straight-limbed and superbly womanly. She possessed Dorrie’s own fragile
-daintiness. The likeness between them was extraordinary; I judged them
-at once to be sisters. As for her age, she looked little more than
-twenty.
-
-She stood gazing down on me from the sullen wreck, with La Gioconda’s
-smile, incarnating all the purity of passion that I had ever dreamt
-should be mine. “Gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips,” was the
-thought that described her.
-
-Dorrie cut short our silence. Letting go my hand, she stumbled up the
-beach, explaining the situation in her lisping way. “Deareth, thith
-gentleman hath been playing with me. He’th the man what found me
-yetherday.”
-
-Noticing that neither of us uttered a word, she turned on me
-reproachfully. “I thought you wath kind,” she said. “Come thith minute,
-and thpeak to Vi.”
-
-Her air of baby imperiousness made us smile. That broke the ice.
-
-She placed her arm about Dorrie, hugging her against her side. As I
-came up to the wreck, she held out her hand frankly. “This is very
-unconventional,” she said, “but things sometimes happen this way. I was
-so sorry you wouldn’t stop to let me thank you yesterday. I was hoping
-we would meet again.”
-
-It seemed quite natural to sit down beside this stranger. Usually in the
-presence of women I was tongue-tied and had to rack my brains to think
-what to say. When the opportunity to escape came, I always took it,
-and spent the next hour in kicking myself for having behaved like a
-frightened boy. On this occasion it was quite otherwise. Sprawled out
-in the shadow of the wreck, gazing up into her girlish face while she
-cuddled Dorrie to her, I found myself talking with a fearlessness and
-freedom which I was not aware of at the time.
-
-“You were bathing?”
-
-She shook out her hair. “Looks like it?”
-
-“But you shouldn’t bathe here, you know. It’s dangerous. The south beach
-is the proper place.”
-
-“I’m rather a good swimmer. I’m not afraid.”
-
-“That doesn’t matter. You oughtn’t to do it. You might get drowned. I’m
-awfully serious. I wish you wouldn’t.”
-
-She seemed amused at my concern for her. Yet I knew she liked it. Her
-eyes were saying to me, “Oh, you nice, funny boy! You’ve known me less
-than an hour. If I were to drown, what difference would it make to you?”
- She looked down at Dorrie. “If Vi were to go out there, and sink beneath
-a wave, and never come back again, would Dorrie mind?”
-
-“You won’t,” said Dorrie; “don’t be thtupid.”
-
-We talked about a good many things that morning as the wind blew, and
-the waves broke, and the sun climbed higher. I wanted to find out who
-she was, so that I might make certain of meeting her again.
-
-“Do you live in Ransby?” I asked.
-
-“No. We only arrived yesterday. I never was in England till a week ago.
-We’ve been traveling on the Continent. I wanted a place in which to be
-quiet. I heard someone in the hotel at which we stayed in London talking
-about Ransby. They said it was old-world and bracing--that was why I
-came.”
-
-“I’ve never been out of England in my life,” I said; “I’d like to break
-loose some time.”
-
-“Where would you go?”
-
-When we began to talk of foreign countries, she amazed me with her
-knowledge. She seemed to have been in every country of Europe except
-Russia. Last winter, she told me, she had spent in Rome and the spring
-in Paris. She always spoke as if she had been unaccompanied, except
-for Dorrie. It struck me as strange that so young and beautiful a woman
-should have traveled so widely without an escort or chaperon of any
-kind. I was striving to place her. She spoke excellent English, and yet
-I was certain she was not an Englishwoman. For one thing, her manner in
-conversation with a man was too spontaneous and free from embarrassment.
-She had none of that fear of talking about herself which hampers the
-women of our nation; nor did she seek to flatter me and to hold my
-attention by an insincere interest in my own past history. She had
-an air of self-possession and self-poise which permitted her to make
-herself accessible. I longed to ask her to tell me more about herself,
-but I did not dare. We skimmed the surface of things, evading one
-another’s inquisitiveness with veiled allusions.
-
-The child looked up. “Dorrie’s hungry,” she said plaintively. .
-
-Pulling out my watch I discovered that it was long past twelve. Making
-the greatest haste, I could not get back to my grandmother’s till lunch
-was over.
-
-“You needn’t go unless you want,” said Vi. “I’ve enough for the three of
-us. It was Dorrie and I who delayed you; so we ought to entertain you.
-That’s only fair.”
-
-Dorrie wriggled her toes and clambered over me, insisting that I accept
-the invitation. And so I stayed.
-
-They disappeared for ten minutes inside the wreck; when they came out
-they had completed their dressing. Vi had piled her hair into a
-gold wreath about her head. She was still hatless, but her feet were
-decorously stockinged and shod in a shiny pair of high-heeled slippers.
-
-When the meal was ended, I had told myself, I ought to take my
-departure; but Dorrie gave me an excuse for stopping. She curled herself
-up in my arms, saying she was “tho thleepy.” I could not rise without
-waking her.
-
-When the child no longer kept guard between us, we began to grow
-self-conscious. In the silences which broke up our whispered
-conversation, we took slow glances at one another and, when we caught
-one another’s eyes, looked away sharply. I thought of the miracle of
-what had happened, and wondered if the same thought occupied her mind.
-Here were she and I, who that morning had been nothing to one another;
-by this afternoon every other interest had become dwarfed beside her.
-I knew nothing of her. Most of the words which we had interchanged had
-been quite ordinary. Yet she had revealed to me a new horizon; she had
-made me aware of an unsuspected intensity of manhood, which gave to the
-whole of life a richer tone and more poignant value.
-
-She took her eyes from the sea and looked down at Dorrie. “You hold her
-very tenderly. You are fond of children.”
-
-“I suppose I am; but I didn’t know it until I met your little sister.”
-
-A warm tide of color spread over her pale face and throat. She leant
-over me and kissed Dorrie. When the child opened her eyes she said,
-“Come, darling, it’s nearly time for tea. We must be going.”
-
-I helped her to gather up her things, taking all the time I could in the
-hope that she would ask me to accompany her.
-
-She offered me her hand, saying, “Perhaps we shall meet again.”
-
-“I’m sure I hope so. Ransby is such a little place.”
-
-“Yes, but our movements are so uncertain. I don’t know how long we may
-be staying.”
-
-“At any rate we’ve had a good time to-day.”
-
-“Yes. You have been very kind. I’m sure Dorrie will remember you.
-Good-by.”
-
-I watched them grow smaller across the sands, till they entered into the
-shadow of the cliff. I had a mad impulse to pursue them--to follow them
-at a distance and find out where they lived. How did I know that they
-had not vanished forever out of my life? I called myself a fool for not
-having seized my opportunities, however precipitately, while they were
-mine.
-
-The wreck looked desolate now; all the romance had departed from it.
-The long emptiness of the shore filled me with loneliness. As I walked
-homeward, I strove to memorize her every tone and gesture. Their memory
-might be all that I should ever have of her. I was mortally afraid that
-we should never meet again.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II--I MEET HER AGAIN
-
-Next morning I walked along the north beach in the hope that I might
-catch sight of her. I was sure that she had shared my quickening of
-passion; it was because she had felt it and been frightened by it, that
-she had wakened Dorrie and hurried so abruptly away. I was sufficiently
-vain to assure myself that only the timidity of love could account for
-the sudden scurry of her flight.
-
-With incredible short-sightedness, I had allowed them to leave me
-without ascertaining their surname. My only clue, whereby I might
-trace them, was the abbreviated forms of their Christian names. Dorrie
-probably stood for Dorothy or Dorothea; Vi for Vivian or Violet.
-Directly after breakfast I had studied the visitors’ list in _The
-Ransby Chronicle_, hoping to come across these two Christian names in
-combination with the same surname. My search had been unrewarded, for
-only the initials of Christian names were printed and the V’s and the
-D’s were bewilderingly plentiful.
-
-On approaching the wreck I became oppressed with a nervous sense of the
-proprieties. I was ashamed of intruding myself again. If she were there,
-how should I excuse my coming? That attraction to her was my only motive
-would be all too plain. I had at my disposal none of the social cloaks
-of common interests and common acquaintance, which serve as a rule to
-disguise the primitive fact of a man’s liking for a woman. The hypocrisy
-of pretending that a second meeting in the same place was accidental
-would be evident.
-
-When I got there my fears proved groundless; nervousness was followed by
-disappointment. The shore was deserted. I called Dorrie’s name to make
-my presence known; no answer came. Having reconnoitered the wreck from
-the outside, I entered through a hole in the prow where the beams had
-burst asunder. Then I knew that Vi had been there that morning. The
-surface of the sand which had drifted in had been disturbed. It was
-still wet in places from her bathing and bore the imprint of her
-footsteps, with smaller ones running beside them which were Dorrie’s. I
-must have missed them by less than a hour.
-
-Turning back to Ransby, I determined to spend the rest of the day in
-searching. Surely she must be conscious of my yearning--sooner or
-later, even against her inclination, it would draw her to me. Even
-now, somewhere in the pyramided streets and alleys of the red-roofed
-fishing-town, her steps were moving slower and her face was looking
-back; presently she would turn and come towards me.
-
-All that morning I wandered up and down the narrow streets, agitated
-by unreasonable hopes and fears. Ransby has one main thoroughfare: from
-Pakewold to the harbor it is known as the London Road; from the harbor
-to the upper lighthouse on the cliff it is known as the High Street.
-Leading off from the High Street precipitously to the denes are winding
-lanes of many steps, which are paved with flints; they are rarely more
-than five feet wide and run down steeply between gardens of houses. They
-make Ransby an easy place in which to hide. As I zigzagged to and fro
-between the denes and the High Street by these narrow passages, I was
-tormented with the thought that she might be crossing my path, time and
-again, without my knowing.
-
-At lunch my grandmother inquired whether I had been to Woadley Hall. She
-had noticed how preoccupied I had been since my arrival, and attributed
-it to over-anxiety concerning my prospects with Sir Charles.
-
-“The best thing you can do, my dear,” she said, “is to go along out
-there this afternoon. I’m not at all sure that you oughtn’t to make
-yourself known at the Hall. At any rate, you’ve only got to meet Sir
-Charles and he’d know you directly. There’s not an ounce of Cardover in
-you; you’ve got your mother’s face.”
-
-Falling in love is like committing crime; it tends to make you
-secretive. You will practise unusual deceptions and put yourself to all
-kinds of ridiculous inconvenience to keep the sweet and shameful fact,
-that a woman has attracted you, from becoming known. My grandmother had
-set her heart on my going to Woadley. There was no apparent reason why I
-shouldn’t go. It would be much easier to make the journey, than to
-have to concoct some silly excuse for not having gone. So, with great
-reluctance, I set out, having determined to get there and back with
-every haste, so that I might have time to resume my search for Vi before
-nightfall.
-
-I had been walking upwards of an hour and was descending a curving
-country lane, when I heard the smart trotting of a horse behind. The
-banks rose steeply on either side. The road was narrow and dusty.
-I clambered up the bank to the right among wild flowers to let the
-conveyance go by. It proved to be a two-wheeled governess-car, such as
-ply for hire by the Ransby Esplanade. In it were sitting Dorrie and
-Vi. Vi had her back towards me but, as they were passing, Dorrie caught
-sight of me. She commenced to shout and wave, crying, “There he ith.
-There he ith.” They were going too fast on the downgrade to draw up
-quickly, and so vanished round a bend. Then I heard that they had
-halted.
-
-As I came up with the conveyance, Dorrie reached out her arms
-impulsively and hugged me. She was all excitement. Before anything could
-be said, she began to scold me. “Naughty man. I wanted you to play thips
-with me thith morning, like you did yetherday.”
-
-I was looking across the child’s shoulder at Vi. Her color had risen.
-I could swear that beneath her gentle attitude of complete control her
-heart was beating wildly. Her eyes told a tale. They had a startled,
-frightened, glad expression, and were extremely bright.
-
-“I should have liked to play with you, little girl,” I said, “but I
-didn’t know where you were staying. I looked for you this morning, but
-couldn’t find you.”
-
-“Dorrie seems to think that you belong to her,” said Vi, in her laughing
-voice. “She’s a little bit spoilt, you know. If she wants anything, she
-wants it badly. She can’t wait. So, when we didn’t run across you, she
-began to worry herself sick. If we hadn’t found you, I expect there’d
-have been an advertisement in to-morrow’s paper for the young man who
-played ships with a little girl on the north beach.”
-
-“You won’t go away again,” coaxed Dorrie, patting my face.
-
-“Where are you walking?” asked Vi.
-
-“To Woadley.”
-
-“That’s where we’re going, so if you don’t mind the squeeze, you’d
-better get in and ride.”
-
-A governess-car is made to seat four, but they have to be people of
-reasonable size. The driver’s size was not reasonable. Good Ransby ale
-and a sedentary mode of life had swelled him out breadthwise, so that
-there was no room left on his side of the carriage except for a child;
-consequently I took my seat by Vi.
-
-The driver thought he knew me, but was still a little doubtful in his
-mind. With honest, Suffolk downrightness, he immediately commenced to
-ask questions.
-
-“You bain’t a Ransby man, be you, sir?”
-
-“I’m a half-and-half.”
-
-“Thought I couldn’t ’a’ been mistooken. I’ve lived in Ransby man and
-boy, and I never forgets a face. Which ’alf of you might be Ransby?”
-
-“I’m Ransby all through on my parents’ side, but I’ve lived away.”
-
-“Why, you bain’t Mr. Cardover, be you--gran’son to old Sir Charles?”
-
-“You’ve guessed right.”
-
-“Well, I never! And to think that you should be goin’ to Woadley! Why, I
-knew your Ma well, Mr. Cardover; The gay Miss Fannie Evrard, we called
-’er. Meanin’ no disrespec’ to you, sir, I was groom to Miss Fannie all
-them years ago, before she run away with your father. She were as nice
-and kind a mistress as ever a man might ’ope to find. It’s proud I am
-to meet you this day.”
-
-As we bowled along through the leafy country, all shadows and sunshine,
-he fell to telling me about my mother, and I was glad to listen to
-what he had to say. The story had been told often before. By his
-inside knowledge of the elopement, he had acquired that kind of local
-importance which money cannot buy. It had provided him with the one
-gleam of lawless romance that had kindled up the whole of his otherwise
-dull life. According to his account, the marriage would never have come
-off, unless he had connived at the courting. My mother, he said, took
-him into her confidence, and he was the messenger between her and my
-father. He would let my father know in which direction they intended to
-ride. When they came to the place of trysting, he would drop behind and
-my mother would go on alone. He pointed with his whip to some of the
-meeting-places with an air of pride. He was godfather, as you might say,
-to the elopement. After it had taken place, Sir Charles had discovered
-his share in it, and had dismissed him. The word had gone the round
-among the county gentry--he had never been able to find another
-situation. So he had bought himself a governess-car and pony, and had
-plied for hire. “And I bain’t sorry, sir,” he said. “If it were to do
-again, I should be on the lovers’ side. I’m only sorry I ’ad to take
-to drivin’ instead o’ ridin’; it makes a feller so ’eavy.”
-
-Vi laughed at me out of the corners of her eyes. She had listened
-intently. I felt, without her telling me, that this little glimpse into
-my private history had roused her kindness. And the affair had its comic
-side--that this mountain of flesh sitting opposite should be my first
-ambassador to her, bearing my credentials of respectability.
-
-“Ha’ ye heerd about Lord Halloway?” he inquired.
-
-I nodded curtly. Encouraged by my former sympathetic attention, he
-failed to take the intended warning.
-
-“Thar’s a young rascal for ye, for all ’e ’olds ’is ’ead so
-’igh! Looks more’n likely now that you’ll be the nex’ master o’
-Woadley. Doan’t it strike you that way, sir?”
-
-When I maintained silence, he carried on a monologue with himself. “And
-’e war goin’ to Woadley, he war. And I picks ’un up by h’axcident
-like. And I war groom to ’is ma. Wery strange!”
-
-But there were stranger things than that, to my way of thinking: and
-the strangest of all was my own condition of mind. A golden, somnolent
-content had come over me, as though my life had broken off short, and
-commenced afresh on a higher plane. Every motive I had ever had for good
-was strengthened. The old grinding problems were either solved or seemed
-negligible. I saw existence in its largeness of opportunity, and I
-saw its opportunity in a woman’s eyes. It was as though I had been
-colorblind, and had been suddenly gifted with sight so penetrating that
-it enabled me to look into exquisite distances and there discern all the
-subtle and marvelous disintegrations of light.
-
-As the car swung round corners or rattled over rough places, our bodies
-were thrown into closer contact as we sat together, Vi and I. Now her
-shoulder would lurch against mine; now she would throw out her hand
-to steady herself, and I would wonder at its smallness. I watched the
-demure sweetness of her profile, and how the sun and shadows played
-tricks with her face and throat. The fragrance of her hair came to me. I
-followed the designed daintiness of the little gold curls that clustered
-with such apparent carelessness against the whiteness of her forehead. I
-noticed the flicker of the long lashes which hid and revealed her
-eyes. How perishable she was, like a white hyacinth, or a summer’s
-morning--and how remotely divine.
-
-And the tantalizing fascination of it all was that I must be restrained.
-She might escape me any day.
-
-In a hollow of the country from between the hedges, Woadley crept into
-sight. First we saw the gray Norman tower of the church, smothered
-in ivy; then the thatched roofs of the outlying cottages; then the
-sun-flecked whiteness of the village-walls, with tall sunflowers and
-hollyhocks peeping over them.
-
-As we passed the churchyard the driver slowed down. “Thar’s the last
-place your father met ’er, Mr. Cardover, before they run away. It
-war a summer evenin’ about this time o’ the year, and they stayed for
-upwards o’ an hour together in the porch. She’d told old Sir Charles
-that she war goin’ to put flowers on ’er mawther’s grave. Aye, but she
-looked beautiful; she war a fine figure o’ a lady.”
-
-I told him I would alight there. He was closing the door, on the point
-of driving on, when I said to Vi, “Wouldn’t you like to get out as well?
-The church is worth a visit.”
-
-She gave me her hand and I helped her down. The governess-car went
-forward to the village inn.
-
-They had been scything the grass in the churchyard and the air was full
-of its cool fragrance. Dorrie ran off to gather daisies in a corner
-where it still stood rank and high.
-
-We walked up the path together to the porch and tried the door. It was
-locked. We turned away into the sunlight, where dog-roses climbed over
-neglected graves and black-birds fluttered from headstones to bushes,
-from bushes to the moss-covered surrounding walls.
-
-It was Vi who broke the pleasant silence. “I hope you didn’t mind the
-man talking.”
-
-“Not at all. I expect I should have told you myself by and by.”
-
-“Your mother must have been very beautiful. I like to think of her.
-All this country seems so different now I know about her; it was so
-impersonal before. Was--was she happy afterwards?”
-
-I told her. I told her much more than I realized at the time. So few
-people had ever cared to hear me talk about her, and for all of them
-she was something past--dead and gone. My grandmother talked of her as
-a lottery-ticket; so did the Spuffler; at home we never mentioned her at
-all. Yet always she had been a real presence in my life. I felt jealous
-for her; it seemed to me that she must be glad when we, whom she had
-loved, remembered her with kindness.
-
-Dorrie came back to us with her lap full of flowers. Seeing that we were
-talking seriously, she seated herself quietly beside us and commenced to
-weave the flowers into a chain.
-
-The gate creaked. Footsteps came up the path. They paused; seemed to
-hesitate; came forward again. Behind us they halted. Turning my head,
-I saw an erect old man, white-haired, standing hat in hand, his back
-toward us, regarding a weather-beaten grave.
-
-We rose, instinctively feeling our presence irreverent. My eye caught
-the name on the headstone of the grave:
-
-                   MARY FRANCES EVRARD
-
-               BELOVED WIFE OF SIR CHARLES EVRARD
-
-                   OF WOADLEY HALL
-
-The old gentleman put on his hat, preparing to move away. Recognizing
-our intention to give him privacy, he turned and bowed with stiff,
-old-fashioned courtesy.
-
-I gazed on him fascinated. It was the first time I had seen my
-grandfather. His eyes fell full on my face.
-
-His was one of the most remarkable faces I have ever gazed on. He was
-clean shaven; his skin was ashy. His features were ascetic, boldly
-chiseled and yet sensitively fine. They seemed to remodel themselves
-with startling rapidity to express the thought that was passing in
-his mind. The forehead was bony, high, and wrinkled. The nose was
-large-nostriled and aquiline. The eye-brows were shaggy; beneath
-them burnt sparks of fire, steady and almost cruel in their scorching
-penetration. From the nostrils to the corners of the mouth two heavy
-lines cut deep into the flesh, creating an expression of haughty
-contemplation and aloof sadness. The mouth was prominent, fulllipped,
-and almost sensual, had it not been so delicately shaped. The chin
-was long, pointed, and sank into the breast. It was an actor’s face,
-a poet’s face, a rejected prophet’s face, according to the mood which
-animated it. When the lines deepened into sneering melancholy and the
-corners of the large mouth drooped, it became almost Jewish. The strong
-will that was always striving to cast the outward appearance into an
-expression of immobile pride, was continually being thwarted by the
-man’s quivering, abnormal capacity to feel and to be wounded.
-
-He stared at me in troubled amazement. Yearning, despairing tenderness
-fought its way into his eyes; for an instant, his whole expression
-relaxed and softened. He had recognized my mother in me and was
-remembering. He made a step towards me. Then his face went rigid again.
-The skin drew tight over the cheek-bones. Setting his hat firmly on his
-head, he turned upon his heel. At the gate he looked back once, against
-his will. Then he passed out resolutely and vanished down the road.
-
-Twilight was gathering as we drove back to Ransby. Rays of the sun crept
-away from us westward through the meadows, like golden snakes. Vi and I
-were silent--the presence of the driver put a constraint upon us.
-
-He had a good deal to say, for he had warned all the village of my
-arrival, and all the village, furtively from behind curtained windows,
-had watched Sir Charles’s journey to and from the churchyard.
-
-It had been pleasant at the inn to hear myself addressed as “Miss
-Fannie’s son.” The windows of the low-ceilinged room in which we had
-had our tea, faced out on the tall iron gates which gave entrance to
-the park. Far up the driveway, hidden behind elms, we had just caught
-a glimpse of Woadley Hall. And all the while we were eating, the
-broad-hipped landlady had stood guard over us, talking about my mother
-and the good old days. She had mistaken Vi for my wife at first; in
-speaking to Dorrie she had referred to me as “your Papa.” Up to the last
-she had persisted in including Vi and Dorrie in her prophecies for my
-future. She never doubted that Vi and I were engaged. She assured us
-that she ’oped to see us at the ’All one day, and a ’andsome
-couple we would make.
-
-At the time we had been abashed by her conversation, and had drunk our
-tea in flustered fashion with our eyes in our cups. We had hated this
-big complacent person for her clumsy, interfering kindness. But now,
-as the little carriage threaded its way through dusky lanes, her errors
-gave rise to a pleasant train of imaginings. I saw Vi as my wife--as
-Lady Cardover, mistress of Woadley Hall. I planned the doings of
-our days, from the horse-back ride in the early morning to the quiet
-evenings together by the cozy fire. And why could it not be possible?
-
-Country lovers, unashamed, with arms encircling one another, drew aside
-to let us pass, as our lamps flashed down the road. Night birds were
-calling. Meadowsweet and wild thyme spread their fragrance abroad. As
-the wind blew inland, between great silences, it carried to our ears the
-moan of the sea. While twilight hovered in the open spaces Dorrie, since
-no one talked to her, kept up an undercurrent song:
-
-                   “How far is it to Babylon?
-
-                   _Three score miles and ten_.
-
-                   Can I get there by candlelight?
-
-                   _Ah yes,--and back again._”
-
-As night crept on, the piping little voice grew indistinct and
-murmurous, like a bee humming; the fair little head nodded and sank
-against the arm of the bulky driver. Vi leant forward to lift her into
-her lap; but I took Dorrie from her. With the child in my arms, for the
-first time the desire to be a father came over me. In thinking of what
-love might mean, I had never thought of that.
-
-We entered Ransby at the top of the High Street and drew up outside an
-old black flint house. Vi got out first and rang the bell. When the door
-opened, I put Dorrie into her arms. I bent over and kissed the sleeping
-child. Vi drew back her head sharply; my lips had passed so near to
-hers. We faced one another on the threshold. The light from the hall,
-falling on her face, showed me that her lips were parted as though she
-had something that she was trying to get said. Then, “Good-night.” she
-whispered, and the door closed behind her.
-
-I crossed the street and wandered to and fro, watching the house. All
-the front was in darkness; her rooms must be at the back. I was greedy
-for her presence; if I could only see her shadow pass before a window I
-would be content. With the closing of the door, she seemed to have shut
-me out of her life. There was so much to say, and nothing had been said.
-
-I turned out of the High Street down a long dark score, toward the
-beach. Walls rose tall on either side. The salt wind, hurrying up
-the narrow passage, struck me in the face and caused the gas-lamps
-to quiver. Far down the tunnel at the end of the steps lay a belt of
-blackness, and beyond that the tossing lights of ships at sea.
-
-Reaching the Beach Road, I passed over the denes. The town stretched
-tall across the sky, like a shadowy curtain through which peered golden
-eyes. The revolving light of the lighthouse on the denes pointed a long
-white finger inland, till its tip rested on the back of Vi’s house. I
-fancied I saw her figure at the window. The finger swept on in a circle
-out to sea, leaving the town in darkness. The upper-light on the cliff
-replied, pointing to the place where I was standing, making it bright as
-day. If she were still at the window, she would be able to see me as
-I had seen her. Next time her window was illumined she had vanished. I
-watched and waited; she did not return.
-
-I roamed along the shore towards the harbor, purposeless with desire.
-The sea, like a blind old man, kept whimpering to itself, trying to drag
-itself up the beach, clutching at the sand with exhausted fingers.
-
-Wearied out with wandering, I turned my steps homeward. The shop looked
-so dark that I was ashamed to ring the bell lest they had all retired.
-I tapped on the shutters, and heard a shuffling inside; my grandmother
-opened the door to me. She was in her dressing-gown and a turkey-red
-petticoat. The servant had been in bed some hours.
-
-In the keeping-room I found a supper spread. Instead of being annoyed,
-she was bubbling over with excitement. She could not sit down, but
-stood over my chair while I ate; she was sure something wonderful had
-happened.
-
-“So you saw Sir Charles, my boy, and he recognized you! Tell me
-everything, chapter and verse, with all the frills and furbelows.”
-
-I had not much that I could tell, but I spread it out to satisfy her.
-
-“And what did you think of ’im?” she asked. “Isn’t he every inch the
-aristocrat?”
-
-“Yes. But why is he so dark? There are times when he looks almost
-Jewish.”
-
-“Why, my dear, that’s ’cause he’s got gipsy-blood. His mother was one
-of the Goliaths. Didn’t your father ever tell you that? Seems to me he
-don’t tell you nothing. You have to come to your poor old Grannie
-to learn anything. Why, yes, old Sir Oliver Evrard, his father, your
-greatgrandfather, fell in love with a gipsy fortune-teller and married
-’er. Ever since then the gipsies have been allowed to camp on Woadley
-Ham. They do say that it was the wild gipsy streak that made your mother
-do what she did. But there--that’s a long story. It’ll keep. We’d better
-go to bed.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III--FATE
-
-I could not understand Vi. It would seem that she was trying to avoid
-me. If I met her in the street she was usually driving and, while she
-bowed and smiled, never halted. I took many strolls by her house, hoping
-to catch her going in or out. I think she must have watched me. Once
-only, when she thought the coast was clear, I came upon her just as she
-was leaving the house. She saw me and flushed gloriously; then pretended
-that she had not seen me and re-entered, closing the door hurriedly
-behind her.
-
-After that I gave up my pursuit of her. It seemed not
-straightforward--too much like spying. I kept away from the places
-she was likely to frequent. Wandering the quays, where there were only
-sailors and red-capped Brittany onion-sellers, I racked my brains,
-trying to recall in what I had offended. I felt no resentment for Vi’s
-conduct. It never occurred to me that she was a coquette. I thought
-that she might be actuated by a woman’s caution, and gave her credit
-for motives of which I had no knowledge. The more she withdrew beyond my
-attainment, the more desirable she became to me.
-
-My grandmother noticed my fallen countenance and concluded that Sir
-Charles’s indifference was the cause of it. She tried to cheer me with
-fragments of wise sayings which had helped her to keep her courage. She
-told me that there were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it.
-She even feigned contempt for Sir Charles, saying that I should probably
-be just as happy without his begrudged money. She resorted to religion
-for comfort, saying that if God didn’t intend me to inherit Woadley, it
-was because it wouldn’t be good for me. She painted for me the pleasures
-of the contented life:
-
-               “No riches I covet, no glory I want,
-
-               H’ambition is nothing to me;
-
-               The one thing I beg of kind ’eaven to grant
-
-               Is a mind independent and free.”
-
-But she couldn’t stir me out of my melancholy, for she didn’t know its
-cause. She physicked me for financial disappointments; what I wanted was
-a love-antidote.
-
-As my whole energies had formerly been bent on encountering Vi, so now
-they were directed towards avoiding her. For hours I would lounge in
-the bake-house or sit in the shop while Grandmother Cardover did her
-knitting, served customers, or gossiped with her neighbors. Then,
-against my better judgment, curiosity and longing for one more glimpse
-of her would drag me out into the streets. Yet, once in the streets, my
-chief object was to flee from her.
-
-Now when I should have refrained from pestering her, some obstinate fate
-was always bringing us face to face. I was sorriest for the effect that
-our attitude was having on Dorrie. At first she would rush forward in
-a gale of high spirits to greet me, until restrained by Vi. Next time,
-with a child’s forgetfulness, she would lift to me her pansy-face
-smiling, and remembering would hang back. At last she grew afraid of my
-troubled looks, and would hide shyly behind Vi’s skirts when she saw me.
-
-For five days I had not met them. A desperate suspicion that they had
-left town grew upon me. I became reckless in my desire for certainty.
-I could not bear the suspense. I was half-minded to call at the house
-where she had been staying, but that did not seem fair to her. I called
-myself a fool for not having stopped her in the street while I had the
-chance, when an explanation and an apology might have set everything on
-a proper footing.
-
-On the sixth morning of her absence I rose early and went out before
-breakfast. The skies were gray and squally. A slow drizzle had been
-falling all night and, though it now had ceased, the pavements were wet.
-The wind came in gusts, whistling round corners of streets and houses,
-whirling scraps of paper high in the air. When I came to the harbor, I
-saw that the sea was choppy and studded with white horses. Against the
-piles of the pier waves were dashing and shattering into spray. From up
-channel, all along the horizon, drove long lines of leaden clouds.
-
-I struck out across the denes between the sea-wall and the Beach
-Road. No one was about. I braced myself against the wind, enjoying its
-stinging coldness. The tormented loneliness of the scene was in accord
-with my mood. The old town, hanging red along the cliff, no longer
-seemed to watch me; it frowned out on the desolate waste of water in
-impersonal defiance.
-
-My thoughts were full of that first morning when I had met her. I gave
-my imagination over without restraint to reconstructing its sensuous
-beauty. I saw the fire of the furze again, and scented the far-blown
-fragrance of wall-flowers, hiding in their crannies. But I saw as the
-center of it all the slim white girl with the mantle of golden hair,
-the deep inscrutable eyes of violet, and the slow sweet smile of _La
-Gioconda_ playing round the edges of her mouth: gold and ivory, with
-poppies for her lips and sunshine for a background.
-
-The hot blood in me was up--the gipsy blood. A stream of impassioned
-fancies passed before me. Ah, if I were to meet her now, I would have
-done with fine-spun theories of what was gentlemanly. On the lonely
-beach I would throw my arms about her, however she struggled, and
-hold her fast till she lay with her dear face looking up, crushed and
-submissive in my breast. After that she might leave me, but she would at
-least have learnt that I was a man and that I loved her.
-
-Ahead lay the sullen wreck. I had been there only once since our first
-meeting. Motives of delicacy, which I now regretted, had held me back.
-Now I could go there. On such a morning, though she were still in
-Ransby, there would be no fear of surprising her.
-
-On entering the hull through the hole in the prow, the wind ceased,
-though it whistled overhead. I leant against the walls of the stranded
-ship, recovering my breath. I drew out my pipe, intending to take a
-smoke while I rested. As I turned to strike a match, an open umbrella
-lying in a corner on the sand, caught my attention. I went over and
-looked behind it; there lay a pair of woman’s shoes and stockings, and a
-jacket, with stones placed on it to keep it down. Beneath the jacket was
-a disordered pile of woman’s clothing.
-
-My first thought was shame of what she might think of me, were she to
-find me. My second was of angry fear because she had been so foolhardy
-as to bathe from such a shore on such a morning.
-
-Hurrying out of the wreck, I strode across the beach to where the
-surf rushed boiling up the pebbles. The waves ran high, white, and
-foam-capped, hammering against the land. Gazing out from shore, I could
-see nothing but leaden water, rising and falling, rising and falling.
-The height of the waves might hide a swimmer from one standing at the
-water’s level; I raced back up the beach, and climbed the wreck. I could
-not discover her. The horror of what this meant stunned me; I could
-think of nothing else. My mind was in confusion. Then I heard my voice
-repeating over and over that she was not dead. The sheer monotony of the
-reiterated assertion, produced a sudden, unnatural clearness. “If she is
-not drowned, she must be somewhere out there,” I said.
-
-I commenced to sweep the sea with my eyes in ever widening circles. Two
-hundred yards down the shore to the left and about fifty out, I sighted
-something. It was white and seemed only foam at first. The crest of a
-wave tossed it high for a second, then shut it out; when the next wave
-rose it was still there.
-
-I shouted, but my voice would not carry against the wind. The next time
-the white thing rose on the crest I was sure that it was the face of a
-woman. I saw her arm thrown out above the surface; she was swimming the
-overarm stroke in an effort to make headway toward the land. I knew
-that she could never do it, for the current along the north beach runs
-seawards and the tide was going out. I gazed round in panic. The shore
-was forlorn and deserted. Behind me to the northward stretched the
-gaunt, bare cliffs. To the southward, a mile distant across the denes,
-stood the outskirts of the sleepy town. Before ever I could bring help,
-she would have been carried exhausted far out to sea, or else drowned.
-There was no boat on the shore between myself and the harbor. There was
-nothing between her and death but myself. And to go to her rescue meant
-death.
-
-I scarcely know what happened. I became furious with unreasonable anger.
-I was angry with her for her folly, and angry with the world because it
-took no notice and did not care. I was determined that, before it was
-too late, I would go to her, so that she might understand. Yet, despite
-my passion, I acted with calculation and cunning. All my attention
-was focused on that speck of white, bobbing in the waste of churned up
-blackness. As I ran along the beach I kept my eyes fixed on that. When I
-came opposite, I waved to it. It took no notice. I hurried on a hundred
-yards further; the current would bear her down towards me northwards. I
-stripped almost naked, tearing off everything that would weigh me down.
-I waded knee-deep into the surf, up to where the beach shelved suddenly.
-I waited till a roller was on the point of breaking; diving through it,
-I struck out.
-
-It was difficult to see her. Only when the waves threw us high at the
-same moment, did I catch a glimpse of her and get my direction.
-The shock of the icy coldness of the water steadied my nerves and
-concentrated my purpose. I was governed by a single determination--to
-get to her. My thought went no further than that. Nothing else mattered.
-I had no fear of death or of what might come after--I had no time to
-think about it. I wanted to get her in my arms and shake her, and tell
-her what a little fool she was, and kiss her on the mouth.
-
-Lying on my right side, keeping low in the water, I dug my way forward
-with an over-arm left-stroke. As my first wind went from me and I waited
-for my second, I settled down into the long plugging stroke of a mile
-race. The tide was with me, but the roughness of the water prevented
-rapid progress. I had to get far enough out to be at the point below her
-in the current to which she was being swept down.
-
-I started counting from one to ten to keep myself from slackening, just
-as the cox of a racing-eight does when he forces his crew to swing out.
-I regarded my body impersonally, without sympathy, as though we were
-separate. When it suffered and the muscles ached, I lashed it forward
-with my will, silently deriding it with brutal profanities. The wind
-poured over the sea; the spray dashed up and nearly choked me. It was
-difficult to keep her in sight. When I saw her again, I smiled grimly at
-her courage and hit up a quicker pace. Who would have thought that her
-fragile body, so flower-like and dainty, had the strength and nerve to
-fight like that?
-
-I was far enough out now to catch her. I halted, treading water; but
-the inaction gave my imagination time to get to work, and, when that
-happened, I felt myself weakening. I started up against the current,
-going parallel with the beach, to meet her. The one obsessing thought
-in my mind was to get to her. It was not so much a thought as an animal
-instinct. I was reduced to the primitive man, brutally battling his way
-towards his mate at a time of danger. While I acted instinctively, the
-flesh responded; directly I paused to think, my body began to shirk and
-my strength to ebb. Somewhere in that raging waste of water I must find
-and touch her. I did not care to hear her voice--simply to hold her.
-
-Thirty feet away a gray riot of stampeding water rose against the
-horizon; in it I saw her face. With the swift trudging stroke of a
-polo-player I made towards her. In the foam and spray I saw what looked
-like golden seaweed. She was drifting past me; I caught her by the hair.
-Out of the mist of driven chaos we gazed in one another’s eyes. Her lips
-moved. “You!” she said.
-
-My mind was laughing in triumph. My body was no longer weary--it was
-forgotten and strong again. In all the world there were just she and I.
-She had tried to escape me, but now the waves jostled us together. She
-had striven not to see me, but now my face focused all her gaze. She
-might look away into the smoking crest of the next roller, but her eyes
-must always come back. Of all live things we had loved or hated,
-now there remained just she and I. We had been stripped of all our
-acquirements and thrown back to the primitive basis of existence--a
-man and a woman fighting for life in chaos. For us all the careful
-conventions, built up by centuries, were suddenly destroyed. The polite
-decencies and safeguards of civilization were swept aside. The shame of
-so many natural things, which had made up the toll of our refinement,
-was contemptuously blotted out--the architecture of the ages was
-shattered in an instant. We were thrown back to where the first man
-and woman started. The only virtue that remained to us was the physical
-strength by which death might be avoided. The sole distinguishing
-characteristic between us was the female’s dependence on the male, and
-the male’s native instinct to protect her, if need be savagely with his
-life. Over there, a mile away, stood the red comfortable town on the
-cliff, where all the smug decencies were respected which we had perforce
-abandoned. Between us and the shore stretched fifty yards of water--a
-gulf between the finite and the infinite. Over there lay the moment of
-the present; here in eternity were she and I.
-
-I gazed on her with stern gladness; I had got to her--she was mine. The
-madness for possession, which had given me strength, was satisfied. Now
-a fresh motive, still instinctive and primal, urged me on--I must save
-her. I lifted her arm and placed it across my shoulder, so that I might
-support her. The great thing was to keep her afloat as long as possible.
-There was no going back over the path that we had traversed--both
-tide and current were dead against us. Already the shore was stealing
-away--we were being carried out to sea.
-
-I remembered, how on that first morning, when I had warned her against
-bathing from the north beach, she had told me she was a good swimmer. In
-my all-embracing ignorance of her, I had no means of estimating how
-much or how little that meant. For myself, barring accidents, I judged I
-could keep going for two hours.
-
-Vi was weakening. With her free left hand she was still swimming
-pluckily, but her right hand kept slipping off my shoulder; I had to
-watch her sharply and lift it back. Her weight became heavier. Her lips
-were blue and chattering. I noticed that her fingers were spread apart;
-she had cramp in the palms of her hands. Her body dragged beside me; she
-was losing control of it. She was no longer kicking out.
-
-To talk, save in monosyllables, was impossible, and then one had to
-shout. Our ears were stopped up with water; the clash of the wind
-against the waves was deafening. My one fear for her was that the cramp
-would spread. If that happened, we would go down together.
-
-I felt her cold lips pressed against my shoulder. As I looked round, she
-let go of me. “I’m done,” she said.
-
-She went under. I slipped my arm about her and turned over on my back,
-so that my body floated under her, and she lay across my breast. “You
-shan’t go,” I panted furiously.
-
-“Let me,” she pleaded.
-
-But I held her. “You shan’t go,” I said.
-
-My anger roused her. I turned over again, swimming the breast-stroke.
-She placed her arm round my neck. Her long hair washed about me.
-
-Sometimes her eyes were closed and I thought she had fainted. Her lips
-had ceased to chatter. Her face lay against my shoulder, pinched and
-quiet as though she were dead. My own motions were becoming mechanical.
-It was sheer lust of life that kept me going. I had lost sensation in my
-feet and hands. The shore had dwindled behind us; it seemed very small
-and blurred, though it was probably only half-a-mile distant. The water
-was less turbulent now; it rose and fell, rose and fell, with a rocking
-restfulness. I felt that I would soon be sleeping soundly. But in the
-midst of drowsing, my mind would spring up alert and I would drag her
-arm closer about my neck.
-
-Above the clamor of the waves I heard a shout. At first I thought that I
-had given it myself. I heard it again; it was unmistakable.
-
-Looking up out of the trough of a wave, I saw a patched sail hanging
-over us. My sight was misty; the sail was indistinct and yet near me. As
-I rose on the crest, a hand grabbed me and I felt myself lifted out on
-to a pile of nets.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV--THE TRUTH ABOUT HER
-
-
-Thar, lad, lie still. Yow’ll be ’ome direc’ly.”
-
-The gray-bearded man at the tiller smiled to me in a friendly manner. He
-didn’t seem at all excited, but took all that had happened stoically,
-as part of the day’s work. Seeing me gaze round questioningly, he added,
-“The lassie’s well enough, Mr. Cardover. She’ll come round. A mouthful
-o’ salt water won’t ’urt ’er.”
-
-I wondered vaguely how he knew my name. Then, as my brain cleared, I
-remembered him as one of the fishermen who called in at my grandmother’s
-shop for an occasional chat, seated on a barrel.
-
-I raised myself on my elbow. We were rounding the pier-head, running
-into the harbor. I was in a little shrimping-boat. The nets hung out
-over the stern. The old man at the tiller was in oilskins and a younger
-man was shortening sail.
-
-I felt sick, and giddy, and stiff. A tarpaulin was thrown over me. I
-tried to recollect how I came there. Then I saw Vi lying near me in the
-bows. A sailor’s coat was wrapped about her. Her hair lay piled in a
-golden heap over her white throat and breast. Her eyes were closed. The
-blueness of the veins about her temples enhanced her pallor. I made
-an effort to crawl towards her; but the motion of the boat and my own
-weakness sent me sprawling.
-
-People from the pier-head had seen us. As we stole up the harbor,
-questions were shouted to the man at the tiller and answers shouted
-back. When we drew in at the quayside an excited crowd had gathered.
-To every newcomer the account was given of how Joe Tuttle, as ’e war
-a-beating up to the ’arbor, comed across them two a-driftin’ off the
-nor’ beach, ’alf a mile or so from land.
-
-Coats were torn off and folded round us. Someone was sent ahead to warn
-neighbor Cardover of what she must expect. Vi was tenderly lifted out
-and carried down the road in the arms of Joe Tuttle. I was hoisted like
-a sack across the shoulders of our younger rescuer. Accompanying us was
-a shouting, jabbering, eager crowd, anxious to tell everyone we passed
-what had happened. My most distinct recollection is the shame I felt of
-the bareness of my dangling legs.
-
-The tramp of heavy feet invaded the shop. I heard the capable voice
-of Grandmother Cardover getting rid of sightseers. “Now then, my good
-people, there’s nothing ’ere for you. Out you go; you’re not wanted in
-my shop. Thank goodness, we can worry along without your ’elp.” Then
-I heard her in a lower voice giving directions for us to be carried
-upstairs.
-
-Hot blankets, brought from the bake-house oven, were soon about me and I
-was tucked safe in bed. I have a faint recollection of the doctor coming
-and of hot spirits being forced down my throat. Then they left me alone
-and I fell into the deep sleep of utter weariness.
-
-When I awoke, the room was in darkness and a fire was burning. I felt
-lazy and comfortable. I turned on my side and found that I was alone.
-I began to think back. The thought that filled my mind seemed a
-continuation of what I had been dreaming. I was in the trough of a wave,
-the sea was washing over me, Vi’s arm was heavy about my neck, and her
-lips were kissing my shoulder. I looked round; her eyes shone into mine,
-and her hair swayed loose about her like the hair of a mermaiden. I
-listened. There were footsteps on the stair. The door opened and my
-grandmother tiptoed to the bed.
-
-I raised myself up. The torpor cleared from my brain. Before the
-question could frame itself, my grandmother had answered it. “She’s all
-right, Dante; she’s in the spare bedroom and sleeping soundly.”
-
-She seated herself beside me and slipped her wrinkled old hand into mine
-beneath the bed-clothes. She sat in silence for some minutes. The light
-from the street-lamp shining in at the window, fell upon her. I could
-see her gray curls wabbling, the way they always did when she was
-agitated. At last she spoke. “How did it ’appen, Dante?”
-
-I told her.
-
-“Then you knowed ’er before?”
-
-Little by little I gave her all the story.
-
-“A nice young rascal you are,” she said; “and a pretty way you’ve got
-o’ love-making. You beat your own father, that you do. And what’s her
-name?”
-
-“I don’t know.”
-
-“He doesn’t know!” She laughed till the tears ran down her face. “And I
-suppose you think you’re goin’ to marry ’er?”
-
-“I know I am.”
-
-“Well, the sooner the better I say. Judging by her looks, you might
-’ave chose worse. When it comes to wimmen, the Evrards and the
-Cardovers are mad.”
-
-She went downstairs to get me some supper. I had given her Vi’s address,
-that she might send off a message to Vi’s landlady. Poor little Dorrie
-must be beside herself by now, wondering what had happened.
-
-While I ate my supper, my grandmother kept referring to what I had
-told her. She was very proud and happy. Her eyes twinkled behind her
-spectacles. I had added an entirely original chapter to the history of
-our family’s romance. “I keep wishin’,” she said, “that your dear ma ’ad
-been alive. It would just ’a’ suited her.”
-
-The morning broke bright and sunny. I insisted on getting up to
-breakfast. I was a trifle stiff, but apart from that none the worse
-for my experience. It was odd to think that Vi was sleeping in the same
-house--Vi, who had passed me in the streets without seeing me, Vi from
-whom I had hidden myself, Vi who at this time yesterday morning had
-seemed so utterly unattainable. The sense of her nearness filled me with
-wild enthusiasm. I hummed and whistled while I dressed. I wondered
-how long she would make me wait before we were married. She was mine
-already. Why should we wait? I was impatient to go to her, I could
-feel the close embrace of her long white arm about my neck. I was quite
-incurious as to who she was or where she came from. Life for me began
-when I met her.
-
-As I passed her door I halted, listening. I could hear my grandmother
-talking inside, but in such a low voice that I could catch nothing of
-what was said. She was bustling about, beating up the pillows and, as I
-judged, making Vi tidy. Hearing her coming towards the door, I hurried
-down the stairs. The stairs entered into the keeping-room. When she came
-down, she carried an empty breakfast-tray in her hand. I noticed that
-she had on her Sunday best: a black satin dress, a white lace apron
-trimmed with black ribbon, and her finest lace cap spangled with jet.
-
-“She’s been askin’ for you.”
-
-I jumped up from my chair.
-
-“But she won’t see you until you’ve breakfasted.”
-
-While I hastened through the meal, my grandmother chattered gaily. She
-quite approved my choice of a wife and had drawn from Vi one fact, of
-which I was unaware--that she was an American. She was burning
-with curiosity to learn more about her and was full of the most rosy
-conjectures. She was quite sure that Vi was an heiress--all American
-women who traveled alone were.
-
-She went up to see that all was ready; then she came to the top of the
-stairs and beckoned.
-
-“I’m goin’ to leave you alone,” she whispered, taking my face between
-her hands. “God bless you, my boy.” Then she vanished all a-blush and
-a-tremble into the keeping-room.
-
-The blood was surging in my brain. I felt weak from too much happiness.
-Opening the door slowly, I entered.
-
-I scarcely dared look up at first. The room swam before me. The
-old-fashioned green and red flowers in the carpet ran together. I raised
-my eyes to the large four-poster mahogany bed--it seemed too large to
-hold such a little person. I could see the outline of her figure, but
-the heavy crimson curtains, hanging from the tester, hid her face from
-me.
-
-“Vi, darling!”
-
-She sat up, with her hands pressed against her throat. The sunlight,
-shining in at the window, poured down upon her, burnishing her two long
-plaited ropes of hair. She turned towards me; her eyes were misty, her
-bosom swelling. She seemed to be calling me to her, and yet pushing me
-back. I felt my knees breaking under me, and the sob beginning in my
-throat. I ran towards her and knelt down at the bedside, placing my arms
-about her and drawing her to me. For an instant she resisted, then her
-body relaxed. I looked up at her, pouring out broken sentences. I felt
-that the tears were coming through excess of gladness and bowed my head.
-
-She was bending over me, so near she stooped that her breath was in
-my hair. The sweet warmth of her was all about me. Her lips touched
-my forehead. I held her more closely, but I would not meet her eyes.
-I dared not till my question was answered. The silence between us
-stretched into an eternity. Her hands wandered over me caressingly;
-it seemed a child comforting a man. “Poor boy,” she whispered over and
-over, “God knows, neither of us meant it.”
-
-When I lifted my face to hers, the tenderness in her expression was
-wiped out by a look of wild despair. She tore my hands from about her
-body and tumbled her head back into the pillows with her face turned
-from me, shaken by a storm of sobbing. Muttered exclamations rose to
-her lips--things and names were mentioned which I only half heard, the
-purport of which I could not understand. I tried to gather her to me,
-but she broke away from me. “Oh, you mustn’t,” she sobbed, “you mustn’t
-touch me.”
-
-With her loss of self-control my strength returned. I sat beside her
-on the bed, stroking her hand and trying to console her--trying to tell
-myself that this was quite natural and that everything was well.
-
-Gradually she exhausted herself and lay still. “You ought to go,” she
-whispered; but when I rose to steal away, her hand clutched mine and
-drew me back. In a slow, weary voice she began to speak to me. “I
-can’t do what you ask me; I’m already married. I thought you would have
-guessed from Dorrie.”
-
-She paused to see what I would say or do. When I said nothing, but
-clasped her hand more firmly, she turned her face towards me, gazing up
-at me from the pillow. “I thought you would have left me after that,”
- she said. “It’s all my fault; I saw how things were going.”
-
-“Dearest, you did your best.”
-
-“Yes, I did my best and hurt you. When I told you that I was done
-yesterday, why didn’t you let me go? It would all have been so much
-easier.”
-
-“Because I wanted you,” I said, “and still want you.” The silence was
-so deep that I could hear the rustle of the sheets at each intake of her
-breath.
-
-“You can’t have me.”
-
-Her voice was so small that it only just came to me. “I belong to
-Dorrie’s father. He’s a good man and he trusts me, though he knows I
-don’t love him.”
-
-She sat up, letting go my hand. I propped the pillows under her. She
-signed to me to seat myself further away from her.
-
-“She is mine. She is mine,” I kept thinking to myself. “We belong to one
-another whatever she says.”
-
-“I shall be better soon,” she said; “then I can go away. You must try to
-forget that you ever knew me.”
-
-“I can never forget. I shall wait for you.” Then the old treacherous
-argument came to me, though it was sincerely spoken. “Why need we go out
-of one another’s lives? Vi dearest, can’t we be friends?”
-
-She hesitated. “I was thinking of _you_ when I said it. For me it would
-be easier; I have Dorrie to live for. It would be more difficult for
-you--you are a man.”
-
-“Can’t you trust me, Vi? You told me that he trusted you just now.”
-
-Her voice was thin and tired. “Could we ever be only friends?”
-
-“We must try--we can pretend.”
-
-“But such trials all have one ending.”
-
-“Ours won’t.”
-
-Her will was broken and her desire urged it. She held out her hand.
-“Then let’s be friends.”
-
-I took it in mine and kissed it. Even then, I believe, we doubted our
-strength.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V--LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR
-
-The _Ransby Chronicle_ had a full account of the averted bathing
-fatality. In a small world of town gossip it was a sensation almost
-as important as a local murder. Columns were filled up with what Vi’s
-landlady said, and Joe Tuttle, and Mrs. Cardover, and even Dorrie. They
-tried to interview me without success; they couldn’t interview Vi, for
-she was in bed. From the landlady they gleaned some facts of which I
-was ignorant. Vi was Mrs. Violet Carpenter, of Sheba, Massachusetts.
-Her husband was the owner of large New England cotton factories. She
-had been away from America upwards of a year, traveling in Europe. She
-expected to return home in a month. The history of my parentage was duly
-recorded, including an account of my father’s elopement. All the old
-scandal concerning my mother was raked up and re-garnished.
-
-Knowing what my intentions had been toward Vi, my grandmother was
-terribly flustered at the discovery that Vi was a married woman. She
-was hurt in her pride; she wanted to blame somebody. Her sense of the
-proprieties was offended, and she felt that her reputation was secretly
-tarnished. An immoral situation was existing under her roof--at least,
-that was what she felt. She wanted to get rid of Vi directly, but the
-doctor forbade her to be moved.
-
-“And to think I should ’ave come to this!” she kept exclaiming, “after
-livin’ all these years honored and respected in my little town! Mind,
-I don’t blame you, and I don’t blame ’er. Poor things! You couldn’t
-’elp it. But I can’t get over it--there was you a-proposin’ in my
-spare bedroom to a married woman, and she a-lyin’ in bed! What would
-folks say if they was to ’ear about it? And in my ’ouse! And me so
-honored and respected!”
-
-Her horror seemed to center in the fact that it should have happened in
-the spare bedroom of all places, where all her dead had been laid out.
-
-She took it for granted that Vi and I would part forever, as soon as she
-was well enough to travel. “By all showings, it’s ’igh time she went
-back to ’er ’usband,” she said.
-
-She suffered another shock when I undeceived her. “You’re playin’ with
-fire, Dante; that’s what you’re doin’. Take the word of an old woman
-who knows the world--friendship will drift into familiarity and, more’n
-likely, familiarity ’ll drift into something else. A Cardover’s bad
-enough where wimmen is concerned, but an Evrard’s the devil. It’s the
-gipsy blood that makes ’em mad.”
-
-I turned a deaf ear to all her protests. Vi and I had done nothing
-wicked, and we weren’t going to run away from one another as though
-we had. A mistake had occurred which concerned only ourselves; we had
-nothing to be ashamed of. Then my grandmother threatened to send for
-Ruthita so that, at least, we might not be alone together. I was quick
-to see that Ruthita’s presence would be a protection, so agreed that
-she should be invited down to Ransby provided she was told nothing.
-Meanwhile no meetings between Vi and myself were allowed. My grandmother
-guarded the spare bedroom like a dragon.
-
-But in a timid way, in her heart of hearts, she was proud of the
-complication. It intrigued her. It made us all interesting persons. She
-wore the indignant face of a Mother Grundy because she knew that society
-would expect it of her; in many little sympathetic ways she revealed
-her truer self. She would take her knitting up to Vi’s bedside--Mrs.
-Carpenter as she insisted on calling her--and would spend long hours
-there. When conversing with me in the keeping-room late at night, she
-would grow reminiscent and tell brave stories of the rewards which
-came at length to thwarted lovers. I learnt from her that Mr. Randall
-Carpenter was much older than either Vi or myself. If he were to
-die----!
-
-On the second morning that Vi had been in the house I returned from
-a desultory walk to find my grandmother in close conference with a
-stranger. He was a dapper, perky little man, white-haired, bald-headed,
-whiskered, with darting birdlike manners and a dignified air of
-precision about him. He had the well-dressed appearance of a city
-gentleman rather than of a Ransbyite. He wore a frock-coat, top-hat,
-gray trousers, shiny boots, and white spats. I judged that he belonged
-to a profession.
-
-Apologizing for my intrusion, I crossed the keeping-room, and was on the
-point of mounting the stairs when the little man rose, all smiles.
-
-“Your grandson, Mrs. Cardover, I presume? He’s more of an Evrard than a
-Cardover--all except his mouth.”
-
-He was introduced to me as Mr. Seagirt, the lawyer.
-
-“Happy to know you, Mr. Cardover. Happy to know you, sir.” He pulled
-off his gloves and shook hands in a gravely formal manner. “We shall see
-more of one another as time goes on. I hope it most sincerely. In fact,
-I may say, from the way things are going, there is little doubt of it.”
-
-We all sat down. There was a strange constrained atmosphere of
-excitement and embarrassment about both Mr. Seagirt and my grandmother.
-They balanced on the edge of their chairs, flickering their eyelids
-and twiddling their thumbs. Lawyer Seagirt kept up a hurried flow of
-procrastinating conversation, continually limiting or overemphasizing
-his statements.
-
-“I have heard of what you did a day or two ago, Mr. Cardover--we
-have all heard of it. You have created an excellent impression--most
-excellent. The papers have been very flattering, but not more so than
-you deserve. Ransby feels quite proud of you. Though you are a Londoner,
-you belong to Ransby--no getting away from that. I suppose you’d tell
-us that you belong to Oxford. Ah, well, it’s natural--but we claim you
-first.”
-
-All the time he had been talking he and my grandmother had been
-signaling to one another with their eyes, as though one were saying,
-“You tell him,” and the other, “No, you tell him.”
-
-When they did make up their minds to take me into their secret, they did
-it both together.
-
-“Your grandfather--Sir Charles Evrard,” they began, and there they
-stuck.
-
-At last it came out that my grandfather had expressed a wish to see me,
-and had sent Lawyer Seagirt to make the necessary inquiries about me.
-This action on his part could have but one meaning.
-
-Two days later I was invited over to Woadley Hall to spend a week there.
-Before I went, I had an interview with Vi, in my grandmother’s presence.
-She promised me that she would not leave Ransby until after I returned.
-My fear had been that some spasm of caution might make her seize this
-opportunity to return to America.
-
-I drove out to Woadley Hall late in the afternoon, planning to get there
-in time for dinner. I felt considerably nervous. I had been brought up
-in dread of Sir Charles since childhood. I did not know what kind of
-conduct was expected from me or what kind of reception I might expect.
-
-As we swung in through the iron gates and passed up the long avenue
-of chestnuts and elms which led through the parkland to the house, my
-nervousness increased into childish consternation. The pride of ancestry
-and the comfortable signs of wealth filled me with distress. I belonged
-to this, and was on my way to be examined to see whether I could prove
-worthy. I was not ashamed of my father’s family, but I was prepared to
-be angry if anyone else should show shame of them.
-
-Far away, on the edge of the green grassland, just where the woods began
-to cast their shadow, I could see dappled fallow-deer grazing. Colts,
-hearing us approaching, lifted up their heads and stared, then whisking
-their tails galloped off to watch us from behind their dams. Turrets and
-broken gables of the old Jacobean Hall rose out of the trees before
-us. Rooks were coming home to their nests in the tall elms, cawing.
-The home-farm lay over to our left; the herd was coming out from the
-milking, jingling their bells. A streak of orange lay across the blue of
-the west--the beginning of the sunset.
-
-Immediately on my arrival, I was shown to my bedroom to dress. I began
-to have the sense of “belonging.” The windows looked out on a sunken
-garden, all ablaze with stocks, snap-dragon, sweet-william, and all
-manner of old-world flowers. In the scented stillness I could hear
-the splash of a fountain playing in the center. Beyond that were other
-gardens, Dutch and Italian, divided by red walls and terraces. Beyond
-them all, through the shadowed trees one caught glimpses of a lake,
-with swans and gaily-painted water-fowl sailing like toy-yachts upon its
-surface.
-
-When the servant had left me, I commenced to dress leisurely. After that
-I sat down, waiting for the gong to sound. I wondered if this was the
-room where my mother had slept. How much my father’s love must have
-meant to her that she should have sacrificed so much prosperous
-certainty to share his insecure fortunes. Yet, as I looked back, it was
-a smiling face that I remembered, with no marks of misgiving or regret
-upon it.
-
-I did not meet my grandfather until the meal was about to be served. I
-think he had planned our first encounter carefully, so that our conduct
-might be restrained by the presence of servants. His greeting was that
-of any host to any guest. Our conversation at dinner was on impersonal,
-intellectual topics--the kind that is carried on between well-bred
-persons who are thrown together for the moment and are compelled to be
-polite to one another. The only way in which he betrayed nervousness was
-by crumbling his bread with his left hand while he was conversing.
-
-Finding that I was not anxious to force matters, he became more at his
-ease. He addressed me as Mr. Cardover, with stiff and kindly courtesy.
-We took our cigars out on to the terrace to watch the last of the
-sunset. He was talking of Oxford, and the changes which had taken place
-in the University since he was an undergraduate.
-
-“I believe you are a Fellow of Lazarus, Mr. Cardover?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“I had a nephew there a few years ago, Lord Halloway, the son of my poor
-brother-in-law, the Earl of Lovegrove. You may know him.”
-
-“Only by hearsay. He was before my time.”
-
-My grandfather knocked the ash from his cigar. Then, speaking in a low
-voice, very deliberately, “I’m afraid you have heard nothing good about
-him. He has not turned out well.”
-
-He paused: I felt that I was being tested. When I kept silent, he
-continued, “I have no son. He was to have followed me.”
-
-Shortly afterwards he excused himself, saying that he was an old man and
-retired early to bed.
-
-For six days we maintained our polite and measured interchange of
-courtesies. I was left free most of the time to entertain myself. He
-was a perfect host, and knew exactly how far to share my company
-without appearing niggardly of his companionship or, on the other hand,
-intruding it on me to such an extent that we wore out our common fund of
-interests. For myself, I wished that I might see more of him. Never by
-any direct statement did he own that there was any relationship between
-us. Yet gradually he began to imply his intention in having me to visit
-him.
-
-I would have been completely happy, had it not been that Vi was absent.
-I reckoned up the hours until I should return. All day my imagination
-was following her movements. I refused to look ahead to the certainty of
-approaching separation--it was enough for me that I could be near her
-in the present.
-
-It was strange how poignant the world had become, how subtly,
-swiftly suggestive, since I had discovered her presence in it. All my
-sensations, even those outwardly unrelated to her, grouped themselves
-into a memory of her sweetness. It was a blind and pagan love she had
-aroused--one which recognized no standards, but craved only fulfilment.
-
-There were times when I stood back appalled, as a man who comes suddenly
-to the edge of a precipice, when I realized where this love was leading.
-Then my awakened conscience would remind me of my promise--that we would
-be only friends.
-
-These were the thoughts which now made me glad, now sorrowful, as I
-rode through the leafy lanes round Woadley at the side of my proud old
-grandfather. I would steal guilty glances at him, marveling that no
-rumor of what I was thinking had come to him by some secret process of
-telepathy. He looked so cold and unimpassioned, I wondered if he had
-ever loved a woman.
-
-I began to love the Woadley country with the love which only comes from
-ownership. The white Jacobean Hall, with the chestnuts and elm-trees
-grouped about it and the doves fluttering above its gables, became the
-starting point for all the future chapters of my romance. I began to see
-life in its prosperous, substantial aspect. The stately dignity of my
-environment had its subconscious effect upon my lawless turbulence. In
-the morning I would wake with the rooks cawing and, going to the window,
-would look out on the sunken garden, the peaches ripening against the
-walls, the dew sparkling on the trim box-hedges, and the leaves beating
-the air like wings of anchored butterflies as the wind from the sea
-stirred them. Everywhere the discipline of history was apparent--the
-accumulated, ordered effort of generations of men and women dead and
-gone. I had been accustomed to regard myself as an isolated unit,
-responsible to myself alone for my actions.
-
-The last evening on entering my bedroom, I noticed that there had been
-a change in the ornaments on my dressing-table. A gold-framed miniature
-had been placed in the middle of the table, face up, before the mirror.
-It was a delicate, costly piece of work done on ivory. I held it to the
-light to examine it, wondering how it had come there.
-
-It must have been taken in the heyday of my mother’s girlhood, when all
-the county bachelors were courting her. The gray eyes looked out on me
-with bewitching frankness. The red lips were parted as if on the point
-of widening into laughter. The long white neck held the head poised
-at an angle half-arch, half-haughty. As I gazed on it, I saw that
-the similarity between our features was extraordinary. It was my
-grandfather’s way of expressing to me the tenderness that he could not
-bring himself to utter. .
-
-After breakfast next morning, he led the way into the library. He looked
-graver and more unapproachable than ever. “Mr. Cardover, your visit has
-been a great pleasure to me. Mr. Seagirt will be here before you leave.
-Before he comes I wish to say that I want no thanks for what I am doing.
-It is more or less a business matter. All your life there have
-been strained relations between myself and your father, which it is
-impossible for any of us to overlook or forget. So far as you are
-concerned, you owe him your loyalty. I do not propose to bring about
-unhappiness between a father and a son by encouraging your friendship
-further. This week was a necessary exception; I could not take the step
-I have now decided on without knowing something about you.”
-
-He cleared his throat and rose from his chair, as if afraid that I might
-lay hold of him. He walked up and down the library, with his head bowed
-and his right hand held palm out towards me in a gesture that asked for
-silence. He halted by the big French window, on the blind before which
-years ago I had watched his shadow fall. He stood with his back towards
-me, looking down the avenue. Then he turned again to me. The momentary
-emotion which had interrupted him had vanished. His voice was more cold
-and polite than ever. Only the twitching of the muscles about his eyes
-betrayed the storm of feeling that stirred him.
-
-“In any case,” he said, “you would have inherited my baronetcy. Perhaps,
-you did not know that. I could not alienate that from you. The patent
-under which it is held allows it to pass, for one generation, through
-the female line to the next male holder. Until recently my will was
-made in the favor of my nephew, Lord Halloway. Circumstances have arisen
-which lead me to believe that such a disposal of my estate would be
-unwise. We Evrards have had our share of frailties, but we have always
-been noted as clean men. Something that I saw about you in the papers
-brought your name before my notice. I made up my mind then and there
-that, if you proved all that I hoped for, I would make you my successor.
-As I have said, this is a business transaction, in return for which I
-neither expect nor wish any display of gratitude.”
-
-While we had been speaking I had heard the trot of a horse approaching.
-Just as he finished Mr. Seagirt entered.
-
-“Mr. Seagirt,” said Sir Charles, “I have explained the situation to
-Mr. Cardover. Any communications he or I have to make to one another
-relative to the estate, we will make through you. If you have brought
-the will, I will sign it.”
-
-He was fingering his pen, when I startled him by speaking. “Sir Charles,
-you have spoken of not encouraging my friendship. I am a grown man and
-of an age to choose my own friendships where I like, and this without
-offense to my father. I have another loyalty, to my dead mother--a
-loyalty which you share. If you care to trust me, I should like to be
-your friend.”
-
-He took my hand in his and for one small moment let his left hand rest
-lightly on my shoulder. We gazed frankly into one another’s eyes without
-pretense or disguise. Then the shame of revealing his true feelings
-returned.
-
-“We shall see. We shall see,” he muttered hastily; “I am an old man.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI--MOTHS
-
-A week had worked wonders with Grandmother Cardover. She had fallen a
-victim to Vi’s charm and, in that strange way that old folks have, had
-warmed her age at the fire of Vi’s youth. There was an unmistakable
-change in her; the somberness of her dress was lightened here and there
-with a dash of colored ribbons. As long as I could remember, the only
-ornaments she had permitted herself were of black jet, as befitted her
-widowed state. But now the woman’s instinct for self-decoration had
-come to life. Vi’s exquisite femininity had made her remember that she
-herself was a woman. She had rummaged through her jewelry and found
-a large gold-set cameo brooch, which she wore at her throat, and some
-rings, and a long gold chain, which she now wore about her neck, from
-which her watch was suspended.
-
-Vi’s vivid physical beauty and intense joy in life had broadened the
-horizons of everyone in the house, and set them dreaming. Ruthita,
-coming down from London, had at once become infatuated. From day to day
-she had prolonged Vi’s visit, now with one excuse, now another. They had
-brought Dorrie down to stay with Vi at the shop--little Bee’s Knee as
-my Grannie called her, because she was so tiny and a bee’s knee was the
-smallest thing she could think of with which to compare her. It was many
-years since a child’s prattle had been heard about that quiet house.
-Vi’s comradeship with her little daughter finished the persuading of my
-grandmother that she was safe and good. All virtuous women believe in
-the virtue of a woman who is fond of children.
-
-They were sitting down to lunch in the keeping-room when I entered.
-
-“Why, if it isn’t Dante!”
-
-The greeting I received was in welcome contrast to the cold, guarded
-reserve of the past seven days. A place was made for me at table between
-my grandmother and Ruthita. It was a gay little party that waited,
-watching me curiously across the dishes and plates, to hear my news.
-Just then I preferred the cosiness of my grandmother’s shop to the
-chilly dignity of Woadley Hall. Outside the sunshine slanted across the
-courtyard, leaving one half in shadow, the other golden white. The maid,
-coming in and out from the kitchen in her rustling print-dress, with her
-smiling country face, was a pleasanter sight than the butler at Woadley.
-From the shop came the smell of tar and rope and new-made bread.
-Everything was so frank and kindly, and unashamed of itself. Here in
-the keeping-room of the ship-chandler’s shop we were humanly
-intimate--“coxy-loxy” as my grandmother would have expressed it.
-
-I told a sorrowful tale at first, which seemed to foreshadow a sorrowful
-ending. I spoke of the stiff formality of my reception, the garnished
-gentility which had marked my intercourse with Sir Charles, the withheld
-confidence--the fact that my mother’s name was scarcely mentioned.
-Ruthita’s hand sought mine beneath the table; I could feel the fingers
-tremble.
-
-“This morning,” I said, “he called me into his study. He told me that I
-must leave within the hour and that our friendship could go no further.”
-
-“The old rascal!” exclaimed Grandmother Cardover, bringing down her
-knife and fork on her plate with a clatter. “What was he a-doin’,
-gettin’ you there to Woadley? He must ’a’ known what we all expected.”
-
-I tilted back my chair, putting on an expression of long-suffering
-melancholy. “He wanted to see what I was like, I suppose. His chief
-reason was that he wanted to make a new will.”
-
-Babel broke loose. Why hadn’t I told them earlier? Why had I harrowed
-up their feelings for nothing? What were the particulars? I was cruel to
-have kept them in suspense.
-
-Grandmother Cardover was hysterical with joy. She wanted to run out into
-the streets and tell everybody. She began with the maid in the kitchen,
-and would have gone on to the men in the bake-house if I hadn’t stopped
-her by appealing to her curiosity, saying there was more to tell. As
-for Ruthita, she just put her arms about me and laid her head on
-my shoulder, crying for sheer gladness. Little Bee’s Knee looked on
-open-mouthed, shocked that grownups should behave so foolishly. Vi gazed
-at me with a far-away stare in her eyes, picturing the might-have-beens,
-and I gazed back at her across the gulf that widened between us.
-
-Discretion was thrown to the wind. When Vi gathered Dorrie to her and
-began to excuse herself, she was told that she must stay and make one of
-the family. Then the story was told again with the new perspective.
-
-With shame and self-reproach I look back and perceive how carelessly I
-accepted all Ruthita’s admiration. My new good fortune promised nothing
-for her; yet she could rejoice in it. In her shy girl’s world, had I
-known it, I figured as something between a faery-prince and a hero.
-Through me she looked out into a more generous world of glamour than
-any she had personally experienced. Poor little Ruthita, with her
-mouse-like timidity! She had lived all her days in a walled-in garden,
-treading the dull monotonous round of self-sacrificing duties. No one
-ever credited her with a career of her own. No one stopped to think that
-she might have dreams and a will of her own. They told her what to do
-and let their gratitude be taken for granted. She humored my father when
-he was discouraged, did the housekeeping, and took shelter behind the
-superior social grace of the Snow Lady. We all loved her, but we made
-the mistake of not telling her--we supposed she knew. All the strong
-things that men and women do together, all love’s comedy and tragedy,
-were so much hearsay to her.
-
-That afternoon and evening she sat beside me holding my hand with frank
-affection, making me feel that in loving Vi I was stealing something
-that belonged to her. More than that, I was feeling for this woman,
-who had been nothing to me a few weeks ago, a quality of kindness and
-consideration that I had always withheld from the child-friend who had
-tiptoed her way up to womanhood beside me.
-
-After tea we mounted to the drawing-room, which was over the shop
-and faced the street. It was usually occupied only on Sundays and
-feast-days, or when a visiting Methodist minister had been apportioned
-to my grandmother for entertainment. Faded engravings of sacred subjects
-and simpering females elaborately framed, hung upon the walls. On the
-mantelshelf stood some quaint specimens of Ransby china--red-roofed
-cottages with grapes ripening above the porch, and a lover coming up
-the path while his lady watched him from the window. The chairs were
-upholstered in woolwork on canvas, which my grandmother had done in
-her youth. In one corner stood a heavy rosewood piano on which all the
-family portraits were arranged. In this room comfort was sacrificed to
-appearance--the furniture was sedate rather than genial. Nothing was
-haphazard or awry. The mats and antimacassars never budged an inch from
-their places. No smell of beer, or cheese, or baking bread vulgarized
-the sacred respectability of its atmosphere.
-
-Here, as we sat together talking, the light began to fade. Heavy
-footsteps of sailors in their sea-boots, passing down the street from
-the harbor to the cottages, only emphasized the quiet. We watched the
-sky grow pink behind the masts of shipping, then green, then gray.
-Cordage and rigging were etched distinctly against the gloom of the
-oncoming night. At the top of the street a light sprang up, then
-another, then another. The lamp-lighter with his long pole and ladder
-passed by. Now with the heavy tread of men’s feet the tip-a-tap of
-girls’ footsteps began to mingle. Sometimes a snatch of laughter would
-reach us; then, as if afraid of the sound it made, it died abruptly
-away. While we talked in subdued voices, it seemed to me that all the
-sailor-lovers with their lassies had conspired to steal by the house
-that night. I fell to wondering what it felt like to slip your arm about
-the waist of a woman you loved, feel her warmth and trust and nearness,
-feel her head droop back against your shoulder, see her face flash up
-in the starlight and know that, while your lips were trembling against
-hers, she was abandoning herself soul and body to you in the summer
-dusk.
-
-Dorrie had crept into her mother’s lap. Her soft breathing told that she
-was sleeping. One small hand, with fingers crumpled, rested against her
-mother’s throat. Someone had called to see Grandmother Cardover, so Vi,
-Ruthita, and I were left alone together. Sitting back in our chairs
-out of reach of the street-lamp, we could not see the expression on one
-another’s faces.
-
-“I would give all the world to be you, Mrs. Carpenter,” Ruthita
-whispered.
-
-“To be me! Why? I sometimes get very tired of it.”
-
-“If I were you I should have Dorrie. It must be very sweet to be a
-mother. Why is it that she always calls you Vi and never mother?”
-
-“She picked that up from her father. I never corrected her
-because--well, because somehow I like it. It makes me seem younger.”
-
-“You don’t need to _seem_ young,” I interrupted.
-
-“How old do you think I am?”
-
-“About the same age as myself and Ruthita.”
-
-She laughed. “That couldn’t be; Dorrie is eight.”
-
-“Then I give up guessing.”
-
-“I’m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I
-married.”
-
-“Mother married early,” said Ruthita, “and my papa was only twenty at
-the time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.”
-
-Vi made no answer. The silence grew awkward. We could almost hear one
-another’s thoughts trying to hide. Why had she explained in that tone of
-half-apology, “I was little more than a child; you see, when I married.”
- Why didn’t she say something now? Was it because an early marriage
-had proved for her disastrous? Then, if it had, what moral obligation
-separated us? Who was this husband who could dispense with her for a
-year, and yet had the power to stretch out his arm across the Atlantic
-and thrust me aside?
-
-She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled her face and
-smoldered in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young
-girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an
-ideal lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin; it had never been a
-man’s possession. It was almost mine.
-
-Ruthita’s remark about the happiness of early marriages was forgotten,
-when Vi returned to the subject. “They may be sometimes,” she said,
-speaking doubtfully.
-
-She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had
-divulged a secret, she hurried into an implied defense of her husband.
-
-“I had a letter from Mr. Carpenter this morning. He’s lonely. He says
-he can’t bear to be without me any longer. He wants me to return home at
-once. He’s not seen Dorrie for nearly a year. He’s afraid she’ll forget
-him entirely. If I don’t go to him, he says he’ll come and fetch me.
-It’s been horrid of me to stay away so long. When we left, we only
-intended to be gone for three months. Somehow the time lengthened. I
-wanted to see so much. He’s been too easy with me. He’s been awfully
-kind. He always has been kind. He treats me like a spoilt child.”
-
-She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not
-heard the creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see
-my grandmother standing in the doorway. Vi turned to Ruthita with a
-pretense of gaiety, “No wonder you English don’t understand us. Don’t
-you think that American husbands are very patient?”
-
-“I’m sure I do,” said Ruthita. “What makes them so different from
-English husbands?”
-
-“They love their wives.”
-
-It was impossible to tell from the bantering tone in Vi’s voice, whether
-she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity.
-
-Grandmother Cardover took her literally. Her national pride was touched.
-She believed that an aspersion had been cast on the affection of all
-married Englishmen. She advanced into the room with suspicions aroused,
-bristling with morality. “If that’s what they call love in America,” she
-snorted, “then it’s glad I am that I was born in Ransby. ‘They shall be
-one flesh’--that’s what the Holy Book says about marriage. And ’ow can
-you be one flesh if you stay away from one another a twelvemonth at a
-time? Why, when my Will’am was alive, I never slept a night away from
-’im, from the day we was married to the day he died.”
-
-The darkness about her seemed to quiver with indignation. I could see
-her gray curls bobbing, and hear the keys hanging from her waist jangle,
-as she trembled. Ruthita cowered close to me, shocked and frightened.
-Dorrie woke and began to whimper to be taken to bed. We all waited for a
-natural expression of anger from Vi.
-
-She set Dorrie on to her feet very gently, whispering to her mothering
-words, telling her not to cry. Drawing herself up, she faced into the
-darkness. When she spoke there was a sweet, low pleading in her voice.
-
-“Mrs. Cardover, you took me too seriously. I’m sorry. You misunderstood
-me. I believe all that you have said--a wife ought to be her husband’s
-companion. There have been reasons for my long absence, which I cannot
-explain; if I did, you might not understand them. But I want _you_
-always to believe well of me. I have never had such kindness from any
-woman as you have given me.”
-
-I heard my Grannie sniffle. Vi must have heard her. She left Dorrie and,
-running across the room, put her arms about her. I heard them blaming
-themselves, and taking everything back, the way women do when they ask
-forgiveness. I lifted Dorrie into my arms, and Ruthita and I tiptoed
-from the room.
-
-Presently they came down to us. Grandmother Cardover was smiling
-comically, as though she was rather pleased at what had happened. Vi
-said that she must be going. Ruthita and I volunteered to accompany her
-back to her lodgings. So the storm in the tea-cup ended, leaving me with
-new materials for conjecture and reflection.
-
-On the way up the High Street we chatted volubly, trying to overlay what
-had occurred with a new impression. We talked against time and without
-sincerity. When we had reached the black flint house and the door had
-shut, Ruthita snuggled close to me with a relieved little sigh. Ever
-since my return from Woadley she had been waiting for this moment of
-privacy. With a sweet sisterly air of proprietorship she slipped her arm
-through mine. We turned down a score and struck out across the denes
-to the north beach, where we could be quiet. A wet wind from the sea
-pattered about our faces, giving Ruthita an excuse to cling yet more
-closely.
-
-You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked
-the fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble in her self-esteem,
-too self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned
-something more lasting than mere physical beauty--the loveliness of
-a pure spirit looking out from her quiet eyes. She was one of those
-domestic saints, unaware of their own goodness, that one sometimes finds
-in middle-class families; women who are never heard of, who live only
-through their influence on their menfolk’s lives.
-
-Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in
-its carriage. Her complexion white, but ready to suffuse with color at
-the least sign of appreciation. Her glory was in her hair, which was
-black and abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her
-feet and hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never
-told her any of these flattering observations, which would have meant
-so much if put into words. Brothers don’t--and I was as good as her
-brother.
-
-“Don’t you think,” said Ruthita, “that there’s something awfully queer
-about Mrs. Carpenter’s marriage? I’ve been with her nearly a week now,
-and I’ve never heard her mention her husband until to-night.”
-
-“And Dorrie doesn’t speak of him either.”
-
-“No, I’ve noticed that.”
-
-Then Ruthita surprised me. “Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the
-wrong man must be purgatory.”
-
-I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice.
-
-“Ruthie, to hear you speak one’d suppose you’d been in love. Have you
-ever thought that you’ll have to marry some day?”
-
-“Of course I have.”
-
-“What’ll he have to be like?”
-
-She held her tongue. My jauntiness had made her shy. “Come, Ruthie,” I
-said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I hate to own that you’re grown up. I
-didn’t think you’d given a thought to marriage. Tell me, what’ll he have
-to be like?”
-
-I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore
-a hunted look of cornered perplexity.
-
-“I’ve never spoken of these things even to mother,” she said. “They all
-treat me as though I were still a child.”
-
-I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the
-eagerness for confession on her trembling mouth.
-
-The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed
-at the transformation. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly
-tranquillity had slipped aside; I saw all the longing of her unnoticed
-womanhood focused for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled
-out to sea again. I repeated, “What must he be like?”
-
-She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. “I think he
-must be like you,” she whispered.
-
-Of all answers that was the last I had expected. I had thought myself on
-the brink of some great discovery--that she, too, had some secret lover.
-I slipped my arm about her and we strolled on through the darkness
-in silence. Ahead the harbor-lights, reflected across the water, drew
-nearer. We climbed the beach and the sea-wall, and made our way across
-the denes to the town.
-
-“You’re all wrong,” I said. “Some day, when you do fall in love, you’ll
-get a better standard.”
-
-We entered the lamp-lit town. For the rest of the evening we did not
-say much. I was thinking how easy it is for two people to live always
-together and yet never to understand each other. Who would have guessed
-that little Ruthita had this hunger to be loved?
-
-While we were seated at breakfast next morning, someone walked across
-the shop and tapped on the door of the keeping-room. Before any of us
-could spring up, Lawyer Seagirt entered.
-
-“Keep your seats. Keep your seats,” he said cheerily. “I’m sure you’ll
-excuse this early call when you hear what I’ve come about.”
-
-With his back to the empty fireplace, he straddled the hearthrug, bowing
-first to my grandmother, then to Ruthita. Then he settled his gaze on
-me, with the beaming benevolence of a bachelor uncle. He cleared his
-throat.
-
-“Ahem! Ahem! Mr. Cardover, I congratulate you. After you left yesterday,
-Sir Charles spoke of you with considerable feeling. He expressed
-sentiments concerning you which from him meant much--much more than
-if uttered by any other man. For many years he has honored me with his
-confidence, yet on no occasion do I remember him to have displayed so
-much emotion. Of course all this is strictly between ourselves and must
-go no further.”
-
-Like three mandarins we nodded.
-
-“It is my pleasant duty to have to inform you, Mr. Cardover, that Sir
-Charles has been pleased to make you an allowance. It will be paid
-quarterly on the first day of January, April, July, and October, and
-will be delivered to you through my hands.”
-
-Again he halted. Grandmother Cardover, losing patience, forgot her
-manners. “God bless my soul,” she exclaimed, “how the man maunders! How
-much?”
-
-“Madam,” said Lawyer Seagirt, “the amount is four hundred pounds per
-annum.”
-
-The good man had never found himself so popular. He was made to sit down
-to table with us, despite his protests that he had breakfasted already.
-The money might have been coming out of his own pocket for all the
-fuss we made of him. Every now and then the fact of my prosperity would
-strike Grandmother Cardover afresh. Throwing up her hands she would
-exclaim, “Four ’undred pounds, and he’s got two ’undred already from his
-fellowship! It’s more than I’ve ever earned in any year with all my wear
-and tear. Just you wait till his pa ’ears about it!”
-
-That morning I took Ruthita to Norwich. She was puzzled when I told her
-to get ready to come. All the way over in the train she kept trying to
-guess my purpose. The truth was I had contrasted her with Vi. Vi was not
-only exquisite in herself, but as expensively exquisite as fine clothes
-could make her. Ruthita, on the other hand, had the appearance of making
-the most genteel impression at the minimum expenditure of money. My
-father’s means were narrow, and she was not his daughter; therefore
-the Snow Lady insisted on making most of her own and Ruthita’s dresses.
-Rigid economies had been exercised; stuffs had been turned, and dyed,
-and made over again. Now that I could afford it, I was determined to see
-what fine feathers could do for this shy little sister.
-
-When the gowns came home, even Ruthita was surprised at the prettiness
-that filmy muslins and French laces accentuated in her.
-
-“My word, Ruthie, you’re a dainty little armful. You won’t have to
-wait long for that lover now,” I told her, when she came down into the
-keeping-room to show herself to me.
-
-She pouted and made a face at me like a child. “I don’t want lovers,”
- she laughed. “I only want my big brother.”
-
-When she had gone upstairs my grandmother turned to me. “You can go too
-far with her, Dannie.” She only called me Dannie when she was saying
-something serious or a little wounding. “You can go too far with her,
-Dannie. I should advise you to be careful.”
-
-“What are you driving at?” I asked bluntly.
-
-“Just this, that however you may pretend to one another, she isn’t your
-sister and you aren’t her brother. Any day you may wake something up in
-her that you didn’t mean to.”
-
-“Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. “At heart she’s only a child.”
-
-“All I can say is you’re going the right way to work to make her a
-woman,” my grandmother said shortly.
-
-That afternoon I persuaded Ruthita to put on all her finery and come
-for a walk on the esplanade. I wanted her to lose her timidity and to
-discover for herself that she was as good as anybody. I felt a boyish
-pride in walking beside her; she was my creation--I had dressed her.
-
-We had passed the pier and entered the long trim walk, lined with
-sculptured Neptunes, which runs along the seafront from Ransby to
-Pakewold, when a figure which had a morbid interest for me came in
-sight. It was that of a buxom broad-hipped woman, handsome in her own
-bold fashion, leading by the hand an over-dressed, half-witted child. As
-she drew nearer, the rouge on her face became discernible. She strolled
-with a swagger through the fashionable crowd, eyeing the men with sly
-effrontery. She was known in Ransby by the nickname of “Lady Halloway.”
- She was the bathing-machine man’s daughter, and had been the victim of
-one of my cousin’s earliest amorous adventures. It was commonly believed
-that he was the father of her child.
-
-Since the news had got abroad that I had supplanted Halloway in my
-grandfather’s favor, she had glowered at me, with undisguised hostility,
-whenever we met.
-
-As we passed, Ruthita’s parasol just touched her. It was the woman’s
-fault, for she had crowded us purposely. I raised my hat, muttering an
-apology, and was on the point of moving forward, when she wrenched the
-parasol from Ruthita’s hand and flung it to the ground. Ruthita stared
-at her too surprised to say a word. The woman herself, for the moment,
-was too infuriated to express herself. All the bitterness of a deserted
-mistress, the pent-up resentment against years of contempt and the
-false pride with which she had brazened out her shame among her
-fellow-townsmen, came to the surface and found an excuse for utterance.
-People nearest to us halted in their promenade and, gathering round,
-began to form the nucleus of an audience. An audience for her oratory
-was what “Lady Halloway” most desired. Her lips were drawn back from her
-teeth and her hands were clenched; anger re-created her into something
-almost magnificent and wholly brutal. When she spoke, she addressed
-herself to Ruthita, but her eyes were fixed on mine in vixenish
-defiance. The over-dressed, top-heavy oddity at her side steadied
-himself by clinging to her skirts, gazing from one to the other of us
-with a vacant, wondering expression.
-
-I picked up Ruthita’s parasol and handed it back to her, whispering that
-she should go on. The woman heard me.
-
-“Yes, go on, my fine lady,” she sneered in savage sarcasm. “Go on.
-You’re too good ter be zeen a-talkin’ wi’ the likes o’ me. Yer know wot
-I am. I’m a woman wot’s fallen. I ain’t too bad, ’owsomever, for
-Mr. Cardover to diddle me out o’ my property. He’s a grand man, Mr.
-Cardover, wi’ ’is high airs and proud ways. And where do ’e get
-them from, I ax. From old Cardover’s bake-’ouse around the corner ter be
-sure, and from ’is mawther, wot ran orf wi’ ’is father and ’ad the
-good luck ter get married.”
-
-I interrupted her. “I’m very sorry for you,” I said, “but you’ve got
-to stop this at once. You don’t know what you’re saying, neither does
-anyone else. Please let us pass.”
-
-She stepped in front of us with her plump arms held up in fighting
-attitude, blocking our path.
-
-“Zorry for me. Zorry for me,” she laughed, still addressing Ruthita. “I
-doan’t want ’is zorrow. Your man’s a thief, my gal, and it’s the likes
-o’ him wot despises me--me as should be Lady Halloway if I ’ad me
-rights, me as should be livin’ at Woadley ’All as zoon as Sir Charles
-be dead and gorn. ’E says ’e’s zorry for me, wi’ the lawful heir,
-the child ’e ’as robbed, a-standin’ in ’is sight. The imperdence
-of ’im!”
-
-She gave the idiot’s hand a vicious jerk, swinging him in front of her,
-so that the lawful heir began to holloa. Someone who had newly joined
-the crowd, inquired what was up.
-
-“Wot’s up, you axed. This gentleman, as ’e calls ’isself, told ’is
-gal to barge inter me. That’s wot’s up, and I won’t stand it. ’E’s
-robbed my kid, wot was heir, o’ wot belongs ter ’im. And ’e’s
-robbed my ’usband, for ’e’s as good as my ’usband in the sight o’
-almighty Gawd. ’E treats me like a dorg and tells ’is gal to barge
-inter me, and ’e thinks I’ll stand it.”
-
-While she had been exploding I had tried to back away from her, but
-she followed. Now a policeman’s helmet showed above the heads of the
-spectators. Just then the bathing-machine man strolled up from the beach
-out of curiosity. Seeing his daughter the center of disturbance,
-he fought his way to the front and seized her by the wrists with a
-threatening gesture. “Yer fool, Lottie,” he panted, “when are yer goin’
-ter be done a-disgracin’ o’ me?”
-
-For a moment she was cowed. But as he dragged her away to the
-bathing-machines, she tore one hand free and shook her fist at me.
-“’E’s comin’ down to-morrer,” she shouted. “I’ve writ and told ’ im
-wot you’ve been a-doin’ at Woadley.”
-
-Ruthita was trembling all over with disgust and excitement. I took her
-back to the shop. When I was alone with my grandmother I asked her what
-kind of a woman Lottie was.
-
-“As nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,” she answered,
-“until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.”
-
-Next day I had a chance of judging for myself the worth of Lord
-Halloway. In the afternoon, just as I was going out, I was told that
-he was waiting to see me in the shop. I went to meet him prepared for
-trouble. I found a tall, aristocratic man of about thirty-five, filling
-up the doorway, looking out into the street with his legs wide apart. He
-was swinging his cane and whistling softly. The impression one got from
-his back-view was that he was extremely athletic. When he turned round
-I saw that he was magnificently proportioned, handsome, high
-complexioned, and graceful to the point of affectation. When he smiled
-and held out his hand, his manner was so winning that every prejudice
-was for the moment swamped. He had the instinctive art of charm.
-
-“Awfully sorry to have to meet you like this for the first time,” he
-said. “We’re second-cousins, aren’t we? Strange how we’ve managed to
-miss one another, and being members of the same college and all.”
-
-He had removed his hat, and was leaning against the door-jamb, with
-his legs crossed. I watched him narrowly while he was talking. I had
-expected to see a cultured degenerate--the worst type of bounder.
-Instead of being exhausted and nervous with a spurious energy, he was
-almost military in his upright carriage. He had a daredevil air of
-careless command, which was so much a part of his breeding that it
-was impossible to resent it. A man would have summed up his vices and
-virtues leniently by saying that he was a gay dog. A good woman might
-well have fallen in love with him, and excused the attraction that his
-wickedness had for her by saying that she was trying to convert him.
-The only sign of weakness I could detect was a light inconsequent laugh,
-strangely out of keeping with the virility of his height and breadth; it
-was like the vain and meaningless giggle of a silly woman.
-
-I asked him if he would not come inside. He shook his head, saying that
-this was not a social visit, but that he had come to apologize. Then he
-faced me with an openness of countenance which impressed me as manly,
-but which might have been due to shamelessness.
-
-“I want to tell you how sorry I am for the beastly row you had
-yesterday. Lottie’s not a bad sort, but she gets fancies and they run
-away with her. I’ve talked with her, and I can promise you it won’t
-happen again. She’s been writing me angry letters for the past week,
-ever since you made it up with Sir Charles. I was afraid something like
-this would happen, so I thought I’d just run down. I wish I’d managed to
-get here earlier.”
-
-He stopped suddenly, gazing toward the keeping-room door. Ruthita came
-out and crossed the shop. She had on one of her new dresses and was on
-her way to tea with Vi.
-
-He followed her with his eyes till she was gone. There was nothing
-insulting in the gallantry with which he admired her; he seemed rather
-surprised--that was all. For a minute he continued conversing with me in
-an absent-minded manner, then he wished me good-by, hoping that we might
-meet again in Oxford. I walked out on to the pavement and watched him
-down the street. Then I hurriedly fetched my hat and followed.
-
-It might have been accidental and I may have been over-suspicious, but
-his path lay in the same direction as Ruthita’s; he never walked so
-quickly as to overtake her or so slowly as not to keep her well in
-sight. When she entered the old flint house, he hesitated, as though
-the purpose of his errand was gone; then, seeing me out of the tail of
-his eye, he turned leisurely to the left down a score. Next day I heard
-that he had departed from Ransby.
-
-I could not rid myself for many days of the impression this incident had
-created. Like a Hogarth canvas, it typified for me the ugly nemesis
-of illicit passion in all its grotesque nakedness. There was horror
-in connecting such a man as Halloway with such a woman as Lottie. The
-horror was emphasized by the child. Yet Lottie had once been “as nice
-and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,” until he destroyed
-her. Doubtless at the time, their sinning had seemed sweet and
-excusable--much the same as the love of any lover for any lass. Only the
-result had proved its bitterness.
-
-This thought made me go with a tightened rein. When impulse tempted
-me to give way, the memory of that woman with her half-witted child,
-brazening out her shame before a crowd of pleasure-seekers on the sunlit
-esplanade, sprang into my mind and turned me back like the flame of a
-sword.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII--THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION
-
-It was the late afternoon of a September day. We had had tea early at
-the black flint house, Vi, Ruthita, Dorrie, and I. After tea a walk had
-been proposed; but Dorrie had said she was “tho tired” and Ruthita had
-volunteered to stay with her.
-
-For two months Vi and I had never allowed ourselves the chance of being
-alone together; yet every day we had met. To her I was “Mr. Cardover”;
-to me she was “Mrs. Carpenter.” Even my grandmother had ceased to
-suspect that any liking deeper than friendship existed between us. She
-loved to have young people about her, and therefore encouraged Vi and
-Dorrie. She thought that we were perfectly safe now that we had Ruthita.
-Through the last two months we four had been inseparable, rambling
-about, lazy and contented. Our conversations had all been general, Vi
-and I had never trusted ourselves to talk of things personal. If, when
-walking in the country, Ruthita and Dorrie had run on ahead to gather
-wild flowers, we had made haste to follow them, so betraying to each
-other the tantalizing fear we had one of another. We were vigilant in
-postponing the crisis of our danger, but neither of us had the strength
-to bring the danger to an end by leaving Ransby, lest our separation
-should be forever.
-
-If our tongues were silent, there were other ways of communicating. Did
-I take her hand to help her over a stile, it trembled. Did I lift her
-wraps and lean over her in placing them about her shoulders, I could see
-the faint rise of her color. Her eyes spoke, mocked, laughed, dared, and
-pleaded, when no other eyes were watching.
-
-Since the one occasion that has been related, Vi had not mentioned her
-husband. Whether he was still urging her to return, or had extended her
-respite, or was on his way to fetch her, I had no means of guessing.
-I lived in a secret delirium of exalted happiness and torturing
-foreboding. Each day as it ended was tragic with farewell. The hour was
-coming when I must return to Oxford and when she must return to America.
-Soon we should have nothing but memories. However well we might disguise
-our motives for dawdling in Ransby, it could not be long before their
-hollowness would be detected. Already Sir Charles had ceased to serve me
-as an excuse; I had not seen him since my departure from Woadley.
-
-The very suavity of our interchanged courtesies and unsatisfying
-pretense of frank friendship gave edge to my yearning.
-
-I had come at last to the breaking-point. I did not know it. I still
-told myself that we were both too honorable to step aside: that we
-had too much to lose by it; that I loved her too dearly to let her
-be anything to me unless she could be my wife. The casuistry of this
-attitude was patent.
-
-As my hunger increased I grew more daring. No thoughts that were not of
-her could find room in my mind. I had lost my interest in books--they
-were mere reports on the thing I was enduring. Nature was only my
-experience made external on a lower physical plane. My imagination swept
-me on to depths and heights which once would have terrified. I grew
-accustomed to picturing myself as the hero of situations which I had
-formerly studied with puzzled amazement in other men’s lives.
-
-The face of Lottie, encountered daily in the gray streets of Ransby,
-which had at first restrained me by reminding me of sin’s ultimate
-ugliness, ceased to warn me.
-
-When Ruthita made the suggestion that we should go for our walk alone
-together, I had expected a prompt refusal from Vi. She rose from the
-disordered tea-table and walked over to the window, turning her back on
-us. I could see by the poise of her head that she was gazing down the
-gardens, across the denes to the wreck, where everything important had
-taken place. I could guess the memories that were in her mind.
-
-From where I sat I could see her head, framed in the window against the
-slate-colored expanse of water, the curved edge of the horizon, and the
-orange-tinted sky.
-
-Creeping across the panes under full sail came a fleet of fishing
-smacks, losing themselves one by one as they advanced into the tangled
-amber of her hair. I counted them, telling myself that she would speak
-when the foremost had re-appeared on the other side. Then it occurred to
-me that she was waiting for me to urge her.
-
-“Mrs. Carpenter,” I said casually, “won’t you come? It’s going to be a
-jolly evening. We can go by way of St. Margaret’s Church to the Broads
-and watch the sunset.”
-
-Without moving her body, she commenced to drum with her fingers on the
-panes.
-
-“That would take time,” she procrastinated. “We couldn’t get back before
-eight. Who’d put Dorrie Darling to bed?”
-
-“Don’t worry,” Ruthita broke in with eagerness. “I’d love to do it.
-Dorrie and I’ll take care of one another and play on the sands till
-bedtime.”
-
-“Yeth, do go,” lisped Dorrie. “I want Ruthita all to mythelf.”
-
-These two who had stood between us, for whose sakes we had striven to
-do right, were pushing wide the door that led into the freedom of
-temptation.
-
-A shiver ran through her. She turned. The battle against desire in her
-face was ended.
-
-“I will come,” she said slowly.
-
-Left in the room by myself while they went upstairs to dress, I did not
-think; I abandoned myself to sensations. I could hear their footsteps go
-back and forth above my head. The running ones were Dorrie’s. The
-light, quick ones were Ruthita’s. The deliberate ones, postponing and
-anticipating forbidden pleasures--they were Vi’s. The sound of her
-footsteps, so stealthy and determined, combined with the long gray sight
-of the German Ocean, sent my mind back to Guinevere’s description of her
-sinning, which covered all our joint emotions:
-
-                        “As if one should
-
-               Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,
-
-               Down to a cool sea on a summer day;
-
-               Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
-
-               Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way
-
-               Until one surely reached the sea at last,
-
-               And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
-
-               Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea, all past
-
-               Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips
-
-               Washed utterly out by the dear waves o’ercast,
-
-               In a lone sea, far off from any ships!”
-
-She entered. She was alone. The others were not yet ready. I could
-not speak to her. “Come,” she whispered hoarsely. Her voice had the
-distressed note of hurry.
-
-We hastened up the High Street like fugitives. Windows of the stern red
-houses were eyes. They knew all about us. They had watched my mother
-before me; by experience they had become wise. At the top of the town we
-turned to the left, going inland towards the hill on which the tower
-of St. Margaret’s rose gray against the sky, beyond which lay the open
-country. We did not walk near together, but with a foot between us. Now
-we slackened our pace and I observed her out of the corners of my eyes.
-She was dressed in white, all billowy and blowy, with a wrap of white
-lace thrown over her shoulders, and a broad white hat from which drooped
-a blue ostrich feather. Whatever had been her intention, she looked
-bridal. The slim slope of her shoulders was unmatronly. Her long neck
-curved forward, giving her an attitude of listening demureness. Her mass
-of hair and large hat scarcely permitted me to see her face.
-
-We came to St. Margaret’s and passed. Was it a sense of the religious
-restraints that it represented, that made us hurry our footsteps? We
-turned off into a maze of shadowy lanes. We were happier now that we
-were safe from observation. We could no longer fancy that we saw our
-own embarrassment reflected as suspicion in strangers’ eyes. We drew
-together. My hand brushed hers. She did not start away. I let my fingers
-close on it.
-
-The golden glow of evening was in the tree-tops. The first breath of
-autumn had scorched their leaves to scarlet and russet. Behind their
-branches long scarves of cloud hung pink and green and blood-red. Far
-away, on either side, the yellow standing wheat rustled. Nearer,
-where it had been cut, the soil showed brown beneath the close-cropped
-stubble. Honeysuckle, climbing through the hedges, threw out its
-fragrance. Evening birds were calling. Distantly we could hear the swish
-of scythes and the cries of harvesters to their horses. Hidden from the
-field-workers, we stole between the hedges with the radiant peace of the
-sunset-on our faces. As yet we had said nothing.
-
-She drew her hand free from mine and halted. Scrambling up the bank,
-she pulled down a spray of black-berries. I held the branch while she
-plucked them. We dawdled up the dusty lane, eating them from her hand.
-
-“Vi,” I said softly, “we have tried to be only friends. What next?”
-
-I was smiling. She knew that I did not hint at parting. She smiled back
-into my eyes; then looked away sharply. I put my arm about her and
-drew her to me. Without a struggle, she lifted up to me her mouth, all
-stained with blackberries like any school-girl’s. I kissed her; a long
-contented sigh escaped her. “We have fought against it,” she whispered.
-
-“Yes, dearest, we have fought against it.”
-
-A rabbit popped out into the road; seeing us, it doubled and scuttled
-back into the hedge. The smoke of a cottage drifted up in spirals. We
-approached it, walking sedate and separate. A young mother, seated on
-the threshold, was suckling her child. A man, who talked to her while he
-worked, was trimming a rose-bed. They glanced up at us with a friendly
-understanding smile, as much as to say, “We were as you are now last
-September.”
-
-When a corner of the lane had hidden us, I again placed my arm about
-her. “Tell me, what have you to lose by it?”
-
-“Lose by it?”
-
-“Yes. I know so little of your life. What is he like?”
-
-“My husband?”
-
-She flushed as she named him. I nodded.
-
-“He is kind.”
-
-“You always say that.”
-
-“I say it because it is all that there is to say. He is a good man,
-but----”
-
-“And in spite of that _but_ you married him.”
-
-“No, I was married to him. He was over forty, and I was only eighteen
-at the time. He was in love with me. My father was a banker; he lent my
-father money to tide him over a crisis. Then they told me I must marry
-him. I was only a child.”
-
-“And you never loved him? Say you never loved him!”
-
-She raised her head from my shoulder and looked me in the face with her
-fearless eyes. “I never loved him. I have been a sort of daughter to
-him. I scarcely knew what marriage meant until--until it was all over.
-Then for a time I hated him; I felt myself degraded. Dorrie came. I
-fought against her coming. Then I grew reconciled. I tried to be true to
-him because he was her father. He made me respect him, because he was
-so patient. Dante, when I think of him, I become ashamed of what we are
-doing.”
-
-Her nostrils quivered, betraying her suppressed emotion. She had spoken
-with effort.
-
-“Why did you leave him? Did you intend to go back to him?”
-
-She became painfully confused.
-
-“Why do you put so many questions?” she cried. “Don’t you trust me?”
-
-“Vi, I trust you so much that for you I’m going to alter all my life.
-I’m so glad that you too are willing to be daring.”
-
-“Then why do you question me?”
-
-“Because I want to be more sure that he has no moral right to you.”
-
-“I left him,” she said, “because I could no longer refuse him. He was
-breaking down my resistance with his terrible kindness. If he had only
-been unjust and had given me some excuse for anger, I could have endured
-it. But day after day went by with its comfort, and its heartache, and
-its outward smoothness. And day after day he was looking older and more
-patient, and making me feel sorrier for him. He got to calling me ‘My
-child.’ People said how beautiful we were together. I couldn’t bear to
-stay and watch him humbling himself and breaking his heart about me. So
-I asked him to let me go traveling with Dorrie. He let me go, thinking
-that absence and a change of scene might teach me how to love him.”
-
-She hid her face against me. It was burning.
-
-“He thinks you are coming back again?”
-
-“He thinks so in every letter he writes. I thought so too when I went
-away.”
-
-“Vi, you never wear a wedding ring. Why is that if you meant to return
-to him?”
-
-“I wanted to be young just for a little while. They made me a woman when
-I was only a child.”
-
-“And that was why you taught Dorrie to call you Vi?” The pity of it got
-me by the throat. I kissed her eyes as she leant against me. “Poor girl,
-then let us forget it.” She struggled feebly, making a half-hearted
-effort to tear herself away. “But we can’t forget it,” she whispered.
-“We can’t, however we try. There’s Dorrie. He loves her terribly. He
-would give me anything, except Dorrie.”
-
-“And we both love Dorrie,” I said; “we could never do anything that
-would spoil her life--that would make her ashamed of us one day. You’re
-trembling like a leaf, Vi. You mustn’t look afraid of me.”
-
-Gradually she nestled closer in my embrace. It was not me that she had
-feared, but consequences. We became sparing in our words; words stated
-things too boldly.
-
-Coming to the end of the lane, we sauntered out on to a broad white
-road. It wound across long flat marshes where the wind from the sea is
-never quiet. The marshes are intersected with dikes and ditches, dotted
-with windbreaks for the cattle, and bridged here and there with planks.
-One can see for miles. There is nothing to break the distance save
-square Norman towers of embowered churches in solitary hamlets and oddly
-barrel-shaped windmills with sails turning, for all the world like
-stout giants, gesticulating and pummeling the sky. Here the orchestra
-of nature is always practising; its strings, except when a storm is
-brewing, are muted. From afar comes the constant bass of the sea,
-striking the land in deep arpeggios. Drawing nearer is the soprano
-humming of the wind or the staccato cry of some startled bird. Then
-comes a multitude of intermittent soloists,--frogs croaking, reeds
-rustling, cattle lowing, the rumbling wheels of a wagon. They clamor
-in subdued ecstasy, now singly and now together. Through all their song
-runs the murmuring accompaniment of water lapping.
-
-In gleaming curves across this green wilderness flow fresh-water lagoons
-and rivers which are known as the Broads. Dotted with water-lilies,
-barriered with bulrushes, they reflect the sky’s vast emptiness.
-Brimming their channels they slip over into the meadows, flashing like
-quicksilver through ashen sedges.
-
-The sun had vanished. The lip of the horizon was scarlet. The dust of
-twilight was drifting down. In this primitive spaciousness and freedom
-one’s thoughts expanded.
-
-“Vi,” I whispered, “we’re two sensible persons. Of what have we to be
-afraid? Only ourselves.”
-
-“There’s the future.”
-
-“The future doesn’t belong to us. We have the present. All our lives
-we’ve wanted to be happy. Don’t let’s spoil our happiness now that we
-have it. Just for to-night we’ll forget you’re married. We’ll be lovers
-together--as alone as if no one else was in the world.”
-
-“And afterwards?”
-
-“Afterwards I’ll wait for you. Afterwards can take care of itself.”
-
-The misshapen shadow of sin which had followed and stood between us,
-holding us at arm’s length, awkward and embarrassed, was banished. If
-this was sin, then wrongdoing was lovely.
-
-We began to talk of how everything had happened--how, out of the great
-nothingness of the unknown, we had been flung together. How easy it
-would have been for us to have lived out our lives in ignorance of one
-another and therefore free from this temptation. We justified ourselves
-in the belief that our meeting had been fated. It could not have been
-avoided. We were pawns on a chess-board, manipulated by the hand of an
-unseen player. We had tried to escape one another and had been forced
-together against our wills. The outcome of the game did not come within
-the ruling of our decision.
-
-The theory brought re-assurance. It excused us. We were not responsible.
-Then my mind fled back to my mother. She and my father had had these
-same thoughts as they had wandered side by side through these same
-fields and hedges. Why had I been brought back to the country of their
-courting to pass through their ordeal?
-
-Night was coming down, covering up landmarks. Darkness lent our actions
-modesty; they lost something of their sharpened meaning because we could
-not see ourselves acting. We lived unforgettable moments. Passing over
-narrow plank-bridges from meadow to meadow, we seemed to be traveling
-out of harsh reality into a world which was dream-created.
-
-She carried her hat in her hand. A soft wind played in her hair and
-loosened it in places. Her filmy white dress was all a-flutter. Mists
-began to rise from the marshlands, making us vague to one another.
-Traveling out of the east swam the harvest moon, nearing its fullness.
-
-“Vi,” I whispered, taking both her hands in mine, “you don’t know
-yourself--you’re splendid.”
-
-She laughed up into my eyes with elfin daring and abandon.
-
-“You’re the kind of woman for whom a man would willingly die.”
-
-“I ought to know that,” she mocked me, “for one tried.”
-
-“If this were five hundred years ago, do you know what I’d do to-night?”
-
-“It isn’t five hundred years ago--that makes all the difference. But, if
-it were, what would you do?”
-
-“I’d ride off with you.”
-
-“Oh, no, you wouldn’t.”
-
-“I should. I shouldn’t care what happened a week later. They might kill
-me like a robber. It wouldn’t matter--a week alone with you would have
-been worth it.”
-
-“But you wouldn’t,” she insisted; “you wouldn’t ride off with me.”
-
-“Shouldn’t I? And why?”
-
-She freed her hands from mine and placed her arms about my neck. The
-laughter had gone from her face.
-
-“Dear Dante, you wouldn’t do it, because _you_ are _you_.” The burning
-thoughts I had had died down. We wandered on in silence.
-
-Ahead of us a flickering light sprang up. Out of curiosity we went
-towards it. We found ourselves treading a rutted field-path which led
-back in the direction of the main road. Out of the mist grew up a clump
-of marsh-poplars. The light became taller and redder. We saw that it was
-the beginning of a camp-fire. Over the flames hung a stooping figure.
-
-“Good-evening.”
-
-The figure turned. It was that of a shriveled mummy of a
-woman--gray-haired, fantastic, bent, with face seamed and lined from
-exposure. A yellow shawl covered her head and shoulders. She held a
-burning twig in her hand, with which she was lighting her pipe.
-
-“Good-evening, mother. Good luck to you.”
-
-“Nowt o’ luck th’ day, lad,” she grumbled. “All the folks is in the
-fields at th’ ’arvest.”
-
-We seated ourselves at the blaze. She went back into the darkness. We
-heard the snapping of branches. She returned out of the clump of poplars
-with a companion; each of them was carrying a bundle of dead wood for
-fuel. Her companion was a younger woman of about thirty. She nodded to
-us with a proud air of gipsy defiance and sat herself down on the far
-side of the fire, holding her face away from the light of the flames.
-The one glimpse I had had of her had shown me that she was handsome.
-
-“There’s bin nowt o’ luck th’ day,” the older woman continued. “They
-hain’t got their wage for th’ ’arvest yet and they be too cumbered wi’
-work for fortune-tellin’.”
-
-“Do you tell fortunes?” asked Vi.
-
-“Do I tell fortunes!” the crone repeated scornfully. “I should think I
-did tell fortunes. Every kind o’ folk comes ter me wot wants ter read
-the future. Farmers whose sheep is dyin’. Wimmem as wants childen and
-hasn’t got ’em. Gals as is goin’ ter have childen and oughtn’t ter
-have ’em. Wives whose ’usbands don’t love ’em. Lovers as want ter
-get married, but shouldn’t. Lovers as should get married, but don’t want
-ter. They all comes to their grannie. I’ve seen a lot o’ human natur’ in
-my day, I ’ave.”
-
-“And what do you tell them?” asked Vi.
-
-“I tell ’em wot’s preparin’ for or agen ’em. I read th’ stars and I
-warn ’em.”
-
-“Can they escape by taking your advice?”
-
-“That’s more’n I can say. Thar was Joe Moyer, wot was hanged at Norwich
-for murthering ’is sweetheart. I telt ’im ’is fortune a year ago
-come St. Valentine’s Day. ‘Joe,’ says I, ‘your ’and ’ll be red
-before the poppies blow agen and you neck ’ll be bruk before th’ wheat
-is ripe. Leave off a-goin’ wi’ ’er,’ says I. And the lassie a-standin’
-thar by ’is side, she laughs at her grannie. But it all come true, wot
-I telt ’im.”
-
-“Could you read the stars for me?” asked Vi.
-
-Her voice was so thin and eager that it pierced me like a knife. I
-quivered with fearful anticipation. All our future might depend on what
-this hag by the roadside might say. I did not want to hear her. She
-might release terror from the ghost-chamber of conscience. However much
-we scoffed at her words, they would influence our actions and haunt our
-minds. Who could say, perhaps Joe Moyer would never have murdered his
-sweetheart and would not have been hanged at Norwich, if she hadn’t
-suggested his crime.
-
-“Vi,” I said sternly, “you don’t believe in fortune-telling. We must be
-going; it’s getting late.”
-
-“Hee-hee-hee!” the gipsy tittered, “if she don’t believe in
-fortune-tellin’, we knows who do. Come, don’t be afeard, me dearie.
-Cross me ’and wi siller and I’ll read the stars for ’ee.”
-
-Vi crossed her palm with a shilling. The gipsy flung fresh twigs on the
-fire, that she might study the lines in Vi’s hands more clearly. As
-the flames shot up, they illumined the other woman. Her features were
-strongly Romany, dark and fierce and shy. Somewhere I had seen them;
-their memory was pleasant. She regarded me fixedly, as though in a
-trance, across the fire. She too was trying to remember. Then, rising
-noiselessly, she stole like a panther into the poplars away from the
-circle of light. From out there in the darkness I felt that her eyes
-were still watching.
-
-The old fortune-teller had flung back her shawl from her head. Her
-grizzled hair broke loose about her shoulders. She was peering over Vi’s
-hand, tracing out the lines with the stem of her foul pipe. Every now
-and then she paused to ask a whispered question or make a whispered
-statement. Now she would look up at the stars, and now would pucker her
-brows. Her head was near to Vi’s. The flames jumped up and showed their
-faces clearly: the one white and pure, and crowned with gold; the other
-cunning, mahogany-colored, and witch-like. The flames died down; the
-shadows danced in again.
-
-I drew nearer and heard the gipsy muttering, “You was born under Venus,
-dearie. Love’ll be the makin’ o’ yer, an’ love’ll be the ruin o’ yer.
-You’ll always be longin’ an’ longin’ an’ lookin’ for the face o’ ’im
-as is comin’. You’re married, dearie, but it warn’t to the right ’un,
-and yer’ve ’ad childen by ’un. Cross me ’and wi’ siller, dearie. Cross
-me ’and wi’ siller. I can’t see plain. That’s better. Now I see un.
-’E’s comin’, dearie, and ’e’ll be tall and masterfu’, yer ’ll ’ave
-ter sin ter get ’un. Aye, it’s all writ ’ere, but it gets mazed--the
-lines rin t’gether.”
-
-She dragged Vi’s hand lower to the ground, nearer the fire. She was
-excited and clearly puzzled. She kept on croaking out what she had said
-already, “Yer ’ll ’ave ter sin ter get ’un. It’s all writ ’ere.
-Aye, but it can’t be--it can’t be for sartin. It gets all mazed and
-tangled.”
-
-She turned her head, blinking across the blaze to where her companion
-had been sitting.
-
-“Lil, Lil,” she cried hoarsely, “come ’ere. I can’t see plain. Young
-eyes is better.”
-
-Lil emerged out of the shadows, treading as softly as retribution
-following temptation. She bent over the hand, unraveling the lines to
-which the fortune-teller pointed with her pipe-stem.
-
-Lil! Lil! Where had I heard that name before? The wind rustled the
-leaves of the poplars and caused the ash of the fire to scatter.
-
-“Whenever he hears your voice, it shall speak to him of me. If he goes
-where you do not grow, oh, grass, then the trees shall call him back. If
-he goes where you do not grow, oh, trees, then the wind shall tell him.
-His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears your
-voices, he shall turn his face from walls and come back.”
-
-“Do you want to know the future?” she asked, peering into Vi’s face
-gravely.
-
-Vi hesitated. “Is it so terrible?” she whispered.
-
-“Not terrible as we gipsies reckon it; but sweet and dangerous and
-reckless, and it ends in----”
-
-“Lilith.”
-
-I caught her by the wrist. She shot upright and faced me.
-
-“Don’t you know me? I’m Dante--Dante Cardover.”
-
-Vi had sunk upon her knees and stared up at us, steadying herself with
-her hands. The old hag gazed angrily from behind Lilith, stretching out
-her long thin neck.
-
-“I remember you, brother,” said Lilith. “You are one of us. I knew that
-one day you would hear us calling.”
-
-“Wot did ’ee see in the lady’s ’and?”
-
-The fortune-teller laid a skinny claw on Lilith’s shoulder; her voice
-quavered with eagerness.
-
-“I will not tell,” said Lilith.
-
-“Did ’ee see----?”
-
-Lilith clapped her hand over the woman’s mouth. “You shan’t tell,
-grannie,” she said; “it’s not good to tell.”
-
-Down the field-track came the creaking sound of wheels. I looked up and
-saw through the poplars the swinging lanterns of a caravan.
-
-Vi touched me on the arm. She was unnerved and trembling. “Take me home,
-Dante.”
-
-I turned to Lilith. “Who is that?”
-
-“G’liath.”
-
-“Where’ll you be camping to-morrow? At Woadley Ham?”
-
-A cloud passed over her face. “We never camp there, now.”
-
-The crone broke in with a spiteful titter: “But we used ter, until she
-wouldn’t let us.”
-
-Lilith spoke hastily. “We’re going to Yarminster Fair. We get there
-to-morrow.”
-
-“Then I’ll see you there,” I told her.
-
-The caravan had come to a halt. I could see the tall form of G’liath
-moving about the horses. I did not want to meet him just then. Skirting
-the encampment, we hurried off across fields to the highroad.
-
-A sleepy irritable landlady opened the door to Vi. By the time I had
-walked down the High Street to the shop, it was nearly midnight. Ruthita
-was sitting up for me; my grandmother had been in bed two hours. She
-eyed me curiously. “You had a long walk,” she said.
-
-“Yes, longer than we expected.” I spoke brusquely. I was afraid she
-would question me.
-
-At the top of the stairs, just as I was entering my room, she stole near
-to me.
-
-“Dante, ar’n’t you going to kiss me good-night?”
-
-I was bending perfunctorily over her lifted face, when I saw by the
-light of the candle in my hand that her eyes were red.
-
-“Ruthie, you little goose, you’ve been crying. What’ve you been crying
-about?”
-
-“I’ve not,” she denied indignantly, and broke from me. After she had
-entered her room I tiptoed down the passage and listened outside her
-door.
-
-In the stillness of the house I could hear her sobbing.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII--THE WAY OF ALL FLESH
-
-For good luck’s sake smile, Ruthita,” said my grandmother. “There
-you’ve sat all through breakfast lookin’ like a week o’ Sundays, with
-your face as long as a yard o’ pump water. What’s the matter with you,
-child? Ain’t you well?”
-
-I saw the brightness come into Ruthita’s eyes and the lashes tremble. I
-knew by the signs that directly she heard her own voice she would begin
-to cry, so I answered for her.
-
-“I can tell you what’s the matter. I upset her last night. It was nearly
-twelve when I got home from my walk with Mrs. Carpenter. Ruthie’d
-got herself all worked up. Thought we’d been getting drowned again or
-something, didn’t you, Ruthie? It was too bad of me to keep her sitting
-up so late.”
-
-A heavy silence fell. Ruthita dropped her eyes, trying to recover her
-composure. My grandmother’s face masked itself in a non-committal stare.
-She gazed past me out of the window, and seemed to hold her breath; only
-the faint tinkling of the gold chain against the jet of her bodice, told
-how her breath came and went. She had placed her hand on the coffee-pot
-as I began to speak. When I ended, it stayed there motionless. From the
-bake-house across the courtyard came the bump, bang, bump of the bakers
-pounding the dough into bread.
-
-“So you stayed out with Mrs. Carpenter till nearly twelve?”
-
-My grandmother never used dialect when she wished to be impressive. Her
-tones were icily refined and haughty--
-
-I recognized them as belonging to her company manners. She could be
-crushingly aloof and dignified when her sense of the moralities was
-offended. She had practised her talent for “settin’ folks down and
-makin’ ’em feel like three penn’orth o’ happence” to some purpose on
-grizzled sea-captains.
-
-“Yes, till nearly twelve. It was pretty late, wasn’t it? We met some
-interesting people camping on the marshlands--old friends of mine and
-Ruthita’s.”
-
-“Indeed! And you walked back from the Broads about midnight with a
-married woman.”
-
-“Oh, no. It wasn’t much after ten when we started back. Time passed
-quickly; we didn’t realize how late it was getting. It didn’t matter,
-except for Ruthita. It was bright moonlight. The country looked
-perfect.”
-
-“It must ha’ done,” said my grandmother sarcastically.
-
-“It did. Some day we must try it all together.”
-
-“And who were your interesting friends? Respectable people, no doubt, to
-be camping on the marshlands.”
-
-“They weren’t respectable. They were gipsies.” Then, turning to Ruthita,
-“It was Lilith that we met. You remember Lilith of Epping Forest--that
-time we ran away to get married. Fancy meeting her after all these
-years! And just as I left, I saw G’liath drive up. I could swear it was
-the same old caravan, Ruthie.”
-
-Curiosity and love of romance melted my grandmother’s reserve.
-
-“G’liath! Why, that’s the gipsy family to which Sir Charles’s mother
-belonged. They must be kind o’ relatives o’ yours.”
-
-“I suppose they must. I never thought of that. I’ll have to ask Lilith
-about it. They were on their way to Yarminster Fair. We’ll run over and
-see them.”
-
-Just then the errand boy, who was minding the shop, tapped at the
-keeping-room door and handed in a note for me. I saw that it was
-unstamped and addressed in a handwriting that I did not recognize.
-
-“Where did this come from?”
-
-“It war left jist nar acrost the counter by a sarvant-gal.”
-
-“All right.”
-
-Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of
-Lilith. I ripped open the envelope and read:
-
-_Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can.
-Vi._
-
-“Who’s your letter from?”
-
-“From Mrs. Carpenter.”
-
-“Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It’s not more’n nine hours
-since you saw her.”
-
-“She wants my advice on--on a business matter.”
-
-“Humph! I ’ope she may profit by it.”
-
-As I was sauntering out of the shop Ruthita called after me in her high
-clear voice, “Going to take me to Yarminster to-day, Dante?”
-
-“Don’t know yet. I’ll tell you later.”
-
-Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure
-I was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and
-baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by
-affectionate relatives in the way I was.
-
-I was puzzled by Vi’s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I
-jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street.
-
-I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which
-overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the
-curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table.
-Upstairs I could hear Dorrie’s piping voice and, now and then, could
-catch a phrase of what she was saying.
-
-“Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don’t want to play wiv
-Annie. I want to play wiv Dante.”
-
-Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to
-stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly
-to the kitchen.
-
-Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the
-door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect
-in her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high
-color in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation.
-
-She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted
-a foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it
-gently. Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally
-polite and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the
-slow rise and fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid
-beauty--everything about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments,
-I wondered, what campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild
-desires to duty were going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip
-on her hand tightened; I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my
-yearning.
-
-“What is it? Why did you send for me? You’ve changed since last night.”
-
-She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I
-had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger.
-
-“It’s all over, Dante.”
-
-She whispered the words, wringing her hands and staring away from me out
-to sea. I slipped my arm about her shoulder. “It can never be all over,
-dearest.”
-
-For answer she handed me a letter. It bore a United States stamp and was
-addressed to her in a bold, emphatic, perpendicular hand which revealed
-the writer’s vigorous determination of character.
-
-“From my husband. Read it.”
-
-Standing a little apart from her at the window, I drew out a carefully
-folded letter. It was dated from Sheba, Massachusetts, nine days
-previous to its arrival. While I read it, I watched her stealthily, how
-she stood charmingly irresolute, twisting the gold-band off and on her
-finger.
-
-_My dearest Vi:_
-
-_I have written you many times, asking you to fix definitely the day of
-your return. You’ve put me off with all kinds of excuses. Latterly you
-have not even referred to my question. My dear child, don’t think I
-blame you; you probably have your own reasons for what you are doing.
-But people are beginning to talk about us here. For your own sake you
-ought to return. We’ve always tried to play fair by one another. You
-were always game, Vi; and now it’s up to you._
-
-_I’m lonely. I want my little Dorrie. Most of all I want my wife. I
-can’t stand this absence much longer. On receipt of this send me a cable
-“Coming,” followed by the date of your sailing. If I don’t receive such
-a cable within ten days of mailing this letter, I shall jump on a boat
-and come over. I don’t distrust you, but I’m worn out with waiting.
-Can’t you understand how I want you? Nothing in the world matters to me,
-my child, except you._
-
-_Your affectionate husband,_
-
-_Randall._
-
-I re-folded it methodically and returned it to the envelope. I tried to
-picture this man who had sent it. He was manifestly elderly. Probably he
-was portly, a trifle pompous and genially paternal in his manners. What
-volumes his trick of calling her “my child” revealed concerning their
-relations. I contrasted him with Vi. Vi with her eager youth, her
-passion to taste life’s rapture, her slim white body so alluring and
-so gracious, her physical fineness, her possibilities for bestowing and
-receiving natural joy. If I let her go, she would slowly lose her
-zest for life. She would forget that she was a woman and would sink
-prematurely into stolid middle-age. Her possibilities of motherhood
-would slip from her untaken and never to be renewed. The little rascals,
-with golden hair and features which should perpetuate her beauty, would
-never be born to her. Those children should be hers and mine. _Hers and
-mine_. How the words beat upon my brain! They were like the fists of
-little children, battering against the closed doors of existence. It
-was monstrous that the justice of this husband’s claim to her should be
-based on his injustice in having married her.
-
-Again I formed my mental picture of him, formed it with the cruel
-sarcasm of youth. His body was deteriorated; his skin puckered and
-yellow; the fine lines of suppleness and straightness gone; the muscles
-flabby and jaded. Then I looked at her: gold and ivory, with poppies for
-a mouth. Sweet and nobly chaste. A woman to set a man on fire--to drive
-him to the extremes of sorrow or gladness. A woman to sin for.
-
-I turned from the window and took one step towards her. I could feel her
-body throbbing against mine. The fierce sweet ecstasy of my delight hurt
-her. I saw nothing but her eyes. All else in the world was darkness.
-
-“Let me go,” she panted.
-
-“Do you want to go?” I whispered.
-
-She sank her head on my shoulder. Her arms were about my neck. I could
-only see her golden hair. Her answer came to me broken and muffled. “No,
-no, no.”
-
-I carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her.
-
-“You won’t ever despise me, will you?”
-
-How absurd her question sounded.
-
-Without any reference to our ultimate purpose, we set about making our
-plans. We must get away from Ransby. We must not be seen together any
-more that day. We would meet at the station that evening, and travel up
-to London together by the train leaving Ransby at six-thirty-eight. Our
-plans went no further.
-
-Now that all had been arranged, a new embarrassment arose between us--a
-sweet shamefulness. She clung to me, yet she cast down her eyes, her
-cheeks encrimsoned, not daring to look me in the face. We touched one
-another shyly and shuddered at the contact. Our hearts were too full for
-words, our thoughts too primitively intimate to be expressed. The veils
-had dropped from our eyes. The mystery of mysteries lay exposed. We saw
-one another, natural in our passions--exiles from society. No artificial
-restraints stood between us; in our conduct with one another we were
-free to be governed by our own desires.
-
-A scurry of little feet in the passage. The sound of heavier ones
-pursuing. We sprang apart. Dorrie entered, running with her arms
-stretched out towards me. “Catch me, Dante. Don’t let her get me.”
-
-The rueful face of Annie appeared in the doorway; her plump arms covered
-to the elbows with flour. “If ’ee please, mum,” she said, “it warn’t
-no fault o’ mine. She nipped out afore I could get a-holt o’ her, while
-I war a-makin’ o’ the pudden.”
-
-“You’re juth horwid,” cried Dorrie. “Go ’way. I want to thpeak to
-Dante.”
-
-She scrambled on my knee, clutching tightly to my coat till Annie had
-vanished. Then she tossed her curls out of her eyes, and told me all
-that she and Ruthita had done together on the previous evening. While
-she was talking, I watched Vi, trying to realize the seemingly
-impossible truth that she had promised herself to me, and would soon be
-mine. A host of bewildering images rushed through my mind as I gazed
-into the future. I was amazed at myself that I should feel no fear of
-the step which we contemplated.
-
-“Old thtupid,” cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, “you weren’t
-lithening.”
-
-She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give
-her my attention.
-
-“Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it
-some other time.”
-
-“All wite,” she acquiesced contentedly; “it’s a pwomith.”
-
-Vi accompanied me to the door.
-
-“To-night.”
-
-“To-night.”
-
-“What wath you thaying?” asked Dorrie.
-
-“Nothing, my darling.”
-
-My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered.
-She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles.
-“Well, my man of business, did she take your advice?”
-
-“Of course. Why shouldn’t she? She’s seen my grannie, and knows how
-she’s profited by it.”
-
-“Clever boy,” she retorted. “Who made your shirt? When a man of business
-is born among the Cardovers, pears’ll grow on pines. Look at your
-father. Look at the Spuffler. Look at yourself. I hope she won’t act on
-it. What was it?”
-
-“Can’t tell you now. I find I’ve got to run up to London to-night and
-I’ve promised to take Ruthie to Yarminster. There’s only just time.”
-
-“What’s takin’ you to London? You didn’t say anythin’ about it this
-marnin’.” She dropped her knitting in her lap. “Dante, is it anythin’ to
-do with her?”
-
-“Partly.”
-
-She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced
-meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our
-heads nearly touched. “You’d better stay there, laddie,” she whispered.
-“I’ve been thinkin’ and usin’ me eyes. This ain’t no place fur you at
-present. She’s gettin’ too fond of you and you of her. I know.” She
-nodded. “I’ve been through it. I watched your pa at it.”
-
-“At what?”
-
-“At what you and Mrs. Carpenter are doin’. Don’t pretend you’re a fool,
-Dante, ’cause you’re not--and neither is your old grannie.”
-
-Just then Ruthita looked out of the keeping-room. I was glad of the
-excuse to cut this dangerous conversation short. “Hurry up, Ruthie; get
-on your togs. I’m going to drive you over to Yarminster.”
-
-When she had gone, my grandmother turned to me again. “And there’s
-another of ’em. Lovers can’t keep their secrets to theirselves
-nohow--they give theirselves away with every breath. Did ye see the way
-she flushed wi’ pleasure? She’s a tender little maid. If you made her
-unhappy, though she’s none o’ my body, I’d never forgive ye, Dante. If
-you don’t intend to marry ’er, be careful.”
-
-“Rubbish,” I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a
-dog-cart from the livery-stables.
-
-“Aye, rubbish is well enough,” was my grandmother’s final retort; “but
-broken eggs can’t be mended. No more can broken hearts.”
-
-There was just room enough on the front-seat to take the two of us. As
-I drove down the street I saw Ruthita come out of the shop and stand
-waiting on the pavement. She looked modest and pretty as a sprig of
-lavender. There was always something quaintly virginal about her, as
-though she had stepped out of an old English love-song. Her eyes were
-unusually bright this morning with the pleasure of anticipation. With
-subtle flattery, she had put on one of the gowns I had bought her. It
-was her way of saying, “This day is to be mine and yours.”
-
-“Don’t I do you proud?” she laughed, using one of Vi’s Americanisms.
-
-“No, you don’t,” I said, with pretended harshness, “I can’t think where
-you got such a dunducketty old dress from.”
-
-“A man gave it me. Didn’t he show bad taste?”
-
-“He showed himself a perfect ass. Now, if I were to buy you a dress,
-Ruthie, which of course I shan’t----”
-
-“Here, get off with you, you rascals. What’re you a-doin’, blockin’ up
-my pavement?”
-
-Grandmother Cardover stood in the doorway, her hands folded beneath her
-black satin apron, her keys jangling. The gray cork-screw curls from
-under her cap were wobbling; her plump little body was shaking with
-enjoyment. All her crossness and caution on Vi’s account were gone at
-seeing Ruthita and myself together. We started up at a smart trot. As
-we turned the corner into the High Street, we looked back. She was still
-there, gazing after us.
-
-By the road which follows the coast, Yarminster is eight miles from
-Ransby. I turned inland by a roundabout route; I wanted to pass through
-Woadley.
-
-My spirits ran high with the thought of what was to happen shortly.
-I was in a mood to be gay. Clouds were flying high. The country lay
-windswept and golden in the sunshine. The air had the sharp tang of
-autumn--the acrid fragrance which foretells the decay of foliage. A
-pleasant melancholy lurked in the reds and yellows of woods and hedges.
-Tops of trees were already growing thin of leaves where the gales had
-harried them. Pasturing in harvested fields, flocks of sheep lent
-a touch of grayness to the landscape. Here and there overhead gulls
-hovered, or slid down the sky on poised wings, as though brooding on the
-summer that was gone.
-
-Ruthita and I spoke of Lilith, recalling childhood’s days. We
-laughed over our amazement at discovering that her back was no longer
-humpy--that her baby had left her. Then we fell to wondering whether she
-had ever been married and what was her story. Our conversation became
-intimate and confessional. I had never known much of Ruthita’s secret
-thoughts.
-
-“Dante,” she cried, “why did they leave us to find out everything?”
-
-I slowed the horse down to a walk. “I know what you mean, Ruthie.
-They brought us up on fables. They left us to fight with all kinds of
-fantastic imaginings. They allowed us to infer that so many things were
-shameful. D’you remember what a fuss they made when they found that the
-Bantam had kissed you?”
-
-She nodded, casting down her eyes. “I’ve never got over it. It’s made me
-awkward with men--self-conscious and afraid of...”
-
-“And yet they were kind to us, Ruthie.”
-
-“But they never treated us honestly,” she said sadly.
-
-That same intense look, a look almost of hunger, which transformed her,
-came into her face--the look which the flash-light had revealed to me
-that night on the denes. Sudden fear of what we might say next made
-me shake up the horse. The jolting of the wheels prevented us from
-conversing save by raising our voices.
-
-We passed a man on the road. He shouted after us.
-
-At first I thought he was chaffing. He kept on shouting.
-
-“Why don’t you stop?” said Ruthita. “We may have dropped something.”
-
-We had turned a bend. I looked back, but could not see him. I halted
-until he should come up. A big-framed man in a shooting-jacket, gaiters,
-and knickerbockers came swinging round the corner. I was surprised to
-recognize in him Lord Halloway.
-
-“Halloa,” he shouted, “you’re going in my direction. Would you mind
-giving me a lift as far as Woadley?”
-
-“Not at all,” I said. “This horse is restive. I can’t leave the reins. I
-suppose you can lower the back-seat without help.”
-
-He drew level on the far-side from me and stood with his hand resting on
-the splashboard, gazing at Ruthita. “My sister,” I said shortly.
-
-While he lowered the back and drew but the seat, he explained himself.
-“I’m going to Woadley to look after some farms my father owns round
-there.” What he was really saying was, “I’m not going to try to cut you
-out with Sir Charles, so you needn’t fear me.”
-
-His manner was friendly. He had gained a high color with his walking. He
-looked brilliantly handsome and manly, with just that touch of indolence
-about him that gave him his charm. Without being warned, no one would
-have guessed that he was a rake. In his presence even I disbelieved half
-the wild tales of dissipation I had heard narrated of him. Yet, when my
-distrust of him was almost at rest, he would arouse it with his inane,
-high-pitched laugh.
-
-When he had clambered in and we had started, I began to tell him, for
-the sake of conversation, where we were traveling. At the mention of
-Lilith, he interrupted.
-
-“Lilith! Lilith! Seem to remember the name. Was she ever in these parts
-before? There was a little girl named Lilith, who used to camp with
-the Goliaths, the gipsies, on Woadley Ham. They haven’t been there for
-years. I recall her distinctly. She was wild and dark. I used to watch
-her breaking in ponies when I was a boy stopping with Sir Charles.”
-
-“She must be the same.”
-
-“You might tell her that you met me, when you see her,” he said. “She
-was the pluckiest little horsewoman for her age I ever saw. She could
-ride anything. I can see her now, gripping a young hunter I had with her
-brown bare legs, fighting his head off. It’s odd that you should have
-mentioned her.”
-
-He tailed off into his giggling girlish laugh.
-
-Little by little he commenced to address his remarks exclusively to
-Ruthita. This was natural, for I could not turn round to converse with
-him because of attending to the horse. I observed him out of the corner
-of my eye, and began to understand the secret of his power over women.
-For one thing he talked entirely to a woman, bestowing on her an
-intensity of attention which many would consider flattering. Then again
-he put a woman at her ease, drawing her out and speaking of things which
-were within her depth. Most of the topics which he drifted into were
-personal. When he mentioned himself, he lowered his voice as if he were
-confessing. When he mentioned her, his tones became earnest.
-
-I was surprised to see how Ruthita, usually so reticent, lowered her
-guard to his attack. She twisted round on her seat, that she might watch
-him. Her face grew merry and her eyes twinkled with fun and laughter.
-She was being, what she had declared she never was--natural with a man.
-
-Out of the corner of my eye I saw one thing which displeased me
-immensely. With apparent unconsciousness, Halloway’s arm was slipping
-farther and farther along the back of the seat against which Ruthita
-rested. A little more, and it would have encircled her. But before that
-was accomplished, he stopped short, leaving nothing to complain of. He
-was simply steadying himself in a jolting dog-cart.
-
-We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a
-glimpse of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where
-the gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as
-I wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and
-myself together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were
-still industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of
-his errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the
-seat. That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in.
-
-“Didn’t you say you were going to Woadley?”
-
-“Why, yes,” he laughed. “I have to get out at the next cross-road and
-walk. The farms are over in that direction.”
-
-He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told
-me nothing.
-
-“Well, here’s the next cross-road.”
-
-My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my
-tones.
-
-“I’m awfully grateful to you,” he said; “you’ve saved me a long walk
-and I’ve enjoyed your company immensely.” As he spoke the last words
-he smiled directly into the eyes of Ruthita. “I shall hope to meet Miss
-Cardover again--perhaps at Oxford.”
-
-I did not think it necessary to tell him that Ruthita’s surname was
-not Cardover but Favart. We watched him stride away, clean-limbed and
-splendid--a man who had sinned discreetly and bore no physical marks of
-his shortcomings.
-
-At last Ruthita spoke. “I don’t think I like him.”
-
-“You didn’t let him know it.”
-
-“He made me forget. He made me remember I was a woman. No man’s ever
-spoken to me as he spoke.”
-
-“He’s a clever fellow to make you forget the esplanade and Lottie.”
-
-“Now you’re angry,” she laughed, and snuggled closer.
-
-We entered the old marketplace of Yarminster where the Fair was being
-held. Leaving our horse at _The Anchor_ to be baited, we threaded our
-way between booths and whirligo-rounds. Presently I heard a familiar
-cry, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball ’its a
-cocoanut. Down she goes. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.”
-
-Dodging up and down behind the pitch, was G’liath, not much altered. The
-gaudy woman was absent; it was Lilith who was serving out the balls to
-the country bumpkins.
-
-“Here’s Ruthita,” I said. “You remember the little girl in the Forest?”
-
-She went on catching the wooden balls which G’liath returned to her.
-Trade was busy. Between reiterating his call, she conversed with us.
-
-“I remember. (Two shies a penny). It doesn’t seem long ago. (Every ball
-’its a cocoanut. Walk up). How long is it?”
-
-“The best part of fourteen years.”
-
-It was difficult to carry on a conversation under the circumstances.
-
-“I wanted to ask you about last night,” I whispered. “When’ll you be
-free?”
-
-“Not until midnight.”
-
-I saw Ruthita listening, so I changed the subject. “By the way, we met
-someone who knew you when you were a girl at Woadley. He wanted to be
-remembered to you.”
-
-Her handsome face darkened. “A man?” she asked.
-
-“My cousin, Lord Halloway.”
-
-She halted and looked round on me in proud astonishment. “Oh!” she
-gasped, and renewed her calling.
-
-Ruthita broke in to tell her of my good fortune. She did not pay much
-attention at first. Then it seemed to dawn on her. “So he’s out of it,
-and you’ll be master at Woadley Hall?”
-
-“Yes.” I lowered my voice. “And then you must come back to Woadley Ham.
-You were good to me once, Lilith.”
-
-“I never forget.” There was a look of the old kindness in her eyes as
-she said it. “When you need me, I shall come.”
-
-The crowd pressed about us, curious to overhear, surprised at seeing
-gentlefolks so chatty with a gipsy hussy. She signed to us to go. We
-drew off a few paces, looking on, recalling that night at Epping, when
-we fled from Dot-and-Carry-One and came to G’liath’s encampment.
-
-Shortly after that the clock of St. Nicholas boomed three, and we
-departed.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX--THE ELOPEMENT
-
-
-Ruthita was anxious to accompany me to the station.
-
-“I don’t want you,” I told her. “Women always make a fuss over
-partings.”
-
-“But not sensible women,” she protested, smiling. “Let me come. There’s
-a dear.”
-
-“You’ll try to kiss me. You’ll make a grab at my neck just as the
-train is moving. I shall feel embarrassed. You’ll probably slip off the
-platform and get both your legs cut off. A nice memory to take with me
-to London! No, thank you.”
-
-“But I won’t try to kiss you, and I won’t grab at your neck. I’ll
-be most careful about my legs. And I don’t think it’s nice of you to
-mention them so callously, Dante.”
-
-“I always tell folks,” put in my grandmother, “that, if there wer’n’t no
-partin’s, there’d be no meetin’s. It’s just come and go in this life. If
-he don’t want you, my dear, don’t bother ’im.”
-
-“But he does want me,” Ruthita persisted. “I’ve always seen him off.
-I used to run beside the trap till I was ready to drop when Uncle Obad
-drove him away to the Red House. He’s only making fun.”
-
-“No, really, Ruthie, I’d much rather say good-by to you here in the
-shop.”
-
-“If you’re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you’ll have to run,”
- said my grandmother.
-
-Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that
-something was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and
-followed me out on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked
-back.
-
-There they stood waving and crying after me, “Good-by. God bless you.
-Good-by.”
-
-In passing the chemist’s shop I glanced in at the clock. It was five
-minutes faster than my watch. I turned into the High Street at something
-between a trot and a walk.
-
-On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart.
-The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to
-give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages.
-I had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money
-through. “’Fraid you won’t get the six-thirty-eight,” said the clerk.
-
-I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the
-guard blew his whistle.
-
-“Too late,” growled the collector, closing the gate in my face with all
-the impersonal incivility of a man whose action is supported by law.
-
-“There’s a lady and a little girl on board,” I panted; “they’re
-expecting me.”
-
-“Sorry,” said the man; “should ’ave got ’ere sooner.”
-
-Just then the train began to move and I recognized the uselessness of
-further argument. As the tail of it vanished out of the station,
-the collector slid back the gate. Now that there was no danger of my
-disobeying him, he could afford to be human. “It’s h’orders, yer know,
-sir, else I wouldn’t ha’ done it.”
-
-Friends who had been seeing their travelers off came laughing and
-chatting toward the barrier. As the crowd thinned, half way down
-the platform I caught sight of Vi. She was standing apart, with her
-hand-baggage scattered beside her in disorder. Dorrie was hanging to her
-skirts, looking up into her face, asking questions. Neither of them saw
-me.
-
-“Hulloa!”
-
-When I spoke to her, Vi started. Her eyes brimmed. There shone through
-her tears a doubtful gladness. “I thought--I thought you wer’n’t coming.
-I thought----”
-
-“Vi dearest! Was that likely?”
-
-Her fingers closed about my arm warningly as I called her dearest. She
-cast a scared look at Dorrie. “Not before her,” she whispered.
-
-I shrugged my shoulders. The position was queer. For a man and a woman
-in our situation there was no readymade standard of conduct. I began
-to feel lost in the freedom we were making for ourselves. There were no
-landmarks. Even now we were beyond the conventional walls of right and
-wrong which divide society from the outcast. We were running away to
-seek our happiness--and we were taking Dorrie!
-
-I began to explain hurriedly how I happened to miss the train.
-
-“Ruthita wanted to come to the station. I lost time in dissuading her.
-When I got away, I discovered that my watch was slow by five minutes.
-And then to crown all, when I could have caught the train, the man at
-the gate...”
-
-“It doesn’t matter,” she said generously. “How long before the next
-train starts?”
-
-“About half-an-hour.”
-
-“That’ll do nearly as well. My boxes have gone on, but I can claim them
-in London.”
-
-“We don’t want to stand in this stuffy station,” I said. “Let’s go for a
-walk.”
-
-She began to speak, and then stopped.
-
-“What is it?” I asked.
-
-“Shan’t--shan’t we be recognized?”
-
-“Not if we go round the harbor. We shan’t be likely to meet anyone there
-who knows us.”
-
-It was odd, this keeping up of respectable appearances to the last.
-Ruthita, Grandmother Cardover, Sir Charles, my father--all the world
-would know to-morrow. They would spread their hands before their faces
-and look shocked, and peek out at us through their fingers.
-
-“No one ever thpeaks to me.” Dorrie was reproachfully calling our
-attention to her presence.
-
-“We’ll both thpeak to you now,” I said. “Give me your hand, Dorrie.”
-
-Leaving our baggage with a porter, we went out of the station to the
-harbor, which lay just across the station-yard. Vi manouvered herself to
-the other side of me, so that the child walked between us.
-
-The heavy autumn dusk was falling. Lanterns were being run up the masts.
-The town shone hospitably with street-lamps. Groping their way round
-the pier-head came a part of the Scotch herring fleet. We could see
-how their prows danced and nodded by the way the light from their lamps
-lengthened and shortened across the water. Soon the ripple against the
-piles near to where we were standing quickened with the disturbance
-caused by their advance. Then we heard the creaking of ropes against
-blocks as sails were lowered.
-
-Leaning against the wall of the quay we watched them, casting furtive
-glances now and then at the illumined face of the station-clock.
-
-Dorrie asked questions, to which we returned indifferent answers. It
-had begun to dawn on her that I was going up to London with them. She
-construed our secretiveness to mean that our plot was for her special
-benefit; people only acted like that with her when they were concealing
-something pleasant. Her innocent curiosity embarrassed us.
-
-Why were we going to London? she asked us. We had not dared to answer
-that question even to one another. For my part I tried not to hear her;
-she roused doubts--phantoms of future consequence. I pictured the scene
-of long ago, when Ransby was rather more than twenty years younger, and
-another man and woman had slipped away unnoticed, daring the world
-for their love’s preservation. Had they had these same thoughts--these
-hesitations and misgivings? Or had they gone out bravely to meet their
-destiny, reckless in their certainty of one another?
-
-Behind us, as we bent above the water, rose the shuffling clamor of
-numberless feet. Up and down the harbor groups of fisher-girls were
-sauntering abreast, in rows of three and four. Now and then we caught
-phrases in broad Scotch dialect.. They had been brought down from their
-homes in the north, many hundreds of them, for the kippering. They
-paraded bareheaded, with rough woolen shawls across their shoulders,
-knitting as they walked. I was thankful for them; they distracted
-attention from ourselves. Vi and I said nothing to one another; our
-hearts were too full for small-talk. The child was a barrier between us.
-
-A man halted near us. He had a heavy box on his back, covered with
-American-cloth. He set it down and became busy. In a short time he had
-lighted a lantern and hung it on a pole. He mounted a stool, from which
-he could command the crowd, raising the lamp aloft. Fisher-girls, still
-knitting, stopped in their sauntering and gathered round him. Several
-smacksmen and sailors, with pipes in their mouths, and hands deep in
-pockets, loitered up.
-
-The man began to talk, at first at random, like a cheap-jack, trying to
-catch his hearers’ attention with a laugh. Then, when his audience was
-sufficiently interested, he unrolled a sheet upon which the words of a
-hymn were printed. He held it before him like a bill-board, so that all
-could see and the light fell on it. He sang the first verse himself in
-a strong, gusty baritone. One by one the crowd caught the air and joined
-in with him.
-
-They sang four verses, each verse followed by a chorus. The man allowed
-the sheet to drop, and handed the pole with the lantern to a bystander.
-
-His brows puckered. His eyes concentrated. His somewhat brutal jaw
-squared itself. His face had become impassioned and earnest all of
-a sudden. It had been coarse and rather stupid before; now a certain
-eagerness of purpose gave it sharpness. He began to talk with vehemence,
-making crude, forceful gestures, thrashing the air with his arms,
-bringing down his clenched right-fist into the open palm of his
-left-hand when a remark called for emphasis. His thick throat swelled
-above the red knotted handkerchief which took the place of a collar. He
-spoke with a kind of savage anger. He mauled his audience with brutal
-eloquence. His way of talking was ignorant. He was displeasing, yet
-compelling. There were fifteen minutes until the train started. I
-watched him with cynicism as a diversion from my thoughts.
-
-“Brothers and sisters,” he shouted, “we are ’ere met in the sight of
-h’Almighty Gawd. It was ’im as brought us together. Yer didn’t know
-that when yer started out this starlit h’evenin’ for yer walk. It was
-’im as sent me ’ere ter tell yer this evenin’ that the wages o’ sin
-is death. I know wot h’I’m a-saying of, for I was once a sinner. But
-blessed be Gawd, ’e ’as saved me and washed me white h’in ’is
-son’s precious blood. ’E can do that for you ter-night, an ’e sent
-me’ere ter tell yer.”
-
-Some of the Cornish Methodists, in Ransby for the herring season, began
-to warm to the orator’s enthusiasm. They urged him to further fervor by
-ejaculating texts and crying, “Amen!”
-
-“Blessed be ’is name!”
-
-“Glory!” etc.
-
-The man sank his voice from the roaring monotone in which he had
-started. “The wages o’ sin is death,” he repeated. “Oh, my friends, h’I
-speak as a dyin’ man to dyin’ men. Yer carn’t h’escape them wages nohow.
-The fool ’as said in ’is ’eart, ‘There ain’t no Gawd.’ ’Ave you
-said that? Wot’ll yer say when yer ’ave ter take the wages? Now yer
-say, ‘No one’s lookin’. They’ll never find out. H’everyone’s as bad as I
-h’am, only they doan’t let me know it. I’ll h’injoy myself. There ain’t
-no Gawd.’ I tells yer, my friends, yer wrong. ’E’s a-watchin’ yer now,
-lookin’ down from them blessed stars. ’E looks inter yer ’eart
-and sees the sin yer a-meditatin’ and a-planning. ’E knows the wages
-yer’ll ’ave ter take for it. ’E sees the conserquences. And the
-conserquences is death. Death ter self-respec’! Death ter ’uman
-h’affection! Death ter the woman and children yer love! Death ter ’ope
-and purity! Damnation ter yer soul! ’Ave yer thought o’ that? Death!
-Death! Death!”
-
-He hissed the words, speaking slower and slower. His voice died away in
-an awestruck whisper. In the pause that followed, the quiet was broken
-by a shrill laugh. All heads turned. On the outskirts of the crowd stood
-“Lady Halloway.” She had evidently been drinking. A foolish smile played
-about her mouth. Her lips were swollen. She mimicked the evangelist in a
-hoarse, cracked voice, “Death! Death! Death!”
-
-I signed to Vi. Going first, carrying Dorrie in my arms, I commenced to
-force a passage. We had become wedged against the wall. Our going caused
-a ripple of disturbance. Attention was distracted from “Lady Halloway”
- to ourselves. She turned her glazed eyes on us. Stupid with drink, she
-did not recognize me at first. I had to pass beneath the lantern quite
-near her. As the light struck across my face, she saw who I was. “’E’s
-got another gal,” she tittered so all could hear her. “It’s easy come
-and easy go-a. Love ’ere ter-day and thar ter-morrer. Good-evenin’,
-Sir Dante Cardover, that is ter be. And ’oo’s yer noo sweet-’art? Is
-she as pretty h’as me? Let a poor gal ’ave a look at ’er.”
-
-I pushed by her roughly. She would have followed, but some of the crowd
-restrained her. She made a grab at Vi. I could hear Vi’s dress rending.
-“So I ain’t good ’nough!” she shouted. “I ain’t good ’nough for yer!
-And ’oo are you ter despise me, I’d like ter h’arsk?”
-
-She said a lot more, but her voice was drowned in a protesting clamor.
-I turned my head as I crossed the station-yard. Beneath the evangelist’s
-lantern I saw her arms tossing. Her hair had broken loose. Her eyes
-followed us. I entered the station and saw no more. Not until we had
-slipped through the barrier on to the platform did we slacken. Even
-while loathing her for her display of bestiality, my grandmother’s words
-came back to me, “She was as nice and kind a little girl as there was in
-Ransby, until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.”
-
-We found that the porter, with whom we had left our luggage, had secured
-three seats for us. Two of them were corners. I took mine with my back
-to the engine, so that Vi and I sat facing one another. Dorrie sat
-beside Vi for a few minutes, uncomfortably, with her legs dangling. Then
-she slipped to the floor and climbing up my knees, snuggled herself down
-in my arms.
-
-“We’ll have fine timeth in London together, won’t we?” she questioned.
-“I’m tho glad you’s toming.”
-
-It was strange how difficult I found it to speak to Vi. I wanted to
-say so much. I knew I ought to say something. Yet all I could think to
-mention was some reference to what had happened beside the harbor--and
-that was so contaminating that I wanted to forget it. Luckily, just
-then, an old countrywoman bundled in with a basket on her arm.
-
-“Gooing ter Lun’non, me dear?” she asked of Vi. “Well, ter be sure,
-I intend ter goo ter Lun’non some day. I get out at Beccles, the nex’
-stop.” Lowering her voice, “That your little gal, and ’usband, bor?
-Not your ’usband! Well, ’e do seem fond o’ your little gal, now doan’t
-’e, just the same as if ’e wuz ’er father?”
-
-The train began to move. The lights of Ransby flashed by, twinkling
-and growing smaller. We thundered across the bridge which separates the
-Broads from the harbor.
-
-Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was
-talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls
-falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers,
-one was drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was
-reading a paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which
-fell from the lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with
-my thoughts.
-
-They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the
-harbor disturbed me. The face of “Lady Halloway” proved the truth of his
-assertions. His words would not be silenced. Strident and accusing,
-they rose, above the rumbling of the train, and wove themselves into
-a maddening chorus: “_The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is
-death; the wages of sin is death_.” A man whose intellect I despised,
-to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken
-truth--and I had heard it.
-
-At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man
-woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his
-corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There
-were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its
-journey through the dark.
-
-I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie.
-
-“Comfortable, Vi?”
-
-She nodded and leant her face against the cushioned back of the
-carriage, closing her eyes. I watched her pure profile--the arched
-eyebrows, the heavy eyelids, the straight nose, the full and pouting
-mouth, the rounded chin, the long, sensuous curve of the graceful neck.
-I traced the small blue veins beneath the transparent whiteness of
-her temples. I studied her beauty, committing it to memory. Then
-I commenced to compare her with Dorrie, discovering the likeness. I
-wondered whether I had first felt drawn to her because she was so like
-Dorrie, or only for herself.
-
-I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me.
-
-I had thought her sleeping.
-
-“Just wakened?”
-
-“I’ve been awake all the time. I’ve been thinking.”
-
-“Of what?”
-
-“Last night. How different it was! We didn’t have to hide. No one was
-looking.”
-
-“Then we’ll go again to where no one is looking.”
-
-“We can’t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.”
-
-“What was it this time?”
-
-She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into
-the night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. “How cruel it
-was, what he said to us!”
-
-“Who?”
-
-“The man there in Ransby.”
-
-“But he didn’t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at
-street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.”
-
-“He was speaking to me,” she said, “though he didn’t know it.”
-
-“Vi, you’re not growing nervous?”
-
-“That isn’t the word. I’m looking forward and thinking how horrid it
-would be to have to hide always.”
-
-“We shan’t.”
-
-She looked at Dorrie, making no reply.
-
-Presently she spoke again. “Dante, have you ever thought of it? I’m four
-years older than you are.”
-
-“No, I’ve never thought of it.”
-
-“You ought to.”
-
-“Why?”
-
-“Because four years makes a lot of difference in a woman. You’ll look
-still young when I’m turning forty.”
-
-“Pooh!”
-
-She ignored my attempt to turn from the topic. “If--if we should ever
-do anything rash, people would say that I was a scheming woman; that
-I’d taken advantage of you; that, being the elder, I ought to have known
-better.”
-
-The idea of Vi leading me astray was so supremely ridiculous that I
-laughed outright. Dorrie stirred, and gazed up in my face. “Dear Dante!”
- she muttered, and sank back again.
-
-“Her father will be waiting for the cable,” said Vi.
-
-I wondered if this was the kind of conversation my father and mother
-had carried on all those years ago when they ran away. I felt that if my
-arms were only free to place about her, all would be well.
-
-“We shall have to tell him, Vi,” I whispered.
-
-She pretended not to hear me. Her eyes were closed. One hand shaded them
-from the light. She was again playing hide-and-seek with the purpose of
-our errand.
-
-The rumble of the wheels droned on. I planned for what I would do when
-the train reached London and the moment of decision should arrive.
-
-Perhaps two hours passed in silence. The glare of London was growing in
-the distance. Towns and houses became more frequent. One had glimpses of
-illumined windows and silhouettes against the blinds. Each house meant a
-problem as large to someone as mine was to me. The fact that life was so
-teeming and various robbed my crisis of its isolated augustness. Locals
-met us with a crash like thunder. As we flashed by, I could glance into
-their carriages and see men and women, all of whom, at some time
-in their existence, would decide just such problems of love and
-self-fulfilment--to each one of them the decision would seem vital to
-the universe, and in each case it would be relatively trivial. How easy
-to do what one liked unnoticed in such a crowded world! How preposterous
-that theory of the man by the harbor! As if any God could have time to
-follow the individual doings of such a host of cheese-mites!
-
-Our fellow-traveler in the corner woke and removed the paper from before
-his eyes.
-
-“Wife tired?”
-
-“Yes, it’s a tedious journey.”
-
-It was too much trouble to correct him as to our exact relations.
-
-He cleared the misty panes and looked out at a vanishing station.
-“Stratford. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour. Live in London?”
-
-“Yes. At least, sometimes.”
-
-He commenced to get his baggage together, keeping up his desultory
-volley of questions.
-
-We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi’s hand.
-
-“We’re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes
-to-night or to-morrow?”
-
-“To-morrow’ll do,” she said.
-
-A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler
-alighted, refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering
-our luggage, inquired whether we wanted a cab.
-
-“Where to?” he asked.
-
-I turned to Vi. “Where’ll we stay?”
-
-She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went
-forward to engage the cabby.
-
-“Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,” she whispered. “Everything
-has been so--so hurried. You understand, dearest, don’t you?”
-
-I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having
-told the man to drive to the _Cecil_, I was about to enter. She checked
-me. “We shall be able to get on all right.” Then, in the darkness of
-the cab, her arms went passionately about my neck, and, all pretense
-abandoned, I felt her warm lips pressed against my mouth.
-
-As the door banged Dorrie roused. Seeing me standing on the platform,
-she stretched her arms out of the window, crying, “Oh, I fought you was
-toming wiv’ us, Dante.”
-
-“Not to-night, darling,” said Vi.
-
-“To-morrow,” I promised her. Then to Vi, “I’ll be round at the _Cecil_
-shortly after ten. Will that do?”
-
-She nodded. I watched them drive away, after which I jumped into a
-hansom and set off to pay Pope Lane a surprise visit.
-
-I could not sleep that night; was making plans. The haste with which
-this step had been approached and taken had terrified Vi. I had been
-unwise. Her sensitiveness had been shocked by the raw way in which a
-desire takes shape in action. And the man by the harbor had upset her. I
-must get her away to a cottage in the country, where we could be
-alone, and where she would have time to grow accustomed to our altered
-relations.
-
-Next morning, full of these arrangements, I sought her at the _Hotel
-Cecil_.
-
-She was not there; the office had no record of her. I remembered that
-her boxes had been left at Liverpool Street overnight. When I got there
-and made inquiries of the clerk, I found that the lady I described had
-been to the baggage-room an hour before me and had claimed them. After
-much difficulty I hunted out the cabman who had driven her. He showed me
-alcoholic sympathy, at once divining the irregularity of our relations,
-and told me that the lady had countermanded my orders and instructed
-him to drive her to the _Hotel Thackeray_. I arrived at the _Hotel
-Thackeray_ in time to be informed that she had already left.
-
-Four days later I received a letter which had been sent on from Ransby.
-It was from Vi, despatched with the pilot from the ship on which she was
-sailing to America.
-
-She had not dared to see me again, she said. She was running away from
-the temptation to be selfish. She had reckoned up the price which her
-husband, Dorrie, and myself would have to pay that she might gain her
-happiness; she had no right to exact it. As far as her husband and
-Dorrie were concerned, if we had done what we had contemplated, we
-should have shattered something for them which we could never replace.
-She was going back to do her duty. That the task might not be made too
-difficult, she begged me not to write.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X--PUPPETS OF DESIRE
-
-I returned to Oxford. My rooms at Lazarus were in Fellows’ Quad--one
-was a big room in which I lived and worked, the other was a small
-bedroom leading out of it. My windows overlooked the smooth lawns and
-gravel paths of the college garden. Flowers were over, hanging
-crumpled and brown on their withered stalks. Here and there, a solitary
-late-blooming rose shone faintly. The garden stood upon the city-wall,
-overlooking the meadows of the Broad Walk. Every evening white mists
-from the river invaded it, billowing across the open spaces, breaking
-against the shrubs, climbing higher and higher, till the tops of the
-trees were covered. Sitting beside my fire I could hear the leaves
-rustle, and turning my head could see them falling.
-
-The ceiling of my living-room was low; the walls were paneled in white
-from bottom to top. The furniture was covered in warm red. The hearth
-was deep and the fender of polished steel, which reflected the glow of
-the coals when the day drew near its close. It was a room in which to
-sit quietly, to think, and to grow drowsy.
-
-It was October when I returned. Meadows were turning from green to
-ash-color. Virginia-creeper flared like scarlet flame against pale
-walls. The contented melancholy of the austere city was healing. It
-cured feverishness by turning one’s thoughts away from the present. In
-its stoic calm it was like an old man--one who had grown indifferent to
-the world’s changefulness. In healthy contrast to its ancientness was
-the exuberant youth of the undergrads.
-
-Most grief arises from a thwarted sense of one’s own importance. Here,
-among broken records of the past, the impermanence of physical existence
-was written plainly.
-
-Defaced hopes of the ages encountered one at every corner. Of all the
-men who had wrought here, nothing but the best of what they had thought
-stood fast; their personalities, the fashion of their daily lives were
-lost beneath the dust of decades. No place could have been found better
-in which to doctor a wounded heart.
-
-Through the winter that followed Vi’s departure, the new conception I
-had of her nobility upheld me. I could not sink beneath her standard of
-honor. When the temptation to write to her came over me, I shamed myself
-into setting it aside.
-
-I recognized now what would have been the inevitable penalty, had we
-followed our inclination that night. Only the madness of the moment
-could have blinded me to its result. We should have become persons cast
-off by society--insecure even in our claim on one another’s affections,
-continually fleeing from the lean greyhound of remorse. Never for a
-day should we have been permitted to forget the irregularity of our
-relation. We should have been continually apologizing for our fault. We
-should have been continually hiding from curious, unfriendly eyes. The
-shame with which other people regarded us would have re-acted on our
-characters. And then there was Dorrie! She would have had to know one
-day.
-
-We had the man by the harbor and “Lady Halloway” to thank for our
-escape. The strange combination of influences they had exerted at our
-hour of crisis, had saved us.
-
-Black moments came when I gazed ahead into the vacant future. I must
-go through life without her. Unless some circumstance unforeseen should
-arise, we would never meet again. Then I felt that, to possess her, no
-price of disgrace would be too high to pay.
-
-I trained myself like an athlete to defeat the despair which such
-thoughts occasioned. I tried to banish her from my mind. In my conscious
-moments I succeeded by keeping myself occupied. But in sleep she came to
-me in all manner of intimate and forbidden ways.
-
-I crowded my hours with work that I might keep true to my purpose. And
-yet this method of fighting, when analyzed, consisted chiefly in running
-away. I took up tutorial duties at my college. I commenced to make
-studies for a biography of that typical genius of the Renaissance, half
-libertine, half mystic, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, known to history
-in his old age as Pope Pius II. I tried to fill up my leisure with new
-friendships. In none of these things could I become truly interested.
-My thoughts were crossing the ocean. When I was deepest in study I would
-start, hearing her voice, sharp and poignant.
-
-One afternoon I was sitting with my chair drawn up to the hearth, my
-feet on the fender, a board across my knees, trying to write. A tap fell
-on the door. Lord Halloway entered.
-
-He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace. “I’ve been wanting to
-speak to you for some time,” he said, “wanting to explain.”
-
-“Wanting to explain what?”
-
-“Myself in general. You don’t like me; I think you’re mistaken. I’m not
-the man I was.”
-
-“But why should you explain to me?”
-
-“Because I like you.”
-
-“Don’t see why you should. Woadley’s probably coming to me--which you
-once thought was to be yours.”
-
-“That doesn’t worry me. I’ll have the Lovegrove estates when my father
-dies. But I don’t like to feel that any man despises me--it hampers a
-chap in trying to do right. You pass me in the quads with a nod, and
-hurry as you go by so that I shan’t stop you. Why?”
-
-“Want to know the truth?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“It’s because of the woman they call ‘Lady Halloway’ and all the other
-girls you’ve ruined.”
-
-“I thought it. That was why I wanted to tell you that I’m done with that
-way of life. I was a colossal ass in the old days. But, you know, a good
-many fellows have been what I was, and they’ve married, and settled down
-and become respected.”
-
-“And what of the girls they’ve ruined?”
-
-He leant forward, clasping his hands and spreading his knees apart.
-“You’re blaming me for the injustices of society. Women have always had
-to suffer. But I’ve always done the sportsmanlike thing by the girls
-I’ve wronged. All of them are provided for.”
-
-“These things are your own affairs,” I said shortly; “but I’ve always
-felt----”
-
-“Felt what?”
-
-“Felt that the most disreputable thing about most prodigals is the
-method of their returning. They leave all the women they’ve deceived
-and all their bastards in the Far Country with the swine and the husks,
-while they hobble home to forgiveness and luxury. Simply because
-they acknowledge the obvious--that they’ve sinned and disgraced their
-fathers--they expect to escape the rewards of their profligacy. It’s
-cheap, Halloway. You speak as though marriage will re-instate your
-morals. A man should be able to bring a clean record to the woman he
-marries.” The off-hand manner in which he referred to his villainies had
-made me cold with a sense of justice. His lolling, fashionably attired
-person and his glib assertion that he had done with that way of life,
-roused my anger when I remembered his idiot son and the scene on the
-esplanade. He regarded me with a friendly man-of-the-world smile,
-pointing his delicate fingers one against the other. I would have liked
-him better had he shown resentment.
-
-“You make things hard,” he objected. “If everyone thought as you do,
-there’d be no incentive for reformation. The man who had been a little
-wild would never be anything else. According to your way of thinking,
-he’d be more estimable as a rake than as the father of a family. You
-shut the door against all coming back.”
-
-He spoke reasonably, trying to lift what had started as a personal
-attack, on to the impartial plane of a sociological discussion.
-
-“It’s the unfairness of it that irks me,” I said. “You tempt a girl and
-leave her to her disgrace. She bears both her own and your share of the
-scandal, while you scramble back into respectability. If you brought her
-back with you, I shouldn’t object. But, after you’ve persuaded her to go
-down into the pit, you draw up the ladder and walk away.”
-
-He gave his high-pitched laugh. “That’s how the world’s made. It’s none
-of my doing. If I married one of these girls, neither of us would be
-happy. One of these days I shall be Earl of Lovegrove. They’re better as
-they are. You know that, surely?”
-
-“I suppose so.”
-
-“Then, why prevent me, when I’m trying to get on to higher ground? I
-know I’ve been a rotter. I’ve made a mess of things. I don’t need anyone
-to remind me.”
-
-I held out my hand, saying, “I’ve been censorious. I’m sorry.”
-
-After this he dropped in often to see me. He was coaching the Lazarus
-toggers that autumn; his usual time for calling was between four and
-five, on his way up from the river. I got to know him well and to look
-for him. His big robustness and high color filled the student atmosphere
-of my room with an air of outdoor vitality. He was always cheerful. And
-yet I could not get away from the idea that he was making use of me for
-some undisclosed purpose.
-
-He was an egoist at heart--a charming egoist. Much of his conversation
-turned about himself. “Now that you know me better, do you still think
-that I’m barred from marriage?” he would ask.
-
-“All kinds of people marry. It still seems unfair to me that, after
-knocking about the way you have, you should marry anyone who doesn’t
-know the world pretty thoroughly.”
-
-“You mean I’m tarnished and should marry a woman who is tarnished.
-You don’t understand me, Cardover. My very knowledge of evil makes me
-worship feminine purity.”
-
-It was difficult to regard Lord Halloway as tarnished when you looked
-at his splendid body. His healthy physical handsomeness seemed an
-excuse for his transgressions. He upset all your ideas of the degrading
-influences of immorality.
-
-After Christmas I had Ruthita down to stay at Oxford. We were walking
-along the tow-path towards Iffley on the afternoon of her arrival, when
-the Lazarus Eight went by. Halloway was mounted, riding along the bank,
-shouting orders to the cox. As he passed us, he recognized Ruthita. I
-saw her color flame up. She halted abruptly, following him with her eyes
-round the bend of the river.
-
-“Shall we meet them again if we go on?”
-
-I told her we should be certain to meet them, as they would turn at
-Iffley Lock.
-
-“But I don’t want to meet them.” Then, in a whisper, “I’m afraid of him,
-Dante.”
-
-We retraced our steps to Folly Bridge and walked out to Hinksey to avoid
-him.
-
-“You’re an odd little creature, Ruthie. Why on earth should you be
-afraid of him? He can’t do you any harm.”
-
-“It’s his eyes. When he looks at me so hard, I forget all that I know
-about him, and begin to like him. And then, when he’s gone, I come to
-myself and feel humiliated.”
-
-Now that I had found someone who would run him down, I changed sides and
-began to plead his cause. “Seems to me it’s a bit rough on the chap to
-remember his old faults. He’s quite changed.”
-
-“But the woman at Ransby hasn’t,” she retorted bitterly. “He didn’t
-leave her a chance.”
-
-It was pleasant having Ruthita with me. I liked to hear the swish of her
-skirts as she walked, and to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my
-arm. She spoke with her face tilted up to mine. It was such a tiny face,
-so emotional and innocent. The frost in the air had brought a color to
-her cheeks and a luster to her hair. She loved to make me feel that she
-was my possession for the moment; I knew that I pleased her when I
-used her as though she were all mine. We treated one another with frank
-affection.
-
-“D’you ever hear from Vi?” she asked.
-
-“Never.”
-
-“It was awfully strange the way she left Ransby--so suddenly, without
-saying good-by. I had just one little note from her before she sailed;
-that was all. I’ve written to her several times since then, but she’s
-never answered.”
-
-I turned the subject by saying, “What’s this about Uncle Obad? Is he
-giving up the boarding-house?”
-
-“Yes, he’s going down into Surrey to raise fowls. He’s already got his
-farm. Aunt Lavinia’s wild about it.”
-
-“But where does he get his money?”
-
-“Nobody knows, and he refuses to tell. Papa says that he must have found
-another Rapson.”
-
-“But he isn’t selling shares again, is he?”
-
-“Oh dear no. He’s become wonderfully independent, and says he doesn’t
-need to make his poultry pay. It’s just a hobby.”
-
-“Dear old chap! I hope he doesn’t come another cropper.”
-
-“He says he can’t, but he won’t explain why. And d’you know, I believe
-he’s given Papa back the two thousand pounds that he lost.”
-
-“I don’t believe it. What makes you think that?”
-
-“Because Papa’s stopped talking against him, and because I caught him
-looking up those guide-books to Italy again.”
-
-We turned off from the Abingdon Road and curved round to the left
-through the sheep-farms of Hinksey. Hedges bristled bare on either side.
-Uplands rose bleak against the steely sky. Rutted lanes were brittle
-beneath our feet, crusted over here and there with ice. On thatched
-roofs of cottages sparrows squatted with ruffled feathers. Icicles hung
-down from spouts. The lambing season was just commencing. As we drew
-near farms the warm smell of sheep packed close together assailed our
-nostrils. From far and wide a constant, distressful bleating went up.
-Quickly and silently, rising out of the ground, dropping down from the
-sky, darkness closed in about us. In the cup of the valley, with the
-river sweeping round it, lay Oxford with its glistening towers and
-church spires. Little pin-points of fire sprang up, shining hard and
-frosty through the winter’s shadows. They raced through the city, as
-though a hundred lamp-lighters had wakened at once and were making up
-for lost time. Soon the somber mass was a blazing jewel, flinging up a
-golden blur into the night.
-
-Ruthita hugged my arm. “Doesn’t it make you glad to be alive? I’m never
-so happy as when I’m alone with you, Dante. It isn’t what we say that
-does it. It’s just being near one another.”
-
-She spoke like a child, groping after words, feeling far more than
-she could ever utter. But I knew what she meant. The woman in her was
-striving. Just as her flowerlike womanhood, unfolding itself to me
-secretly, made me hungry for Vi, so my masculinity stung her into
-wistful eagerness for a man’s affection.
-
-“You’re a queer little kiddie. What you need’s a husband. I shall be
-frightfully jealous of him. At first I shall almost hate him.”
-
-“If you hated him, I shouldn’t marry him. Besides, I don’t believe I
-shall ever marry.”
-
-We trudged back to Oxford in a gay mood, carrying on a bantering
-conversation. When we had entered Lazarus, I left her at the lodge,
-telling her to go to Fellows’ Quad while I ordered tea at the pantry. As
-I approached my rooms, I heard the sound of voices. Opening the door, I
-saw the lamp had not been lit. By the flare of the fire, I made out the
-profile of Ruthita as she leant back in the arm-chair, resting her feet
-on the fender. Standing up, looking down on her, with his arm against
-the mantelshelf was Lord Halloway.
-
-He glanced towards me in his careless fashion. “This is quite the
-pleasantest thing that could have happened. I’ve often thought about
-the drive to Woadley and wondered whether we three should ever meet all
-together again.” Then, turning to Ruthita, “Your brother’s so secretive,
-Miss Cardover. He never breathed a word about your coming.”
-
-“My sister’s name is not Cardover,” I corrected him.
-
-He drew himself to his full height languidly. “I must apologize for
-having misnamed you, Miss--Miss----”
-
-“My name is Favart,” put in Ruthita.
-
-“Isn’t it strange,” he asked, “that a brother and sister should be named
-differently?”
-
-Then I had another illustration of how he could draw out women’s
-confidence. Ruthita had just run three miles in the opposite direction
-to avoid him, yet here she was eagerly telling him many things that were
-most intimate--all about her father and the Siege of Paris, and how
-I climbed the wall and discovered her, and how we had run off to get
-married and stayed with the gipsies in the forest.
-
-The tea-boy came and set crumpets and muffins down by the hearth. I lit
-the lamp. Still they went on talking, referring to me occasionally, but
-paying little heed to my presence.
-
-The bell began to toll for Hall.
-
-Halloway rose. “How long are you going to be in Oxford, Miss Favart?”
-
-“That depends on Dante, and how long he will have me.
-
-“Then you’re staying a little while?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“I ask, because I’d like to take Cardover and yourself out driving. I
-have my horses in Oxford and you ought to see some of the country.”
-
-“That depends on Dante.”
-
-“We’ll talk it over to-morrow,” I said brusquely.
-
-For the next few days, wherever we went we were unaccountably coming
-across Halloway. He always expressed surprise at meeting us, and always
-made himself delightful after we had met. If we walked out to Cumnor, or
-Sandford or Godstow, it made no difference in which direction, we were
-sure to hear the sharp trit-trotting of his tandem, and to see his high
-red dog-cart gaining on us above the hedges. Then he would rein up, with
-a display of amazed pleasure at these repeated accidents, and insist on
-our mounting beside him. Ruthita told me that she was annoyed at the way
-he broke up our privacy; but her annoyance was saved entirely for his
-absence. In his company she allowed him to absorb her.
-
-I had accompanied Ruthita back to the _Mitre_, where she was staying. It
-was her last night. On returning to my rooms, I found Halloway waiting.
-I was surprised, for the hour was late. I noticed that his manner was
-unusually serious and pre-occupied for such an habitual trifler. When I
-had mixed him a whiskey and soda, I sat down and watched him. He tapped
-his teeth with his thumbnail.
-
-I grew restless. “What is it?” I asked. “Something on your mind?”
-
-“Don’t know how to express it. You’ve made it difficult for me.”
-
-“How?”
-
-“By the things you’ve said from time to time. You see, it’s this way.
-Until I met Miss Favart I was quite unashamed of myself. Her purity and
-goodness made me view myself in a new light. Since then I’ve tried to
-retrieve my past to some extent. Of course, I can never be worthy of
-her, but----”
-
-“Worthy of her! I don’t understand.” I leant forward in my chair,
-frowning.
-
-“You do understand,” he said quietly. “You must have guessed it from the
-first. I’m in love with her and intend to make her my wife.”
-
-“Intend!” I repeated.
-
-He rose to his feet, as though willing to show me his fine body, and
-began to pace the room with the stealthy tread of a panther. He kept
-his eyes on mine. When he spoke there was a purring determination in his
-voice.
-
-“Yes, intend. I’ve always had my way with women. You’ll see; I shan’t
-fail this time. I may have to wait, perhaps.”
-
-“Halloway,” I said, “I don’t suppose you’re capable of realizing how
-decent people feel about you. Of course there are many men who disguise
-their feelings when they see you trying to do better. But very few of
-those same men would introduce you to their sisters, or daughters, or
-wives. To put it plainly, they’d feel they were insulting them. So now
-you know how I feel about what you’ve just told me.”
-
-He paused above me, looking down with an amused smile.
-
-“My dear Cardover, that’s just what I expected from you. You virgin men
-are so brutally honest where your ideals are concerned--so hopelessly
-evasive in facing up to realities. Don’t you know that life _is_ a
-coarse affair? I’ve lived it naturally--most strong men have at some
-time. I’ve been open in what I’ve done. Everybody knows the worst there
-is to know about me. Most men do these things in secret. I couldn’t be
-secret and preserve my self-respect. Skeletons in the cupboard ar’n’t
-much in my line. Ruthita knows me at my wickedest now; when she knows me
-at my best, she’ll love me.”
-
-“When my sister marries,” I said coldly, “it’ll be to a man who can
-bring her something better than the dregs of his debaucheries.”
-
-He gave his foolish laugh. “That’s a new name for the Lovegrove titles.
-I’d better be going. If I stay longer, you may make me angry.”
-
-I rose to see him take his departure. He had passed out and gone a few
-steps down the passage, when I heard him returning. The door just opened
-wide enough for him to look in on me. “My dear Cardover,” he said, “I
-came back to remind you of another of those evasive realities. You know,
-she isn’t your sister.”
-
-A week later I received an indignant letter from Ruthita, saying that
-Lord Halloway had been to Pope Lane to see my father, and had asked for
-her hand in marriage. She had refused even to see him. By the same mail
-came a letter from the Snow Lady, couched in milder terms and asking for
-information. She wanted to know whether Halloway was as black as he was
-painted. I referred her to Ruthita, telling her to ask her to describe
-what happened on the esplanade. As a result I received a final letter,
-agreeing with me that the matter was impossible, but at the same time
-enlarging on the wealth and prestige of the Lovegrove earldom.
-
-For a fortnight I refused to have anything to do with my cousin, but
-his imperturbable good-humor made rancor impossible. In the cabined
-intimacies of college life a quarrel was awkward. To the aristocratic
-much is forgiven; moreover he was a splendid all-round athlete and one
-of the hardest riders to hounds that the ’Varsity had ever had. So he
-was popular with dons and undergraduates alike. One morning when he
-stopped me in Merton Street, offering me his hand, I took it, agreeing
-to renew his acquaintance. My commonsense told me that the defeated
-party had most cause for grievance. His sporting lack of bitterness sent
-him up in my estimation.
-
-Spring broke late on the world that year in a foam of flowers. Like
-a swollen tide it swept through our valley in wanton riot and stormed
-across the walls of our gray old town. It surged into shadowy cloisters
-and dashed up in spray of may-blossom and lilac. Every tree was crested
-with the flying foam of its hurry. The Broad Walk, leading down to the
-barges, was white with blown bloom of chestnuts.
-
-Quadrangles became gay with geraniums. Through open windows music
-and men’s laughter sounded. Flanneled figures, carrying rackets and
-cricket-bats, shot hither and thither on bicycles. At evening, in the
-streets beneath college windows, groups of strolling minstrels strummed
-on banjos and sang. Fresh-faced girls, sweethearts and sisters of
-the undergraduates, drifted up and down our monastic by-ways, smiling
-eagerly into their escort’s eyes, leaving behind them ripples of
-excitement.
-
-All live things were mating. The instinct for love was in the air. My
-longing for Vi was quickened. The sight of girls’ faces filled me
-with poignancy. Every beauty of sound, or sight, or fragrance became
-commemorative of her. By day I traced her resemblance in the features of
-strangers. Inflamed desire wove tapestries of passion on the canvas of
-the night. Roaming through lanes of the countryside, I would meet young
-lovers in secluded places, and flee from them in a tempest of envy. Had
-she sent me one little sign that she still cared, I would have abandoned
-everything and have gone to claim her. My mind was burning. I poured
-out my heart to her in letters which, instead of sending, I destroyed. I
-became afraid.
-
-Halloway was in the same plight. He never mentioned Ruthita; but he
-would come to my room, and pause before her photograph and fall
-silent. However, he knew how to shuffle his fortune to convenience his
-environment. He had his comforters. Gorgeous young females fluttered in
-and out of his apartments, like painted butterflies. His only discretion
-was in the numbers of his choice. They might have been the daughters
-of dukes by their appearance, but you knew they were chorus-girls from
-London. One day when I questioned him, he threw me a cynical smile,
-saying, “I’m trying the expulsive power of a new affection.”
-
-The phrase took root. If I was to do the honorable thing by Vi, I also
-must employ my heart in a new direction. The thing was easy to say, but
-it seemed impossible that I should ever be attracted by another woman.
-
-It had become my habit to spend much of my time sitting by the open
-window of my room, gazing out into the college garden. Hyacinths,
-tulips, crocuses bubbled up from beneath the turf. Every day brought a
-change. In the spring breeze the garden tossed and nodded, applauding
-its own endeavor. Songsters had returned to their last year’s nests.
-From morn to dusk they caroled in the shrubberies. Twittering their
-love-songs or trailing straws, they flashed across gulfs which separated
-the chestnuts. Over Bagley Wood, as I sat at work, I could hear the
-cuckoo calling. From the unseen river came the shouting of coaches to
-their crews, and the long and regular roll of oars as they turned in
-their rowlocks.
-
-I glanced up from my books one evening. The glow of sunset, hovered
-along the city-wall. Leaning over its edge, looking down into the
-meadows, a tall girl was standing. Her back was towards me. She was
-dressed in the palest green. Her hair was auburn. She held her skirt
-daringly high, disclosing the daintiest of ankles. Her open-work
-stockings were also of green to match the rest of her attire. Her
-companion was Brookins, the assistant chaplain, an effeminate little
-man, who was known among the undergraduates as the doe-priest. He seemed
-ill at ease; she was manifestly flirting with him. In the stillness of
-the garden the penetrating cadence of her gay voice reached me. It was
-friendly, and had the lazy caressing quality of a summer’s afternoon
-when bees are humming in and out of flowers. I was tantalized by a
-haunting memory. She turned her face part way towards me. I caught her
-mocking profile. The way the red-gold curls fell across her forehead
-was familiar; and yet I could not remember. She came along the terrace,
-walking in long, slow, undulating strides. The west shone full upon
-her. She was brilliant and gracious, and carried herself with an air of
-challenging pride. Her tall, slim figure broke into exquisite lines as
-she walked, revealing its shapely frailty. Her narrow face, with its
-arch expression of innocence, promised a personality full of secrets and
-disguises.
-
-I stepped across the sill of my window into the garden. They were near
-enough now for me to catch an occasional word of their conversation.
-I approached across the lawn towards them. She glanced in my direction
-casually; then she steadied her gaze. I saw that her eyes were green,
-specked with gold about the iris. She stooped her head, still gazing at
-me, and asked a question of the doe-priest in a lowered voice. I heard
-him speak my name. A bubbling laugh sprang from her lips. She came
-tripping towards me with her hand extended.
-
-“You’re not going to pretend you don’t know me?”
-
-“I do know you, and yet I can’t recall where we have met or what is your
-name.”
-
-“Were you ever in Sneard’s garden at the Red House?”
-
-“You’re------”
-
-“Fiesole Cortona, and you’re Dante.”
-
-We stood there holding one another’s hands, searching one another’s
-faces and laughing gladly.
-
-“Well I never!” I kept repeating. “Fancy meeting you after all these
-years!”
-
-“Am I much changed?” she questioned.
-
-“You’re more beautiful,” I said boldly.
-
-She nodded her head roguishly. “I can see you’re no longer afraid
-of girls. You were once, you remember.” The doe-priest had stood by
-watching us nervously. It was plain that Fiesole had scared him--he
-was glad to be relieved of her. The bell in the tower began to toll for
-dinner. Brookins jangled his keys, edging towards the gate.
-
-“Poor Mr. Brookins, are you hungry? Must you be going?”
-
-“I don’t like to be late at high table, Miss Cortona,” he replied
-stiffly. “The Warden is very particular about punctuality.”
-
-“Never mind, Brookins,” I said, “I’ll look after Miss Cortona. You cut
-along.”
-
-Brookins made his farewells with more alacrity than politeness. Fiesole
-gazed after his departing figure with mischievous merriment in her eyes.
-
-“He thinks me a dangerous person,” she pouted. “He thinks I was luring
-him on to be naughty. He’ll go and preach a sermon about me. He’s
-bristling with righteousness. And now that he’s managed to escape,
-he’s locking poor innocent you, Dante, all alone in the garden with the
-wicked temptress.”
-
-“I rather like it. Besides, I know a way out--over there, through my
-window.”
-
-As we strolled across the lawn I asked her, “Where, under the sun, did
-you pick up Brookins? He doesn’t seem just your sort.”
-
-“I picked him up at Aix-les-Bains. He was sowing his wild oats
-imaginatively and eyeing the ladies in _La Villa des Fleurs_. He was
-trying to find out what it felt like to be truly devilish.”
-
-“That doesn’t sound like Brookins. I suppose he was gathering
-experience, so that he might be able to deal understanding with erring
-undergrads.”
-
-“You’re charitable. At any rate, when I met him he was playing the
-truant from morality. I was in the Casino.”
-
-“What doing? Gambling?”
-
-She nodded. “You see I was nearly as bad as Mr. Brookins. He came and
-stood behind my chair while I was playing. When I got up and went
-out into the garden, he followed. It was all dusky and dimly lit with
-faery-lamps. I suppose it made him feel romantic. I saw what he was
-doing out of the corner of my eye; so, for the fun of it, I tried to
-fascinate him.”
-
-“I’ll warrant you did. It was the old game you played with me and the
-Bantam. You take delight in making other people uncomfortable. It’s
-the most adventurous thing about you, Fiesole. You’ve got the name of a
-lullaby and the manners of a mustard-plaster. You’ll be trying to sting
-me presently, when you catch me sleepy and unaware.”
-
-“Not you, Dante.”
-
-She spoke my name coaxingly, veiling her eyes with her long lashes.
-
-“But you did once.”
-
-“Did I? So you still remember?”
-
-I was unwilling to be sentimental. “What did you do next to poor
-Brookins?”
-
-She took up the thread of her story with feigned demureness. “I chose
-out a bench well hidden in the shadows. He came and seated himself on
-the edge of it, as far away as he could get from me. He cleared his
-throat several times. I could hear him moistening his lips. Then
-he whispered, almost turning his back on me, ‘Je vous aime.’ And I
-whispered, turning my back on him, ‘Do you? Now isn’t that lovely!’”
-
-“And then?”
-
-“Oh, then, finding I was English, he became more comfy. He began to
-boast about Oxford and mentioned Lazarus. So I thought to-day the least
-I could do was to call on him. I didn’t know he was a parson. You should
-have seen his face when he saw me. I’ve been getting even with him all
-this afternoon. He thinks I’ve risen out of the buried past to haunt
-him.”
-
-She broke into low musical laughter, shaking her shoulders.
-
-“You were cruel, Fiesole. What he said to you was the sum total of the
-intent of his wickedness. He had reached the limit of his daring.”
-
-“I know it. That’s why I don’t like him. He isn’t thorough. He told
-me that his name was Jordan at Aix. When I asked for him at the lodge
-to-day, the porter said there weren’t no sich purson. I was turning
-away, when I saw him coming across quad in full clericals, walking by
-the side of a stooping old gentleman shaped like the letter C.”
-
-“That would be the Warden.”
-
-“Oh, was it? Well, he didn’t see me and was walking right by me. I
-tapped him on the arm and said, ‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Jordan.’ He paled
-to his lips and stared. The old gentleman raised his hat to me and said,
-‘This is Mr. Brookins, not Mr. Jordan, my dear young lady. You must be
-mistaken.’ ‘Jordan’s my pet name for him,’ I answered. The old gentleman
-smiled, and smiled again and left us. Then I turned to Mr. Brookins and
-said, ‘Je vous aime. Be sure your sins will find you out.’ After that I
-tried to be very nice to him, but somehow I couldn’t make him happy.”
-
-“I’m not surprised. Brookins was wondering how he could explain to the
-Warden not knowing a charming young lady, who had a pet name for him.
-They’re asking him about it now at the high-table, and he’s lying fit
-to shame the devil. His pillow will be drenched to-night with tears
-of penitence. You rehearsed the Judgment Day to him. You’ve turned the
-tables on him, because, you know, that’s his profession every Sunday.”
-
-I helped her to step across the sill of my window. She gazed round my
-room, taking in the pipes and tobacco-ash and clothes strewn about. “I
-love it,” she said. “It’s so cosy and mannish.”
-
-She perched herself on the arm of a chair, so that the golden,
-after-glow fell athwart her. I watched her, thinking how little she had
-changed from the old Fiesole. She was still tantalizing, as mischievous
-as a school-girl; once she had fiddled with boys’ heartstrings, now she
-took her pastime in breaking men’s.
-
-She was a creature of vivid mysteries, alternately wooing and repelling.
-She could beckon you on with passionate white arms and thrust you from
-her with hands of ice. She came out of nowhere like a wild thing from a
-wood. You looked up and saw her--she vanished. She courted capture and
-invited pursuit; but you knew that, though you caught her, you would
-never tame her.
-
-She had plucked a deep-cupped daffodil from a vase on the table. She was
-bending over it with a tender air of contemplation. She held the long
-slim stalk low down in her dainty, long, slim fingers. The golden dust
-of the petals seemed the reflection of the golden glint that was in
-her hair. The stalk was the color of her eyes. Her tempestuous
-loveliness--made to lure and torture men, to fill them with cravings
-which she could not satisfy--was resting now.
-
-She looked up at me with calculated suddenness. She read admiration in
-my eyes.
-
-“You find me pretty nice, don’t you, Dante?”
-
-“I’m not disguising it, am I?”
-
-“I thought, maybe, you were cross with me about Brookins. We never quite
-approved of one another, did we, Dante? You thought and still think me a
-coquette.”
-
-“Well, aren’t you?”
-
-“With some people, but not with you. I only played with the Bantam to
-draw you out of your shell.”
-
-“Really?”
-
-“Really.”
-
-Then the absurdity of being serious over an affair of childhood struck
-us and we went off into gales of laughter.
-
-“Let’s be sensible,” I said. “What are you doing? Staying at Oxford with
-friends?”
-
-“No. I’m traveling alone with my maid.”
-
-“Have you any engagement for this evening?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Then why shouldn’t we spend it together?”
-
-“No reason in the world.”
-
-“Where’ll we spend it?”
-
-“Here, if you like.”
-
-“But we can’t spend it here, just you and I. The college doesn’t allow
-it. Besides, you haven’t had dinner. Where’ll we dine?”
-
-“Anywhere.”
-
-“What do you say to punting down to Sandford and dinner at the inn
-there?”
-
-“I’m game.”
-
-As we passed through the quads, men were coming out of Hall from dinner.
-Some of them went thundering up wooden-stairs to their rooms, tearing
-off their gowns. Others strolled arm-in-arm joking and conversing,
-smoking cigarettes. At sight of Fiesole, they hauled up sharply. She was
-a man’s woman, and they were struck by her beauty. With one accord they
-turned unobstrusively and hurried their steps towards the lodge, to
-catch one more glimpse of her face as she passed out. She betrayed no
-sign that she was aware of the sensation she was creating. She advanced
-beside me with eyes modestly lowered, enhancing her allurement with a
-serene air of innocence. Out in the street her manner changed.
-
-“The men do that always,” she said, “and, do you know, I rather like
-them for it.”
-
-“What do they do?”
-
-“Stare after me.”
-
-“Don’t wonder Brookins was shocked by you, Fiesole. You’re a very
-shocking person. You say the most alarming things.”
-
-She laid her hand on my arm for a second. “But I say them charmingly.
-Don’t I?”
-
-On our way through the meadows to the barges, I asked her what she had
-been doing all these years.
-
-“For a time I tried the stage, but lately I’ve been traveling in Europe.
-I have no relations--nothing to keep me tethered. I roam from place to
-place with my maid, moving on and on again.”
-
-“Not married?”
-
-“I’m not the kind of woman who marries. Men like me, but when it comes
-to making me their wife, it’s ‘Oh no, thank you.’ They want a woman a
-little more stupid. Are you married?”
-
-“Hardly.”
-
-She shot me a penetrating glance. “Engaged?”
-
-“Not that I’m aware of.”
-
-We came to the Lazarus barge. I piled cushions in a punt for her. She
-lay with her back to the prow, so that she faced me. I took the pole and
-pushed off into midstream.
-
-We had the river to ourselves; its restful loneliness caused us to fall
-silent. We left the barges quickly; then we drifted slowly. Fields were
-growing white and vaporous. The air was damp, and cool, and earthy.
-Behind us the spires of Oxford shone like a clump of spears against
-the embattled, orange-tinted sky. Before us, swimming in blue haze,
-was Iffley Mill. Everything was becoming ill-defined--receding into
-nothingness. Far away across meadows to the right we caught sounds of
-gritting hoofs and the grinding of a wagon. Sometimes a bird uttered one
-long fluty cry. Sometimes a swallow swooped near us.
-
-“Dante, all the others have passed on, and there’s only you and I.
-What’s happened to the Bantam?”
-
-“Married in Canada. He’s farming.”
-
-“I believe you thought you loved me in the old days.”
-
-“I could tell you some things to prove it.”
-
-“You didn’t do much to prove it at the time. You were a terribly shy and
-stubborn boy. You left me to do all the courting. I’ve often laughed at
-the things I did to try and make you kiss me.”
-
-“And that was what I was wanting most to do all the time. D’you know
-what sent me to the infirmary?”
-
-Then I told her how I had crept out of bed and out of doors in the
-middle of the night to visit the summer-house.
-
-“What a little beast I was,” she said. “I’m always being a little beast,
-Dante. That’s the way I’m made. Can’t help it. But I’ll never be like
-that to you again.”
-
-By the time we got to Sandford it was night. Lamps in the inn were
-lighted, shining through the trees across the river. We had dinner
-in the room next to the bar, in an atmosphere of beer and sawdust and
-tobacco. The windows were open; the singing of water across the weir was
-accompaniment to our conversation.
-
-She told me the beginning of many things about herself with a strange
-mixture of frankness and restraint. She spoke of the early days in Italy
-before her parents died, and of the ordered quiet of her convent life
-at Tours. After her expulsion from the Red House she had returned to
-France, and fallen in with the artistic set that had been her father’s
-in Paris. Her guardian, an old actor, had persuaded her to train for the
-stage. For a time she had succeeded, but had dropped her profession to
-go traveling.
-
-“I’m an amateur at living,” she told me; “I’m always chopping and
-changing. I’ll find what I want some day.”
-
-Her restlessness had carried her into many strange places. Northern
-Africa was known to her; she had been through India and Persia. Speaking
-in her lazy voice, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, she
-painted pictures of sun-baked deserts with caravans of nodding camels;
-of decayed, oriental cities sprawled out like bleached bones in
-palm-groves beside some ancient river-bank; of strange fierce rituals in
-musty temples, demanding the blood-sacrifice. She made me feel while she
-spoke how narrowly I had lived my life. Like a fly on a window-pane I
-had crawled back and forth, back and forth, viewing the adventure of the
-great outside, rebellious at restraint, but never taking any rational
-measures for escape.
-
-The river droned across the weir. In the bar-room next door glasses
-clinked; yokels’ voices rose and fell hoarsely in argument. Fiesole came
-to a halt and leant back in her chair, gazing searchingly into my face
-across the table.
-
-“You look queer, Dante. What’s the matter?”
-
-I laughed shortly. “You’ve been putting the telescope to my eye. You’ve
-been making me see things largely. How was it that you broke loose that
-way?”
-
-“I had a horror of growing stodgy. I was born to be a South Sea Islander
-and to run about naked in the sunshine.”
-
-“How long are you to be in Oxford?”
-
-“Don’t know. I’ve made no plans. I hadn’t expected to spend more than
-one night. But now----”
-
-She did not finish the sentence. We rose from the table. In the porch we
-loitered, breathing in the deep, cool stillness.
-
-“You’ll stay a little while, won’t you, Fiesole?”
-
-She took my arm and smiled. “Of course--if you want me.”
-
-Going down through the arbors, we stepped into the punt. The river was
-a-silver with moonlight.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XI--SPRING WEATHER
-
-I drugged myself with Fiesole to avoid thinking of Vi. Fiesole was so
-vivid in her personality that, while she was present, she absorbed my
-whole attention and shut out memory.
-
-She was a continual source of pleasure and surprise, for her mood was
-forever changing. She could be as naughty as a French novel and as
-solemn as the Church of England Prayer Book. When she tried to be
-both together she was at her drollest; it was like Handel played on a
-mouth-organ.
-
-She would never let me take her seriously. There lay the safety of our
-comradeship. At the first hint of sentiment, she flew like a hare before
-a greyhound; the way she showed her alarm was by converting what should
-have been pathos into absurdity.
-
-Day after day of memorable beauty I spent with her in that blowy
-Cotswold country. We would usually appoint our place of meeting
-somewhere on the outskirts of Oxford. It was not necessary to let
-everyone know just how much of our time was lived together. This care
-for public opinion lent our actions the zest of indiscretion.
-
-As I set out to meet her, I would pass crowds of undergrads, capped and
-gowned, sauntering off to their morning lectures. I was playing truant,
-and that gave an added spice to adventure. Each college doorway frowned
-on my frivolity, calling me back to a sense of duty. But the young
-foliage glittered and the spring wind romped down the street, and the
-shadows quivered and jumped aside as the sunlight splashed them. The
-lure of the feminine beckoned. Where the houses grew wider apart I would
-find her, and we would commence our climb out of the valley. Now we
-would come to a farm-house, standing gray and mediaeval in a sea of
-tossing green. Now we would pass by flowery orchards, smoking with
-scattered bloom. Brooks tinkled; birds sang; across the hedge a plowman
-called to his horses and started them up a new furrow. And through all
-this commotion of new-found life and clamorous hearts we two wandered,
-glad in one another.
-
-Only the atmosphere of what we talked about remains with me. There were
-moments when we skirted the seashore of affection, and perhaps pushed
-out from land a little way, speculating on love’s audacities and
-dangers. But these moments were rare, for Fiesole delighted in
-love’s pursuit and not in its certainty. We made no pretense that our
-attraction for one another was more than friendly and temporary. If we
-played occasionally at being lovers, it was understood that we were only
-playing.
-
-Fiesole never admitted that she had prolonged her stay in Oxford for my
-sake. She kept me in constant attendance by the threat that this might
-be my last chance of being with her. The supposition that her visit was
-shortly to end gave us the excuse we needed for being always together.
-We lived the hours which we shared intensely, as friends do who must
-soon go their separate ways.
-
-But beneath her veneer of wit and frivolity I began to discover a truer
-and kinder Fiesole. These flashes of self-revelation came when she was
-off her guard. They were betrayed by a tremor in her tone or a hesitancy
-in her gaiety. After a day of exquisite sensations, her independence
-would break down and the fear of loneliness would look out from her
-eyes. She would prolong her departure, again postponing it beyond the
-date appointed. I began to suspect that her dashing recklessness was
-a barrier of habit, which she had erected to defend her shyness from
-curious observers. Insincerity was a cloak for her sincerity. Hidden
-behind her tantalizing lightness lay the deep and urgent feminine desire
-for a man and little children. I had roused in her the mating instinct.
-I was not the man; she had yet to find him. With myself the same thing
-was true. I took delight in her partly for herself, but mainly as Vi’s
-proxy. Fiesole and I had come together in a moment of crisis. We saw in
-each other the shadow of what we desired.
-
-When a month had gone by I began to debate with myself how far our
-conduct was safe and justifiable. I went so far as to ask myself the
-question, did I want to marry her. But that consideration was impossible
-in my state of mind. Besides, as Fiesole herself had said, she was the
-type of woman that a man may love and yet fear to marry. She had no
-sense of moral responsibility. She would demand too much of herself and
-her lover. Her passion, once aroused, would burn too ardently. It
-would be self-consuming. She was a wild thing of the wood, swift and
-beautiful, and un-moral.
-
-May had slipped by. June was nearly ended. Still she delayed. A chance
-remark of Brookins brought me to my senses and forced me to face the
-impression we had created. Fiesole, when she visited me in college,
-invariably brought her maid; we would shut her up in my bedroom while we
-sat in my study. In this way, we supposed, appearances had been saved.
-But Brookins’s remark proved the contrary--that he hoped I’d let him
-know when I moved out of Lazarus as he’d like to have my rooms.
-
-“I’m not moving out of Lazarus. What made you think that?”
-
-“You’ll have to when you’re married.”
-
-“But what makes you think that I’m going to be married?”
-
-“We don’t have to think,” he tittered. “We only have to use our eyes.”
-
-That decided me. In common fairness we must separate. Since I could not
-make the suggestion to her, I determined to leave Oxford myself. The
-term was nearly ended. My work on the Renaissance furnished an excuse
-for a visit to Italy. I had never been out of England as yet; at Pope
-Lane we had had all we could do to keep up a plausible appearance of
-stay-at-home respectability. But Fiesole with her talk of travel, had
-led me to peep out of the back-door of the world. I made up my mind to
-start immediately.
-
-It was a golden summer’s evening. How well I remember it! I had not
-seen her for two days. I was finishing my packing. A trunk stood in the
-middle of the floor partly filled. Over the backs of chairs clothes hung
-disorderly. Piles of books lay muddled about the carpet, among socks and
-shirts and underwear. Through the open window from the garden drifted in
-the rumor of voices and the perfume of roses.
-
-The door opened without warning. I was kneeling beside the trunk.
-Glancing over my shoulder I saw her. She slipped into the room like a
-ray of sunlight, and stood behind me. She wore a golden dress, gathered
-in at the waist with a girdle of silver. Her arms, bare from the elbow,
-hung looped before her with the fingers knotted.
-
-I glanced at her a moment. Her face was pale with reproach. Her
-rebelliousness had departed. Her lips trembled. She looked like a
-sensitive child, trying not to cry when her feelings had been wounded.
-This was the true Fiesole I had long suspected, but had never before
-discovered. We had no use for polite explanations; in the past two
-months we had lived too near together. She knew what it all meant--the
-half-filled trunk, the scattered clothing, the piles of books. Feeling
-ashamed, with a hurried greeting I turned back to my packing.
-
-“You’re going.”
-
-She spoke in a low voice, with a tremble in it. It filled me with panic
-desire to be kind to her; yet I dared not trust myself. I did not love
-her. I kept telling myself that I did not love her. My whole mind and
-being were pledged to another woman. And yet pity is so near to love
-that I could not allow myself to touch her. I was mad from the restraint
-I had suffered. To touch her might result in irreparable folly. Kneeling
-lower over my trunk, I shifted articles hither and thither, pressed them
-closer, moved them back to their original places, doing nothing useful,
-simply trying to keep my hands busy.
-
-She watched me. I could not see her, but I felt that behind my back the
-slow, sweet, lazy smile was curling up the corners of her mouth. I knew
-just how she was looking--how the eyebrows were twitching and nostrils
-panting, the long white throat was working. I fixed my mind upon Vi. I
-was doing this for her. Maybe, if Fiesole had come first, we might have
-married. But we should not have been happy. I must be true to Vi, I told
-myself. I was like a man parched with thirst in a burning desert, who
-sees arise a mirage of green waters and blue palm-trees--and knows it to
-be a mirage, and yet is tempted.
-
-“You were going away without telling me.”
-
-Her voice broke. I listened for the sob, but it did not follow. Outside
-in the garden a thrush awoke; his notes fell like flashing silver,
-gleaming dimmer and dimmer as they sank into the silence.
-
-“You were going away because of me. I would have gone if you had
-spoken.”
-
-Still kneeling, I looked up at her. “Fiesole, I didn’t dare to tell you.
-Something was said. We had to separate. I thought this way was best.”
-
-“Said about me?”
-
-“About us.”
-
-“What was it?”
-
-“I don’t like to tell you.”
-
-“I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?”
-
-I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders.
-Each time I bent back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her
-breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes.
-Her voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching my forehead
-she whispered, “And what if they did say it?”
-
-For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded. By one
-slight action of assent, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a
-hand, I would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would
-at least be correct--approved by society; but I should have to sin
-against Vi to get it--to sin against a love which was half-sinful.
-
-Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my
-head, ruffling my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal of silver
-laughter fell from her lips. “Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you
-were. You’re still afraid of girls.”
-
-I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring attack, but
-always on the defensive. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed.
-I had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she
-was play-acting. And yet I doubted.
-
-We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her,
-confident now of my power to restrain myself. “I was afraid for you--not
-of you.”
-
-“Why should you be afraid for me when I’m not afraid for myself? No,
-Dante, it wasn’t that. You’re afraid of yourself. Someone told you long,
-long ago, when you were quite little, that it was naughty to flirt.
-You’ve never forgotten it, and each time you begin to feel a bit happy
-you believe you’re going to do something bad. So you’ve put your heart
-to bed, and you’ve locked the door, and you’ve drawn the curtains. You
-play nurse to it, and every time it stirs, you tiptoe to the door to see
-that the key is turned, and to the windows to see that they’re properly
-bolted. I’ll tell you what’s the matter with you, Dante. I stole along
-the passage and hammered on the door of your heart’s bedroom, and your
-heart half-roused and called, ‘Nurse.’ There!”
-
-She threw herself back against the cushions, seizing both my hands in
-hers. She gazed at me unflinchingly, daringly, mockingly. She drew me
-to her and thrust me from her with quick sharp jerks. She treated the
-situation so lightheartedly, so theatrically, that I could have kissed
-her with impunity. But it would have been like kissing the statue of a
-woman. She would have remained unmoved, unresponsive. There would have
-been no adventure of conquest.
-
-“No, Miss Impudence,” I said, “you’re wrong. I wish sometimes my heart
-were safe in bed. You and I have been good friends. You came to me at a
-time when I most needed you. You never guessed the good you were doing.
-If this hadn’t happened, I would never have told you. But when I heard
-something said about you, which no girl would like to have said unless
-it were true, I thought it was time I should be going. You’ve been so
-good to me that I couldn’t return your good with evil.”
-
-“But, my dear, I daresay I’ve flirted with half-a-hundred men. It’s
-very nice of you to think I haven’t, and to be so careful of me. But
-really it doesn’t matter what anybody says. I don’t want you to run away
-because of that, just when we were having such a good time together.”
-
-“You won’t let me be serious,” I protested. “Now I want you to imagine
-for a minute that I’m old, and inoffensive, and have white hair.”
-
-“Oh, yes, and about seventy.”
-
-“About seventy-five I should say--I’ve known some pretty lively men of
-seventy.”
-
-“All right. About seventy-five. I’m imagining.”
-
-“My dear girl, you’re twenty-four or thereabouts, and you’re extremely
-beautiful. No man can look at you without being fascinated. I’ve often
-wanted to kiss you myself.”
-
-“Then why didn’t you do it?”
-
-“Fiesole, you’re not playing the game,” I said sternly. “Please go on
-imagining.”
-
-“I’m imagining.”
-
-“As I was saying, you’re extremely fascinating. Everything’s in your
-favor for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.”
-
-“What’s that?”
-
-“You have no parents. Now parents are a kind of passport. Seeing that
-you haven’t any, you’ve got to be more circumspect than other girls. It
-has come to my ears that for the past two months you’ve been seen every
-day with one young gentleman. People are beginning to talk about it.
-Since you don’t intend to marry him, you ought to drop him until you are
-married.”
-
-“Who says I don’t intend to marry him?”
-
-She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded
-from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to
-me that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back.
-I heard men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden
-streamer, fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing
-_Mr. Dooley_. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity.
-Her hands trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the
-genuineness of her playacting. I hurried on.
-
-“But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He’s
-pledged to another woman.”
-
-Her hands fell away. When she spoke it was gravely and with effort. “You
-didn’t tell me. You said you weren’t engaged when I asked you.”
-
-“Neither am I, nor likely to be.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“She’s married.”
-
-The silence was broken by her taking my hand. She took it with a sudden
-gesture and, bowing her head, kissed it. “Poor Dante,” she whispered.
-
-I rose from the sofa and lit the lamp. Kneeling by my trunk, I
-blunderingly recommenced my packing. From the window came a muffled,
-choking sound. Perhaps she was trying not to sob. I had never seen
-her so gentle as just now. My mind ran back over the long road we
-had traveled. The Fiesole I had seen was a wild, mad girl, provoking,
-charming, inconsiderate as a child and frolicsome as the mad spring
-weather--but rarely tender. I wondered what other secrets of kindness
-lay hidden in her personality. She was the sort of woman a man might
-live with for twenty years and still be discovering. She kept one
-restless by the very richness of her character. It was true what she had
-said: many men might love her; few would desire to marry her.
-
-She rose from the lounge. Standing between me and the lamp, her long
-shadow fell across me. I looked up and saw that her lashes glistened.
-Against the background of the white-paneled room she looked supremely
-lovely--a tall, gold daffodil. She held her head high on her splendid
-shoulders with a gesture of proud despair. And yet an appearance of
-meekness clothed her. Her face had an expression which a young girl’s
-often has, but which hers had seldom--an expression which was maternal.
-She watched my clumsy attempts to squeeze my clothes into smaller
-compass. Then she came and knelt beside me, saying, “Let me do it.”
-
-Her swift white hands plied back and forth, re-arranging, smoothing
-out with deft touches, reaching out for socks to fill the hollows,
-rectifying my awkwardness. The thought flashed on me that this sensation
-I had was one of the sacred things of marriage--a man’s dependence on a
-woman. As I watched, I imagined the future, if this woman should become
-a wife to me. But the passion for her was not in me. She was only an
-emotion. The sight of her made me hungrier, but not for her. I reasoned
-with myself, saying how many men would desire her. I forced myself to
-notice the curve of her neck, the way the red-gold curls clustered about
-her shell-like ears and broad white forehead. I told myself that the
-best solution for Vi would be that I leave her unembarrassed by marrying
-Fiesole. But the more I urged matters, the colder grew my emotions. Then
-my emotions ceased and my observations became entirely mental.
-
-Overhead, strident and uproarious, as if striving to burlesque what
-should have been chivalrous, the piano thumped and banged; men’s voices
-smote the night like hammer-strokes on steel, singing,
-
-               “Mr. Dooley! Oh, Mr. Dooley!
-
-               Mr. Dooley----ooley----ooley----oo.”
-
-“It’s done,” she said. Then, “Where are you going?”
-
-“To Italy.”
-
-“My country. When?”
-
-“To-morrow.”
-
-“You’ll write me sometimes? I shall be lonely, you know, at first.”
-
-“Why, certainly.”
-
-“Then, if you’re going to write to me, I must write to you. You’ll have
-to let me have your addresses so that I can send my letters on ahead.”
-
-I wrote her out the list of towns and dates, telling her to address me
-_poste restante_.
-
-I accompanied her across the quad to the lodge. I had had no idea it was
-so late. Big Tom had ceased ringing for an hour. It was past ten.
-The porter, when I called him out to unlock the gate, eyed us
-disapprovingly.
-
-“I’ll see you home,” I told her.
-
-She hesitated, urged that she could get home quite safely by herself, it
-was such a short way to go--but at last she surrendered.
-
-Through the mysterious, moon-washed streets we walked; but not near
-together as formerly. We had nothing to say to one another. Or was
-it that we had too much, and they were things that we were ashamed to
-utter? The echo of our footfall followed behind us like a presence. At
-the turnings we lost it. Then it seemed to hurry till it had made up the
-distance; again it followed. The cobble-stones beneath us made our steps
-uneven. Sometimes we just brushed shoulders, and started apart with a
-guilty sense of contact. Sometimes we passed a window that was lighted
-by a student’s lamp. We could see him through the curtains poring over
-outspread books, holding his head between his hands. As we turned to
-look in on him, our faces were illumined. Her face was troubled; coming
-out of the night suddenly it looked blanched and distressful.
-
-The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me
-that the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It
-burned, and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge
-we caught the sighing of willows along the banks of the Cherwell. I had
-often thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself;
-it seemed poignant with anguish, like a fretful heart stirring. Under
-the bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the
-subdued laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man’s voice
-reached us. Then memory assailed me. “They are even as you and I,
-Fiesole,” my heart whispered, “even as you and I once were.”
-
-I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work
-parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it
-had seen commenced.
-
-At the door of the house in which she lodged we halted abruptly.
-
-“So this is the end,” she said. Then, feigning cheerfulness, she ran up
-the steps, crying, “Good luck to you on your journey.”
-
-From the pavement I called to her, “I’m afraid, I’ve kept you out late,
-I----”
-
-The door banged.
-
-I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and
-words bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses,
-explanations--kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a meaning
-of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow fell
-across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XII--THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD
-
-The Englishman is brought up to live his life independently of woman.
-He considers his masculine solitariness a sign of strength. To be seen
-in the streets with his wife or sisters is to acknowledge that they are
-necessary. He feels awkward at being observed publicly in their
-company. He shows them no gallantries. He walks a little way apart. His
-conversation with them lacks spontaneity. He is not enjoying himself.
-He is wanting to be kind and natural, but he dreads lest he should be
-thought effeminate. His national conception of manliness demands that he
-should be complete in himself. How he ever so forgets his shyness as to
-make a woman his wife is one of the unsolved mysteries. Some primeval
-instinct, deeper than his national training of reserve, goads him to it.
-On recovering from his madness, he is among the first to marvel.
-
-When Christian had climbed to the top of the hill his sack of sins fell
-from his back. When an Englishman lands in France, he drops his bundle
-of moral scruples in the harbor as he passes down the gang-plank.
-For morality is a matter of temperament, and for the time being his
-temperament shall be French. Just as a soul newly departed, may look
-back with pitying resentment on the chill chaotic body that once
-confined it, so he looks back across the English Channel at the
-uncharming rectitude of his former self. Being an Englishman has bored
-him.
-
-I shall never forget the first wild rapture with which I viewed the tall
-white cliffs of Dieppe. It was about three in the afternoon. The sky was
-intensely blue, dotted here and there with fleecy islands of cloud. The
-sun smote down so hotly on the deck that one’s feet felt swollen. Far
-away the gleaming quaintness of the French fishing-town grew up and
-stole nearer. It seemed to me that as the wind swept towards us from the
-land, I caught the merry frou-frou of ten thousand skirts. Fields and
-woodlands which topped the cliffs, hid laughing eyes and emotional white
-arms eagerly extended. The staccato chatter of happiness lay before me.
-I had escaped from the Eveless Paradise of my own countrymen. I had
-slipped out by the back-door of the world. I was free to act as I liked.
-I was unobserved. Discretion had lost its most obvious purpose. It
-excited me to pretend to myself that I was almost willing to be tempted.
-
-That night I sat by the quays at Rouen, observing the groups of men and
-women, always together, passing up and down. I saw how they drew frankly
-near to one another. I listened to their scraps of quiet conversation.
-The lazy laughter, now the hoarse brass of men’s voices, now the silver
-clearness of a woman’s, rose and fell. Below me barges from Paris
-creaked against the piles, and the golden Seine swept beneath the
-bridges, singing like a gay grisette. As night sank down I was stung to
-loneliness, thinking of the absence of Vi and Fiesole.
-
-I arrived in Paris on the evening of the following day. Hastily
-depositing my baggage at my hotel in the Rue St. Honoré, I set out to
-stroll the boulevards. Until three in the morning I wandered from café
-to café. I searched the faces of passers-by for signs of the gracious
-abandon to happiness of which I had so often heard. My mind teemed with
-vivid images of pleasure such as crowd the pages of novels concerning
-Paris. Flitting moth-like up and down garish tunnels of light I saw a
-painted death. It simpered at me from under shadows of austere churches.
-It flirted with me, ogling me with slanted eyes, as I passed beneath the
-glare of lamps. I crossed the Pont St. Michel going southward, and found
-it in the guise of girls masquerading in male attire. I went across
-the bridges again and found it in the Rue de Rivoli, hunting with jaded
-feverish expression for men. Wherever I went I encountered the same
-fixed mercenary smile, saw the same lavish display of ankles beneath
-foamy skirts, and heard the same weary tip-tapping of feet which carried
-bodies which should be sold to whoever would purchase.
-
-Where was the joy and adventure of which I had heard? The purpose of
-happiness should be life, not death. Several times that night women
-turned aside and seated themselves at a table beside me. They roused my
-pity; pity was quickly changed to disgust by their hot-foot avarice. All
-around me was a painted death.
-
-Overhead the breeze ruffled the tree-tops. I looked up through the
-leaves. Stars were going out. I caught between roofs of tired houses a
-glimpse of the Eternal looking down. Surely the God who kept the wind
-going and replenished the sky with clouds, meant man to be happy in
-some better fashion. I went back to my hotel and, gathering together my
-baggage, fled.
-
-At Florence the problem of right and wrong presented itself to me in
-another aspect. Restraint seemed attended with sadness; license with
-ugliness and regret. From above dim shrines disfigured Christs bespoke
-the anguish of crucified passions. On the other hand, Filippino’s
-tattered _Magdalene_ symbolized the hideous rewards of abandonment. Both
-restraint and unrestraint brought sorrow, and I wanted to be supremely
-glad. Life should be an affair of singing. I was fascinated by the
-thought of woman. With one woman I was in love; in another I was
-interested. Both of them I must forget. I would not love Fiesole because
-I could not marry Vi. Yet within me was this capacity for passion,
-smoldering, leaping, expanding, fighting for an outlet. Surely in a
-rightly governed world it should find some fine expression! Through the
-by-ways of every city that I entered the lean hound of vice hunted after
-nightfall, and behind him stalked the painted death. The cleanness of
-the country called me. Like a captive stag, I longed to feel the cool
-touch of leaves against my shoulders.
-
-In the Accademia at Florence I discovered my own dilemma portrayed. It
-stated my problem, but it offered no solution. However, it gave me a
-sense of comradeship to find that Botticelli, so many years ago, had
-peered down over the same precipice. In _The Kingdom of Venus_ one sees
-a flowered wood; from leafy trees hangs golden fruit; between their
-trunks drifts in the flaming light that never was on sea or land. Here a
-band of maidens have met with a solitary youth to celebrate the renewal
-of spring. In the center of the landscape, a little back from the group,
-stands a sad-faced Venus, who might equally well be a madonna listening
-for the dreadful beat of Gabriel’s wings who shall summon her to be
-mother of a saviour to the world. To her left stand three wanton spirits
-of earth and air, innocently carnal, eternal in their loveliness. To
-her right three maidens dance with lifted hands. One of them gazes with
-melancholy desire towards the youth. He looks away from her unwillingly.
-In their eyes broods the gloomy foreknowledge of wrong-doing. They would
-fain be Grecians, but they have bowed to the Vatican. The shadows, the
-flowers, the rustling leaves are still pagan; but in the young girl’s
-eyes hangs the memory of the tortured Christ. She is wanton in her
-scarcely veiled nakedness, but she dares not forget; and while she
-remembers, she cannot be happy. The lips with which she will woo her
-lover have worshiped the wound-prints of the pierced hand.
-
-The Renaissance made even its sadness exquisite by using it as the
-vehicle for poetry; but we, having lost our sense of magic, explain
-our melancholy in mediaeval terms. Magic was still in the world; I was
-determined to find it.
-
-I was continually drawn back to the picture. I would sit before it for
-hours. It explained nothing. If offered no suggestions. It simply told
-me what I already knew about myself. But in watching it I found rest.
-Rebellion against social facts which turn love into lust left me. I came
-to see that a love which is unlawful is only lovely in its unfulfilment.
-The young girl in the woodland, did she rouse the frenzy in her lover,
-would lose the purity which was irrecoverable; by evening she would weep
-among the broken flowers. Perhaps, did I win her, it might be so with
-Vi.
-
-I tried to find satisfaction by losing myself in memories of the past.
-The past is always kindlier than the present because, as Carlyle once
-said, the fear has gone out of it. The heavy actuality of the sorrows of
-Romeos makes them pleasurable romance only to latter-day observers. In
-their own day they were scandals. So I wandered through sun-scorched
-Italian towns, red and white and saffron, and I hung above ancient
-bridges, looking down on rushing mountain torrents, and I dreamt myself
-back to the glory of the loves that had once been self-consuming beneath
-that forgetful hard blue sky.
-
-When I came to Ferrara my mind was stormy with thoughts of Lucrezia
-Borgia--Lucrezia of the amber hair. It was here that she came in her
-pageantry of shame to seek her third husband in the unwilling Alphonso.
-Ferrara had not changed since that day. She had seen it as I saw it. I
-entered the town at sunset. The golden light smote against the red-brick
-walls of the Castello. I imagined that I saw her sweet wronged face,
-half-saint, half-siren, gazing out from the narrow barred windows across
-the green-scummed moat.
-
-I hired rooms in the primitive _Pellegrino e Gaiana_. They looked out on
-the dusty tree-shadowed Piazza Torquato Tasso, where tables with white
-cloths were spread, on which stood tall bottles of rough country wine.
-I promised myself that from there, as I sat, I could just discern the
-Castello. I had my dinner beneath the trees. On the further side of the
-square was a wine tavern. Men and girls were singing there. Sometimes
-the door would push open, letting out a rush of light. I tried to think
-that they were the men-at-arms of long ago. A cool breeze stirred the
-dust at my feet. The moon was rising. I got up and sauntered through
-gaunt paved streets, past empty palaces, past Ariosto’s house and out
-toward the country, where vines hung heavy with grapes, festooning the
-olive-trees. Italy lay languorous and scented in the night, like a fair
-deep-bosomed courtesan. The sensuous delight of the present mingled with
-my thoughts of the past. I had been hardly surprised had Lucrezia stolen
-out from the dusk towards me, with the breeze whipping about her the
-golden snakes of her hair.
-
-Slowly I turned back to the town. At the Castello I halted, peering
-across the moat at the sullen darkness of the walls on the other side.
-As I stood smoking my cigar, I saw an English girl coming towards me
-across the Piazza Savonarola. Her nationality was unmistakable; she
-walked with a healthy air of self-reliance which you do not find in
-Latin women. I was surprised to see her. July is not the month for
-tourists. So far, save for a few Americans, I had had Italy to myself.
-And I was surprised for another reason--she was unaccompanied.
-
-As she drew nearer, I turned my back so that she should not be offended
-by my staring. I heard her step coming closer. It halted at my side.
-I looked round, supposing she had lost her direction and was about to
-question me.
-
-“You--you here!” I exclaimed and remained staring.
-
-“I didn’t think you’d expect me,” she laughed shyly.
-
-“Of course I didn’t. How should I? What brought you?”
-
-“I was on my way to Venice; but remembering you were here, I stayed over
-for the night. You don’t mind?”
-
-“Mind! I should say not. Where are you staying?”
-
-“At the _Albergo Europa_. I was just on my way over to the _Pellegrino
-e Gaiana_ to inquire if you were there. I’ve asked at all the other
-hotels.”
-
-While we had been speaking I had been watching her closely. What was it
-that was changed in her? Was it the voluptuousness of the Italian night
-that made her more splendidly feminine? She had lost her laughing tone
-of laziness. Her beauty was strong wine and fire. Something had become
-earnest in her. Then I asked myself why had she come--was she really on
-her way to Venice?
-
-“I’m jolly glad you came,” I said impetuously; “I’ve been missing you
-ever since I left.”
-
-“And I you.”
-
-She took my arm, giving it a friendly hug, just as Ruthita did when she
-was glad. We walked over to the Piazza Torquato Tasso. Seating ourselves
-at a table beneath the trees, we called for wine. The light from the
-trattoria fell softly on her face. The air was dreamy with fragrance of
-limes. At tables nearby other men and women were sitting. Across the way
-in the tavern my men-at-arms were still singing and carousing.
-
-“What are you thinking?” she asked, leaning across towards me.
-
-“I was thinking that I now begin to understand you.”
-
-“In what way?” She jerked the question out. It was as though she had
-flung up her arms to ward off a blow. Her voice panted.
-
-“You’ve always puzzled me,” I said. “You are a mixture of ice and fire.
-The ice is English and the fire is Italian. You’re different to-night.”
-
-“How?”
-
-“You’re mediaeval. The fire has melted the ice.”
-
-She took my hand gratefully and drew me nearer. “Do you like me better?”
-
-“Much better. I keep thinking how like you are to Simonetta in The
-_Kingdom of Venus_. I spent hours sitting before it at the Accademia in
-Florence. I couldn’t tell what was the attraction. Now I know. It was
-you I was looking at; you as you are now--not as you were.”
-
-“Dante,” she said, “you can see what is beautiful in a painting or
-a poem, but you can’t see beauty in things themselves. You’re afraid
-to--you’re afraid of being disillusioned. You see life as reflected in a
-mirror.”
-
-“It’s safer,” I smiled.
-
-She took me up sharply. There was pain in what she said. “Ah, yes,
-safer! You’re always counting the cost and looking ahead for sorrow.
-You’re a pagan, but fear makes you an ascetic. You have the feeling
-that joy is something stolen, and you grow timid lest you’re going to be
-bad.”
-
-“That’s true.”
-
-“Can’t you believe,” she whispered, “that anything that makes two people
-happy must be right and best?”
-
-“I wish I could.”
-
-“And that anything that makes them sad must be wicked?”
-
-“Fiesole,” I said, “have you been sad?”
-
-She would not answer, but drew herself back into the shadow so I could
-not see her expression. We sat silent, fingering our glasses, giving
-ourselves over to the languor of the summer’s night. Through the
-rapturous stillness we heard the breeze from the mountains rustling
-across the Emilian plain like a woman in silk attire. At a neighboring
-table a man and a girl, thinking themselves unobserved, swayed slowly
-towards one another and kissed, as though constrained by some power
-stronger than themselves. Through the golden windows of the tavern
-across the way, one could see the silhouettes of men and women trail
-stealthily across the white-washed walls. The spirit of Lucrezia and her
-lover-poets seemed to haunt Ferrara that night.
-
-“You’re going to Venice,” I said abruptly. “So am I. Perhaps we shall
-meet there.”
-
-“Perhaps.”
-
-“We might travel there together.”
-
-“I should be glad.”
-
-We rose from the table. It was late. The piazza was growing empty.
-The apple-green shutters before the windows of the houses were closed.
-Behind some of them were lights which threw gold bars on the pavement.
-The streets were silent.
-
-“How did you know that I would be here?” I asked.
-
-“You forget--you left me your addresses.”
-
-“So I did. But you didn’t write. Why didn’t you write?”
-
-“I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”
-
-What she meant by that I could only guess. Perhaps she hardly knew
-herself. My blood was rushing wildly through my veins. I was breathing
-the atmosphere of passion. I did not look ahead; I was absorbed in the
-present. I had been hungry for Vi--well, now I had Fiesole. I had been
-thirsty for the love of a woman. Fiesole was giving me her comradeship.
-I was intoxicated with life’s beauty.
-
-The saffron moon looked down, pillowed on a bank of silver cloud. As
-we passed the Castello, a fish leapt in the moat, and fell back with a
-splash. I halted, leaning against the parapet.
-
-“And it was here we met.”
-
-She pressed against me. I could feel the wild beating of her heart;
-it tapped against my side, calling to my heart for entrance. Her voice
-shook with emotion; it whispered above the surge of conflicting thoughts
-like the solemn tolling of a sunken bell. “Since then everything has
-become golden, somehow.”
-
-I dared not trust myself to respond to her tenderness. I was shaken and
-awed by her intensity. With her lips just a little way from mine, so
-that my cheeks were fanned by her breath, her face looked into mine,
-the chin tilted and the long white throat stretched back. I gazed on her
-motionless, with my arms strained down against my side.
-
-“Fiesole,” I whispered, “how many girls and boys have stood here and
-said that!”
-
-Her eagerness died out. She slipped her arm into mine. “But we are
-alive. I was thinking of nobody but our two selves to-night.”
-
-We plunged into the cool deep shadows of the colonnade. We turned into
-the Corso della Giovecca. Down the long dim street all the houses stood
-in darkness, save for a faint patch of light which carpeted the pavement
-in front of her hotel.
-
-“Your maid will be wondering what has happened.”
-
-She looked at me curiously. “She won’t. I didn’t bring her.”
-
-“Good-night until to-morrow.”
-
-“Good-night.”
-
-She looked back once from the doorway and smiled. She entered. The sleepy
-porter came out and swung to the gates.
-
-I was amazed at her bewitching indiscretion. For myself it did not
-matter. But what of her, if we should be seen together? A man can afford
-such accidents; but a woman---- I tried to deceive myself. Our meeting
-was, as she had said, haphazard. We were both alone in Italy. Our routes
-lay in the same direction. What more natural than that we should travel
-together? But I knew that this was not the case. I determined to open
-her eyes to the risks she was taking.
-
-Next morning when I woke, I wondered vaguely what was the cause of this
-strange elation. Then memory came back. I jumped out of bed and flung
-the shutters wide. Out in the piazza some earlier risers were already
-seated at the tables. A man was watering the pavement, singing gaily to
-himself. Beneath the trees a parrot and a cockatoo screeched, hurling
-insults at one another from their perches. A soldier showed his teeth
-and laughed, talking to a broad-hipped peasant girl. At the top of the
-piazza a slim white figure waited.
-
-I made haste with my dressing. I was extremely happy. I tried to analyze
-the situation, but lost patience with myself.
-
-Picking up my hat and running down the stairs, I came across her
-standing outside the Cathedral, in the full glare of the sun. Before I
-had spoken she turned, darting like a pigeon, instinctively aware of my
-approach. “I’ve beaten you by nearly two hours,” she called gaily.
-
-We passed into the fruit-market. I bought a basket of ripe figs; sitting
-down on a bench we ate them together. All round us was stir and bustle.
-Farmers in their broad straw-hats were unyoking oxen while women spread
-the wares.
-
-“Fiesole, there’s just one thing I want to say to you, after which I’ll
-never mention it.”
-
-“I know what it is. I’ve thought it all out.”
-
-“Are you sure you have? Of course no one may ever know. But if by some
-chance they should find out, are you sure that you think it’s worth
-while?”
-
-“Reckoning the cost again!” she laughed, helping herself to another fig.
-
-“I’ll pay gladly. It’s you I’m considering,” I said seriously.
-
-She rested her hand on mine. It was cool, and long, and delicate. I was
-startled at the thrill it gave me. “Dante,” she whispered, “have you
-ever wanted anything so badly that your whole body ached to get it? When
-you were very thirsty, say, and you heard a stream, singing ‘Find me.
-Find me’ out of sight in the hills among the heather? Then you climbed
-up and up, and the sun beat down, and your throat was dry, and the
-stream sang louder, and at last you found it. I’m like that. I don’t
-mind what the bank is like. I lie down full-length and let the water
-sing against my mouth. I’ve been thirsty for something, Dante, all my
-life. Yes, I’ve counted the price. If you don’t mind having me, Dannie,
-I’ll stay with you for the present.”
-
-She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder ever so slightly. I bent
-towards her. When you’ve wounded a woman, there’s only one way of making
-recompense. She saw my intent. She drew back laughing, dragging my hand
-with her. The quick red blood mounted to her forehead. The gold in her
-green eyes sparkled with gladness. “Not now,” she cried. Then recovering
-herself, “But you’re a dear to want me like that.”
-
-That morning we visited the Corpus Domini where Lucrezia Borgia lies
-buried. We were admitted to a little chapel where all was lonely and
-silent. Presently a door opened and two nuns dressed in black entered.
-Their faces were covered from sight by long black veils. All that was
-human we were permitted to see of them was their eyes, which looked
-out from two black holes like stars in a dreary night. They had been
-beautiful perhaps, but because Christ was crucified they had crucified
-themselves. And these women, who had never tasted life, whose flesh
-had never throbbed with the sweet torture which was their right, whose
-bodies were the unremembered sepulchres of little children whose lips
-had never pressed the breast--these women were the guardians of her who
-had been the Magdalene of the Renaissance, whose feet had climbed
-the Calvary of passion, but not the Calvary of sacrifice. Sunlight,
-amber-colored as Lucrezia’s hair, slipped across the slab which marked
-her grave. Down there in the unbroken dusk, did her tresses mock decay?
-
-From a hidden cloister the chanting of children’s voices broke the
-quiet. Its very suddenness took me by the throat. It was the future
-calling out of the sad and moldering content of stupidly misspent
-lives. Fiesole edged her hand into mine. I smiled into her eyes; then I
-looked at the nuns again. Who would remember them when three centuries
-had gone by? Lucrezia, if she had been wanton, had at least given joy;
-so the world forgave her now that she was buried. We tiptoed out into
-the tawny street, where water tinkled down the gutters. We had found a
-new sanction for desire.
-
-It was towards evening that we sighted Venice, floating between sea and
-sky in a tepid light. Where we parted from the mainland, thin trees ran
-down to the water’s edge, shivering and gleaming, like naked boys. As
-the train thundered across the trestled bridge which spans the lagoon,
-Fiesole and I crowded against the window, tingling with excitement. The
-salt wind smote upon our faces and loosened a strand of her red-brown
-hair. Laughing, I fastened it into place. She snatched up my hand
-and kissed the fingers separately. We were children, so thrilled with
-happiness that we could speak only by signs and exclamations. A gondola
-drifted by, rowed by a poppe in a scarlet sash. Though we both saw it,
-we cried to one another that it was a gondola, and waved. Then the gold
-sun fell splashing through the clouds; Venice was stained to orange, and
-the lagoon to the purple of wine.
-
-Not until the train had halted in the station did it occur to me that we
-had made no plans.
-
-Hotel porters were already fighting to get possession of our baggage.
-
-“Where are you going to stay?” I asked.
-
-“Wherever you like,” she said. “A good place is the _Hotel D’Angleterre_
-on the Riva degli Schiavoni.”
-
-So she took it for granted that we should put up at the same hotel! We
-went aboard the steamer and traveled down the Grand Canal in prosaic
-fashion, with the nodding black swans of gondolas all about us.
-
-The _Hotel D’Angleterre_ stands facing the Canale di San Marco, looking
-across to San Maria della Salute. The angle is that from which so many
-of Canaletto’s Venetian masterpieces were painted.
-
-The proprietor came out to greet us suave and smiling. “A room for
-Monsieur and Madame?”
-
-“Two rooms,” I said shortly.
-
-When we went upstairs to look at them, we found that they were next door
-to one another. Fiesole made no objection.
-
-They were both front rooms and faced the Canal. One could hardly find
-fault with them on the ground that they were too near together.
-
-By the time dinner was over the silver dusk was falling. A hundred
-yards out two barche, a little distance separated, drifted with swinging
-lanterns. The tinkling of guitars sounded and the impassioned singing of
-a girl. Above embattled roofs of palaces to the westward fiery panthers
-of the sunset crouched. The beauty of it all was stinging--it seemed
-the misty fabric of a dream which must instantly shatter and fade into a
-pale and torturing remembrance.
-
-We stepped into a gondola.
-
-She spoke a few hasty words in Italian, then we stole out from the quay
-across the velvet blackness.
-
-“Where are we going?” I asked her.
-
-“Round the old canals of the Rialto.”
-
-Soon every sound, even the faint sounds of Venice, grew fainter and
-vanished. Only the dip of the oar was heard, the water lapping, and the
-weird plaintive cry of the poppe as we approached a corner, “A-òel,” and
-“Sia stali” or “Sia premi” as we turned. We crept along old waterways
-where the oozy walls ground against the gondola on either side. Far, far
-up the narrow ribbon of ink-blue sky and the twinkling of stars looked
-down. Fiesole cuddled against me, like a contented tired child. I kept
-thinking of what she had said, “Have you ever wanted anything so badly
-that your whole body ached to get it?” I wondered if she had got that
-something now.
-
-When we returned to the hotel it was past midnight. The sharp tang of
-morning was in the air. Lights which had blazed across the lagoon,
-now smoldered like torches burnt to the socket. Venice floated, a fair
-Ophelia with eyes drowned and hair disordered; one saw her mistily as
-through water.
-
-Our gondola creaked against the landing, banged by the little waves.
-A poppe in a nearby barca groaned in his sleep and stirred. We were
-cramped with our long sitting. I gave Fiesole my arm; she shrank against
-me. At the door of her room I paused.
-
-“We’ve had one brilliant day to remember. You’re happy now?”
-
-“Very happy, dear Dante.”
-
-I entered my room and sat down in the dark on the side of the bed.
-
-I did not love her. I blundered my way over all the old arguments. I
-told myself that, since I could not marry Vi, I could not do better than
-marry Fiesole. But at the thought my soul rebelled--it was treachery. I
-tried to expel Vi’s image from my mind, but it refused to be expelled. I
-lived over again all the intoxicating pleasure of the day, but it was Vi
-who was my companion. I only drugged myself with Fiesole. She appealed
-to my imagination; her loveliness went like a strong wine to my head.
-
-In the next room all sounds of stirring had ceased. I looked up;
-greyhound clouds, long and lean, coursed in pursuit of stars across the
-moon. I tiptoed to the window. As I leant out, I heard a faint sighing.
-I caught the glint of copper-gold hair poured across the sill of the
-neighboring window. Fearing she might see me, I drew back. Why was it,
-I asked myself, that Fiesole was not my woman? What was the reason for
-this fantastic loyalty to Vi, who could never be mine? Was it instinct
-that held me back from Fiesole or mere cold-heartedness?
-
-For the next three days we wandered Venice, doing the usual round of
-churches and palaces. I was feverishly careful to live my life with
-Fiesole in public. I feared for her sake to be left alone with her.
-There was protection in spectators. She understood and accepted the
-situation, though we had not discussed it together. She played the part
-of a daring boy, carrying herself with merry independence. At times I
-almost forgot she was a girl. She disarmed my watchfulness, and seemed
-bent on showing me that it was unnecessary.
-
-On the morning of the fourth day, we returned to déjeuner parched
-and footsore from exploring the stifling alleys which lie back of the
-Rialto. The air was heavy and sultry. The water seemed to boil in the
-canals. Every stone flung back the steady glare. Blue lagoons, polished
-as reflectors, mirrored the blue of the cloudless sky.
-
-From where we sat at table, we could see crowded steamers draw in at the
-pier and crawl like flies across the bay to Lido.
-
-Fiesole made a queer little face at me. “Stupid old sober-sides!”
-
-“What’s the matter?”
-
-She flung herself back in her chair, regarding me with a languid,
-arch expression. “I’m tired of fudging in and out of old palaces and
-churches. I came here to enjoy myself. If I promise to be a good girl,
-will you take me to Lido to bathe? We’ll have one dear little afternoon
-all to ourselves.”
-
-A warm breeze caught us on the steamer. What ripe lips Fiesole had, and
-what inscrutable eyes! Since that first night of our arrival, she had
-prevented me from treating her with any of the privileges of her sex.
-She had walked when and where she liked. She had insisted on paying her
-share of everything down to the last centesimi. Now she changed her mood
-and slipped her arm through mine. We had both grown tired of pretending
-she was a man. “You needn’t be afraid to be nice to me,” she said.
-
-There were lovers all about us: girls from the glass-factories in
-white dresses, bareheaded, with tasseled black shawls; sailors from the
-Arsenal with keen bronzed faces and silky mustaches. Venice was taking
-a day off and giving us a lesson in happiness. The self-consciousness
-of the Anglo-Saxon, which makes the expression of pleasure bad taste
-and distressing, was absent. Each was occupied with him or herself,
-sublimely unconscious of spectators.
-
-“Haven’t I been nice?”
-
-She patted my hand, entirely the woman now. “You’ve been trying to be
-correct. Why can’t you be your own dear self?”
-
-Taking the tram across the island, we came to the Stabilimento dei
-Bagni. We walked through the arcade and down on to the terrace. The sea
-rolled in flashing, green and silver, in a long slow swell. Leaning over
-the side, we watched the bathers. Men, with costumes unfastened at the
-shoulders, sifted golden sand through their fingers on to their
-naked chests. Women lay beside them, buried in the sand, laughing and
-chatting.
-
-I noticed a blond young giant standing at the water’s edge. His face
-kindled. I followed the direction in which he was looking. A dark-eyed
-girl had come out of her cabin. She wore a single-piece, tight-fitting
-suit of stockingette, which displayed her figure in all its splendid
-curves. Her face was roguish and vivid as that of Carmen. On her head
-she wore a scarlet turban. Her costume was sky blue.
-
-The men who had been lying on their backs, turned over and regarded her
-with lazy admiration of her physical loveliness. Seemingly unaware of
-the interest she aroused, she came tripping daintily to the water’s
-edge, her white limbs flashing. The man held out his hand. With little
-birdlike exclamations she ran to him; then drew back and shivered as
-the first wave rippled about her feet. He encouraged her with tender,
-quickly spoken words. Her timidity was all a pretty pretense and they
-both knew it; but it gave them a chance to be charming to one another.
-He seized her hand again; she hung back from him laughing. Then they
-waded out together, hand-in-hand, splashing up diamonds as they
-went. They seemed to see no one but each other; they eyed one another
-innocently, unabashed. When they came to the deeper water, she clasped
-her arms about his neck; he swam out toward the horizon with her riding
-on his back. He was like a young sea-god capturing a land-maiden.
-
-A stab of envy shot through me. I felt indignant with my inherited
-puritanism. It would not permit me simply to enjoy myself. I must be
-forever analyzing motives, and lifting the lid off the future to search
-for consequences.
-
-I looked at Fiesole. Her eyes were starry. They seemed to mock me and
-plead with me saying, “Oh, Dannie, why can’t we be like that?”
-
-I glanced down at the beach. The bathers were rising up and shaking off
-the sand. I noticed that only the women who had no beauty hid themselves
-behind bathing-skirts. The Italian standard of modesty!--you only need
-be modest when you have something to be ashamed of. I accepted the
-standard.
-
-Fiesole broke the silence, clapping her hands, crying “Wasn’t she
-perfect!” Then she took hold of my face in childish excitement and
-turned my head. “Oh, look there!”
-
-An English girl had come out. Her bathing-suit was drab-colored and
-baggy. Sagging about her knees hung an ugly skirt. In her clothes she
-might have been pretty; but now she was awkward and embarrassed. Her
-manner called attention to the fact that she was more sparsely clad than
-usual. She wore tight round her forehead a wretched waterproof cap.
-
-“There’s Miss England,” laughed Fiesole.
-
-“When we bathe, you be Miss Italy,” I laughed back.
-
-And she was.
-
-When I look back to that sunny July afternoon with the blue and silver
-Adriatic singing against the lips of the land, the warm wind blowing
-toward the shore from Egypt’s way, the daring flashing of slim white
-bodies tossed high by glistening waves, and the undercurrent merriment
-of laughter and secret love-making, I know that I had ventured as far as
-is safe into the garden which knows no barriers. It is as I saw her then
-that I like to remember Fiesole. I can see her coming down the golden
-sands, with a tress of her gold-red hair, that had escaped, lying
-shining between her breasts. I recall her astonishing girlishness, which
-she had hidden from me so long. Like a wild thing of the woods, she came
-to me at last, timid in her daring, halting to glance back at the green
-covert, advancing again with glad shy gestures. Whatever had gone before
-was gallant make-belief. Without a word spoken, as her eyes met mine she
-told me all at the water’s edge.
-
-That afternoon I learnt the absurd delirium that may overtake a man who
-is owned in public by a pretty woman. She was the prettiest woman in
-Italy that day from her small pink feet to her golden crown. And she
-knew it. She treated me as though I was hers and, forgetting everything,
-I was glad of it. I can still thrill with the boyish pride I felt when
-I fastened her dress, with all the beach watching. Whatever she asked
-me to do was a delightful form of flattery. It pleased me to know that
-others were suffering the same pangs of envy that I had felt. They were
-saying to themselves, “How charming she is! What a lucky fellow! That’s
-what youth can do for you. I wonder whether they’re married.”
-
-Tucking her arm under mine with a delicious sense of proprietorship, we
-set out with the crowd through the tropic growth of flowers to the pier
-from where the steamer started. A little way ahead I saw the blond giant
-with his gay little sweetheart. He was all care of her. She fluttered
-about him like a blue butterfly about a tall sunflower. She looked
-up into his face, making impertinent grimaces. He nodded his head and
-laughed down.
-
-Was it only the spirit of imitation that caused us to copy them? They
-gave us a glimpse into the tender lovers’ world, which we both were sick
-with longing to enter. If Fiesole was playing a part she played it well.
-Her cheeks flushed and her eyes were brilliant. She made me feel the
-same bewilderment of gladness I had felt all those years ago, as a boy
-at the Red House. How much it would have meant to me then if she had
-treated me as she did now!
-
-We crossed the bay towards the hour of sunset. Venice swooned in a
-golden haze. Clouds struck sparks from the burning disk, like hammers
-falling on a glowing anvil. The lagoon stared at the sky without a
-quiver. We traveled a pathway of molten fire.
-
-“We must live this day out,” I said as we landed. “Let’s go to the
-Bauer-Grunwald to-night.”
-
-We hurried upstairs and changed into evening-dress. I tapped at her
-door, asking, “Are you ready?”
-
-“All except some hooks and eyes. Come in,” she replied.
-
-She was seated before the looking-glass, with her arms curved upward,
-tucking a bow of black ribbon in her hair. It was her reflection that
-looked into my face and smiled.
-
-“You do me proud, Fiesole,” I said, remembering one of Vi’s phrases.
-
-She looked as simple as a sixteen year old girl. Her dress was of pale
-green satin, cut high in the waist in Empire fashion, hanging without
-fullness to just above her ankles. The sleeves left off at the elbows.
-Her wonderful russet hair was gathered into a loose knot and lay coiled
-along her neck. She was the Fiesole of my school-days. Had she intended
-to remind me?
-
-I sat down on the edge of the bed while she finished her dressing,
-following with my eyes the feminine nick-nacks which were strewn about.
-But always my eyes came back to her, with the mellow glory from the
-window transfiguring her face and neck. There was a nipping sweetness in
-being so near to a woman whom I could not hope to possess. I knew that
-without marrying her I could not keep her. Platonic friendships are only
-safe between men and women whose youth is withered. I was wise enough
-to know that. We were chance-met travelers in Lovers’ Land--truants who
-would soon be dragged back. I kept saying to myself, “Intimacy such as
-we have can go but a short way further; any hour all this may end.”
-
-Then I tried to imagine how this evening would seem to me years hence.
-The poignancy of life’s changefulness made me wistful. One day we should
-both be old. We should be free from tempestuous desires. The generous
-fires of youth would have burnt out. We should know the worth then of
-the pleasures we now withheld from one another. We should meet,
-having grown commonsense or satiated, and would wonder wherein lay the
-mastering attraction we had felt--from what source we had stolen our
-romance. We should be weary then, walking where our feet now ran. Why
-could we not last out this moment forever?
-
-She rose, shaking down her skirt and courting my admiration.
-
-“You may get to work on the hooks and eyes, old boy.”
-
-Her voice was jerky with excitement. My fingers were awkward with
-trembling. As I leant over her, she patted my cheek, flashing a caress
-with her eyes. “Do you know, you’re handsome, Dante?”
-
-I wanted to crush her in my arms, but my habitual restraint prevented. I
-should destroy the virginal quality in her--something which could never
-be put back. My mind conjured the scene. I saw her folded against me,
-her eyes brimming up to mine in tender amazement. But my arms went on
-with their business, as though some strong power held them down.
-
-“It’s done. Come, bambino, it’s getting late.”
-
-She followed me down the stairs. My senses were reeling with the
-maddening fragrance of her presence. We walked through the Piazzetta and
-Piazza di San Marco, through the narrow streets and across the bridges
-till we arrived at the garden beside the canal. Arbors were illumined
-with faery-lamps. It seemed a scene staged for a theatre rather than
-a living actuality. Gondolas stole past the garden through the dusk.
-Mysterious people alighted. Guitars tinkled. In tall mediaeval houses
-rising opposite, lamps flashed and women looked down. As specters in
-a dream, people leant above the bridge, gazed into the water, and
-vanished. Venice walked with slippered feet and finger to lips that
-night.
-
-The silence shivered; a clear peal of laughter rippled on the air. We
-turned. The girl with the young sea-god was entering the garden. They
-seated themselves at a table near us--so near that we could watch their
-expressions and overhear much that was said. It seemed they were fated
-to goad us on and make us ambitious of attaining their happiness.
-
-Fiesole stretched out her hands. I smiled and took them, holding them
-palms up. “They’re like petals of pink roses,” I said.
-
-Her face was laughing. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
-
-“I’ve always thought that, and you know it--ever since you wouldn’t kiss
-me in Sneard’s garden.”
-
-“It was you who wouldn’t ask to be kissed,” she pouted. “What you could
-have, you didn’t value. It’s the same now.”
-
-Her hands quivered; her lips became piteous. All the wild commotion
-of her heart seemed to travel through them to myself. My throat became
-suddenly parched.
-
-“You know how it is, Fiesole. It isn’t that I haven’t affection for you;
-but to do that kind of thing, if I don’t intend to make you more to me,
-wouldn’t be fair.”
-
-“But if I want it? What if I were to tell you, Dante, that you’re the
-only man I’ve ever cared for? What if I were to tell you that you’ve
-always been first in my heart, ever since we first met?”
-
-I looked away from her to the street of water. I had nothing with which
-to answer. She tried to drag her hands from me, but still I held them.
-
-“Dante,” she whispered, “look at me.” Her voice grew fainter. “I’m not
-speaking of marriage. Two people can be kind to one another without
-that.”
-
-“And have I been unkind?”
-
-She turned from my question. “You can never marry her,” she said. “You
-know that.”
-
-A long silence elapsed, which was broken by voices of the girl and
-her lover at the neighboring table. Fiesole spoke again. “They’re not
-married. They never will be married. And yet they can share with one
-another one little corner of their lives.”
-
-“For me it’s all or nothing,” I said. “If it wasn’t all, I should be
-forever thinking of the end. That’s how I’m made--it’s my training. If I
-did anything to you, Fiesole, that wounded you ever so little, I should
-hate myself. Wherever you were, I should be thinking of you--wanting
-to leave everything to come to you. I can’t forget. My conscience would
-give me no rest.”
-
-She drew her hands free. “And yet you’re wounding me now.”
-
-She was always different from other women, doing the unexpected. Instead
-of sitting melancholy through dinner, she broke into a burst of high
-spirits. She told me about her father, who had marched with Garibaldi.
-She rallied me on the awkward little boy I had been when first we
-met--all arms, and legs, and shyness. She talked of love in a bantering
-fashion, as insanity of the will. One minute she was the cynical woman
-of the world--the next the innocent young school-girl. She puzzled
-and played with me. Then she fell back into the vein of tenderness,
-recalling the good times we had had, stampeding through the Cotswolds in
-springtime with the mad wind blowing.
-
-It was nearing midnight when we rose. Going down the little garden, we
-halted on the steps by the canal. A dozen shadowy figures leapt up
-with hoarse cries. We beckoned to a poppe; the gondola stole up and we
-entered.
-
-“Don’t go back yet,” Fiesole pleaded.
-
-We crept through ancient waterways, all solitary and silent; past
-churches blanched in the moonlight, and empty piazzas; under bridges
-from which some solitary figure leant to observe us. Now a swiftly
-moving barca would overtake us; as it fled by we had a glimpse through
-the curtains of a man and a woman sitting close together. Now the door
-of a tavern would suddenly open, flinging across the water a bar of
-garish light; cloaked figures would emerge and the door would close as
-suddenly as it had opened. Overhead in balconies we sometimes detected
-the stir of life where we had thought there was emptiness, and would
-catch the rustle of a woman’s dress or see the red flare of a cigarette.
-We had the haunted sensation one has in a wood in May-time: though he
-discerns but little with the eye, he is conscious that behind green
-leaves an anonymous, teeming world is mating and providing for its
-momentous cares.
-
-Fiesole pressed against me; the darkness seemed to fling out hands,
-thrusting us together. She slipped off her hood and pushed back her
-cloak, displaying her arms and throat and hair. The seduction of her
-beauty enthralled and held me spellbound. The air pulsated with illicit
-influences. The dreaming city, vague and labyrinthine, was the outward
-symbol of my state of mind. I had lost my standards; my will-power
-was too inert to rouse itself for their recovery. I was entranced by
-a sensuous inner vision of loveliness which exhausted my faculties of
-resistance. I apprehended some fresh allurement of femininity through
-each portal of sense. Fiesole’s touch made my flesh burn; her eyes stung
-me to pity; her voice caressed me. Her body relaxed till it rested the
-length of mine. Her head lay against my shoulder; her arms were warm
-about my neck. I tried to think--to think of honor and duty; but I could
-only think of her.
-
-“You know what you said about Simonetta,” she whispered; “how you
-thought I was like her and you spent hours before _The Kingdom of
-Venus_. You were wrong, all wrong, Dante, in your thoughts about her.
-The young man in the picture was Giuliano dei Medici and Simonetta
-was dear to him for many years. So the flowers weren’t broken, Dannie.
-Instead of broken flowers, they made poetry for Botticelli to paint.”
-
-How could I tell her that there was a difference between love and
-passion?--that my feeling for her could be only passion, because my
-love was with Vi? She loved me--that made all her actions pure. Morality
-would sound like the rasping voice of a tired schoolmaster, scolding a
-classroom of healthy boys. It was even unsafe for me to pity her; when
-I drew my coat about her, she kissed my hand. I clasped her closely,
-gazing straight ahead, not daring to look down. Every quiver of her
-languorous body communicated itself.
-
-“Fiesole, if I don’t marry her, I will marry you some day. I promise.”
-
-“But I want you now--now--now.” Her whisper was sharp-edged with
-longing; it beat me down and ran out among the shadows like a darting
-blade.
-
-We floated under the Bridge of Sighs and drew up at the landing. She
-leant heavily on my arm. We walked along the quay in silence. Few people
-were about. I saw mistily; my eyes were burning as if they had gazed
-too long into a glowing furnace. She drooped against me like a crushed
-flower.
-
-“You’re breaking my heart, Fiesole. I’d give you anything, but the thing
-that would hurt you. Let me have time to consider.”
-
-I was saying to myself, “Perhaps it would be right to marry her.” But
-the memory of her whisper clamored insistently in my ears and prevented
-me from thinking, “_I want you now--now--now._” With her voice she made
-no reply.
-
-We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping
-with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged
-on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from
-me, running on ahead.
-
-Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open
-and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her
-leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back
-in weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her
-hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall’s surface. She
-was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude
-was horribly that of one who had been crucified.
-
-Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did
-not put my arms about her, she made no response.
-
-Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by
-a third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air
-was flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a
-palpitating sense of moral danger.
-
-I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I
-had never felt more tender towards her.
-
-“I’m sorry, dear,” I said.
-
-She met my gaze with a frozen, focusless expression of despair. Her
-hands ceased their wandering.
-
-I entered my room and, closing the door, stood pressed against the
-panel, listening. After what seemed an interminable silence, her door
-opened and shut. I looked out into the passage; it was empty.
-
-*****
-
-I spent a sleepless night and rose with my mind made up; since she
-wanted it I would marry her.
-
-Going downstairs, I found she had not breakfasted. As a rule she was an
-earlier riser than myself; usually I found her waiting for me. I went
-for a stroll on the Piazzetta to give her time. On my return she had not
-appeared. I was beginning to grow nervous; then it occurred to me that
-she was postponing the first awkwardness of meeting me by breakfasting
-in bed.
-
-Taking my place at our table in the window, I told the waiter to carry
-Fiesole’s rolls and coffee up to her bedroom. He looked a trifle blank,
-and hurried away without explanation. He returned, followed by the
-proprietor, who informed me with much secret amusement that the signora
-had called for her bill at seven o’clock that morning and had departed,
-taking her baggage. I inquired if she had left any message for me; the
-proprietor stifled a laugh and shook his head. I immediately looked up
-trains, to discover which one she had intended catching. There was one
-which had left Venice at eight for Milan. At the station I found that a
-lady resembling Fiesole had taken a ticket for the through-journey. By
-this time it was ten; the next train did not leave till two o’clock. I
-sent a telegram to catch her at Brescia, to be delivered to her in
-the carriage. No reply had been returned by the time I left Venice. I
-reached Milan in the evening and pursued my inquiries till midnight, but
-could get no trace of her. Either I had been mistaken in her direction,
-or she had alighted at one of the intermediate stations.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIII--THE TURNING POINT
-
-Before my experience at Venice the world had consisted for me of Vi,
-myself, and other people; now it was only myself and Vi. I spent my days
-in shadowy unreality; just as a child, waking from a bad dream, sees
-one face he can trust gazing over the brink of his horror, so out of the
-blurred confusion of my present I saw the face of Vi.
-
-Fiesole had not shown me love in its purity, but she certainly had
-taught me something of its courage and selfishness. She had disabused
-my mind forever of the thought that it was a polite, intensified form
-of liking. A blazing ship, she had met me in mid-ocean and had set
-my rigging aflame. I had turned from her, but not in time to get off
-scatheless. Her wild unrestraint had accustomed my imagination to phases
-of desire which had before seemed abnormal and foreign to my nature.
-
-When I missed her at Milan, I abandoned my pursuit of her. Now that the
-temptation was over, I realized how near we had come to wrecking each
-other’s lives. Physical lassitude overtook me. Because I had withstood
-Fiesole, I thought myself safe in indulging my fancy with more intimate
-thoughts of Vi. I excused myself for so doing, by telling myself that
-it was her memory that had made me strong to escape. It was like saying
-that because water had rescued me from fire it could no longer drown me.
-
-I traveled northwards into the mountains to Raveno. Each morning I rowed
-across Maggiore to the island of Isola Madre. Lying beneath the camphor
-trees, watching the turquoise of the lake filling in the spaces between
-the yellowing bamboo canes, I gave rein to my longing. Shadowy foliage
-dripped from shadowy trees, curtaining the glaring light; down spy-hole
-vistas of overgrown pathways I watched the lazy world drift by. I numbed
-my cravings with the opiate of voluptuous beauty.
-
-I had been there a fortnight when a letter from home arrived. With its
-confident domestic chatter, it brought a message of trust. It took from
-me my sense of isolation. One of them would understand.
-
-Slowly the thought had taken shape within me that I must go to Vi. If I
-saw her only once again, I believed that I would be satisfied. It would
-not be necessary to speak to her--that would be unsportsmanlike if she
-had managed to forget me. All I asked was to be allowed just once to
-look upon her face. She should not know that I was near her; I would
-look at her and go away. With that strange sophistry that we practise
-on ourselves, I tried to be persuaded that, were I to see her in her own
-surroundings with her husband and Dorrie, it would be a lesson to me
-of how little share I had in her life. Perhaps I had even idealized her
-memory; seeing her might cure me. So I reasoned, but I was conscious
-that my own judgment on the wisdom of such a step was not to be trusted.
-Ruthita was too young to tell. My father, though I admired him, was not
-the man to whom a son would willingly betray a weakness. I would speak
-to the Snow Lady.
-
-As I drove from the station through London, old scenes and memories woke
-to life. The city had spread out towards Stoke Newington, so that it
-had lost much of its quaintness; but it retained enough of its old-world
-quiet to put me in touch with my childhood.
-
-I alighted at the foot of Pope Lane. The wooden posts still stood there
-to shut out traffic. I walked quickly up the avenue of fragrant limes
-with the eager expectancy of one who had been years absent instead of
-days. In the distance I heard the rumble of London. The golden August
-evening lay in pools upon the pathway. Sensations of the happy past came
-back. Dead memories stirred, plucking at my heartstrings. I thought of
-how Ruthita and I had bowled hoops and played marbles on that same gray
-pavement, making the air ring with our childish voices. I thought of
-those rare occasions when the Spuffler had carried me away with him into
-a boy’s world of mysterious small things, which he knew so well how to
-find. All the comings and goings of school-days, immense exaltations
-and magnified tragedies, rose before me--Ruthita waiting to catch first
-sight of me, and Ruthita running beside the dog-cart, with flushed
-cheeks and hair flying, to share the last of me as I drove away. What
-had happened since then seemed for the moment but an interlude in the
-momentous play.
-
-Passing between the steeply-rising red-brick walls, dotted with gates,
-I came to the door through which I had been so eager to escape when it
-had been locked against me. I reflected that I had not gained much from
-the new things which I had dragged into my life. The narrowness which
-I had once detested as imprisoned dullness I now coveted as peaceful
-security.
-
-I found the bell beneath the Virginia creeper. The door was opened by
-Hetty. Hetty had grown buxom and middle-aged. Her sweetheart had never
-come for her. The tradesmen no longer made love to her; they left their
-goods perfunctorily and went out in search of younger faces. Her hips
-had broadened. The curve between her bust and her waist had vanished.
-The dream of love was all that she had gained from life. I wondered
-whether she still told herself impossible stories of the deliverance
-wrought by marriage. If she did, no signs of her romantic tendencies
-revealed themselves in her face. Her expression had grown vacantly
-kind and stolid. To me she was respectful nowadays, and seemed even
-distressed by the immodesty of the memory that I had once been the
-little boy whom she had spanked, spoilt, bathed, and dried.
-
-She gave a quick cry at catching sight of me, for I had warned no one of
-my coming.
-
-“Sh! where are they?” I asked her.
-
-She told me that the master was at work in his study, and that Miss
-Ruthita and her ma were in the garden.
-
-I walked round the house slowly, lasting out the pleasure of their
-surprise. Nothing seemed to have changed except we people. Sunflowers
-kept guard in just the same places, like ranks of lean soldiers wearing
-golden helmets. Along the borders scarlet geraniums flared among the
-blue of lobelia and the white of featherfew, just as they had when I was
-a boy. Pigeons, descendants of those whose freedom I had envied, perched
-on the housetops opposite, or wheeled against the encrimsoned sky.
-
-I stole across the lawn to where two stooping figures sat with their
-backs towards me. Halfway across I halted, gazing over my shoulder.
-Through the study-window, with ivy aslant the pane, I saw my father. His
-hair was white. In the stoop of his shoulders was the sign of creeping
-age. He did not look up to notice me; he had never had time. As the
-years went by I grew proudly sorry for him. I saw him now, as I had
-seen him so many times when I paused to glance up from my play. He was
-cramped above his desk, writing, writing. His face was turned away. His
-head was supported on his hand as though weary. _He_ was the prisoner
-now; it was I who held the key of escape. How oddly life had changed!
-
-Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing
-towards me.
-
-“You! You!” she cried.
-
-Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her
-because I was unworthy.
-
-“Why did you come back?” she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in
-her voice. She searched my bronzed face.
-
-“To see you, chickabiddy.”
-
-“No, no. That’s not true,” she whispered; but she pressed her cheek
-against my shoulder as though she were willing to distrust her own
-denial. “You can get on quite well without me, Dannie; you would never
-have come back to see me only.”
-
-The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full
-of questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a
-self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes
-under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she
-would go and tell my father.
-
-The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping
-her arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which
-they had been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart,
-half-frivolous, half-saintly; my father’s intense reticence had subdued,
-but not quite silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as
-ever and her figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially
-about the eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet.
-
-“How is he?” I asked.
-
-“Your father?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Much the same. He doesn’t change.”
-
-“Is he still at the same old grind?”
-
-She nodded. “But, Dante,” she said, “you look thinner and older.”
-
-“That’s the heat and the rapid traveling. A day or two’s rest’ll put me
-right.”
-
-She dropped her sewing into her lap and, pressing her cool hand against
-my forehead, drew me back against her. It was a mothering love-trick of
-hers that had lasted over from my childhood.
-
-“What brought you home so suddenly, laddie?”
-
-Her hand slipped to my shoulder. I bent aside and kissed it. “To see
-you and Ruthie. I had something to tell you.” She narrowed her eyes
-shrewdly. “You’ve been worried for nearly a year now. I’ve noticed it.”
-
-“Have I shown it so plainly?”
-
-“Plainly enough for me to notice. Is it something to do with a woman?
-But of course it is--at your age only a woman could make you wear a
-solemn face.”
-
-“Yes. It’s a woman. And I want you to help me, Snow Lady, just as you
-used to long ago when I couldn’t make things go right.”
-
-The slow tears clouded her eyes; yet my news seemed to make her happy.
-“When I was as old as you, Ruthie had been long enough with me to grow
-long curls.” She smiled inscrutably.
-
-From where we sat we could watch the house. While we had been talking,
-I had seen through the study-window how Ruthita stole to my father’s
-chair. He looked up irritably at being disturbed. Her attitude was all
-meekness and apology as she explained her intrusion. He seemed to
-sigh at having to leave his work. She withdrew while he completed his
-sentence. He laid his pen carefully aside, glanced out into the garden
-shortsightedly, rose, and melted into the shadows at the back of his
-cave. The door at the top of the steps opened. He descended slowly and
-gravely, as though his brain was still tangled in the web of thought it
-had been weaving.
-
-We sat together beneath the apple-tree while the light faded. Little
-ovals of gold, falling flaky through leaves on the turf, paled
-imperceptibly into the twilight grayness. My father’s voice was worn
-and unsteady. It came over me that he had aged; up till now I had
-not noticed it. Beyond the wall in a neighboring garden children were
-playing; a woman called them to bed; a lawn-mower ran to and fro across
-the silence. He questioned me eagerly as to where I had been in Italy,
-punctuating my answers and descriptions with such remarks as, “I always
-wanted to go there--never had time--always felt that such a background
-would have made all the difference.”
-
-It was noticeable that Ruthita and the Snow Lady suppressed themselves
-in his presence; if they ventured anything, it was only to keep him
-interested or to lead his thoughts in happier directions. Presently he
-told them that they would be tired if they sat up later. Taking the hint
-as a command, they bade us good-night.
-
-Darkness had gathered when they left us; to the southward London waved
-a torch against the clouds. We watched the lights spring up in the
-bedrooms, and saw Ruthita and then the Snow Lady step to their windows
-and draw down their blinds. Presently the lights went out.
-
-“Lord Halloway’s been here again.” When I waited for further explanation
-my father added, “Didn’t like the fellow at first; he improves on
-acquaintance.”
-
-Then I spoke. “Depends how far you carry his acquaintance.”
-
-My father fidgeted in his chair. “He’s got flaws in his character,
-but he’s honest in keeping back nothing. Most people in our position
-wouldn’t hesitate two minutes over such a match.” Then, after a long
-pause, “And what’s to become of Ruthita when I die?”
-
-I took him up sharply. I was young enough to fear the mention of death.
-“You’ll live for many years yet. After that, I’ll take care of her if
-she doesn’t marry.”
-
-My father sat upright. I wondered how I had hurt him. He spoke stiffly.
-“You’ll inherit Sir Charles’s money. When I married a first and a second
-time, I didn’t consult his convenience, and the responsibilities I
-undertook are mine. Ruthita’s only your sister by accident; already
-you’ve been too much together. We must consider this offer apart from
-sentiment. He’s sowed his wild oats--well, he’s sorry. And he’ll be the
-Earl of Lovegrove by and by. To stand in her way would be selfishness.”
-
-His argument took me by surprise. “Is Ruthita anxious for it? What does
-she say?”
-
-“She knows nothing of the world. She takes her coloring from you. She’s
-afraid to speak out her mind. She thinks you would never forgive her.”
-
-His voice was high-strung and challenging.
-
-“I don’t believe it,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t love him--she’d be
-selling herself for safety.”
-
-In the interval that followed I could feel the grimness of his
-expression which the darkness hid from my eyes. “You’re young; you don’t
-understand. For years I’ve had to struggle to make ends meet. I’m about
-done--I’m tired. If Ruthita were settled, I could lie down with an easy
-mind. There’s enough saved to see me and her mother to our journey’s
-end.”
-
-He rose to his feet suddenly. “You think I’m acting shabbily.
-Good-night.”
-
-He walked away, a gaunt shadow moving through the silver night. The awe
-I had of him kept me from following. I sat there and tried to puzzle out
-how this thing might be avoided. I could help financially; but my help
-would be refused because it was Sir Charles’s money.
-
-Next morning I woke at six and dressed. Dew was on the turf; it sparkled
-in the gossamer veils of spider-webs caught among the bushes. Blackbirds
-and thrushes in trees were calling. A cock crew, and a cock in the
-distance echoed. The childish thought came back to me--how much
-grown-ups miss of pleasure in their anxiety for the morrow. There is so
-much to be enjoyed for nothing!
-
-A window-sash was raised sharply. Looking up I saw Ruthita in her white
-night-gown, with her hair tumbled like a cloud about her breast. I
-watched her, thinking her lovely--so timid and small and delicate. I
-called to her softly; she started and drew back. I waited. Soon she came
-down to me in the garden. I must have eyed her curiously.
-
-“You’ve heard?”
-
-She held out her hand pleadingly, afraid that I would judge her.
-“They’re making me,” she cried, “and I don’t--don’t want to, Dannie.”
-
-I led her away behind the tool-shed at the bottom of the garden; it was
-the place where I had discovered Hetty in her one flirtation.
-
-“I’m not wanted,” moaned Ruthita; “I cost money. So they’re giving me to
-a man I don’t love.”
-
-“They shan’t,” I told her, slipping my arm about her. “You shall come to
-me--I don’t suppose I shall ever marry.”
-
-She nestled her head against my shoulder, saying, “You were always good
-to me; I don’t know why. I’m not much use to anybody.”
-
-“Rubbish!” I retorted. “None of us could get along without you.”
-
-Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to
-me. She promised.
-
-The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her
-beside us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish.
-
-I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. “She’s not going to marry Halloway.”
-
-She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. “Why not? Why so
-positive?”
-
-“Because it’s an arranged marriage.”
-
-“Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.”
-
-Somehow I knew she was not serious.
-
-“You don’t want it?” I challenged.
-
-“No, I don’t want it; but Ruthita’s growing older. No one else has asked
-for her. It would be a shame if she became an old maid.”
-
-“She won’t.”
-
-“She won’t, if you say so,” said the Snow Lady.
-
-During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a
-conspiracy against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to
-his study, where he shut himself up, working morosely. I sought
-opportunities to tell the Snow Lady what I had come to say, but I could
-never find an opening to introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were
-alone together she insisted on discussing Ruthita’s future, stating
-and re-stating the reasons for and against the proposed match.
-The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the broaching of my own
-perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make my decision
-unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I engaged
-a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be
-canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended
-to hesitate.
-
-The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding
-my eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I
-went to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed.
-
-“You’re going?”
-
-“Yes.”
-
-“Because he’s coming?”
-
-“Partly.”
-
-Her eyes were blinded with tears; she sank against the wall in a fit of
-sobbing. “Oh, I wish you could take me--I wish you could take me!” she
-cried.
-
-I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise
-to come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. “You and I’ve
-always stood together, little sister; you mustn’t be afraid,” I told
-her.
-
-I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me.
-
-“What’s this? You’re going?” Her voice reflected dismay and
-bewilderment.
-
-“Yes, going.”
-
-“But not for long! You’ll be back shortly?”
-
-“That depends.”
-
-I entered my father’s study. He looked up from his writing. “I’m going
-away.”
-
-He held my hand in silence a moment; his throat was working; he would
-not look me in the eyes. “Won’t you stay?” he asked hoarsely.
-
-I shook my head.
-
-“Good-by,” he muttered. “Don’t judge us harshly. Come back again.”
-
-Ruthita accompanied me to the end of the lane. She did not come further;
-she was grown up now and ashamed to be seen crying. At the last minute
-I wanted to tell her. I realized that she would understand--she was
-a woman. The knowledge came too late. She said she would write me at
-Oxford, and I did not correct her. I looked back as I went down the road
-and waved. I turned a corner; she was lost to sight.
-
-Next day I sailed.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XIV--I GO TO SHEBA
-
-A sleepy, contented little town, overshadowed by giant elms, sprawled
-out along the banks of a winding river, surrounded for miles by
-undulating woodlands--that is how I remember Sheba. The houses were for
-the most part of timber, and nearly all of them were painted white. They
-sat each in its unfenced garden, comfortably separate from neighbors,
-with a green lawn flowing from the roadway all about it, and a nosegay
-of salvias, hollyhocks, and lavender, making cheerfulness beside the
-piazza. I suppose unkind things happened there, but they have left no
-mark on my memory. When I think of Sheba there comes to me the sound of
-bees humming, woodpeckers tapping, frogs croaking, and the sight of
-blue indolent smoke curling above quiet gables, butterflies sailing over
-flowers, a nodding team of oxen on a sunlit road hauling fagots into
-town and, after sunset hour, the indigo silence of dusk beneath orchards
-where apples are dropping and fireflies blink with the eyes of goblins.
-
-Sheba was one of those old New England towns from which the hurry of
-life has departed; it cared more for its traditions than for its future,
-and sat watching the present like a gray spectacled grandmother, pleased
-to be behind the times, with its worn hands folded.
-
-I arrived there with only a small sum of money and the price of my
-return passage. I had limited my funds purposely, so that I might not be
-tempted to prolong my visit.
-
-The day after my arrival my calculations were upset; I discovered that
-the Carpenter house was shut, and that Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter had not
-yet returned from the coast. This made me careful. I was unwilling to
-draw on my bank in London lest my whereabouts should be discovered,
-which would necessitate awkward explanations to my family and the
-association of Vi’s name with doubtful circumstances.
-
-In my search for cheap lodgings I had a strange stroke of luck. Randall
-Carpenter’s house stood in an old-world street, which at this time of
-the year was a tunnel through foliage. I waited until the gardeners had
-departed. Evening came; pushing open the gate, I entered the grounds.
-
-I passed down a rough path under apple-trees, where fruit kept falling.
-In stables to the left, horses chafed in their stalls and snorted. To
-the right in the vegetable garden, birds of brilliant plumage flashed
-and darted, and fat gray squirrels sat up quivering to watch me.
-Overhead, near and far, the air vibrated with incessant twittering.
-The golden haze of sunset was over everything; the whole world seemed
-enkindled. The path descended to low, flat meadows where haymaking
-was in progress. Farm implements stood carelessly about, ready for the
-morrow. In one field the hay was cocked, in another gathered, in a third
-the cutting had commenced. I told myself I was with her, and shivered at
-the aching loneliness of reality.
-
-Circling the meadows was a narrow stream, which at a little distance
-joined the main river; on the farther side stood scattered cottages,
-with gardens straggling down a hill to its banks. In one of these a
-gray-haired woman was working. She wore a sunbonnet and print-dress of
-lavender. In my idleness I threw myself down in the grass and observed
-her. She grew conscious that she was being watched, and cast sly
-glances across her shoulder. At first I thought she was suspicious of
-my trespassing; she came lower down the hill and nodded in shy friendly
-fashion.
-
-“Good-evening,” I called to her over the stream.
-
-She drew herself erect and eyed me. “Guess you’re a stranger?” she
-questioned, having found something foreign in my English accent.
-
-I told her that I was, and then, for the sake of conversation, asked her
-if she knew of any rooms to rent. “Guess I do,” she called back, “me and
-my sisters have one room to spare.”
-
-That was how I came to take lodgings with the three Misses Januaries.
-I paid them ten dollars weekly and had everything found. My room lay
-at the back; from my window I could see much of what went on in Randall
-Carpenter’s grounds.
-
-From the three Misses Januaries I learnt many things. They were decayed
-ladies and eked out a livelihood by bringing home piece-work to do for
-the jewelry factories. Every other day Miss Priscilla, the eldest, went
-to deliver the finished task and to take further orders. Miss Priscilla
-was proud, angular, and bent. Miss Julia was round and jolly, but
-crippled with rheumatism. Miss Lucy, the youngest, had a weak spine and
-was never dressed; day after day she lay between white sheets dreamily
-smiling, small as a child, making hardly any mound in the bed.
-
-At first they hid from me the fact that they worked. Then they pretended
-that they did it to occupy their leisure. Sewing was so useless, Miss
-Priscilla said. At last they admitted the truth to the extent of letting
-me sit with them in Miss Lucy’s bedroom, even allowing me to help them
-with the fastening of the interminable links that went to the making of
-one chain-bag.
-
-It was during these meetings that they gossiped of their neighbors and
-themselves. By delicate manouvering I would lead the conversation
-round to Vi. I found that for them Sheba was the one and only town,
-and Randall Carpenter was its richest citizen. He stood behind all its
-thriving institutions. He was president of the Sheba National Bank.
-He had controlling interest in the jewelry factory. He owned the
-cotton-works. He had been Senator at Washington. Vi was the social
-leader and the mirror of local fashion. They spoke of her as though she
-embodied for them all that is meant by romance. They told me the story,
-which I had already heard, of how Randall Carpenter had saved her
-father from ruin.
-
-While such matters were being discussed and fresh details added,
-Miss Lucy would smile up at the ceiling, with her thin arms stretched
-straight out and her fingers plucking at the coverlet. I discovered
-later that long years before, Randall Carpenter had kept company with
-her; then her spine trouble had commenced and their money had gone from
-them, and it had been ended. As a middle-aged bachelor he had married
-Vi, and now Miss Lucy re-lived her own girlhood in listening to stories
-of Vi’s reported happiness.
-
-Three weeks after my arrival in Sheba Vi returned. The evening before
-I had seen from my window that lights had sprung up in the house; early
-next morning I saw Dorrie in the garden, a white, diminutive, butterfly
-figure fluttering beneath the boughs. After breakfast I saw Vi come
-out, walking with a portly man. An eighth of a mile separated us--by
-listening intently I could hear her voice when she called, “Dorrie,
-Dorrie.”
-
-Twice I came near to her, though she did not know it. One Sunday morning
-I waited till service had commenced, and followed her to church. I
-slipped into a seat at the back. There were few people present. From
-where I sat I could get a clear view of her and her husband across
-empty pews. Mr. Carpenter was a squarely-built, kindly-looking
-man--unimaginative and mildly corpulent. His face was clean-shaven and
-ruddy. He had an air of benevolent prosperity; his hair was grizzled,
-the top of his head was bald and polished. When he offered me the plate
-in taking the collection, I noticed that his fingers were podgy. I
-remembered Vi’s continually reiterated assertion that he was so kind to
-her. I knew what she had meant--kind, but lacking subtlety in expressing
-the affections. I judged that he was the sort of person to whom life had
-scattered largesse--he had never been tested, and consequently accepted
-all good fortune as something merited. His wide shrewd eyes had a steely
-gleam of justice; the puckered eye-lids promised humor. He was lovable
-rather than likable--a big boy, a mixture of naïve self-complacency and
-masterfulness. Before the benediction was pronounced, I left.
-
-This was the first time I had seen him at close quarters. I had come
-prepared to find faults in the man; I was surprised at my lack of anger.
-His comfortable amiability disarmed me.
-
-The second time I came near to her was at nightfall. It was November. A
-touch of frost had nipped the leaves to blood-red; the Indian Summer
-had commenced. The air was pungent with the walnut fragrance of decaying
-foliage; violet mist trailed in shreds from thickets, like a woman’s
-scarf torn from her throat in the passage. I had wandered out into
-the country. An aimless restlessness was on me--a sense of defiant
-self-dissatisfaction.
-
-Occupied with my thoughts, I was strolling moodily along with hands in
-pockets, when I chanced to look up. She was coming down the road towards
-me. She was alone; her trim, clean-cut figure made a silhouette against
-the twilight. She was whistling like a boy as she approached; her skirt
-was short to the ankles; she carried a light cane in her hand. I wanted
-to stand still till she had come up with me and then to catch her in
-my arms before she was aware. For a moment I halted irresolute; then I
-turned into the woods to the left.
-
-I could not understand how she could be so near to me and not know
-it. It seemed to me that I would raise clenched hands against
-the coffin-lid, were she to approach me, though I was buried deep
-underground.
-
-As the year drew towards a close my uncertainty of mind became a
-torture. I knew that I ought to return to England; I was breaking the
-promise I had made to myself. My friends must be getting anxious.
-By this time Sir Charles must have heard of my disappearance. I was
-imperiling my future by stopping. Worse still, the longer I lived near
-Vi, the more difficult was I making it for myself to take up the threads
-of my old life without her. I continually set dates for my departure,
-and I continually postponed them. At last I booked my passage some way
-ahead for the first week in January. In order to prevent myself from
-altering my decision, I told Miss Priscilla that I was going.
-
-I fought a series of never finished battles with myself. As the time of
-my respite shortened, I grew frenzied. Was I to go away forever without
-speaking to her? Was I to give her no sign of my presence? Was I to let
-her think that I had forgotten her and had ceased to care? I kept myself
-awake of nights on purpose to make my respite go further; from where
-I lay on the pillow with my face turned to the snow-covered meadows, I
-could see the blur which was her house. Sometimes in the darkness, when
-one loses all standards, I determined to risk everything and go to her.
-With morning I mastered myself and saw clearly--to go to her would be
-basest selfishness.
-
-In one of my long tramps I had come upon a pond in a secluded stretch
-of woodland on the outskirts of Sheba. On the last evening before my
-departure I remembered it. I was in almost hourly fear of myself--afraid
-that I would seek her out. I planned diversions of thought and action
-for my physical self, so that my will might keep it in subjection. This
-evening, when I was at a loss what to do, the inclination occurred to go
-there skating.
-
-As I walked along the road, sleighs slid by with bells jingling. The
-merry golden windows of white houses in white fields brought a sense of
-peacefulness. The night was blue-black; the sky was starry; the air had
-that deceptive dryness which hides its coldness. Beneath the woods trees
-cast intricate sprawling traceries of shadows. Every now and then the
-frozen silence was shattered by the snapping of some overladen bough;
-then the whole wood shook and shivered as though it were spun from
-glassy threads.
-
-Picking my way through bushes, I came to the edge of the pond and sat
-down to adjust my skates. It was perhaps four hundred yards in extent
-and curved in the middle, so that one could not see from end to end. To
-the right grew a plantation of firs almost large enough for cutting; on
-the other three sides lay tangled swamp and brushwood.
-
-I had risen to my feet and was on the point of striking out, when I
-heard a sound which was unmistakable, _rrh! rrh! rrh!_--the sharp ring
-of skates cutting against ice.
-
-From a point above me at the edge of the fir-grove a figure darted out
-and vanished round the bend. The moon was just rising; behind bars of
-tall trunks I could see its pale disk shining--the pond had not yet
-caught its light.
-
-I felt foolishly angry and disappointed that I was not to have my last
-evening to myself. I was jealous that some stranger, to whom it would
-lack the same intensity, should share this memory. Unreasonable chagrin
-held me hesitant; I was minded to steal away unnoticed.
-
-The intruder had reached the far end of the pond--there was silence.
-Then the _rrh! rrh! rrh!_ commenced again, coming back. I set out to
-meet it; it was eerie for two people to be within earshot, but out of
-sight in that still solitude. We swung round the corner together; the
-moon peered above the tree-tops. For an instant we were face to face,
-staring into one another’s eyes; then our impetus carried us apart into
-the dusk.
-
-I listened, and heard nothing but the brittle shuddering of icicles as
-boughs strained up to free themselves. Stealing back round the bend, I
-came upon her standing fixed and silent; as I approached her, she spread
-her hands before her eyes in a gesture of terror.
-
-“Vi, Vi,” I whispered, “it’s Dante.”
-
-She muttered to herself in choking, babbling fashion.
-
-When I had put my arms about her, she ceased to speak, but her body was
-shaken with sobbing. She made no sound, but a deep convulsive trembling
-ran through her. I talked to her soothingly, trying to convince her I
-was real. Slowly she relaxed against me sighing, and trusted herself to
-look up at me, letting her fingers wander over my face and hands. I had
-brought her the bitterness of remembrance. Stooping, I kissed her mouth.
-“Just once,” I pleaded, “after all these months of loneliness. I’m going
-to-morrow.”
-
-“You must,” she said, freeing herself from my embrace and clasping her
-arms about my neck; “oh, it’s wrong, but I’ve wanted you so badly.”
-
-I led her to the edge of the pond and removed her skates. The moon had
-now sailed above the spear-topped firs and the ice was a silver mirror.
-Walking through the muffled woods I told her of my coming to Sheba, of
-the window from which I had watched her, and of all that had happened.
-From her I learnt that she also had been going through the same struggle
-between duty and desire ever since we parted.
-
-“Sometimes I felt that it was no use,” she said; “I couldn’t fight any
-longer--I must write or come to you. Then something would happen; I
-would read or hear of a woman who had done it, and in the revulsion I
-felt I realized how other people would feel about myself. And I saw how
-it would spoil Randall’s life, and especially what it would mean to
-Dorrie. You can’t tell your personal excuses to the world; it just
-judges you wholesale by what you do, and I couldn’t bear that. It’s so
-easy to slip into temptation, Dante, especially our kind of temptation;
-because we love one another, anything we might do seems good. You can
-only see what sin really is when you picture it in the lives of others.”
-
-We were walking apart now; she had withdrawn her arm from mine. “I shall
-always love you,” I said.
-
-“And I you.”
-
-“I shall never marry any other woman,” I told her; “I shall wait for
-you.”
-
-“Poor boy,” she murmured, “it isn’t even right for you to think of
-that.”
-
-Then, because there were things we dared not mention, we fell to talking
-about Dorrie, how she was growing, how she was losing her lisp, and all
-the tender little coaxing ways she had of making people happy.
-
-We came out of the woods on the road which led back to Sheba. The lights
-twinkling ahead and the occasional travelers passing, robbed us of the
-danger of being alone together. I think she had been waiting for that.
-
-“Dante,” she said, smiling at me bravely, “there is only one thing for
-you to do--you must marry.”
-
-“Marry,” I exclaimed, “some woman whom I don’t love!”
-
-“Not that,” she said; “but many men learn to love a second woman. I’ve
-often thought you should be happy with Ruthita; you love her already.
-After you had had children, you’d soon forget me. You’d be able to smile
-about it. Then it would be easier for me to forget.”
-
-My answer was a tortured whisper. “It’s impossible; I’m not made like
-that. For my own peace of mind I almost wish I were.”
-
-We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of
-elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one
-of the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out,
-watching for her return.
-
-“He’s always like that; he can’t bear to be without me. I had one of my
-moods this evening, when I want to be alone--he knew it.”
-
-“When you wanted to think of me; that’s what you meant--why didn’t you
-say it?”
-
-“One daren’t say these things, when they’re saying good-by, perhaps for
-ever.”
-
-She had her hand on the gate, preparing to enter; we neither of us knew
-what to say at parting. The things that were in my heart I must not
-utter, and all other things seemed trivial. I looked from her to the
-burly figure framed in the glowing window. I pitied him with the proud
-pity of youth for age, a pity which is half cruel. After all, she loved
-me and we had our years before us. We could afford disappointment, we
-whose lives were mostly in the future; his life was two-thirds spent,
-and his years were running out.
-
-Looking up the path in his direction, I asked, “Shall you tell him?”
-
-“He has known for a year; it was only fair.”
-
-“And he was angry? He blamed you?”
-
-“He was sorry. I wish he had blamed me. He blames himself, which is the
-hardest thing I have to bear.”
-
-“Vi,” I said, “he’s a good man--better than I am. You must learn to love
-him.”
-
-She held out her hand quickly; her voice was muffled. “Good-night, my
-dearest, and good-by.”
-
-The gate clanged. As she ran up the path, I saw that her husband had
-moved from the window. He opened the door to her; in the lighted room I
-saw him put his arms about her. By the way she looked up at him and he
-bent over her, I knew she was confessing.
-
-Then I shambled down the road, feeling very old and tired. I was so
-tired that I hardly knew how to finish my packing; I was cold, bitterly
-cold. I dragged myself to bed; in order to catch the boat in Boston, I
-had to make an early start next morning. My teeth were chattering and my
-flesh was burning. Several times in the night I caught myself speaking
-aloud, saying stupid, tangled things about Vi. Then I thought that what
-I had said had been overheard. I shouted angrily to them to go away,
-declaring, that I had not meant what I said.
-
-When my eyes closed, the stars were going out. “It will soon be
-morning,” I told myself; “I must get up and dress.”
-
-I tried to get up, but my head would stick to the pillow and my body
-refused to work. “That’s queer,” I thought; “never mind, I’ll try
-later.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER XV--THE FLAME OF A SWORD
-
-One morning, it seemed the one on which I had planned to sail, I awoke
-in a strange room. I knew it was strange because the sun was pouring in
-across the bed, and the sun never looked through my window at the
-Misses Januaries’ till late in the afternoon. Something wet was on my
-forehead--a kind of bandage that came down low across my eyes almost
-preventing me from seeing anything. This set me wondering in a slow,
-thick-witted manner.
-
-I did not much care how I came to be there--I felt effortless and
-contented; yet, in a lazy way, my mind became interested. I lay still,
-piecing together little scraps of happenings as I remembered them. The
-last thing I could recall that was rational was my attempting to get out
-of bed. Then came vague haunting shapes, too sweet and too horrible
-for reality--things which refused to be embodied and remained mere
-atmospheres in the brain, terrors and delights of sleep which slowly
-faded as the mind cleared itself.
-
-I pulled my hand from under the sheets and was surprised at the effort
-it took to raise it to my forehead. I heard the rustle of a starched
-skirt: it was the kind of sound that Hetty used to make in my childhood,
-when she came to dress me in the mornings and I pretended that I still
-slept. I used to think in those days that it was a stern clean sound
-which threatened me with soap and chilly water. Someone was bending over
-me; a cool voice said, “Don’t move, Mr. Cardover. I’ll do that.”
-
-The bandage was pushed back and in the sudden rush of light I saw a
-young woman in a blue print-dress, standing beside my pillow. I tried
-to speak to her, but my mouth was parched and my voice did not make the
-proper sound.
-
-“Don’t try to speak,” she said; “you’ve been sick, you know. Soon you’ll
-feel better.”
-
-I stopped trying to talk and obeyed her, just as I used to obey Hetty.
-At the back of my mind I smiled to myself that I, a grown man, should
-obey her; she looked such a girl. After she had put water to my lips and
-passed a damp cloth over my face and hands, she nodded pleasantly and
-went back to her seat by the window.
-
-No--until now I had never seen this room. The walls were covered in
-cherry-colored satin, which was patterned in vertical stripes, with
-bunches of flowers woven in between the lines. All the wood-work was
-painted a gleaming white. Chippendale chairs and old-fashioned delicate
-bits of furniture stood about in odd corners. Between the posts of the
-big Colonial bed I could see a broad bay-window, with a seat going round
-it. Across the panes leafless boughs cast a net-work of shadows, and
-through them fell a bar of solid sunlight in which dust-motes were
-dancing by the thousand. Half-way down each side of the bed screens were
-standing, so that I could only see straight before me and a part of the
-room to the left and right beyond where they ended.
-
-Through weakness I was powerless to speak or stir, yet my swimming
-senses were anxiously alert. I saw objects without their perspective,
-as though I were gazing up through water. In the same way with sounds,
-I heard them thunderously and waited in suspense for their repetition.
-Though I lay so still, nothing missed my attention.
-
-By the quietness of the house I gathered that the hour was yet early.
-Far away cocks crew their rural challenge. On a road near by footsteps
-passed in a hurry. The whistle of a factory sounded; then I knew
-they had been footsteps of people going to work. Beneath the window a
-garden-roller clanged across gravel, and became muffled as it reached
-the turf. A door banged remotely; a few seconds later someone tapped on
-the door of my bedroom. The nurse laid aside her knitting and rustled
-over to the threshold. A question was asked in a low whisper and the
-nurse’s voice answered.
-
-A woman entered into the bar of sunlight and stood regarding me from the
-foot of the bed. With the immense indifference of weakness I gazed back.
-Her long, fine-spun hair hung loose about her shoulders like a mantle.
-She wore a blue dressing-gown, which she held together with one hand
-across her breast. Her eyes were still sleepy; she had come directly she
-had wakened to inquire after me. She smiled at me, nodding her head.
-She seemed very distant; I wanted to return her smile, but I had not the
-energy. I closed my eyes; when I looked again she had vanished.
-
-For the next few days I do not know how many people came and looked
-at me, whispered a few words and went. There was the old gray-haired
-doctor, with his military-bearing and his trick of pursing his lips and
-knitting his brows as he took my temperature. I had one visitor who was
-regular--Randall Carpenter. He looked years older. Tiptoeing into the
-room, he would seat himself in the bay-window; from there he would gaze
-at me moodily without a word, with his knees spread apart, and his podgy
-hands clasped together. Sometimes I would doze while he watched me and
-would awake to find him still there, his position unaltered. One thing I
-noticed; Vi and he were never in my room together.
-
-In these first days, which slipped by uncounted, I realized that I had
-been very near to death. It seemed to me that my spirit still hovered on
-the borderland and looked back across the boundary half-regretful. I had
-the feeling that life was a thing apart from me--something which I was
-unanxious to share. All these people came and went, but I could not
-respond to them. I desired only to be undisturbed.
-
-Several times I had heard the shrill piping voice of Dorrie and the long
-low _hush_ of someone warning her to speak less loudly. She would come
-to the door many times in the day, inquiring impatiently whether I were
-better. Sometimes she would leave flowers, which the nurse would put in
-water and set down by the side of my bed. I would watch them dreamily,
-saying to myself, “Dorrie’s flowers.”
-
-One afternoon I heard her voice at the door, asking “Nurth, how ith
-Dante?” The nurse had left the room for a moment, so no one answered
-her question. I heard the door pushed wider, and stealthy feet slipping
-across the carpet. Round the edge of the screen came the excited face
-and little shining head. I held out my hand to her and tried to speak.
-Then I tried again and whispered, “Dorrie! Dorrie darling!”
-
-She took my hand in both her small ones, trying to mask the fear which
-my changed appearance caused her. “Dear Dante,” she whispered, “I’m tho
-thorry.”
-
-“Kiss me, Dorrie,” I said.
-
-“Dear Dante, you’ll get better, won’t you? For my thake, Dante! Then
-we’ll play together, like we uthed to.” Tears trickled down her flushed
-cheeks as she questioned.
-
-As her soft lips brushed me and her silky curls fell about my forehead,
-I felt for the first time that my grip on life was coming back. Lying
-there thinking things over confusedly, it had seemed hardly worth while
-trying to get better. It seemed worth while, now that I was reminded
-that there was such beautiful innocence as Dorrie’s in the world.
-
-When the nurse came back a few moments later, she shook her head at
-Dorrie reproachfully and tried to take her away from me.
-
-“But he wanths me,” cried Dorrie in self-defense, and I kept fast hold
-of her.
-
-After that I began to gather strength. I noticed that as I threw off my
-lethargy, Vi’s visits grew less frequent. When she came her manner
-was restrained; she entered hurriedly and made it appear that her only
-reason for coming was to confer with the nurse. At first I would follow
-her about with my eyes; but when I found how much it embarrassed her, I
-pretended to be dozing when I heard her enter.
-
-I could not understand how I came to be in Randall Carpenter’s house. I
-dared not ask Vi or her husband; my presence implied too much already. I
-was afraid to ask the nurse; I did not know how much I should be telling
-by my question. There seemed to be a polite conspiracy of silence
-against me. I wondered where it would all end.
-
-I had grown to like the old doctor. He was a shrewd, wise, serious man.
-He never spoke a word of religion, yet he made his religion felt by his
-kindness. As he went about his work, he would become chatty, trying
-to rouse my interest. He spoke a good deal about himself and told me
-anecdotes of scenes which he had lived through in the War, when he had
-been a surgeon in the Northern army. Out of his old tired eyes he would
-watch me narrowly; I began to feel that he understood.
-
-One day I whispered to him to send away the nurse. He invented an errand
-for her, saying that he would stay with me till she returned. When she
-had gone, he closed the door carefully and came and sat down on the side
-of the bed. “Now, what is it, my boy?”
-
-“What happened, doctor?”
-
-He pursed his lips judicially and looked away from me for a full minute,
-as though he would escape answering; then his eyes came back and I saw
-that he was going to tell.
-
-“I reckoned you’d be asking that question,” he said.
-
-“The morning that you figured to sail, you were taken sick at the Misses
-Januaries’. You were mighty bad when they sent for me; you had pneumonia
-and a touch of brain-fever. It’s a close call you’ve had. I found you
-wandering in your head--and saying things.”
-
-“Things, doctor? Things that I wouldn’t want heard?”
-
-He nodded gravely. “No one in Sheba knew anything about you. I saw that
-you were in for a long spell, and that the Misses Januaries’ was no
-place for you to get proper nursing.”
-
-He halted awkwardly. “Then I came to Randall and told him.”
-
-“Had I mentioned him in my delirium?”
-
-“You’d mentioned her.”
-
-I could feel the warm flush of color spreading through my body and
-turned away my head. The old doctor gripped my hand. “That’s how it
-happened, I guess.” Little by little he told me about Randall Carpenter.
-During the first days of crisis he had scarcely gone to bed, but had
-paced the house, always returning to my bedroom door to see if he could
-be of any service.
-
-“But, why should he care?” I questioned.
-
-“Because she cared, I guess. He’s so fond of her that he wants to do
-more than ever she could ask him. And then, Randall’s a mighty just man,
-and he’s always most just when he’s most tempted.”
-
-He looked down at me sidelong and silence fell between us. It was broken
-by the footfall of the nurse along the passage. I asked him quickly when
-I should be well enough to be moved.
-
-“You’re some better now, but we mustn’t think of moving you yet, though,
-of course, you must go at the earliest.” Towards midnight the nurse took
-my temperature. I saw that she was surprised, for she took it a second
-time. “Have you any pain?” she asked me.
-
-Randall Carpenter came in and they went away together. I lay staring up
-at the ceiling, my hands clenched and my eyes burning. They all knew; I
-alone was ignorant of what things I had said.
-
-A carriage came bowling up the driveway. I recognized whose it was, for
-I had become familiar with the horse’s step. The doctor came into the
-room; as he bent over me our eyes met. I clutched his arm and he stooped
-lower. “Stay and talk with me,” I whispered. “You all look at me and
-none of you will tell me. I can’t bear it--can’t bear it any longer.”
-
-“What can’t you bear?”
-
-“Not knowing.”
-
-When he had told them that there was no change for the worse and had
-sent them back to bed, he came and sat down beside me. The lights in the
-room were extinguished, save for a reading lamp in a far corner where
-the nurse had been sitting.
-
-“I guess something’s troubling you. Take your time and tell me slowly.
-I’ll sure help you, if I can.”
-
-“Doctor, you know about me and Mrs. Carpenter?”
-
-“I reckon you’re sort of fond of her--is that it?”
-
-I buried my face against the cool pillow. I dared not look at him, but
-he signaled me courage with the pressure of his hand.
-
-“More than fond, that’s why I came to Sheba. I didn’t mean to let her
-know that I’d ever been here; that last evening we met by accident. I
-was a fool to have come. I’ve been unfair to her--unfair to everybody.”
-
-He did not answer me; he could not deny my assertion.
-
-“You remember what you said this afternoon--that I let things out in my
-delirium. I want to know what they were. I’ve been trying to remember;
-but it all comes wild and confused. Tell me, did I say anything that
-would make her ashamed of me--anything that would make her hate me?”
-
-He shook his head. “Nothing that would make her hate you. Perhaps,
-that’s the worst of it.”
-
-“Well then, anything that would damage her reputation? Was I brought
-here only to prevent strangers from listening to what I said, just as
-you’d shut a mad dog up for safety?”
-
-In my feverish suspense, I gained sudden strength and raised myself up
-on my elbow to face him. He patted me gently on the shoulder, saying,
-“Lie down; it’s a sick man’s fancy. You’re guessing wide of the mark--it
-was nothing such as that.” He tucked me up and smoothed out the sheets.
-
-“Now stay still and I’ll tell you. You were calling for her when I
-came to you. At first we didn’t know what you meant; then you mentioned
-Dorrie. Only Miss Priscilla and I heard what you were saying; you can
-trust Miss Priscilla not to speak about it. I let Randall know and
-he brought his wife over with him. Directly she touched you, you grew
-quiet. It was Randall suggested you being brought here; he was sorry for
-you and it was kindness made him do it. All through your illness till
-you came to yourself, Mrs. Carpenter sat by you; whenever she left you,
-you grew restless. She and her husband saved your life, I guess.”
-
-“But what makes them all so strange to me now?”
-
-He fidgeted and cleared his throat. “It’s the truth I’m wanting,” I
-urged.
-
-“Randall saw what she meant to you.”
-
-“Anything else?”
-
-“And what you meant to her.”
-
-Against my will a wave of joy throbbed through me. I felt like sobbing
-from relief and happiness. Then a clear vision of the reality came
-to me--the great silent man who stared at me for hours, and the
-high-spirited woman, so suddenly grown timid, stealing in and out the
-room with averted eyes in pallid meekness.
-
-“What ought I to do?” My voice choked me as I asked it.
-
-He turned his wise, care-wrinkled face towards me gravely. “I’m
-wondering,” he said. “There’s only one thing to do--ask God about it.
-You did wrong in coming--there’s no disguising that. But the good God’s
-spared you. He knows what He means you to do. I’m an old fellow, and
-I’ve seen a heap of suffering and trouble. I’ve seen men die on the
-battlefield, and I’ve seen ’em go under when it was least expected. I
-don’t know how I’d have come through, if I hadn’t believed God knew what
-He was doing. I guess if He’d been lazy, like me and you, He’d just have
-let you slip out, ’cause it seemed easiest. But He hasn’t, and He knows
-why He hasn’t. I’d just leave it in His hands.”
-
-Long after he had ceased to speak, I lay thinking of his words--thinking
-how simple life would be if God were exactly like this old man. Then
-I began to hope that He might be--a kind of doctor of sick souls, who
-would get up out of bed and come driving through the night without
-complaining, just to bring quiet to sinful people like myself. I closed
-my eyes, trying to think that God sat beside me. Some time must have
-elapsed, but when I looked round the doctor was still there. His head
-was bowed forward from his bent shoulders, nodding.
-
-“You’re tired. I can sleep now.”
-
-He awoke with a jerk. His last words to me before he left were, “Just
-leave it in His hands.”
-
-From then on there was a changed atmosphere in the house. We had all
-been afraid of one another and of one another’s misunderstandings.
-
-When Dorrie had gone to bed, Vi would sit within the circle of the lamp
-and read to me while I lay back on my pillows in the shadows, watching
-how the gold light broke about her face and hands. She was always doing
-something, either reading or sewing, as though when we were alone she
-were afraid to trust herself.
-
-One evening she said to me, “You haven’t asked if there are any
-letters.”
-
-“I wasn’t expecting any.”
-
-“Weren’t expecting any! Why not?”
-
-“Because none of my friends know that I’ve come to Sheba.”
-
-She drew her face back from the lamp; her sewing fell from her hands. My
-words had reminded us both of the guilty situation which lay unchanged
-behind our present attitude.
-
-It was she who broke the silence. “When you were taken ill I wrote
-Ruthita and told her--and told her that you were being nursed in our
-house.”
-
-She brought me my letters and then made an excuse to leave me to myself.
-My father had written; so had the Snow Lady. After expressing concern
-for my health, the tone of their letters became constrained and
-unnatural; they refrained from accusing me, but they had guessed.
-Ruthita’s was an awkward, shamefaced little note--it puzzled me by
-omitting to say anything of Halloway.
-
-More and more after this Vi showed fear of being left alone with me; any
-moment a slip of the tongue might betray our passion. Frequently during
-the evening hours Mr. Carpenter would join us. He would steal into the
-room while Vi was reading and sit down by my bedside. I began to
-have great sympathy for the man. Vi’s actions to him were those of a
-daughter, and he, when he addressed her, called her “My child.” Both
-their attitudes to one another were wrong--it hurt me to watch them;
-they made such efforts to create the impression that everything was
-well. Sitting beside me while she read, he would fasten his eyes on
-her. If she smiled across at him in turning a page, his heavy face would
-flood with a quite disproportionate joy. He was too fine a man for the
-part he was playing; he had strength of character and mastery over men.
-
-Along his own lines he had a wonderful mind. It was always scheming for
-efficiency, concentration, and bigger projects. If money was the reward
-of his energy, the desire for power impelled him. But I could quite
-understand how a woman might yearn for more human interests and more
-subtle methods of conveying affection than the mere piling of luxury on
-luxury. He could articulate his deepest emotions only in acts.
-
-One evening when Vi had excused herself on the ground that she had
-a headache, I took the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. He
-became as confused as if I had discovered him in a lie.
-
-“My dear boy, you mustn’t speak to me like that; you don’t owe me
-anything. It is I who owe you everything.”
-
-I was staggered by his disclaimer. Under existing circumstances it
-seemed a superlative extravagance of language. Then he explained, “If it
-hadn’t been for you, we shouldn’t have Vi.”
-
-It was the first reference that any of us had made to what had happened
-at Ransby.
-
-After that Randall Carpenter and I grew to be friends. We didn’t do much
-talking about it, but we each realized how the other felt....
-
-I was almost sufficiently recovered to travel. I broached the subject of
-my leaving several times--the first time at breakfast. Randall
-glanced up sharply from the letter he was opening--his expression
-clouded--instead of looking at me he stared at Vi. “Certainly not.
-Certainly not,” he blustered. “Couldn’t hear of it.”
-
-Dorrie added her piping protest. Vi alone was silent. Every time I
-approached the subject it was the same. The truth was our relations were
-so delicately balanced that the slightest disturbance would precipitate
-a crisis--and the crisis we dreaded. We each one knew that the time for
-frank speaking could scarcely be avoided, but we were eager to postpone
-it. So we procrastinated, lengthening out our respite.
-
-One afternoon I returned with Randall from a drive to find Vi waiting
-for us at the gate. Her face was drawn with anxiety.
-
-“What’s happened?” asked Randall, and the sharpness of suspense was in
-his voice.
-
-Vi handed me a cable. It was my recall--we all knew that. I ripped
-the envelope in haste; what I read, strange to say, caused me no
-elation--only the bitterness of finality. I raised my eyes; they were
-both staring at me. “My grandfather’s dead. His will’s in my favor. I
-must return to England immediately.”
-
-They received the news as though a blow had fallen. Vi crept in and out
-the rooms with a masked expression of unspoken tragedy. Dorrie caused
-frequent embarrassment by her coaxing attempts to make me promise to
-visit them again. Nevertheless, when she had gone to bed and we no
-longer had her to distract us, we would pass more painful hours in
-inventing small talk to tide us over dangerous topics.
-
-The night before I sailed, we kept Dorrie up till she fell asleep
-against me. Her innocence was a barrier between us. When she had been
-carried to bed, Vi sat down to the piano and sang, while we two men
-glowered desperately before the fire. I dared not watch her; I could not
-bear the pain that was in her eyes. As I listened, I knew that her chief
-difficulty in selections was what to avoid. We were in a mood to read
-into everything a sentimental interpretation.
-
-There were long pauses between her playing, during which no one spoke
-and the only sound to be heard was the falling of ashes in the grate.
-The way in which we were grouped seemed symbolic--she at the piano apart
-from us, while we were side by side; by loving her, we had pushed her
-out of both our lives. Randall turned querulously in his chair, “Why
-don’t you go on playing, my child?”
-
-Several times she half-commenced an air and broke off. Her voice was
-a blind thing, tottering down an endless passage. For a horrid minute
-there was dead silence--quivering suspense; then the keys crashed
-discordantly as she gave way to a storm of weeping.
-
-She rose with an appealing gesture, and slipped out. We heard her
-footsteps trailing up the stairs, her door close, and then stillness.
-
-I shuddered as though a window had been flung open behind me and a
-cold wind blew across my back. The man at my side huddled down into his
-chair; his fleshy face had lost its firmness; his eyes, like a statue’s,
-seemed without pupils. The moment which we had dreaded and postponed had
-arrived.
-
-Randall followed her into the hall; he came back, shutting the door
-carefully behind him. There was slow decision in his voice when he said,
-“After all, we’ve got to speak about it.”
-
-He sank down, his cheeks blotchy and his hands quivering as with palsy.
-When he spoke, he tried to make his voice steady and matter-of-fact. It
-was as though he were saying, “We’ve got to be commonsense, we men of
-the world. We knew this would happen. There’s nothing to be gained by
-losing our nerves.”
-
-This is what he actually said, “It isn’t her fault. You and I are to
-blame.”
-
-“Not you,” I protested. “It’s I who’ve behaved abominably.”
-
-He shifted in his chair; struck a match; raised it part way to his cigar
-and let it flicker out. Without looking at me he answered, “We shan’t
-gain anything by quarreling over who’s to blame. We’ve got her into a
-mess between us--it’s up to us to get her out.”
-
-“But you didn’t----”
-
-He flung out his arm in irritation. “Don’t waste words. I married her
-when she was too young to know what marriage meant; I loved her and
-supposed that nothing else mattered. That’s my share. You made love to
-my wife and followed her to Sheba. That’s yours. We’ve got her into a
-mess between us, and we’ve got to get her out.”
-
-He waited for me to make a suggestion; I was too much taken aback. We
-couldn’t get her out; we could only help her to endure it. We both knew
-that--so why discuss it?
-
-Turning his head and staring hard at me, he continued, “There’s only one
-thing to be considered--_her happiness_.”
-
-“Perhaps she’ll forget when I’m gone,” I ventured.
-
-“She won’t and you know it.”
-
-He barked the words. His manner was losing its air of tired patience.
-
-“See here, Cardover, you and I have got to get down to facts. We don’t
-help one another by fooling ourselves. You went out of her life for a
-year; she didn’t forget. It’s different now; you’ve been with her in this
-house and everything will remind her of you. What are we going to do
-about it?”
-
-He repeated his question harshly, as though demanding an instant answer.
-What could I tell him?
-
-He broke the miserable silence. “Ever since you talked of leaving,
-I’ve been studying this thing out. I knew we’d have to face it, and yet
-somehow I hoped---- Never mind what I hoped. So you’ve nothing to say?
-You can’t guess what I’m driving at?”
-
-I shook my head.
-
-His face became haggard and stern; only the twitching of the eye-lids
-betrayed his nervousness.
-
-“I’d give anything to see Vi happy. So would you--isn’t that correct?”
- He darted a challenging look in my direction. “I’d give all I possess,
-I say, factories, banks, good name, popularity. She’s more to me than
-anything in the world.” Then reluctantly forcing himself to speak the
-words, “There’s only one way out--only one way to make her happy.”
-
-He leant forward, clutching my knee. “You must have her.”
-
-I drew back from him amazed, startled out of my self-possession. There
-was something so horribly commonsense about his offer; I could not take
-him seriously for the moment. He was tempting me, perhaps, in order
-that he might find out just how far Vi and I had gone together--he might
-easily suspect that things had happened during that summer at Ransby
-which had not been confessed.
-
-Now as I met his cold gray eyes, I felt his power. His face was
-inscrutable and set, his mouth relentless. I had often wondered as I
-had watched him in his home-life what stern qualities his amiability
-disguised--qualities which would account for his business success. I
-knew now: here was a man who could state facts in their nudity and strip
-problems of their sentiment--a man who could lay aside feeling and act
-with the cruelty of logic.
-
-“You must have her,” he repeated.
-
-“Randall,” I broke out hoarsely, “you don’t mean that.”
-
-“I do mean it.”
-
-“She wouldn’t allow it.”
-
-“She’d have to if I forced her; when I’d forced her, she’d be glad.”
-
-“But it’s impossible. It isn’t honorable.”
-
-“Honorable! If we’d been honorable, you and I, this wouldn’t have
-happened.”
-
-“But think what people would say?”
-
-“What people would say doesn’t matter. There are some things which go so
-deep that they concern only ourselves.”
-
-“But Vi--before ever we decide anything, it would be honest to consult
-her.”
-
-“You had her decision to-night.” He spoke bitterly, with settled
-finality. “You see it’s this way: I’ve tried to make her happy; because
-of you I never shall. She wants you; she’s a right to have you.”
-
-The fire had all but gone out; the room had grown chilly. We sat without
-talking, thinking of her, reviewing the brutal cruelties of life. I had
-reached the logical goal of my desire--the impossible had happened.
-
-I let my fancy run a little way ahead, picturing the first freshness of
-the days that were coming. Far away, with faery sounds, bugles of the
-future were blowing. I was recalled to the ominous present by the frozen
-hopelessness of this just man. We were placing society at defiance; we
-were settling our problem on grounds of individual expediency. Would we
-have strength to be happy in spite of condemnation? Would our conception
-of what was just to Vi prove just in the end?
-
-I began to waver. I thought I saw what had happened to Randall--the
-tension of the last weeks had wrought upon his nerves. He had brooded
-over the situation till remorse for his own share in it had made him
-lose his regard for social standards. There was a tinge of insanity
-about this quixotic determination to sacrifice himself.
-
-I went over to the fireplace and pulled the smoldering logs together,
-so that they broke into a feeble flame. I did it leisurely to gain time.
-With my back towards him I inquired, “Have you reckoned the cost of all
-this?”
-
-“Probably.”
-
-“But the cost to yourself?”
-
-“As far as I can.”
-
-“You can’t have. You wouldn’t propose it if you had. You know what’ll be
-said.”
-
-“What’ll be said?”
-
-“That you wanted to get rid of her and that that was why you took me
-into your house.”
-
-“Leave me out of it. If love means anything, it means sacrifice. I love
-her; you’ve come between us. My love’s injuring her now, and I’m not
-going to see you spoil her life by going away without her.”
-
-“But she’ll spoil her life if she goes with me. People----”
-
-“People! Well, what’ll they say about her?”
-
-“Everything defiling that hasn’t occurred.”
-
-“And _you_ think that we ought to keep her miserable just because of
-that--out of fear of tittle-tattle? If she stays with me she’ll be
-wretched; I shall have to watch myself torturing her--paining her even
-with my affection. If she goes with you----”
-
-“If she goes with me she’ll become a social outcast. She couldn’t bear
-that; she’d sink under it. No, Randall, we can’t decide this matter
-as if it concerned only ourselves. It doesn’t. There are all kinds
-of things involved in it. I’ve been your guest, and you’ve become my
-friend. We’d look low-down in other people’s eyes. You want her to be
-happy--none of us could ever be that if we did what you suggest. Don’t
-you see that you’d be the only one who was playing a decent part? Vi’s
-part and mine would be contemptible. We’d appear treacherous even to
-ourselves. As for other people----!! You take me into your house when
-I’m sick, and I run off with your wife! It can’t be done, Randall.”
-
-“But that’s not what I’m proposing,” he said quietly; “I don’t want you
-to run away together.”
-
-“What then?”
-
-“I’ll arrange that she shall divorce me. I’ve consulted lawyers.
-According to the laws of Massachusetts an absolute divorce, which would
-permit you to marry her within a reasonable time, is only granted on
-one ground. I’ll provide her with fictitious evidence. She can bring the
-case against me and I’ll let it go uncontested. She can win her freedom
-respectably without your name being mentioned.”
-
-My position was elaborately false. I wanted her with every atom of my
-body, and here was I contending that I would not have her. At Ransby I
-had been willing to steal her, and now she was offered me; but I had not
-seen how much she meant to Randall then--at that time he was a hostile
-figure in my imagination.
-
-His unselfishness filled me with shame that I had ever thought to wrong
-him. And yet the thing which he proposed was the inevitable consequence
-of our actions; his cold reasoning had discerned that. If facts were as
-he had stated them, what other way was there out?
-
-“You agree, then?”
-
-“I don’t. You’d save our faces for us, but what d’you suppose we’d think
-of ourselves? The thing’s not decent. People don’t do things like that.
-Men can run off with other men’s wives and still respect themselves;
-if they did what you suggest--take the husband’s happiness and his good
-name as well--they’d know what to call themselves, though no one else
-suspected.”
-
-“What’s that?”
-
-“Blackguards.”
-
-“So in your opinion it’s worse to take a wife with her husband’s consent
-than to steal her? Humph!”
-
-He leant across the table for a cigar. With great deliberation he
-cut the end. When it was well alight, he thrust his thumbs into his
-waistcoat pockets, looking me up and down. When he spoke, he left gaps
-between his words. There was the rumble of suppressed anger in what he
-said.
-
-“I thought you were a strong man, Cardover, or I shouldn’t have spoken
-to you the way I have. You fell in love with my wife without knowing
-she was married; I don’t blame you for that. But after you knew, you
-followed her--followed her to her home-town. You’ve made an impossible
-situation. You can’t leave it at that; you’ve got to help out, and,
-by God, you shall. I’ve got to lose her and stand the disgrace of it.
-You’ve got to lose your self-respect. What d’you think life is, anyhow?
-If you gamble, you incur debts. We’re going to play this game to a
-finish. You talk of decency and honor; you should have thought of them
-earlier. You came here to rob me of my wife; well, now I’m going to
-give her to you because she can’t do without you. And now, out of
-consideration for me, you want to crawl out at the last minute. Your
-crawling out may save appearances, but it don’t alter facts. You’re
-something worse than a blackguard--a quitter.”
-
-He drew in his breath as if he were about to strike; then he flung out
-his fist, shaking it at me. “Don’t you want her?”
-
-“You know I want her.”
-
-“Then what’s the matter? Are you afraid of the price?”
-
-“The price she’d have to pay and you’d have to pay--yes.”
-
-He frowned. His face was puckered with suspicion. “Isn’t it that you’re
-afraid for yourself?”
-
-The heat of his anger scorched me. I had watched this interpretation of
-my conduct taking shape under my repeated refusals.
-
-“I’ve been accused of counting the cost before to-day,” I said. “I’m not
-counting the cost now. I’m thinking of Vi with her clean standards
-and her sense of duty. If she were the woman to consent to what you’re
-proposing, I wouldn’t want to marry her and you wouldn’t be willing to
-sacrifice yourself for her. But she won’t consent, and I won’t consent.”
-
-Lurching heavily to his feet, he stood over me threateningly. “Don’t you
-know I can force you? If I divorced her you’d have to marry her.”
-
-“But you won’t.”
-
-“But I would if I thought it was only for my sake you were refusing.”
-
-“It’s only partly for your sake.”
-
-“Why, then?”
-
-“I’ve shared your hospitality.”
-
-“And because of that you won’t take her?”
-
-“No.”
-
-“Then I’ll make you---- For the last time, will you take her?”
-
-“Not on those terms.”
-
-Our voices had risen. A silence followed. Behind us we heard a sound.
-The temperature of the room seemed lowered, as though something we had
-killed had entered.
-
-Turning, we saw Vi standing in the doorway. Her hair fell loose about
-her shoulders. She was thinly clad and had risen hastily from bed. Our
-quarrel must have reached her through the silent house. Her face was
-pinched and pitiful. As she watched us her eyes searched Randall’s in
-terror and her hands plucked at her breasts.
-
-How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there? Did she
-know how we had been degrading her? What had she gathered from my last
-words? She had found us haggling over her as though she were a chattel,
-each one trying to force the other to accept her, neither showing any
-sign that he desired her for himself. In the chilly room we shivered,
-hanging our heads.
-
-Slowly she crossed the room. Her eyes were fixed on Randall; for all the
-attention she paid me, I might not have been there.
-
-“You didn’t mean it. You can’t have meant it.”
-
-He lifted his head weakly, in one last effort to be firm.
-
-“But I did, Vi. It’s for your sake--for your happiness.”
-
-She flung her arms about him, holding him to her though he tried to draw
-back.
-
-“But you forgot----”
-
-“I forgot nothing.”
-
-“You did--there’s Dorrie.”
-
-She buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing her heart out. He eyed
-me sullenly. He looked an old man. Awkwardly, with a gesture that was
-afraid of its tenderness, he let his hand wander across her hair. She
-raised her face to his, clinging against him, and kissed him on the
-mouth.
-
-They traversed the room, going from me; their footsteps died out upon
-the stairs.
-
-Never once had she looked at me.
-
-In the grayness of the morning, before the servants had begun to stir, I
-packed my bag and left.
-
-
-
-
-BOOK IV--THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN
-
-
-_Thou hast been in Eden. Thou shalt eat the fruit of thy doings, yea,
-even the fruit of thy thoughts._
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER I--THE HOME-COMING
-
-Leaving the hansom at the foot of Pope Lane and carrying my bags, I
-walked up the avenue of limes. The wantonness of spring was in the air
-and its melancholy. Above the high walls the golden hurry of the sunset
-quivered. A breeze tore past me down the passage, twisting and turning
-like a madcap ballet-dancer. Overhead in the young greenness of
-the trees a host of sparrows fluttered, impudently publishing their
-love-making.
-
-At Plymouth on landing I had been met by letters from my lawyers and
-from Uncle Obad. They were addressed to Sir Dante Cardover. It was
-rather pleasant to be addressed as Sir Dante; until then I had not
-realized my luck. The memory of that last night at Sheba had numbed
-my faculties and taken my future from me. But now, with the thought of
-Woadley, life began to weave itself into a new pattern.
-
-On the run up to London, as the quiet of English landscapes and the
-greenness of English meadows drifted by, I lost my bitter sense of
-isolation: I belonged to this; it was part of me. At the same time, the
-impassive wholesomeness of English faces awoke me in a strange way to
-the enormity of what I had done. It was odd how far I had wandered from
-old traditions and old landmarks in the delirium of the past two years.
-Even I was a little scandalized by some of my recollections.
-
-Next day I purposed to go down to Woadley; to-night I would spend with
-my father at Pope Lane. There were explanations to be made; explanations
-where my father was concerned, were never comfortable. I walked with a
-pebble in my shoe till I had got them over. I had sure proof that he was
-annoyed, for none of my letters, written to him since my recovery, had
-been answered.
-
-Thrusting my hand into the creeper, I found the knob. Far away at the
-back of the house the bell tinkled; after an interval footsteps shuffled
-down the path. The door opened cautiously; in the slit it made I saw the
-face of Hetty. There was something in its expression that warned me.
-
-“Father at home?” I asked cheerfully, pushing forward.
-
-“Master Dante, or Sir Dante as I should say, don’t you go for to see
-’im.”
-
-“Why not?”
-
-“’E’s bitter against you.”
-
-“What nonsense! Here, take one of these bags. Why should he be bitter
-against me?”
-
-She crumpled her apron nervously. “’Cause of ’er--the woman in
-Ameriky. I don’t know the rights of it, but ’e’s ’ardly spoke your
-name since.”
-
-“But I’ve come to see him. I’ve only just landed.”
-
-She stared at me gloomily, barring the entrance. Across her shoulder I
-could see the path winding round the house and down to the garden where
-everything was familiar. Once I had longed to leave it! How much I would
-now give to get back! The leaves shivered, making patches of sunlight
-move like gold checkers, pushed forward and backward on the lawn. My
-mind keenly visualized all the details that lay out of sight. I knew
-just how my father must look sitting writing at his study-window. I
-ought to have told him; he might have understood. But the barrier of
-reticence had always divided us.
-
-“If I was you, Sir Dante, I’d go away and write ’im. I’ll see that
-’e reads it this time. Yes I will, if I loses my plaice.”
-
-“_This time?_”
-
-Her cheeks went crimson. “’E didn’t read the letters you sent
-after ’ers. ’E tossed ’em aside.”
-
-“But the Snow Lady and Ruthie, they’ll see me.”
-
-She looked furtively over her shoulder at the house, then she slipped
-out into the lane beside me, almost closing the door.
-
-“There ain’t no Miss Ruthie now,” she said sadly. Then, in a voice which
-betrayed pride, “She’s Lady Halloway. ’Is Lordship, ’e were a wery
-’ot lover, ’e were--wouldn’t take no for an answer and suchlike.
-After you’d gone away angry and no one knew where you’d gone, Miss
-Ruthie felt kind o’ flat; but she kept on sayin’ no to ’is Lordship,
-though she was always cryin’. Then that letter came from Americky. It
-kind o’ took us by surprise; Miss Ruthie especially. We felt--well,
-you know, sir--disrespectable. So she gave way like, and now she’s Lady
-Halloway. And there you are. We’ve ’ad a ’eap of trouble.”
-
-Little Ruthie the wife of that man! I had made them unrespectable, so
-she had rectified my mistake by marrying the father of Lottie’s child!
-
-“You’d better write.”
-
-She had edged herself into the garden and held the door at
-closing-point. I could see the house no longer. Her head looked out
-through the slit as though it had no body. I was sick and angry--angry
-because of Ruthita. Anger restored my determination. They should not
-condemn me without a hearing; their morality was stucco-fronted--a cheap
-imitation of righteousness.
-
-I pushed roughly past Hetty like an insolent peddler, and left her
-bleating protests behind. In the hall I dropped my bags and entered my
-father’s study unannounced.
-
-He glanced up from under the hand with which his eyes were shaded. His
-mouth straightened. He went on with his writing, feigning that he had
-not heard me enter. I remembered the trick well--as a boy it had made
-punishment the more impressive. It was done for that purpose now; he had
-never accustomed himself to think of me as a grown man.
-
-I watched him. How lean, and threadbare, and overworked he looked! How
-he tyrannized over himself! The hair had grown thin about the temples;
-his eyes were weak, his forehead lined. He had disciplined joy out of
-his life. But there was something big about him--a stern forcefulness of
-character which came of long years of iron purpose. He had failed, but
-he would not acknowledge his failure. All these years his daily routine
-of drudgery had remained unchanged. Outside the spring was stirring,
-just as it had stirred in his children’s lives. But his windows were
-shut against the spring because he had to earn his daily bread. The
-anger I had felt turned to pity. He was so lonely in his strength. Had
-he been weaker, he would have been happier.
-
-“You did not want to see me?”
-
-He blotted his page carefully and laid aside his pen. “I had good
-reason.” His voice was cold and tired.
-
-“You can’t judge of that; you haven’t heard.”
-
-“I can conjecture.”
-
-“But I have at least the right to explain. You can’t conjecture the
-details that led up to it.”
-
-“These things are usually led up to by the same details. All I know is
-that any meeting between us now can only cause pain, and I cannot afford
-to be upset. You have your standards of honor; I have mine. Evidently
-they are divergent. You didn’t give me your confidence before you
-sailed; I don’t invite it now.”
-
-He had allowed me to remain standing, making me feel my intrusion on his
-privacy. I had always felt that in talking to him I was keeping him from
-his work. My mind went back to the fear with which I had entered his
-study in the old days. And this was the end of it.
-
-“You can never have cared much for me,” I threw out bitterly, “if you
-can break with me so lightly.”
-
-His pale face flushed; his distant manner broke down. “How should you
-know how much I cared?”
-
-“How should I know! All my life you’ve been silent and there were
-times----”
-
-He interrupted. “It is because I cared so much. I was so anxious for you
-and wanted you to do so well. I’m not demonstrative. I always hoped that
-we might be friends. But you never came to me with your troubles from a
-little chap, anyone was better than your father--servants, your Uncle
-Spreckles, Ruthita, anybody. With me you were dumb.”
-
-“You never encouraged my confidence and now you condemn me unheard.
-Silence between us has become a habit.”
-
-He stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. His emotions were stirred;
-he was afraid he might betray them. So he spoke hurriedly. “It’s too
-late to cover old ground. We’ve drifted apart, that’s certain--and now
-this has happened... this disgrace... this adultery of thoughts... this
-lust for a married woman.”
-
-I walked across to the window and drummed upon the panes. Across the
-garden a soft gray dusk was falling. Along those paths Ruthita and I
-had played; the garden was empty and very lonely. Scene after scene came
-back, made kindly by distance. I turned. “Father, I’m not going to let
-you turn me out until you know all about it. For the first time you’ve
-told me frankly that you wanted me. I was always frightened as a little
-chap.”
-
-Instead of taking me up angrily as I expected, he spoke gently. “Why
-shouldn’t I want you? I thought you’d understand by the way I worked.
-Sit down, boy; why are you standing? How... how did it happen?”
-
-The Snow Lady rapped on the door and almost entered. My father signed to
-her to go away, saying that we would come to her later. Then I told him.
-And while I told him I kept thinking how strange it was that until now,
-when we had quarreled, we should never have found one another, but, like
-two people eager to meet, had walked always at the same pace, in the
-same direction, out of sight, round and round on opposite sides of the
-same house.
-
-It was dark when I finished. He leant out and laid his hand on my arm.
-“And now that it’s all ended, we can make a new start together.”
-
-“It may not be all ended.”
-
-“But it is. You’re not going to tell me that you’re still hankering
-after a married woman?”
-
-“I am.”
-
-The kindness went from his voice. He rang the bell, waited in silence
-till Hetty brought the lamp, and took it from her at the door to prevent
-her entering.
-
-“You say it isn’t ended, this criminal folly. I can’t conceive what
-you mean by it. One of these days you’ll drag my name through the
-dirt. There are other people to consider besides yourself. There’s
-Ruthita--her husband’s sensitive already. In fact, he doesn’t want to
-meet you, and he doesn’t want you to meet her. What it comes to is this:
-we can’t be friends unless you give this woman up absolutely.”
-
-“It’s not possible. Randall threatened to divorce her. If he does, it
-will be that I may marry her. I shall have to marry her, and I shall be
-jolly glad to marry her. What has happened since I left I can’t tell.
-Until I know, I hold myself prepared. So I can’t promise anything.”
-
-“The choice is between her and your family.”
-
-“I choose her.”
-
-“Then until you’ve come to your senses, there can be no communication
-between us.”
-
-He sat down noisily at his desk. “You’ll excuse me; there’s nothing more
-to be said.”
-
-When I still waited, he took up his pen. “I have an article here that I
-must get finished.”
-
-I walked slowly down the lane. The door swung to behind me. I felt
-that I was seeing this for the last time. All the old, trivial, sweet
-associations came thronging back: the dying affections, the lost
-innocence which had seemed so permanent, stretched out hands to restrain
-me. Even Hetty had condemned; it was written in her face. Long ago Hetty
-and I had viewed the world from the same angle, we had criticised and
-schemed against our tyrants together. The chapter of home life was
-ended. Whatever happened as regards Vi, there could be no going back.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER II--DREAM HAVEN
-
-I did not go to Woadley as I had planned. My position was too uncertain
-at present for me to venture where further explanations would be
-required. My father had made me aware of that. I was unwilling to cover
-the same ground of argument with Grandmother Cardover, so I had my
-lawyers visit me in London.
-
-Until something had been definitely settled, I did not care to return to
-Oxford or to seek out any of my friends; I should at once be called upon
-to account for my erratic departure and prolonged absence. So I made
-myself inconspicuous in the crowds of London, waiting for some final
-word from Sheba. It was quite likely that none would ever come--and that
-would be an answer in itself. Yet, now that I had done what had seemed
-to me right and had thrust her from me, I hoped against hope that,
-somehow, she might come back. I felt that though I might have to wait
-for years, I would resolutely wait for her. No other woman could ever
-take her place. And none of this could I tell her. She might think that
-I had counted the cost and considered it too expensive. She might put
-the worst construction on the words she had overheard on that last
-night; yet unless she approached me first, I was irrevocably pledged to
-silence.
-
-Too late for my peace of mind I recognized my weakness: if I had wanted
-her, I should have taken her strongly in the early days and faced
-the consequences; now, through making truces with my conscience and
-conventions, I had lived so long in thoughts of her that I should always
-desire her.
-
-I would like to have gone to Ruthita, but that was forbidden. Lord
-Halloway riding the high horse of morality was exceedingly comic, but
-I knew exactly how men of his stamp argued: to introduce a questionable
-relation into the family was anathema. I wondered continually what
-secret causes lay behind Ruthita’s marriage. I felt sure that she had
-consented on the impulse, and that love had had nothing to do with it.
-The suspicion that I was somehow responsible left me worried.
-
-Spring had reached the point of perfection where it merges into summer.
-The tides of life flowed strongly through the dazzling streets of
-London; I was too young not to respond to their energy. Everywhere the
-persistent hope of spring planted banners of green and set them waving.
-Ragged shrubs in decrepit squares bubbled into blossom. Window-boxes
-lent a touch of braveness. Water-carts passed up and down parched
-streets, settling the dust. In the kind of suburb that walks always with
-a hole in its stocking, slatternly maids pressed their bosoms against
-area-railings chaffing with butcher-boy or policeman--their idea of
-love. Where a street-organ struck up, little children gathered, dancing
-in the gutter. Even the sullen Thames, the gray hair of London, was dyed
-to gold between the bridges by the splendid sun. The spirit of youth had
-invaded the city; flower-girls, shouting raucously above the traffic,
-shaking their posies in the face of every comer, seemed heralds of a new
-cheerfulness, shaming Despair of his defiance.
-
-This severing of oneself from friendship was dull. Leisurely crowds
-laughing along sunlit pavements, made me ache for companionship. I was
-in this frame of mind when I chanced to think of Uncle Obad’s letter.
-It had met me at Plymouth on my arrival, and bore the characteristically
-flamboyant address of _Dream Haven, Dorking._
-
-He must have chosen Dorking as a place of residence because it had
-given its name to a famous breed of fowls. Perhaps he thought such a
-neighborhood would be propitious to his own experiments. His letter was
-brief and to the point: if I could spare the time, he and Aunt Lavinia
-would feel honored to entertain me.
-
-Uncle Obad was stilted in his written use of language; he felt _honored_
-when he meant to say _jolly well glad_. There was always an obedient
-servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he
-had undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for
-familiar letter-writing.
-
-Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My
-good fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose,
-served to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since
-the Christian Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The
-thought of him had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind--which
-made it all the kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had
-heard before writing of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me.
-
-As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch
-first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple
-whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky
-white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the
-calves of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering
-importance, but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His
-carelessness, however, was now the prosperous untidiness of one who
-could afford it. In his lapel he wore a scarlet geranium.
-
-As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. “Very good of you to come,
-I’m sure--kind and very thoughtful.”
-
-It was his pretense manner--the one he adopted with grown-ups. I wanted
-to remind him that with me he could take off his armor.
-
-“Still go in for breeding hens?” I asked him.
-
-His face brightened. “I should say so. Our little place is quite a
-menagerie. We’ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens!
-Well, I should say so.”
-
-“_And hens_,” I laughed. “Remember the old white hen you gave me? It
-laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.”
-
-“Should have given it gravel or oyster-shells.” Poultryraising was a
-subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining
-with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls.
-
-Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald
-pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and
-squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot.
-
-“D’you know what this reminds me of?--That first day we spent together.
-You remember--when you drove me away from Pope Lane behind Dollie?”
-
-He pulled out his handkerchief and trumpeted. His eyes became dreamy
-beneath his bushy brows. “A long time ago! They were good days, but not
-as good as these, old chap.”
-
-We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything
-came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always
-been, and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his
-armor of pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that
-first day when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we
-talked of the Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A
-warm wind fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly,
-dropping his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to
-satisfy himself.
-
-“That _Sir_ don’t seem to have spoiled you.”
-
-The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched
-before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a
-wooded ridge, somnolent with pines; to the right lay a village-common
-across which geese waddled in solemn procession.
-
-Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins. “This won’t buy a pair of
-shoes for the baby. Aunt Lavinia’s waiting for us; she’s just as keen as
-I was to see whether you’ve altered.” Then to the pony, “Gee-up, Toby.”
-
-We turned off into the pine-wood by a narrow roadway. The fragrance of
-balsam made me long to close my eyes. At the edge of the road, on either
-side, ran a ditch through which water tinkled over gravel. On its banks
-grew fern and foxglove. The silent aisles of the wood were carpeted with
-the tan of fallen needles. Sunlight, drifting between branches, slashed
-golden rags in the olive-tinted shadows. My mind became a blank through
-pure enjoyment as I listened to the monologue of gay chatter that was
-going on beside me. He was doing for me now just what he had done for me
-so often as a child, throwing down the walls of conventional tyrannies
-and showing me the road of escape to nature.
-
-Suddenly out of the basking stillness rose a farmyard clamor--cocks
-crowing, ducks quacking, and the boastful clucking of hens. We had
-reached the top of the ridge and were bowling along the level. Toby
-pricked up his ears and quickened his trotting. Round a bend we swung
-into sight of a low-thatched house, standing in a clearing. Its windows
-were leaded and opened outwards. In front grew a garden, sun-saturated,
-riotous with flowers, and partly hidden by a high hawthorn hedge. In the
-hedge was a white swing-gate, from which a red-brick path ran up to the
-threshold. Across the gate one had a glimpse of beehives standing a-row;
-the air was heavy with mingled scents of pine, wild thyme, and honey.
-The impression that fastened on my imagination was one of exquisite
-cleanliness: the sky, the gleaming chalk road, the white-painted
-woodwork of the cottage, everything was dazzlingly spotless.
-
-Our wheels had hardly halted before the gate, when I saw Aunt Lavinia
-in the doorway unfastening her apron. Neat and methodical as ever, she
-folded it carefully, and laid it on a chair before coming out to us.
-
-“Lavinia, Lavinia! We’re here,” shouted Uncle Obad.
-
-She came down the path, prim and unhurried, determined not to let
-herself go. “Repose is refinement” she used to tell me. Nothing in her
-manner was ruffled. She still carried herself with a certain grave air
-of sweet authority. The rustle of her starched print-dress gave her an
-atmosphere of nurse-like austerity. She had not changed, save that the
-look of worry had gone from her face, and her eyes were untired.
-
-“It’s glad I am to see you.” She spoke quietly and, when she kissed me,
-was careful not to crumple her dress.
-
-“Dignified and graceful--that’s her,” said Uncle Obad.
-
-We had plenty to talk about while we were getting over our first
-strangeness. I had to see the house and all its arrangements. My room
-was at the back, looking out from the ridge over smoking tree-tops far
-away across undulating downs.
-
-Windows and doors were always open, so the passages were blowy with the
-dreamy, drowsy smell of green things growing. Creepers tumbled across
-sills; leaves tapped whenever the breeze stirred them; pigeons flew
-into the dining-room at meal-times and perched on Uncle Obad’s shoulder.
-Usually everything within a house is man-made. At Dream Haven Nature was
-encouraged to tiptoe across the threshold; so bees entered humming,
-and blackbirds came for grain to the windows, and all day long the wild
-things were sending their ambassadors. Beating wings of birds and cooing
-of doves filled one’s ears with the peace and adventure of contentment.
-
-These were the recreations of Dream Haven, but its stern business, as
-one might suppose, was the raising of fowls. At the back of the cottage
-on a southern slope were arranged coops, and pens, and houses, gleaming
-white against the golden gravel like a miniature military encampment.
-Each pen had its trumpeter, who strode forth at intervals to raise his
-challenge; whereupon every male in camp tried to outdo him, from the
-youngest stripling, whose shrill falsetto broke like a boy’s voice in
-the middle, to the deep, rich tones of the oldest campaigner. Falsetto,
-tenor, bass, baritone shook the stillness like an army on the
-march, with rattle of accoutrements, and brass-bands playing,
-_cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-doo_.
-
-In the hush that followed from far away, as from scattered detachments
-replying, came the counter-sign. Below the ridge in the village on the
-downs every rooster felt his reputation endangered. In farmhouses out
-of sight the challenge was caught up and the boast flung back. To one
-listening intently, the clamor could be heard spreading across the
-countryside till it spent itself at last in the hazy distance.
-Then the ladies of the camp commenced their flatteries,
-_tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck, our men did best, our men did best_.
-
-Uncle Obad took childish delight in the comedy; he knew the voice of
-each male bird in his yard and the sequence of precedence in which they
-should aspire. If they got out of order, he would recognize at once
-which cockerel was trying to oust his senior. If the ambitious fellow
-was one of his experiments in crossing strains, he was vastly tickled.
-To him they all had their personalities; he used to say that a
-poultry-yard could teach you a whole lot about humans.
-
-“Why don’t you men go out for a walk?” said Aunt Lavinia; “I’m sure
-Dante would like to look about.”
-
-She knew that we had always had our secrets. It was seven o’clock; there
-were still some hours of daylight. We set off through the poultry-runs
-down the hillside till we came to the edge of the clearing; Uncle Obad
-looked round furtively to make sure that we were unobserved, then he
-beckoned and slipped behind a shed. There he sat down with his back
-against the warm wooden wall and we lit our pipes. “She makes me take
-exercise now,” he grunted between puffs; “thinks I’m getting fat.”
-
-“Perhaps she’s right. Aunt Lavinia’s always been right ever since I can
-remember.”
-
-“I should say so. She doesn’t look it, but she’s always worn the
-trousers, and small blame to her. But she was wrong once.”
-
-“When was that?”
-
-He narrowed his eyes and watched the smoke curl up into the velvet air.
-When it had drifted a few yards away, one could imagine that it was a
-galleon cloud sailing slowly through infinity. I got to thinking how
-much more picturesque the world becomes when we lose our standards of
-perspective. Uncle Obad had won his happiness by making small things
-important to himself.
-
-He did not answer my question. I was too lazy to trouble him again. The
-rich spicy fragrance of woodlands lulled my senses. I watched through a
-gap in the trees how the sun’s rays shortened across the downs. All the
-out-door world was bathed in tepid light. The fierceness had gone out of
-the day.
-
-The Spuffler always made me philosophize; he was a failure, but he had
-found a secret. He had known how to discover nooks and crannies in
-the persistent present where he could be content. I had lost that fine
-faculty for carelessness since I had grown older.
-
-He knocked out his pipe and commenced to refill it. “But she wasn’t
-always right,” he chuckled. “I may be only an old knacker, but once
-I was righter than her.--What d’you think of all this?” He jerked his
-thumb across his shoulder.
-
-“It’s the last word... just what we always dreamt.”
-
-“That’s why I called it Dream Haven. Not so bad for a man of my years
-after keeping a Christian Boarding House!”
-
-“Make it pay?”
-
-“Not yet. Don’t need to, by Golly.”
-
-“Don’t need to! How’s that?”
-
-“Business knowledge. Sound judgment. Backing my opinion when the odds
-were against me. I doubled up my fists and stood square against the
-world.”
-
-“A kind of brave Horatius?”
-
-“Who’s he?”
-
-“Kept the bridge or something. Was a friend of Macaulay.”
-
-“Never heard of him. Did he keep poultry?”
-
-“May have done; he was the kind of man who’d keep anything he laid his
-hands on. But how the dickens d’you hang on to this place if it isn’t
-paying?”
-
-“Got money. Got money to burn. Got enough to last me to my journey’s end
-without earning a penny.”
-
-He was a small boy boasting. What a lot of fun he’d have extracted from
-being Squire of Woadley. I wished I might learn how to spuffle; it
-so multiplied one’s opportunities for pleasure. But I couldn’t get
-as excited as he expected; I had heard him talk this way before on a
-certain day at Richmond.
-
-“Did you make it out of the boarding-house?” I inquired incredulously.
-
-He laughed deep down in his throat. “Not exactly. I received an
-envelope one morning; inside was a slip of paper on which was written
-‘_Compensation for a damaged character_’ There was no address.”
-
-“But there must have been more than that.”
-
-“You bet. There was a banker’s draft. How much for? Guess.”
-
-“Can’t guess.”
-
-“Five thousand pounds.”
-
-“Whoof! One of your charitable bigwigs sent it?”
-
-“Not half. Came from Rapson. That’s what comes of sticking to your
-friends. That’s why I say that your Aunt wasn’t always wiser than the
-poor old knacker.”
-
-“Mines?”
-
-“So he said. He’s been to see me since then. The way your Aunt Lavinia
-treated him was as funny as a cock without feathers.--I always believed
-in Rapson.--He had a bad streak though.”
-
-“Which one?”
-
-He passed over my slur. “Women.”
-
-“Kitty?”
-
-“That’s what I meant. He’s sorry now; wishes he’d married her.”
-
-“Humph! If you don’t make your place pay, what are you doing?”
-
-His face took on an expression of intense earnestness.
-
-“Breeding the Spreckles. Remember them, don’t you? I had terrible work
-at first; couldn’t make the strain permanent; in the third and fourth
-generations it was always going back to the original crossings. Well,
-now I’ve done it. Come and look at ’em.”
-
-The old bond was established. His enthusiasm and my response to it swept
-aside the misunderstandings of years. I seemed a little boy, following
-him into a retreat of impossible glamour. He showed me a pen of
-magnificent slate-blue fowls; they had the extra toe of the Dorking, the
-drooping comb of the Leghorn, yellow legs of the Game, and full plump
-body of the Plymouth Rock. He enumerated their merits, insisted that
-I should guess what mixings of blood had gone to their making, and was
-delighted when he found I had not forgotten the old knowledge he had
-taught me. He was going to enter them at the shows this year, but he was
-worried over one point--what name should he call them?
-
-“But you’ve given them their name.”
-
-“I know, I know, old chap; but my conscience troubles me. Yer see, I
-shouldn’t have been able to do it if it hadn’t been for Rapson. I think
-I ought to call ’em the _Rapsons_.”
-
-“If you feel like that, why don’t you?”
-
-“He won’t let me.”
-
-“Share the glory then. Call ’em _Spreckles_ in public, and _Rapsons_
-among ourselves.”
-
-His simple old face lit up. “Believe you’ve solved it.” We returned to
-our place by the shed, from which we could watch the haze of evening
-drifting across the billowy uplands. In the village at our feet, cattle
-were being driven home lowing to the milking. On the common boys were
-playing cricket; their laughter came to us softened by distance.
-
-“What made you ask me?” I said.
-
-“Ask you? Ask you what?”
-
-“To come and visit you.”
-
-“Why shouldn’t I?”
-
-“I don’t know. But I’m not popular at Pope Lane at present; I believe
-you know the reason. Grandmother Cardover must have told Aunt Lavinia
-that this was going to happen. That was why you sent that letter to the
-ship to meet me.”
-
-He looked shy and awkward, and drew his hat down over his brows; I knew
-that he was making up his mind not to answer.
-
-“When I was a boy,” I continued, “I always felt that I could come to
-you frankly. You, somehow, understood before anything had been said. I
-thought, perhaps, you might have understood this time, and that that was
-why you asked me.”
-
-He threw his arm across my shoulder. “I did, old chap. But you’ve grown
-older and, since you’ve got all this book-learning and all these grand
-friends, I kind o’ felt I was a stranger--thought you didn’t need me
-like you used to.”
-
-“My grand friends and book-learning won’t help me this turn,” I grumbled
-slowly. “I may need you pretty badly--perhaps, more than ever I did.
-You’ve heard?”
-
-“Umph!”
-
-“What d’you think about it?”
-
-“It doesn’t much matter what an old knacker thinks about anything.”
-
-“Why on earth d’you keep calling yourself an old knacker?”
-
-“Dunno. It’s amusin’. It’s a kind o’ luxury after spuffling all my life
-to be able at last to depreciate one’s self. Everything’s amusin’.
-I know you are; I suppose I am; there’s no doubt about your father.
-Nothing’s overserious in this gay old world. Mustn’t take things to
-heart, old chap. Look at me, what I’ve come through. Here I am and
-not much the worse for wear--battered, but useful, yours truly Obadiah
-Spreckles, successful breeder of an entirely new strain of perpetually
-laying hens.” He gave himself a resounding whack upon the chest and
-cocked his eye at me.
-
-“What do I think about you and the lady in America? Speaking as the
-ex-proprietor of a Christian Boarding House, I think it’s shocking.
-Speaking as a man of leisure, I think it’s confoundedly human. Speaking
-as a shipwrecked cabin-boy who’s suddenly been promoted to captain, I
-should say that it’s one of life’s ups and downs. There’s no accounting
-for how love takes a man; it’s as fluky as settings of eggs--all cocks
-one day, all hens tomorrow, and the day after that nothing. Dash my
-boots, I sometimes think that nobody’s to blame for anything. Love’s
-shocking or interesting, according to your fancy. Take Lavinia and
-myself. I haven’t made her a good husband. I’ve been a failure and a
-slacker. I’ve made her happy now only by an accident. People look at
-us and wonder what we find in one another. They don’t know--can’t see
-beneath the surface. We never had any children. It’s been hard fighting.
-But I swear she’s never regretted.--Aye, it’s wonderful the pains God
-takes to bring a man and a woman together. These things ain’t accidents.
-If you’re meant to have her, you may have to wait, but nothing can
-stop you--just like me and my fowls. Life’s a _leading_. ‘He leadeth me
-beside the still waters,’ eh, what! But it’s often rough treading till
-you get there.--That’s all I have to say about it, old chap.”
-
-“The door of Pope Lane’s shut against me,” I told him. “Ruthie’s married
-the fellow I detested. They’re none of them talking to me now.”
-
-The old fellow turned on me snorting like a stallion. “That don’t
-matter, lad. You’re your own world. Do without ’em. Everything comes
-right in the end.”
-
-_Dream Haven!_ How cool the name sounds! What memories of sunshiny
-mornings it brings back. Day after day I watched and waited for the
-letter from America. There were times when I made sure that I could feel
-it approaching. “It will be here to-morrow,” I said.
-
-I tortured myself by picturing how different life would have been had
-I taken Randall at his word. It was the kind of torture that became a
-luxury. I should have brought her to Dream Haven, perhaps. I played
-with my fancy, pretending that we were here together; so actual were my
-imaginings that I was incredulous when, on coming to myself, I found her
-absent. The dreams were more real than the reality.
-
-Wakened in the morning by the twittering of birds, I would raise myself
-on my elbow and marvel at the sweet flushed face beside me on the
-pillow and the glorious, yellow streaming hair. Slowly it would fade and
-vanish. There were walks which we took through the lonely woodlands when
-all the delayed intimacies of love filled life with unashamed passion.
-There were wild days on the downs, when rain and wind, driving our
-bodies together, stung me to a new protecting ecstasy. There were quiet
-evenings in the gloaming--Sunday evenings were the best--when Vi sat at
-the piano playing and singing, while Dorrie knelt beside her, fingering
-her dress. All these ghost-scenes stand clear in my memory as though
-they had happened.
-
-I must have cultivated this unreal life to the point of danger in my
-effort to escape the ache of the present. Had I lived by myself I might
-have crossed the border-line, but the comedy of Uncle Obad was always
-drawing me back. He kept watch over me like a kind old spaniel.
-
-In the morning from where I sat in the garden, I could see him farther
-down the slope through the orchard, trotting in and out his pens with
-his disreputable dust-coat flapping. Just as once, when he had no money,
-the appearance of affluence had been his hobby, so now, when he could
-afford to dress respectably, he delighted in looking shabby. He left
-his clothes unfastened in the most unexpected places; Aunt Lavinia was
-continually making grabs at him and buttoning him up. In the afternoon
-she sent us off for long walks together to prevent his getting fat. On
-these occasions he would explain his loose philosophy, which consisted
-of a large-minded, stalwart carelessness.
-
-“Keep your end up; it’s in each one of us to be happy. Don’t do too much
-remembering; live your day as it comes. Your Grandmother calls me the
-Spuffler--so I am. Where’d I be now, I ask you, if I hadn’t spuffled?”
-
-So the summer fled by, and the woods grew browner, and the air had a
-sharper tang. The letter from Sheba had not come. I could mark time no
-longer; at last I left for Woadley.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER III--NARCOTICS
-
-I was twenty-six when I entered into possession of Woadley. By my
-grandfather’s will I inherited an annual income of seven thousand
-pounds. I was at an age when, for most men, everything of importance
-lies in the future and that which lies behind is of no consequence--in
-the nature of an experiment.
-
-I did not regard my past in that light. It was vital. Until the woman
-I loved should share my fortunes I felt the future to be an indefinite
-postponement. How she could come into my life again I dared not surmise;
-that she would come, I never doubted. I knew now that the letter which
-I had both hoped for and dreaded, would never arrive. For Dorrie’s sake
-they had decided to remain together. In my wiser moments I was glad
-of it; I knew that, had she chosen otherwise, our love would have been
-degraded.
-
-Strong influences were brought to bear to press me into public life. My
-situation and training entitled me to take up a position of some
-local importance. I might have stood for Parliament, but I shrank
-from publicity. All I asked was to be left alone to follow up my own
-interests in quiet. I had come so suddenly into a sphere of power
-which I had done nothing to merit, that ambitions which had still
-other ambitions for their goal, ceased to allure me. My temperament was
-natively bookish; by nature I was a Fellow of Lazarus and by compulsion
-a conscientious country squire. When I was not at Oxford, dreaming in
-libraries, I was at Woadley, superintending the practical management of
-my estate.
-
-The joy of sex and its fulfilment in a home, which apply the spur to
-most men’s activities, to me were denied; it was unthinkable that I
-should marry any woman other than Vi. The energies which should have
-found a domestic expression with me became the mental stimulus of an
-absorbing scholarly pursuit.
-
-Through my Oxford lectures and fugitive contributions to periodicals,
-I began to be known as an authority on the intellectual revolt of
-the Renaissance; by slow degrees I set about writing the life of
-that strange contradiction, half-libertine, half-saint, Æneas Sylvius
-Piccolomini.
-
-Engaged in these employments, I grew to love the smooth gray days of
-Woadley which stole by ghost-like and unnumbered. And I came to love the
-Woadley country with a passion which was as much due to its associations
-as to its beauty. When I had grown tired of researches into things
-ancient, one of my greatest joys was to plod to Ransby through rutted
-lanes deep in hedges, and so out to the north beach where the sea
-strummed against the land, and the wind raged, and the blackened hull of
-the wreck crouched beneath the weight of sky.
-
-Grandmother Cardover’s shop saw me often. There in the keeping-room,
-with its dull red walls and leisurely loud ticking clock, we would talk
-together of bygone times and of those which were, maybe, coming. At
-first she urged me to marry, and to take up the position in the county
-which should be mine. But soon, with the easy fatalism of old age, she
-accepted me for what I was, and ceased to worry.
-
-With my father I held no communication--the breach had become final; so
-of Ruthita I heard next to nothing. But as regards Lord Halloway, quite
-inadvertently I increased my knowledge.
-
-One squally night I was returning from Ransby, driving up the sodden
-road to the Hall, when my attention was attracted by a camp-fire.
-I halted out of curiosity, and struck across the turf to the light.
-Between me and the fire was a wind-break of young firs, a diminutive
-plantation behind which, as behind bars, figures prowled. As the flames
-shot up, the figures yearned toward the clouds; as the flames died down,
-the figures seemed to creep into the ground. On reaching the wind-break
-a lurcher growled, and I heard a man’s voice telling the beast to
-lie quiet. I was about to declare myself, when a hand was laid on my
-shoulder. I leapt aside, peering into the darkness.
-
-“All right, brother,” a voice said huskily. “I’m meaning you no hurt.”
-
-A woman’s face pushed itself out of the blackness; by the light of the
-fire I saw that it was Lilith’s.
-
-“Now you’re here, brother, we’ve come back to Woadley.”
-
-She spoke as though our meeting had been pre-arranged.
-
-Gazing through the trees I saw the old yellow caravan: and G’liath; the
-gaudy woman was there, and the hag who had tried to tell Vi’s fortune on
-the marshes.
-
-The huddled gipsy tents became an accustomed sight and the center of
-a new interest in my landscape. The proud lawlessness of the gipsies
-appealed to my own suppressed wildness. They opened a door of escape
-from commonplace environment. Their unannounced comings and goings had
-an atmosphere of mystery and stealth which filled me with excitement. Of
-a night I would look out from my bedroom windows and see the red glow of
-their camp across the park-land; in the morning nothing would remain but
-blackened turf and silence.
-
-I went on many tramping expeditions with Lilith. She had become
-curiously elflike and wilful since those early days. She seemed to live
-wholly in the moods and sensations of the present; of the past she would
-speak only in snatches. Sometimes, when she softened, she would mention
-Ruthita; but it was long before I discovered her secret and the reason
-why for so many years the gipsies had refused to camp at Woadley.
-
-All one day in the height of summer we had wandered, across meadows
-and by unfrequented by-roads, too content to pay heed to where we were
-going; when evening overtook us we were miles from home. It was too late
-to turn back, unless we walked on to the nearest village and hired a
-trap and drove. Lilith scouted the proposal with scornful eyes as too
-utterly conventional. We would make a camp for the night and return
-to-morrow.
-
-There, alone in the open, with great clouds thumbing the western sky,
-and birds sinking into tree-tops singing, “Home, home, home,” life
-liberated itself and rose in the throat as though it had never been
-bound and civilized. We spoke only in monosyllables; even words were a
-form of captivity. Collecting brushwood, we built our fire and ate our
-meal between the walls of bushes. Slowly the silver trumpet of the moon
-rose above leafy spires.
-
-We made a strange pair, Lilith and I--she the untamed savage, gloriously
-responsive, and I, for all my attitudes of mind, outwardly the sluggish
-product of reserve and education. Through the gray smoke I watched her,
-with her red shawl falling from her splendid shoulders, her glittering
-ear-rings and her large soft eyes. I told myself stories about her quite
-in the old childish vein. I recalled how the Bantam and I had always
-been hoping to find her. What fun it would be to vanish for a time,
-leaving responsibilities behind, and to take to the road together! White
-mists, rising from the meadows, erected a tent about us which towered to
-the sky. Here in the open was privacy from the impertinent knocking of
-destiny.
-
-But she was not thinking of me. Her eyes gazed far away. Her arm was
-hollowed and her head bowed, as though a little one pressed against her.
-With her right hand she fumbled at her breast, loosening her bodice. Her
-body swayed slowly to and fro in a soothing, rocking motion. I had seen
-her like this before when she thought no one was looking.
-
-Leaning forward I plucked a twig from the fire to light my pipe. She
-threw herself back from me startled and sprang to her feet. “Don’t touch
-me.” Her voice was hoarse and choking.
-
-Looking up from where I sat, I saw that her bosom panted and that her
-nostrils were quivering with animal fright. But it was her eyes that
-told me; they were wide and fixed like those of one who has been roused
-from sleep, and is not yet fully awake.
-
-“I wasn’t trying to touch you, Lil. I’m your pal, girl, Dante Cardover.”
-
-When I spoke she came to herself and recognized me. Her fear vanished
-and her arms fell limp to her side. “I’m goin’.”
-
-“But what’s the trouble? I thought we were to camp here to-night.”
-
-“Dun know.” She swept back the hair from her forehead and drew her
-shawl tighter. “I dun this before, just the two of us--and it didn’t end
-happy.”
-
-“But not with me.”
-
-“Afore ever I knew you, silly. When I was little more’n a child--long
-time ago.”
-
-We stamped out the fire before we left, and stole silently across the
-moonlit meadows. She walked ahead at first in defiance; presently,
-ashamed of the distrust she had shown, she fell back and we traveled
-side by side.
-
-“Lil, I watched you; you were dreaming that you had your little baby
-back.”
-
-She placed her hand in mine, but she gave me no answer.
-
-“Who was he--the man who did this to you long ago, when you camped alone
-together?”
-
-She turned her face away; her voice shook with passion. “I don’t have to
-tell you; you know ’im.”
-
-The people were few with whom we were both acquainted. I ran over the
-names in my mind; the truth flashed out on me.
-
-“Was it because of that you wouldn’t camp at Woadley?”
-
-She bent her head, but the cloud of hatred in her face would have told
-me.
-
-After learning this new fact about Halloway, he was never long absent
-from my mind; for Lilith, though we never referred to him and she had
-at no time mentioned him by name, was a continual reminder. I became
-familiar with his doings through the papers. He was making a mark for
-himself in politics; there was even a talk that he might find a seat
-in the cabinet. I read of Lady Halloway’s seconding of her husband’s
-ambitions. From time to time her portrait was printed among those of
-society hostesses. But this Ruthita was unreal to me; she had nothing
-to do with the shy girl-friend whom I had known. Of the true Ruthita I
-learnt nothing.
-
-I often wondered what was the condition of affairs between herself and
-Halloway. Was she happy? Was he kind? Was it possible that she should
-have outlived her first judgment of him? Perhaps all this outward
-display of success had its hidden emptiness. Behind Halloway lay a host
-of ruined lives, Lilith’s among them, the waste of which he could not
-justify.
-
-I had been five years at Woadley, when my work made it necessary that I
-should spend some weeks in London in order to be near libraries. It was
-just after Christmas that I came to town. With my usual clinging to
-old associations, I took rooms at Chelsea, almost within sight of the
-mansion which had witnessed my uncle’s brief reign of splendor. From my
-windows I could see the turgid river sweeping down to Westminster,
-and the nurse-girls with perambulators and scarlet dots of soldiers
-loitering beneath bare trees of the Embankment.
-
-On rising one morning, I found that the subdued grays and browns had
-vanished--that London was glistening with snow. My spirits rose to an
-unaccustomed pitch of buoyancy; I tossed aside my writing and went
-out into the streets. Coming to the Spuffler’s old house I halted; the
-memory of the Christmas I had spent there leapt into my mind with every
-detail sharpened. Things which I had not thought of for years came back
-luminously--scraps of conversation, gestures, childish excitements. This
-wintry morning was reminiscent of a snow-lit, sun-dazzled morning of
-long ago. I recalled how Ruthita had bounced into my room to let me see
-her presents; how she had balanced herself on the edge of my bed in her
-long white night-gown, with her legs curled under her and her small
-feet showing; how she had laughed at my care of her when I wrapped the
-counterpane about her shoulders to prevent her from catching cold. Every
-memory was somehow connected with Ruthita. And here I stood, a man
-of thirty, looking up at the windows from which we had once gazed out
-together--and I had not seen her to speak to for five years.
-
-I could not get her out of mind. I did not want to. I kept tracing
-resemblances to her in the girls whom I passed in the streets. Some of
-them were carrying their skates, with flying hair and flushed faces.
-Others, whom I met after lunch in the theatre districts, were going to
-matinées with school-boy brothers. I wanted to be back again in the old
-intimacy, walking beside her. Since that was impossible, I set myself
-deliberately to remember.
-
-In the afternoon I strolled into the Green Park. Constitution Hill was
-scattered with spectators all agape to see the quality drive by. Every
-now and then a soldier or statesman would be recognized; the word
-would pass from mouth to mouth with a flutter of excitement. The trees
-enameled in white, the grass in its sparkling blanket, the sky banked
-with soft clouds, the flushed faces--everything added its hint of
-animated and companionable kindness.
-
-Of a sudden in the throng of flashing carriages, my attention was
-caught by an intense white face approaching, half-hidden in a mass
-of night-black hair--the face was smaller than ever, and even more
-pathetically patient. By her side sat the man whom I now almost hated,
-looking handsome and important; the years had dealt well with him, and
-had heightened his air of dignity and aristocratic assurance. He was
-speaking to her lazily while she paid him listless attention, never
-meeting his glance. It was plain to see that, whatever he had or had
-not been to other women, his passion for her was unabated. She looked
-a snow-drop set beside an exotic orchid; the demure simplicity of her
-beauty was accentuated by the contrast. Her wandering gaze fell in my
-direction; for an instant my gaze absorbed her. She started forward from
-the cushions; her features became nipped with eagerness. Those wonderful
-eyes of hers, which had always had power to move me, seemed to speak of
-years of longing. A smile parted her lips; her listlessness was gone.
-She leant out of the carriage, as though she would call to me.
-
-Lord Halloway’s hand had gone to his hat, as he turned with a gracious
-expression, searching the crowd to discover the cause of his wife’s
-excitement. His eyes met mine. His face hardened. Seizing Ruthita’s arm,
-he dragged her down beside him. The carriage swept by and was lost in
-the stream of passing traffic. All was over in less time than it has
-taken to narrate.
-
-That night at Chelsea I could not sleep for thinking. Across the ceiling
-I watched the lights of the police-boats flash in passing. I listened to
-the river grumbling between its granite walls. Late taxis purred by; I
-took to counting them. Big Ben lifted up his solemn voice, speaking to
-the stars of change and time. I thought, imagined, remembered. What had
-happened to us all that we were so gravely altered? What had happened
-to her? What had he done to quench her? Then came the old, forgotten
-question: had I had anything to do with it?
-
-Next day I set myself to conquer my restlessness, but my accustomed
-interests had lost their fascination. Neither that day, nor in those
-that followed, could I recover my grip on my habitual methods of life.
-What were the temptations, disappointments of a dead past
-compared with those that were now in the acting? My scholarship, my
-love of books, my undertakings at Woadley had only been in the nature of
-narcotics; I had drugged myself into partial forgetfulness. Now the
-old affections, like old wounds, ached and irked me. One glimpse of
-Ruthita’s white intensity had stabbed me into keenest remembrance.
-
-I _had_ to see her again; the hunger to hear her speak was on me--to
-listen to the sound of her voice.
-
-Several times I saw her driving in the Park, sometimes alone, sometimes
-with Halloway. She never looked at me, but I was certain she was aware
-of me by the way her cheek grew pale. Only a few years ago I had been
-half her life, free to hold her, to come and go with her, to disregard
-her; now she passed me unnoticed. I haunted all places where I might
-expect to find her; whether I met or missed her my pain was the same. At
-the back of my mind was the constant dread that her husband would hurry
-her away to where I could not follow.
-
-It was a blustering afternoon in early March, on a day of laughing and
-crying--one of those raw spring days, before spring really commences,
-capricious as a young girl nearing womanhood, without reason gay and
-without reason serious. In the sunshine one could believe that it was
-almost summer, but winter lurked in the shadows. A flush of young green
-spread through the tree-tops; in open spaces crocuses shivered near
-together. The streets were boisterous with gusty puffs of wind which
-sent dust and papers circling. In stiff ranks, like soldiers, the houses
-stood, erect, straining their heads into the sky, as if trying to appear
-taller. Clouds hurried and fumed along overhead travel-routes, and rent
-gashes in their sides as if with knives, letting through the sudden
-turquoise. Presently slow drops began to patter. Umbrellas shot up.
-Bus-drivers unstrapped their capes. In the Circus flower-girls picked up
-their baskets and ran for shelter.
-
-On arriving in the Mall I found people standing along the open pavement
-in a lean, straggling line, despite the threatened deluge, I learnt
-that royalty were expected. Soon I heard a faint and far-off cheering. A
-policeman raised his arm; traffic drew up beside the curb. Just as I had
-caught the flash of Life Guards and the clatter of their accoutrements,
-a closed brougham reined in across my line of vision. With an
-exclamation of annoyance I was moving farther down the pavement, when a
-small gloved hand stretched out from the carriage-window and touched
-me. I turned sharply, and found myself gazing into Ruthita’s eyes. She
-signed to me to open the door. Before the coachman could notice who had
-entered, I was beside her. Clutching my arm, she leant out and ordered,
-“Drive to Pope Lane.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IV--RUTHITA
-
-We lay back against the cushions. We acted like conspirators--it was
-difficult to tell why. The surprise of meeting her thus suddenly had
-deprived me of words. It must have been the same with her; we clasped
-hands in silence.
-
-“I had to see you--had to speak to you.”
-
-She was panting--almost crying.
-
-“Of course. Why not? It was foolish to go on the way we were going.”
-
-“Yes, foolish and heartbreaking. It wasn’t as though we were wanting to
-do anything wicked--only to meet one another, as we used to.”
-
-Her voice trailed off into a little shivering sob; she flickered her
-eye-lids to prevent the tears from gathering.
-
-“Ruthie, you mustn’t carry on so.” Then, “What has he done to you?” I
-asked fiercely. “You’re afraid.”
-
-“He’s guessed.”
-
-“Guessed what?”
-
-“What you never knew.”
-
-“I don’t understand.”
-
-“I can’t tell you. If you’d guessed, it might have made all the
-difference.”
-
-I did not dare to speak--her whisper was so ashamed. Her hand was hot in
-mine. She withdrew it. When I leant over her she shuddered, just as the
-trees had done when they knew the rain was coming, as though I were
-a thing to her both sweet and dreadful. She took my face between her
-hands, and yet shrank back from me. She delighted in and feared the
-thing she was doing.
-
-The rain volleyed against the carriage, shutting us in as with a tightly
-drawn curtain; yet, did I look up, through the gray mist the tepid gold
-of the sun was shining.
-
-“Ruthie, it seems almost too good to be true that we’re alone at last
-together--to have you all to myself.”
-
-“Did you ever want me, Dannie?”
-
-“_Did I ever want you!_”
-
-“But as much as you wanted her?”
-
-“Differently, yes.”
-
-“You poor boy. And you didn’t get either of us.”
-
-“Couldn’t be helped, Ruthie. That’s life--to be always wanting and never
-getting. But I have you now and, perhaps, one day----”
-
-“But how can you? She’s married.”
-
-“One can’t tell. Things come unexpectedly. I didn’t expect half-an-hour
-ago that I’d be with you.”
-
-She fell to asking me little stabbing questions. When I only answered
-her vaguely, “Don’t let’s start with secrets,” she implored me.
-
-“But it’s five years--there’s so much to explain.”
-
-“Yes--on both sides.”
-
-“You seemed--seemed to dislike him,” I said. “I never understood----”
-
-She took me up quickly. “Nor did I. Don’t let’s talk about it--not yet,
-Dante.”
-
-So I told her about my doings, the book I was writing and the little
-daily round at Woadley; and then I told her of why I had quarreled with
-my father.
-
-“But he let me marry Halloway, and you’ve never----”
-
- I laughed. “Ah, but
-no matter what Halloway did as a bachelor, he was discreet when it came
-to marriage.”
-
-She drew me forward to the light; doubt was in her eyes. “But
-you--you’re unhappy too.”
-
-“I’ve gained everything I played for; I played to lose.”
-
-“Everything?”
-
-“I didn’t deserve Vi. And I didn’t deserve you; if I had, I shouldn’t
-have lost you.”
-
-Not until I had replied did she realize how much she had told me.
-She was not happy! I wanted to ask her questions, so many
-questions--questions which I had no right to ask, nor she to answer.
-
-“And you--you have no children?”
-
-She hesitated. “No.”
-
-I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm
-was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children
-going home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been
-myself and Ruthie of years ago.
-
-“They won’t see me,” I warned her.
-
-“Who?”
-
-“Folks at Pope Lane.”
-
-“They’re not there. Only Hetty’s left to take care of the house. They’ve
-gone away for a few days.”
-
-“Then I can see it all again. We can walk in the garden together and
-pretend that things are exactly as they were.”
-
-“Oh, Dannie!” she cried. “I _can_ call you Dannie, can’t I?”
-
-Time slipped away. She was my little sister now--no longer Lady
-Halloway. At the posts before the passage we alighted--that was the
-first news the coachman had of whom he had been driving. We went slowly
-up the lane, where the shadows of the limes groped like tentacles
-fingering the sunshine. When I felt beneath the creepers and the bell
-jangled faintly, Ruthita clutched my arm, attempting to appear bold.
-
-Hetty stared at us. “Well, I’ll be blowed!”
-
-We pushed by her smiling, assuring her that we had no objection. Not
-until we had rounded the house, did I hear the rattle of the door
-closing.
-
-Nothing ever changed in that walled-in garden. Flowers grew in the same
-places--crocuses, daffodils, and hyacinths. Peaches on the wall would
-soon ripen. Presently sunflowers, like sentinels in gold helmets, would
-stand in stately line. Pigeons strutted on the slates of houses opposite
-or wheeled against the sky. There was the window of Ruthita’s bedroom,
-up to which I had so often called.
-
-The hole, which had been bricked up between the Favarts’ garden, was
-still discernible. Everything retained its record; only we had changed.
-
-Truants again, stealing an hour together, I listened expectant to hear
-Hetty call, “Dant-ee. Dant-ee. Bedtime.” The old excitement clutched my
-heart. Her starched skirt would rustle down the path, and we would
-run into the gooseberry bushes to hide. I glanced at the study-window.
-Surely I should see my father seated there, leaning across the desk with
-his head propped by his arm. Surely that hand of Ruthita’s in my own was
-growing smaller. I should turn to find a child in a short print-frock,
-with clusters of ringlets on her shoulders. A shutter in my mind had
-opened; the past had become present. Ah, but I was no longer anxious to
-escape. The walled-in garden was all I wanted. I was tired of liberty.
-I was ready to be commanded. I was willing that others should order my
-life.
-
-That the illusion might not slip from me, I half shut my eyes. Drip,
-drip, drip, from eaves and branches! The earth was stirring in the
-gentle quiet. Through drenched bushes and on the vivid stretch of lawn
-blackbirds were hopping, delving with their yellow bills. Perhaps I was
-dwindling into a small boy, just as I had once hoped in the forest that
-I might suddenly shoot up into manhood. How absurd to believe that I was
-thirty, and had seen so much of disillusionment! That was all a dream
-out of which I was waking--I had been here all the time in the narrow
-confines of the walled-in garden. The old enchantment of familiar
-sensations stole upon me--I was Dannie Cardover of the Red House;
-playing tricks with his imagination.
-
-How did it happen? Was it I or was it Ruthie? Her lips were pressing
-mine. A step came down the path behind us. We sprang apart, laughing
-softly with reckless joy at our impropriety. Which of us would have
-thought ten years ago that there would be anything improper in being
-caught kissing?
-
-Hetty pretended not to have seen us, but her flustered face told its
-story.
-
-“D’you remember, Hetty, how I once found you doing that to John?”
-
-She writhed her hands under her apron, trying to appear shocked and
-not to smile. “I remember, Sir Dante; ’t’aint likely I’d forget.” Then,
-disregarding me for Ruthita, “I was about to h’arsk your ladyship,
-whether I should get tea ready.”
-
-Ruthita took her by the hand. “You didn’t talk to me that way once,
-Hetty. I’m just Ruthie to you always, and Sir Dante is plain Dannie.”
-
-She looked up and met the laughing reproach in our eyes. Her apron went
-to her face and her bodice commenced to quiver. “Little did I think when
-I washed and dressed yer little bodies that I should ever see this
-day,” she sobbed. “It’s breakin’ me ’eart, that’s what it is, all this
-quarrelin’. Why shouldn’t I speak to ’im if I wants ter? Why shouldn’t
-’e kiss ’is own sister if he likes? Wot’s it matter if all the
-neighbors was lookin’? There’s too little lovin’ and too little kissin’;
-that’s wot I say. ’Tain’t right ter be ashamed o’ bein’ nateral. If it
-’adn’t ’a’ been for bein’ afraid and ashamed, I might ’a’ married
-John. The nus-girl next door got ’im. There’s allaws been someone
-a-lookin’ when I was courtin’--there’s been too little kissin’ in my
-life, and it’s yer Pa’s fault, if I do say it, wi’ ’is everlastin’
-look of ‘Don’t yer do it.’”
-
-“If it’s as bad as all that, Hetty, I’m sure you won’t mind if I----”
- She made an emotional armful, but between struggling and giggling she
-allowed me.
-
-We had tea together in the formal dining-room, with its heavy furniture
-and snug red walls. We made Hetty sit beside us; she protested and was
-scandalized, but we wouldn’t let her wait. As we talked, the old freedom
-of happiness came back to Ruthita’s laughter. The mask of enforced
-prejudices lifted from Hetty’s face. All our conversation was of the
-past--our adventures, childish mutinies, and punishments. We told Hetty
-what a tyrant she had been to us. We asked her whether her nightgowns
-were still of gray flannel. I accused her of being the start of all my
-naughtiness in the explanation she had given me of how marriages were
-concocted. It was like putting a wilted flower into water to see the
-way she picked up and freshened. When she had nothing else to reply, she
-wagged her head at us, exclaiming, “Oh, my h’eye--what goin’s on! It’s a
-good thing walls ain’t got ears. What would your poor Pa say?”
-
-We left her and wandered through the rooms together. We only opened
-the study-door; we did not enter. It had always, even when we had been
-invited, seemed to have been closed against us. Books lay on the desk,
-dust-covered. It was allowed to be tidied only in my father’s presence.
-We both felt that he must know of our trespassing, even though we could
-not see him. I had the uncanny feeling that he was still there at the
-table writing; any moment he might glance up, having completed his
-sentence, and I should hear his voice. Not until we had climbed the
-stairs did we rid ourselves of the shadow of his disapproval. In the old
-days when we were romping, we had been accustomed to hear his dreaded
-door open and his stern voice calling, “Children! Children! What d’you
-think you’re doing? Not so much noise.” It was something of this kind we
-were now expecting and with the same sensations of trembling.
-
-The house was memory-haunted. Following our footsteps, yet so discreetly
-that we never caught them, were a witch-faced girl and a sturdy boy.
-Where pools of sunlight lay upon the floor we lost them; when we turned
-into dark passages, again they followed. On entering rooms, we half
-expected to find them occupied with their playing; when the budding
-creeper stirred against the walls, it was as though they whispered. They
-were always somewhere where we were not--either in the room we had just
-left, or the room to which we were going.
-
-We entered what had been my bedroom. The sun was westering, playing
-hide-and-seek behind crooked chimneypots. Below us the garden lay in
-shadow, cool and cloistered.
-
-Kneeling beside the window, with our elbows on the sill, not watching
-one another’s eyes, we whispered by fits and starts, leaving our
-sentences unended. Most of what we said commenced with “Do you
-remember?” and drifted off into silence as the picture formed. It was
-like flinging pebbles into a pond and watching the circles spreading.
-One after another memories came and departed--all that we had done
-together and been to one another in that conspiracy of childhood. There
-was the pink muffler she had made me, the guinea-pig about which I had
-lied to her, the tragic departures and wild homecomings of schooldays,
-and the week when the Bantam had declared his love for her. And there
-were memories which preceded her knowledge--my quest for the magic
-carpet. How I wished I might yet find it; I would fly by night to
-her window and carry her off, re-visiting old happinesses while Lord
-Halloway lay snoring.
-
-I don’t know how we came to it--I suppose we must have been speaking
-about Vi. Presently Ruthita said, “You could only love golden hair,
-could you, Dannie?”
-
-I didn’t know what she was driving at; her voice shook and her face was
-flushing.
-
-“Dark-haired girls never had any chance with you, did they? You told me
-that long ago, after Fiesole. I remembered because--because----”
-
-“I was a boy then, and was clumsy.”
-
-“But you spoke the truth, though you did say that for sisters black
-hair was the prettiest in the world. It hurt because at that time I
-fancied--you can guess what.”
-
-“You never showed it.”
-
-“You never looked for it--never asked for it.”
-
-I knew to what she referred. It was on the night of my sudden return
-from the Red House because the Spuffler had lost our money. I was
-sitting at this window as I was now sitting. A tap at the door had
-startled me; then a timid voice had said, “It’s only Ruthita.” She had
-crept in noiselessly as a shadow. Her dear arms went about my neck,
-drawing down my face. “Oh, Dannie, I’m so sorry,” she had whispered;
-“I’ve never missed welcoming you home ever since you went to school.”
- She had nestled against me in the dark, her face looking frailer
-and purer than ever. She had slipped on a long blue dressing-gown, I
-remember, and her black hair hung about her shoulders like a cloud.
-Just below the edge of the gown her pale feet twinkled. I noticed that
-a physical change had come over her. Then I had realized for the first
-time that she was different as I was different--we were no longer
-children. I had fallen to wondering whether the same wistful imaginings,
-exquisite and alluring, had come to her. With an overwhelming reverence,
-I had become aware of the strange fascination of her appealing beauty.
-In the confessing that followed I had told her of my jilting by Fiesole,
-and had spoken those stupid words about loving only golden hair. How
-wounding I had been in my boyish egotism! And that was not the last time
-I had wounded her in my blindness.
-
-Scene after scene came back to me--into each I read a new meaning in the
-light of what she had told me: the Snow Lady’s hints before I sailed for
-America; Ruthita’s appeal for my protection against Halloway, and her
-sudden acceptance of him directly she heard that I was with Vi at Sheba.
-
-“Ruthie, all this was very long ago; so many things have happened since
-then, there can be no harm in talking about it. You wanted me right up
-to the last--and I was too selfish to know it.”
-
-“Right up to the last,” she whispered, and I knew she meant right up to
-now.
-
-“And this--and this is what your husband has guessed?”
-
-She took my hands in both her own, speaking with quiet dignity. “I had
-to tell you. Perhaps I too have been selfish, but I couldn’t let you
-misunderstand me any longer. I’ve seen you watching for me, and I’ve had
-to go by you without looking. We never had any secrets, you and I;
-you must have wondered why I let my husband make me cut you--I’ve been
-wicked--I couldn’t trust myself. When I heard that you’d gone to Sheba,
-I didn’t care what happened. I’d always hoped and hoped that you might
-come to love me. But it seemed I wasn’t wanted, so I just took---- He’s
-been good to me, but it isn’t like living with the person you love best,
-is it? You mustn’t hate him any more; to love a woman who can’t love
-you back again makes even success empty--and he’s been used to take love
-without asking.”
-
-We sat very still. We saw Hetty come out into the garden and walk down
-the path as though she were looking for us. We waited to hear her call,
-but she re-entered the house, leaving the silence unruffled.
-
-“I’ve made a pretty fair mess of things, haven’t I? There was Vi first,
-and now there’s you. I’m a pretty fair blighter.”
-
-She pressed herself against me to stop me. “Oh, you mustn’t say that. It
-hurts. You mustn’t say it.”
-
-“But I am. Even your husband knows it.”
-
-“Some day you’ll marry and everything’ll come right.”
-
-“For Vi, if we have the luck to come together. But what about you? What
-about even Halloway?”
-
-She avoided answering my self-accusations by attracting attention to
-herself. “From the first he didn’t want me to know you; he gave
-excuses, and I understood. Because I couldn’t give him love, I gave
-him everything else that he wanted. But now--now that I’m going to be
-a mother, I had to tell you. I want it to be a boy, Dannie. Waiting for
-him, I’ve thought so much of old days. I felt that if you didn’t know,
-somehow, things wouldn’t go right--because when he comes I want him to
-be like you.”
-
-She had risen, letting go my hand.
-
-“I had always thought of you as my sister,” I faltered.
-
- “I know--and
-you were a dear brother. It was just my foolishness to want you to be
-something else.”
-
-For a moment she clung to me, hiding her face against my shoulder. Then
-we passed down the stairs, afraid to be alone any longer.
-
-“Goin’?” Hetty inquired. “You won’t tell the master, will yer?” She
-glanced toward the study-door as though he were behind it and might have
-overheard.
-
-At the end of the lane the carriage was standing. In the presence of
-the coachman Ruthita’s tones were conventional. “You’re going westwards?
-Where can I drop you?”
-
-In the carriage I asked her whether her husband would know of what we
-had done.
-
-“I shall tell him.”
-
-“Don’t you think he might be willing to let us be friends?”
-
-“I’ll ask him,” she said, “but----”
-
-At Hyde Park Corner the carriage pulled up and I alighted. I watched her
-eager face looking back at me, growing smaller and smaller.
-
-Wandering aimlessly through the parks, I sat for a time by the
-Serpentine. The nerves of all that had happened in the past five years
-were cut. If I had married Ruthita, would she have been happy? The
-thought of marrying her was just as impossible to me now as it had been
-when Grandmother Cardover had mentioned it at Ransby. And yet, at a
-time when I had been most sensitive of injustice, I had been unjust to
-her---- And now she was going to be a mother--little Ruthita, who seemed
-to me herself so much a child!
-
-When I came into Whitehall, the pale twilight of spring still hovered
-above house-tops; from streets the flare of London steamed up. The
-opal of the sky reflected the marigold-yellow of illumined windows;
-arc-lights, like ox-eye daisies, stared above the grass of the dusk.
-
-I made my way to my club and sank into a chair, aimlessly skimming the
-papers, reading scarcely a line. Few people were about; the room was
-empty save for one other loiterer. Spring in the streets was calling.
-
-The man strolled up to me, holding an illustrated weekly in his hand. I
-knew him slightly and nodded.
-
-“Writing a book on the Renaissance, ar’n’t you? Here’s something a bit
-in your line. Funny how Paris’ll go mad over a thing like that!”
- He smacked the page. “Girl comes from nowhere. Her lover writes a
-play--that’s the story. There’s a mystery. The play’s difficult to
-understand, so it must be brainy. Now I like a thing that don’t need no
-explanation: Marie Lloyd, the Empire, musical comedy--that’s my cut.”
-
-He tossed me the weekly and turned on his heel to walk out. Annoyed at
-being disturbed, I glanced down irritably.
-
-From a full-page illustration the face of Fiesole smiled up.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER V--LA FIESOLE
-
-It was ridiculous this curiosity, but I knew how to explain it--it
-grew out of my life’s great emptiness since I had listened to Ruthita’s
-confession. She had made me realize as never before how I had muddled my
-chances of happiness. I had heard nothing from Vi in all these years and
-now I had learnt that, without knowing it, I might have had Ruthita.
-My interests had lost their charm; I wanted an excuse to leave my work.
-This matter of Fiesole had cropped up, so here I was on my way to Paris,
-more for the sake of something to do than anything else.
-
-I had not the remotest intention of renewing her acquaintance. Unseen
-by her, I would watch her from some corner of the theatre, and then slip
-back to London. There would be piquancy in the thought that I had gone
-to see her for old time’s sake, and that she would never know about it.
-As for speaking to her, that would be an insult after what had happened
-at Venice. Probably she hated me. She ought to, if she did not.
-
-Though I smiled at myself, truth to tell, I was rather pleased to find I
-could still be so impulsive; romance in me was not dead after all these
-years of uneventful waiting. This journey was the folly of a sentimental
-boy--not the cynical act of a man of the world.
-
-_La Fiesole! La Fiesole!_ Since she had stared out at me from the
-printed page I was continually coming across her. Everyone was
-discussing her; she had sprung out of nowhere into notoriety. Greater
-than Bernhardt, men said of her: a spontaneous emotional actress of the
-first rank--the sensation of the moment.
-
-France took her seriously; England quoted French eulogies in italics.
-Fantastic legends were woven about her name, made plausible by an
-occasional touch of accuracy.
-
-Antoine Georges had written the play--it was based on the _amours_ of
-Lucrezia Borgia. It was said that he was La Fiesole’s lover, that she
-had given him the plot--that she had even helped him write it; some
-went so far as to say that it was founded on an incident in her own
-past life, transposed into a fifteenth century setting. Antoine Georges
-denied that he was her lover; but the world smiled skeptically--it liked
-to believe he was. One story asserted that she had been a _fille de
-joie_ when he came across her; another, with that French instinct for
-the theatric, that he had reclaimed her from a low café in Cherbourg
-in which she danced. Nothing was too incredible in the face of her
-incredible success. One fact alone was undisputed--that she was the
-daughter of the famous Italian actor, many years dead, Signore Cortona.
-
-This confirmed what I already knew about her. I remembered how she had
-told me in Oxford of her early stage career, which she had abandoned
-to go traveling. I recalled how she had said, “I’m an amateur at
-living--always chopping and changing. I’ll find what I want some
-day.”---- So she had found it!
-
-In the English press she was made a peg on which to hang a whole
-wardrobe of side-issue and prejudice. The decency of the French stage
-was discussed. The question was introduced as to whether such a play
-would be allowed to be performed in London. The superiority of English
-morals was the topic of some articles; of others, the brutal prudery
-by which British art was stifled. A fine opportunity was afforded
-and welcomed for slinging mud at the censor. The discussion was
-given academic sanction when Andrew Lang patted it on the head in an
-ingeniously discursive monologue on the anachronisms of playwrights,
-in which he made clear that Monsieur Georges’s tragedy was riddled with
-historic falsity.
-
-It was nearing five when we steamed into the Gare du Nord. My first
-journey to Paris had been prompted by Fiesole. Then I was escaping from
-her; now I was going to her. For old time’s sake I made my headquarters
-at the hotel at which I had then stayed in the Rue St. Honoré. After
-_diner_ I set out through thronged streets to book a seat at the
-theatre. Upon making my request at the office, the man shrugged his
-shoulders and turned away with the inimitable insolence of French
-manners. It was as though he had said, “You must be mad, or extremely
-bourgeois.” I had affronted him personally, the theatre-management, La
-Fiesole and last, but not least, the infallible intelligence of Paris.
-Did Monsieur not know that La Fiesole was the rage, the fashion? Every
-seat was taken--taken weeks ahead.
-
-My second request was apologetic and explanatory: I honored La Fiesole
-so much that I had journeyed from London on purpose to see her. What was
-the earliest date at which he could make it possible? He directed me to
-an agency which had bought up all the best seats in the house; here I
-secured a box at an extortionate price for five nights later.
-
-In the intervening days I was frequently tempted to abandon my project
-and return. It seemed the height of foolishness to squander five days
-in order that I might court disappointment. She must have altered--might
-have deteriorated. It was just possible there was a grain of truth
-in the wild stories that circulated about her. And yet---- There were
-memories that came to me full of nobility and gentleness: windswept days
-at Oxford; a night at Ferrara; days and nights on the lapping lagoons of
-Venice. I wanted to see her again--and I did not. I blew hot and cold.
-And while I hesitated, spring raced through the streets of Paris with
-tossing arms and reckless laughter.
-
-When I entered the theatre it was already packed. The audience seemed
-conscious that it had assembled for a great occasion; it had dressed for
-its share in the undertaking. Gowns of marvelous cut and audacity
-were in evidence. The atmosphere was heavy with the perfume of exotic
-femininity and flowers.
-
-My box was on the right-hand side, just above and next to the stage.
-Below me was a nodding sea of plumed head-dresses, naked shoulders, and
-gleaming bosoms; rising tier on tier to the gold-domed roof, was a
-wall of eyes and fluttering white faces. Everything was provocative of
-expectancy. Gods and goddesses, carved on the columns and painted on the
-curtain, alone were immobile.
-
-A quick succession of taps sounded, followed by three long raps. The
-theatre was plunged in shadow. As though a crowd drew away into the
-distance, the last murmur spent itself. The curtain quivered, then rose
-reluctantly on the illusion which had brought the unrelated lives of so
-vast an audience together.
-
-We saw an Italian garden, basking in sunlight and languorous with
-summer. Beneath the black shade of cypress-trees stretched marble
-terraces, mounting up a hillside, up and up, till they hung gleaming
-like white birds halfhidden in the velvet foliage. In the foreground
-a fountain splashed. A little way distant the Pope Alexander lolled,
-toying with his mistress, Giulia. Up and down pathways lined with
-statues, groups of courtiers wandered: youths in parti-colored hose and
-slashed doublets; girls, vividly attired, exquisitely young, engaged in
-the game of love. Guitars tinkled and masses of bloom flared stridently
-in the sun. Sitting by the fountain was the Madonna Lucrezia and the
-young Lord of Pesaro. Her face was turned from us; we could only see
-her vase-like figure and the way she shook her head in answer to all he
-offered.
-
-The envoy from Naples enters and with him the Duke of Biseglia; he
-urges the Pope for a last time to make an alliance with his country by
-betrothing the Madonna Lucrezia to the Duke. But the Pope does not want
-the alliance; he is joining with Ludovico of Milan against Naples
-and war will result. While the Pope is refusing, for the first time
-Lucrezia looks up and her face is turned towards us--the face I had
-known in my boyhood, innocently girlish, fresh as a flower, so ardent
-and beautiful with longing that the theatre caught its breath at sight
-of it and a muffled “Ah!” swept through the audience.
-
-As though attracted by a power which is outside herself, she rises,
-hesitating between shyness and daring, and steals to where the young
-Duke is sullenly standing. She takes his hand and presses it against
-her breast. He snatches it from her. She commences to speak, at first
-haltingly, but with gathering passion. Her voice is hoarse and sultry,
-like that of a Jewess; it is a voice shaken with emotion, which now
-caresses and now tears at the heart. The drone of merriment in the
-garden and the tinkling of the guitars is hushed. Listless lovers come
-out from the shadows and gather about her, amused by her earnestness.
-She pleads with the Pope, her father, to give her the Duke--not to send
-him away from her. Biseglia interrupts haughtily, asserting that he only
-desired her for State reasons and that since the Pope refuses Naples’
-friendship, he would not marry the Madonna Lucrezia though her father
-were to allow it.
-
-Alexander laughs boisterously at this quarrel of children and like
-a huge Silenus wanders off into the garden, leaning on his mistress,
-Giulia, followed by his train of minstrels and dilettantes. Their
-singing grows more faint as they mount the terraces towards the palace.
-
-Lucrezia watches them depart with a face frozen with despair. As
-Biseglia turns to go, she darts after him and drags him back, fawning on
-him, abasing herself, offering herself to him, telling him that whatever
-comes of it she cannot live without him. He regards her in silence; then
-falls to smiling and flings her from him, reminding her that she is
-the Pope’s bastard. At that the boy Lord of Pesaro, who has watched
-everything from the fountain, runs with drawn sword to her defense.
-But she springs between them, saying that when the time comes to kill
-Biseglia, she will take revenge in her own way like a Borgia. The
-great Pope, looking back, has seen her awakened savagery and laughs
-uproariously. The scene ends with the garden empty and Lucrezia
-stretched out on the ground, kissing the spot which Biseglia’s feet have
-touched and weeping in a frenzy of abandon, while the Lord of Pesaro
-looks on impotent and broken-hearted.
-
-Between the first act and the second the French have invaded Italy, so
-the Pope and the King of Naples have found a common enemy and a common
-need for alliance. The Duke of Biseglia has again been sent to Rome
-to sue for the hand of Lucrezia. But in the meanwhile she has been
-betrothed to the Lord of Pesaro, and, to prevent him from joining
-with the French when Lucrezia is taken from him, his removal has been
-planned.
-
-The curtain goes up on a night of bacchanalian riot in the Papal
-gardens. Beneath trees a costly table has been spread, at which sit
-men and women attired in every kind of extravagance, as animals, pagan
-deities, and mythological monstrosities. In the branches overhead are
-set sconces and blazing torches. Distantly over white terraces and
-pathways the moon is rising. In the foreground are mummers and tumblers.
-The servitors who pass up and down the company are humpbacks, dwarfs,
-Ethiopians, and dancing-girls.
-
-In the center of the table sits the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and
-next to her Biseglia. Opposite to Biseglia is seated the Lord of Pesaro,
-and next to him a woman in a mask. With the heat of the wine and the
-lateness of the hour the women lie back in their lovers’ arms--all
-except the masked woman and the Madonna Lucrezia. Lucrezia sits
-erect like a frightened child, the one pure thing in the freedom that
-surrounds her. Biseglia pays her no attention, and from across the table
-the Lord of Pesaro watches.
-
-The Pope twits Biseglia on his coldness, saying, “Think you that my
-daughter hath a deformity?” And Biseglia gives the irritable answer,
-“Can a man love a woman while that young spit-fire glowers green envy at
-him opposite?”
-
-Pesaro leaps to his feet, but the Pope, as though to pacify him, pledges
-him and hands the goblet to the masked woman to offer to him. Still
-standing uncertain, Pesaro receives it from her. Raising it slowly, his
-lips touch the brim; he clutches at his throat, upsetting the cup so
-that the red stain flows towards Lucrezia. He leans out, gazes in her
-eyes, and crashes across the table, twisting as he falls, still looking
-up at her.
-
-The silence that follows is broken by a low rippling laugh. The company
-gaze in astonishment; it is Lucrezia who is laughing. The child in her
-face is dead; her expression is inscrutable, wicked and sirenish. She
-sways towards Biseglia, bending back her head and twining her arms about
-him. “Hath the Pope’s daughter a deformity that thou canst not love her?
-Behold, thou shalt judge. She will dance and dance, till she dances thee
-into rapture and thy soul is poured out upon her.”
-
-From the hand of a servitor she snatches a torch and steps into the
-open. She commences to dance and, as she dances, unbuckles her girdle
-so that her gown slips from her. As the beat of the music grows more
-furious she unbinds her hair, so that it writhes like snakes about her
-firm white arms and bust. Dwarfs clamber into trees and slide out along
-their branches, raining rose-leaves on her as she passes. The strangely
-attired company forget their jaded decadence and sprawl across the
-table, digging their elbows into its scattered magnificence, following
-the gleam of her young, white body as it twists and turns beneath the
-whirling torch.
-
-But her gaze is bent always on Biseglia; her eyes are aslant and
-beckoning. Her bosom rises and falls more fiercely with the wrenching
-in-take of the breath. Will he never go to her?
-
-She flings back her hair from her shoulders; her body flashes like an
-unsheathed sword. Nearer and nearer to him she dances. His eyes rest
-on her moodily, half-closed. Does he make a movement, quickly she
-withdraws.
-
-She has flung away her torch and is spinning madly with her hands
-clasped behind her head. The grass is hidden with rose-leaves; she
-floats--her feet scarcely stir them. Suddenly she stops; stands erect
-for an ecstatic moment; sways dizzily; her strength is gone. Her hands,
-small and pitiful, fly up to cover her eyes. She shakes her hair free to
-hide her. Her body crumples. She is broken with her shame and futility.
-Biseglia leaps the table and has her in his arms as she falls, pressing
-his hot lips against hers. With clenched fists she smites him from her,
-slips from his embrace, and runs shimmering like a white doe through the
-forest of blackness.
-
-With a shout the revelers shatter the banquet and pour in pursuit of
-her. Biseglia leads them, darting ahead into the shadows. Dancing and
-singing, the disheveled bacchanalians stagger across the dark, trouping
-along dusky terraces with twining arms, following the fleeing dryad.
-
-Torches are burnt out and smolder in their sockets. Night is tattered
-by the dawn. Amid the havoc of trampled chalices and glass sprawls the
-wine-stained figure of the dead Lord of Pesaro--the man who, could she
-have loved him, would have given her all.
-
-_La Fiesole! La Fiesole!_ We rose as one man as the curtain dropped.
-We did not care to think whether this was wrong--it was lovely. She
-had danced our souls out of their prejudices, out of their walls of
-restraint into chaos. The rapture of her beauty ran through our veins
-like wine. Our imaginations pursued her along pale terraces. The
-fragrance of crushed rose-leaves was in our nostrils and the coolness of
-night. Our breath came short, as though we had been running. Our senses
-were reeling and our eyes dazzled. We stood up in our places clutching
-at the air, calling and calling, hungry for the sight of her.
-
-For myself, I was smitten with blindness. My eyes saw the striving
-throng through a mist and probed into the beyond, where she ran on and
-on palely, forever from me. I shouted to her, but she grew more distant;
-never once did she look back or stay her footsteps.
-
-I was aware of a deep stillness--a hoarse peal of laughter: thousands of
-eyes glared up at me and down on me, and mouths gaped mockery. The mist
-cleared; Fiesole was standing before the curtain. The audience had grown
-hushed at sight of her while I had continued calling. From the stage,
-twenty feet away, she was smiling at me, insolent and charming, her body
-still shuddering with exertion beneath the velvet cloak which lay across
-her shoulders. What did I care, though to-morrow the whole of Paris
-should laugh? She had danced my soul into ecstasy. I placed my hands
-on the edge of the box and leant out drunkenly, shouting her name,
-“_Fiesole! Fiesole!_”
-
-She kissed her hand at me derisively, bowed to the audience, and was
-gone.
-
-I sank in my place, a sickening nostalgia for her upon me. I did not
-reason; I only knew I wanted her--wanted her as she had once wanted me,
-with her hands and eyes and body. In a dim way I felt angry with myself
-for having lost her. She had made me disgusted with my coldness at
-Venice as I had watched my counterpart, the Duke of Biseglia. From the
-theatric torture in her face I had learnt something of how brutal a man
-may be when he fancies that he is righteously moral. She, whom I saw now
-so remotely, might have been mine; through these chilly years La Fiesole
-might have been my companion, had I had the faith to take what was
-offered. I had sought the things that were impossible. I had made a god
-of my scruples. I had sinned weakly, following Vi who did not belong to
-me. I had sat down to wait for her, and all the while Life was tapping
-at the door. I tasted Life to-night---- And who knows? Perhaps I had
-broken this woman’s heart. I would no longer be niggardly. I would go to
-her; accuse myself to her; beat down her hatred of me; carry her off.
-
-While these thoughts trooped across my mind, the crooked sphinx-like
-smile of Paris wandered over me, examined me, hinted at tragedy with
-laughter, and widened its painted lips at my absurdity.
-
-The curtain rustled. The warning raps sounded. Lights sank, and heads
-bent forward.
-
-In a dim-lit room, chilly to the point of austerity, sat Lucrezia.
-Tall candles shone upon her face--a face purged of emotion, nunlike and
-wooden with an expression of distant contemplation. Behind her head was
-an open window through which floated in the sound of music. She heeded
-it not at all. In the far corner stood a bed with the curtains drawn
-back. At an altar a lamp burnt before a shining crucifix. Her women were
-unrobing her for the bridal night. They spoke to her, but she did not
-answer. They blamed her for her indifference to Biseglia: she had never
-kissed him, never caressed him since the night when she had won him. Did
-she not know that he hungered for her kindness?
-
-She gave them no answer. They lifted her this way and that as though she
-were a doll; she seemed to have forgotten her body. She might have been
-in a trance, leading a life separate, dreaming of things innocent and
-holy.
-
-One by one the candles were extinguished; only the lamp burnt before the
-altar. When her women were gone; she slipped from the bed and knelt with
-her head bowed before the cross.
-
-The music dies; silence falls. Along the passage comes a creeping
-footstep. The door opens; Biseglia enters, blinking his eyes at the
-room’s dimness. He whispers her name. At last she hears him and rises,
-standing before the altar. He crosses the room reverently. He halts,
-gazing at her. He rushes forward, masters her, crushes her to him, and
-cries that she torments him--starves him.
-
-When she makes no response, but lies pulseless in his arms, he carries
-her to the bed, incoherently claiming as his right the fondness she does
-not give him. Then he grows gentle and kneels before her, kissing her
-feet and calling her his god.
-
-She speaks. Her voice is small. “Biseglia, thou didst love me only when
-I had made myself worthless that I might win thy fondness.”
-
-He yearns up to her with his arms, disowning his former coldness,
-protesting that he adores her. She leans over him sadly; he raises his
-lips to hers. As she kisses him, her expression kindles to triumph. She
-withdraws her hand from her breast; the Borgian dagger sinks into his
-heart.
-
-She gazes stonily on the man who had once refused her. The lamp before
-the altar flickers and goes out. The room is plunged in darkness.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VI--SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE
-
-Long after the curtain had fallen I sat on. I had seen Antoine Georges
-step before the footlights leading Fiesole. I had seen him alternately
-bend above her hand and bow his acknowledgments to the applause. I did
-not like him, this fat little Frenchman, with his thin beard and spindly
-legs. The polite proprietorship of his bearing towards her had impressed
-me as offensive. I felt sure that he was smacking his lips and saying,
-“They shall believe that it’s all true, this that they say about us.”
-
-From the wings had come lackeys carrying garlands. They had built up a
-garden about her. The people had gone mad, standing up in their places
-and thunderously shouting. From all parts of the theatre flowers
-had rained on her. They had stormed her with flowers. Women had torn
-bouquets from their dresses and wreaths from their hair. It might have
-been a carnival; the air was dense with falling blossoms. And she had
-faced them with the smile of a pleased child, while Monsieur Georges
-bent double before her.
-
-It was all over. Men were busy with brooms, sweeping up the litter of
-her triumph. This happened every night: they got used to it. Already in
-the _fauteuils d’orchestre_ perfunctory faded women were adjusting linen
-coverings. The last stragglers of the audience were reluctantly going
-through the doors.
-
-A man entered my box and tapped me on the shoulder. I stared up at him;
-his expression made me laugh. He evidently mistook me for a crank who
-was likely to give trouble. I reached for my hat and coat wearily; I
-felt that I had been beaten all over. As I folded my scarf about my neck
-I made bold to ask him where I could find Fiesole. He shrugged his
-shoulders, darting out his hands, palms upwards, as one who said, “Ah,
-it is beyond me! Who can tell?”
-
-But it was important that I should see her, I urged; I was an old
-friend.
-
-An old friend! These days La Fiesole had many old friends. Were it
-permitted to her old friends to see her, all the messieurs would cross
-the footlights. He eyed me with impatience, anxious to see the last of
-me, his waxlike face wickedly ironic.
-
-I produced a fifty-franc note. Would it not be possible for him to
-deliver her a message?
-
-If Monsieur would write out his message he would make certain that La
-Fiesole got it.
-
-So I scribbled my address on the back of a card, asking her to allow me
-to speak with her.
-
-I folded the fifty-franc note about it and handed it to my tyrant.
-From the lack of surprise with which he accepted I gathered that he had
-pocketed greater amounts for a like service.
-
-In the street I paused irresolute. From my feet, could I follow it, a
-path led through crowded boulevards directly to her. I could not be very
-distant from her; a lucky choice of direction, the chance turning of a
-corner might bring us face to face. That I was in her mind was probable.
-She was remembering, as I was remembering, that day at Lido and that
-night at Venice. Was she satisfied with her revenge? She had always been
-generous. Somewhere in this passionate white night of Paris her car
-sped on through illumined gulleys; she lay back on cushions, her eyes
-half-shut, her mouth faintly smiling, picturing the past at my
-expense. I liked to think that she hated me; it was in keeping with her
-character; I respected her for it. The women who had loved me had made
-things too easy; it had always been I who had done the refusing. My
-blood was eager for the danger of pursuing. I longed for resistance that
-I might overcome her. I loved her with my body, I told myself, as I
-had never loved a woman; my cold, calculating intellectuality was in
-abeyance. That she should make my path of return difficult added a novel
-zest.
-
-The human tide was drifting towards Montmartre; I fell in and followed.
-On the pavement before cafés at little round tables _boulevardiers_ were
-seated, sipping their absinthe, their eyes questing for the first hint
-of adventure. Taxis flashed by, soaring up “the mountain” like comets,
-giving me glimpses as they passed of faces drawn near together,
-ravishing in their transient tenderness. How was it? What had happened?
-For the first time in my remembrance I had ceased to analyze; I had
-ceased to sadden my present with foreknowledge.
-
-Far away the Place Pigalle beckoned. Up tortuous streets, between
-ancient houses, the traffic streamed like a fire-fly army on the march.
-As I neared the top I entered the pale-gold haze of its unreality.
-Electric signs of L’Abbaye, the Bal Tabarin, and the Rat Mort glittered
-on the night like paste jewels on the robe of a courtesan. Women trooped
-by me like blown petals, peering into my face and smiling invitation.
-I marked down their types in my mind by the names of flowers--jasmine,
-rose, poppy.
-
-I was curiously transformed from that evening of long ago when I had
-watched these sights with horror, and had fled from Paris in the dawn to
-Florence. I felt no anger, no revulsion--only tolerance. I had finished
-with peeping beneath the surface. Fiesole had taught me to despise all
-that. _Fiesole! Fiesole!_ I saw her always dancing on before me, mocking
-my sobriety. Yes, I told myself, she had made me kinder.
-
-A couplet from _Sir Galahad in Montmartre_ dinned in my brain and summed
-up my estimate of my former self
-
-                   “He sees not the need in their faces;
-
-                   ’Tis the sin and the lust that he traces.”
-
-I had never looked for the need in any woman’s face. I had been absorbed
-in contemplation of my own chastity--had hurried through life with
-hands in pockets, fearful lest I might be robbed. Vi’s need, which I had
-recognized, I had made ten times more poignant. I had waited for her.
-What good had I done by it? I might go on waiting. Meanwhile there were
-Fiesole and Life knocking at my door. My constancy to Vi had become a
-luxury.
-
-A girl slipped her arm in mine. “’Allo! You zink I am pretty?”
-
-She was a _cocotte_, little more than a child, so delicate and slight.
-Her hair was flaxen and blowy; her complexion a transparent china-white;
-her dress décolleté and cut in a deep V between the breasts. She pushed
-her small face up to mine with the red lips parted, clinging to me with
-the innocent familiarity of one who had asked no more than a roguish
-question.
-
-“You’re pretty, but----”
-
-“Zen we go togezer!”
-
-“I’m afraid not.”
-
-“Pourquoi non?”
-
-“I’m hoping to meet someone.”
-
-She released me at once with a good-natured smile. “La! La! I hopes you
-find ’er.”
-
-She tripped away, turning before she was lost in the crowd to wave her
-hand. I told myself that her flower was the jonquil.
-
-It was one o’clock when, after wandering about, I found myself back
-at the same place. I could not sleep; my brain was too active with
-excitement. Instead of being sad because of Fiesole, I was unreasonably
-elated. I took a seat at a table on the pavement and ordered coffee
-and cognac. Every man and woman within sight was a lover, and I sat
-solitary. As the hour grew later men and women grew more frank in their
-embraces, and all with that naïve assumption of privacy which makes the
-Frenchman, even in his vices, seem so much a child. The sex-instinct
-beat about “the mountain”--the air quivered and pulsated.
-
-Girls rustled in the shadows. Lovers, chance-met, danced home together.
-Strange to say, I found nothing sinful in it--only romance. I had ceased
-to look beyond the immediate sensation.
-
-“Poor boy! You not find ’er?”
-
-I looked up; my lady of the jonquils was leaning over my shoulder.
-
-“No.”
-
-“Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, _hein!_ If not, zere are
-ozers.” She waved her small gloved hands in a circle, bringing them back
-to include herself. She looked a good little soul, standing there so
-bravely disguising her weariness.
-
-“Tired?”
-
-“It ees nozing.”
-
-“Won’t you join me?”
-
-Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which
-had no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin
-on her knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise
-eyes. She was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose.
-
-“Zere are ozers,” she repeated.
-
-“Not for me,” I said; “not to-night.”
-
-“Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?” The waiter hovered
-nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables.
-
-I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain.
-
-“Croûte au pot?”
-
-“Bien, Monsieur.”
-
-“Filet aux truffes.”
-
-“Bien, Monsieur.”
-
-“Salade romaine.”
-
-“Bien, Monsieur.”
-
-“Vouvray.”
-
-“Bien, Monsieur.”
-
-I turned to her. She had corn-flower eyes like Kitty--I had been
-wondering of whom I was reminded. I passed her my cigarette-case. She
-chose one fastidiously and tilted it between her lips with the smile of
-a _gamine_.
-
-While we ate neither of us said much--she was hungry; but, as we sipped
-our coffee and the pile of cigarette ends grew, I found myself telling
-her--asking her if a man had refused her once, whether she could ever
-again love him.
-
-“If he haf a great heart, oui. If he haf not----” She threw her
-cigarette away. “C’est la vie! Quoi?” She snapped her fingers and leant
-over and took my hand, this gay little Montmartroise. “But you haf; zo
-courage, my friend.”
-
-I did not want to be left alone; she knew it. A _fiacre_, with a
-battered race-horse propped between the shafts, had drawn up against
-the curb. On the box a red-faced _cocher_ nodded. We climbed in and she
-nestled beside me. The _cocher_ looked across his shoulder, asking where
-to drive. “Straight on,” I told him.
-
-We crawled away down “the mountain”; as we went, she sang contentedly
-just above her breath. When we reached the Madeleine the _cocher_
-halted, inquiring gruffly whither he should drive. “Tout droit. Tout
-droit”; we both cried impatiently. So again we moved slowly forward.
-There was no doubt in the man’s mind that we were mad.
-
-She drew closer to me and cuddled into my coat; the foolish prettiness
-of her dress was no protection against the chill night air. We lay back,
-her head resting on my shoulder, gazing up at the star-scattered
-sky. The asphalt surface of the boulevard, polished by petrol and
-rubber-tires to the dull brightness of steel, glimmered in a long line
-before us reflecting the arc-lamps like a smooth waterway--like a slow
-canal in ancient Venice.
-
-Where we went I do not know; I did not care to notice. The creaking
-_fiacre_ had become a gondola and it was Fiesole who leant against
-me. Sometimes the _cocher_ drew up to light a cigarette and to glance
-suspiciously down upon us. Then I was brought back to reality. We
-circled the Bastille and prowled through the _Quartier Latin_, where the
-night was not so late. We crossed the river once more and crept along
-the _Quai des Tuileries_; then again we climbed “the mountain” and
-plunged into the grimy purlieus of _Les Halles_. Market-carts were
-already creaking, in from the country with swinging lamps. Wagons piled
-high with vegetables, loomed mountainous under eaves of houses. From
-the market came grumbling voices of men unloading, and the occasional
-squealing of a stallion.
-
-The _cocher_ wriggled on his box and confronted me fretfully. Before
-he could ask his question, “Sacré nom d’un chien!” I shouted fiercely,
-“Allez. Allez.” Meekly he jerked at the reins, sinking his head between
-his obedient shoulders.
-
-I looked down at the tiny face beside me--the face of a white flower
-whose petals are folding. She had ceased her singing an hour ago.
-Feeling me stir, she struggled to open her eyes and slipped her small
-hand into mine. When I drew my arm tighter about her she sighed happily.
-
-Above the tottering roofs of Paris the night grew haggard. One by one
-stars were snuffed out. Wisps of clouds drove across the moon like
-witches riding homeward. It was the hour when even Paris grows quiet.
-Ragpickers were slinking through the shadows, raking over barrels set
-out on the curb. Women, shuddering in bedraggled finery--queens of
-Montmartre once, perhaps, whose only weariness had been too many
-lovers--dragged themselves to some sheltered doorway, thankful for a bed
-in the gutter, if it were undisturbed. In boulevards for lengthy pauses
-ours was the only sound of traffic.
-
-My head jerked nearer hers. Her breath was on my cheek; I could feel the
-twitching of her supple body. Poor little lady of the jonquils--of what
-was she dreaming? What had she expected from me? She would tell often of
-this eccentric night and no one would credit her story.
-
-When I awoke she was still sleeping. A spring breeze ruffled the trees;
-sparrows were chirping; a golden morning sparkled across the waters of
-the Seine. The sun, still ruddy from his rising, stood magnificently
-young among the chimney-pots, trailing his gleaming mantle beneath the
-bridges.
-
-The battered race-horse had stumbled with us just beyond the Louvre
-and stood with his head sagging between his knees, his body lurching
-forward. The reins had fallen from the _cocher’s_ hands; his thick neck
-was deep in his collar; and his face looked strangled. From across
-the road a waiter scattered sand between his newly set out tables and
-watched us with amused curiosity.
-
-My body was cramped. As I attempted to uncrook my legs, my companion
-opened her eyes and stared at me in amazed confusion. She yawned and sat
-up laughing, patting her mouth. “Oh, _la, la_----. Bonjour, toi!”
-
-We examined ourselves--I in my crumpled evening-dress, and she in her
-flimsy gown and decorative high-heeled shoes. I had a glimpse of my
-face in imagination--pale and donnish; the very last face for such a
-situation. How ill-assorted! Then I laughed too; the _cocher_ lumbered
-round on his box and burst into a hoarse guffaw at sight of us. We all
-laughed together, and the waiter ceased sanding his floor to laugh with
-us.
-
-We left the racer to his well-earned rest and all three went across
-to the café. As we soaked bread in our bowls of coffee and plied our
-spoons, we chatted merrily like good comrades. Then we parted with the
-_cocher_, leaving him agreeably surprised, and sauntered down the Quai
-where workmen in blue blouses, hurrying from across the bridges, found
-time to nudge one another knowingly and to smile into our eyes with a
-glad intimacy which was not at all offensive.
-
-In a narrow street where “the mountain” commenced, she halted and placed
-both her hands on my shoulders, tiptoeing against me.
-
-“One ’as to go ’ome sometime, mon ami.” She was determined to be a
-sportsman to the end. “But remember, mon petit, if you do not find
-’er, zere are ozers.”
-
-I put my hand into my pocket. She examined what I gave her. “Mais, non!”
- she exclaimed, flushing.
-
-“But yes--for remembrance.”
-
-She tilted up her face and her happy eyes clouded; the tired cheeks
-turned whiter and the painted lips quivered. “Little one, keess me.”
-
-So I parted from this chance-met waif with her brave and generous
-heart---- And this was what my madness and Fiesole had taught me. For
-the time the memory of Vi was entirely banished from my thoughts.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VII--SATURNALIA
-
-At my hotel I found no message. But it was still early; she might
-not have received my card and, as yet, did not know my address.
-The intoxication of the previous night still flicked my spirit into
-optimism--perhaps she would answer me in person.
-
-Then came the reaction--the truer judgment. If she had desired to see
-me, she could have sent round word to my box at the theatre. After all,
-why should she desire to see me? She was famous and had made her world
-without me. When we parted, I had left her with a memory so humiliating
-that it must scorch her even now. These were things which a woman
-finds it difficult to forgive--impossible to forget. Still, there
-was curiosity--a woman’s curiosity! She might resist it for a time,
-tantalizing both me and herself; but she would have to see me presently,
-if only to wound me.
-
-I scarcely stirred from my hotel, afraid lest I should miss her. By the
-time evening fell, I had come to a new conclusion--that the ironical
-scoundrel, who had so coolly pocketed my money, had destroyed my card.
-To make sure of reaching her, I wrote a letter to the theatre, saying
-many true things foolishly. Then, in sheer restlessness, I hurried to
-the boulevard in which her theatre was situated, hoping to get a glimpse
-of her either coming or going.
-
-I could not bring myself to enter--it was too horrible and
-beautiful--she was dancing away her womanhood in there. Shockingly
-fascinated as I had been by the spectacle, I felt a lover’s jealousy
-that strangers should watch it.
-
-I hated the gay crowds seething in to find enjoyment in my shame and her
-tragedy. They were jesters at something sacred.
-
-I paced the boulevard with clenched hands and snapping nerves; I could
-not go far away from her, and I could not go to her. Within my brain she
-was always dancing, dancing, and the jaded eyes of Paris grew young with
-greed of her sensational perfection. I longed to go to her, to protect
-her, to save her from herself. She needed me, though she would scorn the
-idea if I told her. If she would but allow it, I would carry her away
-from these hectic nights and this subtle, soul-destroying sensualism.
-Her shame was my doing; I would give all my life to make amends to her.
-
-But she gave me no sign that she had either seen or heard from me. What
-else could I expect? How could I explain my infatuation even to myself,
-let alone to her, as more than physical attraction? And was it more?...
-Once she had offered me far more than I now begged; I had churlishly
-refused it. How could I account to her for my altered valuation of her
-worth? She would not answer--I knew that now. I should have to compel
-her attention.
-
-Next morning in reading the papers I came across her name frequently.
-She was the madcap darling of Paris; every edition contained some
-anecdote of _La Fiesole_ and her erratic doings. One item captured my
-interest especially: there was a certain café in the Champs Elysées to
-which she went often after theatre hours. For the time being she had
-made it the most fashionable midnight resort in Paris.
-
-That night, having bribed heavily for the privilege, I was seated at a
-table near the entrance. If she came, she could scarcely pass without
-seeing me. The place was an _al fresco_ restaurant, gorgeously
-theatric. It stood in a garden, brilliantly romantic and insincere as
-a stage-setting. Overlooking the garden were white verandahs,
-creeper-covered and garish with hothouse flowers; throughout it were
-scattered kiosks and bowers in which the more secret of the diners
-sat. The plumed trees were knit together with ropes of lights, like
-pearl-necklaces which had been tossed into their branches casually. In
-bushes and hidden among blossoms, glow-worm illuminations twinkled, like
-faeries kindling and extinguishing their lamps. Everything was subdued
-and sensuous. Fountains played and splashed. Statues glimmered. A gipsy
-orchestra, fierce-looking and red-coated, clashed frenzied music, which
-sobbed away into dreamy waltzes and elusive snatches of melody. The
-effect was bizarre--artistically unreal and emotionally tropic.
-
-Here one might experience a great passion which consumed by its panting
-brevity; everyone seemed present for the express purpose of realizing
-such a passion.
-
-At tables seated in couples were extraordinary people, dressed to
-play their part in a dare-devil romance. Here were men who looked like
-Russian Archdukes, bearded, bloodless, and insolently languid. Sitting
-opposite them were voluptuous women, tragically exotic, dangerously
-coaxing, with the melodramatic appearance of scheming nihilists.
-They were reckless, these costly, slant-eyed odalisques--exiles from
-commonplace kindliness, born gamblers for the happiness they had thrown
-away and would never re-capture. There was the atmosphere of intrigue,
-of indiscreet liaison about almost every couple. They acted as though
-for one ecstatic moment the world was theirs. Their behavior was
-everything that is exaggerated, fond, undomestic, and arrogantly
-well-bred.
-
-There was something lacking. As each new arrival entered, the slanted
-eyes of the women and the heavy eyes of the men were raised droopingly
-with an expression of furtive expectancy. They were a chorus assembled,
-waiting for the leading actor till the play should commence.
-
-Low rippling laughter, spontaneously joyous, sounded. From the trellised
-entrance she emerged and halted, looking mock-bashful, taking in the
-effect she had created, spurning the gravel with her golden slipper. Her
-gown was of dull green satin, cut audaciously low in the back and neck,
-and slashed from the hem to expose her slim ankle and golden stocking.
-She wore no jewels, but between her breasts was a yellow rose, which
-drifted nodding on the whiteness of her bosom as she drew her breath.
-Her reddish gold hair was wrapped _en bandeaux_ about her small pale
-ears and broad pale forehead. It shone metallic; its brightness dulled
-and quickened as she swayed her splendid body.
-
-At her first appearance a muttering had arisen, gathering in volume. As
-she lifted her head and her green eyes flashed through her long, bronze
-lashes, we grew silent. It was as though a tamer had entered a cage of
-panthers and stood cowing them with her consciousness of power. Yes, she
-knew what they thought of her, and guessed what they admired in her. She
-surveyed us with quiet contempt. I felt that behind whatever she did
-or said there lay hidden a timid girlishness. She was still the old
-Fiesole, the happy companion who could tramp through rainstorms like a
-man. Her brave pagan purity these half-way decadents had not tarnished;
-by them it was unsuspected. I watched her tall, lithe figure; the neck
-so small that one could span it with a hand; the firm, high bosom,
-proud and virginal; the straight, frank brows, and the mouth so red and
-sweetly drooping. Other women looked decorative and tinsel beside her
-natural perfection.
-
-My throat was parched. My eyes felt scalded. I was unnerved and
-a-tremble. Her beauty daunted as much as it challenged. What bond still
-existed between us that would draw her to me? She looked so remote, so
-hemmed in by the new personality she had developed.
-
-Her green eyes swept the garden, probing its secret shadows. For whom
-was she looking? They rested on mine, absorbed me--then fell away
-without recognition. I had risen in my place, with head bent forward,
-ready to go to her at the least sign of friendship. I remained standing
-and staring.
-
-She turned to one of her companions and whispered something, at which
-they both laughed. He was a tall poetic-looking man, slight of hip,
-blue-eyed, and handsome. His hair was wavy and yellow, his face bearded,
-and his skin pale with excess. There were other men with her, Monsieur
-Georges among others; but on the poet alone she lavished her attention.
-She gave him her arm and came towards me with the undulating stride that
-I knew so well. For a second I believed she was going to acknowledge me;
-she went by so closely that her gown trailed across my feet and brushed
-my hands. It was cruelly intended. The play had opened.
-
-The table that had been reserved for her was next to mine, partly hidden
-from the public gaze by bushes; as I watched, I caught glimpses of
-her profile, and could always hear the lazy murmur of her voice
-and occasionally fragments of what was said. I followed her foreign
-gestures, her tricks of personality--all of them adorably familiar: the
-way she shifted her eyebrows in listening, sunk her chin between her
-breasts when she was serious, and clapped her hands in excitement. She
-was as simple as a child--in her heart she had not altered. Even the
-way in which she made me suffer what she had suffered was childish. This
-pretending not to know me was so transparent. There were other and more
-subtle methods by which she could have taken her revenge.
-
-I was not the only man who attempted to spy on her; there might have
-been no other woman present. Languid faces scattered throughout the
-garden took on a new sharpness. They turned and looked down from
-balconies on La Fiesole, eager to catch glimpses of her. To their
-women-companions men listened with a bored pretense of attention.
-Perhaps it was because of this, in an effort to focus interest on
-themselves, that the women, as by a concerted plan, became more
-animated.
-
-Suddenly a girl in scarlet leapt upon a table and commenced to dance
-with flashing eyes and whirling skirts. I heard someone say that she was
-a gipsy and that her brother was first-violinist in the orchestra. The
-music mounted up, wild and unrestrained; the small feet beat faster; the
-actions became more frenzied. She turned away from her comrade and bent
-back double, peering into his eyes; she flung herself from him, chaffing
-him with grim endearments; she feigned to become furious; then she threw
-herself across his knees exhausted, writhing her arms about his neck.
-Men eyed her with studied carelessness. She had done it before and they
-had applauded. They could see her any night. They could not always feast
-their eyes on La Fiesole.
-
-Saturnalia broke loose. Girl after girl rose upon chair or table, or
-went swaying through the magic garden like a frail leaf harried by a
-storm. They danced singly, they danced together, going through grotesque
-contortions, beckoning lovers with their eyes and gestures.
-
-And I watched Fiesole through the bushes. She was not so indifferent to
-me as she pretended. She was playacting to rouse my jealousy; she
-was purposely scourging me into madness. I alone of the public was
-sufficiently near to see clearly what she was doing. She was luring her
-poet to recklessness, taking no notice of what was in process about her.
-Did I catch her eye, she looked past me without recognition. But him she
-enticed by her gentleness. The man was drunk with her favor and beauty.
-He trembled to put the thoughts of a lover into action; she challenged
-him with her eyes, warning him from her and beckoning him to her.
-
-Stooping over her, so low that his lips were in her hair, he whispered;
-but she shook her head. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder,
-as though to steady him and to soften the unkindness of her refusal.
-Quickly he caught it in his own and bent over it, running his lips
-along her fingers and up her arm’s smooth curves. She looked down on
-him unmoved, disdainful at his breach of manners, yet superbly amorous.
-Clutching her hotly to him, he kissed her on the throat.
-
-Blind anger shook me--lust for violence such as I had never felt.
-Breaking into the toy arbor where they sat, I remember standing over
-him, dragging him backward by the collar, so that his face glared up at
-mine empurpled. His friends rushed forward, beating me about the head
-and shoulders, tearing at my hands, trying to make me release my hold.
-
-Fiesole had risen like a fury. The table went down with a crash. Her
-face was deadly pale and her green eyes blazed with indignation. Her
-hands were clenched as if she also were about to strike me. And I was
-pouring out a torrent of words, telling her swiftly how I loved her and
-all that she had made me suffer.
-
-Her rage died away as she listened and her expression became
-inscrutable. Quickly she darted back her head, laughing without
-happiness, mockingly. “You are very English, my friend. If you make so
-much noise, these messieurs will think we are married.”
-
-I caught her by the wrists, so that she backed away from me. “I wish to
-God we were.”
-
-“Oh, la, la, la!”
-
-She went off into a peal of merriment, pointing her finger at me. The
-crowd gathered round us uncertain, asking in half-a-dozen languages what
-had been the provocation and what we were saying.
-
-Her look changed. It was as though a mask had fallen. The temptress and
-witch were gone. I seemed to see in her melancholy eyes all the longing
-for tenderness and loyalty that I thought had been killed years ago in
-Venice.
-
-She advanced her face to mine and stared at me timidly, as though
-fearful she had been mistaken.
-
-“Take me out of this,” she whispered hoarsely.
-
-Her companions tried to intercept us, gesticulating and protesting. She
-brushed them aside, explaining that I was not myself and did not
-know what I was doing. For her sake they let me go without further
-molestation.
-
-We passed out, leaving them gaping after us. I helped her into her
-furs and took my place beside her in the coupé. Before we were out of
-earshot, the gipsy orchestra had swung into a new frenzy.
-
-Once Vi had kept me from Fiesole; now Fiesole was taking me from Vi. And
-these two women who, through me, had influenced one another’s destinies,
-had never met. They were hostile types.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER VIII--LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
-
-I was at a loss what to say to her. Words could not bridge the gulf of
-more than five years that separated us. Now that anger had subsided, my
-genius for self-ridicule was at work. What a fool I had made of myself;
-how supremely silly I must appear in her eyes! It would be in all the
-papers to-morrow. How would she like that? Where was she taking me and
-why? Had she come with me simply to get me out of a public place before
-I committed worse violence?
-
-I pieced together phrases of apology and explanation, but remained
-tongue-tied. To express the emotions that stormed in my mind all words
-seemed insincere and inadequate. I was not sufficiently certain of her
-to venture either speech or action. I was fearful lest her mood might
-change to one of amusement. My nerves were on edge--I dared not risk
-that.
-
-Noiseless as a ghost in a dream-world, the electric coupé drifted up the
-dully gleaming boulevard. I leant against the padded back and watched
-her. She sat erect, splendidly self-possessed, her profile framed in
-the carriage-window with the stealthy lights of Paris slipping by
-for background. Now she was no more than a blurred outline; now
-the acetylene-lamps of a swiftly moving car flashed on her like a
-search-light; now the twinkling incandescence of an illumined café flung
-jewels in her hair; now her face rested like sculptured ivory on the
-velvet blackness of the night. She was immobile; even the slender
-fingers clasped together in her lap never stirred. Our silence had
-lasted so long that it had ceased to be fragile; it rose between us, a
-wall of ice.
-
-We drew up against the curb. I had but a vague idea of where we
-were--near the Bois, I conjectured. Tall houses stood in shuttered
-dumbness along one side; on the other, trees shrank beneath the primrose
-dusk of arc-lights. She stepped out, ignoring my proffered assistance.
-She crossed the pavement and tapped; as the door swung back I followed
-her under an archway into a dim courtyard. Having mounted several
-flights of stairs, she tapped again. To the sleepy maid who opened she
-whispered hurriedly. The maid discreetly fell behind.
-
-We passed into a room delicately furnished. The floor was heavily
-carpeted in red. The walls, hung with etchings and landscapes, were
-paneled in white. Flowers stood about in bowls and slender vases; shaded
-lamps gave to the room a secret aspect. In the grate a fire of coals was
-burning and two deep chairs stood one on either side. The atmosphere
-was intensely and perishably feminine; it gave me the feeling of
-preparedness--as though I had been expected. Through tall windows the
-curious night stared in upon us.
-
-Fiesole crossed, making no sound save the silken rustle of her dress,
-and drew the curtains close together. She turned, looking back at me
-side-long, at once amused and languid. Her coldness and aloofness had
-vanished. The sparkle of mischief fetched the gold from the depths of
-her green eyes. Her body became expressive and vibrant. Then I heard her
-sweet hoarse voice, with its quaintly foreign intonation. It reached me
-tauntingly, lazy with indifference, holding me at arm’s length. “Dear
-man, take a chair by the fire and behave yourself. Mon Dieu, but you
-were amusing to-night!”
-
-She laughed softly at remembering and shook her cloak from her white
-shoulders. A strand of hair broke loose and fell coiling across her
-breast. She stepped to a mirror, turning her back on me; having twisted
-it into place, she remained smiling at her reflection, whistling beneath
-her breath.
-
-Her gaiety cut like a lash across my mouth. I was painfully in earnest.
-She was treating the situation as an incident--a jest. To me it was a
-supreme moment--a turning-point: on what we should say to one another
-would depend the entire direction of both our lives. I was sorry for her
-beyond the power of words to express. The success and luxury of her way
-of living did not blind me to its hollowness and danger. Her frivolity
-left me affronted and fascinated. She roused in me all the unrestraint
-of the flesh; and yet I desired to worship her with my mind. I longed to
-carry her away from the fever and glare of streets to a place of quiet,
-where the world was blowy--where she might become what she had once been
-when I might have had her, genuine and fine. While these thoughts raced
-through my mind, the insistent question kept repeating itself, why had
-she brought me here to be alone with her at this late hour of the night?
-
-Her eyes flashed out at me maddeningly from the mirror. They prompted to
-irretrievable folly. They called me to go to her, and to be unworthy
-of both her and myself. And I knew why: she wished me to say and do the
-things that were unforgivable that she might have excuse to scorn me,
-to fling me from her. Once it had been my Puritanism that had thrust us
-apart; it should not now be my sensualism. I would not let her make a
-hypocrite of me in my own eyes.
-
-The seconds ticked out the silence. Her dress whispered. Her voluptuous
-white arms, uplifted and curved above her neck as she patted her hair,
-enhanced the perfect vase-like effect of her body. I would not go
-to her, I told myself; I would not go to her. I held myself rigid,
-distraught, and tense. The blood swelled out my throat and beat in my
-temples. She withdrew her hands. Wickedly, like a shower of largesse,
-the clustered glory of her hair rained from her head, catching her in a
-net of smoldering brightness.
-
-She glanced with half-closed eyes across her shoulder and feigned
-astonishment at observing that I had remained standing.
-
-“Still the same old idjut! Wanting something you’re afraid to have, and
-looking tragic.”
-
-“Fiesole, girl, don’t you understand? It’s not that.”
-
-My voice sounded odd and strangled. I had spoken scarcely above a
-whisper.
-
-She swung about and surveyed me leisurely. There was a pout on her mouth
-like that of a naughty child. “You’re no longer amusing,” she faltered;
-“you grow tiresome. Why can’t you be sensible, and sit down? I want to
-hear all this that you’ve got to tell me.”
-
-“You don’t make it easy.”
-
-She shrugged her gleaming shoulders. “Why should I? You made a horrid
-row about something that was none of your concern. You nearly choked a
-friend of mine to death. You don’t expect me to say thank you, surely? I
-ought to punish you; instead, I bring you here. I wanted to have a look
-at you. Ah! but you were funny--so righteous and English! You made me
-laugh.... I can forgive anyone who does that.”
-
-When I did not answer, she regarded me puzzled. Slowly her brilliant
-deviltry and merriment faded. The laughter sank to a whisper and
-ceased abruptly, frightened at itself. The red lips drooped and
-parted. Something of my own pinched earnestness was reflected in her
-expression--it was as though her soul unveiled itself. She stole across
-to me wonderingly, her beautiful arms stretched out. She rested the tips
-of her fingers tremulously on my shoulders.
-
-“No, that’s not true. You were splendid--so different from the rest. I’m
-a beast. You made me ashamed of myself. That’s why I was angry; because
-you, who made me what I am, should accuse me.”
-
-“Accuse you! God forbid!”
-
-I made a movement to gather her to me, but she slipped past me and sank
-into a chair.
-
-“Between us not that.” She caught her breath. “I hate you. I want to
-hate you. What else did you expect? But I can’t. I cannot. You won’t let
-me.”
-
-“You ought to hate me. Call me what you like; it won’t be worse than I
-deserve. I was cruel and selfish. I see it now.”
-
-She shook back her hair from her forehead and bent forward gazing into
-the fire, her elbows on her knees, her face cushioned in her hands.
-A sudden gravity and wistfulness had fallen on her. She was thinking,
-remembering, weighing me in the balance. I must not touch her--must not
-speak to her. If I showed any sign of passion, she would mistake it for
-pity either of her or of myself.
-
-“I wanted to forget--to live you out of my life; but you’ve brought it
-all back--the old bitterness and heartache. You didn’t know what you did
-to me, Dante. You spared my body; you killed everything--everything else
-that was best. Look at me now.” She glanced down at the exotic daring
-of her appearance:--the golden stocking that was revealed from ankle to
-knee by the narrow slash in the skirt; the splendid extravagant display
-of arms, throat, and breast that swelled up riotously, uninterrupted,
-snowy and amorous from the sheathlike dress--a flashing blade
-half-withdrawn from its scabbard.
-
-“I’m a devil. You made me that, you virgin man. No, don’t speak----
-I thought I should have died of shame after I left you. I could have
-killed you. You don’t know how a woman feels when she’s wanted a man
-with her whole soul and body, and she knows that she’s beautiful; and
-he’s flung her from him when she’s offered herself, as though she were
-worthless. ‘He didn’t care,’ I said, ‘so nobody’ll ever care.’---- And
-then I met Antoine Georges, who had known my father. And I did what
-you’ve seen and I’ve won success. When I saw you the other night I
-wanted to make you suffer. I’ve often pictured how I would torture you
-if ever you should come back--how I’d destroy you--how I’d make you go
-through the same hell. And now you’ve come, and I can’t do it.---- I may
-change my mind presently. You’d better go while I let you.”
-
-“I’m never going.”
-
-She turned her head, scrutinizing my face stealthily from between her
-hands.
-
-“Don’t be a fool. What about her?”
-
-“There’s no one else. There never will be.”
-
-She gasped. “You didn’t marry her?”
-
-The strained look in her face relaxed. She laughed softly to herself;
-why she laughed I could not guess. It was not the laughter which follows
-suspense, but the laughter of one who courts danger. It was as though
-she parted her hair into sheaves and glanced out crying, “I am Eve, the
-long desired.”
-
-Reaching over to the table she picked out a cigarette. When it was
-alight, she snuggled down into the chair, kicking off her little gold
-shoes and resting her feet on the fender. She eyed me dreamily.
-
-“Then you made me suffer all that for nothing? You good men can be
-cruel.---- Tell me.”
-
-Briefly I told her of my useless visit to Sheba; and why I left; and why
-I was still unmarried. I kept nothing back in my self-scorn and desire
-to be honest.
-
-She slipped her feet up and down the gleaming rail as she listened,
-lying deep in cushions, her cigarette tilted in her mouth, her hands
-clasped behind her head. When I ended, she frowned at me whimsically
-from beneath her drawn brows.
-
-“But, you impracticable person, you might have foreseen all that. You
-didn’t need to cross the Atlantic to discover that a husband doesn’t let
-his wife be taken from him without making trouble.---- So you wouldn’t
-pay the price to get her! You’re a rotten reckoner, old boy, for a man
-who counts the cost of everything ahead.”
-
-Her eye-lids flickered as her deep voice droned the words out.
-
-“You should put all that in the past tense, Fiesole. I’m not counting
-anything to-night, penalties or pleasures. I’m just a man who’s wakened.
-I want something madly. Whatever it costs me or anybody else, I intend
-to get it.”
-
-“You always wanted what you couldn’t have.”
-
-She spoke lazily, blowing smoke-rings into the air, following them with
-her eyes and watching how they broke before they reached the ceiling.
-She appeared untouched by my emotion, as though nothing had been said
-that intimately concerned herself. She let her gaze wander, extending
-her lithe sweet length luxuriously, as though she had nothing to fear
-from my passion. I was crazed with desire, for all that I kept my tones
-quiet and steady. She maddened me with her indifference. It was all
-pretense--I knew it. She was playing a part with me, courting the
-inevitable, tempting me to reveal my hidden self. I watched her with
-clenched hands--suffering, yet finding fierce joy in the wonderful
-pride of her body. I would not have had her otherwise; the colder she
-appeared, the more I coveted her. I could have had her once for my
-wife, I reflected, had I chosen. I had tormented her; it was just that I
-should suffer.
-
-The reticence of years fell away from me. I was kneeling at her side,
-kissing her unshod feet, her hands, her hair. Words tumbled from my
-lips, broken and unconsidered. I called her by foolish names such as are
-only used between lovers. I poured my heart out, speaking of the past
-and the future. I cursed myself, all the time repeating how I worshiped
-her--how I had loved her from a boy, but had come to know it only now.
-
-And she gave no sign of response: neither forbidding, nor assenting;
-letting me have my way with her without acknowledging my presence; a
-quiet smile playing round her lips; as completely mistress of herself as
-is a statue.
-
-I trembled into silence. She drooped forward, bending over me, just as
-she had done years ago in her uncle’s summer-house.
-
-“My dear, there are things that are offered only once. Five years ago I
-asked you for all that you are now asking. You were afraid of the price,
-as you were with the other woman. You refused me.”
-
-“But it’s marriage I’m asking.”
-
-“Ah! Then I asked for less.---- I’m sorry. You ought to have gone when I
-told you. I felt that I should have to wound you.”
-
-Her gentle dignity stung me into strength. My turbulence died down. As I
-knelt, I flung my arms around her body and drew her to me. She struggled
-to draw back, but I held her so closely that my lips were almost on her
-mouth.
-
-“Listen, Fiesole, I’m unfair and I mean to be unfair. I was a brute to
-you once when I meant only to be honorable. To-night I’m not caring what
-I am. You despise me--you can go on despising me, but I’ll wear you
-out. I’ll make you come to love me even against your will. You’ll need
-me some day; I shall wait for that. I want to spend all my life for you;
-it’s the only thing I ask of life now. Wherever you go I shall follow
-you.”
-
-I stopped, panting for breath. She had ceased to struggle. Her eyes were
-wide; her face hovered pale above me; she stared down at me powerless,
-yet with reckless challenge, breathing upon my mouth.
-
-“You’re a rotter to come back like this,” she said hotly, “just when I
-was beginning to be happy. When you speak of marriage, you don’t know
-what you’re saying. You spoilt all that for me years ago at Venice.
-D’you think I’ll ever believe again in the honor and goodness of a man?
-You’ve come too late. Five years changes people. I’m a different woman
-now--not at all what you imagine.”
-
-“You can be any kind of woman you choose, but you’re the woman I’m going
-to marry.”
-
-“Then you haven’t heard what people say about me?”
-
-“And I don’t care.”
-
-“They say I’ve had lovers.”
-
-“I don’t believe them.”
-
-“What if I should tell you that I have?”
-
-“I shouldn’t believe you.”
-
-“You’d prefer to think that I’d lied to you rather than that I’d told
-you the truth?”
-
-“It would make no difference. You’ve always loved me. You love me now. I
-know that you are pure.”
-
-“And you would never doubt it? Never doubt it of a woman who dances
-every night, as I do, before the eyes of Paris?”
-
-“Never.”
-
-She gazed at me curiously, with tenderness and intentness. Her bosom
-shuddered; I saw the sob rising in her throat. When she spoke, the words
-came slowly; her eyes were misted over; she trembled as I clasped her.
-
-“D’you know, I believe you’re the only living man who’d be fool enough
-to say that?”
-
-“I was always a fool, Fiesole.”
-
-I thought she would have kissed me, her lips came so near to mine. “But
-a dear fool, sometimes,” she whispered hoarsely; “a fool who always
-comes too late or too early--but a fool to the end.”
-
-She stood up and my arms slipped down to her knees as I held her.
-
-She laughed brokenly. “You nearly made me serious. It won’t do to be
-serious at three o’clock in the morning.”
-
-“I won’t go till you’ve promised. Promise,” I urged.
-
-She yawned. “I’m sleepy. You’ve worn me out.”
-
-“But answer me before I go.”
-
-She smiled down at me mockingly, ruffling my hair. “What a hurry he’s in
-after all these years. Don’t you ever go to bed?”
-
-“Tell me to-night. I must know. I can’t bear the suspense.”
-
-“I put up with it for five years.---- Well, if you won’t go home like a
-good boy, you won’t. There’s a couch over there.”
-
-She broke from me, leaving me kneeling with my arms empty. As the door
-opened into the room beyond I had a glimpse of the curtained bed.
-
-I drew my chair closer to the dying fire. Behind the wall I could hear
-her steps moving up and down as she undressed. Now and then they paused;
-she was listening for the sound of my departure, uncertain, perhaps,
-whether I was still there. Some time had elapsed when the door opened
-gently. I twisted round. Her room was in darkness. She was standing on
-the threshold. Her feet were bare; she was clad in a white night-robe;
-across each shoulder, almost to her knees, hung down the red-gold ropes
-of her braided hair.
-
-“I meant what I said. I’m not going till you tell me.”
-
-Her green eyes met mine roguishly. “A persistent fool to-night,” she
-said.
-
-As the door was closing I threw after her, “That morning in Venice.... I
-was going to have asked you to marry me; you were gone....”
-
-Left alone with the last flame flickering in the grate, I watched the
-little gold shoes.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER IX--THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-
-The sun was streaming in across my shoulder. Someone had pulled back
-the curtains. I was stiff and stupid from my cramped position. Despite
-the morning, the electric-lights were still burning in the room;
-I blinked down at myself and was astonished to find that I was in
-evening-dress. As I eased myself up, something dropped to the floor--the
-gold shoes of Fiesole.
-
-From behind two warm arms fastened themselves about my neck, making me
-prisoner.
-
-“You’re up early, Dante C. You’re a great, stupid juggins to sit up
-all night and spoil your temper, just when I want you to be more than
-ordinarily pleasant.”
-
-“My temper’s not spoilt. Don’t worry.”
-
-“I take your word for it. I’ve got a secret to tell you. I’m going on
-the spree to-day--going to be immensely happy. I want you to help. If
-you’ve any of your tiresome scruples left over, you’d best chuck ’em;
-or I’ll find someone else.”
-
-“Bit early, isn’t it, to tackle a chap? I’m too stupid to know what you
-mean. But I’m game. How long’s this spree to last?”
-
-“Till it ends.”
-
-“Then it’ll last forever, so long as it’s just you and me.”
-
-She dug the point of her chin into my shoulder. Glancing sideways,
-I caught the impish sparkle of her eyes and the glow of her cheeks,
-flushed with health and excitement.
-
-“Perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” she whispered, bringing her demure red
-lips on a level with my mouth.
-
-“And now, perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” I suggested.
-
-When I attempted to rise, she restrained me. “Not till I’ve made my
-bargain and you’ve agreed to my terms. I haven’t made up my mind about
-you, so you needn’t start talking marriage. Don’t know what I’m going
-to do with you, Dannie. So you’re to come with me wherever I choose till
-I’m tired--and you’re to ask no questions. Understand?”
-
-“You never will be tired. I’m coming with you always.”
-
-“And you’ll ask no questions?”
-
-“No more than I can help.”
-
-She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled shirt-front; I was
-so obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion. She went off into
-peals of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth,
-and clapping her hands. “What have I done to you? You’re a bottle of
-champagne; I’ve pulled the cork out. I’ll never get you all back.”
-
-I took her hands in mine, folding them together, and drew her to me.
-“You’ll never get any of me back. You’ve made me love you. That’s what
-you’ve done, you adorable witch-woman.”
-
-“Oh, la, la! Don’t talk like that.”
-
-“Can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. You’ve made me mad.”
-
-“Poor old Dannie! Horrid of me, wasn’t it?”
-
-A tap at the door; the maid entered, bringing in rolls and coffee. I
-started away from Fiesole, but she held me. “You can’t shock Marie;
-she’s hardened; she’s heard all about you, and some pretty bad things
-she’s heard.”
-
-Over her coffee she grew thoughtful.
-
-“What’s the matter?”
-
-“You are.”
-
-“Already?”
-
-“How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the
-morning?”
-
-“How d’you want me dressed?”
-
-“In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.”
-
-“Got ’em all at my hotel. I’ll slip back.”
-
-She slanted her eyes at me. “Slip back to London, perhaps! No, Dannie, I
-don’t trust you yet. I don’t intend to lose you.”
-
-She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed.
-Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered
-conversation reached me, scraps of nervously spoken French, and the
-opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards.
-
-When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy
-velvet, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish figure.
-The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur.
-The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match.
-Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted
-in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty of a coquette. She
-looked oddly young and distinguished on this rare spring morning. There
-never was such a woman for arranging her temperament to suit her dress.
-Her hectic manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy
-as she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the
-effect.
-
-“So I meet with your approval?”
-
-Passing down the stairs, she hugged my arm impulsively--a trick which
-brought memories of Ruthita. “It’s awfully jolly to be loved--don’t you
-think so?”
-
-Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing. The chauffeur
-stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the
-boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze
-back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry at one another
-as to the identity of her strangely attired companion. We drew up at my
-hotel in the Rue St. Honoré.
-
-“I give you fifteen minutes. Is that sufficient? Make yourself gay.
-Don’t forget, a tweed suit, brown shoes, a gray felt hat--oh, and a red
-tie if you’ve got one. I couldn’t endure anything black.”
-
-I found her with her eager face turned towards the doorway, watching
-impatiently for me.
-
-“A good beginning--ready to the second. Jump in. We’re off to somewhere
-where no one’ll know anything about us. Let’s see if we can’t lose
-ourselves.”
-
-She swung the car round and away we snorted, through the Place de la
-Concorde blanched in sunlight, up the Champs Elysées where sunlight
-spattered against blossoming trees and lay in pools on the turf. The
-streets were animated with little children, women in bright dresses,
-dashing cars and carriages. Paris gleamed white and green and golden.
-Overhead the sky foamed and bubbled, yawning into blue and primrose
-gulleys, trampled by stampeding clouds.
-
-At the Place de l’Etoile the car drew up sharply and skidded; circled
-like a hound picking up the scent; then darted swiftly away to the Bois,
-where fashionables already loitered and acacias trembled murmurously.
-
-Fiesole was radiant with impatience. A goddess of speed, she bent above
-the wheel, casting her eyes along the road ahead. Did a gap occur in the
-traffic, she flung the car forward, driving recklessly, yet always with
-calculated precision. I marveled at her nerve and the silent power that
-lay hidden in her thin, fine hands.
-
-As we shot the bridge at St. Cloud the pace quickened. It was as though
-she shook Paris from her skirts and ran panting to meet wider stretches
-of wind-bleached country. I had one vivid glimpse of the ribbon of
-blue river, boat-dotted, winding through young green of woodlands; then
-cities and sophistication, and all things save Fiesole, myself, and the
-future were at an end.
-
-Soon the white road curved uninterrupted before us, a streak between
-pollarded trees and blown meadows. Over the horizon came bounding hills
-and church-spires, villages and rivers; as they came near to us they
-halted, like shy deer, for a second; when we drew level, they fled. It
-was as though we were stationary and the world was rushing past us.
-
-The wind of our going brought color to her cheeks and fluttered out her
-hair. Her eyes were starry, fixed on the distance as she skirted the
-rim of eternity in her daring. Should an axle break or a tire burst,
-all this fire of youth would be extinguished forever. I glanced at
-the speedometer; it quivered from seventy to eighty, to eighty-five
-kilometers, and there it hovered.
-
-The throb of the engine seemed the throb of my passion. We were
-traveling too fast for talking. She did not want to talk; she was
-escaping from something, memories, perhaps--hers and mine. In her modern
-way she was expressing what I had always felt: the tedium of captivity,
-sameness, and disappointment--the need for the unwalled garden, where
-barriers of obedience and duty are broken down.
-
-At Evreux we halted for petrol. I proposed déjeuner, she shook her head
-naughtily.
-
-“Where are we going?”
-
-“Over there, to the West.”
-
-“Any particular spot in the West?”
-
-“You’ll see presently.”
-
-“How about the theatre?”
-
-“Time enough,” she said.
-
-She spoke breathlessly, remaining at the wheel while the man was filling
-the tank. Somehow it seemed to me that the town had come between us; we
-understood one another better when the garden of the world was flying
-past us.
-
-Before the man was paid, she had turned on the power. As we lunged
-forward, he jumped aside and I flung the money out. Our wild ride
-towards the Eden of the forbidden future recommenced.
-
-Presently, without turning her head, she broke the silence. “Slip your
-arm round me, old boy; my back grows tired.”
-
-I placed my arm about the slender, upright figure and slid my shoulder
-behind her, so she leant against me.
-
-“What’s the idea, Fiesole? Paolo and Francesca?”
-
-“And Adam and Eve, if you like; and Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell; and
-Joseph Parker and Jane Cake-bread. Anything, so long as we keep going.”
-
-When I attempted to speak again, she turned on more power and threw me a
-smile which was a threat.
-
-I clasped her closer. “Little devil! I’ll keep quiet. You needn’t do
-that.”
-
-But though I kept quiet my heart beat madly. The panorama of change
-sweeping by, with her face the one thing constant, quickened and
-emphasized my need of her more than any spoken tenderness. Our thoughts
-merged and interchanged with a subtlety that speech could never have
-accomplished. The pressure of her body, the tantalizing joy of
-her nearness and forbiddenness, the imminence of death, the law of
-silence--these summed up in a moment’s experience the entire philosophy
-of love, and of life itself.
-
-I began to understand her meaning, her language; she was temporizing as
-I had temporized at Venice; but instead of going away from me, she was
-fleeing with me from circumstance. She was telling me of her woman’s
-pride--her difficulty to make herself attainable after what had
-happened. She loved me and she hated me. She drew me to her and she
-thrust me from her. She could not forget and she dreaded to remember.
-And she said all this when, in escaping, she took me with her.
-
-Now I saw nothing of the hurrying landscape; I watched her. I wrote all
-her beauty on the tablets of my mind--nothing should be unremembered:
-the way her curls crept from under her cap and fluttered about her
-temples; the clear pallor of her forehead; the firm, broad brows; the
-quiet challenge of her deep-lashed eyes; how her red mouth pouted and
-her head leant forward from her frail white neck, like a flower from
-its stalk, in a kind of listening expectancy. And I observed the tender
-swelling of her breasts, high and proud, yet humble for maternity; and
-the pliant strength of her supple body; and her long clean limbs; and
-the delicately modeled feet and ankles, which shot out from beneath
-her fur-trimmed skirt--the feet of a dancer, graceful and fragile as
-violins.
-
-I was mad. I wanted her. No matter how she came to me, I wanted her. I
-could not bear the thought that we should ever be separated. She was
-so intensely mine at this present; and yet, though she was mine, I was
-insanely jealous to preserve her.
-
-With the long fascination of watching her I bent slowly forward. The
-action was instinctive, uncalculated. How long I took in approaching
-her, I cannot tell. I was anxious to last out the joy of anticipation; I
-was not conscious of motion. My lips touched hers. Her hold on the wheel
-relaxed. Her eyes met mine. The car swerved, hung upon the edge of the
-road, ran along it balancing; then bounded back into the straight white
-line.
-
-I was so frenzied that I did not care. She had thought to hold me
-prisoner by her speed; I would overcome her with defiance. I kissed her
-again, holding her to me. She kept her eyes on the distance now, but her
-mouth smiled tenderly.
-
-“That was foolish,” she said.
-
-I raised my voice to reach her above the moaning of the engine. “The
-whole thing’s foolish.”
-
-She broke into wild laughter. “That’s why I like it, like you, like
-myself.”
-
-We hovered on the brim of a valley; then commenced to sink as though the
-earth had given way beneath us. Far below, as far as eye could reach,
-were orchards smoking with white blossom. Through the heart of the
-valley a river ran; standing on its puny banks was a gray old town,
-blinking in the wind and sun like a spectacled grandmother who had
-nodded to sleep, and wakened bewildered to find spring rioting round
-her.
-
-“Where is it?”
-
-“Lisieux, unless I’m mistaken.”
-
-“Then you know where we’re going?”
-
-“More or less.”
-
-We pulled up in a drowsy, sun-drenched market-place outside a sleepy
-café. At tables on the pavement, with hands in their blouses and legs
-sprawled out, sat a few artisans, eyeing their absinthe. Houses tottered
-and sagged from extreme old age. Across the way a cathedral, scarred
-by time and chapped by weather, raised its crumbling sculptured towers
-against the clouds.
-
-She took my hand as she stepped out. “You nearly did for us just now.”
-
-“Who cares?”
-
-She shrugged her shoulders. “All Paris cares. I’m not anxious to be
-dead; when I am, I’d like to look pretty.”
-
-When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced
-tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing
-to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So
-I ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet.
-
-As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. “You
-know, I _am_ pretty.”
-
-She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become
-alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across
-the square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated
-themselves close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a
-Frenchman always pays to feminine beauty.
-
-I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. “This
-can’t go on.”
-
-She laughed with her eyes. “It can go on as long as there’s any petrol
-left, and as long as you don’t try to kiss me when I’m speeding.”
-
-“That’s not what I meant; you know it.”
-
-“What then? The same old thing--marriage?”
-
-I ignored her flippancy. “You’ll be turning back directly, and when you
-get to Paris, you won’t be like you are now. You’ll be _La Fiesole_ and
-to-night you’ll be dancing with them all watching. I can’t bear it.”
-
-“I shan’t.”
-
-I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me.
-
-“You’re not going back? You’ve given up the theatre?”
-
-She held me in suspense, letting her eyes wander as though she had not
-heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting smile of hers. “Damn
-the theatre,” she said quietly; “I’m going on with you to the end.”
-
-“And the end’s marriage?”
-
-“Who can tell? Now don’t be a rotter. You’re spoiling everything. Let’s
-talk of something else.”
-
-When we climbed into the car, “You drive,” she said.
-
-“But to where?”
-
-“That’s my secret. Straight on. I’ll tell you when to turn.”
-
-We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head
-was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her.
-From time to time I looked down at the white slant of her throat, the
-shadows beneath her lashes, and the almost childish droop of her mouth.
-How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a
-Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at
-hand--and both were certain. What different versions she gave me of
-herself! Once a sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to
-a halt, and listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the
-agony of loss that must some time accompany the actuality. One day,
-sooner or later, I told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur.
-How much time was left to us to find life beautiful between then and
-now?
-
-On the bare Normandy uplands, between tilled fields and driving clouds,
-I waited for her to waken. The air was growing chill; I drew my coat
-round her. I felt again, in a new and better way, that sense of nearness
-and forbiddenness which had exhilarated me to the point of delirium
-on the madcap journey down from Paris. I looked ahead into the pale
-distance, where the notched horizon bound the earth with a silver band...
- and I wondered where she was taking me, and what lay at the end. She
-might fight against it--she would fight against it; but the end should
-be marriage. I would watch over her always as I was watching now.
-
-She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment
-with undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She
-pulled herself together, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes and yawning.
-
-“Gee up, old hoss. This ain’t a bloomin’ cab-stand. You’re not home
-yet.”
-
-“You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.”
-
-“Well, I shan’t pay you,” she laughed; “it’s not fair. Pray what did you
-think you were doing?”
-
-“Enjoying myself.”
-
-“There’s the difference; you like to crawl, I like to hurtle. You’re a
-tortoise; I’m a razzle-dazzle. We’re an ill-matched pair. Living in Pope
-Lane has made you pontifical. Oh, Dannie, in ten years your tummy’ll be
-bulgy and your head’ll be bald. Pope Lane’ll have done it. I know what
-I’ve always missed about you now.”
-
-“Something horrid? Let’s have it.”
-
-“A cowl. You ought to have been a monk in Florence, painting naked
-angels in impossible meadows.”
-
-“So kind of you. Religion mixed with impropriety! If there was someone
-to relieve me of my conscience, it wouldn’t be half bad. But I don’t
-live at Pope Lane any longer. You have the honor of sitting beside Sir
-Dante Cardover of Woadley Hall, Ransby, of which, you little wretch, you
-are soon to be mistress.”
-
-“That so? Sorry I spoke. Jump out and crank up the engine. It’s coming
-on again--you’re going to have the sentimentals, and you’re going to
-have ’em bad.”
-
-“I’ve known you sentimental, Fiesole.”
-
-Her lips trembled, and her body stiffened. “And you punished me for it.”
-
-“You have a woman’s memory.”
-
-“Odd, seeing I’m a woman. Who’s going to crank that engine? Am I, or are
-you?”
-
-We swung on through the bare bleak country with masked faces. She sat
-a little apart from me, her knees crossed and her hands clasped about
-them. Did I glance at her, she turned petulantly in the opposite
-direction. I cursed myself. I was almost angry with her. What was her
-plan? Had she given me the privileges of dearness to her simply that she
-might thwart and taunt me? How could I teach her to forget? How could
-I teach myself to forget? At the back of my mind I loved her the more
-because of her perversity.
-
-We came to a cross-road. She touched me on the arm; we swerved into it.
-Far down the white stretch I saw a speck, which resolved itself into a
-man and woman, traveling away from us with their backs towards us. The
-man wore the blue blouse and wide, baggy trousers of a peasant; his feet
-were shod in sabots. The woman was clad in a coarse, loose dress, like
-a sack drawn over her and tied about the middle; it was neutral in tone,
-being aged by weather. Her figure was shapeless--almost animal in its
-ponderous patience and breadth. Her hair was flaxen from exposure. They
-plodded through the bleak expanse with heads bowed, bodies huddled, and
-arms encircling. Every few paces they halted; we saw the gleam of their
-faces as they clung lip to lip in hasty ecstasy.
-
-The wind was blowing from them towards us; they were unaware of us. I
-had my hand on the horn, when Fiesole clutched me.
-
-“Don’t. They’ve nothing in the world but this moment. God knows what
-lies before them!”
-
-We followed them at a distance. The symbolism of their silent figures
-awed us: overhead, the soundless battle of high-flying clouds; beneath,
-the gray vacancy with springtime stirring; around, the dun, unheeding
-earth; through the bareness the white road sweeping on unhurrying toward
-the land of sunsets; traveling along it a man and woman, for the time
-forgetful of their poverty, the focus-point of responsive passion. They
-had nothing but this moment.
-
-“And what have we?” I questioned.
-
-She crouched beside me; her soft arm stole about my neck. “Dearest,
-forgive me,” she murmured.
-
-Her eyes were blinded; my lips against her cheek were salt. She clung
-to me desperately, as though a hand pressed on her shoulder to jerk her
-from me--Vi’s hand.
-
-Where a rutted lane sloped down to a wooded hollow, the lovers turned.
-Among pollarded trees we lost them. They would never know that we had
-watched them. So they vanished out of our lives, walking hand-in-hand
-toward child-bearing and the inevitable separation of death that lurked
-for them at some hidden cross-road. We, equally unknowing, to what place
-of parting were we faring?
-
-I tilted up her face. “I’ve been a selfish fool. I’ll never speak
-another word about marriage or anything that will pain you. Oh, Fiesole,
-if you could only love me--love me as I love you--as though there was
-nothing else left!” She took my hands in her small ones, pressing them
-to her breast, quoting in a low sing-song, “Laugh, for the time is
-brief, a thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to
-the old proud pageant of man.”
-
-“I like that--‘the old proud pageant of man.’ I wonder where you got it.
-But is there to be nothing deeper between us than laughter?”
-
-“If we do the laughing,” she said, “life’s ready to do the rest. But
-you’re a puritan at heart: you suspect that gladness is somehow unholy.
-Don’t you know, Mr. Bunyan, that laughter is the language they speak in
-heaven?”
-
-“I don’t; neither do you. But when you say so laughing, I can almost
-believe it.”
-
-When we had once again started, she became more frank. It was because
-my hands were occupied, perhaps. Laying her cheek against my shoulder,
-“Dante, I’m not a flirt,” she said. “I just can’t make up my mind about
-you.”
-
-“Maybe, I’ll make it up for you.”
-
-“Maybe. But I want you to understand why I did what I did this
-morning--speeding like that and behaving as though I was cracked. I was
-afraid you were going to make love to me every moment--and I didn’t want
-it.”
-
-“D’you want it now?”
-
-“I don’t know.” She dragged the words out wide-apart. “And yet I do
-know; but I’ve no right to allow it.”
-
-“You silly child, why on earth not?”
-
-“I’m inconstant; I’m like that now. I should make you happy first and
-sorry afterwards.”
-
-“I’ll risk it. I made you sorry first and now I’m going to make you
-happy.”
-
-“Do you think you are?”
-
-“Sure of it.”
-
-The road began to descend, at first gradually. The bare, tilled uplands
-where winter lingered, were left behind and we ran through a sheltered
-land of orchards. The air pulsated with the baaing of lambs and the
-sweet yearning of fecundity. Under blown spray of fruit-trees the
-little creatures gamboled, halting by fits and starts, calling to their
-mothers, or kneeling beneath them, their thirsty throats stretched up
-and their long tails flapping. Surrounded by lean trees, lopped of their
-lower branches, gray farmhouses rose up, watching like aged shepherds.
-Slowfooted cattle, heavy-uddered, wandered between the hedges with their
-great bags swinging. Women with brass jars on their shoulders, which
-narrowed at the neck like funeral urns, walked through the meadows to
-the milking.
-
-“Do we turn or go on?”
-
-“Go on.”
-
-“How much farther?”
-
-“A little farther.”
-
-“It’s getting older and older isn’t it, Fiesole?”
-
-“No, younger and younger, stupid. Look at all the lambs.”
-
-Before us the land piled up into a hillock, breaking the level sweep of
-sky-line and hiding what lay beyond. The road curved about it in a slow
-descent.
-
-Fiesole leant past me, shutting off the power. “Let her coast,” she
-said.
-
-At the bend in the road I jammed on the brakes, halting the car. She
-slipped her hand into mine; we filled our eyes with the sight, saying
-nothing.
-
-Sheer against the sky rose a jagged rock and perched on its summit, so
-much a part of it that it seemed to have been carved, stood a ruined
-castle. Its windows were vacant; its roof had long since fallen; its
-walls had been bruised and broken by cannon. It tottered above the
-valley like a Samson blinded, groping on the edge of the precipice, its
-power shorn. Round the embattled rock, like children who trusted the old
-protector, gathered mediaeval houses. Some of them, centuries ago,
-had wandered off into the snowy orchards and stood tiptoe, as though
-listening, ready to run back should they hear the tramp of an invading
-army. Through the valley and into the town a narrow stream darted,
-flashing like an arrow. Behind town and castle, across the horizon,
-towered a saffron wall of cloud, tipped along the edge with fire and
-notched in the center where the molten ball of the setting sun rested.
-From quaint gray streets came up a multitude of small sounds, like the
-lazy humming of women spinning. And over all, across orchards and roofs
-of houses, the grim warden on the rock threw his shadow. It was a valley
-forgotten by the centuries--a garden without barriers.
-
-“Where are we?” I whispered.
-
-“Falaise, my darling. I always promised myself that if ever I should
-love a man, I would bring him to Falaise to love him. Can’t you feel
-it--the slow quiet, the sense of the ages watching?”
-
-She was aflame in the light of the sunset. Her face was ivory, intense
-and ardent with glory. Her waywardness and fondness for disguise were
-gone; her true self, steady and unafraid, gazed out on me. The havoc of
-passion was replaced by the contentment of a desire all but satisfied.
-
-“Let’s go to the castle first,” she said. “You remember its story?”
-
-I remembered: how Robert the Devil, Duke of the Normans, had found
-Arlotta, the tanner’s daughter, washing linen in that same little beck;
-and had loved her at sight and had carried her off to his castle on
-the rock, where was born William the Bastard, conqueror of England and
-greatest of all the Normans.
-
-Leaving the car in the village street, we climbed the rock and gained
-admittance. As we gazed down from the splintered battlements into the
-winding streets, Fiesole drew me to her, throwing her arm carelessly
-about my neck as though we were boy and girl.
-
-“Look,” she whispered, pointing sheer down to the foot of the precipice,
-“there’s the tannery still standing and the beck running past it. And
-see, there are girls washing linen; one of them might be Arlotta. In
-nine hundred years nothing has altered.”
-
-We stole across the threshold of the stone-paved room in which the
-Conqueror was born. “I’m going to shock you,” she said. “I always think
-of Falaise as another Bethlehem--the Bethlehem of war. The Bethlehem of
-peace has crumbled, shattered by war; but here’s Falaise unchanged since
-the day when Robert the Devil seized Arlotta and galloped up the rock,
-and bolted his castle door. It sets one thinking----”
-
-“Thinking something dangerous, I’ll warrant.”
-
-She brushed the rebellious curls from her forehead and leant back
-against the wall laughing. “Thinking all kinds of thoughts: that it pays
-best in this world to steal what you want.”
-
-“Perhaps--if you steal strongly.”
-
-“But I have stolen strongly; see how I’ve carried you off.”
-
-We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by
-a garden and opened out beyond into a misty orchard. At sound of our
-entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office,
-holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole
-detained me. “You’re my prisoner,” she said; “I’m responsible. You stay
-here and I’ll tell her what we want.”
-
-The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent
-indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard,
-where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the
-sabots clap along the causeways.
-
-We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that
-little was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to
-think: for me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not
-what memories. We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of
-live hands was the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen
-when we wandered out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling
-directionless under broken archways, past ancient churches--bribes to
-God for forgiveness for wrongs still more ancient.
-
-We peeped into crouching cottages as we passed. We were glad of their
-company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult of feeling that ran
-riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set
-out to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing
-panes of kindly peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made
-furnishings. Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were
-passed, the family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary
-candle in the center; looming out of the shadows on the wall was the
-cross. Sometimes the man was still at work, carving sabots or weaving,
-while the woman held a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on
-the stone-paved floor.
-
-One by one the lights were quenched and the doors fastened.
-
-Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head
-upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor
-of her body and hear the fluttering intake of her breath. The wind,
-whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant in our
-nostrils. For intervals there was no sound save the rustle of falling
-blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale
-dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between
-steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon
-plunged onward, scattering the clouds before it.
-
-We came again to the hostel; when we entered, we walked apart. Quickly,
-as though seized with sudden misgiving, Fiesole left me. I heard her
-footstep mounting the stairs and saw the light spring up in her window.
-Every other window was in darkness. From where I sat in the courtyard I
-could see the shadow of her figure groping, and her arms uplifted as she
-unbound her hair. The light went out. I wondered if she watched me. I
-listened to hear her stirring; I could hear nothing.
-
-In the dim quiet, shut out from the excitement of her presence, I had
-leisure to reflect on whither I was going. I drew apart from myself and
-eyed my doings impartially. It was a whim of curiosity that had brought
-me to Paris--one of those instinctive decisions which construct a
-destiny. The sight of her as Lucrezia had stabbed me to remorse, and
-then to folly. That she had hated me up to last night and that the
-desire of her wild heart had been to torture me, I did not doubt; but I
-thought that there were moments in this day when she had loved me with
-the old uncalculating kindness. What was her intention now?
-
-Unaccountably out of the past, Fiesole had returned--Fiesole, the
-girl-woman I had loved as a boy before Vi. I felt like a broken gamester
-who has discovered an overlooked coin in his pocket after having
-believed himself penniless. So strange was this happening that it could
-not be fortuitous--we had met because we had been piloted.
-
-All seeming failure of the past would take on an aspect of design
-and would appear a straight road leading to this moment, were our
-journeyings to end in marriage. And, though she would not own it, she
-needed the protection of a man who loved her to guard her against her
-success and self-reliance.
-
-My thoughts ran on, picturing the home and little children we would
-have. Children would be walls about our love, making it secure. For
-these I was hungry--desperately afraid lest the hope of them should be
-withdrawn. In imagination they seemed already mine, I would speak my
-heart out: she should understand before it was too late that my need was
-also hers.
-
-I entered the hostel. In the office the old woman nodded above her
-knitting. I roused her and asked for my candle.
-
-“Ah, Monsieur,” she said in apology, “I had not thought. For a room so
-small I supposed that one would be sufficient. I have given Madame the
-candle. If Monsieur will wait, I will fetch another.”
-
-In my surprise I told her that it did not matter.
-
-I felt my way up the unlit stairs. At the bedroom-door I knocked.
-Fiesole’s voice just reached me, whispering to me to enter. On the
-threshold I paused, peering into the darkness. The floor was bare;
-there was little furniture. In the shadows against the wall, a canopied,
-high-mattressed bed loomed mountainous. Through the window, reaching
-almost to my feet, a ray of moonlight slanted; in it, gleaming white,
-stood Fiesole.
-
-My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as
-the silence lengthened, the space between us seemed impassable.
-
-She held out her arms; her hoarse voice spoke, yearning towards me with
-its lazy sweetness. “Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.”
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER X--THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN
-
-I had been for a saunter through the town. Several times I had returned
-before I found Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at
-the table with a paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly
-at sound of my footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to
-make room for me beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her
-face with childish eagerness as though we had not kissed already more
-than once that morning. “Shall I order déjeuner out here?”
-
-She nodded. “Where else, but in the sunshine?” When I came back from
-giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper.
-
-“Something interesting?”
-
-“Rather.” She raised her green eyes mischievously. “It’s all up. We’ll
-be collared within the hour.”
-
-“What’s all up? Who’s got the right to collar us?”
-
-“Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but
-most particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the
-theatre-management.”
-
-“Let ’em try. We don’t care.”
-
-“But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn’t have been here
-now if it hadn’t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them.
-They gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch.
-It isn’t playing the game, as I understand it.”
-
-“If it’s damages for a broken contract they’re after, I’ll settle that
-for you.”
-
-She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me
-extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments.
-
-It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had
-expected her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed
-matters for half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for
-her. When the crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance
-with an under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up
-in their places stamping and threatening, shouting for _La Fiesole_.
-The curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward,
-weeping and wringing his hands, saying that _La Fiesole_ had been
-kidnaped by an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The
-theatre for a time was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were
-summoned and got the audience out, and the money refunded.
-
-The journalist’s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few
-nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else
-had grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had
-created a scene between himself and _La Fiesole_ at a café in the Champs
-Elysées--a scene which had terminated by them going away together.
-
-“Make you out quite a desperate character, don’t they, old darling?” she
-drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing.
-
-I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so
-much publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder.
-“Come, drink up your coffee, little woman; it’s getting cold. Why waste
-time over all this nonsense? You’re out of it. It’s all ended.”
-
-“But it isn’t. Paris won’t let it be ended. They’re making more row
-about me than they did about La Gioconda. They’ve offered a reward of
-five thousand francs for my recovery.”
-
-“And if they did find us, they couldn’t do anything. Discovery won’t be
-easy.”
-
-“Won’t it? We were seen yesterday going together towards St. Cloud;
-they’ve got the number of my car and particulars of my dress from
-Marie.”
-
-“But didn’t you warn Marie?”
-
-“Silly fellow, how should I? Didn’t know myself what I was going to do
-when we started--at least I didn’t know positively.”
-
-“Humph!”
-
-“Ripping, isn’t it, for a chap like you as ’as allaws lived decent and
-’oped to die respected? Dannie, Dannie, you’re a regular Robert the
-Devil--only I stole you, and nobody’ll ever believe it.”
-
-“It doesn’t matter what they say about me; it’s your good name that
-matters.--I promised yesterday never to speak another word about
-marriage. May I break my promise?”
-
-“You’ve done it. Go on, John Bunyan.”
-
-“Well, here’s my plan: that we motor through to Cherbourg and skip over
-to Southampton.”
-
-“And then?”
-
-“Get a special license in the shortest time possible. When we’re
-discovered, you’ll be Lady Cardover.”
-
-“But it isn’t necessary that I should be Lady Cardover. I’m not ashamed
-of anything. Are you?”
-
-“Perhaps not; but there’s nothing to be gained by dodging the
-conventions. I ought to know; I’ve been dodging ’em ever since I
-can remember. I’ve come to see that there’s something grand about
-conventions; they’re a sort of wall to protect someone you love dearly
-from attack. We’re man and wife already by everything that’s sacred; but
-we shall never be securely happy unless we’re married.”
-
-Our meal was finished. We wandered off into the orchard at the back.
-When we were safe from watching eyes, Fiesole gave me her hand. We came
-to a place where trees grew closer together; here we rested. She leant
-against me, her face wistful and troubled; the sun through the branches
-scattered gold and the blossoms snowflakes in her hair.
-
-Presently she disentangled herself from my arms, and jumped to her feet,
-smiling gently. “I’ve a surprise for you, my virgin man. I want you to
-stop here for half an hour and promise not to follow.”
-
-“A long time to be without you.”
-
-“But promise.”
-
-“All right. Very well.”
-
-She stooped over me quietly before she went. I watched her pass swaying
-across the dappled turf, under the dancing shadows and rain of petals.
-Just before she entered the courtyard, she turned and waved her hand.
-
-Something in Fiesole’s distant aspect, something of seeming maidenly
-daintiness, brought to mind another woman--gold and ivory, with poppies
-for her lips, were the words which had described her. While I had walked
-Falaise that morning I had striven to banish her from my thoughts.
-And now Fiesole, from whom I had hoped to obtain forgetfulness, Fiesole
-herself had unconsciously reminded me.
-
-In the stillness I confronted myself: I was being faithless to the
-loyalty of years--I had done and was about to do a thing which was
-traitorous to all my past. Vi’s memory, though in itself sinful, had
-demanded chastity from me.
-
-Yet my present conduct was not incompatible with my past: it was
-the result of it. Puppy passions of thought had grown into hounds of
-action--that was all.
-
-From the first my pagan imagination, at war with my puritan conscience,
-had lured me on. All my life I had been breaking bounds imaginatively:
-innocently for Ruthita in my childhood; in appearance for Fiesole at
-Venice; dangerously for Vi; and at last in fact for Fiesole. Narrower
-affections I had passed by, not perceiving that their narrowness made
-for safety and kindness. The unwalled garden of masterless desire had
-proved a wilderness; its fruit was loneliness.
-
-Last night, sitting in the courtyard, I had told myself that in
-remaining constant to Vi, I had gambled for the impossible. Was it true?
-In any case, to have followed up the risk strongly was my only excuse
-for having gambled at all. By turning back I abandoned the prize, and
-made the sin of loving a forbidden woman paltry.--Might she not have
-been waiting for me all these years, as I had been waiting! What an
-irony if now, when I was destroying both the hope and reward of our
-sacrifice, she were free and preparing to come to me!
-
-And Fiesole! I had used her to drug my unsatisfied longing. Should I
-not do her more grievous wrong in marrying her while I loved another
-woman?--I had been mad. I was appalled.
-
-Could I ever be at peace with her--ever make her happy? Fiesole was so
-flippant, so casual of all that makes for wifehood. And she was almost
-right in saying that I had made her what she was--first by my virtue,
-now by my lack of it. All we could give one another would be passion,
-swift and self-consuming. Soon would come satiety, the fruit of my
-doings; after that regret, the fruit of my thoughts. And if we did not
-marry, I should eat the same fruit, made more bitter by self-scorn.
-
-Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong
-lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of
-domestic affection, giving shelter and security.
-
-This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door
-should be closed on the past----
-
-I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging
-of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the
-inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened,
-I felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to
-hear it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal
-for me. It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned
-fainter and fainter.
-
-Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran
-across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far
-up the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the
-direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled.
-
-The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. “For
-Monsieur from Madame.”
-
-Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers.
-The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to
-twist its words into another meaning.
-
-The note ran:
-
-_My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman’s memory; you’ll
-remember Potiphar’s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely.
-You see, I’m what you made me: Lucrezia--your handiwork. For years I
-have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you.
-It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday--you know the
-rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer
-all that you once made me suffer. And I’m almost sorry; for here, at
-Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can’t be done._
-
-Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris.
-The cloud of dust had vanished.
-
-
-THE END
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
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-
-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: The Garden Without Walls
-
-Author: Coningsby Dawson
-
-Release Date: May 28, 2017 [EBook #54801]
-Last Updated: October 4, 2018
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS ***
-
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-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
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-</pre>
-
-    <div style="height: 8em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h1>
-      THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-    </h1>
-    <h2>
-      By Coningsby Dawson
-    </h2>
-    <h4>
-      New York: Grosset &amp; Dunlap Publishers
-    </h4>
-    <h3>
-      1913
-    </h3>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
-      <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h5>
-      <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
-    </h5>
-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
-      <img src="images/0002.jpg" alt="0002 " width="100%" /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h5>
-      <a href="images/0002.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
-    </h5>
-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
-      <img src="images/0003.jpg" alt="0003 " width="100%" /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h5>
-      <a href="images/0003.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
-    </h5>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
-      <img src="images/0005.jpg" alt="0005 " width="100%" /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h5>
-      <a href="images/0005.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
-    </h5>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <b>CONTENTS</b>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I&mdash;THE WALLED-IN GARDEN</b> </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I&mdash;MY MOTHER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II&mdash;THE MAGIC CARPET </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III&mdash;THE SPUFFLER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V&mdash;MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;THE YONDER LAND </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE OPEN WORLD </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;RECAPTURED </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE SNOW LADY </a>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK II&mdash;THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS</b>
-      </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER I&mdash;THE RED HOUSE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER II&mdash;CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH
-      COMFORTERS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER III&mdash;THE WORLD OF BOYS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;NEW HORIZONS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER V&mdash;THE AWAKENING </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;WHAT IS LOVE? </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE
-      SPUFFLER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;MONEY AND HAPPINESS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER X&mdash;THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XI&mdash;STAR-DUST DAYS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>BOOK III&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS</b>
-      </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER I&mdash;I MEET HER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER II&mdash;I MEET HER AGAIN </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER III&mdash;FATE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;THE TRUTH ABOUT HER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER V&mdash;LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;MOTHS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;THE WAY OF ALL FLESH </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE ELOPEMENT </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER X&mdash;PUPPETS OF DESIRE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XI&mdash;SPRING WEATHER </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XII&mdash;THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XIII&mdash;THE TURNING POINT </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XIV&mdash;I GO TO SHEBA </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XV&mdash;THE FLAME OF A SWORD </a>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> <b>BOOK IV&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN</b>
-      </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER I&mdash;THE HOME-COMING </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER II&mdash;DREAM HAVEN </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER III&mdash;NARCOTICS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER V&mdash;LA FIESOLE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;SATURNALIA </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS </a>
-    </p>
-    <p class="toc">
-      <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER X&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN </a>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      BOOK I&mdash;THE WALLED-IN GARDEN
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      <i>And God planted a garden and drove out man; and he placed at the east
-      of Eden angels and the flame of a sword.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER I&mdash;MY MOTHER
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t happened about
-      six in the morning, in a large red room. A bar of sunlight streamed in at
-      the window, in which dust-motes were dancing by the thousand. A man and
-      woman were lying in bed; I was standing up in my cot, plucking at the
-      woman with my podgy fingers. She stirred, turned, rubbed her eyes, smiled,
-      stretched out her arms, and drew me under the bed-clothes beside her. The
-      man slept on.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This is my earliest recollection. If it be true that the soul is born not
-      at the same time as the body, but at a later period with the first
-      glimmering of memory, then this was the morning on which my soul groped
-      its way into the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I have sometimes thought that I have never grown wiser than the knowledge
-      contained in that first recollection. Nothing that I have to record in
-      this book will carry me much further. The scene is symbolic: a little
-      child, inarticulate, early awakened in a sunlit room, vainly striving to
-      make life answer questions. Do we ever get beyond that? The woman is
-      Nature. The man is God. The room is the world&mdash;for me it has always
-      been filled with sunlight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My mother I remember as very tall and patient, vaguely beautiful and
-      smiling. I can recall hardly anything she said&mdash;only her atmosphere
-      and the fragrance of violets which seemed always to cling about her. I
-      know that she took me out beneath the stars one night; there was frost on
-      the ground and church-bells were ringing. And I know that one summer&rsquo;s
-      day, on a holiday at Ransby, she led me through lanes far out into the
-      country till my legs were very tired. We came to a large white house,
-      standing in a parkland. There we hid behind a clump of trees for hours. A
-      horseman came riding down the avenue. My mother ran out from behind the
-      trees and tried to make him speak with her. She held me up to show me to
-      him, and grasped his rein to make him halt. He said something angrily, set
-      spurs to his horse, and disappeared at a gallop. She began to cry, telling
-      me that the man was her father. I was too tired to pay much attention. She
-      had to carry me most of the way home. It was dark when we entered Ransby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In London some months later&mdash;it must have been wintertime, for we
-      were sitting by the fire-light&mdash;she took me in her arms and asked me
-      if I would like to have a sister. I refused stoutly. At dawn I was wakened
-      by hurrying feet on the staircase. Next day I was given a new box of
-      soldiers to keep me quiet. A lot of strange people stole in and out the
-      house as if they owned it. I never saw my mother again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All I had known of her had been so shy and gentle that it was a good deal
-      of a surprise to me to learn years later that, as a girl, she had been
-      considered rather dashing. She had been called &ldquo;The gay Miss Fannie
-      Evrard&rdquo; and her marriage with my father had begun with an elopement. Her
-      father was Sir Charles Evrard, brother-in-law to the Earl of Lovegrove; my
-      father&rsquo;s folk were ship-chandlers in Ransby, outfitting vessels for the
-      Baltic trade.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The inequality of the match, as far as social position was concerned, made
-      life in Ransby impossible. My father was only a reporter on the local
-      paper at the time of his escapade; the Evrards lived at Woadley Hall and
-      were reckoned among the big people in the county. It must have been to
-      this house that my mother took me on that dusty summer&rsquo;s day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After his marriage my father settled down in London, gaining his living as
-      a free-lance journalist. I believe he was very poor at the start. He did
-      not re-visit Ransby until years later. Pride prevented. My mother returned
-      as often as finances would allow, in the vain hope of a reconciliation
-      with her family. On these occasions she would stay at the ship-chandler&rsquo;s,
-      and was an object of curiosity and commiseration among the neighbors.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Most of the facts which lie outside my own recollection were communicated
-      to me by my grandmother. She never got over her amazement at her son&rsquo;s
-      audacity. It was without parallel in her experience until I attempted to
-      repeat his performance with an entirely individual variation. She never
-      tired of rehearsing the details; it was noticeable that she always
-      referred to my mother as &ldquo;Miss Fannie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Often and often,&rdquo; she would say, &ldquo;have I seen Miss Fannie come a-prancin&rsquo;
-      down the High Street with her groom a-followin&rsquo;. She was always mounted on
-      a gray horse, with a touch of red about her. Sometimes it was a red
-      feather in her hat and sometimes a scarlet cloak. When Sir Charles rode
-      beside her you could see the pride in his eye. She was his only child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After my small sister failed to arrive someone must have told me that my
-      mother had gone to find her. I would sit for hours at the window, watching
-      for her homecoming.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER II&mdash;THE MAGIC CARPET
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was born in South
-      London on a crowded street lying off the Old Kent Road. It was here that
-      my mother died. When I was about six, a false-dawn came in my father&rsquo;s
-      prospects, on the promise of which he moved northward to the suburb of
-      Stoke Newington.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the time of which I write, Stoke Newington still retained a village
-      atmosphere. The houses, for the most part, were old, bow-windowed, and
-      quaint. Many of them were occupied by leisured people&mdash;retired
-      city-merchants, maiden-ladies, and widows, who came there because it was
-      reasonable in price without being shabby. It was a backwater of the
-      surging stream of London life where one found time to grow flowers, read
-      books, and be kindly. Its red, tree-shaded streets witnessed many an
-      old-fashioned love-affair. The early morning was filled with country
-      sounds&mdash;singing of birds, creaking of wooden-gates, and cock-crowing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our house was situated in Pope Lane, a blind alley overgrown with limes.
-      It had posts set up at the entrance to prevent wheel-traffic. You could
-      not see the houses from the lane, so steeply did the walls rise up on
-      either side. It led nowhere and was a mere tunnel dotted with doors. Did
-      the doors open by chance as you were passing, you caught glimpses of
-      kitchen-gardens, shrubberies, and well-kept lawns. We rarely saw our
-      neighbors. Each door hid a mystery, on which a child could exercise his
-      fancy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father was too strenuously engaged in wringing an income out of
-      reluctant editors to pay much attention to my upbringing. In moving to
-      Pope Lane, he had made an increase in his expenditure which, as events
-      proved, his prospects did not warrant. The keeping up of appearances was a
-      continuous and unrelenting fight. Early in the morning he was at his desk;
-      the last thing in the evening, when I ventured into his study to bid him
-      good-night, his pen was still toiling industriously across the page. His
-      mornings were spent in hack-work, preparing special articles on
-      contemporary economics for a group of daily papers. His evenings were
-      given over to the writing of books which he hoped would bring him fame,
-      many of which are still unpublished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He coveted fame and despised it. He wrote to please himself and expected
-      praise. He was an unpractical idealist, always planning huge undertakings
-      for which there was no market. His most important work, which occupied
-      twenty years of his life, was <i>The History of Human Progress</i>. It was
-      really a history of human selfishness, written to prove that every act
-      which has dug man out of the mire, however seemingly sacrificial and
-      noble, had for its initial motive an enlightened self-interest. He never
-      managed to get it before the public. It was disillusionizing. We all know
-      that we are selfish, but we all hope that with luck we could be heroes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The trouble with my father was that he was an emotionalist ashamed of his
-      emotions. He wanted to be scrupulously just, and feared that his
-      sentiments would weaken his judgments. Temperamentally he was willing to
-      believe everything. But he had read Herbert Spencer and admired the
-      academic mind; consequently he off-set his natural predisposition to faith
-      by re-acting from everything accepted, and scrawled across the page of
-      recorded altruism a gigantic note of interrogation. He gave to strangers
-      and little boys the impression of being cynical and hard, whereas he had
-      within him the smoldering enthusiasms and compassion which go to the
-      kindling of martyrs and saints. He was planned for a man of action, but
-      had turned aside to grope after phantoms in the mazes of the mind. His
-      career is typical of the nineteenth century and sedentary modes of life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Looking back I often wonder if he would not have been happier as a
-      ship-chandler, moving among jolly sea-captains, following his father&rsquo;s
-      trade. How many hours, mounting into years, he wasted on literary failures&mdash;hours
-      which might have been spent on people and friendships. As a child I rarely
-      saw him save at meal-times, and then he was pre-occupied. For some years
-      after my mother&rsquo;s death he was afraid to love anyone too dearly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He solved the problem of my immediate existence by locking the door into
-      the lane, and giving me the freedom of the garden. I can recall it in
-      every phase. Other and more recent memories have passed away, but, when I
-      close my eyes and think back, I am there again. Moss-grown walks spread
-      before me. Peaches on the wall ripen. I catch the fragrance of box,
-      basking in sunshine. I see my father&rsquo;s study-window and the ivy blown
-      across the pane. He is seated at his desk, writing, writing. His face is
-      turned away. His head is supported on his hand as though weary. I am
-      wondering why it is that grown people never play, and why it is that they
-      shut smaller people up always within walls.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I saw nothing of the outside world except on Sundays. My father used to
-      lead me as far as the parish church, and call for me when service was
-      ended. He never came inside. His intellectual integrity forbade it. He was
-      an agnostic. My mother, knowing this, had made him promise to take me. He
-      kept his word exactly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Few friends called on us. My companions were cooks and housemaids. I
-      borrowed my impressions of life, as most children do, from the lower
-      orders of society. A servant is a prisoner; so is a child. Both are
-      subject to tyranny, and both are dependent for their happiness on
-      omnipotent persons&rsquo; moods and fortunes. A maidservant is always dreaming
-      of a day when she will marry a lord, and drive up in a glittering carriage
-      to patronize her old employer. A child, sensitive to misunderstanding, has
-      similar visions of a far-off triumph which will consist in heaping coals
-      of fire. He will heap them kindly and for his parents&rsquo; good, but
-      unmistakably.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was in Pope Lane that I first began to dream of a garden without walls.
-      As I grew older I became curious, and fretted at the narrowness of my
-      restraint. What happened over there in the great beyond? Rumors came to
-      me; sometimes it was the roar of London to the southward; sometimes it was
-      the sing-song of a mower traversing a neighbor&rsquo;s lawn. I dreamt of an
-      unwalled garden, through which a child might wander on forever&mdash;an
-      Eden, where each step revealed a new beauty and a fresh surprise, where
-      flowers grew always and there were no doors to lock.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a book which gave the first impulse to this thought; in a sense it
-      was responsible for the entire trend of my character and life. In recent
-      years I have tried to procure a copy. All traces of it seem to have
-      vanished. If I ever knew the name of the author I have forgotten it. I am
-      even uncertain of the exact title. I believe it was called <i>The Magic
-      Carpet</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mine was a big red copy. The color came off when your hands got sticky. It
-      had to be supported on the knees when read, or the arms got tired. It was
-      a story of children, ordered about by day, who by night went forth
-      invisible to wander the world, riding on the nursery carpet. Absurd! Yes,
-      but this carpet happened to be magic. All you had to do was to seat
-      yourself upon it, hold on tight, and wish where you wanted to be carried.
-      In a trice you were beyond the reach of adults, flying over roofs and
-      spires, post-haste to the land of your desire. In that book little boys
-      ate as much as they liked and never had stomach-ache. They defeated whole
-      armies of cannibals without a scratch. They rescued fair ladies, as old as
-      housemaids, but ten times more beautiful, who wanted to marry them. No one
-      seemed to know that they were little. No one condescended or told them to
-      run away and wash their faces. Nobody went to school. Everybody was
-      polite.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The pictures which illustrated the adventures still seem in remembrance
-      the finest in the world. They typify the spirit of romance, the soul of
-      youth, the revolt against limitations. They appealed to the lawless
-      element within me, which still yearns to straddle the stallion of the
-      world and go plunging bare-back through space.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried every carpet in the house, but none of ours were magic. I lay
-      awake imagining the lands, I would visit if I had it. I would go to my
-      mother first, and try to bring her back. I remembered vaguely how
-      care-free my father had been when we had had her with us. Perhaps, if she
-      returned, he would be happy. Then an inspiration came; there was one
-      carpet which I had <i>not</i> tested&mdash;it lay before the fire-place in
-      my father&rsquo;s study. But how should I get at it? Only in the hours of
-      darkness was it different from any other carpet, and in the evenings my
-      father was always there. I never doubted but that this was the carpet; its
-      difficulty of access proved it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One night I lay awake, pinching myself to stave off sleep. It was winter.
-      Outside I could hear the trees cracking beneath the weight of snow upon
-      their boughs. The servants came to bed. I saw them pass my door, casting
-      long shadows, screening their candles with their hands lest the light
-      should strike across my eyes and rouse me. I waited to hear the study-door
-      open and close. In waiting I began to drowse. I came to myself with a
-      shudder. What hour it was I could not guess. I got out of bed. Stealing to
-      the top of the stairs I looked down; all was blackness. Listening, I could
-      hear the heavy breathing of sleepers. Bare-footed, I crept down into the
-      hall, clinging to the banisters. The air was bitter. I was frightened.
-      Each step I took seemed to cause the house to groan and tremble. The door
-      of the study stood open. By the light of the fire, dying in the grate, I
-      could just make out the carpet. Darting across the threshold, I knelt upon
-      it. &ldquo;Take me to Mama,&rdquo; I whispered. The minutes ticked by; it did not
-      stir. I spoke again; nothing happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I heard a sound in the doorway&mdash;a sudden catching of the breath. I
-      turned. My father was standing, watching me. I did not scream or cry out.
-      He came toward me through the darkness. What with fear of consequences and
-      disappointment, I fell to sobbing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I think he must have seen and overheard everything, for, with a tenderness
-      which had something hungry and awful about it, he gathered me in his arms.
-      Without a word of question or explanation, he carried me up to bed. Before
-      he left, he halted as though he were trying to utter some thought which
-      refused to get said. Suddenly he bent above the pillow, just as my mother
-      used to do, and kissed me on the forehead. His cheeks were salty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As my eyes closed, a strange thing happened. The snow lay on the ground
-      and there were no flowers, but the room was filled with the fragrance of
-      violets.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER III&mdash;THE SPUFFLER
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day there was a
-      ring at the door in the lane, followed by a loud and impatient rat-a-tat.
-      A gentleman, who was a stranger to me, hurled himself across the
-      threshold. He wore the frown of one who is intensely in earnest, whose
-      mind is very much occupied. His mustaches were the fiercest and most eager
-      that I ever saw on any man. They stuck out at right angles from under his
-      nose like a pair of shaving-brushes. They were of an extraordinary
-      purplish color, and would have done credit to a pirate. But his dress was
-      more clerical than sea-faring. It consisted of a black frock coat, bound
-      with braid at the edges where the cloth was fretted; his vest was low-cut
-      to display an ocean of white shirt, above which a small tie of black silk
-      wobbled. Hurrying up the path, tugging at his bushy eye-brows, he
-      disappeared into the house. The last I saw of him was a red bandana
-      handkerchief, streaming like a danger-signal from his coat-tail pocket. I
-      thought he must be one of those hostile publishers my father talked about
-      or, at the very least, an editor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty, the maid, came into the garden looking worried. She did not stand
-      on the steps and yell, as was customary, as though daring me to disobey
-      her. She caught up her skirts with a dignified air and spoke my name
-      softly, employing the honeyed tones with which she enticed our milkman
-      every morning. I perceived at once that something momentous had occurred,
-      and came out from behind the bushes. Then I saw the reason for her sudden
-      change of manners&mdash;the purple mustached stranger was watching us from
-      behind the curtains of my father&rsquo;s study-window. I was most agreeably and
-      unpresentably grubby. Hetty was distressed at my appearance; I knew she
-      was by the way she kept hurting my hand and muttering to me to hide behind
-      her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we got inside the house she became voluble, but only in whispers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now, Master Dante, I can&rsquo;t &rsquo;elp it if the soap do get into your
-      mouth. You&rsquo;ve got to be a clean boy fer once in yer h&rsquo;existence. It may
-      mean h&rsquo;everythin&rsquo;. That gent&rsquo;s some relation o&rsquo; yourn. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s goin&rsquo;
-      to take you away wiv him, an&rsquo; he may &rsquo;ave money. I shall &rsquo;ate
-      to lose yer. Now let&rsquo;s look at yer neck.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She scrubbed away at my face till it was scarlet; she let the water from
-      the flannel trickle down my back. I was too awe-inspired to wriggle; by
-      some occult power the dreadful personage downstairs might learn about it.
-      Having been pitched into my Sunday sailor-suit and squeezed into a pair of
-      new boots and prickly stockings, I was bundled into the august presence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I entered he was straddling the fire-place carpet&mdash;the one which
-      ought to have been magic&mdash;and waggling his coat-tails with his hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father rose from his chair. &ldquo;This is your great-uncle, Obadiah
-      Spreckles. Come and be introduced, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Up to now I had never heard of such a relative, but I came timidly forward
-      and shook hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A fine little fellow. A very fine little fellow, and the image of his
-      mother,&rdquo; said my great-uncle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father winced at the mention of my mother. My great-uncle spread his
-      legs still wider and addressed me in a jerky important manner.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Got a lot of dogs and cats. Got a goat and a cow. Got some hens. Got up
-      early this morning. Saw the sun shining. Thought you might like to take a
-      look at &rsquo;em, young man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning to my father, &ldquo;Well, Cardover, I must be going. I&rsquo;ll take good
-      care of him and all that. I&rsquo;m very busy&mdash;hardly a moment to spare.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before I knew what had happened, I had said good-bye to my father and was
-      standing in the lane alone with my strange uncle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the door had banged and he knew that no grownup could see him, he
-      changed his manner. His hurry left him. Placing his hands on my shoulders,
-      he looked down into my face, laughing. &ldquo;Now for a good time, old chap.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At the end of the lane, where the posts blocked the passage, stood a
-      little dog-cart and pony. My bag was stowed under the seat; at a click of
-      the tongue from my uncle, the little beast started up like the wind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a bright June morning. The sky was intensely blue and cloudless.
-      The air was full of flower-fragrance and dreamy somnolence. I had seen so
-      little of the world that everything was vivid to me, and touched with the
-      vagrant poetry of romance. Tram-lines were streaks of silver down the
-      streets, shops were palaces, cabbies gentlemen who plied their trade
-      because they loved horses. Postmen going their rounds were
-      philanthropists. Everyone was free, doing what he liked, and happy. In my
-      child&rsquo;s way I realized that neither my father nor myself was typical&mdash;not
-      all little boys were locked in gardens and not all grown men slaved from
-      morning to midnight. A great lump came into my throat. It would have been
-      quite easy to cry, I was so glad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Uncle Obadiah kept chatting away, telling me that the name of his little
-      mare was Dollie and how he came to buy her. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t afford it, you know,
-      old chap. She costs me ten shillings a week for fodder. But when I saw
-      that coster whacking her, and she looked up into my eyes when I went to
-      stop him, I just couldn&rsquo;t resist her. She seemed to be asking me to buy
-      her, and I did. You should have heard what your Aunt Lavinia said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      All the way along the streets he kept pointing with his whip to things
-      that he thought were interesting. He engaged me in conversation&mdash;a
-      thing which no one had thought worth doing. He asked me questions which
-      were not senseless, and seemed to suppose that a child had reasoning
-      powers. I was flattered, and began to surprise myself by the boldness of
-      the things I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We rattled down the City Road, past the Mansion House, over London Bridge
-      to the Elephant and Castle, and so out toward Dulwich till we came within
-      sight of the Crystal Palace.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He began to slow down and grow pensive, as though working out a problem.
-      &ldquo;You see, she&rsquo;ll have lunch ready. She&rsquo;s expecting us. She&rsquo;s very precise
-      about the keeping of hours and won&rsquo;t like it.&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;Hang it all. We may
-      as well have a holiday now we&rsquo;re out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Shaking loose the reins we started forward again, racing everything we met
-      upon the road. My uncle&rsquo;s high spirits returned. I don&rsquo;t know where we
-      went. I know there were woods and farm-houses. We stopped for lunch at a
-      village-inn. It stood on the edge of a gorse-common. On the common a
-      donkey was grazing. A flock of geese wandered across it. Boys were playing
-      cricket against a tree-stump. Several great wagons, piled high with
-      vegetables, were drawn up, the horses with their heads deep in nose-bags.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had our meal in the tap-room with the wagoners. While they were present
-      my uncle assumed his pontifical manner, addressing me as &ldquo;young man&rdquo; and
-      them as &ldquo;my good fellows.&rdquo; He was very dignified, and benevolent, and
-      haughty. They were much impressed. But when they had left and we were
-      alone, he winked his eye at me solemnly, as much as to say &ldquo;that was all
-      pretense. Now let&rsquo;s be natural,&rdquo; and entered once more into my boy&rsquo;s world
-      of escapades and gilded shadows.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While the mare rested, we strolled round. In a hollow of the woods we came
-      across a gipsy encampment. Three yellow caravans were drawn up together. A
-      fire was burning in the open, over which an iron pot was suspended from a
-      bough. A fierce, gaudily clad woman was bent above it stirring. She looked
-      up at sound of our approach and the big ear-rings which dropped upon her
-      neck jangled. Recognizing my uncle she nodded, and allowed us to sit down
-      and watch her. Presently a rough man came out of the woods and threw
-      himself down beside us. A young woman returned from fortune-telling, with
-      her baby in a shawl across her shoulders. Bowls were brought out, and we
-      had a second lunch from the great pot bubbling on the fire. Pipes were
-      produced; the women smoked as well as the men. My uncle asked them where
-      they had been and how they had fared since last he saw them. I listened
-      intently to their answers; it seemed that they must have discovered the
-      boundless garden of which I had only dreamt.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the dog-cart on the homeward journey, I learnt that my uncle was
-      acquainted with a number of queer people. &ldquo;Everybody&rsquo;s interesting,
-      Dante,&rdquo; he said, by way of excuse and explanation; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s never safe to
-      despise anyone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In course of conversation he informed me that he had always longed to be a
-      gipsy, but had never dared. When I asked why not, he answered shortly,
-      &ldquo;Your Aunt Lavinia&mdash;she&rsquo;s not like us and wouldn&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But if there wasn&rsquo;t any Aunt Lavinia&mdash;would you dare then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I might have to,&rdquo; he said, smiling grimly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I didn&rsquo;t know at all what he meant. He didn&rsquo;t intend I should. After all
-      these years those words, chance-spoken to a child, remain with me. They
-      were as near to a confession that his wife supported him as was possible
-      for a proud man.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My grandmother Cardover at Ransby, whose sister he had married, had a
-      habit of nicknaming people with words of her own invention. She called my
-      great-uncle The Spuffler. Whether the verb <i>to Spuffle</i> is Suffolk
-      dialect or a word of her own coining, I have never been able to find out&mdash;but
-      in its hostile sense it described him exactly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A spuffler is a gay pretender, who hides his lack of success beneath the
-      importance of his manners. Time is his one possession, and to him it is
-      valueless; yet he tries to impress the world with its extreme rarity. A
-      spuffler is always in a hurry; he talks loudly. He plays a game of
-      make-believe that he is a person of far-reaching authority; he deceives
-      others and almost deceives himself. He is usually small in stature and not
-      infrequently bald-headed. In conversing he makes an imaginary lather with
-      his hands and points his finger, at you. He may splutter and spit when he
-      gets excited; but this is accidental and not necessary. The prime
-      requisite is that he should affect the prosperity of a bank-president and
-      be dependent on some quite obscure source for his pocket-money. Since I
-      have lived in America I have become familiar with a word which is very
-      similar&mdash;<i>a bluffer</i>. But a bluffer is a conscious liar and may
-      be a humorist, whereas a spuffler does all in his power to deceive himself
-      and is always in dead earnest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It is a curious fact that the men whom I loved best as a child were all
-      three incompetents in the worldly sense. They were clever, but they lacked
-      the faculty of marketing their talents. They were boys in men&rsquo;s bodies.
-      With children they had the hearts of children and were delightful. With
-      business men their light-heartedness counted as irresponsibility and was a
-      drawback. In two out of the three cases named, the disappointments which
-      resulted from continual defeat produced vices. Only my Uncle Obadiah, clad
-      in his armor of unpierceable spuffle, rode through the ranks of life
-      scatheless, with his sweetness unembittered and his integrity untarnished.
-      But they were all good men.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through the June twilight we returned to the outskirts of London. We
-      turned in at a ruined gateway, and rode through a tunnel of overhanging
-      trees where laburnum blazed through the dusk. A long rambling house grew
-      up before us. At one time it must have been the country estate of some
-      city-merchant. At sound of our wheels on the gravel, the front-door opened
-      and a little lady stepped out to greet us. She was neat and speckless as a
-      hospital nurse. Her body was slim and dainty as a girl&rsquo;s. There was an air
-      of decision and restraint about her, which was in direct opposition to my
-      uncle&rsquo;s hurried geniality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we had halted, she lifted me out of the dog-cart and carried me into
-      the house to a large room at the back, which looked into a shadowy garden
-      and a paddock beyond. It seemed older and more opulent than any house I
-      had known as yet. There was so much space about it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle came in from stabling Dollie. &ldquo;Well, Lavinia, I couldn&rsquo;t get home
-      to lunch. Very sorry, but it couldn&rsquo;t be helped.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He darted a look across at me, wondering how much I had told her. The
-      secret was established; I knew that I must hold my tongue. I knew
-      something else&mdash;that he was afraid of her. Throughout the meal he
-      kept up a stream of strenuous pretense, discussing large plans aloud with
-      himself. What they were I cannot now remember. I suppose my grandmother
-      would have called them spuffle. Suddenly he rose from the table, saying
-      that he had a lot of letters to answer and excused himself. But when I
-      went into his room an hour later to bid him good-night, he was sitting
-      before his desk, doing nothing in particular, biting the end of his pen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When my aunt and I were left together I felt very lonely at first. She had
-      sat so silent all through supper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But when the door had closed, she turned to me laughing. I knew at once
-      that, like most grown-ups when they are together, she had only been
-      shamming. Now she was-going to be real.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you have a good day in the country?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Oh, he can&rsquo;t deceive
-      me; I could tell by the dust on the wheels.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then, realizing, I suppose, that it was not fair to pump me, she stopped
-      asking questions and began to speak about myself. She drew up a chair to
-      the window and sat with me in the dark with her arms about me. She seemed
-      extraordinarily young, and when her silky gray hair touched my cheek as
-      she bent above me, I wondered what had made my uncle say that she wasn&rsquo;t
-      like us and wouldn&rsquo;t understand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They each had their secret world of desire: his was the open road, where
-      liberty was and lack of convention; hers was a home with fire-light and
-      children. She was childless. Into both these worlds a little boy might
-      enter. That night as I lay awake in bed I was puzzled. Why was it that
-      grown people were so funny, and could never be real with one another?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was my Uncle
-      Obadiah who first opened my eyes to the mysteries of the animal world. In
-      so doing he flung wide a door into happiness which many a wiser man has
-      neglected. He derived nearly all his pleasures from the cheerful little
-      things of life. A curious sympathy existed between him and the lower
-      creation. All the cats and dogs in the district were his friends. He
-      attributed to them almost human personalities, and gave them special names
-      of his own choosing. It was a wonderful day for me when he first made me
-      realize that all-surrounding was a kingdom of beasts and birds of which I,
-      who had always been ruled, might be ruler.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the paddock which lay between the garden and orchard, he had his own
-      especial kingdom. His subjects were a cow, a goat, some very domestically
-      inclined rabbits, about a hundred hens, and innumerable London sparrows.
-      The latter he had trained to fly down from the trees and settle on his
-      shoulders when he whistled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Early in the morning we would go there together; the first duty of the day
-      was to feed the menagerie. How distinctly I can recall those scenes&mdash;the
-      dewy lawn, dappled golden by sunlight falling through leaves, the droning
-      of bees setting forth from hives on their day&rsquo;s excursion, the smoke
-      slowly rising in the summer stillness from distant chimney-pots, and my
-      uncle&rsquo;s voice making excited guesses at how many eggs we should gather.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Eggs represented almost his sole contribution to the family income. Among
-      his many Eldorados was the persistent belief that he could make his
-      fortune at poultryraising. He would talk to me about it for hours as we
-      worked in the garden, like a man inspired, making lightning calculations
-      of the sums he would one day realize. He was continually experimenting and
-      crossing breeds with a view to producing a more prolific strain of layers.
-      He had a dream that one day he would produce the finest strain of fowl in
-      the world. He would call it <i>The Spreckles</i> &mdash;his name would be
-      immortalized. He would be justified in the eyes of Aunt Lavinia; and
-      success would justify him in the eyes of all men.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Meanwhile my aunt declared that Obad spent more time and thought on that
-      blest live-stock than he would ever see back in money. &ldquo;Obad&rdquo; was her
-      contraction for his name; when she spoke to him sharply it sounded like
-      her opinion of his character. But, in her own way, she was fond of him.
-      Perhaps she had come to love his very failings as we do the faults of our
-      friends. She was secretly proud of her own capacity; her thwarted
-      mother-instinct found an outlet in the sense of his dependence.
-      Nevertheless, the great fundamental cleavage lay between them: she lived
-      in an anxious world where tradesmen&rsquo;s bills required punctual payment; his
-      world was a careless playground in which no defeat was ever final. She was
-      stable in her moods, self-reliant and tenaciously courageous. He was
-      forever changing: with adults he was like a house in mourning, shuttered,
-      austere, grave; but should a youngster pass by, the blinds were jerked
-      aside and a laughing face peered out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His most important make-believe was that he was a benefactor of humanity.
-      He held honorary positions of secretary to various philanthropic societies&mdash;<i>The
-      Society for the Housing of Gipsies; The Society for the Assisting of
-      Decrepit Ladies</i>, etc. The positions were honorary because he could
-      find no one willing to pay him. He worked for nothing because he was
-      ashamed of being forever out of employment. He got great credit for his
-      services among charitable people; the annual votes of thanks which he
-      received helped to bolster up his self-respect throughout the year.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I grew older and more observant, I used to wonder what had induced my
-      aunt to marry him. Again it was my Grandmother Cardover who told me, &ldquo;He
-      spuffled Lavinia into it, my dear.&rdquo; It seems that he caught her by the
-      vast commercial and humanitarian possibilities of one of his many plans.
-      When she awoke to the fact that her husband was not a man, but the
-      incarnation of perpetual boyhood, she may have been disappointed, but she
-      did not show it. Like a sensible woman, instead of crying her eyes out,
-      she set about earning a livelihood. Uncle Obad had one marketable asset&mdash;his
-      religion and the friends he gained by it. She took a decayed mansion in
-      Charity Grove and established a Christian Boarding House. All her lodgers
-      were young men, and by that proud subterfuge of poverty they were known as
-      paying-guests.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The only Christian feature that I can remember about her establishment was
-      that my uncle said grace before all meals at which the lodgers were
-      present. At the midday meal, from which they were absent, it was omitted.
-      The Christian Boarding House idea caught on with provincial parents whose
-      sons were moving up to the city for the first time; it seemed to guarantee
-      home morals. The sons soon perceived how matters stood and buried their
-      agnostic prejudices beneath good feeding.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A general atmosphere of obligation was created by my aunt in her husband&rsquo;s
-      favor; she always spoke as though it was very kind of so public a man as
-      Mr. Spreckles to squander his scanty privacy by letting paying-guests
-      share his roof. She made such a gallant show with what she earned that
-      everyone thought her husband had a private fortune, which enabled him to
-      live in such style and give so much time to charitable works. She would
-      hint as much in conversing with her friends, and invariably feigned the
-      greatest pride and contentment in his activities. Thanks to his spuffling
-      and her courage, there were not five people outside the family who ever
-      guessed the true circumstances.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But when all is said, the real business of my Uncle Obad&rsquo;s life was not
-      philanthropy or running a boardinghouse, but poultry-raising. It was he
-      who gave me the old white hen, without which I might never have met
-      Ruthita. My money-making instincts were roused by his talk of the profits
-      to be derived from eggs. I was enthusiastic to follow in his footsteps. To
-      this end, at the hour of parting, when I was returning to Pope Lane, he
-      gave me an ancient white Leghorn. He did not tell me she was ancient; he
-      recommended her to me as belonging to a strain that could never get
-      broody.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the long drive home across London, my grief at leaving Charity Grove
-      was partly mitigated by my new possession. It was a tremendous experience
-      to feel that I had it in my power to make a live thing, even though it
-      were but a hen, sad or happy. I discussed with Uncle Obad all the care
-      that was necessary for egg-production. I got him to work out sums for me.
-      If my hen were to lay an egg every other day throughout the year, how much
-      money would I make by selling each egg to my father at a penny? I felt
-      that the foundations of my financial fortunes were secure. The genuineness
-      of my expectations made my uncle restless and ashamed; he knew that the
-      hen had passed her first youth, and suggested that pepper in her food
-      might help matters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was supper-time when I arrived home. I let the hen loose on the lawn to
-      stretch her legs. My father was busy as usual, but he delayed a little
-      longer over the meal in honor of my home-coming.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Some of the things I blurted out about my uncle must have revealed to him
-      the comradeship that lay between us. He had risen from the table, but he
-      sat down again. &ldquo;You have known your uncle just a fortnight,&rdquo; he said,
-      &ldquo;and yet you seem to have told him more about yourself than you have told
-      me in all these years. Why is it, Dante? You&rsquo;re not afraid of me? It can&rsquo;t
-      be that.&rdquo; We were both of us shy. He reached over and took my hand,
-      repeating, &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He knew that it was that and so did I. Yet he was hungry for my affection.
-      He was making an unaccustomed effort to win my confidence and draw me out.
-      But he spoke to me as though I was a grown man, whereas my uncle to get
-      near me had become himself a child. If he had only talked to me about my
-      white hen, I should have chattered. But I was awed by his embarrassment,
-      and remained silent and unresponsive.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He went on to tell me that all the time he was away from me in his study
-      he was working for my sake. &ldquo;I want to have the money to give you a good
-      start in life. I never had it. You must succeed where I have failed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I understood very little of what he was saying except that money and
-      success seemed to be the same. That was the way Uncle Obad had talked
-      about poultry-raising. I had no idea where money came from or how it was
-      obtained. I must have asked him some question about it, for I recall one
-      of the phrases he used in replying, &ldquo;A man succeeds not by what he does,
-      but by the things at which he has aimed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The red sun fell behind the trees while we talked, peered above my
-      father&rsquo;s shoulder, and sank out of sight. It was dusk when I ran into the
-      garden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt prisoned again&mdash;the door into the lane was locked and the
-      walls were all about me. The lamp in my father&rsquo;s study was kindled and
-      flung a bar of light across the shrubbery. He was working to get the money
-      that I might be allowed to work. I didn&rsquo;t like the idea. I didn&rsquo;t want to
-      work. Why couldn&rsquo;t one drive always through the sunshine, pulling up at
-      taverns and sitting beside gipsy camp-fires?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I commenced to search for the white hen and so forgot these economic
-      complications. Here and there I came across places where she had been
-      scrabbing, but I could see her nowhere. At last I discovered her roosting
-      on the branch of an apple-tree which grew close by the wall at the end of
-      the garden. I spoke to her kindly, but she refused to come down. She was
-      too high up for me to reach her from the ground. When I scattered grain,
-      she blinked at me knowingly, as much as to say, &ldquo;Surely you don&rsquo;t think
-      I&rsquo;m as big a fool as that.&rdquo; It seemed to me that she was grieving for all
-      the cocks and hens to whom she had said farewell. She was embittered
-      against me because she was solitary. I explained to her that, if she&rsquo;d lay
-      eggs, I&rsquo;d buy her a husband. She remained skeptical of my good intentions.
-      There was nothing for it&mdash;but to climb. I could hear the leaves
-      shaking and the apples bumping on the ground; my hand was stretched out to
-      catch her when, with a hoarse scream of defiance, she flapped her wings
-      and disappeared into the great nothingness over our neighbor&rsquo;s wall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Unless the white hen had blazed the trail, I might have remained in the
-      walled-in garden for years without ever daring to discover a way out. I
-      was too excited at this crisis to measure my temerity. In my fear of
-      losing her I did a thing undreamt of and unplanned&mdash;I swung myself
-      from the branch on to the top of the brickwork and dropped on the other
-      side. A bed of currant bushes broke my fall. I got upon my feet scratched
-      and dazed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The first thing I saw was a long stretch of grass bordered by flowers. At
-      the end of it was a small two-storied house, gabled and with verandas
-      running round it. In one of the upper-story windows a light was burning;
-      all the rest was in darkness. In the middle of the lawn I could see my
-      white hen strutting in a very stately manner. I stole up behind her, but
-      she began clucking. In my fear of discovery, I lost all patience and
-      commenced to chase her vigorously. I ran her at last into a bed of peas,
-      where she became entangled. I had her in my arms when I heard a voice,
-      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning suddenly, I found that a little girl was standing close behind me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My name&rsquo;s Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And mine&rsquo;s Ruthita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We stared at one another through the dusk. I had never spoken to a little
-      girl and for some reason, difficult to explain, commenced to tremble. It
-      was not fear that caused it, but something strong and emotional.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;How pretty!&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;Where do you live?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I jerked my thumb in the direction of the wall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You climbed over?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I nodded. She laughed softly. &ldquo;Could you do it again? Oh, do come often,
-      often. I&rsquo;m so lonely, and we could play together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then the voice of Hetty began to call in the distance,
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dan-tee, Dan-tee, where are you? Come to bed di-rectly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice drew nearer. She was searching for me, and passed quite close to
-      us on the other side of the wall. We could hear the indignant rustle of
-      her skirt and her heavy breathing with bending down so low to peer under
-      bushes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita came near to me so that I had my first glimpse of her eyes in the
-      dark&mdash;eyes which were always to haunt me. Her hands were clasped
-      against her throat in eagerness&mdash;she seemed to be standing tiptoe.
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell,&rdquo; she pleaded. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s our secret. But come again to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I promised.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She watched me scrambling for a foot-hold in the wall. When I sat astride
-      it, just before I vanished, she waved her hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The white hen had lost her importance in my thoughts;
-      I bundled her into the tool-house, and then surrendered to Hetty. Hetty
-      was very cross. She wanted to discover where I had been hiding, but I
-      wouldn&rsquo;t tell her. When she left me, I crept out of bed and knelt beside
-      the window for a long time gazing down into the blackness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Far away a bird was calling. The tall trees waved their arms. The moon
-      leapt out of clouds, and the branches reached up to touch her with their
-      fingers. A little beam of light struggled free and ran about the garden. I
-      tried to tell myself it was Ruthita.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The garden seemed less of a prison now&mdash;rather a place of magic and
-      enchantment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER V&mdash;MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I was
-      up early. Spiders&rsquo; webs were still crystal with dew in the garden; they
-      had not yet been tattered by the sun lifting up the flowers&rsquo; heads. I had
-      no hope that I would see Ruthita, but I wanted to peep across the wall
-      while everyone was in bed and there was no one to observe me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had covered half the distance to the apple-tree, when I heard a sound of
-      voices. They came from behind the tool-house. I fisted my hands and
-      listened. A man and woman were conversing, but in such low tones that I
-      could hear nothing that was said. I made sure they were thieves who had
-      heard about my hen, and had come to rob me. I looked back at the windows
-      of our house. All the blinds were lowered; everyone was sleeping. There
-      was no sign of life anywhere, save the hopping of early risen blackbirds
-      between bushes in search of early risen worms. With a quickly beating
-      heart I crouched beside the wall, advancing under cover of a row of
-      sunflowers. Looking out from between their stalks, I discovered a man
-      sitting on a wheelbarrow; a woman was balanced on his knee with her arm
-      about his neck. The woman was Hetty and the man was our gardener.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty was wearing her starched print-dress, ready to begin her morning&rsquo;s
-      work. She wasn&rsquo;t a bit scornful or solemn, but was laughing and wriggling
-      and tossing her head. She seemed quite a different person from the stern,
-      moral housemaid, God&rsquo;s intimate friend, who told me everything that God
-      had thought about me through the day when at night she was putting me to
-      bed. Up to that moment it had never occurred to me that she was pretty,
-      but now her cheeks were flushed and the sun was in her rumpled hair. While
-      I watched, our gardener drew her close and kissed her. She squeaked like a
-      little mouse, and pretended to struggle to free herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I never dreamt that grown people ever behaved like that. I hadn&rsquo;t the
-      faintest notion what she was doing or why she was doing it; but I knew
-      that it was something secret, and silly, and beautiful. I also had the
-      feeling that it was something pleasant and wrong, just like the things I
-      most enjoyed doing, for which I was punished. I wanted to withdraw and
-      tried to; but tripped over the sunflowers and fell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty and the gardener sprang apart. I knew what was going to happen next;
-      I had caught them being natural&mdash;they were going to commence
-      shamming. The gardener became very busy, piling his tools into the barrow.
-      Hetty, talking in her cold and distant manner, said to him, &ldquo;And don&rsquo;t
-      forget the lettuce for breakfast, John. Master&rsquo;s very partic&rsquo;lar about
-      it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I came from my hiding, thrusting my hands deep in my pockets, as though I
-      kept my courage there and was frightened of its dropping out. The
-      gardener&rsquo;s back was towards me, but he caught sight of me from between his
-      legs. He just stopped like that with his face growing redder, his mouth
-      wide-open, and stared. Hetty didn&rsquo;t look as pretty as she had been
-      looking, but before she could say anything I said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry. I didn&rsquo;t
-      mean to. I came to see my fowl&mdash;&mdash; but I won&rsquo;t tell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bless &rsquo;is little &rsquo;eart,&rdquo; cried John; &ldquo;I thought it were &rsquo;is
-      Pa, I wuz that scared.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty knelt down beside me and rocked me to and fro half-hysterically,
-      making me promise again and again that I would never tell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was you doin&rsquo; somethin&rsquo; wrong?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;What was you doin&rsquo;?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      They looked foolishly at one another.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All that day they kept me near them on one pretext or another, afraid to
-      let me get away from them. I had never known them so sensible and
-      obliging; they did all kinds of things for me that they had never done
-      before. After breakfast, while Hetty was dusting, John built me a little
-      fowl-run. In the afternoon, while he was cutting the grass, Hetty sat with
-      me beneath the apple-tree and told me what life meant. She spoke in
-      whispers like a conspirator, and all the time that she was talking, I
-      could hear Ruthita humming just the other side of the wall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I understood it, this was what she told me. When you first get here,
-      <i>here</i> being the world, you own nothing; and know nothing. Then, as
-      you grow up, you know something but still own nothing. That&rsquo;s why you&rsquo;re
-      ordered about and told not to do all the things that you want most to do.
-      You can only please yourself when nobody&rsquo;s looking and must obey nearly
-      everyone until you get money. There are several ways of getting it, and
-      the pleasantest is sweet-hearting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Here I interrupted her to inquire what was sweet-hearting. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she
-      said, turning her face away and looking dreamily at John, who was pushing
-      the mower across the lawn, &ldquo;sweet-heartin&rsquo;s what you saw me and John
-      doin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Does it always have to be done before breakfast?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She threw back her head and laughed, swaying backwards and forwards. Then
-      she became solemn and answered, &ldquo;I &rsquo;ave to do it before breakfast
-      &rsquo;cause I&rsquo;m a servant. But I does it of evenin&rsquo;s on my night out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She went on to tell me that sweet-hearting was the first step towards
-      freedom and money. The second step was a honeymoon, which consisted in
-      going away with a person of the other sex for a week to some place where
-      you weren&rsquo;t known. When you came back to the people who knew you, they
-      said you were married. So marriage was the third and last step. After that
-      you were given a house, and money, and all the things for which you had
-      always yearned. You had other people, who were like you were before you
-      went sweet-hearting, to take your orders, and run your errands, and say
-      &ldquo;Sir&rdquo; or &ldquo;Madam.&rdquo; Sometimes when you came back from your honeymoon, you
-      found children in the house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So through that long summer&rsquo;s afternoon beneath the apple-tree, with the
-      leaves gently stirring and the sound of Ruthita humming across the wall, I
-      gained my first lesson in sexology and domestic economics. It solved a
-      good many problems by which I had been puzzled. For instance, why Uncle
-      Obad had a pony and I hadn&rsquo;t; why I was sent to bed always at the same
-      hour and my father went only when he chose; why big people could lose
-      their tempers without being wicked, whereas God was always angry when I
-      did it. There was only one thing that I couldn&rsquo;t understand: why two boys
-      couldn&rsquo;t go on a honeymoon together, or two girls, and have the same
-      results follow. Except for this, the riddle of society was now solved as
-      far as I was concerned. Marriage seemed a thousand times more wonderful
-      than the magic carpet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was tremendously interested in the possibilities of sweet-hearting and
-      promised to help Hetty all I could. In return she declared that, when she
-      was married, she would persuade my father to let her take me out of the
-      garden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That evening I crept over the wall and found Ruthita waiting. She was a
-      slim dainty little figure, clad in a short white dress. She had great gray
-      eyes, and long black hair and lashes. Her voice was soft and caressing,
-      like the twittering of a bird in the ivy when one wakens on a summer
-      morning. I told her in hurried whispers what I had discovered. It was all
-      news to her. She slipped her hand into mine while I spoke and nestled
-      closer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Little boy,&rdquo; she whispered when I had ended, &ldquo;you <i>are</i> funny! You
-      come climbing over the garden-wall and you tell me everything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      An old man came out of the house and began to pace up and down the walks.
-      His head was bent forward on his chest and he had a big red scar on his
-      forehead. A cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. He carried a stick in
-      his hand on which he leant heavily. Ruthita said he was her grandfather.
-      Soon he began to call for her, and she had to go to him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Little by little I learnt her story. Her grandfather was a French general.
-      He had fought in the Franco-Prussian War until the Fall of the Empire and
-      Proclamation of the Republic. Shortly after the flight of the Empress
-      Eugénie he had come to England in disgust. His son, Ruthita&rsquo;s father, had
-      stayed behind and been cut to pieces in the Siege of Paris. Ruthita&rsquo;s
-      mother was an Englishwoman. She had never recovered from the shock of her
-      husband&rsquo;s death. It was her light that I saw burning in the bedroom window
-      of evenings. They were almost poor now and lived in great seclusion. The
-      grandfather had dropped his rank and was known as plain Monsieur Favart.
-      So Ruthita was even a closer prisoner than myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What did we talk about in those first stolen hours of&rsquo; childish
-      friendship? I asked her once when we were grown up, but she could not tell
-      me. Perhaps we did not say much. We felt together&mdash;felt the mystery
-      of the enchanted unseen world. Why, the pigeons strutting on the housetops
-      had seen more than we had; and they were not half as old as we were! They
-      spread their wings, soared up into the clouds, and vanished. We told one
-      another stories of where they went; but long before the stories were ended
-      Monsieur Favart would come searching for Ruthita or the voice of Hetty
-      would ring through the dusk, calling me to bed. Then I would lie awake and
-      imagine myself a pigeon, and finish the story to myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The great beauty of our meetings was that they were undiscovered. It was
-      always I who went to Ruthita&mdash;she was nothing of a climber, and the
-      red bricks and green moss would have left tell-tale marks upon her dress.
-      We had a nest of straw behind the currant bushes. Here, with backs against
-      the hard wall and fingers digging in the cool damp earth, we would sit and
-      wonder, talking in whispers, of all the mysteries that lay before us.
-      Ruthita had vague memories of Paris, of soldiers marching and the beating
-      of drums. Sometimes she would sing French songs to me, of which she would
-      translate the meaning between each verse. My contribution to our little
-      store of knowledge was limited to what I have written in these few
-      chapters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I don&rsquo;t know at what stage in the proceedings our great idea occurred. It
-      must have been in the early autumn, for the evenings were drawing in and
-      often it was chilly. I had been talking about Hetty, when suddenly I
-      exclaimed, &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t we do that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do what?&rdquo; she questioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Get married!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I reminded her of the extreme simplicity of marriage as explained by
-      our housemaid. All we had to do was to slip out of the garden for a few
-      days, and then come back. We should find a house ready for us. Perhaps I
-      should have a pony like Uncle Obad, and, instead of dolls, Ruthita would
-      have real babies. It was the real babies that caught her fancy. Because of
-      her mother, she needed a little persuading. &ldquo;What will she do wivout me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what would she do if you&rsquo;d never been borned?&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita had five shillings in her money-box. I had only a shilling; for
-      the white hen, in spite of pepper, had failed to lay any eggs. Six
-      shillings seemed to us a fortune&mdash;ample to provide for the honeymoon
-      of two small children.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The gate from Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s garden was never locked: that was
-      evidently our easiest way out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;THE YONDER LAND
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat did we hope to
-      find that autumn morning when we slipped through that narrow door,
-      forsaking the walls? It was all a guess to us&mdash;what lay beyond; but
-      we knew that it must be something splendid. Of one thing we were quite
-      certain: that at the end of a few days we should have grown tall; we
-      should return to Pope Lane a man and woman. The little house would be
-      there waiting, magically built in our hours of absence. Perhaps work had
-      been begun already upon the babies that Ruthita wanted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the first time I had kissed her that morning, awkwardly and shyly,
-      feeling that somehow it was proper. At any rate, Hetty and our gardener
-      always kissed when they got the chance and no one was looking.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s door swung to behind us. We ran as quickly as our legs
-      would carry us. The fear of pursuit was upon us. Pinned to the pillow of
-      each of our empty beds was a sheet of paper on which was scrawled, &ldquo;<i>Gon
-      to git Maried.&rdquo;</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When at last we halted for breath, we seemed to have covered many miles of
-      our journey. We were standing in a long, quaint street. On one side flowed
-      a river, railed in so we couldn&rsquo;t get near it. On the other side stood an
-      irregular row of substantial houses, for the most part creeper-covered. No
-      faces appeared in the houses&rsquo; windows. No one passed up or down the
-      street. It was as yet too early. It seemed that the world was empty, and
-      that we and the birds were its only tenants. We turned to the right,
-      half-walking, half-running. I held Ruthita&rsquo;s hand tightly; the feel of it
-      gave me courage.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We must have made a queer pair in the mellow autumn sunlight. Ruthita wore
-      a white dress with a red cloak flung over it. On her head was a yellow
-      straw poke-bonnet, which made her face look strangely small. She had on
-      black shoes, fastened by a single strap, and black and white socks which,
-      when she ran, kept dropping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had no idea of direction, but just hurried on with a vague idea that we
-      must keep moving forward.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently we came across a drover, driving a flock of bewildered, tired
-      sheep. He was a lame man. He had an inflamed red face and one of his eyes
-      was out. When he wanted to make his flock move faster, he jabbed viciously
-      at their tails with a pointed stick and started hopping from side to side,
-      barking like a dog. He passed right by us, saying nothing, waving a red
-      flag in his left hand with which he would sometimes mop his forehead. We
-      followed. We followed him through streets of shops all shuttered; we
-      followed him up a broad-paved hill; we followed him down a winding lane to
-      a bridge across a river, beyond which lay marshes. Then he turned and
-      called to us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Little master, where be you goin&rsquo; and why be you followin&rsquo;?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      To the country, I told him, to find the forest. I wanted to show Ruthita
-      the unwalled garden through which my uncle had led me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The man screwed up his one eye, and gazed upon us shrewdly. &ldquo;You be wery
-      small to be goin&rsquo; to the forest. But so be you&rsquo;re travellin&rsquo; along my
-      route you might as well &rsquo;elp an old feller.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We made our bargain with him. We would help him with his sheep, if he
-      would guide us to the forest. We ran beside him across the short, crisp
-      grass, imitating his cries to prevent the sheep from scattering. He told
-      us that he had driven them from Epping up to London, but that times were
-      cruel bad and the farmer who employed him had been unable to sell them.
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s cruel &rsquo;ard on a man o&rsquo; my years,&rdquo; he kept saying, &ldquo;cruel &rsquo;ard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I asked him what was cruel hard, he shook his head as though language
-      failed to express his wrongs: &ldquo;The world in gineral.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was one of the sheep whose leg was broken. It kept lagging behind
-      the rest, which made the man jab at it furiously. Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes filled
-      with tears of indignation when she saw it. She stamped her little foot and
-      insisted that he should not do it. The man pushed back his battered hat
-      and scratched his forehead, staring at her. He seemed embarrassed and
-      tried to excuse himself. &ldquo;Humans is humans, miss, and sheep is sheep. It
-      makes an old chap, made in Gawd&rsquo;s h&rsquo;image, kind o&rsquo; bitter to &rsquo;ave
-      to spend his days a-scampering after a crowd o&rsquo; silly quadrupeds. But if
-      yer don&rsquo;t like it, I won&rsquo;t do it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The river wound round about us. Sometimes it would leave us, but always it
-      came flowing after us, in great circles as though lonely and eager for our
-      company. On its banks stood occasional taverns, gaily painted, with wooden
-      tables set before them. The grass about them was trodden bare, showing
-      that they were often populous; but now they were deserted. Big barges lay
-      sleepily at anchor, basking in the sun.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The drover commenced speaking again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an old soldier, I am. I lost me
-      eye and got lamed in the wars; and now they makes game o&rsquo; my h&rsquo;infirmities
-      and calls me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The name they called him was evidently too dreadful. He sighed heavily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor man,&rdquo; said Ruthita, slipping her hand into his horny palm. &ldquo;What do
-      they call you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Old-Dot-and-Carry-One, &rsquo;cause o&rsquo; the way I walks. It&rsquo;s woundin&rsquo;.
-      It &rsquo;urts me feelin&rsquo;s, after the way I&rsquo;ve served me country.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We seated ourselves by the muddy river-bank, while the sheep grazed and
-      rested. Far in the distance trees broke the level of the sky-line, so I
-      knew that we were going in the right direction and our guide was to be
-      trusted. Dot-and-Carry-One produced a loaf of bread from his pocket and,
-      dividing it into three pieces, shared it with us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Little by little he gave us his confidence, telling us of the world as he
-      knew it. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a place o&rsquo; wimen and war. To the h&rsquo;eye wot&rsquo;s prejoodiced
-      there&rsquo;s nothin&rsquo; else in it. But your h&rsquo;eye ain&rsquo;t prejoodiced, and don&rsquo;t
-      yer never let it git so, young miss and master. I&rsquo;ve seen lots. I wuz in
-      the Crimea and I wuz in h&rsquo;India, but I never yet seen the country where a
-      man can&rsquo;t be &rsquo;appy if he wants. There&rsquo;s music, an&rsquo; there&rsquo;s nature,
-      an&rsquo; there&rsquo;s marriage. Now music for h&rsquo;instance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He produced from his ragged coat a penny whistle and trilled out a tune
-      upon it. While he played he looked as merry a fellow as one could hope to
-      meet in a day&rsquo;s march. The sheep stopped cropping to gaze at us. We
-      clapped our hands and asked him to go on.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head and replaced his pipe. &ldquo;Then there&rsquo;s nature. Just now I
-      wuz complainin&rsquo;. But supposin&rsquo; I do drive sheep back and forth, how many
-      men wuz up in Lun&rsquo;non to see the sunrise this mornin&rsquo;? I never miss it, &rsquo;ceptin&rsquo;
-      when I&rsquo;m drunk. I knows the seasons o&rsquo; the bloomin&rsquo; flowers, Gawd bless &rsquo;em,
-      and can h&rsquo;imitate the birds&rsquo; songs and call &rsquo;em to me. That&rsquo;s
-      somethin&rsquo;. An&rsquo; if I don&rsquo;t sleep in a stuffy bed, which would be better,
-      for me rheumatics, I can count the stars and have the grass for coverin&rsquo;.
-      And then there&rsquo;s marriage&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He paused. His eye became moist and his face gentle. &ldquo;I &rsquo;ad a
-      little nipper and a girl once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That was all. We wanted to ask him questions about marriage, but he pulled
-      his hat down over his eyes and lay back, refusing to answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita and I guarded the sheep and kept them from straying, while he
-      slept. We made chains out of flowers, and, taking off our shoes and socks,
-      paddled in the water. Then Ruthita grew tired and, leaning against my
-      shoulder, persuaded me to tell her the story of where we were going.
-      Before the tale was ended, her eyes were closed and her lips were parted.
-      My arms began to ache terribly; I wondered whether it was with holding her
-      or because I was growing. I hoped it was because I was growing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dot-and-Carry-One woke up. He looked at the sun. &ldquo;Time we wuz h&rsquo;orf,&rdquo; he
-      remarked shortly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had not gone far along the river-bank when we came to a tavern on our
-      side of the water. Ruthita said that she was thirsty, so we entered. The
-      drover spread himself out on a bench and, soliciting my invitation, called
-      for &ldquo;a pint of strong.&rdquo; Good beer, he said, never hurt any man if taken in
-      moderation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We must have sat for the best part of the morning, watching him toss off
-      pot after pot while we gritted our feet on the sanded floor. For each pot
-      he thanked us, taking off his battered hat to Ruthita and blowing away the
-      froth from the top in our honor. He explained to all and sundry that we
-      wuz his little nipper and girl wot he had losht. He losht us years ago, so
-      long he could hardly remember. The tavern-girl entered into a discussion
-      with him, saying that we could not be more than nine and that he was at
-      least seventy. He became angry, demanding whether a man of seventy hadn&rsquo;t
-      lived long enough to know his own children, and what bloody indifference
-      it made to her, anyway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It occurred to me that it might be just possible that he really was
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s father. I had no idea what dying meant. I had been told that the
-      dead were not really dead&mdash;only gone. So I thought that death might
-      mean not being with your friends in the garden. I half expected to find my
-      mother in the forest, just as I had hoped to bring her back on the magic
-      carpet. So when Dot-and-Carry-One was so positive, I asked him if he had
-      heard of the Siege of Paris. He was in a mood when he had heard of
-      everything, been everywhere, and had had every important person for a
-      friend. Of course he had heard of the Siege of Paris; if it hadn&rsquo;t been
-      for him, to-day there wouldn&rsquo;t be any Paris. When I told him of General
-      Favart, he wept copiously and called for another pot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The tavern-girl told him that that must be his last, and he said that it
-      was cruel &rsquo;ard the way an old soldier were persecooted. When we had
-      paid for his drinks, we discovered that we had only three shillings and
-      eightpence left of our little stock of money. The tavern-girl said we were
-      poor h&rsquo;innercent lambs and she should set the police on him. The drover
-      told her that spring, not autumn, was the lambing season.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All through the long and drowsy afternoon we wandered on.
-      Dot-and-Carry-One seemed in no great hurry to reach his destination. Beer
-      had had a transfiguring effect upon him. He lurched along jauntily, his
-      hat cocked sideways on his head, winking with his one good eye at any
-      girls we met in our path. His cares and sense of injustice were forgotten.
-      He told us tales of his wars, painting tremendous and bloody scenes of
-      carnage. He slew whole armies that afternoon, and at the end of each
-      battle he was left alone, wounded but dauntless, with the dead &rsquo;uns
-      piled high about him. He went into grisly details of the manner of their
-      dying, and stopped now and then to show us with his stick the different
-      ways in which you could kill a man with a sword. Cockney lovers on the
-      river gaped after us, resting on their oars. They saw nothing but an
-      intoxicated old ruffian in charge of a flock of sheep and two small
-      children. But we were in hero-land, and Dot-and-Carry-One was our
-      giant-killer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ruthita got tired, he hoisted her on to his shoulders, where she rode
-      straddling his neck, with her hands clasped about his forehead. The
-      forest, like a green silent army, with its flags unfurled marched nearer.
-      The sun sank lower behind us; our long lean shadows ran on before us till
-      they lay across the backs of the sheep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We left the marshes and entered on a white dusty road. Carriages and
-      coaches and wagons kept passing, which made the sheep bewildered. They
-      kept turning this way and that, bleating pitifully. Ruthita had to walk
-      again, while Dot-and-Carry-One barked and waved his stick to keep the
-      flock from scattering. The night came on and we were hungry. At last
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s legs gave out and she sat down by the roadside crying, saying
-      that she was frightened and could go no further. Then Dot-and-Carry-One
-      drove his flock into the forest, and borrowed a shilling from me and left
-      us, promising to go and buy food with it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The sheep lay down about the roots of the trees, and we pillowed our heads
-      against their woolly backs. The silence became intense; the last of the
-      twilight vanished. I was glad when Ruthita put her arms round my neck, for
-      I too was nervous though I would not own it. We waited for the drover to
-      return, and in waiting slept.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I woke with a start. The moon was shining; long paths of silver had been
-      hewn between the trees. The fleece of the kneeling sheep was sparkling and
-      dewy. Far down one of the paths I could see a limping figure approaching.
-      He was shouting and singing and stabbing at his shadow. As he came nearer
-      I could distinctly see that he held a bottle in his hand. Something warned
-      me. I roused Ruthita, telling her to make no sound. We ran till we were
-      breathless and the shouting could be no more heard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Trees grew wider apart where we had halted. Far away a flare of light
-      shone up; as we watched we saw that people passed before it. Hand-in-hand
-      we advanced. Something groaned quite near us. We commenced to run, but,
-      looking back, saw that it was only a tethered donkey. We came to the
-      outskirts of the crowd. We wanted company badly. Burrowing under arms and
-      legs we made our way to the front. A great linen sheet was stretched
-      between two trees. Set up on iron rings before it was a line of cocoanuts.
-      On either side flaring naphtha-lamps were burning. About thirty yards away
-      from the sheet a woman was serving out wooden balls. Between the sheet and
-      the cocoanuts a man was darting up and down, dodging the balls as they
-      were thrown and returning them. The man and woman were calling out
-      together, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball &rsquo;its a
-      cocoanut. Down she goes. &rsquo;Ere you are, sir. Two for the children
-      and one for the missis. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Whether a cocoanut went down or stayed up, they continued to assert in a
-      hoarse, cracked monotone that it had fallen. Their faces were dripping
-      with perspiration. The man returned the balls and the woman served them
-      out again mechanically. The throwers took off their coats and hurled
-      furiously, to the accompaniment of the shrill staccato chatter of the
-      crowd.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita and I stood blinking in the semi-darkness, our eyes dazzled by the
-      lamps. Suddenly I called out, and pushing my way between the throwers,
-      commenced running up the pitch. The man behind the cocoanuts, realizing
-      that the balls had ceased coming, stopped dodging and looked up to see
-      what was the matter. Just then an impatient thrower hurled a ball which
-      went whizzing over me, missed the cocoanuts, and hit the man on the head,
-      splitting his eyebrow. I was terribly afraid that he would topple over and
-      lie still, like Dot-and-Carry-One had told me men did in battle. Instead
-      of that, when I came within reach of him he clutched me angrily by the
-      shoulder, asking me what the devil I meant. The blood, creeping down his
-      face in a slow trickle, made him look twice as fierce as when I had first
-      met him with my Uncle Obad by the gipsy campfire. He drew me near to one
-      of the lamps, smearing his forehead with the back of his hand. He
-      recognized me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s you, you young cuss, is it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then the fortune-telling girl came up, whom I had seen before with
-      the baby on her back. She was carrying Ruthita.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here, Lilith,&rdquo; he said, speaking gruffly, &ldquo;take &rsquo;im to your tent.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then he commenced again, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball
-      &rsquo;its a cocoanut. Down she goes,&rdquo; etc.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was glad to creep into the cool darkness, clinging close to Lilith&rsquo;s
-      skirt. I was a little boy now, with scarcely a desire to be a husband.
-      When I looked across my shoulder the game was in full swing. The woman was
-      serving out the balls; the crowd was paying its pennies; the man was
-      dodging up and down before the sheet, avoiding the balls and returning
-      them. I heaved a sigh of relief; then he had not succumbed&mdash;he was
-      not yet a dead&rsquo;un.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE OPEN WORLD
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night in the
-      tent I slept soundly, with the fortuneteller&rsquo;s arm about me and my head
-      nearly touching Ruthita&rsquo;s across her breast. The soft rise and fall of her
-      bosom made me dream of my mother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Glimmerings of the early autumn sunrise crept in through holes in the
-      canvas. I raised myself cautiously and gazed at the woman who had cared
-      for me. I call her a woman, for she seemed to me a woman then; she was
-      about seventeen&mdash;little more than a girl. Her face was gentle and
-      passionate; her jet black hair streamed down in a torrent across her tawny
-      throat and breast. She smiled in her sleep and murmured to herself; the
-      arm which clasped Ruthita kept twitching, as though to draw her nearer.
-      While I watched, her eyes opened; she said nothing, but lay smiling up at
-      me. Presently she put her free arm about my neck, and drew me down so my
-      cheek rested against hers. She turned her head and I saw that, though she
-      looked happy, there were tears on her long dark lashes. Her lips moved and
-      I knew what she wanted. Putting my arms about her, I kissed her
-      good-morning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Rousing Ruthita, she raised the flap of the tent and we slipped out. Mists
-      were drifting across the woodland, pink and golden where the sunrise
-      caught them, but lavender in the shadows. It was a quiet fairy world, like
-      the face of a sleeping woman, which was pale with dew upon the forehead
-      and copper and bronze with the streaming hair of faded foliage. Outside
-      the door the grass was blackened in a circle where a gipsy fire had burnt.
-      The yellow caravan stood near. In and out the bracken rabbits were
-      hopping, nibbling at the cool green turf. The gipsy&rsquo;s lurcher watched
-      them, crouched with his nose between his paws, waiting his opportunity to
-      steal closer. Lilith set about gathering brushwood for the fire and we
-      helped her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, am I taller?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She eyed me judicially and shook her curls. &ldquo;No. But p&rsquo;raps we shall grow
-      tall quite suddenly, when the honeymoon is ended.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was beginning to have my doubts of that, so I changed the subject.
-      &ldquo;Lilith has a baby. She carries it on her back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where does she keep it now?&rdquo; asked Ruthita. &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t on her back last
-      night in the tent.&rdquo; Then she commenced to hop about like an eager, excited
-      little bird. &ldquo;I shall ask her. I shall ask her, Dante, and she&rsquo;ll let me
-      hold it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But when we ran to Lilith her back was straight and unbulgy. And when we
-      asked her where she kept the baby, she dropped the bundle of sticks she
-      was carrying and sank to her knees, with her hands pressed against her
-      breast. She swayed to and fro, with her eyes closed, muttering in a
-      strange language. Then she bent forward, kissing the ground and chanting
-      words which sounded like, &ldquo;Coroon! Coroon! Oh, dearie, come back. Come
-      back!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We heard the door of the caravan open. Lilith sprang to her feet and
-      picked up her sticks as though ashamed of what she had been doing. The
-      fierce man stood on the caravan steps. He strode across the grass to
-      Lilith and laid his hand on her shoulder with a rough gesture which was
-      almost kindly. &ldquo;The wind blows, sister,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and it sinks behind the
-      moon. The flowers grow, sister, and they fall beneath the earth. Where
-      they have gone there is rest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He passed on, whistling to his lurcher. The gaudily dressed woman came
-      out; while he was gone, the fire was kindled and breakfast was prepared.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During breakfast a great discussion arose in their strange language. When
-      it was ended, Lilith took us with her into the tent. She closed the flap
-      carefully and began to undress us. While she was doing it she explained
-      matters. She told us that the man was too busy just now with the
-      cocoanut-shies to spare time to go and fetch my uncle to us. In a few
-      days he would go, but meanwhile we must stay with them in camp. She said
-      that they were good gipsies, but no one would believe it if they saw us
-      with them. They would have to make us like gipsy children so no one would
-      suspect. So she daubed our bodies all over a light brown color, and she
-      stained my hair because it was flaxen. Then she gave us ragged clothes,
-      without shoes or stockings, and dug a hole in the ground and hid ours. She
-      was curious to know what had brought us to the forest; but we would not
-      tell. We had the child&rsquo;s feeling that telling a grown-up would break the
-      spell&mdash;we should never be married then, the little house would never
-      be built, and none of the other pleasant things would happen. We should
-      have to go back to the garden again and live always within walls.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Those days spent in our first dash for freedom stand out in my memory as
-      among the happiest. I ate of the forbidden fruit of romance and reaped no
-      penalties. Ruthita cried at times for her mother; but I had only to
-      remind her of the babies she would have, and her courage returned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The smell of the camp-fire is in my nostrils as I write; I can feel again
-      the cool nakedness of unpaved woodlands beneath my feet and open skies
-      above my head. I see Ruthita unsubdued and bare-legged, plunging
-      shoulder-high into golden bracken, shouting with natural gladness,
-      followed by the gipsy boys and girls. We tasted life in its fullness for
-      the first time, she and I, on that fantastic honeymoon of ours. We felt in
-      our bones and flesh the simple ecstasy of being alive&mdash;the wide,
-      sweet cleanness of the open world. And remembering, I wonder now, as I
-      wondered then, why men have toiled to learn everything except to be happy,
-      and have labored with so much heaviness to build cities when the tent and
-      the camp-fire might be theirs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Books, schoolmasters, and universities have taught me much since then.
-      They have spattered the windows of my soul with knowledge to prevent my
-      looking out. Luckily I discovered what they were doing and stopped the
-      rascals. But I knew more things that were essentially godlike before they
-      commenced their work. The major part of what they taught me was a
-      weariness to the flesh in the learning, and a burden to the brain when
-      learnt. Of how many days of shouting and sunshine they robbed me with
-      their mistaken kindness. Of what worth is a Euclid problem at forty, when
-      compared with the memory of a childhood&rsquo;s day of flowers, and meadows, and
-      happiness?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For twenty years my father sat prisoner at a desk, unbeautifully and
-      doggedly driving his pen across countless pages that he might be able to
-      buy me wisdom. With all his years of sacrifice and my years of laborious
-      study, he gave me nothing which was half so valuable as that which a boy
-      of nine stole for himself in his ignorance in the forest. There I learnt
-      that the sound of wind in trees is the finest music in the world; that the
-      power to feel in one&rsquo;s own body the wholesome beauties of nature is more
-      rewarding than wealth; that to know how to abandon oneself to the simple
-      kindness of living people is a wiser knowledge than all the elaborate and
-      codified wisdom of the dead.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We roamed the countryside with Lilith by day, listening to her telling
-      fortunes. By night we slept in her arms in the tent. Only one thing was
-      forbidden us&mdash;to speak with strangers. But there was one man who
-      recognized us in spite of that. It was on the first morning. We were
-      sitting by the side of the road with the fierce man; he was showing us how
-      to make a snare for a rabbit. We were so interested that we did not notice
-      a flock of sheep approaching until they were quite close. Then I looked up
-      and caught the eye of old Dot-and-Carry One burning in his head, glaring
-      out at us as if it would fly from its socket. He would have spoken had he
-      dared, but just then the fierce man saw him. He sank his chin upon his
-      breast and, for all that he was &ldquo;a human, made in Gawd&rsquo;s h&rsquo;image,&rdquo; limped
-      away into the distance in a cloud of dust, as meekly sheepish as any of
-      the sheep he followed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita spent a lot of her time in searching for Lilith&rsquo;s baby. She wanted
-      so badly to hold it. We felt quite certain that she had hidden it
-      somewhere, as she had our clothes. Even if it was a dead&rsquo;un, it was absurd
-      to suppose that a person so clever as to tell fortunes should not know
-      where it might be found. We determined to watch her. We thought that if
-      her baby was really dead and she went to it by stealth, then by following
-      her we should be able to find my mother and, perhaps, Ruthita&rsquo;s father.
-      Ruthita had already abandoned the dread that Dot-and-Carry-One had had
-      anything to do with her entrance into the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Naphtha-lamps were extinguished. The crowd of merrymakers had departed. I
-      was roused by Lilith stirring. Very gently she eased her arm from under
-      me. I kept my eyes tightly shut and feigned that I was undisturbed.
-      Cautiously she pulled aside the flap of the tent and stole out. I rose to
-      my feet when she had gone. Ruthita was sleeping soundly, her small face
-      cushioned in her hand. Without waking her I followed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Near to the caravan the camp-fire smoldered, making a splash of red like a
-      pool of blood in the blackness. As I watched, it was momentarily blotted
-      out by a moving shadow. The lurcher shook himself and growled. Lilith&rsquo;s
-      voice reached me, telling him to lie down. A bank of cloud lay across the
-      moon, but I knew the way she went by the rustle of the fallen leaves,
-      turning beneath her tread. I followed her down the glades of the forest,
-      peering after her, glancing behind me at the slightest sound, timid lest I
-      might lose her, timid lest I might lose myself, stealing on tiptoe into
-      the unknown with sobbing, stifled breath. The ground began to descend into
-      a hollow at the bottom of which a pond lay black and sullen. A tall beech
-      stood at its edge, spreading out its branches and leaning across it as if
-      to hide it. The leaves beneath her footsteps ceased to stir.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I could no longer hear her, a horrible, choking sense of solitude
-      took hold of me. What if she had entered into the tree and should never
-      return? Without her, how should I find my way back? I crept as near the
-      pond as I dared, and crouched among the dead leaves, trembling. The water
-      began to splash. &ldquo;Someone,&rdquo; I thought, &ldquo;is rising out of it.&rdquo; Little
-      waves, washing in the rushes, caused the brittle reeds to shake and
-      shiver, whispering in terror among themselves. A low sing-song muttering
-      commenced. It came from the middle of the pond. I tried to stop breathing.
-      It seemed quite possible that the baby was hidden there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The bank of cloud trailed across the sky. The yellow harvest moon dipped,
-      broad and smiling, into the latticework of boughs which roofed the dell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the middle of the pond, knee-deep, Lilith stood. She had cast aside her
-      Romany rags and rose from the water tall and splendid. Her tawny body was
-      a gold statue glistening beneath the moon. Her night-black hair fell sheer
-      from her shoulders like a silken shadow. She was bending forward, peering
-      eagerly beneath the water&rsquo;s surface, whispering hurried love-words. Of all
-      that she said I could only catch the words, &ldquo;Coroon. Coroon. Come back,
-      little dearest. Come back.&rdquo; She laughed gladly and held out her arms, as
-      though there drifted up towards her that which she sought. I could see
-      nothing, for her back was towards me. Still lower she bent till her lips
-      kissed the water&rsquo;s surface; plunging her arms in elbow-deep, she seemed to
-      support the thing which she saw there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lilith, oh Lilith!&rdquo; I cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She started and turned. I feared she was going to be angry. &ldquo;Show me my
-      Mama,&rdquo; I whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She put her finger to her lips, and beckoned, and nodded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hastily I undressed, tossing my rags beside hers. I waded out to where she
-      was standing. The night air was chilly. She gave me her hand and drew me
-      to her. Placing me before her, so that I could gaze into the pond like a
-      mirror, she chanted over and over a low, wild tune. She peered above my
-      shoulders. At first I could see only my own reflection and hers. Then, as
-      she sang, the water moved, the inky blackness reddened; I forgot
-      everything, the cold, Lilith, my terror, and lived only in that which was
-      coming.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the bottom of the pool, infinitely distant, a picture grew. It came so
-      near that I thought it would touch me; I became a part of it. I saw my
-      mother. She was seated by a fire in an unlighted room. A little boy lay in
-      her lap with his arms about her. She glanced up at me smiling faintly,
-      gazing into my eyes directly. For a moment I saw her distinctly, and
-      caught again the fragrance of violets that clung about her. The water
-      rippled and the vision died away in smoke and cloud. Lilith gathered me to
-      her cold wet breast and carried me to the shore and dressed me. Without
-      knowing why, I knew that this was a happening that I must not tell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We returned to camp. Woods were stirring. Shadows were thinning. Dawn was
-      breaking. The coldness in the air became intense. We threw branches on the
-      fire and blew the smoldering embers, till sparks began to fly and twigs to
-      crackle. Lilith sat with me in her arms, and hushed and mothered me. I was
-      not ashamed; for five years I had wanted just that. I was glad that she
-      understood. Ruthita could not see me; nobody but the dawn would ever know.
-      So I fell asleep and went back to the fragrance of violets, the fire, and
-      the cosy darkened room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;RECAPTURED
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span> uthita and I were
-      terribly puzzled about that baby. We couldn&rsquo;t make out how it had found
-      its way into the world. We supposed that God had made a mistake in sending
-      it to Lilith, and that was why He had taken it back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our difficulty rose from the fact that Lilith did not appear ever to have
-      been married. The fierce man was not her husband. So far as we could
-      discover from the gipsy children she had never had a husband. Then she
-      couldn&rsquo;t have had a honeymoon: and, if she had never had a honeymoon, she
-      oughtn&rsquo;t to have had a baby. Our ideas on the question of birth were
-      utterly disorganized. There was only one explanation&mdash;that we had
-      been misinformed by Hetty and people could have babies by themselves. The
-      effect of this conjecture on Ruthita was revolutionizing: it made our
-      honeymoon unnecessary and me entirely dispensable. She had only been
-      persuaded to elope for the sake of exchanging dolls for babies, and now it
-      appeared she could have them and her mother as well. I had no argument
-      left with which to combat her desire to return. There was only one way of
-      arriving at the truth on the subject, and that was by inquiring of Lilith.
-      Neither of us would have done this for worlds after the way she had cried
-      when we found that her back was no longer bulgy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The days grew shorter and the forest became bare. We could see long
-      distances now between the tree-trunks; it was as though the branches had
-      fisted their hands. Holiday-seekers came to the cocoanut-shies less and
-      less. The fierce man, whom we learnt to call G&rsquo;liath, had hardly any
-      bruises on his face and hands; he dodged the balls easily. The few chance
-      throwers had no crowd to make them reckless; they shied singly now and not
-      in showers. The gaudily dressed woman lost her hoarseness. She no longer
-      had to shout night and morning, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny.
-      Every ball &rsquo;its a cocoanut. Down she goes,&rdquo; etc. Why should she?
-      There was no one to get excited&mdash;nobody to pay her pennies. Instead
-      she sat by the fire, weaving wicker-baskets, watching the pearl-colored
-      smoke go up in whiffs and eddies. Though she seldom said anything, she had
-      taken a fancy to Ruthita and would spread for her a corner of her skirt
-      that she might sit beside her while she worked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Every day as Ruthita became more sure that she could have a baby all by
-      herself, she wanted to go home more badly. One evening the gaudy woman
-      found her crying. She told G&rsquo;liath that next morning he must harness in
-      his little moke and go for Mr. Spreckles. I did not hear her tell him, but
-      Lilith told me when she came to lie down beside me in the tent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night she held me closer. I could feel her heart thumping. She roused
-      me continually in the darkness to ask me needless questions. Whether I
-      would ever forget her. &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Whether I would like to see her again. &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-       Whether I would like to become a gipsy. &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t I!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was silent for so long that I began to drowse. I awoke with the
-      tightening of her arms about me. When I lifted my face to hers, she
-      commenced to kiss me passionately. &ldquo;You shall. You shall,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll
-      make a gipsy of you, so you&rsquo;ll always remember and never be content with
-      their closed-in world. They&rsquo;ll take you from me to-morrow, but your heart
-      will never be theirs.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I didn&rsquo;t understand, but at dawn she showed me. Frost lay on the ground.
-      Every little blade of grass was stiff and sword-like. It was as though the
-      hair of the world had turned white from shock and was standing on end.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She led me away through the tall stark forest to a glade so secret that no
-      one could observe us. At first I thought she was escaping with me,
-      carrying me off to her gipsy-land. But she made me kneel down beside her.
-      As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little knife from
-      beneath her dress, and pricked her wrist and mine so that they bled. She
-      held her hand beneath our wrists, catching the blood in her palm so it
-      mingled. Then she let it drip through her fingers, making scarlet stains
-      on the frosted turf.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As it fell she spoke to the grass and the trees and the air, telling them
-      that I was hers and, because our blood was mingled, was one of them.
-      &ldquo;Whenever he hears your voice,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it will speak to him of me. If
-      he goes where you do not grow, oh grass, then the trees shall call him
-      back. If he goes where you do not grow, oh trees, then the wind shall tell
-      him. His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears
-      your voice, oh grass, or your voice, oh trees, or your voice, oh winds, he
-      shall turn his face from walls and come back. Though he leaves us he shall
-      always hear us calling, for he is ours!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And it seemed to me when her voice had ceased that I heard the grass
-      nodding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping through
-      the trees, stooping their leafless branches as though they gave assent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That morning for the first time we had breakfast in the caravan. After
-      breakfast Lilith and I went out together, hand-in-hand. G&rsquo;liath was
-      harnessing in his donkey. We watched him drive down the road and vanish. I
-      did not want to go back and he knew it; he looked ashamed of himself. The
-      country was bitter and cheerless; it had an atmosphere of parting&mdash;everything
-      was withered. Birds huddled close on branches with ruffled feathers.
-      Fields were harsh and cracked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Little brother,&rdquo; Lilith said, &ldquo;one day you will be a man. Until then they
-      will keep you prisoner and try to make you forget all the things which you
-      and I have learnt. They will tell you that the trees have no voices: that
-      it is only the wind that stirs them. They will tell you that rivers are
-      only water flowing. But remember that out in the open they are all waiting
-      for you, and that the other people who have no bodies are there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I thought of the picture I had seen in the pool and knew what she meant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Towards evening we returned to the camp. The melancholy autumn twilight
-      lay about us; in the heart of it the fire burnt red. We sat round it in
-      silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and listening for
-      G&rsquo;liath coming back. &ldquo;Ruthita,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;do you think we shall find
-      the little house?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shook her head doubtfully, as if she scarcely cared. She was thinking
-      of the lighted room, perhaps, and the long white bed, where her mother was
-      eagerly awaiting her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Coming up the road we heard a sharp tap-a-tap. Dancing in and out the
-      tree-trunks we saw the golden eyes of carriage-lamps. The dog-cart and
-      Dollie came into sight and halted; my Uncle Obad jumped out. He had come
-      alone to fetch us; I was glad of that. I could explain things to him so
-      much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand.
-      Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his
-      arms. All he could say was, &ldquo;Well, well, well!&rdquo; His face was beaming;
-      every little wrinkle in his face was trembling. He hugged me so tightly
-      that he took away my breath. I didn&rsquo;t get a chance to speak until he had
-      set me down. Then I said, &ldquo;Uncle Obad, this is Ruthita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He held out his hand to her gravely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dante
-      Cardover,&rdquo; he said. Then, because she was such a little girl and her face
-      looked so thin and wistful, he took her in his arms and hugged her as
-      well.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Suddenly the gaudy woman remembered that we were still clothed in our
-      gipsy rags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but Uncle
-      Obad wouldn&rsquo;t hear of it. He insisted on carrying us off to Pope Lane just
-      as we were.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was night when he said, &ldquo;Dollie is rested; we must be going.&rdquo; When we
-      rose to our feet to say good-by, Lilith was not there. He lifted us into
-      the dog-cart and wrapped rugs about our shoulders to make us cozy. Then he
-      jumped in beside us and we had our last look at the camp. The gaudy woman
-      was standing up by the fire with her children huddled about her skirts. I
-      could see the gleam of her ear-rings shaking, the lighted window of the
-      caravan in the background, and the lurcher sneaking in and out the
-      shadows. G&rsquo;liath and his donkey travelled slowly; they had not returned
-      when we left. Uncle Obad cracked his whip; we started forward across the
-      turf and were soon bowling between the dim skeletons of trees down the
-      hard road homeward.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita crept closer to me. She may have been cold and she may have been
-      lonely, but I think she was just feeling how flat things were now our
-      great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now,
-      womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and then
-      she drew her fingers across my face&mdash;a little love-trick she had. She
-      leant her head against my shoulder and was soon sleeping soundly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Old chap, why did you do it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked up at my uncle; I could not see his face because of the darkness.
-      His voice was very solemn and kindly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t see anything in the garden,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;we wanted to find where
-      the pigeons went.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But why did you take the little girl?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I hesitated about telling. It might spoil what was left of the magic; I
-      still had a faint hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might have
-      grown into a man. And then, in telling, I might do Hetty a damage. Instead
-      of answering, I asked him a question.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When you&rsquo;re married, you get everything you want, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That depends on what you call everything, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, money, and a house, and a pony, and babies.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not always.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He spoke softly. Then I knew I oughtn&rsquo;t to have mentioned babies, because,
-      like Lilith, he hadn&rsquo;t any.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t I who wanted the babies,&rdquo; I explained hurriedly; &ldquo;that was
-      Ruthie. She wanted them instead of dolls to play with. I wanted to be
-      allowed to go in and out, like the children with the magic carpet.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He knew at once what I meant. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t want to have grown people always
-      bothering, telling you to do this and not to do that, and locking doors
-      behind you? You wanted always to be free and jolly, like you and I are
-      together? And you thought that you could be like that if you were
-      married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He slowed Dollie down to a walk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Little man, you&rsquo;ve been trying to get just what everyone&rsquo;s reaching
-      after. When you&rsquo;re a boy you say, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll have it when I&rsquo;m a man.&rsquo; When
-      you&rsquo;re a man you say, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll have it when I&rsquo;m married.&rsquo; You&rsquo;ve been
-      searching for perpetual happiness. You&rsquo;ll never have it in this world,
-      Dante. And don&rsquo;t you see why you&rsquo;ll never have it? You hurt other people
-      in trying to get it. Your father and Ruthita&rsquo;s mother, all of us have been
-      very anxious. I&rsquo;ve often been tempted to run away myself because I&rsquo;m not
-      much use to anybody. But that would mean leaving someone I love; so I&rsquo;ve
-      had to stop on and face it out. You ran away to enjoy yourself, and other
-      people were sorry. Other people always have to be sorry when a fellow does
-      that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook the reins over Dollie and she commenced to trot again. Presently
-      he said, half-speaking to himself, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a better word than happiness,
-      and that&rsquo;s duty. If a chap does his duty the best he can, he makes other
-      folk happy. Then he finds his own happiness by accident, within himself.
-      I&rsquo;m a queer one to be talking&mdash;I&rsquo;m not awfully successful. I&rsquo;ve run
-      away a little. But you must do better. And if you can&rsquo;t bear things, just
-      <i>imagine</i>. What&rsquo;s the difference between the things you really have
-      and the things you pretend? Imagination is the magic carpet; you can
-      pretend yourself anything and anywhere. If you&rsquo;ve learnt that secret, they
-      can lock all the doors&mdash;it won&rsquo;t matter. I can&rsquo;t put it plainer;
-      there are things that it isn&rsquo;t right for you to understand&mdash;this
-      business about marriage. You&rsquo;ll know when you&rsquo;re a man. Now promise that
-      you&rsquo;ll never run away again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I promised.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we got to Pope Lane it must have been very late. I suppose I fell
-      asleep on the journey, for I remember nothing more until the light flashed
-      in my eyes and my father was bending over me. Ruthita wasn&rsquo;t there; she
-      had been left already at her mother&rsquo;s house. My father had me in his arms.
-      He was standing in the hall. The door was wide open and my uncle was going
-      down the steps, calling &ldquo;Good-night&rdquo; as he went. Behind me I could see
-      Hetty peering over the banisters in a gray flannel nightdress&mdash;her
-      night-dresses were all of gray flannel. When my father turned, she
-      scuttled away like a frightened rabbit.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He carried me into his study&mdash;just as I was, clad in my gipsy rags&mdash;and
-      closed the door behind him with a slam. His lamp on the table was turned
-      low. The floor was littered with books and papers. A fire in the hearth
-      was burning brightly. He drew up an easy-chair to the blaze and sat down,
-      still holding me to him. I was always timid with my father, especially
-      when we were alone together. This time I was very conscious of
-      wrong-doing. I waited to hear him say something; but he remained silent,
-      staring into the fire. The lamp flickered lower and lower, and went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Father, I&mdash;I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I saw that he was crying. His tears splashed down. His face had lost
-      that stem look. I was shaken by his sobs as he held me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Little son. My little son,&rdquo; he whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The room grew fainter. The pictures on the walls became shadowy. My eyes
-      opened and closed. When I awoke the gray light of morning was stealing in
-      at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly. My
-      father was sitting in the easy-chair, his head sunk forward&mdash;but his
-      arms were still about me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE SNOW LADY
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y father never
-      asked me why I had run away or where I had gone. His tongue was ever
-      stubborn at loving with words. With Hetty it was different. When my father
-      had wakened and let me out of his arms to go upstairs and dress, she
-      caught me into her bosom and half-smothered me, scolding and comforting by
-      turns. Her corsets hurt me and her starched print-dress was harsh; I was
-      glad when she left off and set me down on the bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And who ever &rsquo;eard the likes o&rsquo; that,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;a little boy to
-      run away from his dear Pa and take with &rsquo;im a little sweet-&rsquo;eart
-      as we never knew &rsquo;e &rsquo;ad. Oh, the deceit of children for all
-      they looks so h&rsquo;innercent! And &rsquo;ere was your dear Pa a-tearin&rsquo; all
-      the &rsquo;air out of &rsquo;is &rsquo;ead. And &rsquo;ere was me and
-      John&mdash;we couldn&rsquo;t do no work and we couldn&rsquo;t do nothin&rsquo; for thinkin&rsquo;
-      where you&rsquo;d went. And there was you a-livin&rsquo; with those dirty gipsies and
-      wearin&rsquo; their dirty rags&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not dirty,&rdquo; I interrupted, &ldquo;and I shan&rsquo;t like you if you talk
-      like that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;m only tellin&rsquo; you the truth; you was always perwerse and &rsquo;eadstrong.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t tell me the truth when you told me about marriage,&rdquo; I said.
-      &ldquo;Everything&rsquo;s just the same as when we left. We ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any taller, and we
-      hav&rsquo;n&rsquo;t got a little house, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She sat back on her heels and stared at me. &ldquo;Oh, Lor,&rdquo; she burst out, &ldquo;was
-      that why you did it?&rdquo; And then she began to laugh and laugh. Her face grew
-      red and again she fell upon me, until her corsets cut into me to such an
-      extent that I called to her to leave off.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What I told you was gorspel true,&rdquo; she said solemnly, &ldquo;but you didn&rsquo;t
-      understand. That&rsquo;s wot &rsquo;appens to wimmen when they goes away with
-      men. I wasn&rsquo;t speakin&rsquo; of little boys and girls. But it&rsquo;ll never &rsquo;appen
-      to you when you grow up if you tell anybody wot I said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That morning after breakfast, instead of going into his study to work, my
-      father led me round to the Favarts&rsquo;. As we came up the path I saw Ruthita
-      at the window watching for us. Monsieur Favart opened the door to our
-      knock. He said something to my father in French, shook me by the hand
-      gravely, and led the way upstairs. We entered a room at the back of the
-      house, overlooking the garden. A lady, almost as small as Ruthita, was
-      lying on a couch with cushions piled behind her head. She was dressed
-      completely in white; she had dark eyes and white hair, and a face that
-      somehow surprised you because it was so young and little. From the first I
-      called her the Snow Lady to myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She held out her hand to me and then, instead, put her arm about my waist,
-      smiling up at me. &ldquo;So you are Dante, the little boy who wanted to marry my
-      little girl?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice was more soft and emotional than any voice I had ever heard. It
-      held me, and kept me from noticing anything but her. It seemed as though
-      all the eagerness of living, which other people spend in motion, was
-      stored up in that long white throat of hers and delicate scarlet mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t marry Ruth yet, you know,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you hav&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any money.
-      But if you like, you may go and kiss her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned me about and there was Ruthita standing behind me. I did what I
-      was told, shyly and perfunctorily. There was no sense of pleasure in doing
-      what you were ordered to do just to amuse grown people. The Snow Lady
-      laughed gaily. &ldquo;There, take him out into the garden, Ruthita, and teach
-      him to do it properly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As I left the room, I saw that my father had taken my place by the couch.
-      Monsieur Favart was looking out of the window, his hands folded on the
-      head of his cane and his chin resting on them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We played in the garden together, but much of the charm had gone out of
-      our playing now that it was allowed. The game we played was gipsies in the
-      forest. We gathered leaves and made a fire, pretending we were again in
-      camp. I was G&rsquo;liath; Ruthita was sometimes the gaudy woman and sometimes
-      Lilith telling fortunes. But the pretense was tame after the reality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;we ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t married. What Hettie told me was all swank.
-      It&rsquo;s only true of men and women, and not of boys and girls.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But we can grow older.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. But it&rsquo;ll take ages.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She folded her hands in her pinafore nervously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We can go on loving till then,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the way home my father told me that he liked Ruthita&mdash;liked her so
-      much that he had arranged with Madam Favart to have a door cut in the wall
-      between the two gardens so that we could go in and out. I didn&rsquo;t tell him
-      that I preferred climbing over; he could scarcely guess it for himself.
-      There was no excitement in being pushed into the open and told to go and
-      play with Ruthita. It was all too easy. The fun had been in no one knowing
-      that I did play with such a little girl&mdash;not even knowing that there
-      was a Ruthita in the world. We tried to overcome this by always pretending
-      that we were doing wrong when we were together. We would hide when we
-      heard anybody coming. I despised the door and only went through it when a
-      grown person was present, otherwise I entered by way of the apple-tree and
-      the wall. My father caught me at it, and couldn&rsquo;t understand why I did it.
-      Hetty said it was because I liked being grubby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through the gray autumn months I wandered the garden, listening to the
-      dead leaves whispering together. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll take you from me, but your heart
-      will never be theirs,&rdquo; Lilith had said, and I tried to fancy that the
-      rustling of leaves was Lilith&rsquo;s voice calling. It was curious how she had
-      plucked out my affections and made them hers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Often I would steal into the tool-house and tell the white hen all about
-      it. But she also was a source of disillusionment. After long waiting I
-      found one egg in her nest. I thought she must be as glad about it as I
-      was, so left it there a little while for her to look at. I thought the
-      sight of it would spur her on to more ambitious endeavors. But when I came
-      back her beak was yellowy and the egg had vanished. After this unnatural
-      act of cannibalism I told her no more secrets; she had proved herself
-      unworthy. Shortly afterwards she died&mdash;perhaps of remorse. I made my
-      peace with her by placing her in a cardboard shoe-box for a coffin and
-      giving her a most handsome funeral.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One evening, when I had been put to bed, I stole to the window to gaze
-      into the blackness. I saw a man with a lantern go across our lawn and
-      disappear by the apple-tree through the door in the wall. After that I
-      watched. Nearly every night it happened. I was always too sleepy to stay
-      awake to see at what hour he came back. But I knew that he did come back,
-      for with the first fall of snow I traced his returning footsteps. They
-      came from Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s door and entered in at our study-window. So I
-      guessed that the man was my father.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Madam Favart seemed to be growing stronger; she was able to get up and
-      walk about. Sometimes I would go into her house for tea, and she would sit
-      by the firelight and tell Ruthita and myself stories. She used to try and
-      get me to climb on her knee while she told them. I always refused, because
-      my mother used to do that. The Snow Lady used to laugh at me and say,
-      &ldquo;Ruthita, Dante won&rsquo;t make love to Mother. Isn&rsquo;t he silly?&rdquo; Then I would
-      grow sulky and sit as far off as I could.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Christmas came round, the Favarts were invited over to spend it with
-      us. The Snow Lady brought a bunch of misletoe with her and hung it about
-      our house. After dinner the General fell asleep in his chair, and we
-      children played hide and seek together. I wanted to hide so securely that
-      Ruthita would never catch me. It was getting dark, and I knew that she
-      wouldn&rsquo;t hunt for me in my father&rsquo;s study. I was a little awed myself at
-      going there. I pushed open the door. The room was unlighted. I entered,
-      and then halted at the sound of voices whispering. Standing in the window,
-      silhouetted against the snow, were my father and Madam Favart. He was
-      holding a sprig of misletoe over her; his arm was about her, and they were
-      leaning breast to breast. She saw me first and started back from him, just
-      as Hetty had done when I found her with John. Then my father, turning
-      sharply, saw me. He called to me sternly, &ldquo;Dante, what are you doing,
-      sir?&rdquo; He sounded almost afraid because I had been watching. Then he called
-      again more softly, &ldquo;Dante, my boy, come here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But a strange rebellious horror possessed me. It seemed as though
-      something were tearing out my heart. I was angry, fiercely angry because
-      he had been disloyal to my mother. At that moment I hated him, but hated
-      Madam Favart much worse. I knew now why she had told me stories, and why
-      she had wanted me to climb on her knee, and why she had tried to force me
-      to make love to her. I rushed from the room and down the passage. Ruthita
-      ran out laughing to catch me, but I pushed her aside roughly and unjustly.
-      I wanted to get away by myself and fled out into the snow-covered garden.
-      My father came to the door and called. But Madam Favart was with him; I
-      could see by the gaslight, which fell behind them, the way she pressed
-      towards him. I could hear her merry contralto laugh, and refused to
-      answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll come by himself,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the door closed and they left me, I felt miserably lonely. They had
-      been wicked and they were not sorry. Hetty said that God was twice as
-      angry with you for not being sorry as He was with you for doing wrong.
-      Hetty knew everything about God; she used to hold long conversations with
-      Him every night in her gray flannel nightdress. Soon the snow began to
-      melt into my shoes and the frost to nip my fingers. I wished they would
-      come out again and call me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I became pathetic over the fact that it was Christmas. I pictured to
-      myself a possible death as a result of exposure. I saw myself dying in a
-      beautiful calm, forgiving everybody, and with everybody kneeling by my
-      bedside shaken with sobbing; the sobs of Madam Favart and my father were
-      to be the loudest. I was to be stretching out long white hands, trying to
-      quiet them; but their sense of guilt was to have placed them beyond all
-      bounds of consolation. Every time I tried to comfort them they were to cry
-      twice as hard. Then I saw my funeral and the big lily wreaths: &ldquo;From his
-      broken-hearted father&rdquo;; &ldquo;From Madam Favart with sincere regrets&rdquo;; &ldquo;From
-      Hetty who told God untruths about him&rdquo;; &ldquo;From Ruthita who loved him.&rdquo; And
-      in the midst of these tokens of grief I lay fully conscious of everything,
-      arrayed in a gray flannel nightshirt, opening one eye when no one was
-      looking, and winking at Uncle Obad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to feel little pangs of hunger, and my pride gave way before them.
-      Reluctantly I stole nearer the house and peeked into the study. They were
-      all there seated round the fire, callously enjoying themselves. The secret
-      was plainly out&mdash;my father was holding Madam Favart&rsquo;s hand. Ruthita
-      was cuddled against my father&rsquo;s shoulder; she was evidently reconciled
-      rather more than stoically. I tapped on the pane. The old General saw me.
-      He signed to the others to remain still. He threw up the window and lifted
-      me into the warmth. I believe he understood. Perhaps he felt just as I was
-      feeling. At any rate, when it was decreed that I should go to bed at once
-      and drink hot gruel, he slipped a crown-piece into my hand and looked as
-      though he hadn&rsquo;t done it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Within a month the marriage was celebrated, my father being a methodical
-      man who hated delays and loved shortcuts. It was a vicarious affair;
-      Ruthita and I had taken the honeymoon, and our parents were married. If
-      Uncle Obad hadn&rsquo;t given me the white hen, and the hen hadn&rsquo;t flown over
-      the wall, and I hadn&rsquo;t followed, these things would never have happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I grew to admire the Snow Lady immensely. She always called me her little
-      lover. She never ordered me to do anything or played the mother, but
-      flirted with me and trusted to my chivalry to recognize her wants. We
-      played a game of pretending. It had only one disadvantage, that it shut
-      Ruthita out from our game, for one couldn&rsquo;t court two ladies at once. I
-      learnt to kiss Ruthita as a habit and to take her, as boys will their
-      sisters, for granted. It is only on looking back that I realize how
-      beautiful and gentle she really was, and what life would have been without
-      her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      General Favart lived in the other house through the door in the wall. He
-      came to visit us rarely. He leant more heavily on his cane, and his cloak
-      seemed to have become blacker, his hair whiter, and his scar more
-      prominent. He could scarcely speak a word of English, so I never knew what
-      he thought. But it seemed to me he was sorrowing. One day we children were
-      told that he was dead; after that the door between the two gardens was
-      taken down and the hole in the wall bricked up.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      BOOK II&mdash;THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      <i>And man returned to the ground out of which he was taken, and his wife
-      bare children and he builded walls. But thou shalt think an evil thought
-      and say, &ldquo;I will go up to the land of unwalled villages.</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER I&mdash;THE RED HOUSE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ante, it&rsquo;s time
-      you went to school.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For the past three years, since he had married the Snow Lady, my father
-      had given me lessons in his study for the last hour of every morning
-      before lunch. It had been the Snow Lady&rsquo;s idea; she said I was growing up
-      a perfect ignoramus.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father tilted up his spectacles to his forehead, and gazed across the
-      table at me thoughtfully. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be sorry to lose you,
-      my boy; but it&rsquo;s time you went to school.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was to lose me; then I was to go away! My heart sank, and leapt, and
-      sank again with a dreadful joy of expectation. In my childish way I had
-      always been impatient of the present&mdash;a Columbus ceaselessly watching
-      for the first trace of seaweed broken loose from the shores of the
-      unknown. Change, which at mid-life we so bitterly resent, was at that time
-      life&rsquo;s great allurement.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The school selected was one of the smaller public-schools, lying fifteen
-      miles distant from Stoke Newington. It was called the Red House and stood
-      on Eden Hill. It was situated in lovely country, so my father said, and
-      had for its head-master a man with whom he was slightly acquainted, whose
-      name was the Reverend Robert Sneard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the next few weeks I was a semi-hero. Ruthita regarded me with the
-      kind of pitying awe that a bullock inspires in children, when they meet it
-      being driven lowing along a road to be slaughtered. Everyone became busy
-      over preparations for my departure&mdash;even the Snow Lady, who seldom
-      worked. I was allowed to sit up quite late, watching her pretty fingers
-      flashing the needle in and out the flannel that grew into shirts for me to
-      wear. Ruthita would snuggle up beside me, her long black curls tickling my
-      cheek. There were lengthy silences. Then Ruthita would look up at her
-      mother and say, &ldquo;Mumsie, I don&rsquo;t know whatever we shall do without him.&rdquo;
-       And sometimes, when she said it, the Snow Lady would laugh in her Frenchy
-      way and answer, &ldquo;Why, Ruthita, what&rsquo;s one little boy? He&rsquo;s so tiny; he
-      won&rsquo;t leave much empty space.&rdquo; But once, it was the night before I left,
-      she choked in the middle of her laughing and took us both into her arms,
-      telling us that she loved us equally. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think what I&rsquo;ll do without
-      my little lover,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of a sudden I had become a person of importance. The servants no longer
-      made a worry of doing things for me. They watched me going about the house
-      as though it were for the last time, and spoke of me to one another as,
-      &ldquo;Poor little chap.&rdquo; I had only to express a want to have it gratified. I
-      was treated as the State treats a condemned criminal on the day of his
-      execution, when they let him choose his breakfast. I gloried in my
-      eminence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was arranged that my uncle should drive me to the Red House. Before I
-      went, I was loaded with good advice. My father sent for me to his study
-      one night and, with considerable embarrassment, alluded to subjects of
-      which I had no knowledge, imploring me to listen to no evil companions but
-      to keep pure. His language was so delicately veiled that I was none the
-      wiser. I thought he referred to such boyish peccadilloes as jam stealing
-      and telling lies. Even the Snow Lady, who took delight in being frivolous,
-      read me a moral story concerning the rapid degeneration, through
-      cigarettes and beer-drinking, of a boy with the face of an angel. Neither
-      of these temptations was mine, and I had never regarded myself as
-      particularly angelic in appearance. They beat about the bush, hunting
-      ghostly passions with allegories.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I noticed that Ruthita would absent herself for an hour or more at a
-      stretch. When I followed her up to her room the door was locked, and she
-      would beseech me with tears in her voice not to peek through the key-hole.
-      The mystery was explained when she presented me with a knitted muffler,
-      the wool for which she had purchased from her own savings. I came across
-      it, moth-eaten and faded, in my old school play-box the other day. It was
-      cold weather when she made it, for a little girl to sit in a bedroom
-      without a fire. I hope I thanked her sufficiently and did not accept her
-      surprise as though it were expected.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On an afternoon in January I departed. Then I realized for the first time
-      what going away from home meant. The horror of the unknown, not the
-      adventure, pressed upon me. We all pretended to be very gay&mdash;all
-      except Hetty, who threw her apron over her head and, in the old scripture
-      phrase, lifted up her voice and wept. They accompanied me out of the
-      garden, down Pope Lane, to where the dog-cart was tethered. I mounted
-      reluctantly, stretching out the last moment to its greatest length, and
-      took my place beside Uncle Obad. My father had his pen behind his ear, I
-      remember. It seemed to me as though the pen were saying, &ldquo;Hurry up now and
-      get off. Your father can&rsquo;t waste all day over little boys.&rdquo; Dollie lifted
-      her head and began to trot. The Snow Lady waved and waved, smiling
-      bravely. Then Ruthita broke from the group and ran after us down the long
-      red street for a little way. We turned a corner and they were lost to
-      sight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I drew nearer to my uncle, pressing Ruthita&rsquo;s muffler to my lips and
-      gazing straight before me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&mdash;what&rsquo;ll it be like?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t say,&rdquo; he muttered huskily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After about an hour&rsquo;s driving, he broke the silence with a kindly effort
-      to make conversation. He told me that we were on the Great North Road,
-      where there used to be highwaymen. He spoke of Dick Turpin and some of his
-      exploits. He pointed out a public-house at which highwaymen used to stay.
-      He could not stir my imagination&mdash;it was otherwise occupied. I was
-      wondering why I should be sent to school, if my going made everyone
-      unhappy. I was picturing the snug nursery, with the lamp unlighted, and
-      the fire burning, and Ruthita seated all alone on the rug before the fire.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We left the Great North Road, striking across country, through frosty
-      lanes. My uncle ceased speaking; he himself was uninterested in what he
-      had been saying. We passed groups of children playing before clustered
-      cottages, and laborers plodding homeward whistling. It seemed strange to
-      me that they should all be so cheerful and should not realize what was
-      happening inside me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came in sight of the Red House. It could be seen at a great distance,
-      for it stood out gauntly on the crest of Eden Hill, and the sunset lay
-      behind it. In the lowlands night was falling; lights were springing up,
-      twinkling cheerfully. But the Red House did not impress me as cheerful&mdash;it
-      had no lights, and struck me with the chill and repression that one feels
-      in passing by a prison.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, old chap, we&rsquo;re nearly there,&rdquo; said my uncle with a futile attempt
-      to be jolly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I darted out my hand and dragged on the reins. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t&mdash;don&rsquo;t drive so
-      fast. Let Dollie walk.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He looked down at me slantwise. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be brave, old chap.
-      Nothing&rsquo;s as bad as it seems at the time. Nothing&rsquo;s so bad that it can&rsquo;t
-      be lived through. Why, one day you&rsquo;ll be looking back and telling yourself
-      that these were your happiest days.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Despite his optimisms, he did as I requested and let Dollie walk the rest
-      of the way. While she climbed the hill, we got out and walked beside her.
-      My uncle put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a half-crown. He
-      balanced it in his palm; tossed it; put it back into his pocket; drew it
-      out again. &ldquo;Here, Dante,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;see what I&rsquo;ve found. You&rsquo;d
-      best take it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As we approached nearer, he was again moved to generosity. He was moved
-      three times, to be exact; each time he considered the matter carefully,
-      then rushed the coin at me. He gave me seven shillings in all. I am sure
-      he could ill afford them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the top of the hill he beckoned me to jump into the trap. It was
-      fitting, I suppose, that we should drive up to my place of confinement
-      grandly. Then a great idea seized me. My box was under the seat behind. I
-      had all my belongings with me. There were no walls to restrain us now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to go there. You once said you were
-      tired of houses. Why shouldn&rsquo;t we run away?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He heard the tremble in my voice. He lifted me in beside him and drove
-      along the outside of the school-walls, not entering at the gate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s beastly hard,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the trouble is that I can&rsquo;t explain it.
-      All through life you&rsquo;ll be wanting to run away, and all through life, if
-      you&rsquo;re not a coward, you won&rsquo;t be able. You see, people have to earn a
-      living in this world, and to earn a living they must be educated. Your
-      father&rsquo;s trying to give you the best education he can, and he means to be
-      kind. But it&rsquo;s a darned shame, this not being able to do what you like. I
-      can&rsquo;t run away with you, old chap. There&rsquo;s nothing for it; you&rsquo;ve just got
-      to bear it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He stopped, searching for words. He wanted to tell me something really
-      comforting and wasn&rsquo;t content with what he had said. He found it. Turning
-      round in the dogcart, he threw his arm about my shoulder and pointed above
-      my head, &ldquo;Look up, there.&rdquo; I raised my eyes and saw the blue black sky
-      like an inverted cup, with a red smudge round the western rim where a
-      mouth of blood had stained it. One by one the silver stars were coming out
-      and disappearing, like tiny bubbles which break and form again. As I
-      looked, night seemed to deepen; horizons dropped back; the earth fell
-      away. The sky was no longer a cup; it was nothing measurable. It was a
-      drifting sea of freedom, and I was part of it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They can rob you of a lot of things,&rdquo; my uncle said, &ldquo;but they can never
-      take that from you. It&rsquo;s like the world of your imagination, something
-      that can&rsquo;t be stolen, and that you can&rsquo;t sell, and that you can&rsquo;t buy.
-      It&rsquo;s always yours.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We drove through the gate to the main entrance. My box was deposited in
-      the hall. My uncle shook hands with me in formal manner when he said
-      good-by, for the school-porter was present. He turned round sharply to cut
-      proceedings short, and disappeared into the night. I listened to his
-      wheels growing fainter. For the first time I was utterly alone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER II&mdash;CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH COMFORTERS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n delicate
-      schoolboy slang, I was a new-bug&mdash;a thing to be poked and despised,
-      and not to be spoken to for the first few days. There were other new-bugs,
-      which was some consolation; but we were too shy to get acquainted. We
-      moped about the playground sullen and solitary, like crows on a plowed
-      field. Every now and then some privileged person, who was not a new-bug,
-      would bang our shins with a hockey-stick; after which we would hop about
-      on one leg for a time, looking more like crows than ever.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady had packed fifty oranges in my box. I made holes in the tops
-      of them with my thumb and rammed in lumps of sugar, sucking out the juice.
-      Not because I was greedy, but because there seemed nothing else to do, I
-      ate every one of the fifty the first day. The following night I was ill,
-      which did not help my popularity. One dark-haired person, about my own
-      age, with a jolly freckled face, took particular offense at my
-      misdemeanor. His real name was Buzzard, but he was nicknamed the Bantam
-      because of his size and his temper. He never said a word about the
-      oranges, but he punished me for having been ill by stamping on my toes. He
-      did this whenever he passed me, looking in the opposite direction in an
-      absent-minded fashion. My quietness in putting up with him seemed to
-      irritate him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The afternoon was frosty; I was hobbling miserably about the playground
-      with Ruthita&rsquo;s muffler round my throat. It was a delicate baby-pink, and
-      the Bantam easily caught sight of it. He came up and jerking it from me,
-      trod on it. I had never fought in my life, but my wretchedness made me
-      reckless. I thought of little Ruthita and the long cold hours she had
-      spent in making it. It seemed that he had insulted her. I hit him savagely
-      on the nose.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Immediately there were cries of, &ldquo;A fight! A fight!&rdquo; Games were stopped.
-      Boys came running from every direction. Even the new-bugs lifted up their
-      heads and began to take an interest in the landscape.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;ve done it,&rdquo; the Bantam shouted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He started out, accompanied by the crowd to the bottom of the playground.
-      I followed. The laboratory, a long black shed, stood there, with a roof of
-      galvanized iron and rows of bottles arranged in the windows. Behind it we
-      were out of sight of masters, unless they happened to be carrying on
-      experiments inside.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A ring was formed. The Bantam commenced to take off his coat and collar. I
-      did likewise. A horrid sickening sense of defenselessness came over me. I
-      experienced what the early Christians must have felt when they gazed round
-      the eager amphitheatre, and heard the lions roaring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A big fellow stepped up. &ldquo;Here, new-bug, d&rsquo;you know how to fight?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I shook my head, he grinned at me cheerfully. &ldquo;Hold your arms well
-      up, double your fists, and go for him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The advice was more easy to give than to put into action. The Bantam was
-      on top of me in a flash. He made for my face at first, but I lowered my
-      head and kept my arms up, so he was content to pummel me about the body.
-      He hurt, and hurt badly; I had never been treated so roughly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Something happened. Perhaps it was a fierce realization of the injustice
-      of everything&mdash;the injustice of being sent there by people whom I
-      loved, the injustice of not being spoken to, the injustice of the boys
-      jeering because I was getting thrashed. I felt that I did not care how
-      much I got damaged if only I might kill the Bantam. He thumped me on the
-      nose as I looked up; my eyes filled with tears. I dashed in at him,
-      banging him about the head. I heard his teeth rattle. I heard the
-      shouting, &ldquo;Hurrah! Go it, new-bug. Well done, new-bug.&rdquo; In front of me the
-      wintry sunset lay red. I remember wondering whether it was sunset or
-      blood. Then the Bantam tried to turn and run. I caught him behind the ear.
-      He tripped up and fell. I stood over him, doubtful whether he were dead.
-      Just then the door of the laboratory opened. The boys began to scatter,
-      shouting to one another, &ldquo;The Creature! Here he comes. The Creature!&rdquo; The
-      Bantam picked himself up and followed the crowd.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A man came round the side of the shed. He looked something like
-      Dot-and-Carry-One, only he was smaller. His hair was the color of a
-      badger&rsquo;s, shaggy and unbrushed. His face was stubbly and besmirched with
-      different colored chalks from his fingers. His clothes were stained and
-      baggy. He approached sideways, crabwise, in a great hurry, with one hand
-      stretched out behind and one in front, like flappers. His gestures were
-      those of a servant in a Chinese etching; they made him absurdly
-      conspicuous by their self-belittlement. Beyond everything, he was dirty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What they been beating you for?&rdquo; he inquired in his shorthand way of
-      talking. &ldquo;You hit him first! What for?&rdquo; He pulled a stump of a pencil out
-      of his mouth as though he were drawing a tooth. After that I could hear
-      him more clearly. &ldquo;A muffler? He trod on it? Well, that&rsquo;s nothing to fight
-      about. Oh, your sister gave it you? That&rsquo;s different.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The last two sentences were spoken very gently&mdash;quite unlike the
-      rest, which had been angry. &ldquo;Humph! His sister gave it him!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He took me by the hand and led me into the shed, closing the door behind
-      him. An iron stove was burning. The outside was red hot; it glowered
-      through the dusk. Running round the sides of the room were taps and
-      basins, and above them bottles. Ranged on the table in the middle were
-      stands, bunsen-burners and retorts. He went silently about his work. He
-      was melting sulphur in a crucible.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Every now and then the sulphur caught and burnt with a violet flame; and
-      all the while it made a suffocating smell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt scared. I didn&rsquo;t know what he was going to do with me. The boys had
-      called him The Creature, which sounded very dreadful. He had dragged me
-      into his den just like the ogres the Snow Lady read about.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently his experiment ended. He gave me a seat by the stove, and came
-      and sat beside me. He didn&rsquo;t look at all fierce now. He struck me as old
-      and discouraged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Always fight for your sister,&rdquo; he said. Then after a pause, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s she
-      called?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I found myself telling him that she wasn&rsquo;t really my sister, that her name
-      was Ruthita, and that she had knitted me the muffler. He patted me on the
-      knee as I talked. He might almost have been The Spuffler.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Boys are horrid beasts,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They don&rsquo;t mean to be unkind. They
-      don&rsquo;t think&mdash;that&rsquo;s all. Soon you&rsquo;ll be one of them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He led the way out of the laboratory, turning the key behind him. The bell
-      in the tower was ringing for supper. The school was all lit up. He climbed
-      the railing which divided the playground from the football field, telling
-      me to follow. We passed across the meadows to the village, which lay on
-      the northward side of Eden Hill; it snuggled among trees. The cottages
-      were straw-thatched. Frost glistened on the window-panes, behind which
-      lamps were set. Unmelted snow glimmered here and there in the gardens in
-      patches among cabbage stumps. We turned in at a gate. The Creature raised
-      the latch of the door and we entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How cozy the little house was after the bare stone corridors and cold,
-      boarded dormitories. All the furnishings of the room into which he led me
-      were worn and out-of-date; but they had a homelike look about them which
-      atoned for their shabbiness. The walls bulged. Pictures hung awry upon
-      them. The springs of the sofa had burst; you sank to an unexpected depth
-      when you sat upon it. The carpet was threadbare; patch-work rugs covered
-      the worst places. Yet for all its poverty, you knew that it was a room in
-      which people had loved and been kind to one another. An atmosphere of
-      memory hung about it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Creature appeared to be his own house-keeper. He left me alone while
-      he went somewhere into the back to get things ready. I could hear him
-      striking matches and jingling cups against saucers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I sat looking curiously round at wax-fruit in glass-cases and a stuffed
-      owl on the mantel-shelf, the door was pushed open gently. An old lady
-      entered. She trod so lightly, gliding her feet along the floor, that I
-      should not have heard her save for the turning of the handle. She was
-      dressed from head to foot in clinging muslin. Her face and hands were so
-      frail and white that you could almost see through them. Her faded hair
-      fell disordered and scanty about her shoulders. Her eyes were unnaturally
-      large and luminous. She showed no surprise at seeing me. She looked at me
-      so stealthily that she seemed to establish a secret. Crossing her hands on
-      her breast she courtesied, and then asked me as odd a question as was ever
-      addressed to a little boy. &ldquo;Are you my Lord?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you please, mam,&rdquo; I faltered, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Dante Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her look of intense eagerness faded, and one of almost childish
-      disappointment took its place. She moved slowly about the room, from
-      corner to corner, bowing to people whom I could not see and whispering to
-      herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My host came shuffling along the passage. He was carrying a tea-tray. When
-      he saw the woman, he set it hurriedly down on the table and went quietly
-      towards her. &ldquo;Gipie,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Egypt, we&rsquo;re not alone; we have a guest.
-      Tell them to go away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He spoke to her soothingly, as though she were a child. Her eyes narrowed,
-      the strained far-away expression left her face. She made a motion with her
-      hand, dismissing the invisible persons. He led her to me. It was strange
-      to see a grown woman follow so obediently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Gipie,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I want you to listen to me. This boy is my friend. They
-      were fighting him up there,&rdquo; jerking his head in the direction of the
-      school. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s lonely; so I brought him to you. Tell him that you care.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The old lady lifted her hands to my shoulders&mdash;such pale hands. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
-      sorry,&rdquo; she said. It was like a child repeating a lesson.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He introduced us. &ldquo;This is my sister, Egypt; and this is Dante Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I don&rsquo;t know what we talked about. I can only remember that the little old
-      man and woman were kind to me and gave me courage. There are desolate
-      moments in life when one hour of sympathy calls out more gratitude than
-      years of easy friendship.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night as the Creature walked back with me from his cottage, he told
-      me to come to him whenever I was lonely. At the Red House he explained my
-      absence to the house-master. I went upstairs to the dormitory, with its
-      rows of twelve white beds down either side, feeling that I had parted from
-      a friend.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I undressed in the darkness the Bantam spoke to me. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t mean to
-      fight you, Cardover. Make it up.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So I made it up that night with the boy whose nose I had punched. He was a
-      decent little chap when off his dignity. We began to make confidences in
-      whispers; I suppose the darkness helped us. He told me that his father was
-      in India and that he hadn&rsquo;t got a mother. I told him about the Snow Lady,
-      and Hetty, and Uncle Obad; I didn&rsquo;t tell him about Ruthita because of the
-      muffler. Then I began to ask him about the Creature. I wanted to know if
-      that was his name. The Bantam laughed. &ldquo;Course not. He&rsquo;s Murdoch the
-      stinks&rsquo; master. We call him the Creature &rsquo;cause he looks like one.
-      Weren&rsquo;t you funky when he took you to his rabbit-hutch? Was Lady Zion
-      there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lady Zion?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. Lady Zion Holy Ghost she calls herself. She&rsquo;s his sister, and she&rsquo;s
-      balmy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was going to enter into some interesting details about her, when the
-      monitor and the elder boys came up. He hid his face in the pillow and
-      pretended to be sleeping soundly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The Bantam needs hair-brushing,&rdquo; the monitor announced. &ldquo;Here you, wake
-      up. You&rsquo;re shamming.&rdquo; He pulled the clothes off the Bantam&rsquo;s bed with one
-      jerk. The Bantam sat up, rubbing his eyes with a good imitation of having
-      just awakened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Out you come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      One boy held his hands and another his legs, bending his body into a
-      praying attitude. He fought like a demon, but to no purpose. They yanked
-      his night-shirt up, while the monitor laid into him with the bristly side
-      of a hairbrush. He addressed him between each blow. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s one for
-      bullying a new-bug. And that&rsquo;s another for fighting. And that&rsquo;s another
-      for being licked and getting in a funk, etc.&rdquo; By the time they had done he
-      was sobbing bitterly. Then the light went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I suppose I ought to have been glad at being avenged; but I wasn&rsquo;t.
-      Somehow I felt that the big boys had punished him not from a sense of
-      justice, but only because they were big and wanted to amuse themselves.
-      Then I got to thinking what a long way off India was, and how dreadful it
-      must make a boy feel never to see his father. It had been a long while
-      dark in the dormitory and almost everyone was breathing heavily. I
-      stretched out my hand across the narrow alley which separated me from the
-      Bantam.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bantam,&rdquo; I whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He snuffled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bantam.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt his fingers clutch my hand. I crept out and put my arms about him.
-      Then I got into his bed and curled up beside him, and so we both were
-      comforted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER III&mdash;THE WORLD OF BOYS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I
-      became great friends. He was a brave daredevil little chap, prematurely
-      hardened by the absence of home influences to make the best of life&rsquo;s
-      vicissitudes. Within an hour of having been beaten, he would be gay again
-      as ever. He was a soldier&rsquo;s son, and never wasted time in pitying himself.
-      He was greedy for joy, as I am to this day, and we contrived to find it
-      together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yet, when I look back, the making of happiness at the Red House seems to
-      me to have been very much like manufacturing bricks without straw. I am
-      amazed at our success. Very slight provision was made for our comfort. Our
-      daily routine was in no way superior to that of a barrack; the only
-      difference was that they drilled our heads instead of our arms and legs.
-      The feminine influence was entirely lacking, and a good deal of brutality
-      resulted. If the parents could have guessed half the shocking things that
-      their fresh-faced innocent looking darlings did and said in the three
-      months of each term that they were away from home, they would have been
-      broken-hearted. And yet they might have guessed. For here were we, young
-      animals in every stage of adolescence, herded together in class-rooms and
-      dormitories, uninformed about ourselves, with only paid people to care for
-      us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Apart from the masters we governed ourselves by a secret code of honor.
-      One of the favorite diversions, when things were dull, was to find some
-      boy who was unpopular, in a breach of schoolboy etiquette. He would then
-      be led into a class-room, held down over a desk, and thrashed with
-      hockey-sticks. I have seen a boy receive as many as ninety strokes, laid
-      on by various young barbarians who took a pride in seeing who could hit
-      hardest. Usually at the end of it the victim was nearly fainting, and
-      would be lame for days after. The masters knew all about such proceedings,
-      but they were too indifferent to interfere. They boasted that they trusted
-      to the school&rsquo;s sense of justice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A boy, who was at all sensitive, went about in a state of terror. If you
-      escaped hockey-sticks by day, there was always the dormitory and
-      hair-brush to be dreaded. The way to get beyond the dread of such
-      possibilities was to make yourself popular, and the easiest way to become
-      popular was to play ingenious pranks on the masters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The glorious hours of liberty that broke up the monotonous round of tasks
-      stand out in vivid contrast to the discipline. We lived for them and kept
-      charts of the days, because this seemed to bring them nearer. There were
-      two half-holidays a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays, on which, if
-      sufficient excuse were given, we were allowed to go out of the
-      school-grounds. If the permission were withheld, we broke bounds and took
-      the risk of discovery and consequent thrashings. These stolen expeditions
-      had a zest about them that made them the more pleasurable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Bantam and I did most things together. We had a common fund of money.
-      His memories of India lent a touch of romance to our friendship. He would
-      spin long yarns of man-eating tigers and terrible battles with
-      hill-tribes. He had a lurid imagination and added some fresh detail each
-      time he told his tales. Not to be behindhand, I narrated my escape to the
-      forest&mdash;leaving out the Ruthita part of it&mdash;and how Lilith had
-      made me a gipsy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      These stories became a secret between us which we shared with no one. We
-      created for ourselves a mirage world which we called IT. In IT we had only
-      to speak of things and they happened. In IT there were man-eating tigers
-      to whom we threw our masters when they had been unpleasant to us. We would
-      drag them by their feet through the jungle, and then let out a low
-      blood-thirsty wailing sound. Immediately we had done it, we would drop our
-      victim and climb trees, for we could hear the tigers coming. The victim
-      was bound so he couldn&rsquo;t run away and while he lay there &ldquo;in the long rank
-      grass with bulging eyes,&rdquo; we would remind him of his crimes committed at
-      the Red House. The account of his tortures and dying words would become a
-      dialogue between the Bantam and myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then the tiger seized him by the arm and chawed him,&rdquo; the Bantam would
-      say.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And the other tiger seized him by the leg, pulling in an opposite
-      direction,&rdquo; said I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then old Sneard looked up at me, with imploring eyes. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve been a
-      beast,&rsquo; he moaned, &lsquo;and you were always a good boy. Call them off for the
-      sake of my little girl.&rsquo; But I only laughed sepulchrally,&rdquo; said the
-      Bantam.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your little girl will be jolly well glad when you&rsquo;re dead,&rdquo; said I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Everybody will be glad,&rdquo; said the Bantam. &ldquo;And then a third tiger crept
-      out of the bushes and bit off his head, putting an end to his agony.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t have killed him so soon,&rdquo; I would expostulate discontentedly.
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d got something else I wanted to do to him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; the Bantam would assent cheerfully; &ldquo;let&rsquo;s kill him again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So real was this land of IT to us, that we would shout with excitement as
-      we reached the climax of our narrations. The English fields through which
-      we wandered became swamps, deserts, and forests at will.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It became part of our game to pretend that we might meet Lilith any day.
-      Often we would break bounds, stealing down country lanes and peering
-      through hedges, hoping that at the next turn we should discover her seated
-      before her camp-fire. Hope deferred never curbed our eagerness; we always
-      believed that we should meet her next time.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If we did not meet Lilith, we met someone equally strange&mdash;Lady Zion,
-      the Creature&rsquo;s sister. It was the Bantam who told me all about her. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s
-      wrong up there,&rdquo; he said, tapping his forehead. &ldquo;She thinks she&rsquo;s
-      something out of the Bible; that&rsquo;s why she calls herself Lady Zion Holy
-      Ghost. She goes about the country dressed in white, riding on a donkey,
-      muttering to herself, looking for someone she can never find. She thinks
-      that she&rsquo;s in love with old Sneard, and that he don&rsquo;t care for her. They
-      say that once he was going to marry her and then threw her over. That&rsquo;s
-      what sent her balmy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I grew older I learnt the truth about the Creature and his sister. He
-      became a firm friend of mine before schooldays were ended. He was a man
-      who possessed a faculty for not getting on in the world which, had it been
-      of value, would have amounted to genius. Anyone else with his brains and
-      instinct for daring guess-work in scientific experiment, would have made a
-      reputation. Instead of which he pottered his life out at the Red House,
-      defending his sister and allowing himself to be imposed on both by boys
-      and masters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Popularity was the armor which permitted you to do almost anything with
-      impunity. A boy would take almost any chance to get it. Very early in my
-      school experience the Bantam thought out a plan which he invited me to
-      share&mdash;with the dire result that I was brought into intimate contact
-      with Mr. Sneard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Every night between seven and eight the lower forms assembled to prepare
-      their next day&rsquo;s lessons. The Creature usually presided, chiefly because
-      he was good-natured and the other masters were lazy. It was part of his
-      penance. The room in which we assembled was illumined by oil-lamps, which
-      hung low on chains from the ceiling. If the chimney of one of these broke,
-      the light became so bad in that quarter that work was suspended until it
-      had been replaced. The Bantam conceived the happy idea of persuading them
-      to break in an almost undiscoverable manner. It was simplicity itself&mdash;to
-      spit across the room so skilfully as to hit the chimney, whereupon the
-      moisture on the hot glass would cause it to crack. We practised at sticks
-      and gate-posts in the fields at first; having become more or less
-      proficient, we practised aiming at objects above our heads. This was more
-      difficult. Our progress was slow; it was dry work. Still, within a month
-      we considered ourselves adepts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One night in prep we put our plan to the test. The Creature was seated at
-      his raised desk, absorbed in some scientific work. The Bantam, judging his
-      distance carefully, took aim and the chimney cracked. As soon as the
-      lamp-boy had been sent for and the chimney had been replaced, it was my
-      turn. I was no less successful. For a week prep was disorganized; every
-      night the same thing happened. I felt secretly ashamed of myself, for I
-      knew that I was behaving meanly to a man who had always been kind in his
-      dealings with me; but I was intoxicated with popularity. The Bantam and I
-      were the heroes of the hour. Boys who had never condescended to speak to
-      us, now offered us their next week&rsquo;s pocket-money to instruct them in an
-      art in which we excelled. Games were abandoned. All over the play-ground
-      groups of young ruffians might be seen industriously spitting at some
-      object by the hour together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I suppose the Creature must have watched us from the laboratory and put
-      two and two together. One night, when three chimneys had broken in
-      succession, he caught me in mid-act. I say he caught me, but he did not so
-      much as look up from the book he was reading. He just said, without
-      raising his head, &ldquo;Cardover, you must report yourself to Mr. Sneard
-      to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      To have to report oneself to Mr. Sneard was the worst punishment that an
-      under-master could measure out. Somehow it had never entered my head that
-      the Creature would be so severe as that. Why, I might get expelled or
-      publicly thrashed! My imagination conjured up all sorts of disgraces and
-      grisly penalties.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night in the dormitory the Bantam told me of a way in which I might
-      save myself; it was my first lesson in the value of diplomacy in helping
-      one out of ticklish situations. It appeared that Mr. Sneard was always
-      lenient with a boy who professed conversion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day as I was hesitating outside his private room, screwing up my
-      courage to tap, the Bantam sidled up behind me. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going too,&rdquo; he said.
-      Before I could dissuade him, he had turned the handle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sneard was a sallow cadaverous person; he affected side-whiskers and had
-      red hair. He wore clerical attire, the vest of which was very much spotted
-      through his nearsightedness when he ate at table. He was probably the
-      least scholarly master in the school, but he owed his position to his
-      manners. They were unctuous, and had the reputation of going down with the
-      parents. I suppose that was how he caught my father. He composed hymns,
-      which he set to music and compelled us to sing on Sundays. They were
-      mostly of the self-abasement order, in which we spoke of ourselves as
-      worms and besought the Almighty not to tread on us. For years my mental
-      picture of God was that of a gigantic school-master in holy orders, very
-      similar in appearance to Sneard himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we entered, he was seated behind his desk writing. He prolonged our
-      suspense by pretending not to see us for a while. Suddenly he cast aside
-      his pen and wheeled round in a storm of furious anger. When he spoke, it
-      sounded like a dog yapping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You young blackguards, what&rsquo;s this I hear about you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He forced us to tell him the stupid details of our offense. He could have
-      had no sense of humor, for while we were speaking he covered his eyes with
-      his hand as though staggered with horror at the enormity of our depravity.
-      Later experience has taught me that what he meant us to believe was that
-      he was engaged in prayer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When in small throaty whispers we had finished our confession, he looked
-      up at us. &ldquo;Your poor, poor fathers,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;one in India and one my
-      friend! What shall I tell them? How shall I break this news to them?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then he straightened himself in his chair. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing else for it;
-      Cardover, it&rsquo;s over there. Will you please fetch it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He pointed to a cane in the corner, which leant against a book-shelf. It
-      was at this crisis that the Bantam made use of his stratagem.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you please, sir, I&rsquo;ve been troubled about my soul again.&rdquo; Then he
-      added loyally, &ldquo;And Cardover&rsquo;s been lying awake of nights thinking about
-      hell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      If the truth be told I had been lying awake imagining Sneard being bled to
-      death very slowly, and very torturingly, by a hill-tribe. But Sneard
-      caught at the bait. &ldquo;I am glad to hear it. Cardover, before I cane you,
-      come here and tell me about your views on hell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before we left him, great crocodile tears were streaming from our eyes by
-      reason of knuckles rubbed in vigorously. We were not punished. The last
-      sight I had of Sneard he was gazing with holy joy at a great oil-painting
-      of himself which hung above his desk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Most of the boys in the Red House were converted many times&mdash;as often
-      as they came within reach of the birch. Sneard made much coin out of
-      referring to these touching spiritual experiences in public gatherings of
-      parents. I have never been able to decide whether we really did fool him.
-      I am inclined to believe that his eyes were wide open to our hypocrisy,
-      but that he found it paid to encourage it. Part of his salary was derived
-      from percentages on the tuition fees of all boys over a certain number. He
-      found that the best card to play with parents for the attracting of new
-      pupils, was a statement of the numerous conversions which were brought
-      about through his influence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;NEW HORIZONS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I
-      won immunity from bullying in a quite unexpected manner.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our beds stood next together. Every night the younger boys were sent up to
-      the dormitory at nine; fifteen minutes later the lights were turned out.
-      The upper-classmen didn&rsquo;t come up till ten. For three-quarters of an hour
-      each night we could whisper together in comparative privacy about IT,
-      going on wildest excursions in our hidden land. Not unnaturally the
-      curiosity of the other small boys of our dormitory was aroused&mdash;they
-      wanted to share our secret, and we wouldn&rsquo;t let them. We were quite their
-      match if it came to a fight, which was all the more irritating. We
-      steadily refused to fight with them, or play with them, or to tell them
-      anything. They became sulky and suspicious; in their opinion our
-      conversation was too low to bear repetition. I suppose one of them must
-      have sneaked to Cow&mdash;Cow was monitor of our dormitory. One night he
-      came up early and on tiptoe. The first thing I knew he was standing in the
-      darkness looking down on me, where I lay whispering on the Bantam&rsquo;s bed. I
-      was fairly caught.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Young&rsquo;un, what&rsquo;s that you&rsquo;re saying?&rdquo; he asked sternly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To have told him would have spoilt everything. Only when my night-shirt
-      had been stripped off and I saw that a grand gala-night of hair-brushing
-      was being planned, did I venture an explanation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was only telling the Bantam a story.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie. Let&rsquo;s hear it,&rdquo; said the Cow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t begin when you&rsquo;ve got my shirt,&rdquo; I expostulated. &ldquo;Let me get back
-      into bed; then I&rsquo;ll tell you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was arranged that I should be given a respite while the older boys
-      undressed. Once safe in bed, I set my imagination galloping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Once upon a time,&rdquo; I commenced, &ldquo;there was a great pirate and he was
-      known as the Pirate King. He had a wife called One-Eye, and she was the
-      only person he was afraid of in all the world. He sailed the blood-red
-      seas with a crew of smugglers and highwaymen, most of whom he had rescued
-      at the last minute from the gallows. They were devoted to him, and the
-      vessel in which he sailed was called <i>The Damn</i>.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The name of the vessel fetched them. There was no more talk of
-      hair-brushing. At half-past ten the light went out and we heard old Sneard
-      shuffling down the passage, going his final round of inspection. At each
-      door he halted, lifting his candle above his head and craning out his long
-      thin neck. Satisfied that all was in order, he shuffled on to his own
-      quarters and we heard his door slam. That night I must have lain in the
-      darkness recounting the adventures of the Pirate King till long past
-      twelve. Every now and then a voice would interrupt me from one of the
-      narrow white beds, asking a question. I fell asleep in the midst of my
-      recounting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After that it became a practice that each night a fresh development in the
-      life of this wonderful man should be unfolded. It was a good deal of a tax
-      on the imagination, but the Bantam came to my help, and we told the story
-      turn and turn about. We told how <i>The Damn</i> sailed into Peru and came
-      back blood-drenched and treasure-laden; how the Pirate King took strange
-      maidens to his breast in coloring all the way from alabaster to ebony, and
-      what his wife One-Eye had to say about it; how the Pirate King could never
-      be defeated and became so strong that he made himself Pope till he got
-      tired of it. Discrepancies in chronology caused us no more inconvenience
-      than they usually do historic novelists. In our world Joan of Arc and
-      Julius Cæsar were contemporaries. They met for the first time as
-      prisoners, when they were introduced by the Pirate King on board <i>The
-      Damn</i>. It was owing to the Roman Emperor that the Maid escaped and
-      survived to be burnt.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But the part which found most favor was that which described the sack of
-      London, and how the boys of the Red House enlisted with the pirates and
-      took all the masters, except the Creature, out to sea and made them walk
-      the plank. I refused to allow the Creature to be murdered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the story became personal, the Bantam and I discovered ourselves the
-      possessors of unlimited power. We were lords of the other boys&rsquo; destinies.
-      We could make them heroes or cowards, give them fair maidens or forget to
-      say anything about them. Frequently we received bribes to let the giver
-      down easily or to make him appear more valiant. I&rsquo;m afraid we drifted into
-      being tyrants, like Nero and all the other men whose wills have been
-      absolute, and took our revenge with the rod of imagination. In the middle
-      of some thrilling escapade of the pirates, when only courage could save
-      them from calamity, we would tell how one of the boys in a near-by bed
-      turned traitor and went over to the enemy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Out of the darkness would come an angry voice, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t, you little
-      beasts. You know quite well, I didn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, you did,&rdquo; we would say, and proceed to make him appear yet more
-      infamous. If he expostulated too frequently, arms would be reached out and
-      a shower of boots would fly about his head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our reputation spread beyond the dormitory; the history of the Pirate
-      King, his wife One-Eye, and the good ship <i>Damn</i>, became a kind of
-      school epic in which all the latest happenings at the Red House were
-      chronicled. No one dared to offend us, small as we were. Like Benvenuto
-      Cellini, sniffing his way through Europe and petulantly turning his back
-      on kings and cardinals with impunity, we attained the successful genius&rsquo;s
-      privilege of being detested for our persons, but treasured for our
-      accomplishments. So at last we were popular in a fashion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What contrasts of experience we had in those days!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The crestfallen returns to the Red House, with play-boxes stuffed with
-      feeble comfort in the shape of chocolates and cake; the long monotony of
-      term-time with the dull lessons, the birchings, the flashes of excitement
-      on half-holidays and the counting of the weeks till vacations came round;
-      then the wild burst of enthusiasm when trunks were packed and Sneard had
-      offered up his customary prayer in his accustomed language, and we set off
-      shouting on the homeward journey.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All the discipline and captivity were a small price to pay for the
-      gladness of those home-comings. Ruthita would be at the end of the Lane
-      waiting for me, a little shy at first but undeniably happy. The Snow Lady
-      would be on the door-step, her pretty face all aglow with merriment. My
-      father would forsake his study for the night and sit down to talk to me
-      with all the leisure and courtesy that he usually reserved for grown men.
-      Until they got used to me again I could upset my tea at table, slide down
-      the banisters, and tramp through the house with muddy boots&mdash;no one
-      rebuked me for fear the welcome should be spoiled. The Snow Lady called me
-      The Fatted Calf, wilfully misinterpreting the Bible parable. Little by
-      little Ruthita would lose her shyness; then we would begin to plan all the
-      things we would do in the seemingly inexhaustible period of freedom that
-      lay before us. In those days weeks were as long as years are now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was once a time when I had no secrets from Ruthita. But a change was
-      creeping over us almost imperceptibly, forming little rifts of reserve
-      which widened. Walls of a new and more subtle kind were growing up about
-      us, dividing us for a time from one another and from everybody else.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was one holiday in which I became friendly with a butcher-boy. He
-      was a guinea-pig fancier; I arranged to buy one from him for a shilling.
-      My intention was to give it to Ruthita on her birthday. I told no one of
-      my plan&mdash;it was to be a surprise. A little hutch was knocked up in
-      the tool-shed which the old white hen had tenanted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The night before the birthday the butcher-boy came, and smuggled the
-      little creature in at the gate. Next morning I wakened early. Ruthita was
-      standing beside my bed in her long white night-gown, beneath which her
-      rosy toes peeped out. When I had kissed her, she seemed surprised that I
-      had no present for her. I became mysterious. &ldquo;You wait until I&rsquo;m dressed,&rdquo;
-       I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Slipping into my clothes I ran into the garden to get things ready. To my
-      unspeakable astonishment when I looked into the hutch, I found three
-      guinea-pigs, two of them very tiny, where only one had been the night
-      before. I felt that something shameful and indelicate had happened.
-      Exactly what I could not say, but something that I could not tell Ruthita.
-      When she traced me down to the tool-shed, I drove her away almost angrily;
-      I felt that I was secretly disgraced.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That morning when the butcher-boy called for orders, I took him aside. I
-      sold him back the three guinea-pigs for ninepence, and thought the loss of
-      threepence a cheap price to pay to rid myself of such embarrassment. The
-      butcher-boy grinned broadly and winked in a knowing manner. To me it was
-      all very serious, and with a boy&rsquo;s pride I did not invite enlightenment. I
-      took Ruthita out and let her choose her own present up to the value of
-      ninepence. I lied to her, saying that that was what I had intended.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Arguing by analogy from this experience, I gradually came to realize that
-      all about me was a world of passion, the first boundaries of which I was
-      just beginning to traverse.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Bantam, having no home to go to, would sometimes return with me to
-      Pope Lane for the vacation; the Snow Lady was attracted by his freckled
-      face and impudently upturned nose. In the early years he, Ruthita, and I
-      would play together. Then, as we grew more boyish, we would play games in
-      which she could not share. But at last a time came when I found that it
-      was I who was excluded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I found that Ruthita and the Bantam had a way of going off and hiding
-      themselves. It was quite evident that they had secrets which they kept
-      from me. An understanding lay between them in which I could not share. I
-      became irritable and began to watch.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One summer evening after tea I could not find them, The gate into the Lane
-      was unlatched; I followed. There was a deserted house no great way
-      distant, standing shuttered in the midst of overgrown grounds. We had
-      found a bar broken in the railings, and there the Bantam and I played
-      highwaymen. Naturally I thought of this haunt first.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Creeping through the long grass I came upon them. The Bantam had his arm
-      about Ruthita&rsquo;s waist. She was tossing back her hair; her face was
-      radiant. I could only catch a glimpse of her sideways, but it came home to
-      me that the qualities in her which, in my blindness, I had taken for
-      granted, were beautiful and rare. As I watched, the Bantam kissed her. She
-      drew back her head, glad and yet ashamed. I crept away with a strange
-      sense of forlornness in my heart; they had stumbled across a pleasure of
-      which I was ignorant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Poor little Ruthita!&mdash;it was short-lived. Hetty, having quarreled
-      with the gardener, had not married. What I had seen, she also saw a few
-      days later and told my father. He was very angry. I can see Ruthita now,
-      with her long spindly legs and short skirts, standing up demurely to take
-      her scolding. I listened to the scorching words my father spoke to her;
-      the burden of his talk was that her conduct was unladylike. I came to her
-      defense with the remark, &ldquo;But, father, she only did what I saw you and the
-      Snow Lady doing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That night I went to bed supperless and I had no more pocket-money for a
-      week. The Bantam&rsquo;s visit was cut short; he was bundled back to the Red
-      House. I was sent down to Ransby to stay with my Grandmother Cardover. I
-      have the fixed remembrance of Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes very red with weeping. The
-      utmost comfort I could give her was the promise that I would carry
-      messages of her eternal faithfulness to her lover on my return to school.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The world had grown very complicated. Love was either wicked or stupid.
-      Hetty had acted as though it was wicked when I caught her with John; my
-      father, when I had caught him, as though it was stupid. Yet he was not
-      ashamed of love now that he was married. I could not see why Ruthita
-      should be so scolded for doing what her mother did every day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER V&mdash;THE AWAKENING
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t a distance I had
-      been sorry for the Bantam, but at close quarters his hopeless passion for
-      Ruthita bored me. On my return to the Red House he overwhelmed me with a
-      flood of maudlin confessions. There was nothing pleased him better than to
-      get me alone, so that he could outline to me his impossible plans for an
-      early marriage. He talked of running away to sea and making his fortune in
-      a distant land. It sounded all very easy. His only fear was that in his
-      long absence Ruthita might be forced to marry some other fellow. &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo;
-       he would say, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re a lucky chap to have been always near her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This kind of talk irritated me, partly because I was jealous of an ecstasy
-      which I could not understand, and partly because I had known Ruthita so
-      many years that I thought I knew her exact value a good deal better than
-      the Bantam. There was something very absurd, too, in the contrast between
-      this gawky boy, with his downy face and clumsy hands, and these
-      exaggerated expressions of sentiment. I began to avoid him; at that time I
-      did not know why, but now I know it was because of the herd spirit which
-      shuns abnormality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Nevertheless he had stirred something latent within me. My days became
-      haunted with alluring conjectures; beneath the cold formality of human
-      faces and manners I caught glimpses of a boisterous ruffianly passion.
-      Sometimes it would repel me, making me unspeakably sad; but more often it
-      swept me away in a torrent of inexplicable riotous happiness. I had come
-      to an age when, shut him up as you may in the garden of unenlightenment, a
-      boy must hear from beyond the walls the pagan pipes and the dancing feet
-      of Pan.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of nights I would lie awake, still and tense, reasoning my way forward and
-      forward, out of the fairy tales of childhood into reality. Sometimes I
-      would bury my face in my pillow, half glad and half ashamed of my strange,
-      new knowledge. Now all the glory of the flesh in the Classics, which
-      before had slipped by me when encountered as a schoolboy&rsquo;s task, burned in
-      my brain with the vehement fire of immemorial romance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Old Sneard had a terrifying sermon, which he was fond of preaching on
-      Sunday evenings when the chapel was full of shadows. His heated face,
-      startlingly illumined by the pulpit-lamps, would take on the furious
-      earnestness of an accusing angel as he leant out towards us describing the
-      spiritual tortures of the damned. He spoke in symbolic language of the
-      causes which led up to damnation. Until quite lately I had wondered what
-      in the world he could be driving at. His text was, &ldquo;Son of man, hast thou
-      seen what the elders of the house of Israel do in the dark, every man in
-      his chambers of imagery?&rdquo; The grotesque unreality of likening a group of
-      school-boys to the elders of Israel never occurred to me; I was too
-      carried away by the reality of sin itself and the terror of what was said.
-      When service was ended I would steal up the stone stairway to the
-      dormitory in silence, almost fearful that my guilt might be betrayed by my
-      shadow....
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was summer-time. Those of us who professed an interest in entomology
-      were permitted during the hour between prep and supper to rove the country
-      with butterfly-nets. The results of these expeditions were given to the
-      school natural history museum; most of the boys hunted in pairs. Things
-      being as they were between myself and the Bantam, I preferred to go by
-      myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All day it had been raining. The sky was still damp with heavy clouds and
-      the evening fell early. I slipped out into the cool wet dusk, eager to be
-      solitary. Some boys were kicking a ball and called to me to come and play
-      with them. In my anxiety not to be delayed, I doubled up my fists and ran.
-      They followed in pursuit, but soon their shouts and laughter grew fainter,
-      till presently I was alone in a dim, green world. The air was exquisitely
-      fragrant with earth and flower smells. Far away between the trees of Eden
-      Hill a watery sunset faded palely. Nearer at hand dog-roses and convolvuli
-      glimmered in the hedges.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I threw myself down in the dripping grass, lying full-length on my back,
-      so that I could watch the stars struggle out between the edges of clouds.
-      Oh, the sense of freedom and wideness, and the sheer joy of being at large
-      in the world! I listened to the stillness of the twilight, which is a
-      stillness made up of an infinity of tiny sounds&mdash;birds settling into
-      their nests, trees whispering together, and flowers drawing closer their
-      fragile petals to shut out the cold night air. I told myself that all the
-      little creatures of the fields and hedgerows were tucking one another safe
-      in bed. Then, as if to contradict me, the sudden passion of the
-      nightingale wandered down the stairway of the silence, each note
-      separately poignant, like glances of a lover who halts and looks back from
-      every step as he descends. From far away the passion was answered, and
-      again it was returned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A great White Admiral fluttered over my head. I picked up my net and was
-      after it. So, in a second, the boy within me proved himself stronger than
-      the man. But the butterfly refused to let me get near it and would never
-      settle long enough for me to catch it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I followed from field to field, till at last it came to the cricket-ground
-      and made a final desperate effort to escape me by flying over the hedge
-      into the private garden of Sneard&rsquo;s house. His garden was forbidden
-      territory, but the twilight made me bold to forget that. Breaking through
-      the hedge I followed, running tiptoe down a path which ended in a
-      summer-house. The White Admiral settled on a rosebush; I was in the act of
-      netting it when I heard someone stirring. Standing in the doorway of the
-      summerhouse was a girl about as tall as myself. We eyed one another
-      through the dusk in silence. Her face was indistinct and in shadow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know how you frightened me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Directly she spoke I knew that she was not Beatrice Sneard, as I had
-      dreaded. Her voice was too friendly; it had in it the lazy caressing
-      quality of a summer&rsquo;s afternoon when bees are humming in and out of
-      flowers. Her way of pronouncing words was halting and slightly foreign. In
-      after years I came to know just how much power of temptation her voice
-      possessed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose you&rsquo;re not allowed in here,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but you needn&rsquo;t worry&mdash;I
-      shan&rsquo;t tell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The boy in me prompted me to answer, &ldquo;You can tell if you care to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She gave a secret little laugh. &ldquo;But I shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After all my gallant imaginings of what I would do on a like occasion, I
-      stood before her awkwardly, tongue-tied and ungracious&mdash;so far
-      removed are dreams from reality. The White Admiral, tired with the long
-      pursuit, still clung to the rose&rsquo;s petals. Across misty fields
-      nightingales called, casting the love-spell, and the moon, in intermittent
-      flashes, caused the dripping foliage to glisten.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She rested her hand on my arm&mdash;such a small white hand&mdash;and drew
-      me into the seclusion of the summerhouse.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not afraid of girls, are you?&rdquo; she questioned, and then
-      inconsequently, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m awfully lonely.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was a note of appeal in her tones, so I found my tongue and asked
-      why she was lonely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I quarrel with Beatrice&mdash;we don&rsquo;t get on together. Do you
-      know, she thinks all you boys are simply horrid persons?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps we are,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Most people think that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she answered promptly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Gradually my constraint left me. She had an easy kindness and assurance in
-      her manner that I had never found in any other girl. She slipped her hand
-      into mine; made bold by the darkness of the summer-house, I held it
-      tightly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I like you. I like you very much,&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve never spoken to me before. Why should you like the?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned her face to mine, so that our lips were quite near together. &ldquo;I
-      suppose because I&rsquo;m a girl.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The bell for supper began to ring. I pretended not to hear it. Through the
-      roses across the lawn I saw Sneard stand in his study-window, struggling
-      into his gown. Then the window became dark and I knew that he had gone to
-      read evening prayers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The bell is ringing,&rdquo; she said at last. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t go, you&rsquo;ll get
-      punished.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s for your sake, I don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She pushed me gently from her. &ldquo;Go away now. If you get into trouble,
-      you&rsquo;ll not be able to come back tomorrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She ran down the path with me as far as the hedge. The bell was at its
-      last strokes, swinging slower and slower. At the hedge we halted. I knew
-      what I wanted to do; my whole body ached to take her in my arms and kiss
-      her. But something stronger than will&mdash;the habit of restraint&mdash;prevented.
-      Some paces away on the other side of the hedge I remembered that I did not
-      even know her name. Without halting I called back to her questioning, and
-      as I ran the answer followed me through the shadows, &ldquo;Fiesole.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After the monitors had come up and the lights had been put out, I waited
-      for an hour till all the dormitory was sleeping; then, very stealthily, I
-      edged myself out of bed. Standing upright, I listened to make sure that I
-      was undetected. I stole out into the corridor bare-foot. I feared to dress
-      lest anyone should be aroused. In my long linen night-gown I tiptoed down
-      the corridor, down the stairs, and entered the fifth-form class-room.
-      Throwing up the window I climbed out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      An English summer&rsquo;s night lay before me in all its silver splendor&mdash;huge
-      shadows of trees, scented coolness of the air, and damp smoothness of turf
-      beneath my tread. The exultation of life&rsquo;s bigness and cleanness came upon
-      me. I knew now that it was right to be proud of the body and to love the
-      body. Oh, why had it been left to a glimpse in the dusk of a young girl&rsquo;s
-      face to teach me that? At a rush I had become possessed of all the codes
-      of mediaeval chivalry. Every woman, however old or unpleasing, was for
-      Fiesole&rsquo;s sake most perfect&mdash;a person to be worshiped; for in serving
-      her I should be serving Fiesole. What a name to have! How all her
-      perfectness was summed up in the beauty of those full vowel sounds, <i>Fi-es-sol-le</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I trespassed again in the garden. In the quiet of the rose-scented night I
-      entered the summer-house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Far away the nightingales sang on. There were words to their chanting now
-      and their song was no, longer melancholy. And these were the words as I
-      heard them: &ldquo;<i>Fiesole&mdash;Fiesole&mdash;Fiesole. Love in the world.
-      Love in the world. Glad&mdash;glad&mdash;glad.</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;WHAT IS LOVE?
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y secret was too
-      big and beautiful to keep to myself. There was no one I could tell it to
-      save the Bantam. But the Bantam had grown shy of me; he knew that within
-      myself I had been laughing at him. He turned away when I tried to catch
-      his eye, and bent with unaccustomed diligence above his lessons.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Not till after lunch did I get a chance to approach him. All the other
-      boys had changed into flannels and had hurried off to the cricket-nets. I
-      wandered into the empty playground and there found him seated alone in a
-      corner. His knees were drawn up so that his chin rested on them; in his
-      eyes was a far-away sorrowful expression. I halted before him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bantam.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He did not look up, but I knew by the twitching of his hands that he had
-      heard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bantam, I&rsquo;ve got something to tell you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Slowly he turned his head. He was acting the part of Hamlet and I was
-      vastly impressed. &ldquo;Is it about Ruthita?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Partly. But it&rsquo;s happened to me too, Bantam.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wot?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A girl.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A genuine look of live-boy astonishment overspread his countenance. &ldquo;A
-      girl!&rdquo; he ejaculated. &ldquo;But there ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any about&mdash;unless you mean
-      Pigtails.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being leveled
-      at me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you say that again, I&rsquo;ll punch your head.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, so it is Pigtails.&rdquo; He rose to his feet lazily and began to take off
-      his jacket. &ldquo;Come on and punch it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But a fight wasn&rsquo;t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him
-      with my hands held down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Silly ass, how could it be Pigtails? Do I look that sort? It&rsquo;s another
-      girl. I came to you &rsquo;cause you&rsquo;re in love, and you&rsquo;ll understand.
-      I&rsquo;ve been a beast to you&mdash;won&rsquo;t you be friends?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager for
-      sympathy, however, to be discouraged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s called Fiesole,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that beautiful?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthita&rsquo;s better.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s got gold hair with just a little&mdash;a little red in it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I prefer black.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not talking about Ruthita; I&rsquo;m telling you about Fiesole.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; said the Bantam; &ldquo;you never do talk about Ruthita now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I walked away from him angrily in the direction I had taken on the
-      previous evening. As I approached the nets I saw a little group of
-      spectators. Then I made out the clerical figure of Sneard and the figure
-      of Pigtails dressed in gray, and between them a slim white girl. Behind me
-      I heard the pit-a-pat of running feet on the turf. The Bantam flung his
-      arm about my shoulders, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been a beast and you&rsquo;ve been a
-      beast; but we won&rsquo;t be beasts any longer.&rdquo; Then, following the direction
-      of my eyes, &ldquo;What are you staring at? Is that her? My eye, she&rsquo;s a
-      topper!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He prodded me to go forward. When I showed reluctance, he used almost
-      Fiesole&rsquo;s words, &ldquo;Why, surely, Dante, you ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t afraid of a girl!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was afraid, and always have been wherever my affections are concerned.
-      But I wasn&rsquo;t going to own it just then. I let him slip his arm through
-      mine, and we sauntered forward together. Through the soft summer air came
-      the sharp <i>click</i> of the ball as it glanced off the bat, and the long
-      cheer which followed as the wicket went down. Fiesole turned, clapping her
-      hands, and our eyes met. Then she ceased to look at me; her gaze rested on
-      the Bantam, while a half-smile played about her mouth. A pang of jealousy
-      shot through me. With the instinctive egotism of the male, I felt that by
-      the mere fact of loving her I had made her my property. However, Pigtails
-      came to my rescue, for I saw her jolt Fiesole with her elbow; her shocked
-      voice reached me, saying, &ldquo;Cousin Fiesole, whatever are you staring at?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I tugged at the Bantam&rsquo;s sleeve and we turned away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My golly, but she is a ripper,&rdquo; he whispered....
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the distance grew between us and her, he kept glancing across his
-      shoulder and once halted completely to gaze back. I envied him his
-      effrontery. My fate from the beginning has been to run away from the women
-      I love&mdash;and then to regret it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had entered into another field and were passing a laburnum tree, when
-      the Bantam drew up sharply. He pointed to its blossom all gold and yellow.
-      &ldquo;The color of her hair,&rdquo; he said, and promptly threw himself under it,
-      lying on his back, gazing up at its burning foliage. The sun filtered down
-      through its leaves upon us, making fantastic patterns on our hands and
-      faces. The field was tall in hay, ready for the cutting, so we had the
-      boy&rsquo;s delight of being completely hidden from the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the color of her eyes?&rdquo; he asked presently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know; it was dusk when I saw her. I expect it&rsquo;s the same as
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who is she?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Met her in Sneard&rsquo;s garden&mdash;Pigtails called her &lsquo;cousin&rsquo; just now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s called Fiesole! Pretty name. How it suits her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not prettier than Ruthita,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He sat up and grinned at me. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;re you getting at? You wanted me to say
-      all that half-an-hour ago in the playground; now I&rsquo;ve said it. I can think
-      she&rsquo;s pretty, can&rsquo;t I, and still love Ruthita best?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you oughtn&rsquo;t to love her at all,&rdquo; I expostulated with a growing sense
-      of indignant proprietorship.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; explained the Bantam seriously, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re jealous. That&rsquo;s the
-      way I felt about you when you told me that you weren&rsquo;t Ruthita&rsquo;s brother;
-      I quite understand. But if I&rsquo;m to marry Ruthita, I shall be your
-      brother-in-law. Sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t I? And if you marry Fiesole, she&rsquo;ll be my
-      sister-inlaw. Won&rsquo;t she? Well then, I&rsquo;ve got a right to be pleased about
-      her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I took him at his word and told him everything that had happened and all
-      that I knew about her. Continually he would break in with feverish words
-      of surprise and flattery, leading me on still further to confess myself.
-      In the magic world of that summer&rsquo;s afternoon no difficulties seemed
-      insuperable. Married we could and would be. Parents and schoolmasters only
-      existed for one purpose&mdash;to prevent boys and girls who fell in love
-      from marrying: that was why grown-ups had all the money. In a natural
-      state of society, where men lived in the woods, and wore skins, and
-      carried clubs, these injustices would not happen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So we unbosomed ourselves, only understanding vaguely the immensities that
-      love and marriage meant. Then the bell for four o&rsquo;clock school began
-      calling and, like the slaves we were, we returned, on the run, to the Red
-      House.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We found that we were not the only persons to be inflamed by the beauty
-      of Fiesole. All the boys were talking about her. One of our chief fears
-      was set at rest&mdash;her surname was not Sneard, but Cortona. Her father
-      had been a famous Italian actor married to Sneard&rsquo;s sister, and both her
-      parents fortunately were dead. She had quite a lot of money and had come
-      from a convent at Tours, where she was being educated, to stay with her
-      uncle on a visit of undetermined length or brevity. This news had all been
-      gathered by the Cow, who had that curious faculty for worming out
-      information which some boys possess. He had extracted it from the
-      groundman, who had extracted it from Sneard&rsquo;s gardener, who had extracted
-      it from Sneard&rsquo;s housemaid, with whom he was on more than friendly terms&mdash;so
-      of course it was authentic.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That evening after prep I again stole out. The Bantam showed himself very
-      impertinent&mdash;he wanted to come with me. I had great difficulty in
-      persuading him that it wasn&rsquo;t necessary. I found Fiesole in the
-      summer-house. She was subdued and wistful, and insisted on asking
-      questions about that nice boy she had seen with me. I told her frankly
-      that he was engaged to my sister, and gave her a graphic account of how my
-      father had turned him out of Pope Lane. I fear I made him seem altogether
-      too romantic. She made careful inquiries about the appearance of Ruthita,
-      which I took as a sign of encouragement&mdash;a foreknowledge that sooner
-      or later I intended to ask her to become one of my family. When the bell
-      rang for prayers and we parted, I held her hand a little longer, but
-      experienced my old reluctance in the matter of kissing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning fate played me a scurvy trick; I woke with a bad sore throat,
-      due I suppose to my escapade of the night earlier, and was sent to the
-      infirmary. On the evening of the day I came out, which was four days
-      later, I was summoned after prep to report myself to the doctor. This made
-      me late in getting to the summer-house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The bell for prayers had commenced to ring as I got there. I was climbing
-      through the hedge when I heard footsteps on the garden path. There were
-      two children standing hushed amid the roses, the one with face tremulously
-      uplifted, the other looking down with eager eyes. As I watched their lips
-      met. It was impossible for me to stir without making my presence known.
-      One of them came bolting into me, going out by the way I was entering. We
-      rolled over and I recognized the Bantam. Fiesole, hearing the angry voices
-      of two boys quarreling, ran. And so I got my first experience of the
-      lightness of woman&rsquo;s affection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      However, if I was seeking a revenge, I got it. Before the end of the
-      summer term Pigtails became suspicious, and discovered the Cow in the
-      summer-house with the fickle Fiesole. The Cow, because he was a monitor,
-      was expelled and I was appointed in his place&mdash;Mordecai and Haman
-      after a fashion. Fiesole, on account of her kissing propensities, was
-      regarded as a dangerous person and sent away. I was a grown man when next
-      I met her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SPUFFLER
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was during the
-      last week of the summer term, while I was convalescing from Fiesole&rsquo;s
-      sudden exit and was beginning to forgive the Bantam his treachery, that
-      the magic personality of George Rapson first flashed into my little world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was sitting listlessly at my desk one sunshiny morning. The window at my
-      side was open, commanding a view of the school garden, the driveway
-      leading through it, and beyond that of the sleepy village street. Below
-      the window grew a bed of lavender whose fragrance, drifting in, made me
-      forgetful of the book which lay before me and of the master at the
-      black-board chalking up dull problems in algebra. I was dreaming as usual,
-      telling myself a story of what I would do if old Sneard should pop his
-      head inside the door and say, &ldquo;My dear Cardover, you have worked so well
-      that I intend to make an example of you by giving you this day as a
-      holiday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then the master at the board turned round and jumped me into a
-      realization of the present. &ldquo;Cardover, you will please stand up and repeat
-      my explanation of this problem.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I stood up and gazed stupidly at the medley of signs and abbreviated
-      formulae, hoping to discover some clue of reasoning in their apparent
-      meaninglessness. &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you please, sir, I wasn&rsquo;t attending.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought not. If you had been, you would have known that I have not
-      explained it yet. You will come to me after class and&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But his sentence was never ended. At that moment the head of every boy
-      turned as one head; yes, and even the head of the master turned. Up the
-      driveway came the sound of prancing hoofs, the soft crunch of wheels in
-      the gravel, and cries of, &ldquo;Whoa, girl! Steady there, steady.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Past the window flashed a high yellow dog-cart, drawn by a tandem of
-      spirited chestnuts. A tiger in livery and top-hat sat behind with arms
-      folded, superbly aware of his own magnificence. Between the wheels ran a
-      Dalmatian, a plum-pudding dog as we used to call them. On the high
-      front-seat were two men, equally gorgeous. The one who drove wore a large
-      fawn coat with enormous pearl buttons, distinctly horsey in cut and
-      fashion. On his head was a tall beaver hat. He was a massively built man
-      and had the appearance of a sporting aristocrat. To make him more
-      splendid, he was young, with a bronzed complexion, full red lips, and
-      finely chiseled features. His companion looked like a Methodist parson,
-      trying to pass as a racing gent. He was attired in a light tweed suit of a
-      rather pronounced black and white check. On his head was a gray felt hat,
-      and in his button-hole blazed a scarlet geranium. They were laughing in
-      deep full-throated guffaws as they whizzed past, with the sun flashing on
-      their wheels and harness. The tiger and the Dalmatian were the only solemn
-      things about them. What was my surprise to have recognized in the second
-      man a relative?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my uncle!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Even the master, so recently bent on my humiliation, seemed to hold his
-      breath in regarding the nephew of so resplendent a person. Here was poetic
-      justice with a vengeance. Most of the boys&rsquo; friends, if they were too rich
-      to walk from the station when they came to visit them, crawled up the hill
-      in a musty creaking cab, with hard wooden seats, and two or three handfuls
-      of straw on the floor, more or less dirty. In the history of the Red House
-      no boy&rsquo;s relative had dashed up to visit him with such a barbaric clatter
-      and display of wealth. Ah, if Fiesole had been there to envy me, how she
-      would have blamed herself for her falseness!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Cardover, you may sit down.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The master turned again to the black-board, forgetting the threatened
-      penalty. The boys eyed me above the covers of their books, and awaited
-      further developments.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The door opened and Sneard peered round on us shortsightedly. A pleased
-      smile played about the corners of his diplomatic mouth. His happiness at
-      receiving such distinguished callers seemed to have had an effect upon his
-      hair, turning it to a yet more fiery red. Usually when he spoke he
-      snapped, but now his tones were as fluty as he could make them with so
-      little practice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning to the master, &ldquo;Is Dante Cardover here?&rdquo; he inquired. When I was
-      pointed out to him he said, &ldquo;Mr. George Rapson is here and with him your
-      uncle, Mr. Spreckles. You may take a holiday, Dante, and go out with
-      them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I rose from my seat in an ecstasy of bewilderment. What under the sun had
-      happened that old Sneard should call me Dante, and who was Mr. George
-      Rapson? As I picked my way through the labyrinth of forms and desks;
-      getting glimpses of my school-mates&rsquo; lengthened faces, I felt that I was
-      taking the sunlight from the room by my good fortune as I left.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I followed Sneard to his study, which I had so often visited on such
-      different errands. Even now as I crossed its threshold, I could not quite
-      shake off my accustomed clammy dread. The Spuffler, catching sight of me,
-      ran forward in his gayest manner. &ldquo;Ah, Dante, old chap, it&rsquo;s good to see
-      you. Rapson&rsquo;s heard so much about you that he couldn&rsquo;t keep away any
-      longer. &lsquo;Spreckles,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;you&rsquo;ve got to introduce me. It&rsquo;s Dante,
-      Dante, all day long. You can&rsquo;t talk of anyone else.&rsquo; So here we are.
-      Rapson, this is my nephew.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Rapson grabbed me by the shoulder with a large white hand and gazed
-      down on me. There was a jolly-dog air about him combined with a big
-      healthy strength, which made one both like and fear him from the first.
-      And there was so much of him to like; he was over six foot in height and
-      proportionately built in breadth. &ldquo;Hm! Dante. Glad to meet you. Let&rsquo;s get
-      out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Sneard wanted me to put on my Sunday suit, but Mr. Rapson wouldn&rsquo;t hear of
-      it. &ldquo;Hated clothes when I was a kid. Still think we ought to go naked. Let
-      him be as he is. He&rsquo;s got nothing to spoil and therefore&rsquo;ll enjoy
-      himself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Without waiting for a reply, he nodded to Sneard, heaved his great
-      shoulders through the doorway, so down the hall and out on to the steps
-      where the tiger was holding the horses&rsquo; heads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Just like Rapson,&rdquo; my uncle said. &ldquo;Masterful fellow. Makes up his mind
-      and then goes ahead. Good-day, Mr. Sneard. Oh, yes, we&rsquo;ll take care of him
-      and bring him back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      They took me up in front beside them; the whip cracked and the tiger
-      sprang away from the leader. Off we sped, down the hill and into the
-      valley, winding in and out of overgrown lanes where we had to duck our
-      heads to avoid the boughs; then out again with fields on either side of
-      us, up hill and down dale never slackening, with the wind on our cheeks
-      and the sun in our faces. Mr. Rapson&rsquo;s attention was completely taken up
-      with his driving; it needed to be, for he swung round corners and squeezed
-      between farm-wagons in outrageously reckless fashion. I watched his strong
-      masterful hands, how they gathered in the reins and forced the horses to
-      obedience. My eyes wandered up him and rested on his face: the face of a
-      man a little over thirty, calm and yet when stern almost cruelly
-      determined, with a shapely beak of a Roman nose planted squarely in the
-      middle of it&mdash;a sign-post to his purpose.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I glanced at my uncle with his fashionable checks and scarlet
-      geranium. I remembered that my grandmother called him the Spuffler, and
-      wondered what she would call him now, could she see him. That nervous air
-      he had had, of at once asserting and apologizing for himself with a
-      pitiful display of bluster, had vanished. He carried himself with the
-      jaunty confidence of a middle-aged gentleman unsubdued by the world&mdash;one
-      who knew how to be dignified when necessary, but who preferred at present
-      to relax. Above all he conveyed the impression of one beautifully fond of
-      life&rsquo;s simple pleasures and quietly composed in a happy self-respect. What
-      had done it? Was it George Rapson, or had he at last had success with one
-      of his poultry experiments?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Perhaps he guessed some of the inquiries that were running through my
-      head, for, as I crouched near him in the little space allotted me on our
-      high up perch, he squeezed my hand, hinting at some great secret, for the
-      telling of which we must be alone by our two selves.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With foam flying from the horses&rsquo; mouths we entered Richmond and glittered
-      down those quaint and narrow streets, which have always seemed to me more
-      like streets of a seaport than of an inland town. We turned a corner; full
-      before us drifted up the long and shadowy quiet of the Thames.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Rapson refused to be sociable until he had seen to the rubbing down
-      and stabling of his horses; so we two wandered off together along the
-      miniature quays, where boatmen with a deep-sea sailor&rsquo;s swagger pulled
-      clay pipes from their mouths and wished us a cheerfully mercenary
-      &ldquo;Good-mornin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My curiosity was inarticulate with a multitude of crowding questions. I
-      couldn&rsquo;t make my choice which to ask first. I watched the swans sail in
-      and out the tethered boats, and racked my brain for words. Then I blurted
-      out, &ldquo;What does it all mean, Uncle Obad?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His eyes filled with tears. &ldquo;My boy, it means success.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I mumbled something typically boylike and inadequate about being &ldquo;jolly
-      glad.&rdquo; He slipped his arm through mine with that endearing familiarity he
-      had, as though I were a man. He was too excited to sit down, so we
-      strolled along the quays, under the creeper-covered redbrick walls of the
-      houses, and out of Richmond along the open river-bank.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No one ever believed that I&rsquo;d do it, Dante. I don&rsquo;t think you did
-      yourself. They all said, &lsquo;Oh, Spreckles! Ha, the fellow who twiddles his
-      thumbs while his wife works!&rsquo; They didn&rsquo;t say it to my face&mdash;they
-      didn&rsquo;t dare. But that was what they thought about me. I seemed a failure&mdash;a
-      good-natured incompetent. Even people who liked me felt ashamed of me&mdash;I
-      mean people who were dear to me, living in the same house. Women want
-      their husbands to measure up to the standards of other men. It&rsquo;s natural&mdash;I
-      don&rsquo;t blame &rsquo;em. But, you know, I never had a chance, old chap&mdash;never
-      seemed to find my right kind of work. I couldn&rsquo;t do little things well.
-      I&rsquo;m one of those imperial men who need something big to bring the best out
-      of&rsquo; &rsquo;em. And now I&rsquo;ve got it&mdash;I&rsquo;ve got it, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I caught his excitement, and begged him to tell me what this wonderful
-      something was that had so suddenly transformed him from a nobody into a
-      powerful person. I felt sure he was powerful, apart from anything he said,
-      for he radiated opulence. He halted in the middle of the tow-path,
-      gripping me by the shoulders, laughing into my face and bidding me guess.
-      I guessed everything possible and impossible. Losing patience, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
-      diamond mines,&rdquo; he burst out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But how did you get &rsquo;em, Uncle Obad, and where?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For an instant I had a wild vision of men with pickaxes, shovels, and
-      miners&rsquo; lamps, digging down into the bowels of the Christian Boarding
-      House.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We seated ourselves on the bank with legs dangling above the water, and he
-      told me. It seemed that Mr. George Rapson was the cause of this meteoric
-      rise to prosperity. In April he had come to stay at Charity Grove as an
-      ordinary paying-guest. From the first he was extraordinary and had amazed
-      them with his wealth&mdash;his horses, his clothes, his friends, and his lavish
-      manners. Most of his fellow boarders were struggling young men, who
-      earned two pounds a week in the City and paid twenty-five shillings for
-      their keep and lodging. On the start they only knew that he was a South
-      African, holiday-making in England. Little by little he let out that he
-      was interested in diamond mines, and later that he owned <i>The Ethiopian</i>,
-      one of the most promising properties of its kind in the world. The more
-      communicative he became, the more surprised they were that he should make
-      his head-quarters at a Christian Boarding House. There seemed no reason
-      why he should not pay a higher price and enjoy the advantages of a secular
-      environment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One night he took my uncle into his room, locked the door, and let the cat
-      out of the bag. It was my uncle and his personality that had attracted
-      him. He had seen his name as secretary to so many thriving philanthropic
-      societies that he had been led to appreciate his worth as an organizer. He
-      wanted his help. He had come to England to unload a number of shares in <i>The
-      Ethiopian</i> diamond mines, but it had to be done quietly and without
-      advertisement. He had a number of unscrupulous enemies in the mining world
-      who wanted to merge his property with theirs. They had tried to crowd him
-      out in various ways&mdash;once by bringing about a law-suit to dispute his
-      title to his holdings. If they should get wind that shares in <i>The
-      Ethiopian</i> were to be bought in the open market, they would buy up
-      every share in sight in an effort to gain control. Therefore it was
-      necessary that business should be carried on in a private manner, and as
-      far as possible through channels of personal friendship rather than those
-      of the City and the Stock Exchange.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He had studied my uncle carefully and was convinced that he was just the
-      man for the work. He proposed giving him a salary of one thousand pounds a
-      year to act as his English agent, and a five-per-cent commission on all
-      sales of shares that he was instrumental in effecting. His chief service
-      was to consist in supplying lists of names and addresses of the moneyed
-      religious public, and in applying his influence to the attracting of
-      purchasers. The lists were of course to be culled mainly from the
-      contributors to the charitable societies of which he was secretary. In
-      fact, what the proposal amounted to, as I see it now, was that my uncle&rsquo;s
-      integrity, well-known among religious circles, was to guarantee the worth
-      of the shares.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a close secret, Dante,&rdquo; my uncle said. &ldquo;Rapson won&rsquo;t let me tell
-      anyone, not even your Aunt Lavinia, the basis of our understanding. But I
-      had to tell somebody; happiness isn&rsquo;t happiness when you keep its reason
-      to yourself. So I&rsquo;ve told you, because we&rsquo;ve had so many secrets
-      together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We sat on, quite forgetful of time, watching the sleepy flowing of the
-      river, building castles in the air. Last month they had declared their
-      half-yearly dividend and it had amounted to twenty per cent. Since then
-      the sale of shares had quickened enormously. Why, there was one morning&rsquo;s
-      mail when my uncle&rsquo;s commissions alone had amounted to fifty pounds. Think
-      of that&mdash;and it was only the beginning! Then we commenced to reckon
-      how much he would have in five years, if his commissions amounted always
-      to fifty pounds a morning, and he made a rule to spend nothing but his
-      salary. It was the old childish game which had first made us chummy, of so
-      many hens laying so many eggs, and how much would we have at the end of a
-      twelvemonth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He could afford to joke now concerning the penury of his lean years before
-      the great Rapson had put in an appearance. He even made fun of his own <i>spuffing</i>,
-      and laughed as he told me how much economy those odd shillings and
-      half-crowns, which he used to give me in such a large manner, had cost
-      him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s all over now,&rdquo; he said cheerfully, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m going to be an
-      important man. People are beginning to look up to me already. Who knows?&mdash;one
-      day I may enter Parliament. I&rsquo;m moving in a different social set&mdash;Rapson&rsquo;s
-      friends. He&rsquo;s very well-connected. They&rsquo;re a little gay and larky, you
-      know; your Aunt Lavinia don&rsquo;t quite know what to make of &rsquo;em.
-      She&rsquo;ll get over that. Oh, but it&rsquo;s a big new world for me, Dante, and
-      there&rsquo;s heaps of things to do in it that I never knew about.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      On our way back the great George Rapson himself met us, and we found that
-      we&rsquo;d been gone an hour. He told us that he&rsquo;d ordered lunch at a little
-      inn, called <i>The White Cross</i>&mdash;one which hung over the river.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How proud I was to walk beside him as we re-entered Richmond! Everyone
-      turned to stare after him as he passed, with his long fawn coat open and
-      flapping, his easy rollicking laugh, his great height and distinguished
-      presence. And I, Dante Cardover, was by way of being the friend of such a
-      man! The gates of romance were indeed opening.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>The White Cross Inn</i> had separate balconies, built out from each of
-      its second-story windows. In one of these our table was set. The little
-      tiger helped the maid of the inn to wait upon us. And what a meal we had!&mdash;salmon
-      and salad and fowl, stuffed veal and pine-apple, dates, almonds, and
-      raisins&mdash;everything that a boy could ask to have. Up the walls of the
-      inn climbed rambler roses and tumbled over the sides of the balcony.
-      Beneath us lay the river, like a silver snake, lazily uncurled, sunning
-      itself in great green meadows.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;This is to be your day, Dante,&rdquo; Mr. Rapson said. &ldquo;We brought some of
-      these things from London because we knew you liked &rsquo;em. You discovered
-      your Uncle Obad before I did, and when no one else had. He&rsquo;s told me all
-      about it. Here&rsquo;s your very good health.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The tiger, who had been drawing the cork out of a large green bottle about
-      half as tall as himself, now poured out a golden foamy liquid. I found one
-      glass of it had the same care-freeing effect that the holding of Fiesole&rsquo;s
-      hand in the summer-house had had. I felt myself at ease in the world, and
-      began to speak of the Reverend Robert Sneard as &ldquo;jolly old Sneard,&rdquo; and of
-      all people who had authority over me with tolerant contempt. I gazed back
-      from the security of my temporary Canaan, and gave my entertainers a
-      whimsical account of my perilous journey through the wilderness of
-      boyhood. It was wonderful even to myself how suddenly my shyness had
-      vanished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Rapson seemed highly amused. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll do, young&rsquo;un,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then, little by little, he began to speak of Africa&mdash;the dust, the
-      Kaffirs, and the wide, parched veldt. He spoke of adventures with lions
-      far up in the interior, and of how he had once been an ivory-hunter before
-      he struck it lucky in the south. &ldquo;I ran away from home when I was a
-      youngster of twenty and all because of a girl.&rdquo; He nodded at me wisely
-      across the table, &ldquo;Keep clear of the girlies, they&rsquo;re the devil.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I thought of Fiesole and inquired if some girls weren&rsquo;t quite attractive
-      devils. My uncle looked shocked in a genial fashion at this very free use
-      of a forbidden word&mdash;the fear of Aunt Lavinia purged his vocabulary
-      even when she was absent. But Mr. Rapson went red in the face and smacked
-      his hands together, laughing loudly. &ldquo;Of course they&rsquo;re attractive; else
-      how&rsquo;d they tempt us?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A punt, which had stolen up beneath our balcony, now caught his attention.
-      A girl in a gown of flowered muslin, with a broad pink sash about her
-      waist, was standing in the stern. She was alone, and all the river formed
-      a landscape for her daintiness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Rapson stared hard at her; her back was towards us. &ldquo;Seem to know her
-      hair,&rdquo; he muttered. He half rose. &ldquo;By George, it&rsquo;s Kitty!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Leaning far out over the balcony he called to her impulsively, &ldquo;Kitty!
-      Kitty!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Very leisurely she lifted up to him a small flushed face, all laughter and
-      naughtiness, and waved her hand. She was as pretty as love and a summer&rsquo;s
-      day could make a woman&mdash;but I wasn&rsquo;t supposed to be old enough to
-      observe such things as that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She brought her punt in to the bank, while Mr. Rapson went down to help
-      her out. When he gave her his hand to steady her, she kept it in hers. As
-      she glanced mischievously up at him I heard her say, &ldquo;Why, George, you
-      terror, who&rsquo;d have thought of meeting you here!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He whispered something to her with a frown; she dropped him a mocking
-      courtesy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he brought her up on to the balcony, he introduced her as his cousin
-      Kitty. She bowed to us with a roguish grace, clinging close to his arm.
-      &ldquo;Now, Kitty,&rdquo; he said, freeing himself, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve got to behave.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Seeing that my uncle was looking at her in a puzzled manner, she took the
-      center of the stage without embarrassment, explaining, &ldquo;Georgie and I are
-      very old friends and I&rsquo;ve not seen him, oh, for ages.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When they had told her how they happened to be there and that it was my
-      day, and that they had stolen me away from my lessons, she swung round on
-      me with a kind of rapture. &ldquo;Oh, what darlings to do that! And what a nice
-      boy!&rdquo; Without further ado she patted my face and kissed me. It was a new
-      sensation. I blushed furiously, and was both pleased and abashed. &ldquo;You may
-      be older than I am,&rdquo; I thought; &ldquo;but you&rsquo;re only a girl. In three years I
-      could marry you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was like a happy little dog in a meadow; never still, sending up birds&mdash;following
-      nothing and chasing everything. In her conversation she gamboled about and
-      never ceased gamboling. She didn&rsquo;t sit quietly like the Snow Lady and all
-      the other ladies of my acquaintance, putting in a word now and then, but
-      letting the men do the talking. She made everybody look at her&mdash;perhaps,
-      because she was so well worth looking at. Even before she had kissed me I
-      was in love with her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Rapson seemed a little nervous, and she appeared to delight in his
-      fear of her daring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Georgie&rsquo;s always had a passion for me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;though he won&rsquo;t own
-      it.&rdquo; Then suddenly, seeing the troubled expression on his face, &ldquo;How much
-      has the poor dear told you about himself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She wriggled out of me something of the story of his doings. She eyed him
-      archly from under her big hat and, when I had ended, leant across the
-      table so their faces nearly met. &ldquo;How many lions did my Georgie kill in
-      Africa?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Be quiet, you little devil,&rdquo; he laughed, seizing her by the hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The employment of that forbidden word set me wondering whether this was
-      the girl for love of whom he first went wandering. But she looked too
-      young for that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We went into her punt and drifted down the river with the current. She
-      played the madcap all the way, speaking to him often in baby language. He
-      seemed to be amused by it, as a St. Bernard might be amused by the
-      impertinence of a terrier. When she got too bold he would hold her hands
-      until she was quiet, overpowering her with his great strength much the
-      same as he did his horses. Then she would turn her attentions to me for a
-      time, and I would make believe to myself she was Fiesole. My uncle looked
-      on like a benevolent Father Christmas, dignified and smiling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dusk was settling when we started on the return journey. We found that we
-      had drifted further than we had intended. Mr. Rapson took the pole and did
-      the punting. Miss Kitty sang to him, she said to encourage him. I think it
-      must have been then that I first heard <i>Twickenham Ferry</i>. She had to
-      leave off part way through the last verse I remember. She said that the
-      mist from the river choked her; but I, lying on the cushions beside her,
-      somehow gathered the impression that she was nearly crying. When she broke
-      down, under cover of darkness I got my hand into hers, and then she
-      slipped her arm about me. After that she was very subdued and silent. My
-      uncle fell off to sleep, and Mr. Rapson kept his face turned away from us,
-      busy with his punting. I wondered if, after all, Miss Kitty was happy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was night when we arrived. She insisted on parting with us at the
-      landing, saying that her houseboat was just across the river and she could
-      take the punt home quite well unaccompanied. We had said good-by and were
-      walking along the quay, when Rapson left us and ran back. I saw him come
-      close and bend over her. They seemed to be whispering together. Then she
-      pushed out into the river; the lights of the town held her for a time;
-      darkness closed in behind her and she vanished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the drive back to the Red House I grew drowsy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried to keep my eyes open, but even the soft moonlight seemed dazzling.
-      The meadows and tall trees stealing by, ceased to stand out separate, but
-      became a blur. The sharp <i>trit-trot, trit-trot</i> of the horses&rsquo; hoofs
-      on the hard macadam road lulled me by their monotonous regularity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I came to myself I heard my uncle saying, &ldquo;I like that little cousin
-      of yours, Rapson; she&rsquo;s charming and different from any woman that I ever
-      met.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Daresay she is,&rdquo; Rapson answered, dryly; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve led such a sheltered
-      life. Of course she isn&rsquo;t my cousin.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who is she, then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, a nymph.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A nymph! You have the better of me there. That&rsquo;s a classical allusion, no
-      doubt. I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never mind, papa,&rdquo; Mr. Rapson said cheerfully; &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think you would
-      understand. It&rsquo;s just as well.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then he commenced speaking to his horses. &ldquo;So, girl! Steady there!
-      Steady!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I rubbed my eyes, and saw that we were ascending Eden Hill.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;MONEY AND HAPPINESS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>eep down in their
-      secret hearts all the Spuffler&rsquo;s relations had felt that his permanent
-      failure to get on in the world was a kind of disgrace to themselves. They
-      resented it, but as a rule kept quiet about it &ldquo;for the sake of poor
-      Lavinia.&rdquo; My aunt was always &ldquo;poor Lavinia,&rdquo; when mentioned by her family.
-      Before strangers, needless to say, they helped him to keep up his
-      pretense of importance and spoke of him with respect. But the thought that
-      a man who had intermarried with them, should have lowered his wife to the
-      keeping of a boarding-house rankled. Even as a child I was conscious that
-      my close attachment to my uncle Obad was regarded with disapprobation. He
-      was the Ishmael of our tribe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At first none of his relatives would believe in his mushroom prosperity.
-      Perhaps, they did not want to believe in it; it would entail the sacrifice
-      of life-long prejudices. They pooh-poohed it as the most extravagant
-      example of his fantastic spuffling. On my return home for the summer
-      holidays I very soon became aware of an atmosphere of half-humorous
-      contempt whenever his name was mentioned. Once when I took up the cudgels
-      for him, declaring that he was really a great man, the Snow Lady patted my
-      hand gently, calling me &ldquo;a blessed young optimist.&rdquo; My father, who rarely
-      lost his temper, told me I was speaking on a subject concerning which I
-      was profoundly ignorant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On a visit to Charity Grove I was grieved to find that even Aunt Lavinia
-      was skeptical. Despite the jingling of money in my uncle&rsquo;s pockets, she
-      insisted on living in the old proud hand-to-mouth fashion, making the
-      spending capacity of each penny go its furthest. Her house was still
-      understaffed in the matter of servants&mdash;servants who could be
-      procured at the lowest wages. She still did her shopping in the
-      lower-class districts, where men cried their wares on the pavement beneath
-      flaring naphtha-lamps and slatternly women elbowed your ribs and mauled
-      everything with dirty hands before they purchased. Here housekeeping could
-      be contrived on the smallest outlay of capital.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Uncle Obad might go to fashionable tailors; she clothed herself in black,
-      because it wore longest and could be turned. She listened to his latest
-      optimisms a little wearily with a sadly smiling countenance, as a mother
-      might listen to the plans for walking of a child hopelessly crippled. She
-      had heard him speak bravely so many, many times, and had been
-      disappointed, that she had permanently made up her mind that she would
-      have to go on earning the living for both of them all her life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yet she loved him as well as a woman could a man for whom she was only
-      sorry; she was constantly on the watch to defend him from the
-      disapprobation of the world. But she refused ever again to be beguiled
-      into believing that he would take his place with other men. So, when he
-      told her that they didn&rsquo;t need to keep on the boarding-house, she scarcely
-      halted long enough in her work to listen to him. And when he said that he
-      could now afford her a hundred pounds for dress, she bent her head lower
-      to hide a smile, for she didn&rsquo;t want to wound him. And when he brought her
-      home a diamond bracelet, she tried to find out where it had been purchased
-      in order that she might return it on the quiet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Gradually, however, she began to be persuaded that this time it wasn&rsquo;t all
-      bluster. The gallantry of his attitude towards herself was the
-      unaccountable element. Not so long ago it had been she who was the man
-      about the house, and he had been a kind of grown-up boy. Once she had
-      allowed him to kiss her; now he kissed her masterfully as by right of
-      conquest. He had become a man at last, after halting at the hobbledehoy
-      stage for fifty years. He treated her boldly as a lover, striving to draw
-      out her womanhood. He was making up the long arrears of affection which,
-      up to this time, he had not felt himself worthy to display.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One evening in the garden he tore the bandage of doubt from her eyes. I
-      was there when it happened. We were down in the paddock, the home of the
-      fowls, where so many of our dreams had taken place. The gaunt London
-      houses to the right of us were doing their best to shut out the sunset.
-      Aunt Lavinia began to wonder how much the little hay-crop would fetch this
-      year. She was disappointed because it had grown so thin, and there seemed
-      no promise of rain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter, my dear,&rdquo; said my uncle cheerfully.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Obad, how can you say that!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He pressed up to her flushing like a boy, placing his arms about her and
-      lifting her face. &ldquo;Lavinia, are you never going to trust me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The sudden tenderness and reproach in his voice stabbed her heart into
-      wakefulness. When she spoke, her words came like a cry: &ldquo;Oh, Obad, how I
-      wish I could believe it true this time!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it is true, my dearest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I stole away, and did not see them again till an hour later when they
-      wandered by me arm-in-arm through the wistful twilight. Within a week I
-      knew that she had accepted his prosperity as a fact, for he gave her a
-      blue silk dress and she wore it. But he had harder work in getting her to
-      give up the boarding-house. His great argument was that Rapson advised it&mdash;it
-      would advance their social standing. She fenced and hesitated, but finally
-      promised on the condition that he was still succeeding in November.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I think it must have been the news of her surrender that sapped the last
-      foundation of my father&rsquo;s skepticism. At any rate, shortly after this,
-      when my uncle by special invitation came over to Pope Lane, he was given
-      one of my father&rsquo;s best cigars as befitted a rich relative. The best glass
-      and silver were put out. We all had unsoiled serviettes and observed
-      uncomfortable company manners. In the afternoon he was carried off to my
-      father&rsquo;s study and remained there till long past the tea-hour.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Later my father told me the subject of their discussion. By dint of hard
-      saving he had put by two thousand pounds for planting me out in the world,
-      part of which was to pay for my Oxford education. Having heard of that
-      half-yearly twenty-per-cent dividend which the <i>Ethiopian</i> shares had
-      paid and that they were still being issued privately, at par value, he was
-      inclined to entrust his money to my uncle, if he could prove the
-      investment sound. If the mines were as good as they appeared to be, he
-      would get four hundred pounds a year in interest&mdash;which would make
-      all the difference to our ease of life. There was another consultation;
-      the next thing I knew the important step had been taken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All our power of dreaming now broke loose. It became our favorite pastime
-      to sit together and plan how we would spend the four hundred pounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s an income in itself,&rdquo; my father would exclaim; &ldquo;I shall be
-      freed forever from the drudgery of hack-work.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And the Snow Lady would say, &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;ll be able to turn your mind to the
-      really important things of life&mdash;the big books which you&rsquo;ve always
-      hoped to write.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      And Ruthita would sidle up to him in her half-shy way, and rub her cheek
-      against his face, saying nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A wonderful kindliness nowadays entered into all our domestic relations.
-      My father&rsquo;s weary industry, which had sent us all tiptoeing about the
-      house, began to relax. Even for him work lost something of its sacredness
-      now that money was in sight. He no longer frowned and refused to look up
-      if anyone trespassed into his study. On the contrary, he seemed glad of
-      the excuse for laying aside his pen and discussing what place in the whole
-      wide world we should choose, when we were free to live where we liked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It should be somewhere in Italy&mdash;Florence, perhaps. For years it had
-      been his unattainable dream to live among olive-groves of the Arno valley.
-      We read up guide-books and histories about it. Soon we were quite familiar
-      with the Pitti Palace, the Ponte Vecchio, and the view from the Viale dei
-      Colli at sundown. These and many places with beautiful and large-sounding
-      names, became the stock-in-trade of our conversation. And the brave,
-      looked-down-on Spuffler was the faery-godmother who had made these dreams
-      realities.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A tangible proof of the promised change in our financial status was
-      experienced by myself on my return to school in a more liberal allowance
-      of pocket-money. As yet it was only a promised change, for the half-yearly
-      dividend would not be declared until January, and would not be paid till a
-      month later.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      What one might call &ldquo;a reflected proof&rdquo; came when we went over to spend
-      Christmas with Uncle Obad at Chelsea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yes, Aunt Lavinia had succumbed to her good fortune. The Christian
-      Boarding House had been abandoned and a fine old house had been rented,
-      standing nearly at the corner of Cheyne Row, looking out across the river
-      to Battersea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On Christmas Eve my uncle&rsquo;s carriage came to fetch us. That was a surprise
-      in itself. It was his present to Aunt Lavinia, all brand new&mdash;a roomy
-      brougham, with two gray horses, and a coachman in livery. From this it
-      will be seen that he had not kept his bargain with himself, made that day
-      at Richmond, to live only on his salary.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A slight fall of snow was on the ground; across London we drove, the
-      merriest little family in all that shopping crowd. We had scarcely pulled
-      up against the pavement and had our first peep of the fine big house, when
-      the front-door flew open, letting out a flood of light which rippled to
-      the carriage like a golden carpet unrolled across white satin.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There stood Uncle Obad, frock-coated and glorious, with Aunt Lavinia
-      beside him, dressed all in lavender&mdash;not at all the prim,
-      businesslike little woman, half widow, half hospital nurse, of my earliest
-      recollection. She was as beaming and excited as a young girl, and greeted
-      the Snow Lady by throwing her arms about her and whispering, &ldquo;Oh, doesn&rsquo;t
-      it seem all too good to be true?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady kissed her gaily on both cheeks, saying, &ldquo;True enough, my
-      dear. At any rate, Obad&rsquo;s carriage was very real.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How changed we were from the solemn polite personages who had considered
-      it a point in our favor that we knew how to bottle our emotions. We
-      laughed and rollicked, and made quite poor jokes seem brilliant by the
-      sparkle with which we told or received them. And all this was done by
-      money; in our case, merely by the promise of money! When a boy remembered
-      what we all had been, it was a transformation which called for reflection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle with his jolly rich-relative manner was the focus-point of our
-      attentions. Aunt Lavinia and, in fact, we all felt flat whenever he went
-      out of the room. She followed after him like a little dog, with dumb
-      admiring eyes, waiting to be petted. She told the Snow Lady that she
-      couldn&rsquo;t blame herself enough and could never make it up to him, for
-      having lived with him in the same house all those years without having
-      discovered his goodness. Then, as ladies will, they kissed for the
-      twentieth time and did a little glad crying together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So the stern grayness, which comes of a too frequent pondering on a
-      diminishing bank-account, had vanished from the faces of our elders.
-      Ruthita and I looked on and wondered. A great house had something to do
-      with it, and heavy carpets, and wide fire-places, and fine shiny
-      furniture, but underlying it all was money.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Christmas Eve I was awakened by the playing of waits outside my window. I
-      looked out at the broad black river, with the ropes of stars, which were
-      the lights of bridges, flung across it. And I looked at the untrodden
-      snow, stretching far down the Embankment, gleaming and shadowy, making
-      London seem a far-away, forgotten country. Then fumbling in the darkness,
-      I looked in my stocking and drew out a slip of paper. By the light of a
-      match, I discovered it to be a check from my aunt and uncle for fifty
-      pounds. Comparing notes in my night-gown with Ruthita next morning, I
-      found that she had another for the same amount.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ah, but that was something like a Christmas! Never a twenty-fifth of
-      December comes round but I remember it. My father summed it all up when he
-      said, &ldquo;Well, Obad, now you&rsquo;ve struck it lucky, you certainly know how to
-      be generous.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He certainly did, and proved amply that only poverty had prevented him in
-      former days from being the best loved man in the family. Only one person
-      roused more admiration than my uncle, and that was Mr. Rapson. My father
-      had never met him, so he had been invited to the Christmas dinner. At the
-      last moment he had excused himself, saying that he had an unavoidable
-      engagement with a lady. However, he turned up late in the evening with
-      Miss Kitty on his arm and a fur-coat on his back. Somehow they both seemed
-      articles of clothing; he wore them with such perfect assurance, as though
-      they were so much a part of himself. In the hall he took off his fur-coat,
-      and then he had only Miss Kitty to wear.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was awe-inspiring to see the deference that was paid him and the ease
-      with which he accepted every attention. My father, with the sincerest
-      simplicity, almost thanked him to his face for selling him <i>The
-      Ethiopian</i> shares.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of course he had to tell his lion-stories and how he went hunting ivory in
-      Africa. My uncle trotted him about as though he were a horse, reminding
-      him of all his paces. Mr. Rapson was <i>his</i> discovery&mdash;<i>his</i>
-      property. We all sat round and hero-worshiped. Miss Kitty seemed
-      overwhelmed by the greatness of the house and the general luxury.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She appeared particularly shy of the ladies. After she had gone they
-      declared her to be a dumb, doll-like little creature, with her quiet eyes
-      and honey-colored hair. I sniggered, and they said, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter
-      with the boy? Why are you gurgling, Dante?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was thinking of another occasion, when she was neither dumb nor
-      doll-like.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now, quite contrary to her behavior at Richmond, she remained almost
-      motionless on the chair in which Mr. Rapson had placed her, looking like a
-      beautiful obedient piece of jewelry, waiting till her owner got ready to
-      claim her. Only at parting did she show me any sign of recollection and
-      then, while all eyes were occupied with Mr. Rapson, she whispered, &ldquo;You
-      were good to me at Richmond. I don&rsquo;t forget.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We stayed with my uncle four days. To us children it was a kind of tragedy
-      when we left. &ldquo;We must do this every year,&rdquo; my uncle said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If we ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t in Florence,&rdquo; my father replied gaily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Going back to school this time was a sore trial&mdash;it meant moving out
-      of the zone of excitement. It seemed that every day something new must
-      happen; and then there was so much to talk about. However, I got my
-      pleasure another way&mdash;by the things I let out at school, with a boy&rsquo;s
-      natural boastfulness, about my uncle. I found myself, what I had always
-      desired to be, genuinely and extremely popular. Money again! I let them
-      know that they would probably only have the privilege of my society for a
-      little while as, in all likelihood, I should be living in Florence next
-      year.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This term two events happened, intimately related to one another in their
-      effect upon my career, though at the time no one could have suspected any
-      connection between them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Lady Zion, the Creature&rsquo;s sister, had certainly got more crazy in the
-      years that had elapsed since I first met her. The winter was a heavy one
-      and the snow fell far into February; yet nothing could restrain her, short
-      of an asylum, from wandering about in the bleakest weather all over the
-      countryside. Sometimes she would stay out far into the night, and on
-      several occasions the Creature and I had to go out and search for her. I
-      have seen her pass me five miles from home, riding on her little ass,
-      talking to herself, all unaware of anything around her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was a temptation to the village-boys, and they would frequently
-      torment her. The antagonism between the Red House and the village ran
-      high. In a sense she was school property; we would make a chance of
-      rescuing her an excuse for a free-fight. This meant that when the enemy
-      found her alone, they took the opportunity of displaying their spite.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the fourteenth of February she had been out all day. No one had seen
-      her; by nightfall she had not returned. The Creature got permission to
-      have me go out with him to hunt for her. It was necessary that someone
-      should go with him because he was short-sighted. We investigated all her
-      favorite haunts, but found not a trace of her. We inquired of farmers and
-      travelers on the road, but heard nothing satisfactory. If she had gone by
-      field-routes this was not remarkable, for all the country was covered with
-      snow. Her white draped figure against the white landscape made it easy for
-      her to escape observation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The poor old Creature was getting worried; we had been three hours
-      searching and hadn&rsquo;t got a clue. I did my best to cheer him, and at last
-      proposed that we should return to his cottage as sometimes the donkey had
-      brought her back of himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From the point where we then stood our shortest route lay cross-country
-      through a wood, skirting a little dell. Under the trees it was very dark
-      although the moon was shining, for the trees grew close together. We were
-      passing by the dell when I happened to look aside. The moonlight, falling
-      across it, showed me something standing there. I asked the Creature to
-      wait while I went and examined it. As I got nearer, I saw it was alive;
-      then I recognized Lady Zion&rsquo;s donkey. It had halted over what appeared to
-      be a drift of snow. On coming closer I saw that it was Lady Zion herself.
-      Something warned me not to call her brother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Bending down, I turned her over and drew the straggling hair from off her
-      face. There was a red gash in her forehead and red upon the snow. By the
-      fear that seized me when I touched her, I knew.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Coming back to the Creature I told him it was nothing&mdash;I had been
-      mistaken. At the school-house I made an excuse to leave him while he went
-      on to the cottage. When he was out of sight I ran panic-stricken to
-      Sneard&rsquo;s study and told him. The two of us, without giving the alarm,
-      returned to the wood and brought her home. The Creature was just setting
-      out again when we reached the cottage. By the limp way in which she hung
-      across the donkey&rsquo;s back, he realized at a glance what had happened.
-      Catching her in his arms, he dragged her down on to the road and, kneeling
-      over her, commenced to sob and sob like an animal, not using any words, in
-      a low moaning monotone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One by one windows in the village-street were thrown open; frowsy heads
-      stuck out; lights began to grope across the panes; the sleeping houses
-      woke and a promiscuous crowd of half-clad people gathered. Above the
-      intermittent babel of questions and answers was the constant sound of the
-      Creature&rsquo;s sobbing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning the news of Lady Zion&rsquo;s death was common property. Detectives
-      came down from London and a thorough effort was made to trace the
-      murderer. Near the spot in the dell where she had been discovered,
-      half-a-dozen snowballs lay scattered. It was supposed that a village-boy
-      had come across her there, and in one of the snowballs he had thrown,
-      purposely or accidentally, had buried a stone; then, seeing her fall, had
-      run away in terror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the school various rumors went the round. The one which found most
-      favor, though we all knew it to be untrue, was that Sneard had done it.
-      His supposed motive was his well-known annoyance at Lady Zion&rsquo;s irritating
-      obsession that he had once loved her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the midst of this excitement, while the London detectives were still
-      hunting, I received a telegram from my father, unexplained and peremptory,
-      &ldquo;<i>Return immediately. Bring all belongings.</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      Of course the telegram was connected in some way with the payment of the
-      first half-yearly dividend. Perhaps my father had decided on an instant
-      removal to Italy. So my schoolmates thought as they stood enviously
-      watching me pack.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Towards evening I stepped into the village&rsquo;s one and only cab. I shook the
-      dust of the Red House from my feet without regret. With the intense
-      selfishness of youth, my own hope for the future made me almost forgetful
-      of the Creature&rsquo;s tragedy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was about eight o&rsquo;clock when I reached Pope Lane. All the front of the
-      house was in darkness. I tugged vigorously at the bell, feeling a little
-      slighted that none of them had been on the look-out. Directly the door
-      opened, I rushed in with a mouthful of excited questions. Hetty stared at
-      me disapprovingly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make so much noise, Master Dante,&rdquo; she said;
-      &ldquo;your mother and Miss Ruthita &rsquo;ave &rsquo;ad a worryin&rsquo; day and &rsquo;ave
-      gorn to bed. They didn&rsquo;t know you was comin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I noticed that the stairway was unlighted, that the gas in the hall was on
-      the jet, and that Hetty herself was partly prepared for bed. I was
-      beginning to explain to her about the telegram, speaking below my breath
-      the way one does when death is in the house. Just then my father came out
-      from his study. His pen was behind his ear and his shoulders looked
-      stoopy. His face had the worn expression of the old days, which came from
-      overwork.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Father, why did you send for me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He led me into the study, closing the door behind him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be brave.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At his words my heart sank. My eyes retreated from his face. I wanted to
-      lengthen out the minutes until I should know the worst.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My boy, your Uncle Obad&rsquo;s gone to smash. We&rsquo;ve lost everything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He seated himself at the table, his head supported on his hand. He had
-      tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as much as to say, &ldquo;Of course
-      this is just what we all expected.&rdquo; But I could see that hope had gone out
-      of him. I wanted to say something decent and comforting; but everything
-      that came to me seemed too grandiloquent. There was nothing adequate that
-      could be said. Florence, realization of dreams, respite from drudgery&mdash;all
-      the happiness that money alone could purchase and that had seemed so
-      accessible, was now placed apparently forever beyond reach of his hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He took his pen from behind his ear and commenced aimlessly stabbing the
-      blotting-pad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He spoke again, looking away from me. &ldquo;That money was yours. I saved it
-      for you. It was for giving you a chance in the world. I ought to have
-      known that your uncle wasn&rsquo;t to be trusted&mdash;he&rsquo;s never been able to
-      earn a living by honest work. But there, I don&rsquo;t blame him as much as I
-      blame myself. I must have been mad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t we get anything back?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head. &ldquo;This fellow Rapson is a common swindler, from what I
-      can make out. He simply used your uncle. He may never have had any diamond
-      mines. If he had, they were worthless. He doesn&rsquo;t appear to have had any
-      capital except what he got by your uncle selling his shares. He paid his
-      one dividend last summer in order to tempt investors, and now he&rsquo;s
-      decamped. We shan&rsquo;t see a penny back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried to tell him that he needn&rsquo;t worry for my sake&mdash;I could work.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s why I sent for you. Of course your fees are
-      all paid for this term; but if you&rsquo;ve got to enter the commercial world,
-      the sooner the better. You&rsquo;ve come to an age when every day spent at
-      school is a day wasted, unless you&rsquo;re going to enter a profession. You
-      can&rsquo;t get a University education without money and, in any case, it&rsquo;s
-      worse than valueless unless you have the money to back it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t mind working,&rdquo; I assured him; &ldquo;I shall be glad to work.
-      P&rsquo;raps by starting early I&rsquo;ll be able to earn a lot of money and help you
-      one day, Dad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He frowned at my cheerfulness; he had finished with optimism forever. &ldquo;You
-      don&rsquo;t know what you&rsquo;re saying. Money isn&rsquo;t so easily earned. It took me
-      fifteen years of pinching and scraping to save two thousand pounds.&rdquo; Then,
-      conscious of ungraciousness, he added, &ldquo;But I like your spirit, Dante, and
-      it was good of you to say that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His fear of heroics and sentiment made him rise quickly and turn out the
-      lamp.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Best go to bed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I groped my way upstairs through the darkened house. There was something
-      unnatural about its darkness. Its silence was not the silence of a house
-      in which people were sleeping, but one in which they lay without rest
-      staring into the shadows. In my bedroom I felt it indecent to light the
-      gas. I sat by the window, looking out across gardens to our neighbors&rsquo;
-      illumined windows. Someone was playing a piano; it seemed disgustingly bad
-      taste on their part to do that when we had lost two thousand pounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My thought veered round. What after all were two thousand pounds to be so
-      miserable about! I began to feel annoyed with my father that he should
-      have made such a fuss about it. I was sure that neither the Snow Lady nor
-      Ruthita had wanted to go to bed so early. Probably he didn&rsquo;t really want
-      to himself. He just got the idea into his head, and had forced it on the
-      family. In our house, until Mr. Rapson came along, it had always been like
-      that: he punished us, instead of the people who had hurt him, by the moods
-      that resulted from his disappointments. Why, if it was simply a matter of
-      my going to work, I rather liked the prospect. Anyhow, it was for the most
-      part my concern. And then I remembered how sad he had looked, and was
-      sorry that such thoughts had come into my head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A tap at my door made me jump up conscience-stricken. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only Ruthita,&rdquo;
-       a low voice said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She crept in noiselessly as a shadow. Her warm arms went about my neck,
-      drawing my face down to hers. &ldquo;Oh, Dannie, I&rsquo;m so, so sorry,&rdquo; she
-      whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What about?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I&rsquo;ve never missed welcoming you home ever since you went to
-      school, and you needed me most of all this evening&mdash;and because
-      you&rsquo;ve got to go to work.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter, Ruthie. If I go to work I&rsquo;ll earn money, and then
-      I&rsquo;ll be able to do things for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;For me! Oh, you darling!&rdquo; Then she thought a minute and her face clouded.
-      &ldquo;But no, if you go to work you&rsquo;ll marry. That&rsquo;s what always happens.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stood gazing up at me, her face looking frailer and purer than ever in
-      the darkness. She had slipped on a long blue dressing-gown to come and see
-      me, and her long black hair hung loose about her. Just below the edge of
-      her gown her small pale feet showed out. Then I realized for the first
-      time that she had changed as I had changed; we were no longer children.
-      Perhaps the same wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring, had come to
-      her. For her also the walls of childhood, which had shut out the far
-      horizon, were crumbling. Then, with an overwhelming reverence, I became
-      aware of the strange fascination of her appealing beauty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She snuggled herself beside me in the window. We spoke beneath our breath
-      in the hushed voices of conspirators, lest we should be heard by my
-      father.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t sleep,&rdquo; she said apologetically. &ldquo;I was lonely, so I came to
-      you. Everything and everybody seem so sad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was your thoughts that were sad, Ruthie. What were you thinking
-      about?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She rubbed her cheek against mine shyly and I felt her tremble. &ldquo;I was
-      thinking about you. We&rsquo;re growing up, Dante. You may go away and forget&mdash;forget
-      all about me and the Snow Lady.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I denied stoutly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To which she replied, &ldquo;But people do.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Forget. And then I&rsquo;m not your sister really&mdash;only by pretense.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you say that when boys earn money they marry. I
-      don&rsquo;t think I ever shall because&mdash;well, because of something that has
-      happened. So why shouldn&rsquo;t you and I agree to live always together, the
-      same as we do now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She said that that would be grand; she would be a little mother to me. But
-      she wanted to know what made me so sure that I would always be a bachelor.
-      With the sincere absurdity of youth, the more absurd because of its
-      sincerity, I confided my passion for Fiesole. &ldquo;After what she has done,&rdquo; I
-      said, &ldquo;I could never marry her; and yet I love her too well ever to marry
-      anybody else. I can only love golden hair now, and the golden hair of
-      another girl would always remind me of Fiesole.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita was silent. Then I remembered that her hair was black and saw that
-      I had been clumsy in my sentiment, so I added, &ldquo;But, Ruthie, in a sister I
-      think black hair is the prettiest color in the world.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After she had tiptoed away to her room and I had crept into bed, I lay
-      awake thinking over her words&mdash;that she was only my sister by
-      pretense.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day my father called me to him. &ldquo;You had fifty pounds given you last
-      Christmas. I want you to let me have it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I supposed that he wanted me to lend it to him, so I gave him my book and
-      we went together to the savings bank and drew it out. I noticed that he
-      drew out Ruthita&rsquo;s fifty pounds as well. We climbed on to the top of an
-      omnibus; nothing was said about where we were going.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He had bought a paper and I read it across his arm as we journeyed. As he
-      turned over from the first page my eye caught a column headed
-      DISAPPEARANCE OF GEORGE RAPSON. Underneath was a complete account of the
-      whole affair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle had been interviewed by a reporter and had given a generously
-      indiscreet history of the catastrophe from beginning to end. He tried to
-      defend Rapson, and by his own innocent disclosures pilloried himself as a
-      sanguine, gullible old ass. He insisted on believing in Rapson&rsquo;s
-      integrity. Things looked queer of course, but sooner or later there would
-      be an explanation, satisfactory to everybody. What the nature of that
-      explanation was likely to be he could not tell, but he hoped for the best.
-      He was reported as having said that Mr. Rapson had repeatedly referred to
-      secret enemies in the financial world. This was the reason he had given to
-      Mr. Spreckles for not disposing of his shares through the ordinary
-      channels.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Mr. Spreckles stated in his interview that, on the evening of the third of
-      January, Rapson had called at his house. He seemed excited and said that
-      certain plots were culminating against his interests which made an instant
-      and secret visit to South Africa essential. He had not hinted at anything
-      definitely serious, but, on the contrary, had given orders for the
-      declaration of the half-yearly dividend, payment of which would not fall
-      due till February. That evening he had disappeared; since then nothing had
-      been heard of him. When four weeks later Mr. Spreckles drew checks on
-      Rapson&rsquo;s bank-account for payment of the dividends, they were all returned
-      to him dishonored. A month previously, on the morning of January the
-      third, Rapson had withdrawn every penny.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All the names of the people who had lost money in the adventure were
-      appended. For the most part they were wealthy widows and spinsters, heavy
-      contributors to various philanthropies, just the kind of people who would
-      lack the business judgment which would have prevented them from entering
-      into such a gamble. My father&rsquo;s name was the exception, and was given
-      special attention, being headed <i>A Hard Case</i>. &ldquo;Mr. Cardover, having
-      endured in his early life the humiliations and struggles which not
-      infrequently fall to the lot of an ambitious penniless young man, had
-      determined that his son, Dante, should not suffer a like embittering
-      experience. To this end he had saved two thousand pounds to start his son
-      on a professional career. This boy was Mr. Spreckles&rsquo; favorite nephew. Mr.
-      Spreckles quotes the fact that it was he who induced Mr. Cardover to
-      invest this money in <i>The Ethiopian Diamond Mines</i> as proof of his
-      own honest belief in the value of the shares. The boy will probably now
-      have to be withdrawn from the Red House, where he is being educated. Was
-      it likely, Mr. Spreckles asked, that he would have been a party to the
-      ruin of those whom he loved best, if he had for a moment suspected that
-      the investment was not all that it was represented?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I had proceeded so far with my reading, when my father crushed the paper
-      viciously into a ball and tossed it over the side of the bus. For the
-      first time within my remembrance I heard him swear. He was so overcome
-      with irritation that he had to alight and walk it off. He kept throwing
-      out jerky odds and ends of exclamations, speaking partly to me, partly to
-      himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The bungling ass!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why did he need to drag our names into it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A regular windbag!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;First picks my pocket, then advertises my poverty. Thinks that he can
-      prove himself honest by doing that!&rdquo; I put in a feeble word for my uncle,
-      hinting that he didn&rsquo;t mean any harm and that it was easy to be wise after
-      the event.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the worst of people like your Uncle Spreckles,&rdquo; my father retorted
-      hotly; &ldquo;they never do mean any harm, and yet they&rsquo;re always getting into
-      interminable messes.&rdquo; The storm worked itself out; we climbed on to
-      another bus. At the end of an hour the streets became familiar, and I knew
-      that we were nearing Chelsea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We got down within a stone&rsquo;s throw of my uncle&rsquo;s house. There it stood
-      overlooking the river, shut in with its wrought-iron palings, red and
-      comfortable, and outwardly prosperous as when we had parted on its steps,
-      promising to come again next Christmas if we weren&rsquo;t in Florence. But when
-      we attempted to enter, we had proof that its outward appearance was a
-      sham. The glory had departed, and with it had gone the white-capped
-      servants.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The door was opened to us on the chain. A slatternly kitchen-maid peered
-      out through the crack. She commenced to address us at once in a voice of
-      high-pitched, impudent defiance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wot yer want? Mr. Spreckles ain&rsquo;t &rsquo;ere, I tell yer. Yer the
-      fortieth party this mornin&rsquo; that&rsquo;s come nosin&rsquo; rawnd. D&rsquo;ye think I&rsquo;ve got
-      nothin&rsquo; ter do &rsquo;cept run up and darn stairs h&rsquo;answering bells? It&rsquo;s
-      a shime the waie yer all piles inter one man. I calls it disgustin&rsquo;. A
-      better master a girl never &rsquo;ad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I loved her for those words. They were the first that I had heard spoken
-      in my uncle&rsquo;s defense. She was uttering all the pent up anger and sense of
-      injustice that I had been too cowardly to express. Even on my father her
-      fierce working-class loyalty to the under-dog had its effect.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My good girl,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;t talk to me like that. I&rsquo;m Mr.
-      Cardover, who was staying here last Christmas.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her manner changed audibly, literally audibly, at his tone of implied
-      sympathy. She boo-hooed unrestrainedly as she slipped back the chain,
-      permitting us to enter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I begs yer pardon, Mr. Cardover,&rdquo; she sniveled, dusting her eyes with her
-      dirty apron. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m kind o&rsquo; unnerved. My poor dear master&rsquo;s got so many
-      h&rsquo;enemies nar; I didn&rsquo;t rekernize yer as &rsquo;is friend. Yer see, the
-      moment this &rsquo;ere &rsquo;appened all the other servants left like a
-      pack o&rsquo; rats. They didn&rsquo;t love &rsquo;im the waie I did; I come along wiv
-      &rsquo;im from the boardin&rsquo; &rsquo;arse. This mornin&rsquo; &rsquo;e gives me
-      notice, &rsquo;e did. &lsquo;Car&rsquo;line, I carn&rsquo;t pay yer no more wyges,&rsquo; &rsquo;e
-      says. &lsquo;Gawd bless yer,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;an&rsquo; if yer carn&rsquo;t, wot does that matter?
-      I ain&rsquo;t one of yer &rsquo;igh and mighty, lawdy-dah hussies that I should
-      desert yer.&rsquo; Oh, Mr. Cardover, it&rsquo;s a shime the loife they&rsquo;re leadin&rsquo; the
-      poor man. But there, if they sends &rsquo;im to prison, I&rsquo;ll never agen
-      put me nose h&rsquo;insoide a church nor say no prayers. I&rsquo;ll just believe there
-      ain&rsquo;t no Gawd in the world. The landlord, &rsquo;e&rsquo;s in there h&rsquo;at
-      present wiv&rsquo;im, a-naggin&rsquo; at &rsquo;im. I was listenin&rsquo; at the key&rsquo;ole
-      when yer rang the bell. But there, I&rsquo;m keepin&rsquo; yer witin&rsquo;! Won&rsquo;t yer step
-      into the drarin&rsquo; room till &rsquo;e&rsquo;s by &rsquo;imself? H&rsquo;excuse me
-      dirty &rsquo;ands. I &rsquo;as to do h&rsquo;everythin&rsquo; for &rsquo;im&mdash;there&rsquo;s
-      only me and the master; even the Missis &rsquo;as left.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As she was closing the door behind her, my father called after her, &ldquo;Mrs.
-      Spreckles left! That&rsquo;s astounding. Why has she done that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The tousled hair and red eyes re-appeared for a second. &ldquo;Gorn back to
-      start up the bo-ordin&rsquo; &rsquo;arse,&rdquo; she stammered with a sob.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How different the room looked from when we were last in it! The cushions
-      on the sofa were awry. The windows winked at you wickedly, one blind
-      lowered and the other up. It had the bewildered, disheveled swaggerness of
-      a last night&rsquo;s reveler betrayed by the sunrise.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since Caroline had spoken my mind out for me, I felt awkward alone with my
-      father. I was afraid of what he might say presently.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I picked up a small, handsomely bound volume from the table while we were
-      waiting. I began turning the pages, and found that it was a collected
-      edition of tracts, written by my uncle and ostensibly addressed to young
-      men. They had been a kind of stealthy advertisement of The Christian
-      Boarding-House, calculated to make maiden aunts, into whose hands they
-      fell, sit up and feel immediately that the author was the very person for
-      influencing the morals of their giddy nephews. Through the persuasive
-      saintliness expressed in these tracts Uncle Obad had procured many of his
-      paying-guests. My eye was arrested by the title of one of them, THE
-      DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES. I read, &ldquo;One of our greatest poets has written of
-      finding love in huts where poor men lie. Oh, that young men might be
-      brought to ponder the truth contained in those words! What is more
-      difficult to obtain than love in the whole world? Can riches buy love?
-      Nay, but on the contrary love and wealth are rarely found together. Many a
-      powerful financier and belted earl would give all that he has in exchange
-      for love. Young men, when you come to die, which of all your possessions
-      can you carry with you to an after-world? Then, at least, you will learn
-      the deceitfulness of riches. You thought you had everything; too late you
-      know that you had nothing. Even in this life some men live to learn that
-      gold is but a phantom&mdash;a vampire phantom destroying friendship.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I had got so far when footsteps and voices, loud in contention, sounded in
-      the hall. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be out of here in a fortnight, d&rsquo;yer understand?
-      You&rsquo;re letting down my property the longer you stay here. You&rsquo;re giving my
-      house a bad name. The address is in all the papers; people are already
-      pointing it out. I won&rsquo;t stand it. That&rsquo;s my last word.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The front door slammed. I heard the chain being put up. The handle of the
-      drawing-room door turned hesitatingly and my uncle entered. He still wore
-      the clothes of affluence, and yet the impression he made was one of
-      shabbiness. He seemed to have shrunk. His jolly John Bull confidence had
-      vanished and had been replaced by the hurried, appeasing manner of a
-      solicitor of charity. He avoided our eyes and commenced talking at once,
-      presumably to prevent my father from talking. He did not offer to shake
-      hands. &ldquo;Well, Cardover, this is good of you. I hardly expected it. And, &rsquo;pon
-      my word, there&rsquo;s Dante. I&rsquo;ve been having a worried time of it. I&rsquo;m a badly
-      misunderstood man. But there, adversity has one advantage: it teaches us
-      who <i>are</i> our friends. When the little storm has blown over I shall
-      know who to drop from my acquaintance. This sudden departure of Rapson has
-      had a very unfortunate effect&mdash;most unfortunate. I expect a letter
-      from him by every mail; then I&rsquo;ll be able to explain matters. A good
-      fellow, Rapson. A capital fellow. As straight as they make &rsquo;em. One
-      of the best. Still, I wish he&rsquo;d told me more of his movements; for the
-      moment affairs are a trifle awkward, I must confess.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and sank down on the sofa
-      with the air of one who, being among pleasant companions, brushes aside
-      unpleasant topics. &ldquo;Well, how&rsquo;s Dante?&rdquo; he asked, turning to me, &ldquo;and
-      how&rsquo;s the Red House?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I didn&rsquo;t know how to answer. The question seemed so inappropriate and
-      irrelevant. All the kindness which lay between us made such conversation a
-      cruel farce. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, and yet I daren&rsquo;t in my
-      father&rsquo;s presence. I realized that such cheeriness on my uncle&rsquo;s part was
-      an insult, and yet I understood its motive.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father&rsquo;s face had hardened. He had expected some apology, some sign of
-      humility, or at least some direct appeal to his sympathy. If any of these
-      things had happened after what Caroline had said, I believe he would have
-      responded. But this insincere praise of the archculprit and ostrich-like
-      refusal to face facts simply angered him. He rose to his feet with the
-      restrained impatience of a just man; the drawn sternness of his mouth was
-      terrible. His voice had a steely coldness that pierced through all
-      pretenses.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stop this nonsense, Obad,&rdquo; he said sharply. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you realize that
-      you&rsquo;ve ruined me? Won&rsquo;t you ever play the man? You know very well that
-      Rapson will never come back, unless the police bring him. You&rsquo;ve been the
-      tool of a conspiracy to swindle the public; it was your religious standing
-      that made the swindle possible. No one&rsquo;s called you a thief as yet, but
-      that&rsquo;s what everyone&rsquo;s thinking. I know you&rsquo;re not a thief, but you&rsquo;ve
-      been guilty of the grossest negligence. Can&rsquo;t you bring home to yourself
-      the disgrace of that? You&rsquo;ve always been a shirker of responsibility. For
-      years you&rsquo;ve let your wife do all the work. And now, when through your
-      silly optimism you&rsquo;ve brought dishonor on the family, you still persist in
-      hiding behind shams. I tell you, Obad, you&rsquo;re a coward; you&rsquo;re trying to
-      evade the moral consequences of your actions. If you can&rsquo;t feel shame now,
-      you must be utterly worthless. Your attitude is an offense against every
-      right-thinking man. I didn&rsquo;t set out this morning with the intention of
-      speaking to you like this. But your present conduct and that idiotic
-      interview in the newspapers have made me alter my mind about you. To many
-      men they would prove you nearly as big a rascal as Rapson.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle had sat with his body crouched forward, his knees apart, his
-      hands knitted together, and his eyes fixed on the carpet while my father
-      had been talking. Now that there was silence he did not stir. I watched
-      the bald spot on his head, how the yellow skin crinkled and went tight
-      again as he bunched up and relaxed his brows. He looked so kindly and yet
-      so ineffectual. My father had flayed him naked with his words. He had
-      accused him of not being a man; but that was why I loved him. It was his
-      unworldliness that had made it possible for him to penetrate so far into a
-      child&rsquo;s world. Caroline snuffled on the other side of the keyhole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle pulled apart his hands and raised his head. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve said some
-      harsh things, Cardover. You&rsquo;ve reminded me about Lavinia; I didn&rsquo;t need to
-      be told that. I may be a fool, but I&rsquo;m not a scoundrel. I can only say
-      that I&rsquo;m sorry for what&rsquo;s happened. I was well-meaning; I did it for the
-      best. Is there anything else you want to tell me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s just this.&rdquo; My father handed him an envelope. &ldquo;It may help you to
-      do the right thing in paying the investors a little of what&rsquo;s left. Of
-      course you&rsquo;ll have to sell off everything and pay them as much as you can.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what is this you&rsquo;ve given me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The hundred pounds you gave to Dante and Ruthita at Christmas.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He flushed crimson; then the blood drained away from his hands and face,
-      leaving them ashy gray. His lip trembled, so that I feared terribly he was
-      going to cry with the bitterness of his humiliation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But&mdash;but it was a gift to them. I didn&rsquo;t expect this. Won&rsquo;t you let
-      them keep it? I should like them to keep it. It&rsquo;ll make so little
-      difference to the whole amount.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My dear Obad, when will you appreciate the fact that everything you have
-      given away or have, is the result of another man&rsquo;s theft?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My uncle glanced round the room furtively, taking in the meaning of those
-      words. It had been my father&rsquo;s purpose to make him ashamed; that was amply
-      accomplished now. He huddled back into the sofa, a broken man. He had been
-      stabbed through his affections into a knowledge of reality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My father beckoned to me and turned. I stretched out my hand and touched
-      my uncle. He took no notice. The sunlight streamed in on the creased bald
-      head, the dust, and the forfeited splendor. Reluctantly I tiptoed out and
-      was met in the hall by the hot indignant eyes of Caroline, accusing me of
-      treachery across the banisters.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER X&mdash;THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n after years it
-      became a habit with my father to say grimly that Uncle Obad&rsquo;s Christmas
-      dinner was the most expensive he had ever eaten&mdash;it had cost him two
-      thousand pounds. This was the only reference to the unfortunate past that
-      he permitted himself. On calm reflection I think he was a little sorry for
-      the caustic frankness of some of his remarks; he was willing to forget
-      them. Besides, as it happened, one of my uncle&rsquo;s least forgivable offenses&mdash;the
-      mentioning of our names to the newspaper men&mdash;resulted in an
-      extraordinary stroke of luck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A week after our visit to Chelsea, my father received a letter. It was
-      from a firm of lawyers and stated that a friend, who had read of our loss,
-      was anxious to provide the money for my education; the only condition made
-      was that he should be allowed to remain anonymous.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At first my father flatly refused to put himself under such an obligation
-      to an unknown person. &ldquo;One would think that we were paupers,&rdquo; he said;
-      &ldquo;such an offer may be kindly meant, but it&rsquo;s insulting.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was so sensitive on the subject that we none of us dared to argue the
-      matter. We considered the affair as closed, and began to consider what
-      walk of business I should enter. Then we discovered that my father had
-      gone off on the quiet and interviewed the lawyers; as a consequence, a
-      second and more pressing letter arrived, stating that the anonymous
-      benefactor would be gravely disappointed if we did not accept. He was
-      childless and had often wished to do something for me. My father&rsquo;s
-      misfortune was his opportunity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our curiosity was piqued. Who of our friends or acquaintance was
-      childless? We ran over the names of all possible benefactors&mdash;a task
-      not difficult, for we had few friends.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The name of my mother&rsquo;s father, Sir Charles Evrard, was suggested. He
-      fitted the description exactly; the long estrangement which had resulted
-      from my father&rsquo;s elopement supplied the motive for his desire to suppress
-      his personality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Out of this guess Ruthita wove for me a romantic future, opening to my
-      astonished imagination a career more congenial than any I had dreamt in my
-      boldest moments. Up to this time, save for whispered hints from my
-      grandmother Cardover, no mention had been made of my mother&rsquo;s family. My
-      father&rsquo;s plebeian pride had never recovered from the shock and humiliation
-      of his early years. At first out of jealous purpose, latterly from force
-      of habit and the delicacy which men feel after re-marriage, he had allowed
-      me to grow up in almost entire ignorance of my maternal traditions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now that the subject had to be discussed he became obstinately silent to
-      the point of sullenness. The Snow Lady came to the rescue. &ldquo;Leave him to
-      me,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I know how to manage him, my dear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laid it tactfully before him that he had no right to let his personal
-      likes or dislikes prevent me from climbing back into my mother&rsquo;s rank in
-      society. I was my grandfather&rsquo;s nearest kin and, if our surmise proved
-      correct, this might be Sir Charles&rsquo;s first step towards a reconciliation&mdash;a
-      step which might end in his making his will in my favor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover was communicated with and instructed to report on the
-      lie of the country. She replied that folks said that old Sir Charles was
-      wonderfully softened. She also informed us that Lord Halloway, the next of
-      kin to myself, had been up to some more of his devilry and was in disgrace
-      with his uncle. This time it was to do with a Ransby bathing-machine man&rsquo;s
-      daughter. Lord Halloway was my second-cousin, the Earl of Lovegrove&rsquo;s son
-      and heir. His Christian name was Denville; I came to know him less
-      formally in later days as Denny Halloway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was packed off to my grandmother, ostensibly for a week&rsquo;s holiday at
-      Ransby&mdash;in reality to put our hazard to the test.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ransby to-day is a little sleepy seaside town. The trade has gone away
-      from it. Every summer thousands of holiday-makers from London invade it
-      with foreign, feverish gaiety; when they are gone it relapses into its
-      contented old-world quiet. In my boyhood, however, it was a place of
-      provincial bustle and importance. The sailing vessels from the Baltic
-      crowded its harbor, lying shoulder to shoulder against its quays,
-      unloading their cargoes of tallow and timber and hemp. Now all that
-      remains is the herring fishery and the manufacture of nets.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover&rsquo;s house stood near the harbor; from the street we
-      could see the bare masts of the shipping lying at rest. In the front on
-      the ground-floor was the shop, piled high with the necessaries of
-      sea-going travel. There were coils of rope in the doorway, and anchors and
-      sacks of ship&rsquo;s biscuits; a little further in tarpaulin and oil-skin
-      jackets hung from the ceiling, interspersed with smoked hams; and, at the
-      back, stood rows of cheeses and upturned barrels on which ear-ringed
-      sailor-men would sit and chat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Behind the counter was a door, with windows draped with red curtains. It
-      led into what was called the keeping-room, a cozy parlor in which we took
-      our meals, while through the window in the door we could watch the
-      customers enter. The keeping-room had its own peculiar smell, comfortable
-      and homelike. I scarcely know how to describe it; it was a mixture of
-      ozone, coffee, and baking bread. Out of the keeping-room lay the kitchen,
-      with its floor of red bricks and its burnished pots and pans hung in rows
-      along the walls. It was my grandmother&rsquo;s boast that the floor was so
-      speckless that you could eat a meal off it. Across the courtyard at the
-      back lay the bakehouse, with its great hollow ovens and troughs in which
-      men with naked feet trod out the dough.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother had never been out of Ransby save to visit us at Pope Lane,
-      and this rarely. Even then, after a fortnight she was glad to get back.
-      She said that Ransby was better than London; you weren&rsquo;t crowded and knew
-      everyone you met. The streets of London were filled with stranger-windows
-      and stranger-faces, whereas in Ransby every house was familiar and had its
-      story.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She carried, strung from a belt about her waist, all the keys of her bins
-      and cupboards. You knew when she was coming by the way they jangled. She
-      was a widow, and perfectly happy. On Sundays she attended the Methodist
-      Chapel in the High Street, with its grave black pulpit and high-backed
-      pews. On week-days she marshaled her sea-captains, handsome bearded men,
-      and entertained them at her table. In spite of younger rivals, who tried
-      to win their patronage from her by cuts in prices, she held their custom
-      by her honest personality. I believe many of them made her offers of
-      marriage, for she was still comely to look at; she refused them as lovers
-      and kept them as friends. She usually dressed in black, with a gold locket
-      containing the hair of her husband, many years dead, hung about her neck.
-      Her hair was arranged in two rows of corkscrew curls, which reached down
-      to her shoulders from under a prim white cap. She had a trick of making
-      them waggle when she wished to be emphatic. She was a good deal of a
-      gossip, was by instinct an antiquary, and had a lively sense of wit which
-      was kept in check by a genuine piety&mdash;in short, she was a thoroughly
-      wholesome, capable, loving woman. The type to which she belonged is now
-      quickly vanishing&mdash;that of the more than middle-aged person who knows
-      how to grow old usefully and graciously: a woman of the lower-middle class
-      not chagrined by her station, who acknowledged cheerfully that she had her
-      superiors and, demanding respect from others, gave respect ungrudgingly
-      where it was due. She was a shop-keeper proud of her shop-keeping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That week at Ransby was a kind of tiptoe glory. My Grannie took me very
-      seriously; she had under her roof a boy who would surely be a baronet,
-      perhaps a lord, and maybe an earl. What had only been an expectation with
-      us was for her a certainty. The floodgate of her reminiscence was opened
-      wide; she swept me far out into the romantic past with her accounts of my
-      mother&rsquo;s ancestry. The Evrards were no upstart nobility; they had their
-      roots in history. She could tell me how they returned from exile with King
-      Charles, or how they sailed out with Raleigh to destroy the Armada. But I
-      liked to hear best about my mother, how she rode into Ransby under her
-      scarlet plumes, on her great gray horse, with her flower face; and how my
-      father caught sight of her and loved her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to understand my father in a new way, entirely sympathetic. He was
-      a man who had tasted the best of life at the first. There was something
-      epic about his sorrow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      These conversations usually took place in the keeping-room at night. The
-      shutters of the shop had been put up. The gas was unlighted. The flames of
-      the fire, dancing in the grate, split the darkness into shadows which
-      groped across the walls. Everything was hushed and cozy. My Grannie,
-      seated opposite to me, on the other side of the fireplace, would bend
-      forward in her chair as she talked; when she came to exciting passages her
-      little gray curls would bob, or to passages of sentiment she would remove
-      her shiny spectacles to wipe her eyes. If she stopped at a loss for the
-      next topic, all I had to say was, &ldquo;And how did Sir Charles Evrard look,
-      Grannie, when he came to you that first morning after they had run away?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He looked, as he has always looked, my dear, an aristocrat.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But how did he treat you? Wasn&rsquo;t he angry?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Angry with a woman! Certainly not. He treated me like a courtly gentleman&mdash;with
-      respect. He dismounts and comes into my shop as leisurely as though he had
-      only stepped in to exchange the greetings of the day. He raises his hat to
-      me as he enters. &lsquo;A fine day, Mrs. Cardover,&rsquo; he says.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;&lsquo;A fine day, Sir Charles, but inclined to blow up squally,&rsquo; says I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then he turns his face away and inquires, &lsquo;If it&rsquo;s not troubling you, can
-      I see your son this morning?&rsquo;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;&lsquo;He went to London early,&rsquo; says I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He puts his hand to his throat quickly, as if he were choking. Then he
-      asks huskily, still not looking at me, &lsquo;Did he go alone?&rsquo;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;&lsquo;That, Sir Charles, is more than I can say.&rsquo;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;&lsquo;Quite right. Quite right.&rsquo; And he speaks so quickly that he startles me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then he turns round, trying to smile, and shows me a face all old and
-      pale. &lsquo;A very fine day for someone; but it&rsquo;s true what you say, it&rsquo;ll blow
-      up squally later.&rsquo;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And with that he leaves me, raising his hat, and rides away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you knew all the time?&rdquo; I ask.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We both knew all the time,&rdquo; she replies.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During the daytime we went through the flat wind-swept country on
-      excursions to Woadley Hall. Our hope was that we might meet Sir Charles,
-      and that he would recognize me. Unfortunately, on the afternoon of my
-      arrival he had a hunting accident, and kept the house during all the
-      period of my stay. My nearest approach to seeing him was one evening, when
-      the winter dusk had gathered early; I hid in the shrubbery outside the
-      library and saw his shadow fall across the blind. He seemed to stand near
-      the window listening. We were not more than two yards separated. I wonder,
-      did some instinct, subtler than the five senses, let him know of the
-      starved yearning that was calling to him out there in the dark? How those
-      long watches in Woadley Park stirred up memories, and made my mother live
-      again!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the week had expired, I returned to Pope Lane. The offer was
-      re-debated and at last accepted. I went back to the Red House and there
-      learnt the fickleness of popularity. My uncle&rsquo;s downfall had caused me to
-      become a far less exalted person. My influence was gone; a period of
-      persecution threatened. The Bantam alone stood by me; even in his eyes I
-      was a Samson shorn of his glory. The renewed, half-shy interest taken in
-      me by the Creature was a doubtful asset. Our friendship was a coalition of
-      two weaknesses, and resulted in nothing profitable in the way of social
-      strength. He did his best to make things up to me. He was almost womanly
-      in his kindness. Now that Lady Zion was gone he felt a great emptiness in
-      life; he borrowed me that, in some measure, I might fill her place. He
-      told Sneard that he wished to coach me that I might sit for a scholarship
-      at Oxford. Permission was granted, so we both got off prep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Evening after evening I would spend at his cottage, the lamp lighted and
-      the books spread out on the table. He decided that I was not much good at
-      natural science, and declared that I must specialize in history. He was a
-      genius in his way, and had amazing stores of information. When he overcame
-      his hesitating shyness, he showed himself a scholar of erudite knowledge
-      and intrepid imagination. He had a passion for antiquity that amounted to
-      idolatry, and a faculty which was almost uncanny for making the dead world
-      live again. While he spoke I would forget his shabbiness, his
-      chalk-stained hands, uncouth gestures, and revolting untidiness. He was a
-      magician who unlocked the doors of the storied past; he owned the
-      right-of-way through all men&rsquo;s minds, from Homer to Herbert Spencer. When
-      he spoke of soldiers, his air was bullying and defiant. But it was when he
-      spoke of women that he spoke with his heart. Then, all unaware of what he
-      was doing, he pulled aside the curtains and let me gaze in upon the empty
-      rooms of his life. It was he who pointed out to me that, with rare
-      exceptions, it is not the virtuous but only the beautiful women that the
-      world remembers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was odd to think what images of loveliness went to and fro behind that
-      soiled mask of outward personality, in the hidden temples of his brain.
-      The Creature was a man you had to love or dislike, to know altogether or
-      not to know at all. In that last year and a half at the Red House, when he
-      tapped me on the shoulder and led me away by the revelation of his curious
-      secret charm, I got both to know and to love him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And yet there was always fear in my friendship. He was queer like his
-      sister before him. Her death seemed to have unbalanced his reason; it was
-      a weakness that grew upon him. He seemed to have lost his power of
-      distinguishing between the present and the imaginary or the past. Often in
-      the cottage he would forget that his sister was not still alive and,
-      rising from the table, would look beyond me as if he saw her, or would go
-      out into the passage and call to her. Nothing in the cottage had been
-      changed since her departure. Her belongings lay untouched, just where she
-      had left them, as though her return was hourly expected.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He fell into the way of imitating her gestures, and humming snatches of
-      her crazy songs. He would tumble over the precipice into the abyss of
-      insanity without warning, in the middle of being rational; and would
-      clamber back just as suddenly, apparently without knowledge of where he
-      had gone. Of one of her songs he was extremely fond. I had often heard
-      Lady Zion sing it as she rode between the hedges, and had been made aware
-      of her approach long before I caught sight of her:&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      &ldquo;All the chimneys in our town
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Wake from death when the cold comes down;
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Through the summer against the sky
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Tall, and silent, and stark they lie&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      But every chimney in our town
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Starts to breathe when the cold comes down.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Some safe-guarding astuteness prevented him from showing his weakness at
-      the Red House; and I was too fond of him to tell. To the rest of the boys
-      he was only the grubby, somewhat eccentric little &ldquo;stinks&rdquo; master.
-      Nevertheless, sane or insane, it was through the Creature&rsquo;s efforts that,
-      after a year of coaching, I won a history scholarship at Lazarus for
-      eighty pounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Still, eighty pounds would not carry me to Oxford. It became a worrying
-      problem to my family exactly what my grandfather, if he were my
-      benefactor, had meant by &ldquo;undertaking the expenses of my education.&rdquo; His
-      generosity might be co-terminous with my school-days. A month after the
-      winning of the scholarship the lawyers wrote, setting our minds at rest
-      and congratulating me on my success in the name of their client. This
-      letter was gratifying in more than a monetary sense&mdash;it was a sign
-      that the anonymous friend was keeping a close watch on my doings.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since the interview at Chelsea there had been no intercourse between my
-      father and Uncle Obad. I had once contrived to see my uncle by stealth,
-      but the first question he had asked me was, did I come with my father&rsquo;s
-      knowledge. When I could not give him that assurance, he had sorrowfully
-      refused to have anything to do with me. At the time I shrank from
-      mentioning the matter to my father; so for a year and a half my uncle and
-      his doings had dropped completely out of my life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But my treatment of him weighed on my conscience. My last term at school
-      had ended. It was August, and in October I expected to go up to Oxford.
-      With my scholarship and the money the lawyers sent me I should soon be a
-      self-supporting person. Already I thought myself a man. I felt that on the
-      whole my father&rsquo;s quarrel with my uncle was reasonable, but I could not
-      see why I should be made to share it. So one day as I got up from
-      breakfast, I mentioned casually that I was going to run over to Charity
-      Grove.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was just such another golden morning as the one of ten years earlier,
-      when I had driven for the first time across London behind Dollie. What a
-      big important person the Spuffler had seemed to me then! How wonderful
-      that he, a grown-up, should take so much trouble to be friendly to a
-      little chap! Then my mind wandered back over all his repeated kindness&mdash;all
-      that he had stood for in the past as a harbor of refuge from the stormy
-      misunderstandings of childhood. He and the Creature, both failures and
-      generally despised, were two of the best men that I had ever met. Whatever
-      his faults, he still was splendid.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I came to the Christian Boarding House, and passed up the driveway shut in
-      with heavy evergreens. Caroline, tousled of hair, all loose ends, girt
-      about her middle with a sackcloth apron, was on her knees bricking the
-      steps. She did not recognize me. The Mistress was out shopping, she said,
-      but the Master was in the paddock. &ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; I thought, &ldquo;feeding the
-      fowls.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I passed through the decayed old rooms, with their heavy shabby furniture,
-      so evidently picked up cheap at auctions; then I passed out through the
-      French windows into the cool garden, where sunshine dappled the lawn,
-      struggling with difficulty through the crowded branches. At the gate into
-      the paddock I halted. There he was with a can of water in his hand,
-      fussing, in and out his coops and hutches, so extremely busy, as though
-      the future of the world depended on his efforts. I suppose he was still
-      evolving that strain of perpetually laying hens, The Spreckles, which was
-      to bring him fame and fortune.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I called to him, &ldquo;Uncle Obad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When he had recovered from his emotion, I soon found that the old fellow
-      had long ago emerged from all personal sense of disgrace with his usual
-      corklike irrepressibility. He chatted with me cheerily, calling me, &ldquo;Old
-      chap,&rdquo; just as though nothing painful had happened to separate us. On
-      being ousted from Chelsea, he had immediately dropped back, with something
-      like a sigh of relief, into his former world of momentous trifles&mdash;philanthropy
-      and fowls. &ldquo;We lived at a terrible pace, old chap. It was wearing us out.
-      We couldn&rsquo;t have stood it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He spoke as if the abdication of his brief period of affluence had been
-      voluntary. I scented here one of his spuffling explanations to his
-      neighbors for his precipitate return to the boarding-house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On inquiry I found that all his philanthropic societies had forgiven and
-      taken him back. After sulking a while and flirting with various paid
-      secretaries, they had agreed for economy&rsquo;s sake to let bygones be bygones.
-      They had been unable to find any other person who would serve them as
-      loyally without salary, and who at the same time was able to offer up such
-      beautiful extempore prayers. The list of their contributors had afforded
-      Rapson his happiest hunting-ground. Procuring my uncle&rsquo;s services for
-      nothing was their only way of getting anything back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what about Rapson?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Do you still believe in him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head dolefully. &ldquo;I begin to lose faith, Dante; I begin to
-      doubt.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But have you heard from him since he went away?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never a word.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He hesitated and then he said, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Kitty, you know. He didn&rsquo;t do the
-      straight thing by her. No, I&rsquo;m afraid Rapson wasn&rsquo;t a good man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At mention of Kitty I pricked up my ears; I had often wondered about her.
-      &ldquo;What had Kitty to do with him?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Were they engaged?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, unfortunately.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In love?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wish they had been. After he&rsquo;d left her, she was awfully cut up. I did
-      what I could for her. You remember that hundred pounds?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My father&mdash;at Chelsea&mdash;the Christmas present?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. I couldn&rsquo;t keep it. I gave it to her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You always have to be giving something,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We were sitting on an upturned barrow in the paddock when this
-      conversation took place. I thought how characteristic of Uncle Obad that
-      was&mdash;to be helping others at a time when he himself was most in need
-      of help. But his kindness knew no seasons. Then I began, as a very young
-      man will, to think of Kitty, and, because of her frailty, to picture her
-      through a haze of romance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s Kitty now?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s in a photographer&rsquo;s at Oxford. She serves behind a counter. But,
-      come, you&rsquo;ve not told me yet what you think of my fowls.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XI&mdash;STAR-DUST DAYS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he walls of the
-      garden had fallen. Childhood was ended and with it all those absurd,
-      aching fears lest I should never be a man and lest time might be a
-      stationary, unescapable present, with no trap-doors giving access to the
-      future. The experiment of life had begun in earnest, and the adventure.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That first October night of my residence at Oxford is forever memorable.
-      Before leaving Pope Lane I had been led aside by my father. He had taken
-      it for granted that I was now capable of a man&rsquo;s follies and had warned me
-      against them. Somehow his assumption that I had it in my choice to become
-      a Don Juan warmed my heart; it impressed me as a tribute to my manhood&mdash;a
-      tacit acknowledgment that I was a free agent. Free at last!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not understand one-tenth part of all that he hinted at. But his
-      presumption that I did understand seemed to me a form of compliment. To
-      ask for an explanation was a heroism of which I was not capable. So I left
-      home clad in the armor of ignorance to do battle with the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita wanted to accompany me to the station. I would not let her. She
-      was weepy in private; I knew that in public she would be worse. I had
-      inherited my father&rsquo;s dread of sentiment and his fear lest other people
-      should construe it as weakness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Paddington I met the Bantam; we were entering the same college and
-      traveled up together. We chose our places in a &ldquo;smoker&rdquo; by way of
-      emphasizing to ourselves our emancipation. We tried to appear ordinary and
-      at ease; beneath our mask of carelessness we felt delightfully bold and
-      bad. In our carriage were three undergraduates, finished products of
-      indifferent haughtiness. Though no more than a year our seniors, they
-      loaded their pipes and puffed away without fear or furtiveness. They
-      affected to be unaware of us. They were infinitely bored in manner and
-      addressed the porters in a tone of lackadaisical, frigid tolerance. What
-      masterfulness! And yet one term of Oxford would give us the right to be
-      like that!&mdash;we, who so recently had been liable to be told that
-      children must be seen and not heard. The assurance of these youthful men
-      imperiled our courage.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As we neared Iffley, the domes and spires of the Mecca of dreamers swam
-      up. The sky was pearl-colored without a cloud. Strewn throughout its great
-      emptiness was the luminous dust of stars. All the tinsel ambitions which
-      had lately stirred me were forgotten as the home of lost causes claimed
-      me. I grew large within myself as, in watching its advance behind the
-      river above the tree-tops, I merged my personality in this vision of
-      architectural romance. Leaning against the horizon, stretching up and up,
-      out of the murk of dusk and the blood-red decay of foliage, it symbolized
-      for me all the yearning after perfection and the passionate desire for
-      freedom that had always lain hidden in my heart. I wanted to be like that&mdash;the
-      thing that gray pyramided stone seen at twilight can alone express&mdash;wise,
-      unimpassioned, lovely, immutable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came to a standstill in the shabby station, which of all stations is
-      probably the best beloved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thank the Lord, we&rsquo;re here at last.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In a hansom, with a sporting cabby for our driver, we rattled through the
-      ancient lamp-lit town where the ghosts of the dead summer rustled and
-      reddened against the walls. Past the Castle we sped, through Carfax, down
-      the High, past Oriel and Christ Church till we drew up with a jerk at
-      Lazarus. Whatever we had suffered in the train in the way of lowered
-      opinion of self was now made up to us; the servility of the College porter
-      and scouts was eloquent of respect. We were undoubtedly persons of
-      importance. If we wanted further proof of it, this awaited us in the pile
-      of communications from Oxford tradesmen, notified beforehand of our
-      coming, humbly soliciting our patronage.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Bantam&rsquo;s room and mine were next door to one another in Augustine&rsquo;s
-      Quad; fires were burning in the grates to bid us welcome. The scout, who
-      acted as guide, seized the opportunity to sell us each a second-hand tin
-      bath, a coal-scuttle, and a kettle at very much more than their first-hand
-      prices. We felt no resentment. His deferential manner was worth the extra.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Just as we had commenced unpacking, the bell began to toll. We slipped on
-      our gowns and followed the throng into a vaulted, dimly-lighted hall,
-      where we dined at long tables off ancient silver, and had beer set before
-      us. Surely we were men!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night the Bantam and I sat far into the small, cold hours of the
-      morning; there was no one to worry us to go to bed. When the Bantam had
-      left, I lay awake in a state of bewildered ecstasy. I had become aware in
-      the last ten hours of my unchartered personality. I realized that my life
-      was my own to command, to make or mar. As the bells above the sleeping
-      city rang out time&rsquo;s progress, all the pageant of the lads of other ages,
-      who had come up to Oxford star-eyed, as I had come, passed before me. When
-      the withered leaves tapped against the walls, I could fancy that it was
-      their footfall. They had come with a chance equal to mine; at the end of a
-      few years they had departed. Some had succeeded and some had failed. Of
-      all that great army which now stretched bivouacked throughout eternity,
-      only the latest recruits were in sight. The scholar-monks, the
-      soldier-saints, the ruffian-students of early centuries, the cavaliers,
-      the philosophers, and the statesmen, together with the roisterers of the
-      rank and file, were all equally and completely gone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the silence of my narrow room, with the flickering fire dying in the
-      hearth, there brooded over me the shadowy darkness of the ages. What
-      religion does for some men, for me the gray poetry of this poignant city
-      accomplished. I had become aware that from henceforth the ultimate
-      responsibility for my actions must rest forever with myself. I was
-      strangely unafraid of this knowledge.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They were dim dawn-days that followed, when the air was filled with
-      star-dust&mdash;neither with suns, nor moons, nor stars, only with the
-      excitement of their promise. My world was at twilight, blurred and
-      mysterious; only the huge design was clearly discernible&mdash;the cracks
-      and imperfections were concealed from me, shrouded in dusk. I lived in a
-      land of ideals, drawing my rules of conduct from the realism of the
-      classics&mdash;a realism which even to the Greeks and Romans was only an
-      aspiration, never a practice. Existence had for me all the piquant
-      fascination which comes of half-knowledge&mdash;the charming allurement,
-      leaving room for speculation, which the glimpse of a girl&rsquo;s face has at
-      nightfall. It was an age when all things seemed possible, because all were
-      untested.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Gradually, out of the wilderness of strange faces, some became more
-      familiar than others; little groups of friends began to form. The
-      instinctive principle on which my set came together was enthusiastic
-      rebellion against convention and eager curiosity concerning existence. One
-      by one, without appointing any place of meeting, we would drift into some
-      man&rsquo;s room. This usually occurred about eight in the evening, after dinner
-      in hall. The lamp would be left unlighted; the couch would be drawn near
-      the fire; then we would commence a conversation which was half jesting and
-      half confessional.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Under the cloak of laughing cynicism we hid a desperate purpose. We wanted
-      to know about life. We sought in each new face to discover if it could
-      tell us. We had nothing to guide us but the carefully prepared disclosures
-      which had been vouchsafed us in our homes. We had risen at a bound into a
-      man&rsquo;s estate, and still retained a boy&rsquo;s knowledge. We realized that life
-      was bigger, bolder, more adventurous, more disastrous than we had
-      reckoned. Why was it that some men failed, while others had success? What
-      external pressures caused the difference in achievement between Napoleon,
-      for instance, and Charles Lamb? Who was responsible for our varying
-      personalities? Where did our own responsibility begin, and where did it
-      end?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The problems we argued predated the Decalogue, yet to us they were
-      eternally original and personal. We attacked them with youthful insolence.
-      The authority of no social institution was safe from our irreverence. We
-      accepted nothing, neither religion, nor marriage; we had to go back to the
-      beginning and re-mint truth for ourselves. Our real object in coming
-      together was that we might pool our scraps of actual experience, and out
-      of these materials fashion our conjectures.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was one topic of inexhaustible interest. It permeated all our
-      inquiry&mdash;<i>woman</i>. We knew so little about her; but we knew that
-      she held the key opening the door to all romance. What gay cavaliers we
-      could be in discussing her, and how sheepish in the presence of one
-      concrete specimen of her sex&mdash;especially if she were beautiful, and
-      not a relative!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All the adventures we had ever heard of seemed now within our grasp. Woman
-      was the great unknown to us. We knew next to nothing of the penalties&mdash;only
-      the romance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Little by little the boldest among us, recognizing that talk led nowhere,
-      began to put matters to the test. The same shy restraint that had made me
-      afraid of Fiesole when she had tempted me to kiss her, made me an onlooker
-      now. A saving common sense prompted me to await the proof of events. I
-      acted on instinct, not on principle. The difference between myself and
-      some of my friends was a difference of temperament. Perhaps it was a
-      difference between daring and cowardice. There are times when our
-      weaknesses appear to be virtues, preserving us from shipwreck. I was
-      capable of tempestuous thoughts; while they remained thoughts I could
-      clothe them with idealism and glamor. But I was incapable of impassioned
-      acts; their atmosphere would be beyond my control&mdash;the atmosphere of
-      inevitable vulgarity which results from contemporary reality. My
-      observation of unrestraint taught me that unrestraint was ugly. In short,
-      I had a pagan imagination at war with a puritan conscience.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In my day, there was no right or wrong in undergraduate Oxford&mdash;no
-      moral or immoral. Every conventional principle of conduct which we had
-      learnt, we flung into the crucible of new experience to be melted down
-      and, out of the ordeal, minted afresh.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We divided ourselves into two classes: those who experimented and those
-      who watched. There was only one sin in our calendar&mdash;not to be a
-      gentleman. To be a gentleman, in our sense of the word, was to be a
-      sportsman and to have good manners.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In our private methods of thought we were uninterfered with by those in
-      authority. The University&rsquo;s methods of disciplining our actions were, and
-      still are, a survival of mediævalism. If an undergraduate was seen
-      speaking to a lady, he had to be able to prove her pedigree or run the
-      risk of being sent down. At nine o&rsquo;clock Big Tom rang; ten minutes later
-      every college-door was shut and a fine was imposed for knocking in or out.
-      In the streets the proctors and their bulldogs commenced to go the rounds.
-      Until twelve a man was safe in the streets, provided he appeared to be
-      innocently employed and wore his cap and gown. Knocking into college after
-      twelve was a grave offense.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If a man observed these rules or was crafty, he might investigate life to
-      his heart&rsquo;s content. Public opinion was extremely lenient. Conduct was a
-      purely personal matter as long as it did not inconvenience anybody else.
-      If a man had the all-atoning social grace, and was careful not to get
-      caught in an incriminating act, though everybody knew about it from his
-      own lips afterwards, he was not censured.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My cousin, Lord Halloway, had been a Lazarus man. Oxford still treasured
-      the memory of his amorous exploits.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He had been a good deal of a dare-devil and was regarded as something of a
-      hero; he inspired us with awe, for, despite his recklessness, he had
-      played the game gaily and escaped detection. The impression that this kind
-      of thing created was that indiscretions were only indiscreet when they
-      were bungled. Punishment seemed the penalty for discovery&mdash;not for
-      the sin itself. Naturally it was the foolish and less flagrant sinners who
-      got caught. For instance, there was the Bantam.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The first term the Bantam watched and listened. There were occasions when
-      he was a little shocked. When Christmas came round, having no home to go
-      to, he kept on his rooms in college, and spent the vacation in residence.
-      I returned to Pope Lane, and found that the womanliness of Ruthita and the
-      Snow Lady had a sanitary effect. The wholesome sweetness of their
-      affection, after the hot-house discussions of a group of boyish men, came
-      like a breath of pure air. I fell back into the old trustfulness. I
-      recognized that society had secret restraints and delicacies, a disclosure
-      of the motives for which was not yet allowable; at the proper season life
-      would explain itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When college re-assembled I noticed a change in the Bantam. He was soulful
-      and sentimental&mdash;he took more pains with his dressing. He was
-      continually slipping off by himself; when he returned he volunteered no
-      information as to the purpose of his errand. When the eternal problem of
-      woman was discussed, he smiled in a wise and melancholy manner. If he
-      contributed a remark, it was not a guess, but had the air of authoritative
-      finality. One night I tackled him. &ldquo;What have you been up to, Bantam? You
-      know too much.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He twisted his pipe in his mouth pensively. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s the sweetest little
-      girl in the world.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He would not tell me her name. He had pledged her his word not to do that.
-      There was a reason&mdash;she was working, and she belonged to too high a
-      rank in society to work. She wished to remain obscure, until she could
-      re-instate herself. She was a Cinderella who would one day emerge from
-      poverty into splendor. The Bantam said his emotions were almost too sacred
-      to talk about. Nevertheless, he meandered on with his mystery from
-      midnight to three o&rsquo;clock. She was a lady and terribly persecuted. He had
-      come to her rescue just at the identical moment when a good influence was
-      most needed. All through the Christmas Vac he had acted the big brother&rsquo;s
-      part, shielding her from temptation. She was lovely&mdash;there lay the
-      pity of it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I pointed out that there were ten thousand ways of flirting with girls,
-      and that this was the most dangerous. His white knighthood was affronted
-      by that word <i>flirting</i>. He became indignant and said I was no
-      gentleman.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As time went on, acquaintance after acquaintance would drop in to see me,
-      and would hint gravely at a deep and romantic passion which the Bantam had
-      imparted to them alone. When I informed them that I also was in his
-      confidence, they would repeat to me the same vague story of persecuted
-      loveliness, but always with embellishments. By and by, the embellishments
-      varied so irreconcilably that I began to suspect that they referred to
-      more than one girl.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Most of us were in love with love in those days; we were all quite certain
-      that an incandescent purifying passion lay ahead of us. It might knock at
-      our door any hour&mdash;and then our particular problem would be solved.
-      This hope was rarely mentioned. To one another we strove to give the
-      impression of being cynical and careless. Yet always, beneath our pose of
-      flippancy, we were seeking the face pre-destined to be for us the most
-      beautiful in all the world. For myself, I was feverishly eager in its
-      quest. I would scour the green-gray uplands of the Thames, telling myself
-      that she might lie hidden in the cheerful quiet of some thatched farm.
-      Every new landscape became the possible setting for my individual romance.
-      I lived each day in expectancy of her coming. Sometimes at nightfall I
-      would pause outside a lighted shop-window, arrested by a girl&rsquo;s profile,
-      and would pretend to myself that I had found her. That was how Rossetti
-      found Miss Siddall; perhaps that was how it would happen to myself. One
-      thing was certain: whenever and wherever I found her, whether in the guise
-      of shop-girl, dairy-maid, or lady, for me the golden age would commence. I
-      stalked through life on the airy stilts of an æsthetic optimism.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ah, but the Bantam, he was all for doing! If he could not find the love he
-      wanted, he would seize the next best. Yet he would never admit that he was
-      in love. He deceived himself into believing that he acted on the most
-      altruistic motives. If others misunderstood him, it was because they were
-      of grosser fiber. Other men, doing the things he did, laughingly
-      acknowledged their rakishness; he, however, considered himself a
-      self-appointed knight-errant to ladies in distress. He became involved in
-      endless entanglements. It was by appealing to his higher nature with some
-      pitiful story, that his transient attractions caught him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I never knew a man so unfortunate in his genius for discovering lonely
-      maidens in need of his protection. He always meant to be noble and
-      virtuous, but his temperament was not sufficiently frigid to carry him
-      safely through such ticklish adventures. He never learnt when to leave
-      off; his fatal and theatric conception of chivalry continually led him on
-      to situations more powerfully tempting. It would be easy to explain him by
-      saying that he was a sentimental ass. But so were we all. The Bantam came
-      to his ruin because he was lonely, because he had no social means of
-      meeting women who were his equals, and because he was too kind-hearted;
-      but mainly because he attributed to all women indiscriminately a virtue
-      which unfortunately they do not all possess.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He sinned accidentally and therefore carelessly&mdash;not wisely, but too
-      well. A man like Lord Halloway sinned of set purpose and laid his plans
-      ahead; so far as society&rsquo;s opinion of him was concerned he came off
-      comparatively scatheless. The worst that was ever said of him was that he
-      was a gay dog. Women even seemed to like him for it. I suppose he
-      intrigued their fancy, and made them long to reform him. From this I
-      learnt that the gaping sins of a gay dog are more easily forgiven than the
-      peccadilloes of a sentimental donkey.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the Easter Vacation of our first year at Oxford, the Bantam stayed at
-      Putney. In the same house was an actress, very beautiful and more sorely
-      used by the world than even the first girl. In the summer-time there was a
-      widow at Torquay. In the beginning of our second year of residence there
-      was a bar-maid at Henley. After that they followed in rapid succession.
-      Wherever he went he found some woman starving for his sympathy. They were
-      all ladies and phenomena of beauty, to judge from his accounts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he came to make confession to me, it was a little difficult to follow
-      which particular lady he was talking about. He never mentioned them by
-      name, and seemed to try to give the impression that they were one
-      composite person.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One evening I got him with his back to the wall. &ldquo;Bantam, who is this
-      Oxford girl&mdash;the first one you got to know about?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then he admitted that she was a shop-girl. I knew what that meant: some of
-      the Oxford tradesmen engaged girls for the prettiness of their faces, that
-      they might attract custom by flirting with the undergrads. Little by
-      little I narrowed him down in his general statements till I had guessed
-      the shop in which she worked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is she a good girl?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Instead of taking offense, he answered, &ldquo;Dante, the thought of her
-      goodness often makes me ashamed of myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was evident, though he would not admit it, that this affair at least
-      was serious.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then why does she stay there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She can&rsquo;t help herself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t she help herself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s an orphan and has a living to earn. She&rsquo;s afraid to get out of a
-      situation.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what good are you doing her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Helping her to keep up her courage by letting her know that one man
-      respects her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think she may get to expect more than that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Certainly not. Why should she?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Just because girls do,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Do you write her letters?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sometimes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What do you write about?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He wouldn&rsquo;t tell me that. Next day I went down to the shop to investigate
-      matters. Since the Bantam wouldn&rsquo;t listen to sense, I intended to hint to
-      the girl the danger of what she was doing. Of course she could never marry
-      him; but I was morally certain that that was what she was aiming at.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The shop was a stationer&rsquo;s. I had chosen an hour in the afternoon when it
-      was likely to be empty, everyone being engaged in some form of athletics.
-      I entered and saw a daintily gowned woman with her back turned towards me.
-      She was all in white. Her waist was of the smallest. She had a mass of
-      honey-colored hair. She swung about at sound of my footstep.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, Kitty, of all people in the world! I didn&rsquo;t expect to find you
-      here.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As good as old times,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve often seen you pass the window,
-      but I thought you wouldn&rsquo;t want to know me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because of what happened.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Rapson?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She flushed and hung her head. I wondered if she meant what I thought she
-      meant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I hated to see her sad; she looked so young and pretty. I began to ask her
-      what she was doing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Doing! Minding shop, remembering, growing old, and earning my living.
-      It&rsquo;s just horrid to be here, Dante. I have to watch you &rsquo;Varsity men
-      having a good time&mdash;and once I belonged to your set. And they come in
-      and stare at me, and pay me silly compliments&mdash;and I have to smile
-      and pretend I like it. That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;m paid for. They don&rsquo;t know how I
-      hate them. When they have their sweethearts and sisters up, they walk past
-      me as though they never knew me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But are they all like that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She smiled, and I knew she loved him. When she spoke her voice trembled.
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s one of them is different.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kitty, he&rsquo;s the one I came to talk about.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With instinctive foreknowledge of the purpose of my errand, her face
-      became tragic. &ldquo;His father&rsquo;s in India,&rdquo; I explained. &ldquo;From what I hear of
-      him he&rsquo;s very proud. If the Bantam made a marriage that could in any way
-      be regarded as imprudent, he&rsquo;d cut him off. He&rsquo;d be ruined. You know how
-      it would be; the world would turn its back on him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What do we care about the world?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The world&rsquo;s a coward.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was wonderful how coldly practical I could become in dealing with
-      another man&rsquo;s heart affairs&mdash;I, who spent my time dreaming of the
-      most extraordinarily unconventional marriages.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The world may be a coward, Kitty, but you have to live in it. Besides,
-      are you sure that the Bantam really cares for you? Have you told him
-      everything?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stared into my eyes across the counter with frightened fascination. I
-      knew that I was acting like a brute and I despised myself. I had hardly
-      meant to ask her the last question&mdash;it had slipped out. While we
-      gazed at one another there drifted through my memory all the scenes of
-      that day at Richmond&mdash;the gaiety of it, and the hunger with which she
-      had clutched me to her as we punted back in the dark. I understood what
-      this little bit of love must mean to her after her experience of
-      disillusion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I have not told him. I daren&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;m afraid to lose him. Oh, Dante,
-      don&rsquo;t tell him; it&rsquo;s my one last chance to be good.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve got to tell him, Kitty. If his love&rsquo;s worth anything, he&rsquo;ll
-      forgive you. He&rsquo;d be sure to find out after marriage.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care about marriage,&rdquo; she whispered desperately.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Even then, you ought to tell him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A customer came into the shop. We tumbled from our height of emotion. It
-      was another example of how reality makes all things prosaic. She had to
-      compose herself, and go and serve him. He had come to admire her and
-      showed a tendency to dawdle. His purchase was the excuse for his presence.
-      I had an opportunity to watch her&mdash;how charmingly fresh she looked
-      and how girlish. And yet she was three years older than myself&mdash;that
-      seemed incredible. At last the customer went.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kitty, I feel I&rsquo;ve been a horrid beast to you&mdash;it&rsquo;s so often like
-      that when one speaks the truth. I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you. I want to see
-      you happy. I&rsquo;ll not interfere. You must do what you feel to be right about
-      it.&rdquo; And with that I left her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with training,
-      going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little of him. The
-      night before the races he came into my room. He looked brilliantly healthy&mdash;lean
-      and tanned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you alone?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can see I am. What&rsquo;s the trouble?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He sank into a chair and grinned at me. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all up. I&rsquo;ve been an awful
-      ass.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wrote two letters; one to the widow at Torquay and the other to the
-      actress. They were nice friendly letters, but far too personal. I put &rsquo;em
-      in the wrong envelopes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And they&rsquo;ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your
-      infidelity. Poor old Bantam!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They haven&rsquo;t. They&rsquo;re keeping them as proof. They&rsquo;ve both struck out the
-      same line of action and talk about a breach of promise suit. They&rsquo;re both
-      coming to see me to-morrow, and they&rsquo;re sure to meet. There&rsquo;ll be a gay
-      old row, and I shall get kicked out of Lazarus.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I whistled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You may well whistle,&rdquo; he said, ridiculously puckering his mouth; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a
-      serious affair. Here have I been trying to be decent to two women, and
-      they&rsquo;re going to try to make me out a kind of letter-writing Bluebeard. I
-      know quite well I&rsquo;ve written silly things to them that could be construed
-      in a horribly damaging manner. I only meant to be cheery, you know, but I
-      see now that there&rsquo;ve been times when I&rsquo;ve crossed the boundary of mere
-      friendship. They can both make a case against me I suspect and so can all
-      the other girls. Once the thing leaks into the papers, they&rsquo;ll all swoop
-      down like a lot of vultures to see what they can get.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What are you going to do about it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can run away to-night without leaving any address. That would leave the
-      crew in the lurch; we&rsquo;d get bumped every night on the river&mdash;so I
-      can&rsquo;t do that. I can stop and face it out&mdash;let my pater in for all
-      kinds of expense in the way of damages, and get sent down. Or I can marry
-      one of &rsquo;em, and so shut all the others&rsquo; mouths. It isn&rsquo;t money
-      they&rsquo;re wanting&mdash;it&rsquo;s me as a husband. Isn&rsquo;t it a gay old world?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and thrust out his legs.
-      He didn&rsquo;t seem adequately desperate&mdash;in fact he gave the impression
-      of being glad this thing had happened. I was puzzling over what I ought to
-      say to him, when it occurred to me that I hadn&rsquo;t offered any expression of
-      sympathy; I told him I was awfully sorry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Needn&rsquo;t be. You see, there&rsquo;s only one girl I greatly care about, and
-      she&rsquo;s just all the world. She had a mishap some years back with a cad&mdash;she
-      only told me a month ago, and because of it she refused to marry me. She&rsquo;s
-      got it into her head that I&rsquo;m too good for her. Well, now I can prove to
-      her that it&rsquo;s the other way about.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Bantam ruffled his hair. He spoke with genuine feeling; this was quite
-      different from any of his former confessions. He moistened his lips
-      nervously, and turned away his eyes from me. &ldquo;There are some girls,&rdquo; he
-      said, &ldquo;who never need to be forgiven. Whatever they&rsquo;ve done and whatever
-      they&rsquo;re doing, doesn&rsquo;t matter. They seem always too pure for us men.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I leant forward and took his hand. I felt proud of him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stand by
-      you, old chap. How can I help?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;By being awfully decent to these two women to-morrow. Take &rsquo;em out
-      on the river and keep &rsquo;em quiet. Drug &rsquo;em with flattery.
-      They&rsquo;re both of them immensely good-looking. P&rsquo;raps if you treat &rsquo;em
-      well, they&rsquo;ll be ashamed to make a row. Then, when Eights&rsquo; Week is over
-      and the crew doesn&rsquo;t want me any longer, I&rsquo;ll slip up to London, and
-      establish a residence, and get married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As he was going out of the room I called him back. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the name of the
-      girl you&rsquo;re going to marry?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kitty,&rdquo; he whispered below his breath, as though it were a word too
-      sacred to mention.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The widow from Torquay arrived next morning; so did the actress from
-      Putney. I let each one suppose that the other was my near relative, and
-      never left them for a moment together, lest they should discover their
-      error. I gave them separately to understand that their troubles would be
-      satisfactorily settled. I made much of the rigors of training, which
-      compelled the Bantam to absent himself. They didn&rsquo;t meet him until after
-      they had seen him racing, by which time he had become a kind of hero to
-      them. I saw them safely off at the station by different trains&mdash;so
-      the crash was averted. When Eights&rsquo; Week was ended the Bantam vanished,
-      without explanation to the college. A month later I attended his wedding.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Kitty had asked permission to invite one guest&mdash;she wouldn&rsquo;t tell us
-      his name. When we three had assembled in the little Church of Old St.
-      Mary&rsquo;s, Stoke Newington, who should come fussing up the aisle but my
-      uncle, the Spuffler. He wore a frayed frock-coat; the end of his
-      handkerchief was hanging out of his tail-pocket, as usual.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All through the service he gave himself such important airs that the
-      clergyman took it for granted that the bride was his daughter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We jumped into a couple of hansoms and drove down to Verrey&rsquo;s to lunch.
-      The Bantam said he knew he couldn&rsquo;t afford it, but he was determined to
-      have one good meal before he busted. We had a private room set apart for
-      us. The Spuffler tasted the best champagne he had drunk since his fiasco.
-      It made him reflective. He kept on telling us that life was a switchback&mdash;an
-      affair of ups and downs. The Bantam cut him short by proposing a toast to
-      all the ladies he hadn&rsquo;t married. And I sat and stared at Kitty, with her
-      cornflower eyes and sky-blue dress, and wondered where my eyes had been
-      that I hadn&rsquo;t married her myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We went to the Parks and took a boat on the Serpentine. It was there that
-      the Bantam let his bomb burst: he was sailing on the <i>Celtic</i>, via
-      New York, for Canada. He felt sure his father would disown him for having
-      spoilt his Oxford opportunities, so he was going to start life afresh in a
-      land where no one would remember.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the autumn, when I returned to Lazarus, I had an opportunity to judge
-      how the world treats breakers of convention. No one had a good word to say
-      for the Bantam. Everybody was eager to disclaim him as his friend&mdash;he
-      had married a shop-girl. Yet Halloway, who sinned cavalierly without
-      twinge of conscience or attempt at reparation, was spoken of, even by
-      persons who had never known him, with a kind of tolerant, admiring
-      affection. So much for what this taught me of social morality. Playing
-      safe, and not ethical right or wrong, was the standard of conventional
-      righteousness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Star-dust days were drawing to an end. The grim, inevitable facts of life
-      were looming larger and nearer. Romance was slowly giving way before
-      reality. It was the last year at Oxford for most of the men in my set.
-      Conversations began to take a practical turn, as to how a living might be
-      earned. For myself, I listened with a languid interest. These discussions
-      did not concern my future. I expected that my grandfather would continue
-      my allowance. I should not be forced to sell myself by doing uncongenial,
-      remunerative kinds of work. I should have time to mature. I wanted to make
-      a study of the Renaissance. About twenty years hence I should publish a
-      book; then I should be famous. Meanwhile I should collect my facts, and
-      probably enter Parliament as member for Ransby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was wonderful how bravely confident we were. We gazed into the future
-      without fear or tremor. We all knew that we were sure of success. Already
-      we were picking out the winners&mdash;the naturally great men, who would
-      arrive at the top of the tree with the first effort. It was a belief among
-      us that genius was nothing more than concentrated will-power. Then
-      something happened which startled me into a novel display of energy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ever since leaving the Red House, the Creature had written me once a week,
-      usually on a Sunday, with clockwork regularity. One Monday I went to the
-      porter&rsquo;s lodge for my mail and missed his letter. The following morning,
-      glancing down the paper, my eye was attracted by a headline which read,
-      TRAGIC DEATH OF A SCHOOLMASTER. The news-item announced the death of Mr.
-      Murdoch, science master of the Red House. It appeared that the boys had
-      gone down to the laboratory to attend the experimental chemistry class. On
-      opening the door they had been driven back by a powerful smell of gas, but
-      not before they had caught a glimpse of Mr. Murdoch fallen in a heap upon
-      the floor. When the room was entered it was quite evident that the death
-      was not accidental. Every burner in the room was full on, and the
-      ventilators were stopped with rags.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Some days later I received a legal letter informing me that the Creature
-      had left a will in my favor. His total estate amounted to three hundred
-      pounds. I was requested to call at the lawyer&rsquo;s office. I got leave of
-      absence from my college and went to London. There I learnt that at the
-      time that the will had been made, a little over five years ago, the value
-      of the estate had been a thousand pounds. Of this I had already received
-      over seven hundred, remitted to me by his lawyers from time to time
-      according to his instructions. He had originally saved the money in order
-      that he might provide for his sister in the event of his dying first. On
-      her death, he had executed the present will, making me his heir.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So Sir Charles Evrard was not the author of my prosperity! The
-      disappointment of the discovery robbed me for an instant of all sense of
-      gratitude. I felt almost angry with the Creature for having been the
-      innocent cause of all this building of air-castles. This was the second
-      time that fortune had led me on to expect, only to trick me when the
-      future seemed secure. The uncertainty of everything unnerved me. Life
-      seemed to pucker its brows and stare down at me with a frown. All the
-      money that had been spent on my education had taught me nothing
-      immediately useful&mdash;and now I had a living to earn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Luckily, just about this time, it was suggested to me that, after I had
-      taken my Finals, I should enter for some of the history fellowships in the
-      autumn. It was expected that I would gain an easy First; if I did that, I
-      had a fair chance of winning a fellowship at my own college.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now that my fool&rsquo;s paradise had melted into nothingness, I felt the spur
-      of necessity, and commenced to work strenuously. Gradually a higher motive
-      than the mere hope of reward began to actuate my energy. I wanted to be
-      what the Creature had hoped for me. Now that he was gone, he became very
-      near to me. He was always haunting my memory. He had robbed himself that
-      he might give me my chance. I felt humbled that I should have spent his
-      money with so free a hand, while he had been living in comparative
-      poverty. I could picture just how he looked that morning when the boys
-      burst into the laboratory. His hands were stained with chalk. His uncombed
-      hair fell back from his wrinkled forehead. He was wearing the same old
-      clothes&mdash;the tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers&mdash;that I knew
-      so well. Probably he looked both tired and dirty, and a little
-      disreputable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I reproached myself for the shortness of my letters to him. I saw now, in
-      the light of after events, how I might have been a strength to him. He had
-      given me everything; I had given him nothing. His fineness of feeling had
-      led him to prevent my gratitude. Never by the slightest hint had he left
-      me room to guess that I was beholden to him. And now he was beyond reach
-      of thanks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I recalled how I had teased him as a youngster, and had courted popularity
-      at his expense. When I was most angry against myself, I would drift back
-      into the class-room where the boys were baiting him, and would hear him
-      making his peace-offering, &ldquo;Penthil, Cardover? Penthil, Buzzard? Want a
-      penthil?&rdquo; And then, in spite of indignation, I had to laugh.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Finals came on I won my First and in the autumn gained a history
-      fellowship at Lazarus. It was worth two hundred pounds a year. It allowed
-      me ample time to travel and was tenable for seven years, on the condition
-      that I did not marry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      BOOK III&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      <i>And behind them a flame burneth: and the land is as the garden of Eden
-      before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER I&mdash;I MEET HER
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was June and
-      wind was in the tree-tops. All the world was rustling and birds were
-      calling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the past seven months, since the winning of my fellowship, I had been
-      over-working and making myself brain-sick with thought. I was
-      twenty-three, and had arrived at &ldquo;the broken-toy age&rdquo; when a young man,
-      having pulled this plaything of a universe to pieces, begins to doubt his
-      own omniscience&mdash;his capacity to put it together. The more I sought
-      help from philosophies, the more I came to see that they were all
-      imperfect. No one had yet evolved a theory which had not at some point to
-      be bridged by faith&mdash;that beautiful optimism which is nothing less
-      than the hearsay of the heart. I was all for logic these days.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So, when I heard the June wind laughing in the trees, I tossed my books
-      aside. I left my doubts all disorderly upon the shelves to grow dusty, and
-      ran away. I would seek for the garden without walls. Having failed to find
-      it in libraries, I would search for it through the open country. I had
-      only two certainties to guide me&mdash;that I was young, and that the
-      world was growing lovelier every day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I came down to quaint little Ransby, perched high and red above the old
-      sea-wall. Life was taken so much for granted there. No one inquired into
-      its why or wherefore. Everything that happened was accepted with a quiet
-      stoicism, as &ldquo;sent from God.&rdquo; When the waves rumbled on the shore, they
-      said the sea was talking to itself. When a crew sailed out and never
-      returned, they said &ldquo;God took them.&rdquo; When times were bad, they looked back
-      and remembered how times were worse before. No one ever really died there,
-      for in the small interests of a quiet community nothing was forgotten&mdash;all
-      the characteristic differences and shades of personality were treasured in
-      memory, and so the dead lived on. Life for them was an affair of
-      compensations. &ldquo;If there weren&rsquo;t no partin&rsquo;s, there&rsquo;d be no meetin&rsquo;s,&rdquo; my
-      grandmother used to say. And death was explained after the same simple
-      fashion. Every pious Ransbyite believed that heaven would be another
-      Ransby, with no more storms and an empty churchyard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I traveled down from London by an afternoon train. Shortly after six we
-      struck the Broads, or inland waterways, which now narrow into rivers, now
-      widen into lakes, flowing sluggishly through fat marshes to the sea. On
-      the left hand as we flashed by, one caught glimpses of the spread arms of
-      windmills slowly turning, pumping meadows dry, or jutting above gray
-      sedges the ochre-colored sails of wherries plodding like cart-horses from
-      Ransby up to Norwich. Startled by the clamor of our passage, a lonely
-      heron would spring up and float indignantly away into the distant quiet.
-      Now we would come to a field of wheat faintly yellowing in the summer
-      sunshine. Between green-gold stalks would flash the scarlet of the Suffolk
-      poppy. Across the desecrated silence we hurled the grime and commotion of
-      cities, leaving an ugly blur of gradually thinning smoke behind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The evening glow was beginning. Picked out in gold, windows of thatched
-      cottages and steeples of sleeping hamlets burnt for an instant splendid in
-      the landscape. A child, warned of our approach, clambered on a stile, and
-      waved; laborers, plodding homeward with scythes across their shoulders,
-      halted to watch us go by. We burst as a disturbing element into the midst
-      of these rustic lives; in our sullen hurry, they had hardly noticed us
-      before we had vanished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With the country fragrance of newly-mown hay there began to mingle the tar
-      and salt of a seaport. We swayed across the tresseled bridge, where the
-      Broads met the harbor. Ozone, smell of fish and sea-weed assailed our
-      nostrils. Houses grew up about us. Blunt red chimneys, like misshapen
-      thumbs, jabbed the blue of the horizon; above them tall masts of ships
-      speared the sky. With rush and roar we invaded the ancient town, defiling
-      its Dutch appearance of neatness, and affronting with our gadabout swagger
-      its peaceful sense of home-abiding. We came to a standstill in the
-      station; all was clatter and excitement.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The visitors&rsquo; season was just commencing. The platform was crowded with
-      Londoners greeting one another. Drawn up on the other side of the
-      platform, parallel with the train, was a line of cabbies, most of whom
-      were standing up in their seats, shouting and gesticulating. They had a
-      touch of the sea about them&mdash;a weatherbeaten look of jolliness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I got out, my eye was attracted to a little girl who was climbing down
-      from a neighboring compartment. She was unlike any English child&mdash;she
-      lacked the sturdy robustness. My attention was caught by the dainty
-      faeriness of her appearance. She wore a foamy white muslin dress, cut very
-      short, with spreading flounces of lace about it. It was caught up here and
-      there with pink baby-bows of ribbon. Her delicate arms were bare from the
-      elbow. She was small-boned and slender. Her skirt scarcely reached to her
-      knees, so that nearly half her tiny height seemed to consist of legs. She
-      had the slightness and moved with the grace of a child-dancer escaped from
-      a ballet. But what completed her baby perfection was the profusion of
-      flaxen curls, which streamed down from her shoulders to her waist. She saw
-      me looking at her and laughed up with roguish frankness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Having secured my luggage, I was pushing my way out of the station through
-      the long line of visitors and porters, when I saw the child standing
-      bewildered by herself. In the crowd she had become separated from whoever
-      was taking care of her. I spoke to her, but she was crying too bitterly to
-      answer. Setting down my bags, I tried to comfort her, saying that I would
-      stay with her till she was found. Suddenly her face lit up and she darted
-      from my side. I had a hurried vision of a lady pushing her way towards
-      her. While she was stooping to take the little girl in her arms, I made
-      off as quickly as I was able. Like my father, I detested a scene, and had
-      a morbid horror of being thanked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How good it was to smell the salt of the sea again. I passed up the harbor
-      where the fishing-fleet lay moored against the quay-side, and sailormen,
-      with hands deep in trouser-flaps, leant against whatever came handiest,
-      pulling meditatively at short clay pipes. The business of the day was
-      over. Folk were tenacious of their leisure in Ransby; they had a knack,
-      peculiarly their own, of filling the evening with an undercurrent sense of
-      gaiety. Though townsmen, they were villagers at heart. When work was done,
-      they polished themselves up and sat outside their houses or came into the
-      streets to exchange the news of the day. I turned from the harbor and
-      passed down the snug quiet street in which stood the house with CARDOVER
-      painted above the doorway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I approached, the bake-house boy was putting the last shutter into
-      place against the window. I entered the darkened shop on tiptoe, picking
-      my way through anchors, sacks of ships&rsquo; biscuit, and coils of rope, till I
-      could peer through the glass-panel of the door into the keeping-room. I
-      loved to surprise the little old lady with the gray corkscrew curls and
-      rosy cheeks, so that for once she might appear undignified. But, as I
-      peered through, I met her eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, Dante, my boy,&rdquo; she cried, reaching up to put her arms round me,
-      &ldquo;how you have grown!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was always a boy to her; she would never let herself think that I had
-      ceased to grow, for then I should have ceased to be a child.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We sat down to a typically Ransby meal, which they call high-tea. There
-      were Ransby shrimps and Ransby bloaters on the table; everything was of
-      local flavor, and most of it was home-made. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t get things like
-      them in Lun&rsquo;non,&rdquo; Grandmother Cardover said, falling back into her Suffolk
-      dialect.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night we talked of Sir Charles Evrard. Rumor proclaimed that Lord
-      Halloway had finally ruined his chances in that direction by his latest
-      escapade. It concerned a pretty housemaid at Woadley Hall, and the affair
-      had actually been carried on under Sir Charles&rsquo;s very nose, as one might
-      say. The girl was the daughter of a gamekeeper on the estate and&mdash;&mdash;!
-      Well there, my Grannie might as well tell me everything!&mdash;there was
-      going to be a baby. All that was known for certain was that Mr. Thomas,
-      the gamekeeper&mdash;a &rsquo;ighly respectable man, my dear&mdash;had gone up
-      to the Hall with a whip in his hand and had asked to see Master Denny. The
-      old Squire, hearing him at the door, had gone out to give him some
-      instructions about the pheasantry. Mr. Thomas had given him a piece of his
-      mind. And Sir Charles, having more than he could conveniently do with, had
-      made a present to Denny Halloway of a bit of his mind. After which Master
-      Denny had left hurriedly for parts unknown. It was said that he had
-      returned to Oxford, to read for Holy Orders as a sort of atonement. It was
-      my grandmother&rsquo;s opinion that the marriage-service wasn&rsquo;t much in his
-      line.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So we rambled on, and the underlying hint of it all was that I had come to
-      Ransby in the nick of time to make hay while the sun was shining.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Grannie, you&rsquo;ll never get me worked up over that again,&rdquo; I told her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well but, if his Lordship don&rsquo;t inherit, who&rsquo;s goin&rsquo; to?&rdquo; she persisted.
-      &ldquo;I tell you, Dante, he&rsquo;s got to make you his heir&mdash;he can&rsquo;t help it.
-      The whole town&rsquo;s talking about it. Sir Evrard&rsquo;s bailiff hisself was in
-      here to-day and I says to him, &lsquo;Mr. Mobbs, who&rsquo;s going to be master now at
-      Woadley Hall when the dear old Squire dies?&rsquo; And he answers me
-      respectful-like, &lsquo;It don&rsquo;t do to be previous about such matters, Mrs.
-      Cardover; but if you and me was to speak out our minds, I daresay we
-      should guess the same.&rsquo; &lsquo;Is Sir Charles as wild with Lord Halloway as
-      folks do say?&rsquo; I asks him. Like a prudent man he wouldn&rsquo;t commit hisself
-      to words; but he throws up his hands and rolls his eyes. Now what d&rsquo;you
-      think of that? If you knew Mobbs as I know him, you&rsquo;d see it was a sign
-      which way the wind is blowing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was trying to think otherwise. I had banished this expectation from my
-      mind and wasn&rsquo;t anxious to court another disappointment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it happens that way, it will happen that way,&rdquo; said I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But my grandmother wasn&rsquo;t in favor of such indifferent fatalism. She loved
-      to picture me in possession of Woadley. She commenced to describe to me
-      all its farmlands and broad acres. She spoke so much as if they were
-      already mine that at last I began to dream again. So we rambled on until
-      at five minutes to midnight the grandfather clock cleared its throat,
-      getting ready to strike.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lawks-a-daisy me,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s that clock crocking for
-      twelve! How you do get your poor old Grannie on talking!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We lit our candles and climbed the narrow stairs to bed. Outside my
-      bedroom-door she halted. I wondered what else she had to tell me. Holding
-      her candle high, so that its light fell down upon her laughing face, she
-      made me a mocking courtesy, saying, &ldquo;Good-night, Sir Dante Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning I was up early. As I dressed I could smell the bread being
-      carried steaming out of the bakehouse. Looking out of my window into the
-      red-brick courtyard I could see men&rsquo;s figures, white with flour-dust,
-      going to and fro. The morning was clear and sparkling, as though washed
-      clean by rain. The sun was dazzling and the wind was blowing. From the
-      harbor came the creaking of sails being hoisted, and the cheery bustle of
-      vessels getting under way. Of all places this was home. My spirits rose. I
-      laughed, remembering the cobwebs of theories which had tangled up my
-      brain. Nothing seemed to matter here, save the wholesome fact of being
-      alive.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After breakfast I stepped out into the street and wandered up toward the
-      harbor. The townsmen knew me and greeted me as I went by. I caught them
-      looking after me with a new curiosity in their gaze. I began to wonder
-      whether I had made some absurd mistake in my dressing. I grew
-      uncomfortable and had an insane desire to see what kind of a spectacle my
-      back presented. I tried to use shop-windows as mirrors, twisting my neck
-      to catch glimpses of myself. Then there occurred to me what my grandmother
-      had said to me on the previous night. So it <i>was</i> true, and all the
-      town was talking about me!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I approached the chemist shop at the top of the road, Fenwick, the
-      chemist, was sunning himself in the doorway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Cardover!&rdquo; he exclaimed, stepping out on to the pavement and
-      seizing my hand with unaccustomed effusiveness. Then, lowering his voice,
-      &ldquo;Suppose you&rsquo;ve heard about Lord Halloway?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I nodded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s lucky to be you,&rdquo; he added knowingly. &ldquo;But, there, I always did tell
-      your Grannie that luck would turn your way.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I passed on through the sunshine in a wild elation. What if it were true
-      this time? I asked myself. What if it were really true?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ransby is built like a bent arm, jutting out into the sea, following the
-      line of the coast. At the extreme point of the elbow, where I was now
-      standing, is the wooden pier, on which the visitors parade. Running from
-      the elbow to the shoulder is the sheltered south beach and the esplanade,
-      given up to visitors and boarding-houses. These terminate in the distance
-      in a steep headland, on which stands the little village of Pakewold. On
-      the other side of the pier is the harbor, entering or departing out of
-      which fishing vessels and merchantmen may be seen almost any hour of the
-      day. From the elbow to the finger tips, running northward, is the bleak
-      north beach, gnawed at by the sea and bullied by every wind that blows.
-      Here it is that most of the wrecks take place. The older portion of the
-      town, climbing northward from the harbor, overhangs it, scarred and
-      weather-beaten. Where the town ends, seven miles of crumbling gorse-grown
-      cliff continue the barricade.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Separating the town from the north beach, stretch the denes&mdash;a broad
-      strip of grassy sand, on which fishing-nets are dried. Parallel with the
-      denes is the gray sea-wall; and beyond the wall a shingle beach, low-lying
-      and defended at intervals by breakwaters. Here the waves are continually
-      attacking: on the calmest day there is anger in their moan. From far away
-      one can hear the scream of pebbles dragged down as the waves recede, the
-      long sigh which follows the weariness of defeat, and the loud thunder as
-      the water hurls itself in a renewed attack along the coast. On the denes
-      stands a lighthouse, warning vessels not to come too close; for, when the
-      east wind lashes itself into a fury, the sea leaps the wall and pours
-      across the denes to the foot of the town, like an invading host. A vessel
-      caught in the tide-race at such a time, is flung far inland and left there
-      stranded when the waves have gone back to their place. Facing the denes,
-      lying several miles out in the German Ocean, are a line of sand-banks;
-      between them and the shore is a channel, known as the Ransby Roads, which
-      affords safe anchorage to vessels. Beyond the Roads and out of sight, lies
-      the coast of Holland.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned my steps to the northward, passing through the harbor where
-      groups of ear-ringed fisher-folk were unloading smacks, encouraging one
-      another with hoarse, barbaric cries. I stopped now and then to listen to
-      the musical sing-song conversation of East Anglia, so neighborly and so
-      kindly. Here and there mounds of silver herring gleamed in the morning
-      sunshine. The constant sound of ropes tip-tapping as the breeze stirred
-      them, sails flapping and water washing against wooden piles, filled the
-      air with the energy and adventure of sturdy life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The exultation of living whipped the wildness in my veins. As I left the
-      harbor, striking out across the denes, I caught the sound of breakers&mdash;the
-      long, low rumble of revolt. Girls were at work, their hair tumbled, their
-      skirts blown about, catching up nets spread out on the grass beneath their
-      feet and mending the holes. Some of them were singing, some of them were
-      laughing, some of them were silent, dreaming, perhaps, of sailor-lovers
-      who were far away.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I advanced, I left all human sounds behind. The red town, piled high on
-      the cliff, grew dwarfed in the distance. I entered into a world of nature
-      and loneliness. Larks sprang from under my feet and rose into the air
-      caroling. Overhead the besom of the wind was busy, sweeping the sky. From
-      cliffs came the shy, old-fashioned fragrance of wall-flowers nestling in
-      crannies. Yellow furze ran like a flame through the bracken. Far out from
-      shore waves leapt and flashed, clapping their hands in the maddening
-      sunshine. My cheeks were damp and my lips were salt with in-blown spray.
-      It was one of those mornings of exultation which come to us rarely and
-      only in youth, when the joy of the flesh is roused within us, we know not
-      why, and every nerve is set tingling with health&mdash;and the world, as
-      seen through our eyes, clothes itself afresh to symbolize the gay abandon
-      of our mood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The fluttering of something white, low down by the water&rsquo;s edge, caught my
-      attention. Out of sheer idleness I became curious. It was about a quarter
-      of a mile distant when I first had sight of it. Just behind it lay the
-      battered hull of an old wreck, masts shorn away and leaning over on its
-      side. A sea-gull wheeled above the prow, flew out to sea and returned
-      again, showing that it had been disturbed and was distressed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I approached, I discovered the white thing to be the stooping figure of
-      a child; by her hair I recognized her. Her skirts were kilted up about her
-      tiny waist and she was bare-legged. I could see no one with her, so I
-      waited till she should look up, lest I should frighten her. Then, &ldquo;Hulloa,
-      little &rsquo;un,&rdquo; I shouted. &ldquo;Going to let me come and play with you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spread apart her small legs, like an infant Napoleon, and brushed back
-      the curls from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion. She looked
-      even prettier and more faery than she had on the previous night.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, you ith the man what found me!&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She made such speed as she could across the pebbles to greet me. It was
-      hard going for her bare little feet. When she came opposite to me, she
-      halted with a solemn childish air of dignity. &ldquo;I want to fank you,&rdquo; she
-      said, &ldquo;and tho doth Vi.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stood gazing at me shyly. When I bent down to take her hand in mine,
-      she pursed her mouth, showing me what was expected.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I asked her what she was playing. She shook her curls, at a loss for
-      words. &ldquo;Jest thomething,&rdquo; she said, and invited me to come and join.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I took her in my arms to save her the rough return journey. She showed no
-      fear of me. Soon we were chatting on the lonely beach, firm friends, quite
-      gaily together. She showed me the channel she had scooped out, leading
-      into the miniature harbor. Every time the surf ran up the shore the harbor
-      filled with water. In the basin was a piece of wood, which floated when
-      the surf ran in, and stranded when it receded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; I asked her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s our thip.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the name of our ship?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I fordet&mdash;it&rsquo;s the big thip in what we came over.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s we?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, me and Vi.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We set to work to make the harbor wider, going on our knees side by side.
-      I thought of a fine plan&mdash;to start the ship at the beginning of the
-      channel, that so it might ride in on the in-rush of the water. The little
-      girl was delighted and leant over my shoulder, brushing my face with her
-      blown about hair, and clapping her hands as she watched the success of the
-      experiment. In the excitement of the game, we had forgotten about everyone
-      but our two selves, when we heard a voice calling, &ldquo;Dorrie, darling!
-      Dorrie, darling! Are you all right?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned round, but could see no one&mdash;only the lonely length of the
-      shore and the black wreck blistering in the wind and sunshine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yeth, I&rsquo;m all right,&rdquo; piped the little girl.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then she explained to me, &ldquo;That wath Vi.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And who are you?&rdquo; I asked her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For me the zest had gone out of the game. I kept turning my head, trying
-      to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice. It had sounded so lazy and
-      pleasant that I was anxious to see what Vi looked like; but then I was not
-      sure that my company would prove so welcome to a grownup as it had to
-      Dorrie. To run away would have looked foolish&mdash;as though there were
-      something of which to be ashamed; and then there was nowhere to run to in
-      that wide open space. Yet my intrusion was so unconventional that I did
-      not feel comfortable in staying.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A slim figure in a white sailor dress came out from the wreck. She had
-      been bathing, for she wore neither shoes nor stockings, and her hair was
-      hanging loose about her shoulders to dry. She started at sight of me, and
-      seemed, for a moment, to hesitate as to whether she should retire. I rose
-      from my knees, holding Dorrie&rsquo;s hand, and stood waiting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not help gazing at her; we looked straight into one another&rsquo;s
-      eyes. Hers were the color of violets, grave and loyal. They seemed to
-      stare right into my mind, reading all that I had thought and all that I
-      had desired. Her face was of the brilliant and transparent paleness that
-      goes with fair complexions sometimes. In contrast her lips were scarlet,
-      and her brows delicately but firmly penciled. Her features were softly
-      molded and regular, her figure upright and lithe. She appeared brimful of
-      energy, a good deal of which was probably nervous. And her hair was
-      glorious. It was flaxen like Dorrie&rsquo;s; the salt of the sea had given to it
-      a bronzy touch in the shadows. She was neither short nor tall, but
-      straight-limbed and superbly womanly. She possessed Dorrie&rsquo;s own fragile
-      daintiness. The likeness between them was extraordinary; I judged them at
-      once to be sisters. As for her age, she looked little more than twenty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She stood gazing down on me from the sullen wreck, with La Gioconda&rsquo;s
-      smile, incarnating all the purity of passion that I had ever dreamt should
-      be mine. &ldquo;Gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips,&rdquo; was the thought that
-      described her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie cut short our silence. Letting go my hand, she stumbled up the
-      beach, explaining the situation in her lisping way. &ldquo;Deareth, thith
-      gentleman hath been playing with me. He&rsquo;th the man what found me
-      yetherday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Noticing that neither of us uttered a word, she turned on me
-      reproachfully. &ldquo;I thought you wath kind,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Come thith minute,
-      and thpeak to Vi.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her air of baby imperiousness made us smile. That broke the ice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She placed her arm about Dorrie, hugging her against her side. As I came
-      up to the wreck, she held out her hand frankly. &ldquo;This is very
-      unconventional,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but things sometimes happen this way. I was so
-      sorry you wouldn&rsquo;t stop to let me thank you yesterday. I was hoping we
-      would meet again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It seemed quite natural to sit down beside this stranger. Usually in the
-      presence of women I was tongue-tied and had to rack my brains to think
-      what to say. When the opportunity to escape came, I always took it, and
-      spent the next hour in kicking myself for having behaved like a frightened
-      boy. On this occasion it was quite otherwise. Sprawled out in the shadow
-      of the wreck, gazing up into her girlish face while she cuddled Dorrie to
-      her, I found myself talking with a fearlessness and freedom which I was
-      not aware of at the time.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You were bathing?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shook out her hair. &ldquo;Looks like it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you shouldn&rsquo;t bathe here, you know. It&rsquo;s dangerous. The south beach
-      is the proper place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m rather a good swimmer. I&rsquo;m not afraid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter. You oughtn&rsquo;t to do it. You might get drowned. I&rsquo;m
-      awfully serious. I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She seemed amused at my concern for her. Yet I knew she liked it. Her eyes
-      were saying to me, &ldquo;Oh, you nice, funny boy! You&rsquo;ve known me less than an
-      hour. If I were to drown, what difference would it make to you?&rdquo; She
-      looked down at Dorrie. &ldquo;If Vi were to go out there, and sink beneath a
-      wave, and never come back again, would Dorrie mind?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Dorrie; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be thtupid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We talked about a good many things that morning as the wind blew, and the
-      waves broke, and the sun climbed higher. I wanted to find out who she was,
-      so that I might make certain of meeting her again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you live in Ransby?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No. We only arrived yesterday. I never was in England till a week ago.
-      We&rsquo;ve been traveling on the Continent. I wanted a place in which to be
-      quiet. I heard someone in the hotel at which we stayed in London talking
-      about Ransby. They said it was old-world and bracing&mdash;that was why I
-      came.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never been out of England in my life,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to break
-      loose some time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where would you go?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When we began to talk of foreign countries, she amazed me with her
-      knowledge. She seemed to have been in every country of Europe except
-      Russia. Last winter, she told me, she had spent in Rome and the spring in
-      Paris. She always spoke as if she had been unaccompanied, except for
-      Dorrie. It struck me as strange that so young and beautiful a woman should
-      have traveled so widely without an escort or chaperon of any kind. I was
-      striving to place her. She spoke excellent English, and yet I was certain
-      she was not an Englishwoman. For one thing, her manner in conversation
-      with a man was too spontaneous and free from embarrassment. She had none
-      of that fear of talking about herself which hampers the women of our
-      nation; nor did she seek to flatter me and to hold my attention by an
-      insincere interest in my own past history. She had an air of
-      self-possession and self-poise which permitted her to make herself
-      accessible. I longed to ask her to tell me more about herself, but I did
-      not dare. We skimmed the surface of things, evading one another&rsquo;s
-      inquisitiveness with veiled allusions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The child looked up. &ldquo;Dorrie&rsquo;s hungry,&rdquo; she said plaintively. .
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Pulling out my watch I discovered that it was long past twelve. Making the
-      greatest haste, I could not get back to my grandmother&rsquo;s till lunch was
-      over.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t go unless you want,&rdquo; said Vi. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve enough for the three of
-      us. It was Dorrie and I who delayed you; so we ought to entertain you.
-      That&rsquo;s only fair.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie wriggled her toes and clambered over me, insisting that I accept
-      the invitation. And so I stayed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They disappeared for ten minutes inside the wreck; when they came out they
-      had completed their dressing. Vi had piled her hair into a gold wreath
-      about her head. She was still hatless, but her feet were decorously
-      stockinged and shod in a shiny pair of high-heeled slippers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the meal was ended, I had told myself, I ought to take my departure;
-      but Dorrie gave me an excuse for stopping. She curled herself up in my
-      arms, saying she was &ldquo;tho thleepy.&rdquo; I could not rise without waking her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the child no longer kept guard between us, we began to grow
-      self-conscious. In the silences which broke up our whispered conversation,
-      we took slow glances at one another and, when we caught one another&rsquo;s
-      eyes, looked away sharply. I thought of the miracle of what had happened,
-      and wondered if the same thought occupied her mind. Here were she and I,
-      who that morning had been nothing to one another; by this afternoon every
-      other interest had become dwarfed beside her. I knew nothing of her. Most
-      of the words which we had interchanged had been quite ordinary. Yet she
-      had revealed to me a new horizon; she had made me aware of an unsuspected
-      intensity of manhood, which gave to the whole of life a richer tone and
-      more poignant value.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She took her eyes from the sea and looked down at Dorrie. &ldquo;You hold her
-      very tenderly. You are fond of children.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose I am; but I didn&rsquo;t know it until I met your little sister.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A warm tide of color spread over her pale face and throat. She leant over
-      me and kissed Dorrie. When the child opened her eyes she said, &ldquo;Come,
-      darling, it&rsquo;s nearly time for tea. We must be going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I helped her to gather up her things, taking all the time I could in the
-      hope that she would ask me to accompany her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She offered me her hand, saying, &ldquo;Perhaps we shall meet again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I hope so. Ransby is such a little place.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, but our movements are so uncertain. I don&rsquo;t know how long we may be
-      staying.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;At any rate we&rsquo;ve had a good time to-day.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. You have been very kind. I&rsquo;m sure Dorrie will remember you.
-      Good-by.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I watched them grow smaller across the sands, till they entered into the
-      shadow of the cliff. I had a mad impulse to pursue them&mdash;to follow
-      them at a distance and find out where they lived. How did I know that they
-      had not vanished forever out of my life? I called myself a fool for not
-      having seized my opportunities, however precipitately, while they were
-      mine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The wreck looked desolate now; all the romance had departed from it. The
-      long emptiness of the shore filled me with loneliness. As I walked
-      homeward, I strove to memorize her every tone and gesture. Their memory
-      might be all that I should ever have of her. I was mortally afraid that we
-      should never meet again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER II&mdash;I MEET HER AGAIN
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I
-      walked along the north beach in the hope that I might catch sight of her.
-      I was sure that she had shared my quickening of passion; it was because
-      she had felt it and been frightened by it, that she had wakened Dorrie and
-      hurried so abruptly away. I was sufficiently vain to assure myself that
-      only the timidity of love could account for the sudden scurry of her
-      flight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With incredible short-sightedness, I had allowed them to leave me without
-      ascertaining their surname. My only clue, whereby I might trace them, was
-      the abbreviated forms of their Christian names. Dorrie probably stood for
-      Dorothy or Dorothea; Vi for Vivian or Violet. Directly after breakfast I
-      had studied the visitors&rsquo; list in <i>The Ransby Chronicle</i>, hoping to
-      come across these two Christian names in combination with the same
-      surname. My search had been unrewarded, for only the initials of Christian
-      names were printed and the V&rsquo;s and the D&rsquo;s were bewilderingly plentiful.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On approaching the wreck I became oppressed with a nervous sense of the
-      proprieties. I was ashamed of intruding myself again. If she were there,
-      how should I excuse my coming? That attraction to her was my only motive
-      would be all too plain. I had at my disposal none of the social cloaks of
-      common interests and common acquaintance, which serve as a rule to
-      disguise the primitive fact of a man&rsquo;s liking for a woman. The hypocrisy
-      of pretending that a second meeting in the same place was accidental would
-      be evident.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I got there my fears proved groundless; nervousness was followed by
-      disappointment. The shore was deserted. I called Dorrie&rsquo;s name to make my
-      presence known; no answer came. Having reconnoitered the wreck from the
-      outside, I entered through a hole in the prow where the beams had burst
-      asunder. Then I knew that Vi had been there that morning. The surface of
-      the sand which had drifted in had been disturbed. It was still wet in
-      places from her bathing and bore the imprint of her footsteps, with
-      smaller ones running beside them which were Dorrie&rsquo;s. I must have missed
-      them by less than a hour.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning back to Ransby, I determined to spend the rest of the day in
-      searching. Surely she must be conscious of my yearning&mdash;sooner or
-      later, even against her inclination, it would draw her to me. Even now,
-      somewhere in the pyramided streets and alleys of the red-roofed
-      fishing-town, her steps were moving slower and her face was looking back;
-      presently she would turn and come towards me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All that morning I wandered up and down the narrow streets, agitated by
-      unreasonable hopes and fears. Ransby has one main thoroughfare: from
-      Pakewold to the harbor it is known as the London Road; from the harbor to
-      the upper lighthouse on the cliff it is known as the High Street. Leading
-      off from the High Street precipitously to the denes are winding lanes of
-      many steps, which are paved with flints; they are rarely more than five
-      feet wide and run down steeply between gardens of houses. They make Ransby
-      an easy place in which to hide. As I zigzagged to and fro between the
-      denes and the High Street by these narrow passages, I was tormented with
-      the thought that she might be crossing my path, time and again, without my
-      knowing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At lunch my grandmother inquired whether I had been to Woadley Hall. She
-      had noticed how preoccupied I had been since my arrival, and attributed it
-      to over-anxiety concerning my prospects with Sir Charles.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The best thing you can do, my dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;is to go along out there
-      this afternoon. I&rsquo;m not at all sure that you oughtn&rsquo;t to make yourself
-      known at the Hall. At any rate, you&rsquo;ve only got to meet Sir Charles and
-      he&rsquo;d know you directly. There&rsquo;s not an ounce of Cardover in you; you&rsquo;ve
-      got your mother&rsquo;s face.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Falling in love is like committing crime; it tends to make you secretive.
-      You will practise unusual deceptions and put yourself to all kinds of
-      ridiculous inconvenience to keep the sweet and shameful fact, that a woman
-      has attracted you, from becoming known. My grandmother had set her heart
-      on my going to Woadley. There was no apparent reason why I shouldn&rsquo;t go.
-      It would be much easier to make the journey, than to have to concoct some
-      silly excuse for not having gone. So, with great reluctance, I set out,
-      having determined to get there and back with every haste, so that I might
-      have time to resume my search for Vi before nightfall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had been walking upwards of an hour and was descending a curving country
-      lane, when I heard the smart trotting of a horse behind. The banks rose
-      steeply on either side. The road was narrow and dusty. I clambered up the
-      bank to the right among wild flowers to let the conveyance go by. It
-      proved to be a two-wheeled governess-car, such as ply for hire by the
-      Ransby Esplanade. In it were sitting Dorrie and Vi. Vi had her back
-      towards me but, as they were passing, Dorrie caught sight of me. She
-      commenced to shout and wave, crying, &ldquo;There he ith. There he ith.&rdquo; They
-      were going too fast on the downgrade to draw up quickly, and so vanished
-      round a bend. Then I heard that they had halted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I came up with the conveyance, Dorrie reached out her arms impulsively
-      and hugged me. She was all excitement. Before anything could be said, she
-      began to scold me. &ldquo;Naughty man. I wanted you to play thips with me thith
-      morning, like you did yetherday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was looking across the child&rsquo;s shoulder at Vi. Her color had risen. I
-      could swear that beneath her gentle attitude of complete control her heart
-      was beating wildly. Her eyes told a tale. They had a startled, frightened,
-      glad expression, and were extremely bright.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should have liked to play with you, little girl,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;but I didn&rsquo;t
-      know where you were staying. I looked for you this morning, but couldn&rsquo;t
-      find you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dorrie seems to think that you belong to her,&rdquo; said Vi, in her laughing
-      voice. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a little bit spoilt, you know. If she wants anything, she
-      wants it badly. She can&rsquo;t wait. So, when we didn&rsquo;t run across you, she
-      began to worry herself sick. If we hadn&rsquo;t found you, I expect there&rsquo;d have
-      been an advertisement in to-morrow&rsquo;s paper for the young man who played
-      ships with a little girl on the north beach.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t go away again,&rdquo; coaxed Dorrie, patting my face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are you walking?&rdquo; asked Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To Woadley.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s where we&rsquo;re going, so if you don&rsquo;t mind the squeeze, you&rsquo;d better
-      get in and ride.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A governess-car is made to seat four, but they have to be people of
-      reasonable size. The driver&rsquo;s size was not reasonable. Good Ransby ale and
-      a sedentary mode of life had swelled him out breadthwise, so that there
-      was no room left on his side of the carriage except for a child;
-      consequently I took my seat by Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The driver thought he knew me, but was still a little doubtful in his
-      mind. With honest, Suffolk downrightness, he immediately commenced to ask
-      questions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You bain&rsquo;t a Ransby man, be you, sir?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a half-and-half.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thought I couldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;a&rsquo; been mistooken. I&rsquo;ve lived in Ransby man
-      and boy, and I never forgets a face. Which &rsquo;alf of you might be
-      Ransby?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Ransby all through on my parents&rsquo; side, but I&rsquo;ve lived away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, you bain&rsquo;t Mr. Cardover, be you&mdash;gran&rsquo;son to old Sir Charles?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve guessed right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I never! And to think that you should be goin&rsquo; to Woadley! Why, I
-      knew your Ma well, Mr. Cardover; The gay Miss Fannie Evrard, we called &rsquo;er.
-      Meanin&rsquo; no disrespec&rsquo; to you, sir, I was groom to Miss Fannie all them
-      years ago, before she run away with your father. She were as nice and kind
-      a mistress as ever a man might &rsquo;ope to find. It&rsquo;s proud I am to
-      meet you this day.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As we bowled along through the leafy country, all shadows and sunshine, he
-      fell to telling me about my mother, and I was glad to listen to what he
-      had to say. The story had been told often before. By his inside knowledge
-      of the elopement, he had acquired that kind of local importance which
-      money cannot buy. It had provided him with the one gleam of lawless
-      romance that had kindled up the whole of his otherwise dull life.
-      According to his account, the marriage would never have come off, unless
-      he had connived at the courting. My mother, he said, took him into her
-      confidence, and he was the messenger between her and my father. He would
-      let my father know in which direction they intended to ride. When they
-      came to the place of trysting, he would drop behind and my mother would go
-      on alone. He pointed with his whip to some of the meeting-places with an
-      air of pride. He was godfather, as you might say, to the elopement. After
-      it had taken place, Sir Charles had discovered his share in it, and had
-      dismissed him. The word had gone the round among the county gentry&mdash;he
-      had never been able to find another situation. So he had bought himself a
-      governess-car and pony, and had plied for hire. &ldquo;And I bain&rsquo;t sorry, sir,&rdquo;
-       he said. &ldquo;If it were to do again, I should be on the lovers&rsquo; side. I&rsquo;m
-      only sorry I &rsquo;ad to take to drivin&rsquo; instead o&rsquo; ridin&rsquo;; it makes a
-      feller so &rsquo;eavy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi laughed at me out of the corners of her eyes. She had listened
-      intently. I felt, without her telling me, that this little glimpse into my
-      private history had roused her kindness. And the affair had its comic side&mdash;that
-      this mountain of flesh sitting opposite should be my first ambassador to
-      her, bearing my credentials of respectability.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ha&rsquo; ye heerd about Lord Halloway?&rdquo; he inquired.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I nodded curtly. Encouraged by my former sympathetic attention, he failed
-      to take the intended warning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thar&rsquo;s a young rascal for ye, for all &rsquo;e &rsquo;olds &rsquo;is
-      &rsquo;ead so &rsquo;igh! Looks more&rsquo;n likely now that you&rsquo;ll be the
-      nex&rsquo; master o&rsquo; Woadley. Doan&rsquo;t it strike you that way, sir?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I maintained silence, he carried on a monologue with himself. &ldquo;And &rsquo;e
-      war goin&rsquo; to Woadley, he war. And I picks &rsquo;un up by h&rsquo;axcident
-      like. And I war groom to &rsquo;is ma. Wery strange!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But there were stranger things than that, to my way of thinking: and the
-      strangest of all was my own condition of mind. A golden, somnolent content
-      had come over me, as though my life had broken off short, and commenced
-      afresh on a higher plane. Every motive I had ever had for good was
-      strengthened. The old grinding problems were either solved or seemed
-      negligible. I saw existence in its largeness of opportunity, and I saw its
-      opportunity in a woman&rsquo;s eyes. It was as though I had been colorblind, and
-      had been suddenly gifted with sight so penetrating that it enabled me to
-      look into exquisite distances and there discern all the subtle and
-      marvelous disintegrations of light.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the car swung round corners or rattled over rough places, our bodies
-      were thrown into closer contact as we sat together, Vi and I. Now her
-      shoulder would lurch against mine; now she would throw out her hand to
-      steady herself, and I would wonder at its smallness. I watched the demure
-      sweetness of her profile, and how the sun and shadows played tricks with
-      her face and throat. The fragrance of her hair came to me. I followed the
-      designed daintiness of the little gold curls that clustered with such
-      apparent carelessness against the whiteness of her forehead. I noticed the
-      flicker of the long lashes which hid and revealed her eyes. How perishable
-      she was, like a white hyacinth, or a summer&rsquo;s morning&mdash;and how
-      remotely divine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And the tantalizing fascination of it all was that I must be restrained.
-      She might escape me any day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a hollow of the country from between the hedges, Woadley crept into
-      sight. First we saw the gray Norman tower of the church, smothered in ivy;
-      then the thatched roofs of the outlying cottages; then the sun-flecked
-      whiteness of the village-walls, with tall sunflowers and hollyhocks
-      peeping over them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As we passed the churchyard the driver slowed down. &ldquo;Thar&rsquo;s the last place
-      your father met &rsquo;er, Mr. Cardover, before they run away. It war a
-      summer evenin&rsquo; about this time o&rsquo; the year, and they stayed for upwards o&rsquo;
-      an hour together in the porch. She&rsquo;d told old Sir Charles that she war
-      goin&rsquo; to put flowers on &rsquo;er mawther&rsquo;s grave. Aye, but she looked
-      beautiful; she war a fine figure o&rsquo; a lady.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I told him I would alight there. He was closing the door, on the point of
-      driving on, when I said to Vi, &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t you like to get out as well? The
-      church is worth a visit.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She gave me her hand and I helped her down. The governess-car went forward
-      to the village inn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They had been scything the grass in the churchyard and the air was full of
-      its cool fragrance. Dorrie ran off to gather daisies in a corner where it
-      still stood rank and high.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We walked up the path together to the porch and tried the door. It was
-      locked. We turned away into the sunlight, where dog-roses climbed over
-      neglected graves and black-birds fluttered from headstones to bushes, from
-      bushes to the moss-covered surrounding walls.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was Vi who broke the pleasant silence. &ldquo;I hope you didn&rsquo;t mind the man
-      talking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not at all. I expect I should have told you myself by and by.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your mother must have been very beautiful. I like to think of her. All
-      this country seems so different now I know about her; it was so impersonal
-      before. Was&mdash;was she happy afterwards?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I told her. I told her much more than I realized at the time. So few
-      people had ever cared to hear me talk about her, and for all of them she
-      was something past&mdash;dead and gone. My grandmother talked of her as a
-      lottery-ticket; so did the Spuffler; at home we never mentioned her at
-      all. Yet always she had been a real presence in my life. I felt jealous
-      for her; it seemed to me that she must be glad when we, whom she had
-      loved, remembered her with kindness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie came back to us with her lap full of flowers. Seeing that we were
-      talking seriously, she seated herself quietly beside us and commenced to
-      weave the flowers into a chain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The gate creaked. Footsteps came up the path. They paused; seemed to
-      hesitate; came forward again. Behind us they halted. Turning my head, I
-      saw an erect old man, white-haired, standing hat in hand, his back toward
-      us, regarding a weather-beaten grave.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We rose, instinctively feeling our presence irreverent. My eye caught the
-      name on the headstone of the grave:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <h3>
-      MARY FRANCES EVRARD
-    </h3>
-    <h3>
-      BELOVED WIFE OF SIR CHARLES EVRARD
-    </h3>
-    <h3>
-      OF WOADLEY HALL
-    </h3>
-    <p>
-      The old gentleman put on his hat, preparing to move away. Recognizing our
-      intention to give him privacy, he turned and bowed with stiff,
-      old-fashioned courtesy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I gazed on him fascinated. It was the first time I had seen my
-      grandfather. His eyes fell full on my face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His was one of the most remarkable faces I have ever gazed on. He was
-      clean shaven; his skin was ashy. His features were ascetic, boldly
-      chiseled and yet sensitively fine. They seemed to remodel themselves with
-      startling rapidity to express the thought that was passing in his mind.
-      The forehead was bony, high, and wrinkled. The nose was large-nostriled
-      and aquiline. The eye-brows were shaggy; beneath them burnt sparks of
-      fire, steady and almost cruel in their scorching penetration. From the
-      nostrils to the corners of the mouth two heavy lines cut deep into the
-      flesh, creating an expression of haughty contemplation and aloof sadness.
-      The mouth was prominent, fulllipped, and almost sensual, had it not been
-      so delicately shaped. The chin was long, pointed, and sank into the
-      breast. It was an actor&rsquo;s face, a poet&rsquo;s face, a rejected prophet&rsquo;s face,
-      according to the mood which animated it. When the lines deepened into
-      sneering melancholy and the corners of the large mouth drooped, it became
-      almost Jewish. The strong will that was always striving to cast the
-      outward appearance into an expression of immobile pride, was continually
-      being thwarted by the man&rsquo;s quivering, abnormal capacity to feel and to be
-      wounded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He stared at me in troubled amazement. Yearning, despairing tenderness
-      fought its way into his eyes; for an instant, his whole expression relaxed
-      and softened. He had recognized my mother in me and was remembering. He
-      made a step towards me. Then his face went rigid again. The skin drew
-      tight over the cheek-bones. Setting his hat firmly on his head, he turned
-      upon his heel. At the gate he looked back once, against his will. Then he
-      passed out resolutely and vanished down the road.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Twilight was gathering as we drove back to Ransby. Rays of the sun crept
-      away from us westward through the meadows, like golden snakes. Vi and I
-      were silent&mdash;the presence of the driver put a constraint upon us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He had a good deal to say, for he had warned all the village of my
-      arrival, and all the village, furtively from behind curtained windows, had
-      watched Sir Charles&rsquo;s journey to and from the churchyard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had been pleasant at the inn to hear myself addressed as &ldquo;Miss Fannie&rsquo;s
-      son.&rdquo; The windows of the low-ceilinged room in which we had had our tea,
-      faced out on the tall iron gates which gave entrance to the park. Far up
-      the driveway, hidden behind elms, we had just caught a glimpse of Woadley
-      Hall. And all the while we were eating, the broad-hipped landlady had
-      stood guard over us, talking about my mother and the good old days. She
-      had mistaken Vi for my wife at first; in speaking to Dorrie she had
-      referred to me as &ldquo;your Papa.&rdquo; Up to the last she had persisted in
-      including Vi and Dorrie in her prophecies for my future. She never doubted
-      that Vi and I were engaged. She assured us that she &rsquo;oped to see us
-      at the &rsquo;All one day, and a &rsquo;andsome couple we would make.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the time we had been abashed by her conversation, and had drunk our tea
-      in flustered fashion with our eyes in our cups. We had hated this big
-      complacent person for her clumsy, interfering kindness. But now, as the
-      little carriage threaded its way through dusky lanes, her errors gave rise
-      to a pleasant train of imaginings. I saw Vi as my wife&mdash;as Lady
-      Cardover, mistress of Woadley Hall. I planned the doings of our days, from
-      the horse-back ride in the early morning to the quiet evenings together by
-      the cozy fire. And why could it not be possible?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Country lovers, unashamed, with arms encircling one another, drew aside to
-      let us pass, as our lamps flashed down the road. Night birds were calling.
-      Meadowsweet and wild thyme spread their fragrance abroad. As the wind blew
-      inland, between great silences, it carried to our ears the moan of the
-      sea. While twilight hovered in the open spaces Dorrie, since no one talked
-      to her, kept up an undercurrent song:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      &ldquo;How far is it to Babylon?
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      <i>Three score miles and ten</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      Can I get there by candlelight?
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      <i>Ah yes,&mdash;and back again.</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As night crept on, the piping little voice grew indistinct and murmurous,
-      like a bee humming; the fair little head nodded and sank against the arm
-      of the bulky driver. Vi leant forward to lift her into her lap; but I took
-      Dorrie from her. With the child in my arms, for the first time the desire
-      to be a father came over me. In thinking of what love might mean, I had
-      never thought of that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered Ransby at the top of the High Street and drew up outside an old
-      black flint house. Vi got out first and rang the bell. When the door
-      opened, I put Dorrie into her arms. I bent over and kissed the sleeping
-      child. Vi drew back her head sharply; my lips had passed so near to hers.
-      We faced one another on the threshold. The light from the hall, falling on
-      her face, showed me that her lips were parted as though she had something
-      that she was trying to get said. Then, &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo; she whispered, and
-      the door closed behind her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I crossed the street and wandered to and fro, watching the house. All the
-      front was in darkness; her rooms must be at the back. I was greedy for her
-      presence; if I could only see her shadow pass before a window I would be
-      content. With the closing of the door, she seemed to have shut me out of
-      her life. There was so much to say, and nothing had been said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned out of the High Street down a long dark score, toward the beach.
-      Walls rose tall on either side. The salt wind, hurrying up the narrow
-      passage, struck me in the face and caused the gas-lamps to quiver. Far
-      down the tunnel at the end of the steps lay a belt of blackness, and
-      beyond that the tossing lights of ships at sea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Reaching the Beach Road, I passed over the denes. The town stretched tall
-      across the sky, like a shadowy curtain through which peered golden eyes.
-      The revolving light of the lighthouse on the denes pointed a long white
-      finger inland, till its tip rested on the back of Vi&rsquo;s house. I fancied I
-      saw her figure at the window. The finger swept on in a circle out to sea,
-      leaving the town in darkness. The upper-light on the cliff replied,
-      pointing to the place where I was standing, making it bright as day. If
-      she were still at the window, she would be able to see me as I had seen
-      her. Next time her window was illumined she had vanished. I watched and
-      waited; she did not return.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I roamed along the shore towards the harbor, purposeless with desire. The
-      sea, like a blind old man, kept whimpering to itself, trying to drag
-      itself up the beach, clutching at the sand with exhausted fingers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Wearied out with wandering, I turned my steps homeward. The shop looked so
-      dark that I was ashamed to ring the bell lest they had all retired. I
-      tapped on the shutters, and heard a shuffling inside; my grandmother
-      opened the door to me. She was in her dressing-gown and a turkey-red
-      petticoat. The servant had been in bed some hours.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the keeping-room I found a supper spread. Instead of being annoyed, she
-      was bubbling over with excitement. She could not sit down, but stood over
-      my chair while I ate; she was sure something wonderful had happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So you saw Sir Charles, my boy, and he recognized you! Tell me
-      everything, chapter and verse, with all the frills and furbelows.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I had not much that I could tell, but I spread it out to satisfy her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what did you think of &rsquo;im?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t he every inch
-      the aristocrat?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. But why is he so dark? There are times when he looks almost Jewish.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, my dear, that&rsquo;s &rsquo;cause he&rsquo;s got gipsy-blood. His mother was one of
-      the Goliaths. Didn&rsquo;t your father ever tell you that? Seems to me he don&rsquo;t
-      tell you nothing. You have to come to your poor old Grannie to learn
-      anything. Why, yes, old Sir Oliver Evrard, his father, your
-      greatgrandfather, fell in love with a gipsy fortune-teller and married &rsquo;er.
-      Ever since then the gipsies have been allowed to camp on Woadley Ham. They
-      do say that it was the wild gipsy streak that made your mother do what she
-      did. But there&mdash;that&rsquo;s a long story. It&rsquo;ll keep. We&rsquo;d better go to
-      bed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER III&mdash;FATE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> could not
-      understand Vi. It would seem that she was trying to avoid me. If I met her
-      in the street she was usually driving and, while she bowed and smiled,
-      never halted. I took many strolls by her house, hoping to catch her going
-      in or out. I think she must have watched me. Once only, when she thought
-      the coast was clear, I came upon her just as she was leaving the house.
-      She saw me and flushed gloriously; then pretended that she had not seen me
-      and re-entered, closing the door hurriedly behind her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After that I gave up my pursuit of her. It seemed not straightforward&mdash;too
-      much like spying. I kept away from the places she was likely to frequent.
-      Wandering the quays, where there were only sailors and red-capped Brittany
-      onion-sellers, I racked my brains, trying to recall in what I had
-      offended. I felt no resentment for Vi&rsquo;s conduct. It never occurred to me
-      that she was a coquette. I thought that she might be actuated by a woman&rsquo;s
-      caution, and gave her credit for motives of which I had no knowledge. The
-      more she withdrew beyond my attainment, the more desirable she became to
-      me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My grandmother noticed my fallen countenance and concluded that Sir
-      Charles&rsquo;s indifference was the cause of it. She tried to cheer me with
-      fragments of wise sayings which had helped her to keep her courage. She
-      told me that there were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it. She
-      even feigned contempt for Sir Charles, saying that I should probably be
-      just as happy without his begrudged money. She resorted to religion for
-      comfort, saying that if God didn&rsquo;t intend me to inherit Woadley, it was
-      because it wouldn&rsquo;t be good for me. She painted for me the pleasures of
-      the contented life:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      &ldquo;No riches I covet, no glory I want,
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      H&rsquo;ambition is nothing to me;
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      The one thing I beg of kind &rsquo;eaven to grant
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Is a mind independent and free.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But she couldn&rsquo;t stir me out of my melancholy, for she didn&rsquo;t know its
-      cause. She physicked me for financial disappointments; what I wanted was a
-      love-antidote.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As my whole energies had formerly been bent on encountering Vi, so now
-      they were directed towards avoiding her. For hours I would lounge in the
-      bake-house or sit in the shop while Grandmother Cardover did her knitting,
-      served customers, or gossiped with her neighbors. Then, against my better
-      judgment, curiosity and longing for one more glimpse of her would drag me
-      out into the streets. Yet, once in the streets, my chief object was to
-      flee from her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now when I should have refrained from pestering her, some obstinate fate
-      was always bringing us face to face. I was sorriest for the effect that
-      our attitude was having on Dorrie. At first she would rush forward in a
-      gale of high spirits to greet me, until restrained by Vi. Next time, with
-      a child&rsquo;s forgetfulness, she would lift to me her pansy-face smiling, and
-      remembering would hang back. At last she grew afraid of my troubled looks,
-      and would hide shyly behind Vi&rsquo;s skirts when she saw me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For five days I had not met them. A desperate suspicion that they had left
-      town grew upon me. I became reckless in my desire for certainty. I could
-      not bear the suspense. I was half-minded to call at the house where she
-      had been staying, but that did not seem fair to her. I called myself a
-      fool for not having stopped her in the street while I had the chance, when
-      an explanation and an apology might have set everything on a proper
-      footing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the sixth morning of her absence I rose early and went out before
-      breakfast. The skies were gray and squally. A slow drizzle had been
-      falling all night and, though it now had ceased, the pavements were wet.
-      The wind came in gusts, whistling round corners of streets and houses,
-      whirling scraps of paper high in the air. When I came to the harbor, I saw
-      that the sea was choppy and studded with white horses. Against the piles
-      of the pier waves were dashing and shattering into spray. From up channel,
-      all along the horizon, drove long lines of leaden clouds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I struck out across the denes between the sea-wall and the Beach Road. No
-      one was about. I braced myself against the wind, enjoying its stinging
-      coldness. The tormented loneliness of the scene was in accord with my
-      mood. The old town, hanging red along the cliff, no longer seemed to watch
-      me; it frowned out on the desolate waste of water in impersonal defiance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My thoughts were full of that first morning when I had met her. I gave my
-      imagination over without restraint to reconstructing its sensuous beauty.
-      I saw the fire of the furze again, and scented the far-blown fragrance of
-      wall-flowers, hiding in their crannies. But I saw as the center of it all
-      the slim white girl with the mantle of golden hair, the deep inscrutable
-      eyes of violet, and the slow sweet smile of <i>La Gioconda</i> playing
-      round the edges of her mouth: gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips
-      and sunshine for a background.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The hot blood in me was up&mdash;the gipsy blood. A stream of impassioned
-      fancies passed before me. Ah, if I were to meet her now, I would have done
-      with fine-spun theories of what was gentlemanly. On the lonely beach I
-      would throw my arms about her, however she struggled, and hold her fast
-      till she lay with her dear face looking up, crushed and submissive in my
-      breast. After that she might leave me, but she would at least have learnt
-      that I was a man and that I loved her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ahead lay the sullen wreck. I had been there only once since our first
-      meeting. Motives of delicacy, which I now regretted, had held me back. Now
-      I could go there. On such a morning, though she were still in Ransby,
-      there would be no fear of surprising her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On entering the hull through the hole in the prow, the wind ceased, though
-      it whistled overhead. I leant against the walls of the stranded ship,
-      recovering my breath. I drew out my pipe, intending to take a smoke while
-      I rested. As I turned to strike a match, an open umbrella lying in a
-      corner on the sand, caught my attention. I went over and looked behind it;
-      there lay a pair of woman&rsquo;s shoes and stockings, and a jacket, with stones
-      placed on it to keep it down. Beneath the jacket was a disordered pile of
-      woman&rsquo;s clothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My first thought was shame of what she might think of me, were she to find
-      me. My second was of angry fear because she had been so foolhardy as to
-      bathe from such a shore on such a morning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hurrying out of the wreck, I strode across the beach to where the surf
-      rushed boiling up the pebbles. The waves ran high, white, and foam-capped,
-      hammering against the land. Gazing out from shore, I could see nothing but
-      leaden water, rising and falling, rising and falling. The height of the
-      waves might hide a swimmer from one standing at the water&rsquo;s level; I raced
-      back up the beach, and climbed the wreck. I could not discover her. The
-      horror of what this meant stunned me; I could think of nothing else. My
-      mind was in confusion. Then I heard my voice repeating over and over that
-      she was not dead. The sheer monotony of the reiterated assertion, produced
-      a sudden, unnatural clearness. &ldquo;If she is not drowned, she must be
-      somewhere out there,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I commenced to sweep the sea with my eyes in ever widening circles. Two
-      hundred yards down the shore to the left and about fifty out, I sighted
-      something. It was white and seemed only foam at first. The crest of a wave
-      tossed it high for a second, then shut it out; when the next wave rose it
-      was still there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I shouted, but my voice would not carry against the wind. The next time
-      the white thing rose on the crest I was sure that it was the face of a
-      woman. I saw her arm thrown out above the surface; she was swimming the
-      overarm stroke in an effort to make headway toward the land. I knew that
-      she could never do it, for the current along the north beach runs seawards
-      and the tide was going out. I gazed round in panic. The shore was forlorn
-      and deserted. Behind me to the northward stretched the gaunt, bare cliffs.
-      To the southward, a mile distant across the denes, stood the outskirts of
-      the sleepy town. Before ever I could bring help, she would have been
-      carried exhausted far out to sea, or else drowned. There was no boat on
-      the shore between myself and the harbor. There was nothing between her and
-      death but myself. And to go to her rescue meant death.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I scarcely know what happened. I became furious with unreasonable anger. I
-      was angry with her for her folly, and angry with the world because it took
-      no notice and did not care. I was determined that, before it was too late,
-      I would go to her, so that she might understand. Yet, despite my passion,
-      I acted with calculation and cunning. All my attention was focused on that
-      speck of white, bobbing in the waste of churned up blackness. As I ran
-      along the beach I kept my eyes fixed on that. When I came opposite, I
-      waved to it. It took no notice. I hurried on a hundred yards further; the
-      current would bear her down towards me northwards. I stripped almost
-      naked, tearing off everything that would weigh me down. I waded knee-deep
-      into the surf, up to where the beach shelved suddenly. I waited till a
-      roller was on the point of breaking; diving through it, I struck out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was difficult to see her. Only when the waves threw us high at the same
-      moment, did I catch a glimpse of her and get my direction. The shock of
-      the icy coldness of the water steadied my nerves and concentrated my
-      purpose. I was governed by a single determination&mdash;to get to her. My
-      thought went no further than that. Nothing else mattered. I had no fear of
-      death or of what might come after&mdash;I had no time to think about it. I
-      wanted to get her in my arms and shake her, and tell her what a little
-      fool she was, and kiss her on the mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Lying on my right side, keeping low in the water, I dug my way forward
-      with an over-arm left-stroke. As my first wind went from me and I waited
-      for my second, I settled down into the long plugging stroke of a mile
-      race. The tide was with me, but the roughness of the water prevented rapid
-      progress. I had to get far enough out to be at the point below her in the
-      current to which she was being swept down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I started counting from one to ten to keep myself from slackening, just as
-      the cox of a racing-eight does when he forces his crew to swing out. I
-      regarded my body impersonally, without sympathy, as though we were
-      separate. When it suffered and the muscles ached, I lashed it forward with
-      my will, silently deriding it with brutal profanities. The wind poured
-      over the sea; the spray dashed up and nearly choked me. It was difficult
-      to keep her in sight. When I saw her again, I smiled grimly at her courage
-      and hit up a quicker pace. Who would have thought that her fragile body,
-      so flower-like and dainty, had the strength and nerve to fight like that?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was far enough out now to catch her. I halted, treading water; but the
-      inaction gave my imagination time to get to work, and, when that happened,
-      I felt myself weakening. I started up against the current, going parallel
-      with the beach, to meet her. The one obsessing thought in my mind was to
-      get to her. It was not so much a thought as an animal instinct. I was
-      reduced to the primitive man, brutally battling his way towards his mate
-      at a time of danger. While I acted instinctively, the flesh responded;
-      directly I paused to think, my body began to shirk and my strength to ebb.
-      Somewhere in that raging waste of water I must find and touch her. I did
-      not care to hear her voice&mdash;simply to hold her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Thirty feet away a gray riot of stampeding water rose against the horizon;
-      in it I saw her face. With the swift trudging stroke of a polo-player I
-      made towards her. In the foam and spray I saw what looked like golden
-      seaweed. She was drifting past me; I caught her by the hair. Out of the
-      mist of driven chaos we gazed in one another&rsquo;s eyes. Her lips moved.
-      &ldquo;You!&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My mind was laughing in triumph. My body was no longer weary&mdash;it was
-      forgotten and strong again. In all the world there were just she and I.
-      She had tried to escape me, but now the waves jostled us together. She had
-      striven not to see me, but now my face focused all her gaze. She might
-      look away into the smoking crest of the next roller, but her eyes must
-      always come back. Of all live things we had loved or hated, now there
-      remained just she and I. We had been stripped of all our acquirements and
-      thrown back to the primitive basis of existence&mdash;a man and a woman
-      fighting for life in chaos. For us all the careful conventions, built up
-      by centuries, were suddenly destroyed. The polite decencies and safeguards
-      of civilization were swept aside. The shame of so many natural things,
-      which had made up the toll of our refinement, was contemptuously blotted
-      out&mdash;the architecture of the ages was shattered in an instant. We
-      were thrown back to where the first man and woman started. The only virtue
-      that remained to us was the physical strength by which death might be
-      avoided. The sole distinguishing characteristic between us was the
-      female&rsquo;s dependence on the male, and the male&rsquo;s native instinct to protect
-      her, if need be savagely with his life. Over there, a mile away, stood the
-      red comfortable town on the cliff, where all the smug decencies were
-      respected which we had perforce abandoned. Between us and the shore
-      stretched fifty yards of water&mdash;a gulf between the finite and the
-      infinite. Over there lay the moment of the present; here in eternity were
-      she and I.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I gazed on her with stern gladness; I had got to her&mdash;she was mine.
-      The madness for possession, which had given me strength, was satisfied.
-      Now a fresh motive, still instinctive and primal, urged me on&mdash;I must
-      save her. I lifted her arm and placed it across my shoulder, so that I
-      might support her. The great thing was to keep her afloat as long as
-      possible. There was no going back over the path that we had traversed&mdash;both
-      tide and current were dead against us. Already the shore was stealing away&mdash;we
-      were being carried out to sea.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I remembered, how on that first morning, when I had warned her against
-      bathing from the north beach, she had told me she was a good swimmer. In
-      my all-embracing ignorance of her, I had no means of estimating how much
-      or how little that meant. For myself, barring accidents, I judged I could
-      keep going for two hours.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi was weakening. With her free left hand she was still swimming pluckily,
-      but her right hand kept slipping off my shoulder; I had to watch her
-      sharply and lift it back. Her weight became heavier. Her lips were blue
-      and chattering. I noticed that her fingers were spread apart; she had
-      cramp in the palms of her hands. Her body dragged beside me; she was
-      losing control of it. She was no longer kicking out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      To talk, save in monosyllables, was impossible, and then one had to shout.
-      Our ears were stopped up with water; the clash of the wind against the
-      waves was deafening. My one fear for her was that the cramp would spread.
-      If that happened, we would go down together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt her cold lips pressed against my shoulder. As I looked round, she
-      let go of me. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m done,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She went under. I slipped my arm about her and turned over on my back, so
-      that my body floated under her, and she lay across my breast. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t
-      go,&rdquo; I panted furiously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let me,&rdquo; she pleaded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But I held her. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t go,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My anger roused her. I turned over again, swimming the breast-stroke. She
-      placed her arm round my neck. Her long hair washed about me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sometimes her eyes were closed and I thought she had fainted. Her lips had
-      ceased to chatter. Her face lay against my shoulder, pinched and quiet as
-      though she were dead. My own motions were becoming mechanical. It was
-      sheer lust of life that kept me going. I had lost sensation in my feet and
-      hands. The shore had dwindled behind us; it seemed very small and blurred,
-      though it was probably only half-a-mile distant. The water was less
-      turbulent now; it rose and fell, rose and fell, with a rocking
-      restfulness. I felt that I would soon be sleeping soundly. But in the
-      midst of drowsing, my mind would spring up alert and I would drag her arm
-      closer about my neck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Above the clamor of the waves I heard a shout. At first I thought that I
-      had given it myself. I heard it again; it was unmistakable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Looking up out of the trough of a wave, I saw a patched sail hanging over
-      us. My sight was misty; the sail was indistinct and yet near me. As I rose
-      on the crest, a hand grabbed me and I felt myself lifted out on to a pile
-      of nets.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;THE TRUTH ABOUT HER
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>har, lad, lie
-      still. Yow&rsquo;ll be &rsquo;ome direc&rsquo;ly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The gray-bearded man at the tiller smiled to me in a friendly manner. He
-      didn&rsquo;t seem at all excited, but took all that had happened stoically, as
-      part of the day&rsquo;s work. Seeing me gaze round questioningly, he added, &ldquo;The
-      lassie&rsquo;s well enough, Mr. Cardover. She&rsquo;ll come round. A mouthful o&rsquo; salt
-      water won&rsquo;t &rsquo;urt &rsquo;er.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I wondered vaguely how he knew my name. Then, as my brain cleared, I
-      remembered him as one of the fishermen who called in at my grandmother&rsquo;s
-      shop for an occasional chat, seated on a barrel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I raised myself on my elbow. We were rounding the pier-head, running into
-      the harbor. I was in a little shrimping-boat. The nets hung out over the
-      stern. The old man at the tiller was in oilskins and a younger man was
-      shortening sail.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt sick, and giddy, and stiff. A tarpaulin was thrown over me. I tried
-      to recollect how I came there. Then I saw Vi lying near me in the bows. A
-      sailor&rsquo;s coat was wrapped about her. Her hair lay piled in a golden heap
-      over her white throat and breast. Her eyes were closed. The blueness of
-      the veins about her temples enhanced her pallor. I made an effort to crawl
-      towards her; but the motion of the boat and my own weakness sent me
-      sprawling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      People from the pier-head had seen us. As we stole up the harbor,
-      questions were shouted to the man at the tiller and answers shouted back.
-      When we drew in at the quayside an excited crowd had gathered. To every
-      newcomer the account was given of how Joe Tuttle, as &rsquo;e war
-      a-beating up to the &rsquo;arbor, comed across them two a-driftin&rsquo; off
-      the nor&rsquo; beach, &rsquo;alf a mile or so from land.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Coats were torn off and folded round us. Someone was sent ahead to warn
-      neighbor Cardover of what she must expect. Vi was tenderly lifted out and
-      carried down the road in the arms of Joe Tuttle. I was hoisted like a sack
-      across the shoulders of our younger rescuer. Accompanying us was a
-      shouting, jabbering, eager crowd, anxious to tell everyone we passed what
-      had happened. My most distinct recollection is the shame I felt of the
-      bareness of my dangling legs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The tramp of heavy feet invaded the shop. I heard the capable voice of
-      Grandmother Cardover getting rid of sightseers. &ldquo;Now then, my good people,
-      there&rsquo;s nothing &rsquo;ere for you. Out you go; you&rsquo;re not wanted in my
-      shop. Thank goodness, we can worry along without your &rsquo;elp.&rdquo; Then I
-      heard her in a lower voice giving directions for us to be carried
-      upstairs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hot blankets, brought from the bake-house oven, were soon about me and I
-      was tucked safe in bed. I have a faint recollection of the doctor coming
-      and of hot spirits being forced down my throat. Then they left me alone
-      and I fell into the deep sleep of utter weariness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I awoke, the room was in darkness and a fire was burning. I felt lazy
-      and comfortable. I turned on my side and found that I was alone. I began
-      to think back. The thought that filled my mind seemed a continuation of
-      what I had been dreaming. I was in the trough of a wave, the sea was
-      washing over me, Vi&rsquo;s arm was heavy about my neck, and her lips were
-      kissing my shoulder. I looked round; her eyes shone into mine, and her
-      hair swayed loose about her like the hair of a mermaiden. I listened.
-      There were footsteps on the stair. The door opened and my grandmother
-      tiptoed to the bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I raised myself up. The torpor cleared from my brain. Before the question
-      could frame itself, my grandmother had answered it. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s all right,
-      Dante; she&rsquo;s in the spare bedroom and sleeping soundly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She seated herself beside me and slipped her wrinkled old hand into mine
-      beneath the bed-clothes. She sat in silence for some minutes. The light
-      from the street-lamp shining in at the window, fell upon her. I could see
-      her gray curls wabbling, the way they always did when she was agitated. At
-      last she spoke. &ldquo;How did it &rsquo;appen, Dante?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I told her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you knowed &rsquo;er before?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Little by little I gave her all the story.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A nice young rascal you are,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;and a pretty way you&rsquo;ve got o&rsquo;
-      love-making. You beat your own father, that you do. And what&rsquo;s her name?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t know!&rdquo; She laughed till the tears ran down her face. &ldquo;And I
-      suppose you think you&rsquo;re goin&rsquo; to marry &rsquo;er?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know I am.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, the sooner the better I say. Judging by her looks, you might &rsquo;ave
-      chose worse. When it comes to wimmen, the Evrards and the Cardovers are
-      mad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She went downstairs to get me some supper. I had given her Vi&rsquo;s address,
-      that she might send off a message to Vi&rsquo;s landlady. Poor little Dorrie
-      must be beside herself by now, wondering what had happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While I ate my supper, my grandmother kept referring to what I had told
-      her. She was very proud and happy. Her eyes twinkled behind her
-      spectacles. I had added an entirely original chapter to the history of our
-      family&rsquo;s romance. &ldquo;I keep wishin&rsquo;,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that your dear ma &rsquo;ad been
-      alive. It would just &rsquo;a&rsquo; suited her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The morning broke bright and sunny. I insisted on getting up to breakfast.
-      I was a trifle stiff, but apart from that none the worse for my
-      experience. It was odd to think that Vi was sleeping in the same house&mdash;Vi,
-      who had passed me in the streets without seeing me, Vi from whom I had
-      hidden myself, Vi who at this time yesterday morning had seemed so utterly
-      unattainable. The sense of her nearness filled me with wild enthusiasm. I
-      hummed and whistled while I dressed. I wondered how long she would make me
-      wait before we were married. She was mine already. Why should we wait? I
-      was impatient to go to her, I could feel the close embrace of her long
-      white arm about my neck. I was quite incurious as to who she was or where
-      she came from. Life for me began when I met her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I passed her door I halted, listening. I could hear my grandmother
-      talking inside, but in such a low voice that I could catch nothing of what
-      was said. She was bustling about, beating up the pillows and, as I judged,
-      making Vi tidy. Hearing her coming towards the door, I hurried down the
-      stairs. The stairs entered into the keeping-room. When she came down, she
-      carried an empty breakfast-tray in her hand. I noticed that she had on her
-      Sunday best: a black satin dress, a white lace apron trimmed with black
-      ribbon, and her finest lace cap spangled with jet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s been askin&rsquo; for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I jumped up from my chair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But she won&rsquo;t see you until you&rsquo;ve breakfasted.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While I hastened through the meal, my grandmother chattered gaily. She
-      quite approved my choice of a wife and had drawn from Vi one fact, of
-      which I was unaware&mdash;that she was an American. She was burning with
-      curiosity to learn more about her and was full of the most rosy
-      conjectures. She was quite sure that Vi was an heiress&mdash;all American
-      women who traveled alone were.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She went up to see that all was ready; then she came to the top of the
-      stairs and beckoned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m goin&rsquo; to leave you alone,&rdquo; she whispered, taking my face between her
-      hands. &ldquo;God bless you, my boy.&rdquo; Then she vanished all a-blush and
-      a-tremble into the keeping-room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The blood was surging in my brain. I felt weak from too much happiness.
-      Opening the door slowly, I entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I scarcely dared look up at first. The room swam before me. The
-      old-fashioned green and red flowers in the carpet ran together. I raised
-      my eyes to the large four-poster mahogany bed&mdash;it seemed too large to
-      hold such a little person. I could see the outline of her figure, but the
-      heavy crimson curtains, hanging from the tester, hid her face from me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi, darling!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She sat up, with her hands pressed against her throat. The sunlight,
-      shining in at the window, poured down upon her, burnishing her two long
-      plaited ropes of hair. She turned towards me; her eyes were misty, her
-      bosom swelling. She seemed to be calling me to her, and yet pushing me
-      back. I felt my knees breaking under me, and the sob beginning in my
-      throat. I ran towards her and knelt down at the bedside, placing my arms
-      about her and drawing her to me. For an instant she resisted, then her
-      body relaxed. I looked up at her, pouring out broken sentences. I felt
-      that the tears were coming through excess of gladness and bowed my head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was bending over me, so near she stooped that her breath was in my
-      hair. The sweet warmth of her was all about me. Her lips touched my
-      forehead. I held her more closely, but I would not meet her eyes. I dared
-      not till my question was answered. The silence between us stretched into
-      an eternity. Her hands wandered over me caressingly; it seemed a child
-      comforting a man. &ldquo;Poor boy,&rdquo; she whispered over and over, &ldquo;God knows,
-      neither of us meant it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I lifted my face to hers, the tenderness in her expression was wiped
-      out by a look of wild despair. She tore my hands from about her body and
-      tumbled her head back into the pillows with her face turned from me,
-      shaken by a storm of sobbing. Muttered exclamations rose to her lips&mdash;things
-      and names were mentioned which I only half heard, the purport of which I
-      could not understand. I tried to gather her to me, but she broke away from
-      me. &ldquo;Oh, you mustn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she sobbed, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;t touch me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With her loss of self-control my strength returned. I sat beside her on
-      the bed, stroking her hand and trying to console her&mdash;trying to tell
-      myself that this was quite natural and that everything was well.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Gradually she exhausted herself and lay still. &ldquo;You ought to go,&rdquo; she
-      whispered; but when I rose to steal away, her hand clutched mine and drew
-      me back. In a slow, weary voice she began to speak to me. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t do what
-      you ask me; I&rsquo;m already married. I thought you would have guessed from
-      Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She paused to see what I would say or do. When I said nothing, but clasped
-      her hand more firmly, she turned her face towards me, gazing up at me from
-      the pillow. &ldquo;I thought you would have left me after that,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s
-      all my fault; I saw how things were going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dearest, you did your best.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, I did my best and hurt you. When I told you that I was done
-      yesterday, why didn&rsquo;t you let me go? It would all have been so much
-      easier.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I wanted you,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;and still want you.&rdquo; The silence was so
-      deep that I could hear the rustle of the sheets at each intake of her
-      breath.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t have me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice was so small that it only just came to me. &ldquo;I belong to Dorrie&rsquo;s
-      father. He&rsquo;s a good man and he trusts me, though he knows I don&rsquo;t love
-      him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She sat up, letting go my hand. I propped the pillows under her. She
-      signed to me to seat myself further away from her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She is mine. She is mine,&rdquo; I kept thinking to myself. &ldquo;We belong to one
-      another whatever she says.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall be better soon,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;then I can go away. You must try to
-      forget that you ever knew me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can never forget. I shall wait for you.&rdquo; Then the old treacherous
-      argument came to me, though it was sincerely spoken. &ldquo;Why need we go out
-      of one another&rsquo;s lives? Vi dearest, can&rsquo;t we be friends?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She hesitated. &ldquo;I was thinking of <i>you</i> when I said it. For me it
-      would be easier; I have Dorrie to live for. It would be more difficult for
-      you&mdash;you are a man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you trust me, Vi? You told me that he trusted you just now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice was thin and tired. &ldquo;Could we ever be only friends?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We must try&mdash;we can pretend.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But such trials all have one ending.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ours won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her will was broken and her desire urged it. She held out her hand. &ldquo;Then
-      let&rsquo;s be friends.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I took it in mine and kissed it. Even then, I believe, we doubted our
-      strength.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER V&mdash;LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he <i>Ransby
-      Chronicle</i> had a full account of the averted bathing fatality. In a
-      small world of town gossip it was a sensation almost as important as a
-      local murder. Columns were filled up with what Vi&rsquo;s landlady said, and Joe
-      Tuttle, and Mrs. Cardover, and even Dorrie. They tried to interview me
-      without success; they couldn&rsquo;t interview Vi, for she was in bed. From the
-      landlady they gleaned some facts of which I was ignorant. Vi was Mrs.
-      Violet Carpenter, of Sheba, Massachusetts. Her husband was the owner of
-      large New England cotton factories. She had been away from America upwards
-      of a year, traveling in Europe. She expected to return home in a month.
-      The history of my parentage was duly recorded, including an account of my
-      father&rsquo;s elopement. All the old scandal concerning my mother was raked up
-      and re-garnished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Knowing what my intentions had been toward Vi, my grandmother was terribly
-      flustered at the discovery that Vi was a married woman. She was hurt in
-      her pride; she wanted to blame somebody. Her sense of the proprieties was
-      offended, and she felt that her reputation was secretly tarnished. An
-      immoral situation was existing under her roof&mdash;at least, that was
-      what she felt. She wanted to get rid of Vi directly, but the doctor
-      forbade her to be moved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And to think I should &rsquo;ave come to this!&rdquo; she kept exclaiming,
-      &ldquo;after livin&rsquo; all these years honored and respected in my little town!
-      Mind, I don&rsquo;t blame you, and I don&rsquo;t blame &rsquo;er. Poor things! You
-      couldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;elp it. But I can&rsquo;t get over it&mdash;there was you
-      a-proposin&rsquo; in my spare bedroom to a married woman, and she a-lyin&rsquo; in
-      bed! What would folks say if they was to &rsquo;ear about it? And in my
-      &rsquo;ouse! And me so honored and respected!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her horror seemed to center in the fact that it should have happened in
-      the spare bedroom of all places, where all her dead had been laid out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She took it for granted that Vi and I would part forever, as soon as she
-      was well enough to travel. &ldquo;By all showings, it&rsquo;s &rsquo;igh time she
-      went back to &rsquo;er &rsquo;usband,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She suffered another shock when I undeceived her. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re playin&rsquo; with
-      fire, Dante; that&rsquo;s what you&rsquo;re doin&rsquo;. Take the word of an old woman who
-      knows the world&mdash;friendship will drift into familiarity and, more&rsquo;n
-      likely, familiarity &rsquo;ll drift into something else. A Cardover&rsquo;s bad
-      enough where wimmen is concerned, but an Evrard&rsquo;s the devil. It&rsquo;s the
-      gipsy blood that makes &rsquo;em mad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned a deaf ear to all her protests. Vi and I had done nothing wicked,
-      and we weren&rsquo;t going to run away from one another as though we had. A
-      mistake had occurred which concerned only ourselves; we had nothing to be
-      ashamed of. Then my grandmother threatened to send for Ruthita so that, at
-      least, we might not be alone together. I was quick to see that Ruthita&rsquo;s
-      presence would be a protection, so agreed that she should be invited down
-      to Ransby provided she was told nothing. Meanwhile no meetings between Vi
-      and myself were allowed. My grandmother guarded the spare bedroom like a
-      dragon.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But in a timid way, in her heart of hearts, she was proud of the
-      complication. It intrigued her. It made us all interesting persons. She
-      wore the indignant face of a Mother Grundy because she knew that society
-      would expect it of her; in many little sympathetic ways she revealed her
-      truer self. She would take her knitting up to Vi&rsquo;s bedside&mdash;Mrs.
-      Carpenter as she insisted on calling her&mdash;and would spend long hours
-      there. When conversing with me in the keeping-room late at night, she
-      would grow reminiscent and tell brave stories of the rewards which came at
-      length to thwarted lovers. I learnt from her that Mr. Randall Carpenter
-      was much older than either Vi or myself. If he were to die&mdash;&mdash;!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the second morning that Vi had been in the house I returned from a
-      desultory walk to find my grandmother in close conference with a stranger.
-      He was a dapper, perky little man, white-haired, bald-headed, whiskered,
-      with darting birdlike manners and a dignified air of precision about him.
-      He had the well-dressed appearance of a city gentleman rather than of a
-      Ransbyite. He wore a frock-coat, top-hat, gray trousers, shiny boots, and
-      white spats. I judged that he belonged to a profession.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Apologizing for my intrusion, I crossed the keeping-room, and was on the
-      point of mounting the stairs when the little man rose, all smiles.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your grandson, Mrs. Cardover, I presume? He&rsquo;s more of an Evrard than a
-      Cardover&mdash;all except his mouth.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was introduced to me as Mr. Seagirt, the lawyer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Happy to know you, Mr. Cardover. Happy to know you, sir.&rdquo; He pulled off
-      his gloves and shook hands in a gravely formal manner. &ldquo;We shall see more
-      of one another as time goes on. I hope it most sincerely. In fact, I may
-      say, from the way things are going, there is little doubt of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We all sat down. There was a strange constrained atmosphere of excitement
-      and embarrassment about both Mr. Seagirt and my grandmother. They balanced
-      on the edge of their chairs, flickering their eyelids and twiddling their
-      thumbs. Lawyer Seagirt kept up a hurried flow of procrastinating
-      conversation, continually limiting or overemphasizing his statements.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I have heard of what you did a day or two ago, Mr. Cardover&mdash;we have
-      all heard of it. You have created an excellent impression&mdash;most
-      excellent. The papers have been very flattering, but not more so than you
-      deserve. Ransby feels quite proud of you. Though you are a Londoner, you
-      belong to Ransby&mdash;no getting away from that. I suppose you&rsquo;d tell us
-      that you belong to Oxford. Ah, well, it&rsquo;s natural&mdash;but we claim you
-      first.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      All the time he had been talking he and my grandmother had been signaling
-      to one another with their eyes, as though one were saying, &ldquo;You tell him,&rdquo;
-       and the other, &ldquo;No, you tell him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When they did make up their minds to take me into their secret, they did
-      it both together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your grandfather&mdash;Sir Charles Evrard,&rdquo; they began, and there they
-      stuck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last it came out that my grandfather had expressed a wish to see me,
-      and had sent Lawyer Seagirt to make the necessary inquiries about me. This
-      action on his part could have but one meaning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Two days later I was invited over to Woadley Hall to spend a week there.
-      Before I went, I had an interview with Vi, in my grandmother&rsquo;s presence.
-      She promised me that she would not leave Ransby until after I returned. My
-      fear had been that some spasm of caution might make her seize this
-      opportunity to return to America.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I drove out to Woadley Hall late in the afternoon, planning to get there
-      in time for dinner. I felt considerably nervous. I had been brought up in
-      dread of Sir Charles since childhood. I did not know what kind of conduct
-      was expected from me or what kind of reception I might expect.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As we swung in through the iron gates and passed up the long avenue of
-      chestnuts and elms which led through the parkland to the house, my
-      nervousness increased into childish consternation. The pride of ancestry
-      and the comfortable signs of wealth filled me with distress. I belonged to
-      this, and was on my way to be examined to see whether I could prove
-      worthy. I was not ashamed of my father&rsquo;s family, but I was prepared to be
-      angry if anyone else should show shame of them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Far away, on the edge of the green grassland, just where the woods began
-      to cast their shadow, I could see dappled fallow-deer grazing. Colts,
-      hearing us approaching, lifted up their heads and stared, then whisking
-      their tails galloped off to watch us from behind their dams. Turrets and
-      broken gables of the old Jacobean Hall rose out of the trees before us.
-      Rooks were coming home to their nests in the tall elms, cawing. The
-      home-farm lay over to our left; the herd was coming out from the milking,
-      jingling their bells. A streak of orange lay across the blue of the west&mdash;the
-      beginning of the sunset.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Immediately on my arrival, I was shown to my bedroom to dress. I began to
-      have the sense of &ldquo;belonging.&rdquo; The windows looked out on a sunken garden,
-      all ablaze with stocks, snap-dragon, sweet-william, and all manner of
-      old-world flowers. In the scented stillness I could hear the splash of a
-      fountain playing in the center. Beyond that were other gardens, Dutch and
-      Italian, divided by red walls and terraces. Beyond them all, through the
-      shadowed trees one caught glimpses of a lake, with swans and gaily-painted
-      water-fowl sailing like toy-yachts upon its surface.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the servant had left me, I commenced to dress leisurely. After that I
-      sat down, waiting for the gong to sound. I wondered if this was the room
-      where my mother had slept. How much my father&rsquo;s love must have meant to
-      her that she should have sacrificed so much prosperous certainty to share
-      his insecure fortunes. Yet, as I looked back, it was a smiling face that I
-      remembered, with no marks of misgiving or regret upon it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not meet my grandfather until the meal was about to be served. I
-      think he had planned our first encounter carefully, so that our conduct
-      might be restrained by the presence of servants. His greeting was that of
-      any host to any guest. Our conversation at dinner was on impersonal,
-      intellectual topics&mdash;the kind that is carried on between well-bred
-      persons who are thrown together for the moment and are compelled to be
-      polite to one another. The only way in which he betrayed nervousness was
-      by crumbling his bread with his left hand while he was conversing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Finding that I was not anxious to force matters, he became more at his
-      ease. He addressed me as Mr. Cardover, with stiff and kindly courtesy. We
-      took our cigars out on to the terrace to watch the last of the sunset. He
-      was talking of Oxford, and the changes which had taken place in the
-      University since he was an undergraduate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I believe you are a Fellow of Lazarus, Mr. Cardover?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I had a nephew there a few years ago, Lord Halloway, the son of my poor
-      brother-in-law, the Earl of Lovegrove. You may know him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Only by hearsay. He was before my time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My grandfather knocked the ash from his cigar. Then, speaking in a low
-      voice, very deliberately, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid you have heard nothing good about
-      him. He has not turned out well.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He paused: I felt that I was being tested. When I kept silent, he
-      continued, &ldquo;I have no son. He was to have followed me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Shortly afterwards he excused himself, saying that he was an old man and
-      retired early to bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For six days we maintained our polite and measured interchange of
-      courtesies. I was left free most of the time to entertain myself. He was a
-      perfect host, and knew exactly how far to share my company without
-      appearing niggardly of his companionship or, on the other hand, intruding
-      it on me to such an extent that we wore out our common fund of interests.
-      For myself, I wished that I might see more of him. Never by any direct
-      statement did he own that there was any relationship between us. Yet
-      gradually he began to imply his intention in having me to visit him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I would have been completely happy, had it not been that Vi was absent. I
-      reckoned up the hours until I should return. All day my imagination was
-      following her movements. I refused to look ahead to the certainty of
-      approaching separation&mdash;it was enough for me that I could be near
-      her in the present.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was strange how poignant the world had become, how subtly, swiftly
-      suggestive, since I had discovered her presence in it. All my sensations,
-      even those outwardly unrelated to her, grouped themselves into a memory of
-      her sweetness. It was a blind and pagan love she had aroused&mdash;one
-      which recognized no standards, but craved only fulfilment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There were times when I stood back appalled, as a man who comes suddenly
-      to the edge of a precipice, when I realized where this love was leading.
-      Then my awakened conscience would remind me of my promise&mdash;that we
-      would be only friends.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      These were the thoughts which now made me glad, now sorrowful, as I rode
-      through the leafy lanes round Woadley at the side of my proud old
-      grandfather. I would steal guilty glances at him, marveling that no rumor
-      of what I was thinking had come to him by some secret process of
-      telepathy. He looked so cold and unimpassioned, I wondered if he had ever
-      loved a woman.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to love the Woadley country with the love which only comes from
-      ownership. The white Jacobean Hall, with the chestnuts and elm-trees
-      grouped about it and the doves fluttering above its gables, became the
-      starting point for all the future chapters of my romance. I began to see
-      life in its prosperous, substantial aspect. The stately dignity of my
-      environment had its subconscious effect upon my lawless turbulence. In the
-      morning I would wake with the rooks cawing and, going to the window, would
-      look out on the sunken garden, the peaches ripening against the walls, the
-      dew sparkling on the trim box-hedges, and the leaves beating the air like
-      wings of anchored butterflies as the wind from the sea stirred them.
-      Everywhere the discipline of history was apparent&mdash;the accumulated,
-      ordered effort of generations of men and women dead and gone. I had been
-      accustomed to regard myself as an isolated unit, responsible to myself
-      alone for my actions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The last evening on entering my bedroom, I noticed that there had been a
-      change in the ornaments on my dressing-table. A gold-framed miniature had
-      been placed in the middle of the table, face up, before the mirror. It was
-      a delicate, costly piece of work done on ivory. I held it to the light to
-      examine it, wondering how it had come there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It must have been taken in the heyday of my mother&rsquo;s girlhood, when all
-      the county bachelors were courting her. The gray eyes looked out on me
-      with bewitching frankness. The red lips were parted as if on the point of
-      widening into laughter. The long white neck held the head poised at an
-      angle half-arch, half-haughty. As I gazed on it, I saw that the similarity
-      between our features was extraordinary. It was my grandfather&rsquo;s way of
-      expressing to me the tenderness that he could not bring himself to utter.
-      .
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After breakfast next morning, he led the way into the library. He looked
-      graver and more unapproachable than ever. &ldquo;Mr. Cardover, your visit has
-      been a great pleasure to me. Mr. Seagirt will be here before you leave.
-      Before he comes I wish to say that I want no thanks for what I am doing.
-      It is more or less a business matter. All your life there have been
-      strained relations between myself and your father, which it is impossible
-      for any of us to overlook or forget. So far as you are concerned, you owe
-      him your loyalty. I do not propose to bring about unhappiness between a
-      father and a son by encouraging your friendship further. This week was a
-      necessary exception; I could not take the step I have now decided on
-      without knowing something about you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He cleared his throat and rose from his chair, as if afraid that I might
-      lay hold of him. He walked up and down the library, with his head bowed
-      and his right hand held palm out towards me in a gesture that asked for
-      silence. He halted by the big French window, on the blind before which
-      years ago I had watched his shadow fall. He stood with his back towards
-      me, looking down the avenue. Then he turned again to me. The momentary
-      emotion which had interrupted him had vanished. His voice was more cold
-      and polite than ever. Only the twitching of the muscles about his eyes
-      betrayed the storm of feeling that stirred him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In any case,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you would have inherited my baronetcy. Perhaps,
-      you did not know that. I could not alienate that from you. The patent
-      under which it is held allows it to pass, for one generation, through the
-      female line to the next male holder. Until recently my will was made in
-      the favor of my nephew, Lord Halloway. Circumstances have arisen which
-      lead me to believe that such a disposal of my estate would be unwise. We
-      Evrards have had our share of frailties, but we have always been noted as
-      clean men. Something that I saw about you in the papers brought your name
-      before my notice. I made up my mind then and there that, if you proved all
-      that I hoped for, I would make you my successor. As I have said, this is a
-      business transaction, in return for which I neither expect nor wish any
-      display of gratitude.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While we had been speaking I had heard the trot of a horse approaching.
-      Just as he finished Mr. Seagirt entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mr. Seagirt,&rdquo; said Sir Charles, &ldquo;I have explained the situation to Mr.
-      Cardover. Any communications he or I have to make to one another relative
-      to the estate, we will make through you. If you have brought the will, I
-      will sign it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was fingering his pen, when I startled him by speaking. &ldquo;Sir Charles,
-      you have spoken of not encouraging my friendship. I am a grown man and of
-      an age to choose my own friendships where I like, and this without offense
-      to my father. I have another loyalty, to my dead mother&mdash;a loyalty
-      which you share. If you care to trust me, I should like to be your
-      friend.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He took my hand in his and for one small moment let his left hand rest
-      lightly on my shoulder. We gazed frankly into one another&rsquo;s eyes without
-      pretense or disguise. Then the shame of revealing his true feelings
-      returned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We shall see. We shall see,&rdquo; he muttered hastily; &ldquo;I am an old man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;MOTHS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week had worked
-      wonders with Grandmother Cardover. She had fallen a victim to Vi&rsquo;s charm
-      and, in that strange way that old folks have, had warmed her age at the
-      fire of Vi&rsquo;s youth. There was an unmistakable change in her; the
-      somberness of her dress was lightened here and there with a dash of
-      colored ribbons. As long as I could remember, the only ornaments she had
-      permitted herself were of black jet, as befitted her widowed state. But
-      now the woman&rsquo;s instinct for self-decoration had come to life. Vi&rsquo;s
-      exquisite femininity had made her remember that she herself was a woman.
-      She had rummaged through her jewelry and found a large gold-set cameo
-      brooch, which she wore at her throat, and some rings, and a long gold
-      chain, which she now wore about her neck, from which her watch was
-      suspended.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi&rsquo;s vivid physical beauty and intense joy in life had broadened the
-      horizons of everyone in the house, and set them dreaming. Ruthita, coming
-      down from London, had at once become infatuated. From day to day she had
-      prolonged Vi&rsquo;s visit, now with one excuse, now another. They had brought
-      Dorrie down to stay with Vi at the shop&mdash;little Bee&rsquo;s Knee as my
-      Grannie called her, because she was so tiny and a bee&rsquo;s knee was the
-      smallest thing she could think of with which to compare her. It was many
-      years since a child&rsquo;s prattle had been heard about that quiet house. Vi&rsquo;s
-      comradeship with her little daughter finished the persuading of my
-      grandmother that she was safe and good. All virtuous women believe in the
-      virtue of a woman who is fond of children.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They were sitting down to lunch in the keeping-room when I entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, if it isn&rsquo;t Dante!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The greeting I received was in welcome contrast to the cold, guarded
-      reserve of the past seven days. A place was made for me at table between
-      my grandmother and Ruthita. It was a gay little party that waited,
-      watching me curiously across the dishes and plates, to hear my news. Just
-      then I preferred the cosiness of my grandmother&rsquo;s shop to the chilly
-      dignity of Woadley Hall. Outside the sunshine slanted across the
-      courtyard, leaving one half in shadow, the other golden white. The maid,
-      coming in and out from the kitchen in her rustling print-dress, with her
-      smiling country face, was a pleasanter sight than the butler at Woadley.
-      From the shop came the smell of tar and rope and new-made bread.
-      Everything was so frank and kindly, and unashamed of itself. Here in the
-      keeping-room of the ship-chandler&rsquo;s shop we were humanly intimate&mdash;&ldquo;coxy-loxy&rdquo;
-       as my grandmother would have expressed it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I told a sorrowful tale at first, which seemed to foreshadow a sorrowful
-      ending. I spoke of the stiff formality of my reception, the garnished
-      gentility which had marked my intercourse with Sir Charles, the withheld
-      confidence&mdash;the fact that my mother&rsquo;s name was scarcely mentioned.
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s hand sought mine beneath the table; I could feel the fingers
-      tremble.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;This morning,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he called me into his study. He told me that I
-      must leave within the hour and that our friendship could go no further.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The old rascal!&rdquo; exclaimed Grandmother Cardover, bringing down her knife
-      and fork on her plate with a clatter. &ldquo;What was he a-doin&rsquo;, gettin&rsquo; you
-      there to Woadley? He must &rsquo;a&rsquo; known what we all expected.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I tilted back my chair, putting on an expression of long-suffering
-      melancholy. &ldquo;He wanted to see what I was like, I suppose. His chief reason
-      was that he wanted to make a new will.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Babel broke loose. Why hadn&rsquo;t I told them earlier? Why had I harrowed up
-      their feelings for nothing? What were the particulars? I was cruel to have
-      kept them in suspense.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover was hysterical with joy. She wanted to run out into
-      the streets and tell everybody. She began with the maid in the kitchen,
-      and would have gone on to the men in the bake-house if I hadn&rsquo;t stopped
-      her by appealing to her curiosity, saying there was more to tell. As for
-      Ruthita, she just put her arms about me and laid her head on my shoulder,
-      crying for sheer gladness. Little Bee&rsquo;s Knee looked on open-mouthed,
-      shocked that grownups should behave so foolishly. Vi gazed at me with a
-      far-away stare in her eyes, picturing the might-have-beens, and I gazed
-      back at her across the gulf that widened between us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Discretion was thrown to the wind. When Vi gathered Dorrie to her and
-      began to excuse herself, she was told that she must stay and make one of
-      the family. Then the story was told again with the new perspective.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With shame and self-reproach I look back and perceive how carelessly I
-      accepted all Ruthita&rsquo;s admiration. My new good fortune promised nothing
-      for her; yet she could rejoice in it. In her shy girl&rsquo;s world, had I known
-      it, I figured as something between a faery-prince and a hero. Through me
-      she looked out into a more generous world of glamour than any she had
-      personally experienced. Poor little Ruthita, with her mouse-like
-      timidity! She had lived all her days in a walled-in garden, treading the
-      dull monotonous round of self-sacrificing duties. No one ever credited her
-      with a career of her own. No one stopped to think that she might have
-      dreams and a will of her own. They told her what to do and let their
-      gratitude be taken for granted. She humored my father when he was
-      discouraged, did the housekeeping, and took shelter behind the superior
-      social grace of the Snow Lady. We all loved her, but we made the mistake
-      of not telling her&mdash;we supposed she knew. All the strong things that
-      men and women do together, all love&rsquo;s comedy and tragedy, were so much
-      hearsay to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That afternoon and evening she sat beside me holding my hand with frank
-      affection, making me feel that in loving Vi I was stealing something that
-      belonged to her. More than that, I was feeling for this woman, who had
-      been nothing to me a few weeks ago, a quality of kindness and
-      consideration that I had always withheld from the child-friend who had
-      tiptoed her way up to womanhood beside me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After tea we mounted to the drawing-room, which was over the shop and
-      faced the street. It was usually occupied only on Sundays and feast-days,
-      or when a visiting Methodist minister had been apportioned to my
-      grandmother for entertainment. Faded engravings of sacred subjects and
-      simpering females elaborately framed, hung upon the walls. On the
-      mantelshelf stood some quaint specimens of Ransby china&mdash;red-roofed
-      cottages with grapes ripening above the porch, and a lover coming up the
-      path while his lady watched him from the window. The chairs were
-      upholstered in woolwork on canvas, which my grandmother had done in her
-      youth. In one corner stood a heavy rosewood piano on which all the family
-      portraits were arranged. In this room comfort was sacrificed to appearance&mdash;the
-      furniture was sedate rather than genial. Nothing was haphazard or awry.
-      The mats and antimacassars never budged an inch from their places. No
-      smell of beer, or cheese, or baking bread vulgarized the sacred
-      respectability of its atmosphere.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Here, as we sat together talking, the light began to fade. Heavy footsteps
-      of sailors in their sea-boots, passing down the street from the harbor to
-      the cottages, only emphasized the quiet. We watched the sky grow pink
-      behind the masts of shipping, then green, then gray. Cordage and rigging
-      were etched distinctly against the gloom of the oncoming night. At the top
-      of the street a light sprang up, then another, then another. The
-      lamp-lighter with his long pole and ladder passed by. Now with the heavy
-      tread of men&rsquo;s feet the tip-a-tap of girls&rsquo; footsteps began to mingle.
-      Sometimes a snatch of laughter would reach us; then, as if afraid of the
-      sound it made, it died abruptly away. While we talked in subdued voices,
-      it seemed to me that all the sailor-lovers with their lassies had
-      conspired to steal by the house that night. I fell to wondering what it
-      felt like to slip your arm about the waist of a woman you loved, feel her
-      warmth and trust and nearness, feel her head droop back against your
-      shoulder, see her face flash up in the starlight and know that, while your
-      lips were trembling against hers, she was abandoning herself soul and body
-      to you in the summer dusk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie had crept into her mother&rsquo;s lap. Her soft breathing told that she
-      was sleeping. One small hand, with fingers crumpled, rested against her
-      mother&rsquo;s throat. Someone had called to see Grandmother Cardover, so Vi,
-      Ruthita, and I were left alone together. Sitting back in our chairs out
-      of reach of the street-lamp, we could not see the expression on one
-      another&rsquo;s faces.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I would give all the world to be you, Mrs. Carpenter,&rdquo; Ruthita whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To be me! Why? I sometimes get very tired of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If I were you I should have Dorrie. It must be very sweet to be a mother.
-      Why is it that she always calls you Vi and never mother?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She picked that up from her father. I never corrected her because&mdash;well,
-      because somehow I like it. It makes me seem younger.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t need to <i>seem</i> young,&rdquo; I interrupted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How old do you think I am?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About the same age as myself and Ruthita.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laughed. &ldquo;That couldn&rsquo;t be; Dorrie is eight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then I give up guessing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I
-      married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mother married early,&rdquo; said Ruthita, &ldquo;and my papa was only twenty at the
-      time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi made no answer. The silence grew awkward. We could almost hear one
-      another&rsquo;s thoughts trying to hide. Why had she explained in that tone of
-      half-apology, &ldquo;I was little more than a child; you see, when I married.&rdquo;
-       Why didn&rsquo;t she say something now? Was it because an early marriage had
-      proved for her disastrous? Then, if it had, what moral obligation
-      separated us? Who was this husband who could dispense with her for a year,
-      and yet had the power to stretch out his arm across the Atlantic and
-      thrust me aside?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled her face and
-      smoldered in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young
-      girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an ideal
-      lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin; it had never been a man&rsquo;s
-      possession. It was almost mine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s remark about the happiness of early marriages was forgotten,
-      when Vi returned to the subject. &ldquo;They may be sometimes,&rdquo; she said,
-      speaking doubtfully.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had
-      divulged a secret, she hurried into an implied defense of her husband.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I had a letter from Mr. Carpenter this morning. He&rsquo;s lonely. He says he
-      can&rsquo;t bear to be without me any longer. He wants me to return home at
-      once. He&rsquo;s not seen Dorrie for nearly a year. He&rsquo;s afraid she&rsquo;ll forget
-      him entirely. If I don&rsquo;t go to him, he says he&rsquo;ll come and fetch me. It&rsquo;s
-      been horrid of me to stay away so long. When we left, we only intended to
-      be gone for three months. Somehow the time lengthened. I wanted to see so
-      much. He&rsquo;s been too easy with me. He&rsquo;s been awfully kind. He always has
-      been kind. He treats me like a spoilt child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not heard the
-      creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see my grandmother
-      standing in the doorway. Vi turned to Ruthita with a pretense of gaiety,
-      &ldquo;No wonder you English don&rsquo;t understand us. Don&rsquo;t you think that American
-      husbands are very patient?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I do,&rdquo; said Ruthita. &ldquo;What makes them so different from English
-      husbands?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They love their wives.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was impossible to tell from the bantering tone in Vi&rsquo;s voice, whether
-      she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover took her literally. Her national pride was touched.
-      She believed that an aspersion had been cast on the affection of all
-      married Englishmen. She advanced into the room with suspicions aroused,
-      bristling with morality. &ldquo;If that&rsquo;s what they call love in America,&rdquo; she
-      snorted, &ldquo;then it&rsquo;s glad I am that I was born in Ransby. &lsquo;They shall be
-      one flesh&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s what the Holy Book says about marriage. And &rsquo;ow
-      can you be one flesh if you stay away from one another a twelvemonth at a
-      time? Why, when my Will&rsquo;am was alive, I never slept a night away from &rsquo;im,
-      from the day we was married to the day he died.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The darkness about her seemed to quiver with indignation. I could see her
-      gray curls bobbing, and hear the keys hanging from her waist jangle, as
-      she trembled. Ruthita cowered close to me, shocked and frightened. Dorrie
-      woke and began to whimper to be taken to bed. We all waited for a natural
-      expression of anger from Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She set Dorrie on to her feet very gently, whispering to her mothering
-      words, telling her not to cry. Drawing herself up, she faced into the
-      darkness. When she spoke there was a sweet, low pleading in her voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mrs. Cardover, you took me too seriously. I&rsquo;m sorry. You misunderstood
-      me. I believe all that you have said&mdash;a wife ought to be her
-      husband&rsquo;s companion. There have been reasons for my long absence, which I
-      cannot explain; if I did, you might not understand them. But I want <i>you</i>
-      always to believe well of me. I have never had such kindness from any
-      woman as you have given me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I heard my Grannie sniffle. Vi must have heard her. She left Dorrie and,
-      running across the room, put her arms about her. I heard them blaming
-      themselves, and taking everything back, the way women do when they ask
-      forgiveness. I lifted Dorrie into my arms, and Ruthita and I tiptoed from
-      the room.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently they came down to us. Grandmother Cardover was smiling
-      comically, as though she was rather pleased at what had happened. Vi said
-      that she must be going. Ruthita and I volunteered to accompany her back to
-      her lodgings. So the storm in the tea-cup ended, leaving me with new
-      materials for conjecture and reflection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the way up the High Street we chatted volubly, trying to overlay what
-      had occurred with a new impression. We talked against time and without
-      sincerity. When we had reached the black flint house and the door had
-      shut, Ruthita snuggled close to me with a relieved little sigh. Ever since
-      my return from Woadley she had been waiting for this moment of privacy.
-      With a sweet sisterly air of proprietorship she slipped her arm through
-      mine. We turned down a score and struck out across the denes to the north
-      beach, where we could be quiet. A wet wind from the sea pattered about our
-      faces, giving Ruthita an excuse to cling yet more closely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked the
-      fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble in her self-esteem, too
-      self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned
-      something more lasting than mere physical beauty&mdash;the loveliness of a
-      pure spirit looking out from her quiet eyes. She was one of those domestic
-      saints, unaware of their own goodness, that one sometimes finds in
-      middle-class families; women who are never heard of, who live only through
-      their influence on their menfolk&rsquo;s lives.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in
-      its carriage. Her complexion white, but ready to suffuse with color at the
-      least sign of appreciation. Her glory was in her hair, which was black and
-      abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her feet and
-      hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never told her any
-      of these flattering observations, which would have meant so much if put
-      into words. Brothers don&rsquo;t&mdash;and I was as good as her brother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think,&rdquo; said Ruthita, &ldquo;that there&rsquo;s something awfully queer
-      about Mrs. Carpenter&rsquo;s marriage? I&rsquo;ve been with her nearly a week now, and
-      I&rsquo;ve never heard her mention her husband until to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And Dorrie doesn&rsquo;t speak of him either.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ve noticed that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then Ruthita surprised me. &ldquo;Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the wrong
-      man must be purgatory.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, to hear you speak one&rsquo;d suppose you&rsquo;d been in love. Have you ever
-      thought that you&rsquo;ll have to marry some day?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course I have.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;ll he have to be like?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She held her tongue. My jauntiness had made her shy. &ldquo;Come, Ruthie,&rdquo; I
-      said, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you. I hate to own that you&rsquo;re grown up. I
-      didn&rsquo;t think you&rsquo;d given a thought to marriage. Tell me, what&rsquo;ll he have
-      to be like?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore a
-      hunted look of cornered perplexity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never spoken of these things even to mother,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;They all
-      treat me as though I were still a child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the
-      eagerness for confession on her trembling mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed at the
-      transformation. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly tranquillity had
-      slipped aside; I saw all the longing of her unnoticed womanhood focused
-      for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled out to sea again. I
-      repeated, &ldquo;What must he be like?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. &ldquo;I think he
-      must be like you,&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of all answers that was the last I had expected. I had thought myself on
-      the brink of some great discovery&mdash;that she, too, had some secret
-      lover. I slipped my arm about her and we strolled on through the darkness
-      in silence. Ahead the harbor-lights, reflected across the water, drew
-      nearer. We climbed the beach and the sea-wall, and made our way across the
-      denes to the town.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re all wrong,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Some day, when you do fall in love, you&rsquo;ll
-      get a better standard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered the lamp-lit town. For the rest of the evening we did not say
-      much. I was thinking how easy it is for two people to live always together
-      and yet never to understand each other. Who would have guessed that little
-      Ruthita had this hunger to be loved?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While we were seated at breakfast next morning, someone walked across the
-      shop and tapped on the door of the keeping-room. Before any of us could
-      spring up, Lawyer Seagirt entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Keep your seats. Keep your seats,&rdquo; he said cheerily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure you&rsquo;ll
-      excuse this early call when you hear what I&rsquo;ve come about.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      With his back to the empty fireplace, he straddled the hearthrug, bowing
-      first to my grandmother, then to Ruthita. Then he settled his gaze on me,
-      with the beaming benevolence of a bachelor uncle. He cleared his throat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ahem! Ahem! Mr. Cardover, I congratulate you. After you left yesterday,
-      Sir Charles spoke of you with considerable feeling. He expressed
-      sentiments concerning you which from him meant much&mdash;much more than
-      if uttered by any other man. For many years he has honored me with his
-      confidence, yet on no occasion do I remember him to have displayed so much
-      emotion. Of course all this is strictly between ourselves and must go no
-      further.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Like three mandarins we nodded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It is my pleasant duty to have to inform you, Mr. Cardover, that Sir
-      Charles has been pleased to make you an allowance. It will be paid
-      quarterly on the first day of January, April, July, and October, and will
-      be delivered to you through my hands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Again he halted. Grandmother Cardover, losing patience, forgot her
-      manners. &ldquo;God bless my soul,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;how the man maunders! How
-      much?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; said Lawyer Seagirt, &ldquo;the amount is four hundred pounds per
-      annum.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The good man had never found himself so popular. He was made to sit down
-      to table with us, despite his protests that he had breakfasted already.
-      The money might have been coming out of his own pocket for all the fuss we
-      made of him. Every now and then the fact of my prosperity would strike
-      Grandmother Cardover afresh. Throwing up her hands she would exclaim,
-      &ldquo;Four &rsquo;undred pounds, and he&rsquo;s got two &rsquo;undred already from
-      his fellowship! It&rsquo;s more than I&rsquo;ve ever earned in any year with all my
-      wear and tear. Just you wait till his pa &rsquo;ears about it!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That morning I took Ruthita to Norwich. She was puzzled when I told her to
-      get ready to come. All the way over in the train she kept trying to guess
-      my purpose. The truth was I had contrasted her with Vi. Vi was not only
-      exquisite in herself, but as expensively exquisite as fine clothes could
-      make her. Ruthita, on the other hand, had the appearance of making the
-      most genteel impression at the minimum expenditure of money. My father&rsquo;s
-      means were narrow, and she was not his daughter; therefore the Snow Lady
-      insisted on making most of her own and Ruthita&rsquo;s dresses. Rigid economies
-      had been exercised; stuffs had been turned, and dyed, and made over again.
-      Now that I could afford it, I was determined to see what fine feathers
-      could do for this shy little sister.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the gowns came home, even Ruthita was surprised at the prettiness
-      that filmy muslins and French laces accentuated in her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My word, Ruthie, you&rsquo;re a dainty little armful. You won&rsquo;t have to wait
-      long for that lover now,&rdquo; I told her, when she came down into the
-      keeping-room to show herself to me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She pouted and made a face at me like a child. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want lovers,&rdquo; she
-      laughed. &ldquo;I only want my big brother.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When she had gone upstairs my grandmother turned to me. &ldquo;You can go too
-      far with her, Dannie.&rdquo; She only called me Dannie when she was saying
-      something serious or a little wounding. &ldquo;You can go too far with her,
-      Dannie. I should advise you to be careful.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What are you driving at?&rdquo; I asked bluntly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Just this, that however you may pretend to one another, she isn&rsquo;t your
-      sister and you aren&rsquo;t her brother. Any day you may wake something up in
-      her that you didn&rsquo;t mean to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stuff and nonsense,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;At heart she&rsquo;s only a child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All I can say is you&rsquo;re going the right way to work to make her a woman,&rdquo;
-       my grandmother said shortly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That afternoon I persuaded Ruthita to put on all her finery and come for a
-      walk on the esplanade. I wanted her to lose her timidity and to discover
-      for herself that she was as good as anybody. I felt a boyish pride in
-      walking beside her; she was my creation&mdash;I had dressed her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had passed the pier and entered the long trim walk, lined with
-      sculptured Neptunes, which runs along the seafront from Ransby to
-      Pakewold, when a figure which had a morbid interest for me came in sight.
-      It was that of a buxom broad-hipped woman, handsome in her own bold
-      fashion, leading by the hand an over-dressed, half-witted child. As she
-      drew nearer, the rouge on her face became discernible. She strolled with a
-      swagger through the fashionable crowd, eyeing the men with sly effrontery.
-      She was known in Ransby by the nickname of &ldquo;Lady Halloway.&rdquo; She was the
-      bathing-machine man&rsquo;s daughter, and had been the victim of one of my
-      cousin&rsquo;s earliest amorous adventures. It was commonly believed that he was
-      the father of her child.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since the news had got abroad that I had supplanted Halloway in my
-      grandfather&rsquo;s favor, she had glowered at me, with undisguised hostility,
-      whenever we met.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As we passed, Ruthita&rsquo;s parasol just touched her. It was the woman&rsquo;s
-      fault, for she had crowded us purposely. I raised my hat, muttering an
-      apology, and was on the point of moving forward, when she wrenched the
-      parasol from Ruthita&rsquo;s hand and flung it to the ground. Ruthita stared at
-      her too surprised to say a word. The woman herself, for the moment, was
-      too infuriated to express herself. All the bitterness of a deserted
-      mistress, the pent-up resentment against years of contempt and the false
-      pride with which she had brazened out her shame among her fellow-townsmen,
-      came to the surface and found an excuse for utterance. People nearest to
-      us halted in their promenade and, gathering round, began to form the
-      nucleus of an audience. An audience for her oratory was what &ldquo;Lady
-      Halloway&rdquo; most desired. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth and her
-      hands were clenched; anger re-created her into something almost
-      magnificent and wholly brutal. When she spoke, she addressed herself to
-      Ruthita, but her eyes were fixed on mine in vixenish defiance. The
-      over-dressed, top-heavy oddity at her side steadied himself by clinging to
-      her skirts, gazing from one to the other of us with a vacant, wondering
-      expression.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I picked up Ruthita&rsquo;s parasol and handed it back to her, whispering that
-      she should go on. The woman heard me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, go on, my fine lady,&rdquo; she sneered in savage sarcasm. &ldquo;Go on. You&rsquo;re
-      too good ter be zeen a-talkin&rsquo; wi&rsquo; the likes o&rsquo; me. Yer know wot I am. I&rsquo;m
-      a woman wot&rsquo;s fallen. I ain&rsquo;t too bad, &rsquo;owsomever, for Mr. Cardover
-      to diddle me out o&rsquo; my property. He&rsquo;s a grand man, Mr. Cardover, wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is
-      high airs and proud ways. And where do &rsquo;e get them from, I ax. From
-      old Cardover&rsquo;s bake-&rsquo;ouse around the corner ter be sure, and from &rsquo;is
-      mawther, wot ran orf wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is father and &rsquo;ad the good luck
-      ter get married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I interrupted her. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m very sorry for you,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;but you&rsquo;ve got to
-      stop this at once. You don&rsquo;t know what you&rsquo;re saying, neither does anyone
-      else. Please let us pass.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stepped in front of us with her plump arms held up in fighting
-      attitude, blocking our path.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Zorry for me. Zorry for me,&rdquo; she laughed, still addressing Ruthita. &ldquo;I
-      doan&rsquo;t want &rsquo;is zorrow. Your man&rsquo;s a thief, my gal, and it&rsquo;s the
-      likes o&rsquo; him wot despises me&mdash;me as should be Lady Halloway if I &rsquo;ad
-      me rights, me as should be livin&rsquo; at Woadley &rsquo;All as zoon as Sir
-      Charles be dead and gorn. &rsquo;E says &rsquo;e&rsquo;s zorry for me, wi&rsquo; the
-      lawful heir, the child &rsquo;e &rsquo;as robbed, a-standin&rsquo; in &rsquo;is
-      sight. The imperdence of &rsquo;im!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She gave the idiot&rsquo;s hand a vicious jerk, swinging him in front of her, so
-      that the lawful heir began to holloa. Someone who had newly joined the
-      crowd, inquired what was up.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wot&rsquo;s up, you axed. This gentleman, as &rsquo;e calls &rsquo;isself,
-      told &rsquo;is gal to barge inter me. That&rsquo;s wot&rsquo;s up, and I won&rsquo;t stand
-      it. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s robbed my kid, wot was heir, o&rsquo; wot belongs ter &rsquo;im.
-      And &rsquo;e&rsquo;s robbed my &rsquo;usband, for &rsquo;e&rsquo;s as good as my &rsquo;usband
-      in the sight o&rsquo; almighty Gawd. &rsquo;E treats me like a dorg and tells
-      &rsquo;is gal to barge inter me, and &rsquo;e thinks I&rsquo;ll stand it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While she had been exploding I had tried to back away from her, but she
-      followed. Now a policeman&rsquo;s helmet showed above the heads of the
-      spectators. Just then the bathing-machine man strolled up from the beach
-      out of curiosity. Seeing his daughter the center of disturbance, he fought
-      his way to the front and seized her by the wrists with a threatening
-      gesture. &ldquo;Yer fool, Lottie,&rdquo; he panted, &ldquo;when are yer goin&rsquo; ter be done
-      a-disgracin&rsquo; o&rsquo; me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For a moment she was cowed. But as he dragged her away to the
-      bathing-machines, she tore one hand free and shook her fist at me. &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s
-      comin&rsquo; down to-morrer,&rdquo; she shouted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve writ and told &rsquo; im wot
-      you&rsquo;ve been a-doin&rsquo; at Woadley.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita was trembling all over with disgust and excitement. I took her
-      back to the shop. When I was alone with my grandmother I asked her what
-      kind of a woman Lottie was.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,&rdquo; she answered,
-      &ldquo;until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day I had a chance of judging for myself the worth of Lord Halloway.
-      In the afternoon, just as I was going out, I was told that he was waiting
-      to see me in the shop. I went to meet him prepared for trouble. I found a
-      tall, aristocratic man of about thirty-five, filling up the doorway,
-      looking out into the street with his legs wide apart. He was swinging his
-      cane and whistling softly. The impression one got from his back-view was
-      that he was extremely athletic. When he turned round I saw that he was
-      magnificently proportioned, handsome, high complexioned, and graceful to
-      the point of affectation. When he smiled and held out his hand, his manner
-      was so winning that every prejudice was for the moment swamped. He had the
-      instinctive art of charm.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Awfully sorry to have to meet you like this for the first time,&rdquo; he said.
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re second-cousins, aren&rsquo;t we? Strange how we&rsquo;ve managed to miss one
-      another, and being members of the same college and all.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He had removed his hat, and was leaning against the door-jamb, with his
-      legs crossed. I watched him narrowly while he was talking. I had expected
-      to see a cultured degenerate&mdash;the worst type of bounder. Instead of
-      being exhausted and nervous with a spurious energy, he was almost military
-      in his upright carriage. He had a daredevil air of careless command, which
-      was so much a part of his breeding that it was impossible to resent it. A
-      man would have summed up his vices and virtues leniently by saying that he
-      was a gay dog. A good woman might well have fallen in love with him, and
-      excused the attraction that his wickedness had for her by saying that she
-      was trying to convert him. The only sign of weakness I could detect was a
-      light inconsequent laugh, strangely out of keeping with the virility of
-      his height and breadth; it was like the vain and meaningless giggle of a
-      silly woman.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I asked him if he would not come inside. He shook his head, saying that
-      this was not a social visit, but that he had come to apologize. Then he
-      faced me with an openness of countenance which impressed me as manly, but
-      which might have been due to shamelessness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I want to tell you how sorry I am for the beastly row you had yesterday.
-      Lottie&rsquo;s not a bad sort, but she gets fancies and they run away with her.
-      I&rsquo;ve talked with her, and I can promise you it won&rsquo;t happen again. She&rsquo;s
-      been writing me angry letters for the past week, ever since you made it up
-      with Sir Charles. I was afraid something like this would happen, so I
-      thought I&rsquo;d just run down. I wish I&rsquo;d managed to get here earlier.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He stopped suddenly, gazing toward the keeping-room door. Ruthita came out
-      and crossed the shop. She had on one of her new dresses and was on her way
-      to tea with Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He followed her with his eyes till she was gone. There was nothing
-      insulting in the gallantry with which he admired her; he seemed rather
-      surprised&mdash;that was all. For a minute he continued conversing with me
-      in an absent-minded manner, then he wished me good-by, hoping that we
-      might meet again in Oxford. I walked out on to the pavement and watched
-      him down the street. Then I hurriedly fetched my hat and followed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It might have been accidental and I may have been over-suspicious, but his
-      path lay in the same direction as Ruthita&rsquo;s; he never walked so quickly as
-      to overtake her or so slowly as not to keep her well in sight. When she
-      entered the old flint house, he hesitated, as though the purpose of his
-      errand was gone; then, seeing me out of the tail of his eye, he turned
-      leisurely to the left down a score. Next day I heard that he had departed
-      from Ransby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not rid myself for many days of the impression this incident had
-      created. Like a Hogarth canvas, it typified for me the ugly nemesis of
-      illicit passion in all its grotesque nakedness. There was horror in
-      connecting such a man as Halloway with such a woman as Lottie. The horror
-      was emphasized by the child. Yet Lottie had once been &ldquo;as nice and kind a
-      little girl as there was in Ransby,&rdquo; until he destroyed her. Doubtless at
-      the time, their sinning had seemed sweet and excusable&mdash;much the same
-      as the love of any lover for any lass. Only the result had proved its
-      bitterness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This thought made me go with a tightened rein. When impulse tempted me to
-      give way, the memory of that woman with her half-witted child, brazening
-      out her shame before a crowd of pleasure-seekers on the sunlit esplanade,
-      sprang into my mind and turned me back like the flame of a sword.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the late
-      afternoon of a September day. We had had tea early at the black flint
-      house, Vi, Ruthita, Dorrie, and I. After tea a walk had been proposed; but
-      Dorrie had said she was &ldquo;tho tired&rdquo; and Ruthita had volunteered to stay
-      with her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For two months Vi and I had never allowed ourselves the chance of being
-      alone together; yet every day we had met. To her I was &ldquo;Mr. Cardover&rdquo;; to
-      me she was &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter.&rdquo; Even my grandmother had ceased to suspect
-      that any liking deeper than friendship existed between us. She loved to
-      have young people about her, and therefore encouraged Vi and Dorrie. She
-      thought that we were perfectly safe now that we had Ruthita. Through the
-      last two months we four had been inseparable, rambling about, lazy and
-      contented. Our conversations had all been general, Vi and I had never
-      trusted ourselves to talk of things personal. If, when walking in the
-      country, Ruthita and Dorrie had run on ahead to gather wild flowers, we
-      had made haste to follow them, so betraying to each other the tantalizing
-      fear we had one of another. We were vigilant in postponing the crisis of
-      our danger, but neither of us had the strength to bring the danger to an
-      end by leaving Ransby, lest our separation should be forever.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If our tongues were silent, there were other ways of communicating. Did I
-      take her hand to help her over a stile, it trembled. Did I lift her wraps
-      and lean over her in placing them about her shoulders, I could see the
-      faint rise of her color. Her eyes spoke, mocked, laughed, dared, and
-      pleaded, when no other eyes were watching.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since the one occasion that has been related, Vi had not mentioned her
-      husband. Whether he was still urging her to return, or had extended her
-      respite, or was on his way to fetch her, I had no means of guessing. I
-      lived in a secret delirium of exalted happiness and torturing foreboding.
-      Each day as it ended was tragic with farewell. The hour was coming when I
-      must return to Oxford and when she must return to America. Soon we should
-      have nothing but memories. However well we might disguise our motives for
-      dawdling in Ransby, it could not be long before their hollowness would be
-      detected. Already Sir Charles had ceased to serve me as an excuse; I had
-      not seen him since my departure from Woadley.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The very suavity of our interchanged courtesies and unsatisfying pretense
-      of frank friendship gave edge to my yearning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had come at last to the breaking-point. I did not know it. I still told
-      myself that we were both too honorable to step aside: that we had too much
-      to lose by it; that I loved her too dearly to let her be anything to me
-      unless she could be my wife. The casuistry of this attitude was patent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As my hunger increased I grew more daring. No thoughts that were not of
-      her could find room in my mind. I had lost my interest in books&mdash;they
-      were mere reports on the thing I was enduring. Nature was only my
-      experience made external on a lower physical plane. My imagination swept
-      me on to depths and heights which once would have terrified. I grew
-      accustomed to picturing myself as the hero of situations which I had
-      formerly studied with puzzled amazement in other men&rsquo;s lives.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The face of Lottie, encountered daily in the gray streets of Ransby, which
-      had at first restrained me by reminding me of sin&rsquo;s ultimate ugliness,
-      ceased to warn me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Ruthita made the suggestion that we should go for our walk alone
-      together, I had expected a prompt refusal from Vi. She rose from the
-      disordered tea-table and walked over to the window, turning her back on
-      us. I could see by the poise of her head that she was gazing down the
-      gardens, across the denes to the wreck, where everything important had
-      taken place. I could guess the memories that were in her mind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From where I sat I could see her head, framed in the window against the
-      slate-colored expanse of water, the curved edge of the horizon, and the
-      orange-tinted sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Creeping across the panes under full sail came a fleet of fishing smacks,
-      losing themselves one by one as they advanced into the tangled amber of
-      her hair. I counted them, telling myself that she would speak when the
-      foremost had re-appeared on the other side. Then it occurred to me that
-      she was waiting for me to urge her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter,&rdquo; I said casually, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you come? It&rsquo;s going to be a
-      jolly evening. We can go by way of St. Margaret&rsquo;s Church to the Broads and
-      watch the sunset.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Without moving her body, she commenced to drum with her fingers on the
-      panes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That would take time,&rdquo; she procrastinated. &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t get back before
-      eight. Who&rsquo;d put Dorrie Darling to bed?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry,&rdquo; Ruthita broke in with eagerness. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d love to do it. Dorrie
-      and I&rsquo;ll take care of one another and play on the sands till bedtime.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yeth, do go,&rdquo; lisped Dorrie. &ldquo;I want Ruthita all to mythelf.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      These two who had stood between us, for whose sakes we had striven to do
-      right, were pushing wide the door that led into the freedom of temptation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A shiver ran through her. She turned. The battle against desire in her
-      face was ended.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; she said slowly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Left in the room by myself while they went upstairs to dress, I did not
-      think; I abandoned myself to sensations. I could hear their footsteps go
-      back and forth above my head. The running ones were Dorrie&rsquo;s. The light,
-      quick ones were Ruthita&rsquo;s. The deliberate ones, postponing and anticipating
-      forbidden pleasures&mdash;they were Vi&rsquo;s. The sound of her footsteps, so
-      stealthy and determined, combined with the long gray sight of the German
-      Ocean, sent my mind back to Guinevere&rsquo;s description of her sinning, which
-      covered all our joint emotions:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent30">
-      &ldquo;As if one should
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Down to a cool sea on a summer day;
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Until one surely reached the sea at last,
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea, all past
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Washed utterly out by the dear waves o&rsquo;ercast,
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      In a lone sea, far off from any ships!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She entered. She was alone. The others were not yet ready. I could not
-      speak to her. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely. Her voice had the distressed
-      note of hurry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We hastened up the High Street like fugitives. Windows of the stern red
-      houses were eyes. They knew all about us. They had watched my mother
-      before me; by experience they had become wise. At the top of the town we
-      turned to the left, going inland towards the hill on which the tower of
-      St. Margaret&rsquo;s rose gray against the sky, beyond which lay the open
-      country. We did not walk near together, but with a foot between us. Now we
-      slackened our pace and I observed her out of the corners of my eyes. She
-      was dressed in white, all billowy and blowy, with a wrap of white lace
-      thrown over her shoulders, and a broad white hat from which drooped a blue
-      ostrich feather. Whatever had been her intention, she looked bridal. The
-      slim slope of her shoulders was unmatronly. Her long neck curved forward,
-      giving her an attitude of listening demureness. Her mass of hair and large
-      hat scarcely permitted me to see her face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came to St. Margaret&rsquo;s and passed. Was it a sense of the religious
-      restraints that it represented, that made us hurry our footsteps? We
-      turned off into a maze of shadowy lanes. We were happier now that we were
-      safe from observation. We could no longer fancy that we saw our own
-      embarrassment reflected as suspicion in strangers&rsquo; eyes. We drew together.
-      My hand brushed hers. She did not start away. I let my fingers close on
-      it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The golden glow of evening was in the tree-tops. The first breath of
-      autumn had scorched their leaves to scarlet and russet. Behind their
-      branches long scarves of cloud hung pink and green and blood-red. Far
-      away, on either side, the yellow standing wheat rustled. Nearer, where it
-      had been cut, the soil showed brown beneath the close-cropped stubble.
-      Honeysuckle, climbing through the hedges, threw out its fragrance. Evening
-      birds were calling. Distantly we could hear the swish of scythes and the
-      cries of harvesters to their horses. Hidden from the field-workers, we
-      stole between the hedges with the radiant peace of the sunset-on our
-      faces. As yet we had said nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew her hand free from mine and halted. Scrambling up the bank, she
-      pulled down a spray of black-berries. I held the branch while she plucked
-      them. We dawdled up the dusty lane, eating them from her hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said softly, &ldquo;we have tried to be only friends. What next?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was smiling. She knew that I did not hint at parting. She smiled back
-      into my eyes; then looked away sharply. I put my arm about her and drew
-      her to me. Without a struggle, she lifted up to me her mouth, all stained
-      with blackberries like any school-girl&rsquo;s. I kissed her; a long contented
-      sigh escaped her. &ldquo;We have fought against it,&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, dearest, we have fought against it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A rabbit popped out into the road; seeing us, it doubled and scuttled back
-      into the hedge. The smoke of a cottage drifted up in spirals. We
-      approached it, walking sedate and separate. A young mother, seated on the
-      threshold, was suckling her child. A man, who talked to her while he
-      worked, was trimming a rose-bed. They glanced up at us with a friendly
-      understanding smile, as much as to say, &ldquo;We were as you are now last
-      September.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When a corner of the lane had hidden us, I again placed my arm about her.
-      &ldquo;Tell me, what have you to lose by it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lose by it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. I know so little of your life. What is he like?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My husband?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She flushed as she named him. I nodded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He is kind.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You always say that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I say it because it is all that there is to say. He is a good man, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And in spite of that <i>but</i> you married him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I was married to him. He was over forty, and I was only eighteen at
-      the time. He was in love with me. My father was a banker; he lent my
-      father money to tide him over a crisis. Then they told me I must marry
-      him. I was only a child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you never loved him? Say you never loved him!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She raised her head from my shoulder and looked me in the face with her
-      fearless eyes. &ldquo;I never loved him. I have been a sort of daughter to him.
-      I scarcely knew what marriage meant until&mdash;until it was all over.
-      Then for a time I hated him; I felt myself degraded. Dorrie came. I fought
-      against her coming. Then I grew reconciled. I tried to be true to him
-      because he was her father. He made me respect him, because he was so
-      patient. Dante, when I think of him, I become ashamed of what we are
-      doing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her nostrils quivered, betraying her suppressed emotion. She had spoken
-      with effort.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why did you leave him? Did you intend to go back to him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She became painfully confused.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why do you put so many questions?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you trust me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi, I trust you so much that for you I&rsquo;m going to alter all my life. I&rsquo;m
-      so glad that you too are willing to be daring.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then why do you question me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I want to be more sure that he has no moral right to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I left him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;because I could no longer refuse him. He was
-      breaking down my resistance with his terrible kindness. If he had only
-      been unjust and had given me some excuse for anger, I could have endured
-      it. But day after day went by with its comfort, and its heartache, and its
-      outward smoothness. And day after day he was looking older and more
-      patient, and making me feel sorrier for him. He got to calling me &lsquo;My
-      child.&rsquo; People said how beautiful we were together. I couldn&rsquo;t bear to
-      stay and watch him humbling himself and breaking his heart about me. So I
-      asked him to let me go traveling with Dorrie. He let me go, thinking that
-      absence and a change of scene might teach me how to love him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She hid her face against me. It was burning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He thinks you are coming back again?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He thinks so in every letter he writes. I thought so too when I went
-      away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi, you never wear a wedding ring. Why is that if you meant to return to
-      him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wanted to be young just for a little while. They made me a woman when I
-      was only a child.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And that was why you taught Dorrie to call you Vi?&rdquo; The pity of it got me
-      by the throat. I kissed her eyes as she leant against me. &ldquo;Poor girl, then
-      let us forget it.&rdquo; She struggled feebly, making a half-hearted effort to
-      tear herself away. &ldquo;But we can&rsquo;t forget it,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t,
-      however we try. There&rsquo;s Dorrie. He loves her terribly. He would give me
-      anything, except Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And we both love Dorrie,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;we could never do anything that would
-      spoil her life&mdash;that would make her ashamed of us one day. You&rsquo;re
-      trembling like a leaf, Vi. You mustn&rsquo;t look afraid of me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Gradually she nestled closer in my embrace. It was not me that she had
-      feared, but consequences. We became sparing in our words; words stated
-      things too boldly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Coming to the end of the lane, we sauntered out on to a broad white road.
-      It wound across long flat marshes where the wind from the sea is never
-      quiet. The marshes are intersected with dikes and ditches, dotted with
-      windbreaks for the cattle, and bridged here and there with planks. One can
-      see for miles. There is nothing to break the distance save square Norman
-      towers of embowered churches in solitary hamlets and oddly barrel-shaped
-      windmills with sails turning, for all the world like stout giants,
-      gesticulating and pummeling the sky. Here the orchestra of nature is
-      always practising; its strings, except when a storm is brewing, are muted.
-      From afar comes the constant bass of the sea, striking the land in deep
-      arpeggios. Drawing nearer is the soprano humming of the wind or the
-      staccato cry of some startled bird. Then comes a multitude of intermittent
-      soloists,&mdash;frogs croaking, reeds rustling, cattle lowing, the
-      rumbling wheels of a wagon. They clamor in subdued ecstasy, now singly and
-      now together. Through all their song runs the murmuring accompaniment of
-      water lapping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In gleaming curves across this green wilderness flow fresh-water lagoons
-      and rivers which are known as the Broads. Dotted with water-lilies,
-      barriered with bulrushes, they reflect the sky&rsquo;s vast emptiness. Brimming
-      their channels they slip over into the meadows, flashing like quicksilver
-      through ashen sedges.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The sun had vanished. The lip of the horizon was scarlet. The dust of
-      twilight was drifting down. In this primitive spaciousness and freedom
-      one&rsquo;s thoughts expanded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;we&rsquo;re two sensible persons. Of what have we to be
-      afraid? Only ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the future.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The future doesn&rsquo;t belong to us. We have the present. All our lives we&rsquo;ve
-      wanted to be happy. Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s spoil our happiness now that we have it.
-      Just for to-night we&rsquo;ll forget you&rsquo;re married. We&rsquo;ll be lovers together&mdash;as
-      alone as if no one else was in the world.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And afterwards?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Afterwards I&rsquo;ll wait for you. Afterwards can take care of itself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The misshapen shadow of sin which had followed and stood between us,
-      holding us at arm&rsquo;s length, awkward and embarrassed, was banished. If this
-      was sin, then wrongdoing was lovely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We began to talk of how everything had happened&mdash;how, out of the
-      great nothingness of the unknown, we had been flung together. How easy it
-      would have been for us to have lived out our lives in ignorance of one
-      another and therefore free from this temptation. We justified ourselves in
-      the belief that our meeting had been fated. It could not have been
-      avoided. We were pawns on a chess-board, manipulated by the hand of an
-      unseen player. We had tried to escape one another and had been forced
-      together against our wills. The outcome of the game did not come within
-      the ruling of our decision.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The theory brought re-assurance. It excused us. We were not responsible.
-      Then my mind fled back to my mother. She and my father had had these same
-      thoughts as they had wandered side by side through these same fields and
-      hedges. Why had I been brought back to the country of their courting to
-      pass through their ordeal?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Night was coming down, covering up landmarks. Darkness lent our actions
-      modesty; they lost something of their sharpened meaning because we could
-      not see ourselves acting. We lived unforgettable moments. Passing over
-      narrow plank-bridges from meadow to meadow, we seemed to be traveling out
-      of harsh reality into a world which was dream-created.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She carried her hat in her hand. A soft wind played in her hair and
-      loosened it in places. Her filmy white dress was all a-flutter. Mists
-      began to rise from the marshlands, making us vague to one another.
-      Traveling out of the east swam the harvest moon, nearing its fullness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, taking both her hands in mine, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t know yourself&mdash;you&rsquo;re
-      splendid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laughed up into my eyes with elfin daring and abandon.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re the kind of woman for whom a man would willingly die.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I ought to know that,&rdquo; she mocked me, &ldquo;for one tried.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If this were five hundred years ago, do you know what I&rsquo;d do to-night?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t five hundred years ago&mdash;that makes all the difference. But,
-      if it were, what would you do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d ride off with you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no, you wouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should. I shouldn&rsquo;t care what happened a week later. They might kill me
-      like a robber. It wouldn&rsquo;t matter&mdash;a week alone with you would have
-      been worth it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you wouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she insisted; &ldquo;you wouldn&rsquo;t ride off with me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shouldn&rsquo;t I? And why?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She freed her hands from mine and placed her arms about my neck. The
-      laughter had gone from her face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Dante, you wouldn&rsquo;t do it, because <i>you</i> are <i>you</i>.&rdquo; The
-      burning thoughts I had had died down. We wandered on in silence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ahead of us a flickering light sprang up. Out of curiosity we went towards
-      it. We found ourselves treading a rutted field-path which led back in the
-      direction of the main road. Out of the mist grew up a clump of
-      marsh-poplars. The light became taller and redder. We saw that it was the
-      beginning of a camp-fire. Over the flames hung a stooping figure.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-evening.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The figure turned. It was that of a shriveled mummy of a woman&mdash;gray-haired,
-      fantastic, bent, with face seamed and lined from exposure. A yellow shawl
-      covered her head and shoulders. She held a burning twig in her hand, with
-      which she was lighting her pipe.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-evening, mother. Good luck to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nowt o&rsquo; luck th&rsquo; day, lad,&rdquo; she grumbled. &ldquo;All the folks is in the fields
-      at th&rsquo; &rsquo;arvest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We seated ourselves at the blaze. She went back into the darkness. We
-      heard the snapping of branches. She returned out of the clump of poplars
-      with a companion; each of them was carrying a bundle of dead wood for
-      fuel. Her companion was a younger woman of about thirty. She nodded to us
-      with a proud air of gipsy defiance and sat herself down on the far side of
-      the fire, holding her face away from the light of the flames. The one
-      glimpse I had had of her had shown me that she was handsome.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s bin nowt o&rsquo; luck th&rsquo; day,&rdquo; the older woman continued. &ldquo;They
-      hain&rsquo;t got their wage for th&rsquo; &rsquo;arvest yet and they be too cumbered
-      wi&rsquo; work for fortune-tellin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you tell fortunes?&rdquo; asked Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do I tell fortunes!&rdquo; the crone repeated scornfully. &ldquo;I should think I did
-      tell fortunes. Every kind o&rsquo; folk comes ter me wot wants ter read the
-      future. Farmers whose sheep is dyin&rsquo;. Wimmem as wants childen and hasn&rsquo;t
-      got &rsquo;em. Gals as is goin&rsquo; ter have childen and oughtn&rsquo;t ter have &rsquo;em.
-      Wives whose &rsquo;usbands don&rsquo;t love &rsquo;em. Lovers as want ter get
-      married, but shouldn&rsquo;t. Lovers as should get married, but don&rsquo;t want ter.
-      They all comes to their grannie. I&rsquo;ve seen a lot o&rsquo; human natur&rsquo; in my
-      day, I &rsquo;ave.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what do you tell them?&rdquo; asked Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I tell &rsquo;em wot&rsquo;s preparin&rsquo; for or agen &rsquo;em. I read th&rsquo;
-      stars and I warn &rsquo;em.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can they escape by taking your advice?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s more&rsquo;n I can say. Thar was Joe Moyer, wot was hanged at Norwich
-      for murthering &rsquo;is sweetheart. I telt &rsquo;im &rsquo;is fortune a year
-      ago come St. Valentine&rsquo;s Day. &lsquo;Joe,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;your &rsquo;and &rsquo;ll
-      be red before the poppies blow agen and you neck &rsquo;ll be bruk before
-      th&rsquo; wheat is ripe. Leave off a-goin&rsquo; wi&rsquo; &rsquo;er,&rsquo; says I. And the
-      lassie a-standin&rsquo; thar by &rsquo;is side, she laughs at her grannie. But
-      it all come true, wot I telt &rsquo;im.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Could you read the stars for me?&rdquo; asked Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice was so thin and eager that it pierced me like a knife. I
-      quivered with fearful anticipation. All our future might depend on what
-      this hag by the roadside might say. I did not want to hear her. She might
-      release terror from the ghost-chamber of conscience. However much we
-      scoffed at her words, they would influence our actions and haunt our
-      minds. Who could say, perhaps Joe Moyer would never have murdered his
-      sweetheart and would not have been hanged at Norwich, if she hadn&rsquo;t
-      suggested his crime.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said sternly, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t believe in fortune-telling. We must be
-      going; it&rsquo;s getting late.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hee-hee-hee!&rdquo; the gipsy tittered, &ldquo;if she don&rsquo;t believe in
-      fortune-tellin&rsquo;, we knows who do. Come, don&rsquo;t be afeard, me dearie. Cross
-      me &rsquo;and wi siller and I&rsquo;ll read the stars for &rsquo;ee.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi crossed her palm with a shilling. The gipsy flung fresh twigs on the
-      fire, that she might study the lines in Vi&rsquo;s hands more clearly. As the
-      flames shot up, they illumined the other woman. Her features were strongly
-      Romany, dark and fierce and shy. Somewhere I had seen them; their memory
-      was pleasant. She regarded me fixedly, as though in a trance, across the
-      fire. She too was trying to remember. Then, rising noiselessly, she stole
-      like a panther into the poplars away from the circle of light. From out
-      there in the darkness I felt that her eyes were still watching.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The old fortune-teller had flung back her shawl from her head. Her
-      grizzled hair broke loose about her shoulders. She was peering over Vi&rsquo;s
-      hand, tracing out the lines with the stem of her foul pipe. Every now and
-      then she paused to ask a whispered question or make a whispered statement.
-      Now she would look up at the stars, and now would pucker her brows. Her
-      head was near to Vi&rsquo;s. The flames jumped up and showed their faces
-      clearly: the one white and pure, and crowned with gold; the other cunning,
-      mahogany-colored, and witch-like. The flames died down; the shadows danced
-      in again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I drew nearer and heard the gipsy muttering, &ldquo;You was born under Venus,
-      dearie. Love&rsquo;ll be the makin&rsquo; o&rsquo; yer, an&rsquo; love&rsquo;ll be the ruin o&rsquo; yer.
-      You&rsquo;ll always be longin&rsquo; an&rsquo; longin&rsquo; an&rsquo; lookin&rsquo; for the face o&rsquo; &rsquo;im
-      as is comin&rsquo;. You&rsquo;re married, dearie, but it warn&rsquo;t to the right &rsquo;un, and
-      yer&rsquo;ve &rsquo;ad childen by &rsquo;un. Cross me &rsquo;and wi&rsquo; siller, dearie. Cross me &rsquo;and
-      wi&rsquo; siller. I can&rsquo;t see plain. That&rsquo;s better. Now I see un. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s
-      comin&rsquo;, dearie, and &rsquo;e&rsquo;ll be tall and masterfu&rsquo;, yer &rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave
-      ter sin ter get &rsquo;un. Aye, it&rsquo;s all writ &rsquo;ere, but it gets
-      mazed&mdash;the lines rin t&rsquo;gether.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She dragged Vi&rsquo;s hand lower to the ground, nearer the fire. She was
-      excited and clearly puzzled. She kept on croaking out what she had said
-      already, &ldquo;Yer &rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave ter sin ter get &rsquo;un. It&rsquo;s all writ &rsquo;ere.
-      Aye, but it can&rsquo;t be&mdash;it can&rsquo;t be for sartin. It gets all mazed and
-      tangled.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned her head, blinking across the blaze to where her companion had
-      been sitting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lil, Lil,&rdquo; she cried hoarsely, &ldquo;come &rsquo;ere. I can&rsquo;t see plain.
-      Young eyes is better.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Lil emerged out of the shadows, treading as softly as retribution
-      following temptation. She bent over the hand, unraveling the lines to
-      which the fortune-teller pointed with her pipe-stem.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Lil! Lil! Where had I heard that name before? The wind rustled the leaves
-      of the poplars and caused the ash of the fire to scatter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Whenever he hears your voice, it shall speak to him of me. If he goes
-      where you do not grow, oh, grass, then the trees shall call him back. If
-      he goes where you do not grow, oh, trees, then the wind shall tell him.
-      His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears your
-      voices, he shall turn his face from walls and come back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you want to know the future?&rdquo; she asked, peering into Vi&rsquo;s face
-      gravely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi hesitated. &ldquo;Is it so terrible?&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not terrible as we gipsies reckon it; but sweet and dangerous and
-      reckless, and it ends in&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lilith.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I caught her by the wrist. She shot upright and faced me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know me? I&rsquo;m Dante&mdash;Dante Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi had sunk upon her knees and stared up at us, steadying herself with her
-      hands. The old hag gazed angrily from behind Lilith, stretching out her
-      long thin neck.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I remember you, brother,&rdquo; said Lilith. &ldquo;You are one of us. I knew that
-      one day you would hear us calling.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wot did &rsquo;ee see in the lady&rsquo;s &rsquo;and?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The fortune-teller laid a skinny claw on Lilith&rsquo;s shoulder; her voice
-      quavered with eagerness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I will not tell,&rdquo; said Lilith.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did &rsquo;ee see&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Lilith clapped her hand over the woman&rsquo;s mouth. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t tell,
-      grannie,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not good to tell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Down the field-track came the creaking sound of wheels. I looked up and
-      saw through the poplars the swinging lanterns of a caravan.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi touched me on the arm. She was unnerved and trembling. &ldquo;Take me home,
-      Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned to Lilith. &ldquo;Who is that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;G&rsquo;liath.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll you be camping to-morrow? At Woadley Ham?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A cloud passed over her face. &ldquo;We never camp there, now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The crone broke in with a spiteful titter: &ldquo;But we used ter, until she
-      wouldn&rsquo;t let us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Lilith spoke hastily. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re going to Yarminster Fair. We get there
-      to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll see you there,&rdquo; I told her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The caravan had come to a halt. I could see the tall form of G&rsquo;liath
-      moving about the horses. I did not want to meet him just then. Skirting
-      the encampment, we hurried off across fields to the highroad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A sleepy irritable landlady opened the door to Vi. By the time I had
-      walked down the High Street to the shop, it was nearly midnight. Ruthita
-      was sitting up for me; my grandmother had been in bed two hours. She eyed
-      me curiously. &ldquo;You had a long walk,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, longer than we expected.&rdquo; I spoke brusquely. I was afraid she would
-      question me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the top of the stairs, just as I was entering my room, she stole near
-      to me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante, ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t you going to kiss me good-night?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was bending perfunctorily over her lifted face, when I saw by the light
-      of the candle in my hand that her eyes were red.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, you little goose, you&rsquo;ve been crying. What&rsquo;ve you been crying
-      about?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not,&rdquo; she denied indignantly, and broke from me. After she had
-      entered her room I tiptoed down the passage and listened outside her door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the stillness of the house I could hear her sobbing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;THE WAY OF ALL FLESH
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or good luck&rsquo;s
-      sake smile, Ruthita,&rdquo; said my grandmother. &ldquo;There you&rsquo;ve sat all through
-      breakfast lookin&rsquo; like a week o&rsquo; Sundays, with your face as long as a yard
-      o&rsquo; pump water. What&rsquo;s the matter with you, child? Ain&rsquo;t you well?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I saw the brightness come into Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes and the lashes tremble. I
-      knew by the signs that directly she heard her own voice she would begin to
-      cry, so I answered for her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can tell you what&rsquo;s the matter. I upset her last night. It was nearly
-      twelve when I got home from my walk with Mrs. Carpenter. Ruthie&rsquo;d got
-      herself all worked up. Thought we&rsquo;d been getting drowned again or
-      something, didn&rsquo;t you, Ruthie? It was too bad of me to keep her sitting up
-      so late.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A heavy silence fell. Ruthita dropped her eyes, trying to recover her
-      composure. My grandmother&rsquo;s face masked itself in a non-committal stare.
-      She gazed past me out of the window, and seemed to hold her breath; only
-      the faint tinkling of the gold chain against the jet of her bodice, told
-      how her breath came and went. She had placed her hand on the coffee-pot as
-      I began to speak. When I ended, it stayed there motionless. From the
-      bake-house across the courtyard came the bump, bang, bump of the bakers
-      pounding the dough into bread.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So you stayed out with Mrs. Carpenter till nearly twelve?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My grandmother never used dialect when she wished to be impressive. Her
-      tones were icily refined and haughty&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I recognized them as belonging to her company manners. She could be
-      crushingly aloof and dignified when her sense of the moralities was
-      offended. She had practised her talent for &ldquo;settin&rsquo; folks down and makin&rsquo;
-      &rsquo;em feel like three penn&rsquo;orth o&rsquo; happence&rdquo; to some purpose on
-      grizzled sea-captains.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, till nearly twelve. It was pretty late, wasn&rsquo;t it? We met some
-      interesting people camping on the marshlands&mdash;old friends of mine and
-      Ruthita&rsquo;s.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Indeed! And you walked back from the Broads about midnight with a married
-      woman.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, no. It wasn&rsquo;t much after ten when we started back. Time passed
-      quickly; we didn&rsquo;t realize how late it was getting. It didn&rsquo;t matter,
-      except for Ruthita. It was bright moonlight. The country looked perfect.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It must ha&rsquo; done,&rdquo; said my grandmother sarcastically.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It did. Some day we must try it all together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And who were your interesting friends? Respectable people, no doubt, to
-      be camping on the marshlands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They weren&rsquo;t respectable. They were gipsies.&rdquo; Then, turning to Ruthita,
-      &ldquo;It was Lilith that we met. You remember Lilith of Epping Forest&mdash;that
-      time we ran away to get married. Fancy meeting her after all these years!
-      And just as I left, I saw G&rsquo;liath drive up. I could swear it was the same
-      old caravan, Ruthie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Curiosity and love of romance melted my grandmother&rsquo;s reserve.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;G&rsquo;liath! Why, that&rsquo;s the gipsy family to which Sir Charles&rsquo;s mother
-      belonged. They must be kind o&rsquo; relatives o&rsquo; yours.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose they must. I never thought of that. I&rsquo;ll have to ask Lilith
-      about it. They were on their way to Yarminster Fair. We&rsquo;ll run over and
-      see them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then the errand boy, who was minding the shop, tapped at the
-      keeping-room door and handed in a note for me. I saw that it was unstamped
-      and addressed in a handwriting that I did not recognize.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where did this come from?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It war left jist nar acrost the counter by a sarvant-gal.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of Lilith.
-      I ripped open the envelope and read:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can.
-      Vi.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s your letter from?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;From Mrs. Carpenter.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It&rsquo;s not more&rsquo;n nine hours
-      since you saw her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She wants my advice on&mdash;on a business matter.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph! I &rsquo;ope she may profit by it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As I was sauntering out of the shop Ruthita called after me in her high
-      clear voice, &ldquo;Going to take me to Yarminster to-day, Dante?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know yet. I&rsquo;ll tell you later.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure I
-      was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and
-      baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by
-      affectionate relatives in the way I was.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was puzzled by Vi&rsquo;s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I
-      jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which
-      overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the
-      curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table.
-      Upstairs I could hear Dorrie&rsquo;s piping voice and, now and then, could catch
-      a phrase of what she was saying.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don&rsquo;t want to play wiv Annie.
-      I want to play wiv Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to
-      stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly
-      to the kitchen.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the
-      door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect in
-      her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high color
-      in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted a
-      foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it gently.
-      Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally polite
-      and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the slow rise and
-      fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid beauty&mdash;everything
-      about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments, I wondered, what
-      campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild desires to duty were
-      going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip on her hand tightened;
-      I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my yearning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it? Why did you send for me? You&rsquo;ve changed since last night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I
-      had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all over, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She whispered the words, wringing her hands and staring away from me out
-      to sea. I slipped my arm about her shoulder. &ldquo;It can never be all over,
-      dearest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For answer she handed me a letter. It bore a United States stamp and was
-      addressed to her in a bold, emphatic, perpendicular hand which revealed
-      the writer&rsquo;s vigorous determination of character.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;From my husband. Read it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Standing a little apart from her at the window, I drew out a carefully
-      folded letter. It was dated from Sheba, Massachusetts, nine days previous
-      to its arrival. While I read it, I watched her stealthily, how she stood
-      charmingly irresolute, twisting the gold-band off and on her finger.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>My dearest Vi:</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>I have written you many times, asking you to fix definitely the day of
-      your return. You&rsquo;ve put me off with all kinds of excuses. Latterly you
-      have not even referred to my question. My dear child, don&rsquo;t think I blame
-      you; you probably have your own reasons for what you are doing. But people
-      are beginning to talk about us here. For your own sake you ought to
-      return. We&rsquo;ve always tried to play fair by one another. You were always
-      game, Vi; and now it&rsquo;s up to you.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>I&rsquo;m lonely. I want my little Dorrie. Most of all I want my wife. I
-      can&rsquo;t stand this absence much longer. On receipt of this send me a cable
-      &ldquo;Coming,&rdquo; followed by the date of your sailing. If I don&rsquo;t receive such a
-      cable within ten days of mailing this letter, I shall jump on a boat and
-      come over. I don&rsquo;t distrust you, but I&rsquo;m worn out with waiting. Can&rsquo;t you
-      understand how I want you? Nothing in the world matters to me, my child,
-      except you.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>Your affectionate husband,</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>Randall.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I re-folded it methodically and returned it to the envelope. I tried to
-      picture this man who had sent it. He was manifestly elderly. Probably he
-      was portly, a trifle pompous and genially paternal in his manners. What
-      volumes his trick of calling her &ldquo;my child&rdquo; revealed concerning their
-      relations. I contrasted him with Vi. Vi with her eager youth, her passion
-      to taste life&rsquo;s rapture, her slim white body so alluring and so gracious,
-      her physical fineness, her possibilities for bestowing and receiving
-      natural joy. If I let her go, she would slowly lose her zest for life. She
-      would forget that she was a woman and would sink prematurely into stolid
-      middle-age. Her possibilities of motherhood would slip from her untaken
-      and never to be renewed. The little rascals, with golden hair and features
-      which should perpetuate her beauty, would never be born to her. Those
-      children should be hers and mine. <i>Hers and mine</i>. How the words beat
-      upon my brain! They were like the fists of little children, battering
-      against the closed doors of existence. It was monstrous that the justice
-      of this husband&rsquo;s claim to her should be based on his injustice in having
-      married her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Again I formed my mental picture of him, formed it with the cruel sarcasm
-      of youth. His body was deteriorated; his skin puckered and yellow; the
-      fine lines of suppleness and straightness gone; the muscles flabby and
-      jaded. Then I looked at her: gold and ivory, with poppies for a mouth.
-      Sweet and nobly chaste. A woman to set a man on fire&mdash;to drive him to
-      the extremes of sorrow or gladness. A woman to sin for.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned from the window and took one step towards her. I could feel her
-      body throbbing against mine. The fierce sweet ecstasy of my delight hurt
-      her. I saw nothing but her eyes. All else in the world was darkness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let me go,&rdquo; she panted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you want to go?&rdquo; I whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She sank her head on my shoulder. Her arms were about my neck. I could
-      only see her golden hair. Her answer came to me broken and muffled. &ldquo;No,
-      no, no.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t ever despise me, will you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How absurd her question sounded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Without any reference to our ultimate purpose, we set about making our
-      plans. We must get away from Ransby. We must not be seen together any more
-      that day. We would meet at the station that evening, and travel up to
-      London together by the train leaving Ransby at six-thirty-eight. Our plans
-      went no further.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now that all had been arranged, a new embarrassment arose between us&mdash;a
-      sweet shamefulness. She clung to me, yet she cast down her eyes, her
-      cheeks encrimsoned, not daring to look me in the face. We touched one
-      another shyly and shuddered at the contact. Our hearts were too full for
-      words, our thoughts too primitively intimate to be expressed. The veils
-      had dropped from our eyes. The mystery of mysteries lay exposed. We saw
-      one another, natural in our passions&mdash;exiles from society. No
-      artificial restraints stood between us; in our conduct with one another we
-      were free to be governed by our own desires.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A scurry of little feet in the passage. The sound of heavier ones
-      pursuing. We sprang apart. Dorrie entered, running with her arms stretched
-      out towards me. &ldquo;Catch me, Dante. Don&rsquo;t let her get me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The rueful face of Annie appeared in the doorway; her plump arms covered
-      to the elbows with flour. &ldquo;If &rsquo;ee please, mum,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it
-      warn&rsquo;t no fault o&rsquo; mine. She nipped out afore I could get a-holt o&rsquo; her,
-      while I war a-makin&rsquo; o&rsquo; the pudden.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re juth horwid,&rdquo; cried Dorrie. &ldquo;Go &rsquo;way. I want to thpeak to
-      Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She scrambled on my knee, clutching tightly to my coat till Annie had
-      vanished. Then she tossed her curls out of her eyes, and told me all that
-      she and Ruthita had done together on the previous evening. While she was
-      talking, I watched Vi, trying to realize the seemingly impossible truth
-      that she had promised herself to me, and would soon be mine. A host of
-      bewildering images rushed through my mind as I gazed into the future. I
-      was amazed at myself that I should feel no fear of the step which we
-      contemplated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Old thtupid,&rdquo; cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, &ldquo;you weren&rsquo;t
-      lithening.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give her
-      my attention.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it
-      some other time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All wite,&rdquo; she acquiesced contentedly; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a pwomith.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi accompanied me to the door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What wath you thaying?&rdquo; asked Dorrie.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nothing, my darling.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered.
-      She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles. &ldquo;Well,
-      my man of business, did she take your advice?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course. Why shouldn&rsquo;t she? She&rsquo;s seen my grannie, and knows how she&rsquo;s
-      profited by it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Clever boy,&rdquo; she retorted. &ldquo;Who made your shirt? When a man of business
-      is born among the Cardovers, pears&rsquo;ll grow on pines. Look at your father.
-      Look at the Spuffler. Look at yourself. I hope she won&rsquo;t act on it. What
-      was it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t tell you now. I find I&rsquo;ve got to run up to London to-night and I&rsquo;ve
-      promised to take Ruthie to Yarminster. There&rsquo;s only just time.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s takin&rsquo; you to London? You didn&rsquo;t say anythin&rsquo; about it this
-      marnin&rsquo;.&rdquo; She dropped her knitting in her lap. &ldquo;Dante, is it anythin&rsquo; to
-      do with her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Partly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced
-      meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our
-      heads nearly touched. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better stay there, laddie,&rdquo; she whispered.
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been thinkin&rsquo; and usin&rsquo; me eyes. This ain&rsquo;t no place fur you at
-      present. She&rsquo;s gettin&rsquo; too fond of you and you of her. I know.&rdquo; She
-      nodded. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been through it. I watched your pa at it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;At what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;At what you and Mrs. Carpenter are doin&rsquo;. Don&rsquo;t pretend you&rsquo;re a fool,
-      Dante, &rsquo;cause you&rsquo;re not&mdash;and neither is your old grannie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then Ruthita looked out of the keeping-room. I was glad of the excuse
-      to cut this dangerous conversation short. &ldquo;Hurry up, Ruthie; get on your
-      togs. I&rsquo;m going to drive you over to Yarminster.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When she had gone, my grandmother turned to me again. &ldquo;And there&rsquo;s another
-      of &rsquo;em. Lovers can&rsquo;t keep their secrets to theirselves nohow&mdash;they
-      give theirselves away with every breath. Did ye see the way she flushed
-      wi&rsquo; pleasure? She&rsquo;s a tender little maid. If you made her unhappy, though
-      she&rsquo;s none o&rsquo; my body, I&rsquo;d never forgive ye, Dante. If you don&rsquo;t intend to
-      marry &rsquo;er, be careful.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Rubbish,&rdquo; I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a
-      dog-cart from the livery-stables.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Aye, rubbish is well enough,&rdquo; was my grandmother&rsquo;s final retort; &ldquo;but
-      broken eggs can&rsquo;t be mended. No more can broken hearts.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      There was just room enough on the front-seat to take the two of us. As I
-      drove down the street I saw Ruthita come out of the shop and stand waiting
-      on the pavement. She looked modest and pretty as a sprig of lavender.
-      There was always something quaintly virginal about her, as though she had
-      stepped out of an old English love-song. Her eyes were unusually bright
-      this morning with the pleasure of anticipation. With subtle flattery, she
-      had put on one of the gowns I had bought her. It was her way of saying,
-      &ldquo;This day is to be mine and yours.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t I do you proud?&rdquo; she laughed, using one of Vi&rsquo;s Americanisms.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I said, with pretended harshness, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think where
-      you got such a dunducketty old dress from.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A man gave it me. Didn&rsquo;t he show bad taste?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He showed himself a perfect ass. Now, if I were to buy you a dress,
-      Ruthie, which of course I shan&rsquo;t&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here, get off with you, you rascals. What&rsquo;re you a-doin&rsquo;, blockin&rsquo; up my
-      pavement?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover stood in the doorway, her hands folded beneath her
-      black satin apron, her keys jangling. The gray cork-screw curls from under
-      her cap were wobbling; her plump little body was shaking with enjoyment.
-      All her crossness and caution on Vi&rsquo;s account were gone at seeing Ruthita
-      and myself together. We started up at a smart trot. As we turned the
-      corner into the High Street, we looked back. She was still there, gazing
-      after us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      By the road which follows the coast, Yarminster is eight miles from
-      Ransby. I turned inland by a roundabout route; I wanted to pass through
-      Woadley.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My spirits ran high with the thought of what was to happen shortly. I was
-      in a mood to be gay. Clouds were flying high. The country lay windswept
-      and golden in the sunshine. The air had the sharp tang of autumn&mdash;the
-      acrid fragrance which foretells the decay of foliage. A pleasant
-      melancholy lurked in the reds and yellows of woods and hedges. Tops of
-      trees were already growing thin of leaves where the gales had harried
-      them. Pasturing in harvested fields, flocks of sheep lent a touch of
-      grayness to the landscape. Here and there overhead gulls hovered, or slid
-      down the sky on poised wings, as though brooding on the summer that was
-      gone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita and I spoke of Lilith, recalling childhood&rsquo;s days. We laughed over
-      our amazement at discovering that her back was no longer humpy&mdash;that
-      her baby had left her. Then we fell to wondering whether she had ever been
-      married and what was her story. Our conversation became intimate and
-      confessional. I had never known much of Ruthita&rsquo;s secret thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;why did they leave us to find out everything?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I slowed the horse down to a walk. &ldquo;I know what you mean, Ruthie. They
-      brought us up on fables. They left us to fight with all kinds of fantastic
-      imaginings. They allowed us to infer that so many things were shameful.
-      D&rsquo;you remember what a fuss they made when they found that the Bantam had
-      kissed you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded, casting down her eyes. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never got over it. It&rsquo;s made me
-      awkward with men&mdash;self-conscious and afraid of...&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And yet they were kind to us, Ruthie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But they never treated us honestly,&rdquo; she said sadly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That same intense look, a look almost of hunger, which transformed her,
-      came into her face&mdash;the look which the flash-light had revealed to me
-      that night on the denes. Sudden fear of what we might say next made me
-      shake up the horse. The jolting of the wheels prevented us from conversing
-      save by raising our voices.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We passed a man on the road. He shouted after us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At first I thought he was chaffing. He kept on shouting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you stop?&rdquo; said Ruthita. &ldquo;We may have dropped something.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We had turned a bend. I looked back, but could not see him. I halted until
-      he should come up. A big-framed man in a shooting-jacket, gaiters, and
-      knickerbockers came swinging round the corner. I was surprised to
-      recognize in him Lord Halloway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Halloa,&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re going in my direction. Would you mind giving
-      me a lift as far as Woadley?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;This horse is restive. I can&rsquo;t leave the reins. I
-      suppose you can lower the back-seat without help.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He drew level on the far-side from me and stood with his hand resting on
-      the splashboard, gazing at Ruthita. &ldquo;My sister,&rdquo; I said shortly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While he lowered the back and drew but the seat, he explained himself.
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to Woadley to look after some farms my father owns round
-      there.&rdquo; What he was really saying was, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not going to try to cut you
-      out with Sir Charles, so you needn&rsquo;t fear me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His manner was friendly. He had gained a high color with his walking. He
-      looked brilliantly handsome and manly, with just that touch of indolence
-      about him that gave him his charm. Without being warned, no one would have
-      guessed that he was a rake. In his presence even I disbelieved half the
-      wild tales of dissipation I had heard narrated of him. Yet, when my
-      distrust of him was almost at rest, he would arouse it with his inane,
-      high-pitched laugh.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When he had clambered in and we had started, I began to tell him, for the
-      sake of conversation, where we were traveling. At the mention of Lilith,
-      he interrupted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lilith! Lilith! Seem to remember the name. Was she ever in these parts
-      before? There was a little girl named Lilith, who used to camp with the
-      Goliaths, the gipsies, on Woadley Ham. They haven&rsquo;t been there for years.
-      I recall her distinctly. She was wild and dark. I used to watch her
-      breaking in ponies when I was a boy stopping with Sir Charles.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She must be the same.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You might tell her that you met me, when you see her,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She was
-      the pluckiest little horsewoman for her age I ever saw. She could ride
-      anything. I can see her now, gripping a young hunter I had with her brown
-      bare legs, fighting his head off. It&rsquo;s odd that you should have mentioned
-      her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He tailed off into his giggling girlish laugh.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Little by little he commenced to address his remarks exclusively to
-      Ruthita. This was natural, for I could not turn round to converse with him
-      because of attending to the horse. I observed him out of the corner of my
-      eye, and began to understand the secret of his power over women. For one
-      thing he talked entirely to a woman, bestowing on her an intensity of
-      attention which many would consider flattering. Then again he put a woman
-      at her ease, drawing her out and speaking of things which were within her
-      depth. Most of the topics which he drifted into were personal. When he
-      mentioned himself, he lowered his voice as if he were confessing. When he
-      mentioned her, his tones became earnest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was surprised to see how Ruthita, usually so reticent, lowered her guard
-      to his attack. She twisted round on her seat, that she might watch him.
-      Her face grew merry and her eyes twinkled with fun and laughter. She was
-      being, what she had declared she never was&mdash;natural with a man.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Out of the corner of my eye I saw one thing which displeased me immensely.
-      With apparent unconsciousness, Halloway&rsquo;s arm was slipping farther and
-      farther along the back of the seat against which Ruthita rested. A little
-      more, and it would have encircled her. But before that was accomplished,
-      he stopped short, leaving nothing to complain of. He was simply steadying
-      himself in a jolting dog-cart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a glimpse
-      of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where the
-      gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as I
-      wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and myself
-      together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were still
-      industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of his
-      errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the seat.
-      That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you say you were going to Woadley?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;I have to get out at the next cross-road and
-      walk. The farms are over in that direction.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told
-      me nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, here&rsquo;s the next cross-road.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my
-      tones.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m awfully grateful to you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve saved me a long walk and
-      I&rsquo;ve enjoyed your company immensely.&rdquo; As he spoke the last words he smiled
-      directly into the eyes of Ruthita. &ldquo;I shall hope to meet Miss Cardover
-      again&mdash;perhaps at Oxford.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not think it necessary to tell him that Ruthita&rsquo;s surname was not
-      Cardover but Favart. We watched him stride away, clean-limbed and splendid&mdash;a
-      man who had sinned discreetly and bore no physical marks of his
-      shortcomings.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At last Ruthita spoke. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I like him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t let him know it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He made me forget. He made me remember I was a woman. No man&rsquo;s ever
-      spoken to me as he spoke.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a clever fellow to make you forget the esplanade and Lottie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re angry,&rdquo; she laughed, and snuggled closer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered the old marketplace of Yarminster where the Fair was being
-      held. Leaving our horse at <i>The Anchor</i> to be baited, we threaded our
-      way between booths and whirligo-rounds. Presently I heard a familiar cry,
-      &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball &rsquo;its a cocoanut.
-      Down she goes. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Dodging up and down behind the pitch, was G&rsquo;liath, not much altered. The
-      gaudy woman was absent; it was Lilith who was serving out the balls to the
-      country bumpkins.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s Ruthita,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You remember the little girl in the Forest?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She went on catching the wooden balls which G&rsquo;liath returned to her. Trade
-      was busy. Between reiterating his call, she conversed with us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I remember. (Two shies a penny). It doesn&rsquo;t seem long ago. (Every ball &rsquo;its
-      a cocoanut. Walk up). How long is it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The best part of fourteen years.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was difficult to carry on a conversation under the circumstances.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wanted to ask you about last night,&rdquo; I whispered. &ldquo;When&rsquo;ll you be
-      free?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not until midnight.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I saw Ruthita listening, so I changed the subject. &ldquo;By the way, we met
-      someone who knew you when you were a girl at Woadley. He wanted to be
-      remembered to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her handsome face darkened. &ldquo;A man?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My cousin, Lord Halloway.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She halted and looked round on me in proud astonishment. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she gasped,
-      and renewed her calling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita broke in to tell her of my good fortune. She did not pay much
-      attention at first. Then it seemed to dawn on her. &ldquo;So he&rsquo;s out of it, and
-      you&rsquo;ll be master at Woadley Hall?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; I lowered my voice. &ldquo;And then you must come back to Woadley Ham.
-      You were good to me once, Lilith.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I never forget.&rdquo; There was a look of the old kindness in her eyes as she
-      said it. &ldquo;When you need me, I shall come.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The crowd pressed about us, curious to overhear, surprised at seeing
-      gentlefolks so chatty with a gipsy hussy. She signed to us to go. We drew
-      off a few paces, looking on, recalling that night at Epping, when we fled
-      from Dot-and-Carry-One and came to G&rsquo;liath&rsquo;s encampment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Shortly after that the clock of St. Nicholas boomed three, and we
-      departed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE ELOPEMENT
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>uthita was anxious
-      to accompany me to the station.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want you,&rdquo; I told her. &ldquo;Women always make a fuss over partings.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But not sensible women,&rdquo; she protested, smiling. &ldquo;Let me come. There&rsquo;s a
-      dear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll try to kiss me. You&rsquo;ll make a grab at my neck just as the train is
-      moving. I shall feel embarrassed. You&rsquo;ll probably slip off the platform
-      and get both your legs cut off. A nice memory to take with me to London!
-      No, thank you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I won&rsquo;t try to kiss you, and I won&rsquo;t grab at your neck. I&rsquo;ll be most
-      careful about my legs. And I don&rsquo;t think it&rsquo;s nice of you to mention them
-      so callously, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I always tell folks,&rdquo; put in my grandmother, &ldquo;that, if there wer&rsquo;n&rsquo;t no
-      partin&rsquo;s, there&rsquo;d be no meetin&rsquo;s. It&rsquo;s just come and go in this life. If
-      he don&rsquo;t want you, my dear, don&rsquo;t bother &rsquo;im.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But he does want me,&rdquo; Ruthita persisted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve always seen him off. I
-      used to run beside the trap till I was ready to drop when Uncle Obad drove
-      him away to the Red House. He&rsquo;s only making fun.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, really, Ruthie, I&rsquo;d much rather say good-by to you here in the shop.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you&rsquo;re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you&rsquo;ll have to run,&rdquo; said
-      my grandmother.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that something
-      was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and followed me out
-      on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There they stood waving and crying after me, &ldquo;Good-by. God bless you.
-      Good-by.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In passing the chemist&rsquo;s shop I glanced in at the clock. It was five
-      minutes faster than my watch. I turned into the High Street at something
-      between a trot and a walk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart.
-      The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to
-      give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages. I
-      had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money
-      through. &ldquo;&rsquo;Fraid you won&rsquo;t get the six-thirty-eight,&rdquo; said the
-      clerk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the guard
-      blew his whistle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Too late,&rdquo; growled the collector, closing the gate in my face with all
-      the impersonal incivility of a man whose action is supported by law.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lady and a little girl on board,&rdquo; I panted; &ldquo;they&rsquo;re expecting
-      me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sorry,&rdquo; said the man; &ldquo;should &rsquo;ave got &rsquo;ere sooner.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Just then the train began to move and I recognized the uselessness of
-      further argument. As the tail of it vanished out of the station, the
-      collector slid back the gate. Now that there was no danger of my
-      disobeying him, he could afford to be human. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s h&rsquo;orders, yer know,
-      sir, else I wouldn&rsquo;t ha&rsquo; done it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Friends who had been seeing their travelers off came laughing and chatting
-      toward the barrier. As the crowd thinned, half way down the platform I
-      caught sight of Vi. She was standing apart, with her hand-baggage
-      scattered beside her in disorder. Dorrie was hanging to her skirts,
-      looking up into her face, asking questions. Neither of them saw me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hulloa!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I spoke to her, Vi started. Her eyes brimmed. There shone through her
-      tears a doubtful gladness. &ldquo;I thought&mdash;I thought you wer&rsquo;n&rsquo;t coming.
-      I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi dearest! Was that likely?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her fingers closed about my arm warningly as I called her dearest. She
-      cast a scared look at Dorrie. &ldquo;Not before her,&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I shrugged my shoulders. The position was queer. For a man and a woman in
-      our situation there was no readymade standard of conduct. I began to feel
-      lost in the freedom we were making for ourselves. There were no landmarks.
-      Even now we were beyond the conventional walls of right and wrong which
-      divide society from the outcast. We were running away to seek our
-      happiness&mdash;and we were taking Dorrie!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to explain hurriedly how I happened to miss the train.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthita wanted to come to the station. I lost time in dissuading her.
-      When I got away, I discovered that my watch was slow by five minutes. And
-      then to crown all, when I could have caught the train, the man at the
-      gate...&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; she said generously. &ldquo;How long before the next train
-      starts?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About half-an-hour.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do nearly as well. My boxes have gone on, but I can claim them in
-      London.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t want to stand in this stuffy station,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go for a
-      walk.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She began to speak, and then stopped.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t&mdash;shan&rsquo;t we be recognized?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not if we go round the harbor. We shan&rsquo;t be likely to meet anyone there
-      who knows us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was odd, this keeping up of respectable appearances to the last.
-      Ruthita, Grandmother Cardover, Sir Charles, my father&mdash;all the world
-      would know to-morrow. They would spread their hands before their faces and
-      look shocked, and peek out at us through their fingers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No one ever thpeaks to me.&rdquo; Dorrie was reproachfully calling our
-      attention to her presence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll both thpeak to you now,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Give me your hand, Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Leaving our baggage with a porter, we went out of the station to the
-      harbor, which lay just across the station-yard. Vi manouvered herself to
-      the other side of me, so that the child walked between us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The heavy autumn dusk was falling. Lanterns were being run up the masts.
-      The town shone hospitably with street-lamps. Groping their way round the
-      pier-head came a part of the Scotch herring fleet. We could see how their
-      prows danced and nodded by the way the light from their lamps lengthened
-      and shortened across the water. Soon the ripple against the piles near to
-      where we were standing quickened with the disturbance caused by their
-      advance. Then we heard the creaking of ropes against blocks as sails were
-      lowered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Leaning against the wall of the quay we watched them, casting furtive
-      glances now and then at the illumined face of the station-clock.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie asked questions, to which we returned indifferent answers. It had
-      begun to dawn on her that I was going up to London with them. She
-      construed our secretiveness to mean that our plot was for her special
-      benefit; people only acted like that with her when they were concealing
-      something pleasant. Her innocent curiosity embarrassed us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Why were we going to London? she asked us. We had not dared to answer that
-      question even to one another. For my part I tried not to hear her; she
-      roused doubts&mdash;phantoms of future consequence. I pictured the scene
-      of long ago, when Ransby was rather more than twenty years younger, and
-      another man and woman had slipped away unnoticed, daring the world for
-      their love&rsquo;s preservation. Had they had these same thoughts&mdash;these
-      hesitations and misgivings? Or had they gone out bravely to meet their
-      destiny, reckless in their certainty of one another?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Behind us, as we bent above the water, rose the shuffling clamor of
-      numberless feet. Up and down the harbor groups of fisher-girls were
-      sauntering abreast, in rows of three and four. Now and then we caught
-      phrases in broad Scotch dialect.. They had been brought down from their
-      homes in the north, many hundreds of them, for the kippering. They paraded
-      bareheaded, with rough woolen shawls across their shoulders, knitting as
-      they walked. I was thankful for them; they distracted attention from
-      ourselves. Vi and I said nothing to one another; our hearts were too full
-      for small-talk. The child was a barrier between us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A man halted near us. He had a heavy box on his back, covered with
-      American-cloth. He set it down and became busy. In a short time he had
-      lighted a lantern and hung it on a pole. He mounted a stool, from which he
-      could command the crowd, raising the lamp aloft. Fisher-girls, still
-      knitting, stopped in their sauntering and gathered round him. Several
-      smacksmen and sailors, with pipes in their mouths, and hands deep in
-      pockets, loitered up.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The man began to talk, at first at random, like a cheap-jack, trying to
-      catch his hearers&rsquo; attention with a laugh. Then, when his audience was
-      sufficiently interested, he unrolled a sheet upon which the words of a
-      hymn were printed. He held it before him like a bill-board, so that all
-      could see and the light fell on it. He sang the first verse himself in a
-      strong, gusty baritone. One by one the crowd caught the air and joined in
-      with him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They sang four verses, each verse followed by a chorus. The man allowed
-      the sheet to drop, and handed the pole with the lantern to a bystander.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His brows puckered. His eyes concentrated. His somewhat brutal jaw squared
-      itself. His face had become impassioned and earnest all of a sudden. It
-      had been coarse and rather stupid before; now a certain eagerness of
-      purpose gave it sharpness. He began to talk with vehemence, making crude,
-      forceful gestures, thrashing the air with his arms, bringing down his
-      clenched right-fist into the open palm of his left-hand when a remark
-      called for emphasis. His thick throat swelled above the red knotted
-      handkerchief which took the place of a collar. He spoke with a kind of
-      savage anger. He mauled his audience with brutal eloquence. His way of
-      talking was ignorant. He was displeasing, yet compelling. There were
-      fifteen minutes until the train started. I watched him with cynicism as a
-      diversion from my thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Brothers and sisters,&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;we are &rsquo;ere met in the sight
-      of h&rsquo;Almighty Gawd. It was &rsquo;im as brought us together. Yer didn&rsquo;t
-      know that when yer started out this starlit h&rsquo;evenin&rsquo; for yer walk. It was
-      &rsquo;im as sent me &rsquo;ere ter tell yer this evenin&rsquo; that the wages
-      o&rsquo; sin is death. I know wot h&rsquo;I&rsquo;m a-saying of, for I was once a sinner.
-      But blessed be Gawd, &rsquo;e &rsquo;as saved me and washed me white
-      h&rsquo;in &rsquo;is son&rsquo;s precious blood. &rsquo;E can do that for you
-      ter-night, an &rsquo;e sent me&rsquo;ere ter tell yer.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Some of the Cornish Methodists, in Ransby for the herring season, began to
-      warm to the orator&rsquo;s enthusiasm. They urged him to further fervor by
-      ejaculating texts and crying, &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Blessed be &rsquo;is name!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Glory!&rdquo; etc.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The man sank his voice from the roaring monotone in which he had started.
-      &ldquo;The wages o&rsquo; sin is death,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Oh, my friends, h&rsquo;I speak as a
-      dyin&rsquo; man to dyin&rsquo; men. Yer carn&rsquo;t h&rsquo;escape them wages nohow. The fool &rsquo;as
-      said in &rsquo;is &rsquo;eart, &lsquo;There ain&rsquo;t no Gawd.&rsquo; &rsquo;Ave you
-      said that? Wot&rsquo;ll yer say when yer &rsquo;ave ter take the wages? Now yer
-      say, &lsquo;No one&rsquo;s lookin&rsquo;. They&rsquo;ll never find out. H&rsquo;everyone&rsquo;s as bad as I
-      h&rsquo;am, only they doan&rsquo;t let me know it. I&rsquo;ll h&rsquo;injoy myself. There ain&rsquo;t no
-      Gawd.&rsquo; I tells yer, my friends, yer wrong. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s a-watchin&rsquo; yer now,
-      lookin&rsquo; down from them blessed stars. &rsquo;E looks inter yer &rsquo;eart
-      and sees the sin yer a-meditatin&rsquo; and a-planning. &rsquo;E knows the
-      wages yer&rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave ter take for it. &rsquo;E sees the
-      conserquences. And the conserquences is death. Death ter self-respec&rsquo;!
-      Death ter &rsquo;uman h&rsquo;affection! Death ter the woman and children yer
-      love! Death ter &rsquo;ope and purity! Damnation ter yer soul! &rsquo;Ave
-      yer thought o&rsquo; that? Death! Death! Death!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He hissed the words, speaking slower and slower. His voice died away in an
-      awestruck whisper. In the pause that followed, the quiet was broken by a
-      shrill laugh. All heads turned. On the outskirts of the crowd stood &ldquo;Lady
-      Halloway.&rdquo; She had evidently been drinking. A foolish smile played about
-      her mouth. Her lips were swollen. She mimicked the evangelist in a hoarse,
-      cracked voice, &ldquo;Death! Death! Death!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I signed to Vi. Going first, carrying Dorrie in my arms, I commenced to
-      force a passage. We had become wedged against the wall. Our going caused a
-      ripple of disturbance. Attention was distracted from &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; to
-      ourselves. She turned her glazed eyes on us. Stupid with drink, she did
-      not recognize me at first. I had to pass beneath the lantern quite near
-      her. As the light struck across my face, she saw who I was. &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s
-      got another gal,&rdquo; she tittered so all could hear her. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s easy come and
-      easy go-a. Love &rsquo;ere ter-day and thar ter-morrer. Good-evenin&rsquo;, Sir
-      Dante Cardover, that is ter be. And &rsquo;oo&rsquo;s yer noo sweet-&rsquo;art? Is
-      she as pretty h&rsquo;as me? Let a poor gal &rsquo;ave a look at &rsquo;er.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I pushed by her roughly. She would have followed, but some of the crowd
-      restrained her. She made a grab at Vi. I could hear Vi&rsquo;s dress rending.
-      &ldquo;So I ain&rsquo;t good &rsquo;nough!&rdquo; she shouted. &ldquo;I ain&rsquo;t good &rsquo;nough
-      for yer! And &rsquo;oo are you ter despise me, I&rsquo;d like ter h&rsquo;arsk?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She said a lot more, but her voice was drowned in a protesting clamor. I
-      turned my head as I crossed the station-yard. Beneath the evangelist&rsquo;s
-      lantern I saw her arms tossing. Her hair had broken loose. Her eyes
-      followed us. I entered the station and saw no more. Not until we had
-      slipped through the barrier on to the platform did we slacken. Even while
-      loathing her for her display of bestiality, my grandmother&rsquo;s words came
-      back to me, &ldquo;She was as nice and kind a little girl as there was in
-      Ransby, until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We found that the porter, with whom we had left our luggage, had secured
-      three seats for us. Two of them were corners. I took mine with my back to
-      the engine, so that Vi and I sat facing one another. Dorrie sat beside Vi
-      for a few minutes, uncomfortably, with her legs dangling. Then she slipped
-      to the floor and climbing up my knees, snuggled herself down in my arms.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll have fine timeth in London together, won&rsquo;t we?&rdquo; she questioned.
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tho glad you&rsquo;s toming.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was strange how difficult I found it to speak to Vi. I wanted to say so
-      much. I knew I ought to say something. Yet all I could think to mention
-      was some reference to what had happened beside the harbor&mdash;and that
-      was so contaminating that I wanted to forget it. Luckily, just then, an
-      old countrywoman bundled in with a basket on her arm.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Gooing ter Lun&rsquo;non, me dear?&rdquo; she asked of Vi. &ldquo;Well, ter be sure, I
-      intend ter goo ter Lun&rsquo;non some day. I get out at Beccles, the nex&rsquo; stop.&rdquo;
-       Lowering her voice, &ldquo;That your little gal, and &rsquo;usband, bor? Not
-      your &rsquo;usband! Well, &rsquo;e do seem fond o&rsquo; your little gal, now doan&rsquo;t
-      &rsquo;e, just the same as if &rsquo;e wuz &rsquo;er father?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The train began to move. The lights of Ransby flashed by, twinkling and
-      growing smaller. We thundered across the bridge which separates the Broads
-      from the harbor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was
-      talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls
-      falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers, one was
-      drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was reading a
-      paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which fell from the
-      lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with my thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the harbor
-      disturbed me. The face of &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; proved the truth of his
-      assertions. His words would not be silenced. Strident and accusing, they
-      rose, above the rumbling of the train, and wove themselves into a
-      maddening chorus: &ldquo;<i>The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is
-      death; the wages of sin is death</i>.&rdquo; A man whose intellect I despised,
-      to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken truth&mdash;and
-      I had heard it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man
-      woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his
-      corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There
-      were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its
-      journey through the dark.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Comfortable, Vi?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded and leant her face against the cushioned back of the carriage,
-      closing her eyes. I watched her pure profile&mdash;the arched eyebrows,
-      the heavy eyelids, the straight nose, the full and pouting mouth, the
-      rounded chin, the long, sensuous curve of the graceful neck. I traced the
-      small blue veins beneath the transparent whiteness of her temples. I
-      studied her beauty, committing it to memory. Then I commenced to compare
-      her with Dorrie, discovering the likeness. I wondered whether I had first
-      felt drawn to her because she was so like Dorrie, or only for herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had thought her sleeping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Just wakened?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been awake all the time. I&rsquo;ve been thinking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Last night. How different it was! We didn&rsquo;t have to hide. No one was
-      looking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then we&rsquo;ll go again to where no one is looking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What was it this time?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the
-      night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. &ldquo;How cruel it was,
-      what he said to us!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The man there in Ransby.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But he didn&rsquo;t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at
-      street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He was speaking to me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;though he didn&rsquo;t know it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi, you&rsquo;re not growing nervous?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That isn&rsquo;t the word. I&rsquo;m looking forward and thinking how horrid it would
-      be to have to hide always.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked at Dorrie, making no reply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently she spoke again. &ldquo;Dante, have you ever thought of it? I&rsquo;m four
-      years older than you are.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ve never thought of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You ought to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because four years makes a lot of difference in a woman. You&rsquo;ll look
-      still young when I&rsquo;m turning forty.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She ignored my attempt to turn from the topic. &ldquo;If&mdash;if we should ever
-      do anything rash, people would say that I was a scheming woman; that I&rsquo;d
-      taken advantage of you; that, being the elder, I ought to have known
-      better.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The idea of Vi leading me astray was so supremely ridiculous that I
-      laughed outright. Dorrie stirred, and gazed up in my face. &ldquo;Dear Dante!&rdquo;
-       she muttered, and sank back again.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Her father will be waiting for the cable,&rdquo; said Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I wondered if this was the kind of conversation my father and mother had
-      carried on all those years ago when they ran away. I felt that if my arms
-      were only free to place about her, all would be well.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We shall have to tell him, Vi,&rdquo; I whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She pretended not to hear me. Her eyes were closed. One hand shaded them
-      from the light. She was again playing hide-and-seek with the purpose of
-      our errand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The rumble of the wheels droned on. I planned for what I would do when the
-      train reached London and the moment of decision should arrive.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Perhaps two hours passed in silence. The glare of London was growing in
-      the distance. Towns and houses became more frequent. One had glimpses of
-      illumined windows and silhouettes against the blinds. Each house meant a
-      problem as large to someone as mine was to me. The fact that life was so
-      teeming and various robbed my crisis of its isolated augustness. Locals
-      met us with a crash like thunder. As we flashed by, I could glance into
-      their carriages and see men and women, all of whom, at some time in their
-      existence, would decide just such problems of love and self-fulfilment&mdash;to
-      each one of them the decision would seem vital to the universe, and in
-      each case it would be relatively trivial. How easy to do what one liked
-      unnoticed in such a crowded world! How preposterous that theory of the man
-      by the harbor! As if any God could have time to follow the individual
-      doings of such a host of cheese-mites!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our fellow-traveler in the corner woke and removed the paper from before
-      his eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wife tired?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s a tedious journey.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was too much trouble to correct him as to our exact relations.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He cleared the misty panes and looked out at a vanishing station.
-      &ldquo;Stratford. We&rsquo;ll be there in a quarter of an hour. Live in London?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. At least, sometimes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He commenced to get his baggage together, keeping up his desultory volley
-      of questions.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi&rsquo;s hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes
-      to-night or to-morrow?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To-morrow&rsquo;ll do,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler alighted,
-      refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering our luggage,
-      inquired whether we wanted a cab.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where to?&rdquo; he asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned to Vi. &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll we stay?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went
-      forward to engage the cabby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Everything has
-      been so&mdash;so hurried. You understand, dearest, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having
-      told the man to drive to the <i>Cecil</i>, I was about to enter. She
-      checked me. &ldquo;We shall be able to get on all right.&rdquo; Then, in the darkness
-      of the cab, her arms went passionately about my neck, and, all pretense
-      abandoned, I felt her warm lips pressed against my mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the door banged Dorrie roused. Seeing me standing on the platform, she
-      stretched her arms out of the window, crying, &ldquo;Oh, I fought you was toming
-      wiv&rsquo; us, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not to-night, darling,&rdquo; said Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To-morrow,&rdquo; I promised her. Then to Vi, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be round at the <i>Cecil</i>
-      shortly after ten. Will that do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded. I watched them drive away, after which I jumped into a hansom
-      and set off to pay Pope Lane a surprise visit.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not sleep that night; was making plans. The haste with which this
-      step had been approached and taken had terrified Vi. I had been unwise.
-      Her sensitiveness had been shocked by the raw way in which a desire takes
-      shape in action. And the man by the harbor had upset her. I must get her
-      away to a cottage in the country, where we could be alone, and where she
-      would have time to grow accustomed to our altered relations.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning, full of these arrangements, I sought her at the <i>Hotel
-      Cecil</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was not there; the office had no record of her. I remembered that her
-      boxes had been left at Liverpool Street overnight. When I got there and
-      made inquiries of the clerk, I found that the lady I described had been to
-      the baggage-room an hour before me and had claimed them. After much
-      difficulty I hunted out the cabman who had driven her. He showed me
-      alcoholic sympathy, at once divining the irregularity of our relations,
-      and told me that the lady had countermanded my orders and instructed him
-      to drive her to the <i>Hotel Thackeray</i>. I arrived at the <i>Hotel
-      Thackeray</i> in time to be informed that she had already left.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Four days later I received a letter which had been sent on from Ransby. It
-      was from Vi, despatched with the pilot from the ship on which she was
-      sailing to America.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She had not dared to see me again, she said. She was running away from the
-      temptation to be selfish. She had reckoned up the price which her husband,
-      Dorrie, and myself would have to pay that she might gain her happiness;
-      she had no right to exact it. As far as her husband and Dorrie were
-      concerned, if we had done what we had contemplated, we should have
-      shattered something for them which we could never replace. She was going
-      back to do her duty. That the task might not be made too difficult, she
-      begged me not to write.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER X&mdash;PUPPETS OF DESIRE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> returned to
-      Oxford. My rooms at Lazarus were in Fellows&rsquo; Quad&mdash;one was a big room
-      in which I lived and worked, the other was a small bedroom leading out of
-      it. My windows overlooked the smooth lawns and gravel paths of the college
-      garden. Flowers were over, hanging crumpled and brown on their withered
-      stalks. Here and there, a solitary late-blooming rose shone faintly. The
-      garden stood upon the city-wall, overlooking the meadows of the Broad
-      Walk. Every evening white mists from the river invaded it, billowing
-      across the open spaces, breaking against the shrubs, climbing higher and
-      higher, till the tops of the trees were covered. Sitting beside my fire I
-      could hear the leaves rustle, and turning my head could see them falling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The ceiling of my living-room was low; the walls were paneled in white
-      from bottom to top. The furniture was covered in warm red. The hearth was
-      deep and the fender of polished steel, which reflected the glow of the
-      coals when the day drew near its close. It was a room in which to sit
-      quietly, to think, and to grow drowsy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was October when I returned. Meadows were turning from green to
-      ash-color. Virginia-creeper flared like scarlet flame against pale walls.
-      The contented melancholy of the austere city was healing. It cured
-      feverishness by turning one&rsquo;s thoughts away from the present. In its stoic
-      calm it was like an old man&mdash;one who had grown indifferent to the
-      world&rsquo;s changefulness. In healthy contrast to its ancientness was the
-      exuberant youth of the undergrads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Most grief arises from a thwarted sense of one&rsquo;s own importance. Here,
-      among broken records of the past, the impermanence of physical existence
-      was written plainly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Defaced hopes of the ages encountered one at every corner. Of all the men
-      who had wrought here, nothing but the best of what they had thought stood
-      fast; their personalities, the fashion of their daily lives were lost
-      beneath the dust of decades. No place could have been found better in
-      which to doctor a wounded heart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through the winter that followed Vi&rsquo;s departure, the new conception I had
-      of her nobility upheld me. I could not sink beneath her standard of honor.
-      When the temptation to write to her came over me, I shamed myself into
-      setting it aside.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I recognized now what would have been the inevitable penalty, had we
-      followed our inclination that night. Only the madness of the moment could
-      have blinded me to its result. We should have become persons cast off by
-      society&mdash;insecure even in our claim on one another&rsquo;s affections,
-      continually fleeing from the lean greyhound of remorse. Never for a day
-      should we have been permitted to forget the irregularity of our relation.
-      We should have been continually apologizing for our fault. We should have
-      been continually hiding from curious, unfriendly eyes. The shame with
-      which other people regarded us would have re-acted on our characters. And
-      then there was Dorrie! She would have had to know one day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had the man by the harbor and &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; to thank for our escape.
-      The strange combination of influences they had exerted at our hour of
-      crisis, had saved us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Black moments came when I gazed ahead into the vacant future. I must go
-      through life without her. Unless some circumstance unforeseen should
-      arise, we would never meet again. Then I felt that, to possess her, no
-      price of disgrace would be too high to pay.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I trained myself like an athlete to defeat the despair which such thoughts
-      occasioned. I tried to banish her from my mind. In my conscious moments I
-      succeeded by keeping myself occupied. But in sleep she came to me in all
-      manner of intimate and forbidden ways.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I crowded my hours with work that I might keep true to my purpose. And yet
-      this method of fighting, when analyzed, consisted chiefly in running away.
-      I took up tutorial duties at my college. I commenced to make studies for a
-      biography of that typical genius of the Renaissance, half libertine, half
-      mystic, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, known to history in his old age as Pope
-      Pius II. I tried to fill up my leisure with new friendships. In none of
-      these things could I become truly interested. My thoughts were crossing
-      the ocean. When I was deepest in study I would start, hearing her voice,
-      sharp and poignant.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One afternoon I was sitting with my chair drawn up to the hearth, my feet
-      on the fender, a board across my knees, trying to write. A tap fell on the
-      door. Lord Halloway entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been wanting to
-      speak to you for some time,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;wanting to explain.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wanting to explain what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Myself in general. You don&rsquo;t like me; I think you&rsquo;re mistaken. I&rsquo;m not
-      the man I was.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But why should you explain to me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because I like you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t see why you should. Woadley&rsquo;s probably coming to me&mdash;which you
-      once thought was to be yours.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t worry me. I&rsquo;ll have the Lovegrove estates when my father
-      dies. But I don&rsquo;t like to feel that any man despises me&mdash;it hampers a
-      chap in trying to do right. You pass me in the quads with a nod, and hurry
-      as you go by so that I shan&rsquo;t stop you. Why?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Want to know the truth?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s because of the woman they call &lsquo;Lady Halloway&rsquo; and all the other
-      girls you&rsquo;ve ruined.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought it. That was why I wanted to tell you that I&rsquo;m done with that
-      way of life. I was a colossal ass in the old days. But, you know, a good
-      many fellows have been what I was, and they&rsquo;ve married, and settled down
-      and become respected.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what of the girls they&rsquo;ve ruined?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He leant forward, clasping his hands and spreading his knees apart.
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re blaming me for the injustices of society. Women have always had to
-      suffer. But I&rsquo;ve always done the sportsmanlike thing by the girls I&rsquo;ve
-      wronged. All of them are provided for.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;These things are your own affairs,&rdquo; I said shortly; &ldquo;but I&rsquo;ve always felt&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felt what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Felt that the most disreputable thing about most prodigals is the method
-      of their returning. They leave all the women they&rsquo;ve deceived and all
-      their bastards in the Far Country with the swine and the husks, while they
-      hobble home to forgiveness and luxury. Simply because they acknowledge the
-      obvious&mdash;that they&rsquo;ve sinned and disgraced their fathers&mdash;they
-      expect to escape the rewards of their profligacy. It&rsquo;s cheap, Halloway.
-      You speak as though marriage will re-instate your morals. A man should be
-      able to bring a clean record to the woman he marries.&rdquo; The off-hand manner
-      in which he referred to his villainies had made me cold with a sense of
-      justice. His lolling, fashionably attired person and his glib assertion
-      that he had done with that way of life, roused my anger when I remembered
-      his idiot son and the scene on the esplanade. He regarded me with a
-      friendly man-of-the-world smile, pointing his delicate fingers one against
-      the other. I would have liked him better had he shown resentment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You make things hard,&rdquo; he objected. &ldquo;If everyone thought as you do,
-      there&rsquo;d be no incentive for reformation. The man who had been a little
-      wild would never be anything else. According to your way of thinking, he&rsquo;d
-      be more estimable as a rake than as the father of a family. You shut the
-      door against all coming back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He spoke reasonably, trying to lift what had started as a personal attack,
-      on to the impartial plane of a sociological discussion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the unfairness of it that irks me,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You tempt a girl and
-      leave her to her disgrace. She bears both her own and your share of the
-      scandal, while you scramble back into respectability. If you brought her
-      back with you, I shouldn&rsquo;t object. But, after you&rsquo;ve persuaded her to go
-      down into the pit, you draw up the ladder and walk away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He gave his high-pitched laugh. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how the world&rsquo;s made. It&rsquo;s none of
-      my doing. If I married one of these girls, neither of us would be happy.
-      One of these days I shall be Earl of Lovegrove. They&rsquo;re better as they
-      are. You know that, surely?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I suppose so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then, why prevent me, when I&rsquo;m trying to get on to higher ground? I know
-      I&rsquo;ve been a rotter. I&rsquo;ve made a mess of things. I don&rsquo;t need anyone to
-      remind me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I held out my hand, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been censorious. I&rsquo;m sorry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      After this he dropped in often to see me. He was coaching the Lazarus
-      toggers that autumn; his usual time for calling was between four and five,
-      on his way up from the river. I got to know him well and to look for him.
-      His big robustness and high color filled the student atmosphere of my room
-      with an air of outdoor vitality. He was always cheerful. And yet I could
-      not get away from the idea that he was making use of me for some
-      undisclosed purpose.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He was an egoist at heart&mdash;a charming egoist. Much of his
-      conversation turned about himself. &ldquo;Now that you know me better, do you
-      still think that I&rsquo;m barred from marriage?&rdquo; he would ask.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All kinds of people marry. It still seems unfair to me that, after
-      knocking about the way you have, you should marry anyone who doesn&rsquo;t know
-      the world pretty thoroughly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You mean I&rsquo;m tarnished and should marry a woman who is tarnished. You
-      don&rsquo;t understand me, Cardover. My very knowledge of evil makes me worship
-      feminine purity.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was difficult to regard Lord Halloway as tarnished when you looked at
-      his splendid body. His healthy physical handsomeness seemed an excuse for
-      his transgressions. He upset all your ideas of the degrading influences of
-      immorality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After Christmas I had Ruthita down to stay at Oxford. We were walking
-      along the tow-path towards Iffley on the afternoon of her arrival, when
-      the Lazarus Eight went by. Halloway was mounted, riding along the bank,
-      shouting orders to the cox. As he passed us, he recognized Ruthita. I saw
-      her color flame up. She halted abruptly, following him with her eyes round
-      the bend of the river.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Shall we meet them again if we go on?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I told her we should be certain to meet them, as they would turn at Iffley
-      Lock.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t want to meet them.&rdquo; Then, in a whisper, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid of him,
-      Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We retraced our steps to Folly Bridge and walked out to Hinksey to avoid
-      him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re an odd little creature, Ruthie. Why on earth should you be afraid
-      of him? He can&rsquo;t do you any harm.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s his eyes. When he looks at me so hard, I forget all that I know
-      about him, and begin to like him. And then, when he&rsquo;s gone, I come to
-      myself and feel humiliated.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Now that I had found someone who would run him down, I changed sides and
-      began to plead his cause. &ldquo;Seems to me it&rsquo;s a bit rough on the chap to
-      remember his old faults. He&rsquo;s quite changed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But the woman at Ransby hasn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she retorted bitterly. &ldquo;He didn&rsquo;t leave
-      her a chance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was pleasant having Ruthita with me. I liked to hear the swish of her
-      skirts as she walked, and to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my
-      arm. She spoke with her face tilted up to mine. It was such a tiny face,
-      so emotional and innocent. The frost in the air had brought a color to her
-      cheeks and a luster to her hair. She loved to make me feel that she was my
-      possession for the moment; I knew that I pleased her when I used her as
-      though she were all mine. We treated one another with frank affection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you ever hear from Vi?&rdquo; she asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was awfully strange the way she left Ransby&mdash;so suddenly, without
-      saying good-by. I had just one little note from her before she sailed;
-      that was all. I&rsquo;ve written to her several times since then, but she&rsquo;s
-      never answered.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned the subject by saying, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this about Uncle Obad? Is he
-      giving up the boarding-house?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s going down into Surrey to raise fowls. He&rsquo;s already got his
-      farm. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s wild about it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But where does he get his money?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Nobody knows, and he refuses to tell. Papa says that he must have found
-      another Rapson.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But he isn&rsquo;t selling shares again, is he?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh dear no. He&rsquo;s become wonderfully independent, and says he doesn&rsquo;t need
-      to make his poultry pay. It&rsquo;s just a hobby.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear old chap! I hope he doesn&rsquo;t come another cropper.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He says he can&rsquo;t, but he won&rsquo;t explain why. And d&rsquo;you know, I believe
-      he&rsquo;s given Papa back the two thousand pounds that he lost.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it. What makes you think that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because Papa&rsquo;s stopped talking against him, and because I caught him
-      looking up those guide-books to Italy again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We turned off from the Abingdon Road and curved round to the left through
-      the sheep-farms of Hinksey. Hedges bristled bare on either side. Uplands
-      rose bleak against the steely sky. Rutted lanes were brittle beneath our
-      feet, crusted over here and there with ice. On thatched roofs of cottages
-      sparrows squatted with ruffled feathers. Icicles hung down from spouts.
-      The lambing season was just commencing. As we drew near farms the warm
-      smell of sheep packed close together assailed our nostrils. From far and
-      wide a constant, distressful bleating went up. Quickly and silently,
-      rising out of the ground, dropping down from the sky, darkness closed in
-      about us. In the cup of the valley, with the river sweeping round it, lay
-      Oxford with its glistening towers and church spires. Little pin-points of
-      fire sprang up, shining hard and frosty through the winter&rsquo;s shadows. They
-      raced through the city, as though a hundred lamp-lighters had wakened at
-      once and were making up for lost time. Soon the somber mass was a blazing
-      jewel, flinging up a golden blur into the night.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita hugged my arm. &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t it make you glad to be alive? I&rsquo;m never so
-      happy as when I&rsquo;m alone with you, Dante. It isn&rsquo;t what we say that does
-      it. It&rsquo;s just being near one another.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke like a child, groping after words, feeling far more than she
-      could ever utter. But I knew what she meant. The woman in her was
-      striving. Just as her flowerlike womanhood, unfolding itself to me
-      secretly, made me hungry for Vi, so my masculinity stung her into wistful
-      eagerness for a man&rsquo;s affection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a queer little kiddie. What you need&rsquo;s a husband. I shall be
-      frightfully jealous of him. At first I shall almost hate him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you hated him, I shouldn&rsquo;t marry him. Besides, I don&rsquo;t believe I shall
-      ever marry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We trudged back to Oxford in a gay mood, carrying on a bantering
-      conversation. When we had entered Lazarus, I left her at the lodge,
-      telling her to go to Fellows&rsquo; Quad while I ordered tea at the pantry. As I
-      approached my rooms, I heard the sound of voices. Opening the door, I saw
-      the lamp had not been lit. By the flare of the fire, I made out the
-      profile of Ruthita as she leant back in the arm-chair, resting her feet on
-      the fender. Standing up, looking down on her, with his arm against the
-      mantelshelf was Lord Halloway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He glanced towards me in his careless fashion. &ldquo;This is quite the
-      pleasantest thing that could have happened. I&rsquo;ve often thought about the
-      drive to Woadley and wondered whether we three should ever meet all
-      together again.&rdquo; Then, turning to Ruthita, &ldquo;Your brother&rsquo;s so secretive,
-      Miss Cardover. He never breathed a word about your coming.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My sister&rsquo;s name is not Cardover,&rdquo; I corrected him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He drew himself to his full height languidly. &ldquo;I must apologize for having
-      misnamed you, Miss&mdash;Miss&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My name is Favart,&rdquo; put in Ruthita.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it strange,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;that a brother and sister should be named
-      differently?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I had another illustration of how he could draw out women&rsquo;s
-      confidence. Ruthita had just run three miles in the opposite direction to
-      avoid him, yet here she was eagerly telling him many things that were most
-      intimate&mdash;all about her father and the Siege of Paris, and how I
-      climbed the wall and discovered her, and how we had run off to get married
-      and stayed with the gipsies in the forest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The tea-boy came and set crumpets and muffins down by the hearth. I lit
-      the lamp. Still they went on talking, referring to me occasionally, but
-      paying little heed to my presence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The bell began to toll for Hall.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Halloway rose. &ldquo;How long are you going to be in Oxford, Miss Favart?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That depends on Dante, and how long he will have me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you&rsquo;re staying a little while?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I ask, because I&rsquo;d like to take Cardover and yourself out driving. I have
-      my horses in Oxford and you ought to see some of the country.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That depends on Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll talk it over to-morrow,&rdquo; I said brusquely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the next few days, wherever we went we were unaccountably coming
-      across Halloway. He always expressed surprise at meeting us, and always
-      made himself delightful after we had met. If we walked out to Cumnor, or
-      Sandford or Godstow, it made no difference in which direction, we were
-      sure to hear the sharp trit-trotting of his tandem, and to see his high
-      red dog-cart gaining on us above the hedges. Then he would rein up, with a
-      display of amazed pleasure at these repeated accidents, and insist on our
-      mounting beside him. Ruthita told me that she was annoyed at the way he
-      broke up our privacy; but her annoyance was saved entirely for his
-      absence. In his company she allowed him to absorb her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had accompanied Ruthita back to the <i>Mitre</i>, where she was staying.
-      It was her last night. On returning to my rooms, I found Halloway waiting.
-      I was surprised, for the hour was late. I noticed that his manner was
-      unusually serious and pre-occupied for such an habitual trifler. When I
-      had mixed him a whiskey and soda, I sat down and watched him. He tapped
-      his teeth with his thumbnail.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I grew restless. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Something on your mind?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know how to express it. You&rsquo;ve made it difficult for me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;By the things you&rsquo;ve said from time to time. You see, it&rsquo;s this way.
-      Until I met Miss Favart I was quite unashamed of myself. Her purity and
-      goodness made me view myself in a new light. Since then I&rsquo;ve tried to
-      retrieve my past to some extent. Of course, I can never be worthy of her,
-      but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Worthy of her! I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo; I leant forward in my chair,
-      frowning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You do understand,&rdquo; he said quietly. &ldquo;You must have guessed it from the
-      first. I&rsquo;m in love with her and intend to make her my wife.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Intend!&rdquo; I repeated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He rose to his feet, as though willing to show me his fine body, and began
-      to pace the room with the stealthy tread of a panther. He kept his eyes on
-      mine. When he spoke there was a purring determination in his voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, intend. I&rsquo;ve always had my way with women. You&rsquo;ll see; I shan&rsquo;t fail
-      this time. I may have to wait, perhaps.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Halloway,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose you&rsquo;re capable of realizing how
-      decent people feel about you. Of course there are many men who disguise
-      their feelings when they see you trying to do better. But very few of
-      those same men would introduce you to their sisters, or daughters, or
-      wives. To put it plainly, they&rsquo;d feel they were insulting them. So now you
-      know how I feel about what you&rsquo;ve just told me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He paused above me, looking down with an amused smile.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My dear Cardover, that&rsquo;s just what I expected from you. You virgin men
-      are so brutally honest where your ideals are concerned&mdash;so hopelessly
-      evasive in facing up to realities. Don&rsquo;t you know that life <i>is</i> a
-      coarse affair? I&rsquo;ve lived it naturally&mdash;most strong men have at some
-      time. I&rsquo;ve been open in what I&rsquo;ve done. Everybody knows the worst there is
-      to know about me. Most men do these things in secret. I couldn&rsquo;t be secret
-      and preserve my self-respect. Skeletons in the cupboard ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t much in my
-      line. Ruthita knows me at my wickedest now; when she knows me at my best,
-      she&rsquo;ll love me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When my sister marries,&rdquo; I said coldly, &ldquo;it&rsquo;ll be to a man who can bring
-      her something better than the dregs of his debaucheries.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He gave his foolish laugh. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a new name for the Lovegrove titles.
-      I&rsquo;d better be going. If I stay longer, you may make me angry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I rose to see him take his departure. He had passed out and gone a few
-      steps down the passage, when I heard him returning. The door just opened
-      wide enough for him to look in on me. &ldquo;My dear Cardover,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I came
-      back to remind you of another of those evasive realities. You know, she
-      isn&rsquo;t your sister.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A week later I received an indignant letter from Ruthita, saying that Lord
-      Halloway had been to Pope Lane to see my father, and had asked for her
-      hand in marriage. She had refused even to see him. By the same mail came a
-      letter from the Snow Lady, couched in milder terms and asking for
-      information. She wanted to know whether Halloway was as black as he was
-      painted. I referred her to Ruthita, telling her to ask her to describe
-      what happened on the esplanade. As a result I received a final letter,
-      agreeing with me that the matter was impossible, but at the same time
-      enlarging on the wealth and prestige of the Lovegrove earldom.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For a fortnight I refused to have anything to do with my cousin, but his
-      imperturbable good-humor made rancor impossible. In the cabined intimacies
-      of college life a quarrel was awkward. To the aristocratic much is
-      forgiven; moreover he was a splendid all-round athlete and one of the
-      hardest riders to hounds that the &rsquo;Varsity had ever had. So he was popular
-      with dons and undergraduates alike. One morning when he stopped me in
-      Merton Street, offering me his hand, I took it, agreeing to renew his
-      acquaintance. My commonsense told me that the defeated party had most
-      cause for grievance. His sporting lack of bitterness sent him up in my
-      estimation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Spring broke late on the world that year in a foam of flowers. Like a
-      swollen tide it swept through our valley in wanton riot and stormed across
-      the walls of our gray old town. It surged into shadowy cloisters and
-      dashed up in spray of may-blossom and lilac. Every tree was crested with
-      the flying foam of its hurry. The Broad Walk, leading down to the barges,
-      was white with blown bloom of chestnuts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Quadrangles became gay with geraniums. Through open windows music and
-      men&rsquo;s laughter sounded. Flanneled figures, carrying rackets and
-      cricket-bats, shot hither and thither on bicycles. At evening, in the
-      streets beneath college windows, groups of strolling minstrels strummed on
-      banjos and sang. Fresh-faced girls, sweethearts and sisters of the
-      undergraduates, drifted up and down our monastic by-ways, smiling eagerly
-      into their escort&rsquo;s eyes, leaving behind them ripples of excitement.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All live things were mating. The instinct for love was in the air. My
-      longing for Vi was quickened. The sight of girls&rsquo; faces filled me with
-      poignancy. Every beauty of sound, or sight, or fragrance became
-      commemorative of her. By day I traced her resemblance in the features of
-      strangers. Inflamed desire wove tapestries of passion on the canvas of the
-      night. Roaming through lanes of the countryside, I would meet young lovers
-      in secluded places, and flee from them in a tempest of envy. Had she sent
-      me one little sign that she still cared, I would have abandoned everything
-      and have gone to claim her. My mind was burning. I poured out my heart to
-      her in letters which, instead of sending, I destroyed. I became afraid.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Halloway was in the same plight. He never mentioned Ruthita; but he would
-      come to my room, and pause before her photograph and fall silent. However,
-      he knew how to shuffle his fortune to convenience his environment. He had
-      his comforters. Gorgeous young females fluttered in and out of his
-      apartments, like painted butterflies. His only discretion was in the
-      numbers of his choice. They might have been the daughters of dukes by
-      their appearance, but you knew they were chorus-girls from London. One day
-      when I questioned him, he threw me a cynical smile, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m trying
-      the expulsive power of a new affection.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The phrase took root. If I was to do the honorable thing by Vi, I also
-      must employ my heart in a new direction. The thing was easy to say, but it
-      seemed impossible that I should ever be attracted by another woman.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It had become my habit to spend much of my time sitting by the open window
-      of my room, gazing out into the college garden. Hyacinths, tulips,
-      crocuses bubbled up from beneath the turf. Every day brought a change. In
-      the spring breeze the garden tossed and nodded, applauding its own
-      endeavor. Songsters had returned to their last year&rsquo;s nests. From morn to
-      dusk they caroled in the shrubberies. Twittering their love-songs or
-      trailing straws, they flashed across gulfs which separated the chestnuts.
-      Over Bagley Wood, as I sat at work, I could hear the cuckoo calling. From
-      the unseen river came the shouting of coaches to their crews, and the long
-      and regular roll of oars as they turned in their rowlocks.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I glanced up from my books one evening. The glow of sunset, hovered along
-      the city-wall. Leaning over its edge, looking down into the meadows, a
-      tall girl was standing. Her back was towards me. She was dressed in the
-      palest green. Her hair was auburn. She held her skirt daringly high,
-      disclosing the daintiest of ankles. Her open-work stockings were also of
-      green to match the rest of her attire. Her companion was Brookins, the
-      assistant chaplain, an effeminate little man, who was known among the
-      undergraduates as the doe-priest. He seemed ill at ease; she was
-      manifestly flirting with him. In the stillness of the garden the
-      penetrating cadence of her gay voice reached me. It was friendly, and had
-      the lazy caressing quality of a summer&rsquo;s afternoon when bees are humming
-      in and out of flowers. I was tantalized by a haunting memory. She turned
-      her face part way towards me. I caught her mocking profile. The way the
-      red-gold curls fell across her forehead was familiar; and yet I could not
-      remember. She came along the terrace, walking in long, slow, undulating
-      strides. The west shone full upon her. She was brilliant and gracious, and
-      carried herself with an air of challenging pride. Her tall, slim figure
-      broke into exquisite lines as she walked, revealing its shapely frailty.
-      Her narrow face, with its arch expression of innocence, promised a
-      personality full of secrets and disguises.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I stepped across the sill of my window into the garden. They were near
-      enough now for me to catch an occasional word of their conversation. I
-      approached across the lawn towards them. She glanced in my direction
-      casually; then she steadied her gaze. I saw that her eyes were green,
-      specked with gold about the iris. She stooped her head, still gazing at
-      me, and asked a question of the doe-priest in a lowered voice. I heard him
-      speak my name. A bubbling laugh sprang from her lips. She came tripping
-      towards me with her hand extended.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not going to pretend you don&rsquo;t know me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do know you, and yet I can&rsquo;t recall where we have met or what is your
-      name.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Were you ever in Sneard&rsquo;s garden at the Red House?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole Cortona, and you&rsquo;re Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We stood there holding one another&rsquo;s hands, searching one another&rsquo;s faces
-      and laughing gladly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well I never!&rdquo; I kept repeating. &ldquo;Fancy meeting you after all these
-      years!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Am I much changed?&rdquo; she questioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re more beautiful,&rdquo; I said boldly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded her head roguishly. &ldquo;I can see you&rsquo;re no longer afraid of
-      girls. You were once, you remember.&rdquo; The doe-priest had stood by watching
-      us nervously. It was plain that Fiesole had scared him&mdash;he was glad
-      to be relieved of her. The bell in the tower began to toll for dinner.
-      Brookins jangled his keys, edging towards the gate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor Mr. Brookins, are you hungry? Must you be going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like to be late at high table, Miss Cortona,&rdquo; he replied stiffly.
-      &ldquo;The Warden is very particular about punctuality.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never mind, Brookins,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll look after Miss Cortona. You cut
-      along.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Brookins made his farewells with more alacrity than politeness. Fiesole
-      gazed after his departing figure with mischievous merriment in her eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He thinks me a dangerous person,&rdquo; she pouted. &ldquo;He thinks I was luring him
-      on to be naughty. He&rsquo;ll go and preach a sermon about me. He&rsquo;s bristling
-      with righteousness. And now that he&rsquo;s managed to escape, he&rsquo;s locking poor
-      innocent you, Dante, all alone in the garden with the wicked temptress.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I rather like it. Besides, I know a way out&mdash;over there, through my
-      window.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As we strolled across the lawn I asked her, &ldquo;Where, under the sun, did you
-      pick up Brookins? He doesn&rsquo;t seem just your sort.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I picked him up at Aix-les-Bains. He was sowing his wild oats
-      imaginatively and eyeing the ladies in <i>La Villa des Fleurs</i>. He was
-      trying to find out what it felt like to be truly devilish.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t sound like Brookins. I suppose he was gathering experience,
-      so that he might be able to deal understanding with erring undergrads.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re charitable. At any rate, when I met him he was playing the truant
-      from morality. I was in the Casino.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What doing? Gambling?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded. &ldquo;You see I was nearly as bad as Mr. Brookins. He came and
-      stood behind my chair while I was playing. When I got up and went out into
-      the garden, he followed. It was all dusky and dimly lit with faery-lamps.
-      I suppose it made him feel romantic. I saw what he was doing out of the
-      corner of my eye; so, for the fun of it, I tried to fascinate him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll warrant you did. It was the old game you played with me and the
-      Bantam. You take delight in making other people uncomfortable. It&rsquo;s the
-      most adventurous thing about you, Fiesole. You&rsquo;ve got the name of a
-      lullaby and the manners of a mustard-plaster. You&rsquo;ll be trying to sting me
-      presently, when you catch me sleepy and unaware.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not you, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke my name coaxingly, veiling her eyes with her long lashes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you did once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did I? So you still remember?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was unwilling to be sentimental. &ldquo;What did you do next to poor
-      Brookins?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took up the thread of her story with feigned demureness. &ldquo;I chose out
-      a bench well hidden in the shadows. He came and seated himself on the edge
-      of it, as far away as he could get from me. He cleared his throat several
-      times. I could hear him moistening his lips. Then he whispered, almost
-      turning his back on me, &lsquo;Je vous aime.&rsquo; And I whispered, turning my back
-      on him, &lsquo;Do you? Now isn&rsquo;t that lovely!&rsquo;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, then, finding I was English, he became more comfy. He began to boast
-      about Oxford and mentioned Lazarus. So I thought to-day the least I could
-      do was to call on him. I didn&rsquo;t know he was a parson. You should have seen
-      his face when he saw me. I&rsquo;ve been getting even with him all this
-      afternoon. He thinks I&rsquo;ve risen out of the buried past to haunt him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She broke into low musical laughter, shaking her shoulders.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You were cruel, Fiesole. What he said to you was the sum total of the
-      intent of his wickedness. He had reached the limit of his daring.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know it. That&rsquo;s why I don&rsquo;t like him. He isn&rsquo;t thorough. He told me
-      that his name was Jordan at Aix. When I asked for him at the lodge to-day,
-      the porter said there weren&rsquo;t no sich purson. I was turning away, when I
-      saw him coming across quad in full clericals, walking by the side of a
-      stooping old gentleman shaped like the letter C.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That would be the Warden.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, was it? Well, he didn&rsquo;t see me and was walking right by me. I tapped
-      him on the arm and said, &lsquo;Good-afternoon, Mr. Jordan.&rsquo; He paled to his
-      lips and stared. The old gentleman raised his hat to me and said, &lsquo;This is
-      Mr. Brookins, not Mr. Jordan, my dear young lady. You must be mistaken.&rsquo;
-      &lsquo;Jordan&rsquo;s my pet name for him,&rsquo; I answered. The old gentleman smiled, and
-      smiled again and left us. Then I turned to Mr. Brookins and said, &lsquo;Je vous
-      aime. Be sure your sins will find you out.&rsquo; After that I tried to be very
-      nice to him, but somehow I couldn&rsquo;t make him happy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not surprised. Brookins was wondering how he could explain to the
-      Warden not knowing a charming young lady, who had a pet name for him.
-      They&rsquo;re asking him about it now at the high-table, and he&rsquo;s lying fit to
-      shame the devil. His pillow will be drenched to-night with tears of
-      penitence. You rehearsed the Judgment Day to him. You&rsquo;ve turned the tables
-      on him, because, you know, that&rsquo;s his profession every Sunday.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I helped her to step across the sill of my window. She gazed round my
-      room, taking in the pipes and tobacco-ash and clothes strewn about. &ldquo;I
-      love it,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s so cosy and mannish.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She perched herself on the arm of a chair, so that the golden, after-glow
-      fell athwart her. I watched her, thinking how little she had changed from
-      the old Fiesole. She was still tantalizing, as mischievous as a
-      school-girl; once she had fiddled with boys&rsquo; heartstrings, now she took
-      her pastime in breaking men&rsquo;s.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was a creature of vivid mysteries, alternately wooing and repelling.
-      She could beckon you on with passionate white arms and thrust you from her
-      with hands of ice. She came out of nowhere like a wild thing from a wood.
-      You looked up and saw her&mdash;she vanished. She courted capture and
-      invited pursuit; but you knew that, though you caught her, you would never
-      tame her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She had plucked a deep-cupped daffodil from a vase on the table. She was
-      bending over it with a tender air of contemplation. She held the long slim
-      stalk low down in her dainty, long, slim fingers. The golden dust of the
-      petals seemed the reflection of the golden glint that was in her hair. The
-      stalk was the color of her eyes. Her tempestuous loveliness&mdash;made to
-      lure and torture men, to fill them with cravings which she could not
-      satisfy&mdash;was resting now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked up at me with calculated suddenness. She read admiration in my
-      eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You find me pretty nice, don&rsquo;t you, Dante?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not disguising it, am I?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought, maybe, you were cross with me about Brookins. We never quite
-      approved of one another, did we, Dante? You thought and still think me a
-      coquette.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;With some people, but not with you. I only played with the Bantam to draw
-      you out of your shell.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Really.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then the absurdity of being serious over an affair of childhood struck us
-      and we went off into gales of laughter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s be sensible,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;What are you doing? Staying at Oxford with
-      friends?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No. I&rsquo;m traveling alone with my maid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have you any engagement for this evening?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then why shouldn&rsquo;t we spend it together?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No reason in the world.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll we spend it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Here, if you like.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But we can&rsquo;t spend it here, just you and I. The college doesn&rsquo;t allow it.
-      Besides, you haven&rsquo;t had dinner. Where&rsquo;ll we dine?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Anywhere.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What do you say to punting down to Sandford and dinner at the inn there?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m game.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      As we passed through the quads, men were coming out of Hall from dinner.
-      Some of them went thundering up wooden-stairs to their rooms, tearing off
-      their gowns. Others strolled arm-in-arm joking and conversing, smoking
-      cigarettes. At sight of Fiesole, they hauled up sharply. She was a man&rsquo;s
-      woman, and they were struck by her beauty. With one accord they turned
-      unobstrusively and hurried their steps towards the lodge, to catch one
-      more glimpse of her face as she passed out. She betrayed no sign that she
-      was aware of the sensation she was creating. She advanced beside me with
-      eyes modestly lowered, enhancing her allurement with a serene air of
-      innocence. Out in the street her manner changed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The men do that always,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and, do you know, I rather like them
-      for it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What do they do?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Stare after me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t wonder Brookins was shocked by you, Fiesole. You&rsquo;re a very shocking
-      person. You say the most alarming things.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laid her hand on my arm for a second. &ldquo;But I say them charmingly.
-      Don&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      On our way through the meadows to the barges, I asked her what she had
-      been doing all these years.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;For a time I tried the stage, but lately I&rsquo;ve been traveling in Europe. I
-      have no relations&mdash;nothing to keep me tethered. I roam from place to
-      place with my maid, moving on and on again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not the kind of woman who marries. Men like me, but when it comes to
-      making me their wife, it&rsquo;s &lsquo;Oh no, thank you.&rsquo; They want a woman a little
-      more stupid. Are you married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Hardly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shot me a penetrating glance. &ldquo;Engaged?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not that I&rsquo;m aware of.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We came to the Lazarus barge. I piled cushions in a punt for her. She lay
-      with her back to the prow, so that she faced me. I took the pole and
-      pushed off into midstream.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had the river to ourselves; its restful loneliness caused us to fall
-      silent. We left the barges quickly; then we drifted slowly. Fields were
-      growing white and vaporous. The air was damp, and cool, and earthy. Behind
-      us the spires of Oxford shone like a clump of spears against the
-      embattled, orange-tinted sky. Before us, swimming in blue haze, was Iffley
-      Mill. Everything was becoming ill-defined&mdash;receding into nothingness.
-      Far away across meadows to the right we caught sounds of gritting hoofs
-      and the grinding of a wagon. Sometimes a bird uttered one long fluty cry.
-      Sometimes a swallow swooped near us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante, all the others have passed on, and there&rsquo;s only you and I. What&rsquo;s
-      happened to the Bantam?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Married in Canada. He&rsquo;s farming.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I believe you thought you loved me in the old days.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I could tell you some things to prove it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t do much to prove it at the time. You were a terribly shy and
-      stubborn boy. You left me to do all the courting. I&rsquo;ve often laughed at
-      the things I did to try and make you kiss me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And that was what I was wanting most to do all the time. D&rsquo;you know what
-      sent me to the infirmary?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I told her how I had crept out of bed and out of doors in the middle
-      of the night to visit the summer-house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What a little beast I was,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m always being a little beast,
-      Dante. That&rsquo;s the way I&rsquo;m made. Can&rsquo;t help it. But I&rsquo;ll never be like that
-      to you again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      By the time we got to Sandford it was night. Lamps in the inn were
-      lighted, shining through the trees across the river. We had dinner in the
-      room next to the bar, in an atmosphere of beer and sawdust and tobacco.
-      The windows were open; the singing of water across the weir was
-      accompaniment to our conversation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She told me the beginning of many things about herself with a strange
-      mixture of frankness and restraint. She spoke of the early days in Italy
-      before her parents died, and of the ordered quiet of her convent life at
-      Tours. After her expulsion from the Red House she had returned to France,
-      and fallen in with the artistic set that had been her father&rsquo;s in Paris.
-      Her guardian, an old actor, had persuaded her to train for the stage. For
-      a time she had succeeded, but had dropped her profession to go traveling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an amateur at living,&rdquo; she told me; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m always chopping and
-      changing. I&rsquo;ll find what I want some day.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her restlessness had carried her into many strange places. Northern Africa
-      was known to her; she had been through India and Persia. Speaking in her
-      lazy voice, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, she painted
-      pictures of sun-baked deserts with caravans of nodding camels; of decayed,
-      oriental cities sprawled out like bleached bones in palm-groves beside
-      some ancient river-bank; of strange fierce rituals in musty temples,
-      demanding the blood-sacrifice. She made me feel while she spoke how
-      narrowly I had lived my life. Like a fly on a window-pane I had crawled
-      back and forth, back and forth, viewing the adventure of the great
-      outside, rebellious at restraint, but never taking any rational measures
-      for escape.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The river droned across the weir. In the bar-room next door glasses
-      clinked; yokels&rsquo; voices rose and fell hoarsely in argument. Fiesole came
-      to a halt and leant back in her chair, gazing searchingly into my face
-      across the table.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You look queer, Dante. What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I laughed shortly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been putting the telescope to my eye. You&rsquo;ve
-      been making me see things largely. How was it that you broke loose that
-      way?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I had a horror of growing stodgy. I was born to be a South Sea Islander
-      and to run about naked in the sunshine.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How long are you to be in Oxford?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know. I&rsquo;ve made no plans. I hadn&rsquo;t expected to spend more than one
-      night. But now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She did not finish the sentence. We rose from the table. In the porch we
-      loitered, breathing in the deep, cool stillness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll stay a little while, won&rsquo;t you, Fiesole?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my arm and smiled. &ldquo;Of course&mdash;if you want me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Going down through the arbors, we stepped into the punt. The river was
-      a-silver with moonlight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XI&mdash;SPRING WEATHER
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      I drugged myself with Fiesole to avoid thinking of Vi. Fiesole was so
-      vivid in her personality that, while she was present, she absorbed my
-      whole attention and shut out memory.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was a continual source of pleasure and surprise, for her mood was
-      forever changing. She could be as naughty as a French novel and as solemn
-      as the Church of England Prayer Book. When she tried to be both together
-      she was at her drollest; it was like Handel played on a mouth-organ.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She would never let me take her seriously. There lay the safety of our
-      comradeship. At the first hint of sentiment, she flew like a hare before a
-      greyhound; the way she showed her alarm was by converting what should have
-      been pathos into absurdity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Day after day of memorable beauty I spent with her in that blowy Cotswold
-      country. We would usually appoint our place of meeting somewhere on the
-      outskirts of Oxford. It was not necessary to let everyone know just how
-      much of our time was lived together. This care for public opinion lent our
-      actions the zest of indiscretion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I set out to meet her, I would pass crowds of undergrads, capped and
-      gowned, sauntering off to their morning lectures. I was playing truant,
-      and that gave an added spice to adventure. Each college doorway frowned on
-      my frivolity, calling me back to a sense of duty. But the young foliage
-      glittered and the spring wind romped down the street, and the shadows
-      quivered and jumped aside as the sunlight splashed them. The lure of the
-      feminine beckoned. Where the houses grew wider apart I would find her, and
-      we would commence our climb out of the valley. Now we would come to a
-      farm-house, standing gray and mediaeval in a sea of tossing green. Now we
-      would pass by flowery orchards, smoking with scattered bloom. Brooks
-      tinkled; birds sang; across the hedge a plowman called to his horses and
-      started them up a new furrow. And through all this commotion of new-found
-      life and clamorous hearts we two wandered, glad in one another.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Only the atmosphere of what we talked about remains with me. There were
-      moments when we skirted the seashore of affection, and perhaps pushed out
-      from land a little way, speculating on love&rsquo;s audacities and dangers. But
-      these moments were rare, for Fiesole delighted in love&rsquo;s pursuit and not
-      in its certainty. We made no pretense that our attraction for one another
-      was more than friendly and temporary. If we played occasionally at being
-      lovers, it was understood that we were only playing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole never admitted that she had prolonged her stay in Oxford for my
-      sake. She kept me in constant attendance by the threat that this might be
-      my last chance of being with her. The supposition that her visit was
-      shortly to end gave us the excuse we needed for being always together. We
-      lived the hours which we shared intensely, as friends do who must soon go
-      their separate ways.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But beneath her veneer of wit and frivolity I began to discover a truer
-      and kinder Fiesole. These flashes of self-revelation came when she was off
-      her guard. They were betrayed by a tremor in her tone or a hesitancy in
-      her gaiety. After a day of exquisite sensations, her independence would
-      break down and the fear of loneliness would look out from her eyes. She
-      would prolong her departure, again postponing it beyond the date
-      appointed. I began to suspect that her dashing recklessness was a barrier
-      of habit, which she had erected to defend her shyness from curious
-      observers. Insincerity was a cloak for her sincerity. Hidden behind her
-      tantalizing lightness lay the deep and urgent feminine desire for a man
-      and little children. I had roused in her the mating instinct. I was not
-      the man; she had yet to find him. With myself the same thing was true. I
-      took delight in her partly for herself, but mainly as Vi&rsquo;s proxy. Fiesole
-      and I had come together in a moment of crisis. We saw in each other the
-      shadow of what we desired.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When a month had gone by I began to debate with myself how far our conduct
-      was safe and justifiable. I went so far as to ask myself the question, did
-      I want to marry her. But that consideration was impossible in my state of
-      mind. Besides, as Fiesole herself had said, she was the type of woman that
-      a man may love and yet fear to marry. She had no sense of moral
-      responsibility. She would demand too much of herself and her lover. Her
-      passion, once aroused, would burn too ardently. It would be
-      self-consuming. She was a wild thing of the wood, swift and beautiful, and
-      un-moral.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      May had slipped by. June was nearly ended. Still she delayed. A chance
-      remark of Brookins brought me to my senses and forced me to face the
-      impression we had created. Fiesole, when she visited me in college,
-      invariably brought her maid; we would shut her up in my bedroom while we
-      sat in my study. In this way, we supposed, appearances had been saved. But
-      Brookins&rsquo;s remark proved the contrary&mdash;that he hoped I&rsquo;d let him know
-      when I moved out of Lazarus as he&rsquo;d like to have my rooms.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not moving out of Lazarus. What made you think that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll have to when you&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what makes you think that I&rsquo;m going to be married?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t have to think,&rdquo; he tittered. &ldquo;We only have to use our eyes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That decided me. In common fairness we must separate. Since I could not
-      make the suggestion to her, I determined to leave Oxford myself. The term
-      was nearly ended. My work on the Renaissance furnished an excuse for a
-      visit to Italy. I had never been out of England as yet; at Pope Lane we
-      had had all we could do to keep up a plausible appearance of stay-at-home
-      respectability. But Fiesole with her talk of travel, had led me to peep
-      out of the back-door of the world. I made up my mind to start immediately.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a golden summer&rsquo;s evening. How well I remember it! I had not seen
-      her for two days. I was finishing my packing. A trunk stood in the middle
-      of the floor partly filled. Over the backs of chairs clothes hung
-      disorderly. Piles of books lay muddled about the carpet, among socks and
-      shirts and underwear. Through the open window from the garden drifted in
-      the rumor of voices and the perfume of roses.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The door opened without warning. I was kneeling beside the trunk. Glancing
-      over my shoulder I saw her. She slipped into the room like a ray of
-      sunlight, and stood behind me. She wore a golden dress, gathered in at the
-      waist with a girdle of silver. Her arms, bare from the elbow, hung looped
-      before her with the fingers knotted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I glanced at her a moment. Her face was pale with reproach. Her
-      rebelliousness had departed. Her lips trembled. She looked like a
-      sensitive child, trying not to cry when her feelings had been wounded.
-      This was the true Fiesole I had long suspected, but had never before
-      discovered. We had no use for polite explanations; in the past two months
-      we had lived too near together. She knew what it all meant&mdash;the
-      half-filled trunk, the scattered clothing, the piles of books. Feeling
-      ashamed, with a hurried greeting I turned back to my packing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke in a low voice, with a tremble in it. It filled me with panic
-      desire to be kind to her; yet I dared not trust myself. I did not love
-      her. I kept telling myself that I did not love her. My whole mind and
-      being were pledged to another woman. And yet pity is so near to love that
-      I could not allow myself to touch her. I was mad from the restraint I had
-      suffered. To touch her might result in irreparable folly. Kneeling lower
-      over my trunk, I shifted articles hither and thither, pressed them closer,
-      moved them back to their original places, doing nothing useful, simply
-      trying to keep my hands busy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She watched me. I could not see her, but I felt that behind my back the
-      slow, sweet, lazy smile was curling up the corners of her mouth. I knew
-      just how she was looking&mdash;how the eyebrows were twitching and
-      nostrils panting, the long white throat was working. I fixed my mind upon
-      Vi. I was doing this for her. Maybe, if Fiesole had come first, we might
-      have married. But we should not have been happy. I must be true to Vi, I
-      told myself. I was like a man parched with thirst in a burning desert, who
-      sees arise a mirage of green waters and blue palm-trees&mdash;and knows it
-      to be a mirage, and yet is tempted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You were going away without telling me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice broke. I listened for the sob, but it did not follow. Outside in
-      the garden a thrush awoke; his notes fell like flashing silver, gleaming
-      dimmer and dimmer as they sank into the silence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You were going away because of me. I would have gone if you had spoken.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Still kneeling, I looked up at her. &ldquo;Fiesole, I didn&rsquo;t dare to tell you.
-      Something was said. We had to separate. I thought this way was best.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Said about me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like to tell you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders.
-      Each time I bent back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her
-      breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes. Her
-      voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching my forehead she
-      whispered, &ldquo;And what if they did say it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded. By one slight
-      action of assent, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a hand, I
-      would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would at least be
-      correct&mdash;approved by society; but I should have to sin against Vi to
-      get it&mdash;to sin against a love which was half-sinful.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my head,
-      ruffling my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal of silver
-      laughter fell from her lips. &ldquo;Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you were.
-      You&rsquo;re still afraid of girls.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring attack, but
-      always on the defensive. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed. I
-      had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she was
-      play-acting. And yet I doubted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her,
-      confident now of my power to restrain myself. &ldquo;I was afraid for you&mdash;not
-      of you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why should you be afraid for me when I&rsquo;m not afraid for myself? No,
-      Dante, it wasn&rsquo;t that. You&rsquo;re afraid of yourself. Someone told you long,
-      long ago, when you were quite little, that it was naughty to flirt. You&rsquo;ve
-      never forgotten it, and each time you begin to feel a bit happy you
-      believe you&rsquo;re going to do something bad. So you&rsquo;ve put your heart to bed,
-      and you&rsquo;ve locked the door, and you&rsquo;ve drawn the curtains. You play nurse
-      to it, and every time it stirs, you tiptoe to the door to see that the key
-      is turned, and to the windows to see that they&rsquo;re properly bolted. I&rsquo;ll
-      tell you what&rsquo;s the matter with you, Dante. I stole along the passage and
-      hammered on the door of your heart&rsquo;s bedroom, and your heart half-roused
-      and called, &lsquo;Nurse.&rsquo; There!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She threw herself back against the cushions, seizing both my hands in
-      hers. She gazed at me unflinchingly, daringly, mockingly. She drew me to
-      her and thrust me from her with quick sharp jerks. She treated the
-      situation so lightheartedly, so theatrically, that I could have kissed her
-      with impunity. But it would have been like kissing the statue of a woman.
-      She would have remained unmoved, unresponsive. There would have been no
-      adventure of conquest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, Miss Impudence,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re wrong. I wish sometimes my heart
-      were safe in bed. You and I have been good friends. You came to me at a
-      time when I most needed you. You never guessed the good you were doing. If
-      this hadn&rsquo;t happened, I would never have told you. But when I heard
-      something said about you, which no girl would like to have said unless it
-      were true, I thought it was time I should be going. You&rsquo;ve been so good to
-      me that I couldn&rsquo;t return your good with evil.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, my dear, I daresay I&rsquo;ve flirted with half-a-hundred men. It&rsquo;s very
-      nice of you to think I haven&rsquo;t, and to be so careful of me. But really it
-      doesn&rsquo;t matter what anybody says. I don&rsquo;t want you to run away because of
-      that, just when we were having such a good time together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t let me be serious,&rdquo; I protested. &ldquo;Now I want you to imagine for
-      a minute that I&rsquo;m old, and inoffensive, and have white hair.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, and about seventy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;About seventy-five I should say&mdash;I&rsquo;ve known some pretty lively men
-      of seventy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right. About seventy-five. I&rsquo;m imagining.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My dear girl, you&rsquo;re twenty-four or thereabouts, and you&rsquo;re extremely
-      beautiful. No man can look at you without being fascinated. I&rsquo;ve often
-      wanted to kiss you myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then why didn&rsquo;t you do it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole, you&rsquo;re not playing the game,&rdquo; I said sternly. &ldquo;Please go on
-      imagining.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m imagining.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As I was saying, you&rsquo;re extremely fascinating. Everything&rsquo;s in your favor
-      for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You have no parents. Now parents are a kind of passport. Seeing that you
-      haven&rsquo;t any, you&rsquo;ve got to be more circumspect than other girls. It has
-      come to my ears that for the past two months you&rsquo;ve been seen every day
-      with one young gentleman. People are beginning to talk about it. Since you
-      don&rsquo;t intend to marry him, you ought to drop him until you are married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who says I don&rsquo;t intend to marry him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded
-      from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to me
-      that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back. I heard
-      men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden streamer,
-      fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing <i>Mr.
-      Dooley</i>. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity. Her hands
-      trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the genuineness of
-      her playacting. I hurried on.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He&rsquo;s
-      pledged to another woman.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her hands fell away. When she spoke it was gravely and with effort. &ldquo;You
-      didn&rsquo;t tell me. You said you weren&rsquo;t engaged when I asked you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Neither am I, nor likely to be.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The silence was broken by her taking my hand. She took it with a sudden
-      gesture and, bowing her head, kissed it. &ldquo;Poor Dante,&rdquo; she whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I rose from the sofa and lit the lamp. Kneeling by my trunk, I
-      blunderingly recommenced my packing. From the window came a muffled,
-      choking sound. Perhaps she was trying not to sob. I had never seen her so
-      gentle as just now. My mind ran back over the long road we had traveled.
-      The Fiesole I had seen was a wild, mad girl, provoking, charming,
-      inconsiderate as a child and frolicsome as the mad spring weather&mdash;but
-      rarely tender. I wondered what other secrets of kindness lay hidden in her
-      personality. She was the sort of woman a man might live with for twenty
-      years and still be discovering. She kept one restless by the very richness
-      of her character. It was true what she had said: many men might love her;
-      few would desire to marry her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She rose from the lounge. Standing between me and the lamp, her long
-      shadow fell across me. I looked up and saw that her lashes glistened.
-      Against the background of the white-paneled room she looked supremely
-      lovely&mdash;a tall, gold daffodil. She held her head high on her splendid
-      shoulders with a gesture of proud despair. And yet an appearance of
-      meekness clothed her. Her face had an expression which a young girl&rsquo;s
-      often has, but which hers had seldom&mdash;an expression which was
-      maternal. She watched my clumsy attempts to squeeze my clothes into
-      smaller compass. Then she came and knelt beside me, saying, &ldquo;Let me do
-      it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her swift white hands plied back and forth, re-arranging, smoothing out
-      with deft touches, reaching out for socks to fill the hollows, rectifying
-      my awkwardness. The thought flashed on me that this sensation I had was
-      one of the sacred things of marriage&mdash;a man&rsquo;s dependence on a woman.
-      As I watched, I imagined the future, if this woman should become a wife to
-      me. But the passion for her was not in me. She was only an emotion. The
-      sight of her made me hungrier, but not for her. I reasoned with myself,
-      saying how many men would desire her. I forced myself to notice the curve
-      of her neck, the way the red-gold curls clustered about her shell-like
-      ears and broad white forehead. I told myself that the best solution for Vi
-      would be that I leave her unembarrassed by marrying Fiesole. But the more
-      I urged matters, the colder grew my emotions. Then my emotions ceased and
-      my observations became entirely mental.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Overhead, strident and uproarious, as if striving to burlesque what should
-      have been chivalrous, the piano thumped and banged; men&rsquo;s voices smote the
-      night like hammer-strokes on steel, singing,
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      &ldquo;Mr. Dooley! Oh, Mr. Dooley!
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent15">
-      Mr. Dooley&mdash;&mdash;ooley&mdash;&mdash;ooley&mdash;&mdash;oo.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s done,&rdquo; she said. Then, &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To Italy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My country. When?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll write me sometimes? I shall be lonely, you know, at first.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, certainly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then, if you&rsquo;re going to write to me, I must write to you. You&rsquo;ll have to
-      let me have your addresses so that I can send my letters on ahead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I wrote her out the list of towns and dates, telling her to address me <i>poste
-      restante</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I accompanied her across the quad to the lodge. I had had no idea it was
-      so late. Big Tom had ceased ringing for an hour. It was past ten. The
-      porter, when I called him out to unlock the gate, eyed us disapprovingly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you home,&rdquo; I told her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She hesitated, urged that she could get home quite safely by herself, it
-      was such a short way to go&mdash;but at last she surrendered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through the mysterious, moon-washed streets we walked; but not near
-      together as formerly. We had nothing to say to one another. Or was it that
-      we had too much, and they were things that we were ashamed to utter? The
-      echo of our footfall followed behind us like a presence. At the turnings
-      we lost it. Then it seemed to hurry till it had made up the distance;
-      again it followed. The cobble-stones beneath us made our steps uneven.
-      Sometimes we just brushed shoulders, and started apart with a guilty sense
-      of contact. Sometimes we passed a window that was lighted by a student&rsquo;s
-      lamp. We could see him through the curtains poring over outspread books,
-      holding his head between his hands. As we turned to look in on him, our
-      faces were illumined. Her face was troubled; coming out of the night
-      suddenly it looked blanched and distressful.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me that
-      the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It burned,
-      and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge we caught
-      the sighing of willows along the banks of the Cherwell. I had often
-      thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself; it
-      seemed poignant with anguish, like a fretful heart stirring. Under the
-      bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the subdued
-      laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man&rsquo;s voice reached us.
-      Then memory assailed me. &ldquo;They are even as you and I, Fiesole,&rdquo; my heart
-      whispered, &ldquo;even as you and I once were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work
-      parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it had
-      seen commenced.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the door of the house in which she lodged we halted abruptly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So this is the end,&rdquo; she said. Then, feigning cheerfulness, she ran up
-      the steps, crying, &ldquo;Good luck to you on your journey.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From the pavement I called to her, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid, I&rsquo;ve kept you out late, I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The door banged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and words
-      bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses,
-      explanations&mdash;kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a
-      meaning of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow
-      fell across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XII&mdash;THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Englishman is
-      brought up to live his life independently of woman. He considers his
-      masculine solitariness a sign of strength. To be seen in the streets with
-      his wife or sisters is to acknowledge that they are necessary. He feels
-      awkward at being observed publicly in their company. He shows them no
-      gallantries. He walks a little way apart. His conversation with them lacks
-      spontaneity. He is not enjoying himself. He is wanting to be kind and
-      natural, but he dreads lest he should be thought effeminate. His national
-      conception of manliness demands that he should be complete in himself. How
-      he ever so forgets his shyness as to make a woman his wife is one of the
-      unsolved mysteries. Some primeval instinct, deeper than his national
-      training of reserve, goads him to it. On recovering from his madness, he
-      is among the first to marvel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Christian had climbed to the top of the hill his sack of sins fell
-      from his back. When an Englishman lands in France, he drops his bundle of
-      moral scruples in the harbor as he passes down the gang-plank. For
-      morality is a matter of temperament, and for the time being his
-      temperament shall be French. Just as a soul newly departed, may look back
-      with pitying resentment on the chill chaotic body that once confined it,
-      so he looks back across the English Channel at the uncharming rectitude of
-      his former self. Being an Englishman has bored him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I shall never forget the first wild rapture with which I viewed the tall
-      white cliffs of Dieppe. It was about three in the afternoon. The sky was
-      intensely blue, dotted here and there with fleecy islands of cloud. The
-      sun smote down so hotly on the deck that one&rsquo;s feet felt swollen. Far away
-      the gleaming quaintness of the French fishing-town grew up and stole
-      nearer. It seemed to me that as the wind swept towards us from the land, I
-      caught the merry frou-frou of ten thousand skirts. Fields and woodlands
-      which topped the cliffs, hid laughing eyes and emotional white arms
-      eagerly extended. The staccato chatter of happiness lay before me. I had
-      escaped from the Eveless Paradise of my own countrymen. I had slipped out
-      by the back-door of the world. I was free to act as I liked. I was
-      unobserved. Discretion had lost its most obvious purpose. It excited me to
-      pretend to myself that I was almost willing to be tempted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night I sat by the quays at Rouen, observing the groups of men and
-      women, always together, passing up and down. I saw how they drew frankly
-      near to one another. I listened to their scraps of quiet conversation. The
-      lazy laughter, now the hoarse brass of men&rsquo;s voices, now the silver
-      clearness of a woman&rsquo;s, rose and fell. Below me barges from Paris creaked
-      against the piles, and the golden Seine swept beneath the bridges, singing
-      like a gay grisette. As night sank down I was stung to loneliness,
-      thinking of the absence of Vi and Fiesole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I arrived in Paris on the evening of the following day. Hastily depositing
-      my baggage at my hotel in the Rue St. Honoré, I set out to stroll the
-      boulevards. Until three in the morning I wandered from café to café. I
-      searched the faces of passers-by for signs of the gracious abandon to
-      happiness of which I had so often heard. My mind teemed with vivid images
-      of pleasure such as crowd the pages of novels concerning Paris. Flitting
-      moth-like up and down garish tunnels of light I saw a painted death. It
-      simpered at me from under shadows of austere churches. It flirted with me,
-      ogling me with slanted eyes, as I passed beneath the glare of lamps. I
-      crossed the Pont St. Michel going southward, and found it in the guise of
-      girls masquerading in male attire. I went across the bridges again and
-      found it in the Rue de Rivoli, hunting with jaded feverish expression for
-      men. Wherever I went I encountered the same fixed mercenary smile, saw the
-      same lavish display of ankles beneath foamy skirts, and heard the same
-      weary tip-tapping of feet which carried bodies which should be sold to
-      whoever would purchase.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Where was the joy and adventure of which I had heard? The purpose of
-      happiness should be life, not death. Several times that night women turned
-      aside and seated themselves at a table beside me. They roused my pity;
-      pity was quickly changed to disgust by their hot-foot avarice. All around
-      me was a painted death.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Overhead the breeze ruffled the tree-tops. I looked up through the leaves.
-      Stars were going out. I caught between roofs of tired houses a glimpse of
-      the Eternal looking down. Surely the God who kept the wind going and
-      replenished the sky with clouds, meant man to be happy in some better
-      fashion. I went back to my hotel and, gathering together my baggage, fled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Florence the problem of right and wrong presented itself to me in
-      another aspect. Restraint seemed attended with sadness; license with
-      ugliness and regret. From above dim shrines disfigured Christs bespoke the
-      anguish of crucified passions. On the other hand, Filippino&rsquo;s tattered <i>Magdalene</i>
-      symbolized the hideous rewards of abandonment. Both restraint and
-      unrestraint brought sorrow, and I wanted to be supremely glad. Life should
-      be an affair of singing. I was fascinated by the thought of woman. With
-      one woman I was in love; in another I was interested. Both of them I must
-      forget. I would not love Fiesole because I could not marry Vi. Yet within
-      me was this capacity for passion, smoldering, leaping, expanding, fighting
-      for an outlet. Surely in a rightly governed world it should find some fine
-      expression! Through the by-ways of every city that I entered the lean
-      hound of vice hunted after nightfall, and behind him stalked the painted
-      death. The cleanness of the country called me. Like a captive stag, I
-      longed to feel the cool touch of leaves against my shoulders.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the Accademia at Florence I discovered my own dilemma portrayed. It
-      stated my problem, but it offered no solution. However, it gave me a sense
-      of comradeship to find that Botticelli, so many years ago, had peered down
-      over the same precipice. In <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i> one sees a
-      flowered wood; from leafy trees hangs golden fruit; between their trunks
-      drifts in the flaming light that never was on sea or land. Here a band of
-      maidens have met with a solitary youth to celebrate the renewal of spring.
-      In the center of the landscape, a little back from the group, stands a
-      sad-faced Venus, who might equally well be a madonna listening for the
-      dreadful beat of Gabriel&rsquo;s wings who shall summon her to be mother of a
-      saviour to the world. To her left stand three wanton spirits of earth and
-      air, innocently carnal, eternal in their loveliness. To her right three
-      maidens dance with lifted hands. One of them gazes with melancholy desire
-      towards the youth. He looks away from her unwillingly. In their eyes
-      broods the gloomy foreknowledge of wrong-doing. They would fain be
-      Grecians, but they have bowed to the Vatican. The shadows, the flowers,
-      the rustling leaves are still pagan; but in the young girl&rsquo;s eyes hangs
-      the memory of the tortured Christ. She is wanton in her scarcely veiled
-      nakedness, but she dares not forget; and while she remembers, she cannot
-      be happy. The lips with which she will woo her lover have worshiped the
-      wound-prints of the pierced hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Renaissance made even its sadness exquisite by using it as the vehicle
-      for poetry; but we, having lost our sense of magic, explain our melancholy
-      in mediaeval terms. Magic was still in the world; I was determined to find
-      it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was continually drawn back to the picture. I would sit before it for
-      hours. It explained nothing. If offered no suggestions. It simply told me
-      what I already knew about myself. But in watching it I found rest.
-      Rebellion against social facts which turn love into lust left me. I came
-      to see that a love which is unlawful is only lovely in its unfulfilment.
-      The young girl in the woodland, did she rouse the frenzy in her lover,
-      would lose the purity which was irrecoverable; by evening she would weep
-      among the broken flowers. Perhaps, did I win her, it might be so with Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried to find satisfaction by losing myself in memories of the past. The
-      past is always kindlier than the present because, as Carlyle once said,
-      the fear has gone out of it. The heavy actuality of the sorrows of Romeos
-      makes them pleasurable romance only to latter-day observers. In their own
-      day they were scandals. So I wandered through sun-scorched Italian towns,
-      red and white and saffron, and I hung above ancient bridges, looking down
-      on rushing mountain torrents, and I dreamt myself back to the glory of the
-      loves that had once been self-consuming beneath that forgetful hard blue
-      sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I came to Ferrara my mind was stormy with thoughts of Lucrezia Borgia&mdash;Lucrezia
-      of the amber hair. It was here that she came in her pageantry of shame to
-      seek her third husband in the unwilling Alphonso. Ferrara had not changed
-      since that day. She had seen it as I saw it. I entered the town at sunset.
-      The golden light smote against the red-brick walls of the Castello. I
-      imagined that I saw her sweet wronged face, half-saint, half-siren, gazing
-      out from the narrow barred windows across the green-scummed moat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I hired rooms in the primitive <i>Pellegrino e Gaiana</i>. They looked out
-      on the dusty tree-shadowed Piazza Torquato Tasso, where tables with white
-      cloths were spread, on which stood tall bottles of rough country wine. I
-      promised myself that from there, as I sat, I could just discern the
-      Castello. I had my dinner beneath the trees. On the further side of the
-      square was a wine tavern. Men and girls were singing there. Sometimes the
-      door would push open, letting out a rush of light. I tried to think that
-      they were the men-at-arms of long ago. A cool breeze stirred the dust at
-      my feet. The moon was rising. I got up and sauntered through gaunt paved
-      streets, past empty palaces, past Ariosto&rsquo;s house and out toward the
-      country, where vines hung heavy with grapes, festooning the olive-trees.
-      Italy lay languorous and scented in the night, like a fair deep-bosomed
-      courtesan. The sensuous delight of the present mingled with my thoughts of
-      the past. I had been hardly surprised had Lucrezia stolen out from the
-      dusk towards me, with the breeze whipping about her the golden snakes of
-      her hair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Slowly I turned back to the town. At the Castello I halted, peering across
-      the moat at the sullen darkness of the walls on the other side. As I stood
-      smoking my cigar, I saw an English girl coming towards me across the
-      Piazza Savonarola. Her nationality was unmistakable; she walked with a
-      healthy air of self-reliance which you do not find in Latin women. I was
-      surprised to see her. July is not the month for tourists. So far, save for
-      a few Americans, I had had Italy to myself. And I was surprised for
-      another reason&mdash;she was unaccompanied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she drew nearer, I turned my back so that she should not be offended by
-      my staring. I heard her step coming closer. It halted at my side. I looked
-      round, supposing she had lost her direction and was about to question me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&mdash;you here!&rdquo; I exclaimed and remained staring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think you&rsquo;d expect me,&rdquo; she laughed shyly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course I didn&rsquo;t. How should I? What brought you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was on my way to Venice; but remembering you were here, I stayed over
-      for the night. You don&rsquo;t mind?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mind! I should say not. Where are you staying?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;At the <i>Albergo Europa</i>. I was just on my way over to the <i>Pellegrino
-      e Gaiana</i> to inquire if you were there. I&rsquo;ve asked at all the other
-      hotels.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      While we had been speaking I had been watching her closely. What was it
-      that was changed in her? Was it the voluptuousness of the Italian night
-      that made her more splendidly feminine? She had lost her laughing tone of
-      laziness. Her beauty was strong wine and fire. Something had become
-      earnest in her. Then I asked myself why had she come&mdash;was she really
-      on her way to Venice?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m jolly glad you came,&rdquo; I said impetuously; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been missing you ever
-      since I left.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And I you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my arm, giving it a friendly hug, just as Ruthita did when she
-      was glad. We walked over to the Piazza Torquato Tasso. Seating ourselves
-      at a table beneath the trees, we called for wine. The light from the
-      trattoria fell softly on her face. The air was dreamy with fragrance of
-      limes. At tables nearby other men and women were sitting. Across the way
-      in the tavern my men-at-arms were still singing and carousing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What are you thinking?&rdquo; she asked, leaning across towards me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was thinking that I now begin to understand you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In what way?&rdquo; She jerked the question out. It was as though she had flung
-      up her arms to ward off a blow. Her voice panted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve always puzzled me,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You are a mixture of ice and fire.
-      The ice is English and the fire is Italian. You&rsquo;re different to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re mediaeval. The fire has melted the ice.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my hand gratefully and drew me nearer. &ldquo;Do you like me better?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Much better. I keep thinking how like you are to Simonetta in The <i>Kingdom
-      of Venus</i>. I spent hours sitting before it at the Accademia in
-      Florence. I couldn&rsquo;t tell what was the attraction. Now I know. It was you
-      I was looking at; you as you are now&mdash;not as you were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you can see what is beautiful in a painting or a poem,
-      but you can&rsquo;t see beauty in things themselves. You&rsquo;re afraid to&mdash;you&rsquo;re
-      afraid of being disillusioned. You see life as reflected in a mirror.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s safer,&rdquo; I smiled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She took me up sharply. There was pain in what she said. &ldquo;Ah, yes, safer!
-      You&rsquo;re always counting the cost and looking ahead for sorrow. You&rsquo;re a
-      pagan, but fear makes you an ascetic. You have the feeling that joy is
-      something stolen, and you grow timid lest you&rsquo;re going to be bad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you believe,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;that anything that makes two people
-      happy must be right and best?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wish I could.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And that anything that makes them sad must be wicked?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;have you been sad?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She would not answer, but drew herself back into the shadow so I could not
-      see her expression. We sat silent, fingering our glasses, giving ourselves
-      over to the languor of the summer&rsquo;s night. Through the rapturous stillness
-      we heard the breeze from the mountains rustling across the Emilian plain
-      like a woman in silk attire. At a neighboring table a man and a girl,
-      thinking themselves unobserved, swayed slowly towards one another and
-      kissed, as though constrained by some power stronger than themselves.
-      Through the golden windows of the tavern across the way, one could see the
-      silhouettes of men and women trail stealthily across the white-washed
-      walls. The spirit of Lucrezia and her lover-poets seemed to haunt Ferrara
-      that night.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going to Venice,&rdquo; I said abruptly. &ldquo;So am I. Perhaps we shall meet
-      there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We might travel there together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should be glad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We rose from the table. It was late. The piazza was growing empty. The
-      apple-green shutters before the windows of the houses were closed. Behind
-      some of them were lights which threw gold bars on the pavement. The
-      streets were silent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How did you know that I would be here?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You forget&mdash;you left me your addresses.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So I did. But you didn&rsquo;t write. Why didn&rsquo;t you write?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was afraid you wouldn&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      What she meant by that I could only guess. Perhaps she hardly knew
-      herself. My blood was rushing wildly through my veins. I was breathing the
-      atmosphere of passion. I did not look ahead; I was absorbed in the
-      present. I had been hungry for Vi&mdash;well, now I had Fiesole. I had
-      been thirsty for the love of a woman. Fiesole was giving me her
-      comradeship. I was intoxicated with life&rsquo;s beauty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The saffron moon looked down, pillowed on a bank of silver cloud. As we
-      passed the Castello, a fish leapt in the moat, and fell back with a
-      splash. I halted, leaning against the parapet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And it was here we met.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She pressed against me. I could feel the wild beating of her heart; it
-      tapped against my side, calling to my heart for entrance. Her voice shook
-      with emotion; it whispered above the surge of conflicting thoughts like
-      the solemn tolling of a sunken bell. &ldquo;Since then everything has become
-      golden, somehow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I dared not trust myself to respond to her tenderness. I was shaken and
-      awed by her intensity. With her lips just a little way from mine, so that
-      my cheeks were fanned by her breath, her face looked into mine, the chin
-      tilted and the long white throat stretched back. I gazed on her
-      motionless, with my arms strained down against my side.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;how many girls and boys have stood here and said
-      that!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her eagerness died out. She slipped her arm into mine. &ldquo;But we are alive.
-      I was thinking of nobody but our two selves to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We plunged into the cool deep shadows of the colonnade. We turned into the
-      Corso della Giovecca. Down the long dim street all the houses stood in
-      darkness, save for a faint patch of light which carpeted the pavement in
-      front of her hotel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your maid will be wondering what has happened.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked at me curiously. &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t. I didn&rsquo;t bring her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-night until to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked back once from the doorway and smiled. She entered. The sleepy
-      porter came out and swung to the gates.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was amazed at her bewitching indiscretion. For myself it did not matter.
-      But what of her, if we should be seen together? A man can afford such
-      accidents; but a woman&mdash;&mdash; I tried to deceive myself. Our
-      meeting was, as she had said, haphazard. We were both alone in Italy. Our
-      routes lay in the same direction. What more natural than that we should
-      travel together? But I knew that this was not the case. I determined to
-      open her eyes to the risks she was taking.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning when I woke, I wondered vaguely what was the cause of this
-      strange elation. Then memory came back. I jumped out of bed and flung the
-      shutters wide. Out in the piazza some earlier risers were already seated
-      at the tables. A man was watering the pavement, singing gaily to himself.
-      Beneath the trees a parrot and a cockatoo screeched, hurling insults at
-      one another from their perches. A soldier showed his teeth and laughed,
-      talking to a broad-hipped peasant girl. At the top of the piazza a slim
-      white figure waited.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I made haste with my dressing. I was extremely happy. I tried to analyze
-      the situation, but lost patience with myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Picking up my hat and running down the stairs, I came across her standing
-      outside the Cathedral, in the full glare of the sun. Before I had spoken
-      she turned, darting like a pigeon, instinctively aware of my approach.
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve beaten you by nearly two hours,&rdquo; she called gaily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We passed into the fruit-market. I bought a basket of ripe figs; sitting
-      down on a bench we ate them together. All round us was stir and bustle.
-      Farmers in their broad straw-hats were unyoking oxen while women spread
-      the wares.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole, there&rsquo;s just one thing I want to say to you, after which I&rsquo;ll
-      never mention it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know what it is. I&rsquo;ve thought it all out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Are you sure you have? Of course no one may ever know. But if by some
-      chance they should find out, are you sure that you think it&rsquo;s worth
-      while?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Reckoning the cost again!&rdquo; she laughed, helping herself to another fig.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll pay gladly. It&rsquo;s you I&rsquo;m considering,&rdquo; I said seriously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She rested her hand on mine. It was cool, and long, and delicate. I was
-      startled at the thrill it gave me. &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;have you ever
-      wanted anything so badly that your whole body ached to get it? When you
-      were very thirsty, say, and you heard a stream, singing &lsquo;Find me. Find me&rsquo;
-      out of sight in the hills among the heather? Then you climbed up and up,
-      and the sun beat down, and your throat was dry, and the stream sang
-      louder, and at last you found it. I&rsquo;m like that. I don&rsquo;t mind what the
-      bank is like. I lie down full-length and let the water sing against my
-      mouth. I&rsquo;ve been thirsty for something, Dante, all my life. Yes, I&rsquo;ve
-      counted the price. If you don&rsquo;t mind having me, Dannie, I&rsquo;ll stay with you
-      for the present.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder ever so slightly. I bent towards
-      her. When you&rsquo;ve wounded a woman, there&rsquo;s only one way of making
-      recompense. She saw my intent. She drew back laughing, dragging my hand
-      with her. The quick red blood mounted to her forehead. The gold in her
-      green eyes sparkled with gladness. &ldquo;Not now,&rdquo; she cried. Then recovering
-      herself, &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re a dear to want me like that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That morning we visited the Corpus Domini where Lucrezia Borgia lies
-      buried. We were admitted to a little chapel where all was lonely and
-      silent. Presently a door opened and two nuns dressed in black entered.
-      Their faces were covered from sight by long black veils. All that was
-      human we were permitted to see of them was their eyes, which looked out
-      from two black holes like stars in a dreary night. They had been beautiful
-      perhaps, but because Christ was crucified they had crucified themselves.
-      And these women, who had never tasted life, whose flesh had never throbbed
-      with the sweet torture which was their right, whose bodies were the
-      unremembered sepulchres of little children whose lips had never pressed
-      the breast&mdash;these women were the guardians of her who had been the
-      Magdalene of the Renaissance, whose feet had climbed the Calvary of
-      passion, but not the Calvary of sacrifice. Sunlight, amber-colored as
-      Lucrezia&rsquo;s hair, slipped across the slab which marked her grave. Down
-      there in the unbroken dusk, did her tresses mock decay?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From a hidden cloister the chanting of children&rsquo;s voices broke the quiet.
-      Its very suddenness took me by the throat. It was the future calling out
-      of the sad and moldering content of stupidly misspent lives. Fiesole
-      edged her hand into mine. I smiled into her eyes; then I looked at the
-      nuns again. Who would remember them when three centuries had gone by?
-      Lucrezia, if she had been wanton, had at least given joy; so the world
-      forgave her now that she was buried. We tiptoed out into the tawny street,
-      where water tinkled down the gutters. We had found a new sanction for
-      desire.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was towards evening that we sighted Venice, floating between sea and
-      sky in a tepid light. Where we parted from the mainland, thin trees ran
-      down to the water&rsquo;s edge, shivering and gleaming, like naked boys. As the
-      train thundered across the trestled bridge which spans the lagoon, Fiesole
-      and I crowded against the window, tingling with excitement. The salt wind
-      smote upon our faces and loosened a strand of her red-brown hair.
-      Laughing, I fastened it into place. She snatched up my hand and kissed the
-      fingers separately. We were children, so thrilled with happiness that we
-      could speak only by signs and exclamations. A gondola drifted by, rowed by
-      a poppe in a scarlet sash. Though we both saw it, we cried to one another
-      that it was a gondola, and waved. Then the gold sun fell splashing through
-      the clouds; Venice was stained to orange, and the lagoon to the purple of
-      wine.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Not until the train had halted in the station did it occur to me that we
-      had made no plans.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hotel porters were already fighting to get possession of our baggage.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are you going to stay?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Wherever you like,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;A good place is the <i>Hotel D&rsquo;Angleterre</i>
-      on the Riva degli Schiavoni.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So she took it for granted that we should put up at the same hotel! We
-      went aboard the steamer and traveled down the Grand Canal in prosaic
-      fashion, with the nodding black swans of gondolas all about us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The <i>Hotel D&rsquo;Angleterre</i> stands facing the Canale di San Marco,
-      looking across to San Maria della Salute. The angle is that from which so
-      many of Canaletto&rsquo;s Venetian masterpieces were painted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The proprietor came out to greet us suave and smiling. &ldquo;A room for
-      Monsieur and Madame?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Two rooms,&rdquo; I said shortly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we went upstairs to look at them, we found that they were next door
-      to one another. Fiesole made no objection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They were both front rooms and faced the Canal. One could hardly find
-      fault with them on the ground that they were too near together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      By the time dinner was over the silver dusk was falling. A hundred yards
-      out two barche, a little distance separated, drifted with swinging
-      lanterns. The tinkling of guitars sounded and the impassioned singing of a
-      girl. Above embattled roofs of palaces to the westward fiery panthers of
-      the sunset crouched. The beauty of it all was stinging&mdash;it seemed the
-      misty fabric of a dream which must instantly shatter and fade into a pale
-      and torturing remembrance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We stepped into a gondola.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke a few hasty words in Italian, then we stole out from the quay
-      across the velvet blackness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo; I asked her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Round the old canals of the Rialto.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Soon every sound, even the faint sounds of Venice, grew fainter and
-      vanished. Only the dip of the oar was heard, the water lapping, and the
-      weird plaintive cry of the poppe as we approached a corner, &ldquo;A-òel,&rdquo; and
-      &ldquo;Sia stali&rdquo; or &ldquo;Sia premi&rdquo; as we turned. We crept along old waterways
-      where the oozy walls ground against the gondola on either side. Far, far
-      up the narrow ribbon of ink-blue sky and the twinkling of stars looked
-      down. Fiesole cuddled against me, like a contented tired child. I kept
-      thinking of what she had said, &ldquo;Have you ever wanted anything so badly
-      that your whole body ached to get it?&rdquo; I wondered if she had got that
-      something now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When we returned to the hotel it was past midnight. The sharp tang of
-      morning was in the air. Lights which had blazed across the lagoon, now
-      smoldered like torches burnt to the socket. Venice floated, a fair Ophelia
-      with eyes drowned and hair disordered; one saw her mistily as through
-      water.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our gondola creaked against the landing, banged by the little waves. A
-      poppe in a nearby barca groaned in his sleep and stirred. We were cramped
-      with our long sitting. I gave Fiesole my arm; she shrank against me. At
-      the door of her room I paused.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve had one brilliant day to remember. You&rsquo;re happy now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Very happy, dear Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I entered my room and sat down in the dark on the side of the bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not love her. I blundered my way over all the old arguments. I told
-      myself that, since I could not marry Vi, I could not do better than marry
-      Fiesole. But at the thought my soul rebelled&mdash;it was treachery. I
-      tried to expel Vi&rsquo;s image from my mind, but it refused to be expelled. I
-      lived over again all the intoxicating pleasure of the day, but it was Vi
-      who was my companion. I only drugged myself with Fiesole. She appealed to
-      my imagination; her loveliness went like a strong wine to my head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the next room all sounds of stirring had ceased. I looked up; greyhound
-      clouds, long and lean, coursed in pursuit of stars across the moon. I
-      tiptoed to the window. As I leant out, I heard a faint sighing. I caught
-      the glint of copper-gold hair poured across the sill of the neighboring
-      window. Fearing she might see me, I drew back. Why was it, I asked myself,
-      that Fiesole was not my woman? What was the reason for this fantastic
-      loyalty to Vi, who could never be mine? Was it instinct that held me back
-      from Fiesole or mere cold-heartedness?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the next three days we wandered Venice, doing the usual round of
-      churches and palaces. I was feverishly careful to live my life with
-      Fiesole in public. I feared for her sake to be left alone with her. There
-      was protection in spectators. She understood and accepted the situation,
-      though we had not discussed it together. She played the part of a daring
-      boy, carrying herself with merry independence. At times I almost forgot
-      she was a girl. She disarmed my watchfulness, and seemed bent on showing
-      me that it was unnecessary.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the morning of the fourth day, we returned to déjeuner parched and
-      footsore from exploring the stifling alleys which lie back of the Rialto.
-      The air was heavy and sultry. The water seemed to boil in the canals.
-      Every stone flung back the steady glare. Blue lagoons, polished as
-      reflectors, mirrored the blue of the cloudless sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From where we sat at table, we could see crowded steamers draw in at the
-      pier and crawl like flies across the bay to Lido.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole made a queer little face at me. &ldquo;Stupid old sober-sides!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She flung herself back in her chair, regarding me with a languid, arch
-      expression. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tired of fudging in and out of old palaces and churches.
-      I came here to enjoy myself. If I promise to be a good girl, will you take
-      me to Lido to bathe? We&rsquo;ll have one dear little afternoon all to
-      ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A warm breeze caught us on the steamer. What ripe lips Fiesole had, and
-      what inscrutable eyes! Since that first night of our arrival, she had
-      prevented me from treating her with any of the privileges of her sex. She
-      had walked when and where she liked. She had insisted on paying her share
-      of everything down to the last centesimi. Now she changed her mood and
-      slipped her arm through mine. We had both grown tired of pretending she
-      was a man. &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t be afraid to be nice to me,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There were lovers all about us: girls from the glass-factories in white
-      dresses, bareheaded, with tasseled black shawls; sailors from the Arsenal
-      with keen bronzed faces and silky mustaches. Venice was taking a day off
-      and giving us a lesson in happiness. The self-consciousness of the
-      Anglo-Saxon, which makes the expression of pleasure bad taste and
-      distressing, was absent. Each was occupied with him or herself, sublimely
-      unconscious of spectators.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I been nice?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She patted my hand, entirely the woman now. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been trying to be
-      correct. Why can&rsquo;t you be your own dear self?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Taking the tram across the island, we came to the Stabilimento dei Bagni.
-      We walked through the arcade and down on to the terrace. The sea rolled in
-      flashing, green and silver, in a long slow swell. Leaning over the side,
-      we watched the bathers. Men, with costumes unfastened at the shoulders,
-      sifted golden sand through their fingers on to their naked chests. Women
-      lay beside them, buried in the sand, laughing and chatting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I noticed a blond young giant standing at the water&rsquo;s edge. His face
-      kindled. I followed the direction in which he was looking. A dark-eyed
-      girl had come out of her cabin. She wore a single-piece, tight-fitting
-      suit of stockingette, which displayed her figure in all its splendid
-      curves. Her face was roguish and vivid as that of Carmen. On her head she
-      wore a scarlet turban. Her costume was sky blue.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The men who had been lying on their backs, turned over and regarded her
-      with lazy admiration of her physical loveliness. Seemingly unaware of the
-      interest she aroused, she came tripping daintily to the water&rsquo;s edge, her
-      white limbs flashing. The man held out his hand. With little birdlike
-      exclamations she ran to him; then drew back and shivered as the first wave
-      rippled about her feet. He encouraged her with tender, quickly spoken
-      words. Her timidity was all a pretty pretense and they both knew it; but
-      it gave them a chance to be charming to one another. He seized her hand
-      again; she hung back from him laughing. Then they waded out together,
-      hand-in-hand, splashing up diamonds as they went. They seemed to see no
-      one but each other; they eyed one another innocently, unabashed. When they
-      came to the deeper water, she clasped her arms about his neck; he swam out
-      toward the horizon with her riding on his back. He was like a young
-      sea-god capturing a land-maiden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A stab of envy shot through me. I felt indignant with my inherited
-      puritanism. It would not permit me simply to enjoy myself. I must be
-      forever analyzing motives, and lifting the lid off the future to search
-      for consequences.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked at Fiesole. Her eyes were starry. They seemed to mock me and
-      plead with me saying, &ldquo;Oh, Dannie, why can&rsquo;t we be like that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I glanced down at the beach. The bathers were rising up and shaking off
-      the sand. I noticed that only the women who had no beauty hid themselves
-      behind bathing-skirts. The Italian standard of modesty!&mdash;you only
-      need be modest when you have something to be ashamed of. I accepted the
-      standard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole broke the silence, clapping her hands, crying &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t she
-      perfect!&rdquo; Then she took hold of my face in childish excitement and turned
-      my head. &ldquo;Oh, look there!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      An English girl had come out. Her bathing-suit was drab-colored and baggy.
-      Sagging about her knees hung an ugly skirt. In her clothes she might have
-      been pretty; but now she was awkward and embarrassed. Her manner called
-      attention to the fact that she was more sparsely clad than usual. She wore
-      tight round her forehead a wretched waterproof cap.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Miss England,&rdquo; laughed Fiesole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When we bathe, you be Miss Italy,&rdquo; I laughed back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And she was.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I look back to that sunny July afternoon with the blue and silver
-      Adriatic singing against the lips of the land, the warm wind blowing
-      toward the shore from Egypt&rsquo;s way, the daring flashing of slim white
-      bodies tossed high by glistening waves, and the undercurrent merriment of
-      laughter and secret love-making, I know that I had ventured as far as is
-      safe into the garden which knows no barriers. It is as I saw her then that
-      I like to remember Fiesole. I can see her coming down the golden sands,
-      with a tress of her gold-red hair, that had escaped, lying shining between
-      her breasts. I recall her astonishing girlishness, which she had hidden
-      from me so long. Like a wild thing of the woods, she came to me at last,
-      timid in her daring, halting to glance back at the green covert, advancing
-      again with glad shy gestures. Whatever had gone before was gallant
-      make-belief. Without a word spoken, as her eyes met mine she told me all
-      at the water&rsquo;s edge.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That afternoon I learnt the absurd delirium that may overtake a man who is
-      owned in public by a pretty woman. She was the prettiest woman in Italy
-      that day from her small pink feet to her golden crown. And she knew it.
-      She treated me as though I was hers and, forgetting everything, I was glad
-      of it. I can still thrill with the boyish pride I felt when I fastened her
-      dress, with all the beach watching. Whatever she asked me to do was a
-      delightful form of flattery. It pleased me to know that others were
-      suffering the same pangs of envy that I had felt. They were saying to
-      themselves, &ldquo;How charming she is! What a lucky fellow! That&rsquo;s what youth
-      can do for you. I wonder whether they&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Tucking her arm under mine with a delicious sense of proprietorship, we
-      set out with the crowd through the tropic growth of flowers to the pier
-      from where the steamer started. A little way ahead I saw the blond giant
-      with his gay little sweetheart. He was all care of her. She fluttered
-      about him like a blue butterfly about a tall sunflower. She looked up into
-      his face, making impertinent grimaces. He nodded his head and laughed
-      down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Was it only the spirit of imitation that caused us to copy them? They gave
-      us a glimpse into the tender lovers&rsquo; world, which we both were sick with
-      longing to enter. If Fiesole was playing a part she played it well. Her
-      cheeks flushed and her eyes were brilliant. She made me feel the same
-      bewilderment of gladness I had felt all those years ago, as a boy at the
-      Red House. How much it would have meant to me then if she had treated me
-      as she did now!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We crossed the bay towards the hour of sunset. Venice swooned in a golden
-      haze. Clouds struck sparks from the burning disk, like hammers falling on
-      a glowing anvil. The lagoon stared at the sky without a quiver. We
-      traveled a pathway of molten fire.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;We must live this day out,&rdquo; I said as we landed. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go to the
-      Bauer-Grunwald to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We hurried upstairs and changed into evening-dress. I tapped at her door,
-      asking, &ldquo;Are you ready?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All except some hooks and eyes. Come in,&rdquo; she replied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She was seated before the looking-glass, with her arms curved upward,
-      tucking a bow of black ribbon in her hair. It was her reflection that
-      looked into my face and smiled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You do me proud, Fiesole,&rdquo; I said, remembering one of Vi&rsquo;s phrases.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked as simple as a sixteen year old girl. Her dress was of pale
-      green satin, cut high in the waist in Empire fashion, hanging without
-      fullness to just above her ankles. The sleeves left off at the elbows. Her
-      wonderful russet hair was gathered into a loose knot and lay coiled along
-      her neck. She was the Fiesole of my school-days. Had she intended to
-      remind me?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I sat down on the edge of the bed while she finished her dressing,
-      following with my eyes the feminine nick-nacks which were strewn about.
-      But always my eyes came back to her, with the mellow glory from the window
-      transfiguring her face and neck. There was a nipping sweetness in being so
-      near to a woman whom I could not hope to possess. I knew that without
-      marrying her I could not keep her. Platonic friendships are only safe
-      between men and women whose youth is withered. I was wise enough to know
-      that. We were chance-met travelers in Lovers&rsquo; Land&mdash;truants who would
-      soon be dragged back. I kept saying to myself, &ldquo;Intimacy such as we have
-      can go but a short way further; any hour all this may end.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I tried to imagine how this evening would seem to me years hence. The
-      poignancy of life&rsquo;s changefulness made me wistful. One day we should both
-      be old. We should be free from tempestuous desires. The generous fires of
-      youth would have burnt out. We should know the worth then of the pleasures
-      we now withheld from one another. We should meet, having grown commonsense
-      or satiated, and would wonder wherein lay the mastering attraction we had
-      felt&mdash;from what source we had stolen our romance. We should be weary
-      then, walking where our feet now ran. Why could we not last out this
-      moment forever?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She rose, shaking down her skirt and courting my admiration.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You may get to work on the hooks and eyes, old boy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice was jerky with excitement. My fingers were awkward with
-      trembling. As I leant over her, she patted my cheek, flashing a caress
-      with her eyes. &ldquo;Do you know, you&rsquo;re handsome, Dante?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I wanted to crush her in my arms, but my habitual restraint prevented. I
-      should destroy the virginal quality in her&mdash;something which could
-      never be put back. My mind conjured the scene. I saw her folded against
-      me, her eyes brimming up to mine in tender amazement. But my arms went on
-      with their business, as though some strong power held them down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s done. Come, bambino, it&rsquo;s getting late.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She followed me down the stairs. My senses were reeling with the maddening
-      fragrance of her presence. We walked through the Piazzetta and Piazza di
-      San Marco, through the narrow streets and across the bridges till we
-      arrived at the garden beside the canal. Arbors were illumined with
-      faery-lamps. It seemed a scene staged for a theatre rather than a living
-      actuality. Gondolas stole past the garden through the dusk. Mysterious
-      people alighted. Guitars tinkled. In tall mediaeval houses rising
-      opposite, lamps flashed and women looked down. As specters in a dream,
-      people leant above the bridge, gazed into the water, and vanished. Venice
-      walked with slippered feet and finger to lips that night.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The silence shivered; a clear peal of laughter rippled on the air. We
-      turned. The girl with the young sea-god was entering the garden. They
-      seated themselves at a table near us&mdash;so near that we could watch
-      their expressions and overhear much that was said. It seemed they were
-      fated to goad us on and make us ambitious of attaining their happiness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole stretched out her hands. I smiled and took them, holding them
-      palms up. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re like petals of pink roses,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her face was laughing. &ldquo;Do you think I&rsquo;m pretty?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve always thought that, and you know it&mdash;ever since you wouldn&rsquo;t
-      kiss me in Sneard&rsquo;s garden.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It was you who wouldn&rsquo;t ask to be kissed,&rdquo; she pouted. &ldquo;What you could
-      have, you didn&rsquo;t value. It&rsquo;s the same now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her hands quivered; her lips became piteous. All the wild commotion of her
-      heart seemed to travel through them to myself. My throat became suddenly
-      parched.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know how it is, Fiesole. It isn&rsquo;t that I haven&rsquo;t affection for you;
-      but to do that kind of thing, if I don&rsquo;t intend to make you more to me,
-      wouldn&rsquo;t be fair.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But if I want it? What if I were to tell you, Dante, that you&rsquo;re the only
-      man I&rsquo;ve ever cared for? What if I were to tell you that you&rsquo;ve always
-      been first in my heart, ever since we first met?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked away from her to the street of water. I had nothing with which to
-      answer. She tried to drag her hands from me, but still I held them.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;look at me.&rdquo; Her voice grew fainter. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not
-      speaking of marriage. Two people can be kind to one another without that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And have I been unkind?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned from my question. &ldquo;You can never marry her,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You
-      know that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A long silence elapsed, which was broken by voices of the girl and her
-      lover at the neighboring table. Fiesole spoke again. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not married.
-      They never will be married. And yet they can share with one another one
-      little corner of their lives.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;For me it&rsquo;s all or nothing,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;If it wasn&rsquo;t all, I should be
-      forever thinking of the end. That&rsquo;s how I&rsquo;m made&mdash;it&rsquo;s my training.
-      If I did anything to you, Fiesole, that wounded you ever so little, I
-      should hate myself. Wherever you were, I should be thinking of you&mdash;wanting
-      to leave everything to come to you. I can&rsquo;t forget. My conscience would
-      give me no rest.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew her hands free. &ldquo;And yet you&rsquo;re wounding me now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was always different from other women, doing the unexpected. Instead
-      of sitting melancholy through dinner, she broke into a burst of high
-      spirits. She told me about her father, who had marched with Garibaldi. She
-      rallied me on the awkward little boy I had been when first we met&mdash;all
-      arms, and legs, and shyness. She talked of love in a bantering fashion, as
-      insanity of the will. One minute she was the cynical woman of the world&mdash;the
-      next the innocent young school-girl. She puzzled and played with me. Then
-      she fell back into the vein of tenderness, recalling the good times we had
-      had, stampeding through the Cotswolds in springtime with the mad wind
-      blowing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was nearing midnight when we rose. Going down the little garden, we
-      halted on the steps by the canal. A dozen shadowy figures leapt up with
-      hoarse cries. We beckoned to a poppe; the gondola stole up and we entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go back yet,&rdquo; Fiesole pleaded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We crept through ancient waterways, all solitary and silent; past churches
-      blanched in the moonlight, and empty piazzas; under bridges from which
-      some solitary figure leant to observe us. Now a swiftly moving barca would
-      overtake us; as it fled by we had a glimpse through the curtains of a man
-      and a woman sitting close together. Now the door of a tavern would
-      suddenly open, flinging across the water a bar of garish light; cloaked
-      figures would emerge and the door would close as suddenly as it had
-      opened. Overhead in balconies we sometimes detected the stir of life where
-      we had thought there was emptiness, and would catch the rustle of a
-      woman&rsquo;s dress or see the red flare of a cigarette. We had the haunted
-      sensation one has in a wood in May-time: though he discerns but little
-      with the eye, he is conscious that behind green leaves an anonymous,
-      teeming world is mating and providing for its momentous cares.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole pressed against me; the darkness seemed to fling out hands,
-      thrusting us together. She slipped off her hood and pushed back her cloak,
-      displaying her arms and throat and hair. The seduction of her beauty
-      enthralled and held me spellbound. The air pulsated with illicit
-      influences. The dreaming city, vague and labyrinthine, was the outward
-      symbol of my state of mind. I had lost my standards; my will-power was too
-      inert to rouse itself for their recovery. I was entranced by a sensuous
-      inner vision of loveliness which exhausted my faculties of resistance. I
-      apprehended some fresh allurement of femininity through each portal of
-      sense. Fiesole&rsquo;s touch made my flesh burn; her eyes stung me to pity; her
-      voice caressed me. Her body relaxed till it rested the length of mine. Her
-      head lay against my shoulder; her arms were warm about my neck. I tried to
-      think&mdash;to think of honor and duty; but I could only think of her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know what you said about Simonetta,&rdquo; she whispered; &ldquo;how you thought
-      I was like her and you spent hours before <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i>. You
-      were wrong, all wrong, Dante, in your thoughts about her. The young man in
-      the picture was Giuliano dei Medici and Simonetta was dear to him for many
-      years. So the flowers weren&rsquo;t broken, Dannie. Instead of broken flowers,
-      they made poetry for Botticelli to paint.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      How could I tell her that there was a difference between love and passion?&mdash;that
-      my feeling for her could be only passion, because my love was with Vi? She
-      loved me&mdash;that made all her actions pure. Morality would sound like
-      the rasping voice of a tired schoolmaster, scolding a classroom of healthy
-      boys. It was even unsafe for me to pity her; when I drew my coat about
-      her, she kissed my hand. I clasped her closely, gazing straight ahead, not
-      daring to look down. Every quiver of her languorous body communicated
-      itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole, if I don&rsquo;t marry her, I will marry you some day. I promise.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I want you now&mdash;now&mdash;now.&rdquo; Her whisper was sharp-edged with
-      longing; it beat me down and ran out among the shadows like a darting
-      blade.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We floated under the Bridge of Sighs and drew up at the landing. She leant
-      heavily on my arm. We walked along the quay in silence. Few people were
-      about. I saw mistily; my eyes were burning as if they had gazed too long
-      into a glowing furnace. She drooped against me like a crushed flower.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re breaking my heart, Fiesole. I&rsquo;d give you anything, but the thing
-      that would hurt you. Let me have time to consider.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was saying to myself, &ldquo;Perhaps it would be right to marry her.&rdquo; But the
-      memory of her whisper clamored insistently in my ears and prevented me
-      from thinking, &ldquo;<i>I want you now&mdash;now&mdash;now.</i>&rdquo; With her voice
-      she made no reply.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping
-      with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged
-      on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from me,
-      running on ahead.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open
-      and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her
-      leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back in
-      weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her
-      hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall&rsquo;s surface. She
-      was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude
-      was horribly that of one who had been crucified.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did
-      not put my arms about her, she made no response.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by a
-      third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air was
-      flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a
-      palpitating sense of moral danger.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I
-      had never felt more tender towards her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, dear,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She met my gaze with a frozen, focusless expression of despair. Her hands
-      ceased their wandering.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I entered my room and, closing the door, stood pressed against the panel,
-      listening. After what seemed an interminable silence, her door opened and
-      shut. I looked out into the passage; it was empty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I spent a sleepless night and rose with my mind made up; since she wanted
-      it I would marry her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Going downstairs, I found she had not breakfasted. As a rule she was an
-      earlier riser than myself; usually I found her waiting for me. I went for
-      a stroll on the Piazzetta to give her time. On my return she had not
-      appeared. I was beginning to grow nervous; then it occurred to me that she
-      was postponing the first awkwardness of meeting me by breakfasting in bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Taking my place at our table in the window, I told the waiter to carry
-      Fiesole&rsquo;s rolls and coffee up to her bedroom. He looked a trifle blank,
-      and hurried away without explanation. He returned, followed by the
-      proprietor, who informed me with much secret amusement that the signora
-      had called for her bill at seven o&rsquo;clock that morning and had departed,
-      taking her baggage. I inquired if she had left any message for me; the
-      proprietor stifled a laugh and shook his head. I immediately looked up
-      trains, to discover which one she had intended catching. There was one
-      which had left Venice at eight for Milan. At the station I found that a
-      lady resembling Fiesole had taken a ticket for the through-journey. By
-      this time it was ten; the next train did not leave till two o&rsquo;clock. I
-      sent a telegram to catch her at Brescia, to be delivered to her in the
-      carriage. No reply had been returned by the time I left Venice. I reached
-      Milan in the evening and pursued my inquiries till midnight, but could get
-      no trace of her. Either I had been mistaken in her direction, or she had
-      alighted at one of the intermediate stations.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XIII&mdash;THE TURNING POINT
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>efore my
-      experience at Venice the world had consisted for me of Vi, myself, and
-      other people; now it was only myself and Vi. I spent my days in shadowy
-      unreality; just as a child, waking from a bad dream, sees one face he can
-      trust gazing over the brink of his horror, so out of the blurred confusion
-      of my present I saw the face of Vi.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole had not shown me love in its purity, but she certainly had taught
-      me something of its courage and selfishness. She had disabused my mind
-      forever of the thought that it was a polite, intensified form of liking. A
-      blazing ship, she had met me in mid-ocean and had set my rigging aflame. I
-      had turned from her, but not in time to get off scatheless. Her wild
-      unrestraint had accustomed my imagination to phases of desire which had
-      before seemed abnormal and foreign to my nature.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I missed her at Milan, I abandoned my pursuit of her. Now that the
-      temptation was over, I realized how near we had come to wrecking each
-      other&rsquo;s lives. Physical lassitude overtook me. Because I had withstood
-      Fiesole, I thought myself safe in indulging my fancy with more intimate
-      thoughts of Vi. I excused myself for so doing, by telling myself that it
-      was her memory that had made me strong to escape. It was like saying that
-      because water had rescued me from fire it could no longer drown me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I traveled northwards into the mountains to Raveno. Each morning I rowed
-      across Maggiore to the island of Isola Madre. Lying beneath the camphor
-      trees, watching the turquoise of the lake filling in the spaces between
-      the yellowing bamboo canes, I gave rein to my longing. Shadowy foliage
-      dripped from shadowy trees, curtaining the glaring light; down spy-hole
-      vistas of overgrown pathways I watched the lazy world drift by. I numbed
-      my cravings with the opiate of voluptuous beauty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had been there a fortnight when a letter from home arrived. With its
-      confident domestic chatter, it brought a message of trust. It took from me
-      my sense of isolation. One of them would understand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Slowly the thought had taken shape within me that I must go to Vi. If I
-      saw her only once again, I believed that I would be satisfied. It would
-      not be necessary to speak to her&mdash;that would be unsportsmanlike if
-      she had managed to forget me. All I asked was to be allowed just once to
-      look upon her face. She should not know that I was near her; I would look
-      at her and go away. With that strange sophistry that we practise on
-      ourselves, I tried to be persuaded that, were I to see her in her own
-      surroundings with her husband and Dorrie, it would be a lesson to me of
-      how little share I had in her life. Perhaps I had even idealized her
-      memory; seeing her might cure me. So I reasoned, but I was conscious that
-      my own judgment on the wisdom of such a step was not to be trusted.
-      Ruthita was too young to tell. My father, though I admired him, was not
-      the man to whom a son would willingly betray a weakness. I would speak to
-      the Snow Lady.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I drove from the station through London, old scenes and memories woke
-      to life. The city had spread out towards Stoke Newington, so that it had
-      lost much of its quaintness; but it retained enough of its old-world quiet
-      to put me in touch with my childhood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I alighted at the foot of Pope Lane. The wooden posts still stood there to
-      shut out traffic. I walked quickly up the avenue of fragrant limes with
-      the eager expectancy of one who had been years absent instead of days. In
-      the distance I heard the rumble of London. The golden August evening lay
-      in pools upon the pathway. Sensations of the happy past came back. Dead
-      memories stirred, plucking at my heartstrings. I thought of how Ruthita
-      and I had bowled hoops and played marbles on that same gray pavement,
-      making the air ring with our childish voices. I thought of those rare
-      occasions when the Spuffler had carried me away with him into a boy&rsquo;s
-      world of mysterious small things, which he knew so well how to find. All
-      the comings and goings of school-days, immense exaltations and magnified
-      tragedies, rose before me&mdash;Ruthita waiting to catch first sight of
-      me, and Ruthita running beside the dog-cart, with flushed cheeks and hair
-      flying, to share the last of me as I drove away. What had happened since
-      then seemed for the moment but an interlude in the momentous play.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Passing between the steeply-rising red-brick walls, dotted with gates, I
-      came to the door through which I had been so eager to escape when it had
-      been locked against me. I reflected that I had not gained much from the
-      new things which I had dragged into my life. The narrowness which I had
-      once detested as imprisoned dullness I now coveted as peaceful security.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I found the bell beneath the Virginia creeper. The door was opened by
-      Hetty. Hetty had grown buxom and middle-aged. Her sweetheart had never
-      come for her. The tradesmen no longer made love to her; they left their
-      goods perfunctorily and went out in search of younger faces. Her hips had
-      broadened. The curve between her bust and her waist had vanished. The
-      dream of love was all that she had gained from life. I wondered whether
-      she still told herself impossible stories of the deliverance wrought by
-      marriage. If she did, no signs of her romantic tendencies revealed
-      themselves in her face. Her expression had grown vacantly kind and stolid.
-      To me she was respectful nowadays, and seemed even distressed by the
-      immodesty of the memory that I had once been the little boy whom she had
-      spanked, spoilt, bathed, and dried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She gave a quick cry at catching sight of me, for I had warned no one of
-      my coming.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sh! where are they?&rdquo; I asked her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She told me that the master was at work in his study, and that Miss
-      Ruthita and her ma were in the garden.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I walked round the house slowly, lasting out the pleasure of their
-      surprise. Nothing seemed to have changed except we people. Sunflowers kept
-      guard in just the same places, like ranks of lean soldiers wearing golden
-      helmets. Along the borders scarlet geraniums flared among the blue of
-      lobelia and the white of featherfew, just as they had when I was a boy.
-      Pigeons, descendants of those whose freedom I had envied, perched on the
-      housetops opposite, or wheeled against the encrimsoned sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I stole across the lawn to where two stooping figures sat with their backs
-      towards me. Halfway across I halted, gazing over my shoulder. Through the
-      study-window, with ivy aslant the pane, I saw my father. His hair was
-      white. In the stoop of his shoulders was the sign of creeping age. He did
-      not look up to notice me; he had never had time. As the years went by I
-      grew proudly sorry for him. I saw him now, as I had seen him so many times
-      when I paused to glance up from my play. He was cramped above his desk,
-      writing, writing. His face was turned away. His head was supported on his
-      hand as though weary. <i>He</i> was the prisoner now; it was I who held
-      the key of escape. How oddly life had changed!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing
-      towards me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You! You!&rdquo; she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her
-      because I was unworthy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why did you come back?&rdquo; she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in her
-      voice. She searched my bronzed face.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To see you, chickabiddy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, no. That&rsquo;s not true,&rdquo; she whispered; but she pressed her cheek
-      against my shoulder as though she were willing to distrust her own denial.
-      &ldquo;You can get on quite well without me, Dannie; you would never have come
-      back to see me only.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full of
-      questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a
-      self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes
-      under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she
-      would go and tell my father.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping her
-      arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which they had
-      been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart, half-frivolous,
-      half-saintly; my father&rsquo;s intense reticence had subdued, but not quite
-      silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as ever and her
-      figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially about the
-      eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How is he?&rdquo; I asked.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Your father?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Much the same. He doesn&rsquo;t change.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Is he still at the same old grind?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded. &ldquo;But, Dante,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you look thinner and older.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the heat and the rapid traveling. A day or two&rsquo;s rest&rsquo;ll put me
-      right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She dropped her sewing into her lap and, pressing her cool hand against my
-      forehead, drew me back against her. It was a mothering love-trick of hers
-      that had lasted over from my childhood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What brought you home so suddenly, laddie?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her hand slipped to my shoulder. I bent aside and kissed it. &ldquo;To see you
-      and Ruthie. I had something to tell you.&rdquo; She narrowed her eyes shrewdly.
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been worried for nearly a year now. I&rsquo;ve noticed it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Have I shown it so plainly?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Plainly enough for me to notice. Is it something to do with a woman? But
-      of course it is&mdash;at your age only a woman could make you wear a
-      solemn face.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes. It&rsquo;s a woman. And I want you to help me, Snow Lady, just as you used
-      to long ago when I couldn&rsquo;t make things go right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The slow tears clouded her eyes; yet my news seemed to make her happy.
-      &ldquo;When I was as old as you, Ruthie had been long enough with me to grow
-      long curls.&rdquo; She smiled inscrutably.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From where we sat we could watch the house. While we had been talking, I
-      had seen through the study-window how Ruthita stole to my father&rsquo;s chair.
-      He looked up irritably at being disturbed. Her attitude was all meekness
-      and apology as she explained her intrusion. He seemed to sigh at having to
-      leave his work. She withdrew while he completed his sentence. He laid his
-      pen carefully aside, glanced out into the garden shortsightedly, rose, and
-      melted into the shadows at the back of his cave. The door at the top of
-      the steps opened. He descended slowly and gravely, as though his brain was
-      still tangled in the web of thought it had been weaving.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We sat together beneath the apple-tree while the light faded. Little ovals
-      of gold, falling flaky through leaves on the turf, paled imperceptibly
-      into the twilight grayness. My father&rsquo;s voice was worn and unsteady. It
-      came over me that he had aged; up till now I had not noticed it. Beyond
-      the wall in a neighboring garden children were playing; a woman called
-      them to bed; a lawn-mower ran to and fro across the silence. He questioned
-      me eagerly as to where I had been in Italy, punctuating my answers and
-      descriptions with such remarks as, &ldquo;I always wanted to go there&mdash;never
-      had time&mdash;always felt that such a background would have made all the
-      difference.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was noticeable that Ruthita and the Snow Lady suppressed themselves in
-      his presence; if they ventured anything, it was only to keep him
-      interested or to lead his thoughts in happier directions. Presently he
-      told them that they would be tired if they sat up later. Taking the hint
-      as a command, they bade us good-night.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Darkness had gathered when they left us; to the southward London waved a
-      torch against the clouds. We watched the lights spring up in the bedrooms,
-      and saw Ruthita and then the Snow Lady step to their windows and draw down
-      their blinds. Presently the lights went out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lord Halloway&rsquo;s been here again.&rdquo; When I waited for further explanation
-      my father added, &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t like the fellow at first; he improves on
-      acquaintance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I spoke. &ldquo;Depends how far you carry his acquaintance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My father fidgeted in his chair. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got flaws in his character, but
-      he&rsquo;s honest in keeping back nothing. Most people in our position wouldn&rsquo;t
-      hesitate two minutes over such a match.&rdquo; Then, after a long pause, &ldquo;And
-      what&rsquo;s to become of Ruthita when I die?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I took him up sharply. I was young enough to fear the mention of death.
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll live for many years yet. After that, I&rsquo;ll take care of her if she
-      doesn&rsquo;t marry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My father sat upright. I wondered how I had hurt him. He spoke stiffly.
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll inherit Sir Charles&rsquo;s money. When I married a first and a second
-      time, I didn&rsquo;t consult his convenience, and the responsibilities I
-      undertook are mine. Ruthita&rsquo;s only your sister by accident; already you&rsquo;ve
-      been too much together. We must consider this offer apart from sentiment.
-      He&rsquo;s sowed his wild oats&mdash;well, he&rsquo;s sorry. And he&rsquo;ll be the Earl of
-      Lovegrove by and by. To stand in her way would be selfishness.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His argument took me by surprise. &ldquo;Is Ruthita anxious for it? What does
-      she say?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She knows nothing of the world. She takes her coloring from you. She&rsquo;s
-      afraid to speak out her mind. She thinks you would never forgive her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His voice was high-strung and challenging.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it,&rdquo; I said quietly. &ldquo;She doesn&rsquo;t love him&mdash;she&rsquo;d be
-      selling herself for safety.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In the interval that followed I could feel the grimness of his expression
-      which the darkness hid from my eyes. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re young; you don&rsquo;t understand.
-      For years I&rsquo;ve had to struggle to make ends meet. I&rsquo;m about done&mdash;I&rsquo;m
-      tired. If Ruthita were settled, I could lie down with an easy mind.
-      There&rsquo;s enough saved to see me and her mother to our journey&rsquo;s end.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He rose to his feet suddenly. &ldquo;You think I&rsquo;m acting shabbily. Good-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He walked away, a gaunt shadow moving through the silver night. The awe I
-      had of him kept me from following. I sat there and tried to puzzle out how
-      this thing might be avoided. I could help financially; but my help would
-      be refused because it was Sir Charles&rsquo;s money.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning I woke at six and dressed. Dew was on the turf; it sparkled
-      in the gossamer veils of spider-webs caught among the bushes. Blackbirds
-      and thrushes in trees were calling. A cock crew, and a cock in the
-      distance echoed. The childish thought came back to me&mdash;how much
-      grown-ups miss of pleasure in their anxiety for the morrow. There is so
-      much to be enjoyed for nothing!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A window-sash was raised sharply. Looking up I saw Ruthita in her white
-      night-gown, with her hair tumbled like a cloud about her breast. I watched
-      her, thinking her lovely&mdash;so timid and small and delicate. I called
-      to her softly; she started and drew back. I waited. Soon she came down to
-      me in the garden. I must have eyed her curiously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve heard?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She held out her hand pleadingly, afraid that I would judge her. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re
-      making me,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t&mdash;don&rsquo;t want to, Dannie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I led her away behind the tool-shed at the bottom of the garden; it was
-      the place where I had discovered Hetty in her one flirtation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not wanted,&rdquo; moaned Ruthita; &ldquo;I cost money. So they&rsquo;re giving me to a
-      man I don&rsquo;t love.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They shan&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I told her, slipping my arm about her. &ldquo;You shall come to
-      me&mdash;I don&rsquo;t suppose I shall ever marry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nestled her head against my shoulder, saying, &ldquo;You were always good to
-      me; I don&rsquo;t know why. I&rsquo;m not much use to anybody.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Rubbish!&rdquo; I retorted. &ldquo;None of us could get along without you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to
-      me. She promised.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her beside
-      us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s not going to marry Halloway.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. &ldquo;Why not? Why so positive?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because it&rsquo;s an arranged marriage.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Somehow I knew she was not serious.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t want it?&rdquo; I challenged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t want it; but Ruthita&rsquo;s growing older. No one else has asked
-      for her. It would be a shame if she became an old maid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t, if you say so,&rdquo; said the Snow Lady.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a conspiracy
-      against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to his study, where he
-      shut himself up, working morosely. I sought opportunities to tell the Snow
-      Lady what I had come to say, but I could never find an opening to
-      introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were alone together she insisted on
-      discussing Ruthita&rsquo;s future, stating and re-stating the reasons for and
-      against the proposed match. The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the
-      broaching of my own perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make
-      my decision unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I
-      engaged a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be
-      canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended to
-      hesitate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding my
-      eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I went
-      to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because he&rsquo;s coming?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Partly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her eyes were blinded with tears; she sank against the wall in a fit of
-      sobbing. &ldquo;Oh, I wish you could take me&mdash;I wish you could take me!&rdquo;
-       she cried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise to
-      come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. &ldquo;You and I&rsquo;ve
-      always stood together, little sister; you mustn&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; I told her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? You&rsquo;re going?&rdquo; Her voice reflected dismay and bewilderment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But not for long! You&rsquo;ll be back shortly?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That depends.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I entered my father&rsquo;s study. He looked up from his writing. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going
-      away.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He held my hand in silence a moment; his throat was working; he would not
-      look me in the eyes. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you stay?&rdquo; he asked hoarsely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I shook my head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-by,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t judge us harshly. Come back again.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita accompanied me to the end of the lane. She did not come further;
-      she was grown up now and ashamed to be seen crying. At the last minute I
-      wanted to tell her. I realized that she would understand&mdash;she was a
-      woman. The knowledge came too late. She said she would write me at Oxford,
-      and I did not correct her. I looked back as I went down the road and
-      waved. I turned a corner; she was lost to sight.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day I sailed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XIV&mdash;I GO TO SHEBA
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> sleepy, contented
-      little town, overshadowed by giant elms, sprawled out along the banks of a
-      winding river, surrounded for miles by undulating woodlands&mdash;that is
-      how I remember Sheba. The houses were for the most part of timber, and
-      nearly all of them were painted white. They sat each in its unfenced
-      garden, comfortably separate from neighbors, with a green lawn flowing
-      from the roadway all about it, and a nosegay of salvias, hollyhocks, and
-      lavender, making cheerfulness beside the piazza. I suppose unkind things
-      happened there, but they have left no mark on my memory. When I think of
-      Sheba there comes to me the sound of bees humming, woodpeckers tapping,
-      frogs croaking, and the sight of blue indolent smoke curling above quiet
-      gables, butterflies sailing over flowers, a nodding team of oxen on a
-      sunlit road hauling fagots into town and, after sunset hour, the indigo
-      silence of dusk beneath orchards where apples are dropping and fireflies
-      blink with the eyes of goblins.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sheba was one of those old New England towns from which the hurry of life
-      has departed; it cared more for its traditions than for its future, and
-      sat watching the present like a gray spectacled grandmother, pleased to be
-      behind the times, with its worn hands folded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I arrived there with only a small sum of money and the price of my return
-      passage. I had limited my funds purposely, so that I might not be tempted
-      to prolong my visit.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The day after my arrival my calculations were upset; I discovered that the
-      Carpenter house was shut, and that Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter had not yet
-      returned from the coast. This made me careful. I was unwilling to draw on
-      my bank in London lest my whereabouts should be discovered, which would
-      necessitate awkward explanations to my family and the association of Vi&rsquo;s
-      name with doubtful circumstances.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In my search for cheap lodgings I had a strange stroke of luck. Randall
-      Carpenter&rsquo;s house stood in an old-world street, which at this time of the
-      year was a tunnel through foliage. I waited until the gardeners had
-      departed. Evening came; pushing open the gate, I entered the grounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I passed down a rough path under apple-trees, where fruit kept falling. In
-      stables to the left, horses chafed in their stalls and snorted. To the
-      right in the vegetable garden, birds of brilliant plumage flashed and
-      darted, and fat gray squirrels sat up quivering to watch me. Overhead,
-      near and far, the air vibrated with incessant twittering. The golden haze
-      of sunset was over everything; the whole world seemed enkindled. The path
-      descended to low, flat meadows where haymaking was in progress. Farm
-      implements stood carelessly about, ready for the morrow. In one field the
-      hay was cocked, in another gathered, in a third the cutting had commenced.
-      I told myself I was with her, and shivered at the aching loneliness of
-      reality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Circling the meadows was a narrow stream, which at a little distance
-      joined the main river; on the farther side stood scattered cottages, with
-      gardens straggling down a hill to its banks. In one of these a gray-haired
-      woman was working. She wore a sunbonnet and print-dress of lavender. In my
-      idleness I threw myself down in the grass and observed her. She grew
-      conscious that she was being watched, and cast sly glances across her
-      shoulder. At first I thought she was suspicious of my trespassing; she
-      came lower down the hill and nodded in shy friendly fashion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Good-evening,&rdquo; I called to her over the stream.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew herself erect and eyed me. &ldquo;Guess you&rsquo;re a stranger?&rdquo; she
-      questioned, having found something foreign in my English accent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I told her that I was, and then, for the sake of conversation, asked her
-      if she knew of any rooms to rent. &ldquo;Guess I do,&rdquo; she called back, &ldquo;me and
-      my sisters have one room to spare.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      That was how I came to take lodgings with the three Misses Januaries. I
-      paid them ten dollars weekly and had everything found. My room lay at the
-      back; from my window I could see much of what went on in Randall
-      Carpenter&rsquo;s grounds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From the three Misses Januaries I learnt many things. They were decayed
-      ladies and eked out a livelihood by bringing home piece-work to do for the
-      jewelry factories. Every other day Miss Priscilla, the eldest, went to
-      deliver the finished task and to take further orders. Miss Priscilla was
-      proud, angular, and bent. Miss Julia was round and jolly, but crippled
-      with rheumatism. Miss Lucy, the youngest, had a weak spine and was never
-      dressed; day after day she lay between white sheets dreamily smiling,
-      small as a child, making hardly any mound in the bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At first they hid from me the fact that they worked. Then they pretended
-      that they did it to occupy their leisure. Sewing was so useless, Miss
-      Priscilla said. At last they admitted the truth to the extent of letting
-      me sit with them in Miss Lucy&rsquo;s bedroom, even allowing me to help them
-      with the fastening of the interminable links that went to the making of
-      one chain-bag.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was during these meetings that they gossiped of their neighbors and
-      themselves. By delicate manouvering I would lead the conversation round to
-      Vi. I found that for them Sheba was the one and only town, and Randall
-      Carpenter was its richest citizen. He stood behind all its thriving
-      institutions. He was president of the Sheba National Bank. He had
-      controlling interest in the jewelry factory. He owned the cotton-works. He
-      had been Senator at Washington. Vi was the social leader and the mirror of
-      local fashion. They spoke of her as though she embodied for them all that
-      is meant by romance. They told me the story, which I had already heard, of
-      how Randall Carpenter had saved her father from ruin.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While such matters were being discussed and fresh details added, Miss Lucy
-      would smile up at the ceiling, with her thin arms stretched straight out
-      and her fingers plucking at the coverlet. I discovered later that long
-      years before, Randall Carpenter had kept company with her; then her spine
-      trouble had commenced and their money had gone from them, and it had been
-      ended. As a middle-aged bachelor he had married Vi, and now Miss Lucy
-      re-lived her own girlhood in listening to stories of Vi&rsquo;s reported
-      happiness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Three weeks after my arrival in Sheba Vi returned. The evening before I
-      had seen from my window that lights had sprung up in the house; early next
-      morning I saw Dorrie in the garden, a white, diminutive, butterfly figure
-      fluttering beneath the boughs. After breakfast I saw Vi come out, walking
-      with a portly man. An eighth of a mile separated us&mdash;by listening
-      intently I could hear her voice when she called, &ldquo;Dorrie, Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Twice I came near to her, though she did not know it. One Sunday morning I
-      waited till service had commenced, and followed her to church. I slipped
-      into a seat at the back. There were few people present. From where I sat I
-      could get a clear view of her and her husband across empty pews. Mr.
-      Carpenter was a squarely-built, kindly-looking man&mdash;unimaginative and
-      mildly corpulent. His face was clean-shaven and ruddy. He had an air of
-      benevolent prosperity; his hair was grizzled, the top of his head was bald
-      and polished. When he offered me the plate in taking the collection, I
-      noticed that his fingers were podgy. I remembered Vi&rsquo;s continually
-      reiterated assertion that he was so kind to her. I knew what she had meant&mdash;kind,
-      but lacking subtlety in expressing the affections. I judged that he was
-      the sort of person to whom life had scattered largesse&mdash;he had never
-      been tested, and consequently accepted all good fortune as something
-      merited. His wide shrewd eyes had a steely gleam of justice; the puckered
-      eye-lids promised humor. He was lovable rather than likable&mdash;a big
-      boy, a mixture of naïve self-complacency and masterfulness. Before the
-      benediction was pronounced, I left.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was the first time I had seen him at close quarters. I had come
-      prepared to find faults in the man; I was surprised at my lack of anger.
-      His comfortable amiability disarmed me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The second time I came near to her was at nightfall. It was November. A
-      touch of frost had nipped the leaves to blood-red; the Indian Summer had
-      commenced. The air was pungent with the walnut fragrance of decaying
-      foliage; violet mist trailed in shreds from thickets, like a woman&rsquo;s scarf
-      torn from her throat in the passage. I had wandered out into the country.
-      An aimless restlessness was on me&mdash;a sense of defiant
-      self-dissatisfaction.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Occupied with my thoughts, I was strolling moodily along with hands in
-      pockets, when I chanced to look up. She was coming down the road towards
-      me. She was alone; her trim, clean-cut figure made a silhouette against
-      the twilight. She was whistling like a boy as she approached; her skirt
-      was short to the ankles; she carried a light cane in her hand. I wanted to
-      stand still till she had come up with me and then to catch her in my arms
-      before she was aware. For a moment I halted irresolute; then I turned into
-      the woods to the left.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not understand how she could be so near to me and not know it. It
-      seemed to me that I would raise clenched hands against the coffin-lid,
-      were she to approach me, though I was buried deep underground.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the year drew towards a close my uncertainty of mind became a torture.
-      I knew that I ought to return to England; I was breaking the promise I had
-      made to myself. My friends must be getting anxious. By this time Sir
-      Charles must have heard of my disappearance. I was imperiling my future by
-      stopping. Worse still, the longer I lived near Vi, the more difficult was
-      I making it for myself to take up the threads of my old life without her.
-      I continually set dates for my departure, and I continually postponed
-      them. At last I booked my passage some way ahead for the first week in
-      January. In order to prevent myself from altering my decision, I told Miss
-      Priscilla that I was going.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I fought a series of never finished battles with myself. As the time of my
-      respite shortened, I grew frenzied. Was I to go away forever without
-      speaking to her? Was I to give her no sign of my presence? Was I to let
-      her think that I had forgotten her and had ceased to care? I kept myself
-      awake of nights on purpose to make my respite go further; from where I lay
-      on the pillow with my face turned to the snow-covered meadows, I could see
-      the blur which was her house. Sometimes in the darkness, when one loses
-      all standards, I determined to risk everything and go to her. With morning
-      I mastered myself and saw clearly&mdash;to go to her would be basest
-      selfishness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In one of my long tramps I had come upon a pond in a secluded stretch of
-      woodland on the outskirts of Sheba. On the last evening before my
-      departure I remembered it. I was in almost hourly fear of myself&mdash;afraid
-      that I would seek her out. I planned diversions of thought and action for
-      my physical self, so that my will might keep it in subjection. This
-      evening, when I was at a loss what to do, the inclination occurred to go
-      there skating.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I walked along the road, sleighs slid by with bells jingling. The merry
-      golden windows of white houses in white fields brought a sense of
-      peacefulness. The night was blue-black; the sky was starry; the air had
-      that deceptive dryness which hides its coldness. Beneath the woods trees
-      cast intricate sprawling traceries of shadows. Every now and then the
-      frozen silence was shattered by the snapping of some overladen bough; then
-      the whole wood shook and shivered as though it were spun from glassy
-      threads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Picking my way through bushes, I came to the edge of the pond and sat down
-      to adjust my skates. It was perhaps four hundred yards in extent and
-      curved in the middle, so that one could not see from end to end. To the
-      right grew a plantation of firs almost large enough for cutting; on the
-      other three sides lay tangled swamp and brushwood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had risen to my feet and was on the point of striking out, when I heard
-      a sound which was unmistakable, <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i>&mdash;the sharp ring
-      of skates cutting against ice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From a point above me at the edge of the fir-grove a figure darted out and
-      vanished round the bend. The moon was just rising; behind bars of tall
-      trunks I could see its pale disk shining&mdash;the pond had not yet caught
-      its light.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt foolishly angry and disappointed that I was not to have my last
-      evening to myself. I was jealous that some stranger, to whom it would lack
-      the same intensity, should share this memory. Unreasonable chagrin held me
-      hesitant; I was minded to steal away unnoticed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The intruder had reached the far end of the pond&mdash;there was silence.
-      Then the <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i> commenced again, coming back. I set out to
-      meet it; it was eerie for two people to be within earshot, but out of
-      sight in that still solitude. We swung round the corner together; the moon
-      peered above the tree-tops. For an instant we were face to face, staring
-      into one another&rsquo;s eyes; then our impetus carried us apart into the dusk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I listened, and heard nothing but the brittle shuddering of icicles as
-      boughs strained up to free themselves. Stealing back round the bend, I
-      came upon her standing fixed and silent; as I approached her, she spread
-      her hands before her eyes in a gesture of terror.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi, Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She muttered to herself in choking, babbling fashion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I had put my arms about her, she ceased to speak, but her body was
-      shaken with sobbing. She made no sound, but a deep convulsive trembling
-      ran through her. I talked to her soothingly, trying to convince her I was
-      real. Slowly she relaxed against me sighing, and trusted herself to look
-      up at me, letting her fingers wander over my face and hands. I had brought
-      her the bitterness of remembrance. Stooping, I kissed her mouth. &ldquo;Just
-      once,&rdquo; I pleaded, &ldquo;after all these months of loneliness. I&rsquo;m going
-      to-morrow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You must,&rdquo; she said, freeing herself from my embrace and clasping her
-      arms about my neck; &ldquo;oh, it&rsquo;s wrong, but I&rsquo;ve wanted you so badly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I led her to the edge of the pond and removed her skates. The moon had now
-      sailed above the spear-topped firs and the ice was a silver mirror.
-      Walking through the muffled woods I told her of my coming to Sheba, of the
-      window from which I had watched her, and of all that had happened. From
-      her I learnt that she also had been going through the same struggle
-      between duty and desire ever since we parted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sometimes I felt that it was no use,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t fight any
-      longer&mdash;I must write or come to you. Then something would happen; I
-      would read or hear of a woman who had done it, and in the revulsion I felt
-      I realized how other people would feel about myself. And I saw how it
-      would spoil Randall&rsquo;s life, and especially what it would mean to Dorrie.
-      You can&rsquo;t tell your personal excuses to the world; it just judges you
-      wholesale by what you do, and I couldn&rsquo;t bear that. It&rsquo;s so easy to slip
-      into temptation, Dante, especially our kind of temptation; because we love
-      one another, anything we might do seems good. You can only see what sin
-      really is when you picture it in the lives of others.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We were walking apart now; she had withdrawn her arm from mine. &ldquo;I shall
-      always love you,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And I you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall never marry any other woman,&rdquo; I told her; &ldquo;I shall wait for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor boy,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;it isn&rsquo;t even right for you to think of that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Then, because there were things we dared not mention, we fell to talking
-      about Dorrie, how she was growing, how she was losing her lisp, and all
-      the tender little coaxing ways she had of making people happy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came out of the woods on the road which led back to Sheba. The lights
-      twinkling ahead and the occasional travelers passing, robbed us of the
-      danger of being alone together. I think she had been waiting for that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she said, smiling at me bravely, &ldquo;there is only one thing for you
-      to do&mdash;you must marry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Marry,&rdquo; I exclaimed, &ldquo;some woman whom I don&rsquo;t love!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not that,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but many men learn to love a second woman. I&rsquo;ve
-      often thought you should be happy with Ruthita; you love her already.
-      After you had had children, you&rsquo;d soon forget me. You&rsquo;d be able to smile
-      about it. Then it would be easier for me to forget.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My answer was a tortured whisper. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible; I&rsquo;m not made like
-      that. For my own peace of mind I almost wish I were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of
-      elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one of
-      the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out,
-      watching for her return.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s always like that; he can&rsquo;t bear to be without me. I had one of my
-      moods this evening, when I want to be alone&mdash;he knew it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When you wanted to think of me; that&rsquo;s what you meant&mdash;why didn&rsquo;t
-      you say it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;One daren&rsquo;t say these things, when they&rsquo;re saying good-by, perhaps for
-      ever.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She had her hand on the gate, preparing to enter; we neither of us knew
-      what to say at parting. The things that were in my heart I must not utter,
-      and all other things seemed trivial. I looked from her to the burly figure
-      framed in the glowing window. I pitied him with the proud pity of youth
-      for age, a pity which is half cruel. After all, she loved me and we had
-      our years before us. We could afford disappointment, we whose lives were
-      mostly in the future; his life was two-thirds spent, and his years were
-      running out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Looking up the path in his direction, I asked, &ldquo;Shall you tell him?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He has known for a year; it was only fair.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And he was angry? He blamed you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He was sorry. I wish he had blamed me. He blames himself, which is the
-      hardest thing I have to bear.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s a good man&mdash;better than I am. You must learn to
-      love him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She held out her hand quickly; her voice was muffled. &ldquo;Good-night, my
-      dearest, and good-by.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The gate clanged. As she ran up the path, I saw that her husband had moved
-      from the window. He opened the door to her; in the lighted room I saw him
-      put his arms about her. By the way she looked up at him and he bent over
-      her, I knew she was confessing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then I shambled down the road, feeling very old and tired. I was so tired
-      that I hardly knew how to finish my packing; I was cold, bitterly cold. I
-      dragged myself to bed; in order to catch the boat in Boston, I had to make
-      an early start next morning. My teeth were chattering and my flesh was
-      burning. Several times in the night I caught myself speaking aloud, saying
-      stupid, tangled things about Vi. Then I thought that what I had said had
-      been overheard. I shouted angrily to them to go away, declaring, that I
-      had not meant what I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When my eyes closed, the stars were going out. &ldquo;It will soon be morning,&rdquo;
-       I told myself; &ldquo;I must get up and dress.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I tried to get up, but my head would stick to the pillow and my body
-      refused to work. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s queer,&rdquo; I thought; &ldquo;never mind, I&rsquo;ll try later.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER XV&mdash;THE FLAME OF A SWORD
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne morning, it
-      seemed the one on which I had planned to sail, I awoke in a strange room.
-      I knew it was strange because the sun was pouring in across the bed, and
-      the sun never looked through my window at the Misses Januaries&rsquo; till late
-      in the afternoon. Something wet was on my forehead&mdash;a kind of bandage
-      that came down low across my eyes almost preventing me from seeing
-      anything. This set me wondering in a slow, thick-witted manner.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not much care how I came to be there&mdash;I felt effortless and
-      contented; yet, in a lazy way, my mind became interested. I lay still,
-      piecing together little scraps of happenings as I remembered them. The
-      last thing I could recall that was rational was my attempting to get out
-      of bed. Then came vague haunting shapes, too sweet and too horrible for
-      reality&mdash;things which refused to be embodied and remained mere
-      atmospheres in the brain, terrors and delights of sleep which slowly faded
-      as the mind cleared itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I pulled my hand from under the sheets and was surprised at the effort it
-      took to raise it to my forehead. I heard the rustle of a starched skirt:
-      it was the kind of sound that Hetty used to make in my childhood, when she
-      came to dress me in the mornings and I pretended that I still slept. I
-      used to think in those days that it was a stern clean sound which
-      threatened me with soap and chilly water. Someone was bending over me; a
-      cool voice said, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t move, Mr. Cardover. I&rsquo;ll do that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The bandage was pushed back and in the sudden rush of light I saw a young
-      woman in a blue print-dress, standing beside my pillow. I tried to speak
-      to her, but my mouth was parched and my voice did not make the proper
-      sound.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t try to speak,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve been sick, you know. Soon you&rsquo;ll
-      feel better.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I stopped trying to talk and obeyed her, just as I used to obey Hetty. At
-      the back of my mind I smiled to myself that I, a grown man, should obey
-      her; she looked such a girl. After she had put water to my lips and passed
-      a damp cloth over my face and hands, she nodded pleasantly and went back
-      to her seat by the window.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      No&mdash;until now I had never seen this room. The walls were covered in
-      cherry-colored satin, which was patterned in vertical stripes, with
-      bunches of flowers woven in between the lines. All the wood-work was
-      painted a gleaming white. Chippendale chairs and old-fashioned delicate
-      bits of furniture stood about in odd corners. Between the posts of the big
-      Colonial bed I could see a broad bay-window, with a seat going round it.
-      Across the panes leafless boughs cast a net-work of shadows, and through
-      them fell a bar of solid sunlight in which dust-motes were dancing by the
-      thousand. Half-way down each side of the bed screens were standing, so
-      that I could only see straight before me and a part of the room to the
-      left and right beyond where they ended.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through weakness I was powerless to speak or stir, yet my swimming senses
-      were anxiously alert. I saw objects without their perspective, as though I
-      were gazing up through water. In the same way with sounds, I heard them
-      thunderously and waited in suspense for their repetition. Though I lay so
-      still, nothing missed my attention.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      By the quietness of the house I gathered that the hour was yet early. Far
-      away cocks crew their rural challenge. On a road near by footsteps passed
-      in a hurry. The whistle of a factory sounded; then I knew they had been
-      footsteps of people going to work. Beneath the window a garden-roller
-      clanged across gravel, and became muffled as it reached the turf. A door
-      banged remotely; a few seconds later someone tapped on the door of my
-      bedroom. The nurse laid aside her knitting and rustled over to the
-      threshold. A question was asked in a low whisper and the nurse&rsquo;s voice
-      answered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A woman entered into the bar of sunlight and stood regarding me from the
-      foot of the bed. With the immense indifference of weakness I gazed back.
-      Her long, fine-spun hair hung loose about her shoulders like a mantle. She
-      wore a blue dressing-gown, which she held together with one hand across
-      her breast. Her eyes were still sleepy; she had come directly she had
-      wakened to inquire after me. She smiled at me, nodding her head. She
-      seemed very distant; I wanted to return her smile, but I had not the
-      energy. I closed my eyes; when I looked again she had vanished.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For the next few days I do not know how many people came and looked at me,
-      whispered a few words and went. There was the old gray-haired doctor, with
-      his military-bearing and his trick of pursing his lips and knitting his
-      brows as he took my temperature. I had one visitor who was regular&mdash;Randall
-      Carpenter. He looked years older. Tiptoeing into the room, he would seat
-      himself in the bay-window; from there he would gaze at me moodily without
-      a word, with his knees spread apart, and his podgy hands clasped together.
-      Sometimes I would doze while he watched me and would awake to find him
-      still there, his position unaltered. One thing I noticed; Vi and he were
-      never in my room together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In these first days, which slipped by uncounted, I realized that I had
-      been very near to death. It seemed to me that my spirit still hovered on
-      the borderland and looked back across the boundary half-regretful. I had
-      the feeling that life was a thing apart from me&mdash;something which I
-      was unanxious to share. All these people came and went, but I could not
-      respond to them. I desired only to be undisturbed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Several times I had heard the shrill piping voice of Dorrie and the long
-      low <i>hush</i> of someone warning her to speak less loudly. She would
-      come to the door many times in the day, inquiring impatiently whether I
-      were better. Sometimes she would leave flowers, which the nurse would put
-      in water and set down by the side of my bed. I would watch them dreamily,
-      saying to myself, &ldquo;Dorrie&rsquo;s flowers.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      One afternoon I heard her voice at the door, asking &ldquo;Nurth, how ith
-      Dante?&rdquo; The nurse had left the room for a moment, so no one answered her
-      question. I heard the door pushed wider, and stealthy feet slipping across
-      the carpet. Round the edge of the screen came the excited face and little
-      shining head. I held out my hand to her and tried to speak. Then I tried
-      again and whispered, &ldquo;Dorrie! Dorrie darling!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my hand in both her small ones, trying to mask the fear which my
-      changed appearance caused her. &ldquo;Dear Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tho
-      thorry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kiss me, Dorrie,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dear Dante, you&rsquo;ll get better, won&rsquo;t you? For my thake, Dante! Then we&rsquo;ll
-      play together, like we uthed to.&rdquo; Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks
-      as she questioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As her soft lips brushed me and her silky curls fell about my forehead, I
-      felt for the first time that my grip on life was coming back. Lying there
-      thinking things over confusedly, it had seemed hardly worth while trying
-      to get better. It seemed worth while, now that I was reminded that there
-      was such beautiful innocence as Dorrie&rsquo;s in the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When the nurse came back a few moments later, she shook her head at Dorrie
-      reproachfully and tried to take her away from me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But he wanths me,&rdquo; cried Dorrie in self-defense, and I kept fast hold of
-      her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After that I began to gather strength. I noticed that as I threw off my
-      lethargy, Vi&rsquo;s visits grew less frequent. When she came her manner was
-      restrained; she entered hurriedly and made it appear that her only reason
-      for coming was to confer with the nurse. At first I would follow her about
-      with my eyes; but when I found how much it embarrassed her, I pretended to
-      be dozing when I heard her enter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not understand how I came to be in Randall Carpenter&rsquo;s house. I
-      dared not ask Vi or her husband; my presence implied too much already. I
-      was afraid to ask the nurse; I did not know how much I should be telling
-      by my question. There seemed to be a polite conspiracy of silence against
-      me. I wondered where it would all end.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had grown to like the old doctor. He was a shrewd, wise, serious man. He
-      never spoke a word of religion, yet he made his religion felt by his
-      kindness. As he went about his work, he would become chatty, trying to
-      rouse my interest. He spoke a good deal about himself and told me
-      anecdotes of scenes which he had lived through in the War, when he had
-      been a surgeon in the Northern army. Out of his old tired eyes he would
-      watch me narrowly; I began to feel that he understood.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One day I whispered to him to send away the nurse. He invented an errand
-      for her, saying that he would stay with me till she returned. When she had
-      gone, he closed the door carefully and came and sat down on the side of
-      the bed. &ldquo;Now, what is it, my boy?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What happened, doctor?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He pursed his lips judicially and looked away from me for a full minute,
-      as though he would escape answering; then his eyes came back and I saw
-      that he was going to tell.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I reckoned you&rsquo;d be asking that question,&rdquo; he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The morning that you figured to sail, you were taken sick at the Misses
-      Januaries&rsquo;. You were mighty bad when they sent for me; you had pneumonia
-      and a touch of brain-fever. It&rsquo;s a close call you&rsquo;ve had. I found you
-      wandering in your head&mdash;and saying things.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Things, doctor? Things that I wouldn&rsquo;t want heard?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He nodded gravely. &ldquo;No one in Sheba knew anything about you. I saw that
-      you were in for a long spell, and that the Misses Januaries&rsquo; was no place
-      for you to get proper nursing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He halted awkwardly. &ldquo;Then I came to Randall and told him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Had I mentioned him in my delirium?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d mentioned her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I could feel the warm flush of color spreading through my body and turned
-      away my head. The old doctor gripped my hand. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how it happened, I
-      guess.&rdquo; Little by little he told me about Randall Carpenter. During the
-      first days of crisis he had scarcely gone to bed, but had paced the house,
-      always returning to my bedroom door to see if he could be of any service.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, why should he care?&rdquo; I questioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because she cared, I guess. He&rsquo;s so fond of her that he wants to do more
-      than ever she could ask him. And then, Randall&rsquo;s a mighty just man, and
-      he&rsquo;s always most just when he&rsquo;s most tempted.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He looked down at me sidelong and silence fell between us. It was broken
-      by the footfall of the nurse along the passage. I asked him quickly when I
-      should be well enough to be moved.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re some better now, but we mustn&rsquo;t think of moving you yet, though,
-      of course, you must go at the earliest.&rdquo; Towards midnight the nurse took
-      my temperature. I saw that she was surprised, for she took it a second
-      time. &ldquo;Have you any pain?&rdquo; she asked me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Randall Carpenter came in and they went away together. I lay staring up at
-      the ceiling, my hands clenched and my eyes burning. They all knew; I alone
-      was ignorant of what things I had said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A carriage came bowling up the driveway. I recognized whose it was, for I
-      had become familiar with the horse&rsquo;s step. The doctor came into the room;
-      as he bent over me our eyes met. I clutched his arm and he stooped lower.
-      &ldquo;Stay and talk with me,&rdquo; I whispered. &ldquo;You all look at me and none of you
-      will tell me. I can&rsquo;t bear it&mdash;can&rsquo;t bear it any longer.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What can&rsquo;t you bear?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not knowing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When he had told them that there was no change for the worse and had sent
-      them back to bed, he came and sat down beside me. The lights in the room
-      were extinguished, save for a reading lamp in a far corner where the nurse
-      had been sitting.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I guess something&rsquo;s troubling you. Take your time and tell me slowly.
-      I&rsquo;ll sure help you, if I can.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Doctor, you know about me and Mrs. Carpenter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I reckon you&rsquo;re sort of fond of her&mdash;is that it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I buried my face against the cool pillow. I dared not look at him, but he
-      signaled me courage with the pressure of his hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;More than fond, that&rsquo;s why I came to Sheba. I didn&rsquo;t mean to let her know
-      that I&rsquo;d ever been here; that last evening we met by accident. I was a
-      fool to have come. I&rsquo;ve been unfair to her&mdash;unfair to everybody.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He did not answer me; he could not deny my assertion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You remember what you said this afternoon&mdash;that I let things out in
-      my delirium. I want to know what they were. I&rsquo;ve been trying to remember;
-      but it all comes wild and confused. Tell me, did I say anything that would
-      make her ashamed of me&mdash;anything that would make her hate me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shook his head. &ldquo;Nothing that would make her hate you. Perhaps, that&rsquo;s
-      the worst of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well then, anything that would damage her reputation? Was I brought here
-      only to prevent strangers from listening to what I said, just as you&rsquo;d
-      shut a mad dog up for safety?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In my feverish suspense, I gained sudden strength and raised myself up on
-      my elbow to face him. He patted me gently on the shoulder, saying, &ldquo;Lie
-      down; it&rsquo;s a sick man&rsquo;s fancy. You&rsquo;re guessing wide of the mark&mdash;it
-      was nothing such as that.&rdquo; He tucked me up and smoothed out the sheets.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now stay still and I&rsquo;ll tell you. You were calling for her when I came to
-      you. At first we didn&rsquo;t know what you meant; then you mentioned Dorrie.
-      Only Miss Priscilla and I heard what you were saying; you can trust Miss
-      Priscilla not to speak about it. I let Randall know and he brought his
-      wife over with him. Directly she touched you, you grew quiet. It was
-      Randall suggested you being brought here; he was sorry for you and it was
-      kindness made him do it. All through your illness till you came to
-      yourself, Mrs. Carpenter sat by you; whenever she left you, you grew
-      restless. She and her husband saved your life, I guess.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what makes them all so strange to me now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He fidgeted and cleared his throat. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the truth I&rsquo;m wanting,&rdquo; I urged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Randall saw what she meant to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what you meant to her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Against my will a wave of joy throbbed through me. I felt like sobbing
-      from relief and happiness. Then a clear vision of the reality came to me&mdash;the
-      great silent man who stared at me for hours, and the high-spirited woman,
-      so suddenly grown timid, stealing in and out the room with averted eyes in
-      pallid meekness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What ought I to do?&rdquo; My voice choked me as I asked it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He turned his wise, care-wrinkled face towards me gravely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m
-      wondering,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one thing to do&mdash;ask God about it.
-      You did wrong in coming&mdash;there&rsquo;s no disguising that. But the good
-      God&rsquo;s spared you. He knows what He means you to do. I&rsquo;m an old fellow, and
-      I&rsquo;ve seen a heap of suffering and trouble. I&rsquo;ve seen men die on the
-      battlefield, and I&rsquo;ve seen &rsquo;em go under when it was least expected.
-      I don&rsquo;t know how I&rsquo;d have come through, if I hadn&rsquo;t believed God knew what
-      He was doing. I guess if He&rsquo;d been lazy, like me and you, He&rsquo;d just have
-      let you slip out, &rsquo;cause it seemed easiest. But He hasn&rsquo;t, and He knows
-      why He hasn&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;d just leave it in His hands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Long after he had ceased to speak, I lay thinking of his words&mdash;thinking
-      how simple life would be if God were exactly like this old man. Then I
-      began to hope that He might be&mdash;a kind of doctor of sick souls, who
-      would get up out of bed and come driving through the night without
-      complaining, just to bring quiet to sinful people like myself. I closed my
-      eyes, trying to think that God sat beside me. Some time must have elapsed,
-      but when I looked round the doctor was still there. His head was bowed
-      forward from his bent shoulders, nodding.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re tired. I can sleep now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He awoke with a jerk. His last words to me before he left were, &ldquo;Just
-      leave it in His hands.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From then on there was a changed atmosphere in the house. We had all been
-      afraid of one another and of one another&rsquo;s misunderstandings.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When Dorrie had gone to bed, Vi would sit within the circle of the lamp
-      and read to me while I lay back on my pillows in the shadows, watching how
-      the gold light broke about her face and hands. She was always doing
-      something, either reading or sewing, as though when we were alone she were
-      afraid to trust herself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One evening she said to me, &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t asked if there are any letters.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t expecting any.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Weren&rsquo;t expecting any! Why not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Because none of my friends know that I&rsquo;ve come to Sheba.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew her face back from the lamp; her sewing fell from her hands. My
-      words had reminded us both of the guilty situation which lay unchanged
-      behind our present attitude.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was she who broke the silence. &ldquo;When you were taken ill I wrote Ruthita
-      and told her&mdash;and told her that you were being nursed in our house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She brought me my letters and then made an excuse to leave me to myself.
-      My father had written; so had the Snow Lady. After expressing concern for
-      my health, the tone of their letters became constrained and unnatural;
-      they refrained from accusing me, but they had guessed. Ruthita&rsquo;s was an
-      awkward, shamefaced little note&mdash;it puzzled me by omitting to say
-      anything of Halloway.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      More and more after this Vi showed fear of being left alone with me; any
-      moment a slip of the tongue might betray our passion. Frequently during
-      the evening hours Mr. Carpenter would join us. He would steal into the
-      room while Vi was reading and sit down by my bedside. I began to have
-      great sympathy for the man. Vi&rsquo;s actions to him were those of a daughter,
-      and he, when he addressed her, called her &ldquo;My child.&rdquo; Both their attitudes
-      to one another were wrong&mdash;it hurt me to watch them; they made such
-      efforts to create the impression that everything was well. Sitting beside
-      me while she read, he would fasten his eyes on her. If she smiled across
-      at him in turning a page, his heavy face would flood with a quite
-      disproportionate joy. He was too fine a man for the part he was playing;
-      he had strength of character and mastery over men.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Along his own lines he had a wonderful mind. It was always scheming for
-      efficiency, concentration, and bigger projects. If money was the reward of
-      his energy, the desire for power impelled him. But I could quite
-      understand how a woman might yearn for more human interests and more
-      subtle methods of conveying affection than the mere piling of luxury on
-      luxury. He could articulate his deepest emotions only in acts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One evening when Vi had excused herself on the ground that she had a
-      headache, I took the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. He became
-      as confused as if I had discovered him in a lie.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My dear boy, you mustn&rsquo;t speak to me like that; you don&rsquo;t owe me
-      anything. It is I who owe you everything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I was staggered by his disclaimer. Under existing circumstances it seemed
-      a superlative extravagance of language. Then he explained, &ldquo;If it hadn&rsquo;t
-      been for you, we shouldn&rsquo;t have Vi.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was the first reference that any of us had made to what had happened at
-      Ransby.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After that Randall Carpenter and I grew to be friends. We didn&rsquo;t do much
-      talking about it, but we each realized how the other felt....
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was almost sufficiently recovered to travel. I broached the subject of
-      my leaving several times&mdash;the first time at breakfast. Randall
-      glanced up sharply from the letter he was opening&mdash;his expression
-      clouded&mdash;instead of looking at me he stared at Vi. &ldquo;Certainly not.
-      Certainly not,&rdquo; he blustered. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t hear of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Dorrie added her piping protest. Vi alone was silent. Every time I
-      approached the subject it was the same. The truth was our relations were
-      so delicately balanced that the slightest disturbance would precipitate a
-      crisis&mdash;and the crisis we dreaded. We each one knew that the time for
-      frank speaking could scarcely be avoided, but we were eager to postpone
-      it. So we procrastinated, lengthening out our respite.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One afternoon I returned with Randall from a drive to find Vi waiting for
-      us at the gate. Her face was drawn with anxiety.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s happened?&rdquo; asked Randall, and the sharpness of suspense was in his
-      voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Vi handed me a cable. It was my recall&mdash;we all knew that. I ripped
-      the envelope in haste; what I read, strange to say, caused me no elation&mdash;only
-      the bitterness of finality. I raised my eyes; they were both staring at
-      me. &ldquo;My grandfather&rsquo;s dead. His will&rsquo;s in my favor. I must return to
-      England immediately.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      They received the news as though a blow had fallen. Vi crept in and out
-      the rooms with a masked expression of unspoken tragedy. Dorrie caused
-      frequent embarrassment by her coaxing attempts to make me promise to visit
-      them again. Nevertheless, when she had gone to bed and we no longer had
-      her to distract us, we would pass more painful hours in inventing small
-      talk to tide us over dangerous topics.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The night before I sailed, we kept Dorrie up till she fell asleep against
-      me. Her innocence was a barrier between us. When she had been carried to
-      bed, Vi sat down to the piano and sang, while we two men glowered
-      desperately before the fire. I dared not watch her; I could not bear the
-      pain that was in her eyes. As I listened, I knew that her chief difficulty
-      in selections was what to avoid. We were in a mood to read into everything
-      a sentimental interpretation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There were long pauses between her playing, during which no one spoke and
-      the only sound to be heard was the falling of ashes in the grate. The way
-      in which we were grouped seemed symbolic&mdash;she at the piano apart from
-      us, while we were side by side; by loving her, we had pushed her out of
-      both our lives. Randall turned querulously in his chair, &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you go
-      on playing, my child?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Several times she half-commenced an air and broke off. Her voice was a
-      blind thing, tottering down an endless passage. For a horrid minute there
-      was dead silence&mdash;quivering suspense; then the keys crashed
-      discordantly as she gave way to a storm of weeping.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She rose with an appealing gesture, and slipped out. We heard her
-      footsteps trailing up the stairs, her door close, and then stillness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I shuddered as though a window had been flung open behind me and a cold
-      wind blew across my back. The man at my side huddled down into his chair;
-      his fleshy face had lost its firmness; his eyes, like a statue&rsquo;s, seemed
-      without pupils. The moment which we had dreaded and postponed had arrived.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Randall followed her into the hall; he came back, shutting the door
-      carefully behind him. There was slow decision in his voice when he said,
-      &ldquo;After all, we&rsquo;ve got to speak about it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He sank down, his cheeks blotchy and his hands quivering as with palsy.
-      When he spoke, he tried to make his voice steady and matter-of-fact. It
-      was as though he were saying, &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve got to be commonsense, we men of the
-      world. We knew this would happen. There&rsquo;s nothing to be gained by losing
-      our nerves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      This is what he actually said, &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t her fault. You and I are to
-      blame.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not you,&rdquo; I protested. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s I who&rsquo;ve behaved abominably.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He shifted in his chair; struck a match; raised it part way to his cigar
-      and let it flicker out. Without looking at me he answered, &ldquo;We shan&rsquo;t gain
-      anything by quarreling over who&rsquo;s to blame. We&rsquo;ve got her into a mess
-      between us&mdash;it&rsquo;s up to us to get her out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you didn&rsquo;t&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He flung out his arm in irritation. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t waste words. I married her when
-      she was too young to know what marriage meant; I loved her and supposed
-      that nothing else mattered. That&rsquo;s my share. You made love to my wife and
-      followed her to Sheba. That&rsquo;s yours. We&rsquo;ve got her into a mess between us,
-      and we&rsquo;ve got to get her out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He waited for me to make a suggestion; I was too much taken aback. We
-      couldn&rsquo;t get her out; we could only help her to endure it. We both knew
-      that&mdash;so why discuss it?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning his head and staring hard at me, he continued, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one
-      thing to be considered&mdash;<i>her happiness</i>.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps she&rsquo;ll forget when I&rsquo;m gone,&rdquo; I ventured.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t and you know it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He barked the words. His manner was losing its air of tired patience.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;See here, Cardover, you and I have got to get down to facts. We don&rsquo;t
-      help one another by fooling ourselves. You went out of her life for a
-      year; she didn&rsquo;t forget. It&rsquo;s different now; you&rsquo;ve been with her in this
-      house and everything will remind her of you. What are we going to do about
-      it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He repeated his question harshly, as though demanding an instant answer.
-      What could I tell him?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He broke the miserable silence. &ldquo;Ever since you talked of leaving, I&rsquo;ve
-      been studying this thing out. I knew we&rsquo;d have to face it, and yet somehow
-      I hoped&mdash;&mdash; Never mind what I hoped. So you&rsquo;ve nothing to say?
-      You can&rsquo;t guess what I&rsquo;m driving at?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I shook my head.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His face became haggard and stern; only the twitching of the eye-lids
-      betrayed his nervousness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give anything to see Vi happy. So would you&mdash;isn&rsquo;t that
-      correct?&rdquo; He darted a challenging look in my direction. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give all I
-      possess, I say, factories, banks, good name, popularity. She&rsquo;s more to me
-      than anything in the world.&rdquo; Then reluctantly forcing himself to speak the
-      words, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one way out&mdash;only one way to make her happy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He leant forward, clutching my knee. &ldquo;You must have her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I drew back from him amazed, startled out of my self-possession. There was
-      something so horribly commonsense about his offer; I could not take him
-      seriously for the moment. He was tempting me, perhaps, in order that he
-      might find out just how far Vi and I had gone together&mdash;he might
-      easily suspect that things had happened during that summer at Ransby which
-      had not been confessed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now as I met his cold gray eyes, I felt his power. His face was
-      inscrutable and set, his mouth relentless. I had often wondered as I had
-      watched him in his home-life what stern qualities his amiability disguised&mdash;qualities
-      which would account for his business success. I knew now: here was a man
-      who could state facts in their nudity and strip problems of their
-      sentiment&mdash;a man who could lay aside feeling and act with the cruelty
-      of logic.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You must have her,&rdquo; he repeated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Randall,&rdquo; I broke out hoarsely, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t mean that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I do mean it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She wouldn&rsquo;t allow it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;d have to if I forced her; when I&rsquo;d forced her, she&rsquo;d be glad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s impossible. It isn&rsquo;t honorable.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Honorable! If we&rsquo;d been honorable, you and I, this wouldn&rsquo;t have
-      happened.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But think what people would say?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What people would say doesn&rsquo;t matter. There are some things which go so
-      deep that they concern only ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But Vi&mdash;before ever we decide anything, it would be honest to
-      consult her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You had her decision to-night.&rdquo; He spoke bitterly, with settled finality.
-      &ldquo;You see it&rsquo;s this way: I&rsquo;ve tried to make her happy; because of you I
-      never shall. She wants you; she&rsquo;s a right to have you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The fire had all but gone out; the room had grown chilly. We sat without
-      talking, thinking of her, reviewing the brutal cruelties of life. I had
-      reached the logical goal of my desire&mdash;the impossible had happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I let my fancy run a little way ahead, picturing the first freshness of
-      the days that were coming. Far away, with faery sounds, bugles of the
-      future were blowing. I was recalled to the ominous present by the frozen
-      hopelessness of this just man. We were placing society at defiance; we
-      were settling our problem on grounds of individual expediency. Would we
-      have strength to be happy in spite of condemnation? Would our conception
-      of what was just to Vi prove just in the end?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to waver. I thought I saw what had happened to Randall&mdash;the
-      tension of the last weeks had wrought upon his nerves. He had brooded over
-      the situation till remorse for his own share in it had made him lose his
-      regard for social standards. There was a tinge of insanity about this
-      quixotic determination to sacrifice himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I went over to the fireplace and pulled the smoldering logs together, so
-      that they broke into a feeble flame. I did it leisurely to gain time. With
-      my back towards him I inquired, &ldquo;Have you reckoned the cost of all this?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Probably.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But the cost to yourself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;As far as I can.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t have. You wouldn&rsquo;t propose it if you had. You know what&rsquo;ll be
-      said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;ll be said?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That you wanted to get rid of her and that that was why you took me into
-      your house.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Leave me out of it. If love means anything, it means sacrifice. I love
-      her; you&rsquo;ve come between us. My love&rsquo;s injuring her now, and I&rsquo;m not going
-      to see you spoil her life by going away without her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But she&rsquo;ll spoil her life if she goes with me. People&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;People! Well, what&rsquo;ll they say about her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Everything defiling that hasn&rsquo;t occurred.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And <i>you</i> think that we ought to keep her miserable just because of
-      that&mdash;out of fear of tittle-tattle? If she stays with me she&rsquo;ll be
-      wretched; I shall have to watch myself torturing her&mdash;paining her
-      even with my affection. If she goes with you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If she goes with me she&rsquo;ll become a social outcast. She couldn&rsquo;t bear
-      that; she&rsquo;d sink under it. No, Randall, we can&rsquo;t decide this matter as if
-      it concerned only ourselves. It doesn&rsquo;t. There are all kinds of things
-      involved in it. I&rsquo;ve been your guest, and you&rsquo;ve become my friend. We&rsquo;d
-      look low-down in other people&rsquo;s eyes. You want her to be happy&mdash;none
-      of us could ever be that if we did what you suggest. Don&rsquo;t you see that
-      you&rsquo;d be the only one who was playing a decent part? Vi&rsquo;s part and mine
-      would be contemptible. We&rsquo;d appear treacherous even to ourselves. As for
-      other people&mdash;&mdash;!! You take me into your house when I&rsquo;m sick,
-      and I run off with your wife! It can&rsquo;t be done, Randall.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not what I&rsquo;m proposing,&rdquo; he said quietly; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want you to
-      run away together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll arrange that she shall divorce me. I&rsquo;ve consulted lawyers. According
-      to the laws of Massachusetts an absolute divorce, which would permit you
-      to marry her within a reasonable time, is only granted on one ground. I&rsquo;ll
-      provide her with fictitious evidence. She can bring the case against me
-      and I&rsquo;ll let it go uncontested. She can win her freedom respectably
-      without your name being mentioned.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My position was elaborately false. I wanted her with every atom of my
-      body, and here was I contending that I would not have her. At Ransby I had
-      been willing to steal her, and now she was offered me; but I had not seen
-      how much she meant to Randall then&mdash;at that time he was a hostile
-      figure in my imagination.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His unselfishness filled me with shame that I had ever thought to wrong
-      him. And yet the thing which he proposed was the inevitable consequence of
-      our actions; his cold reasoning had discerned that. If facts were as he
-      had stated them, what other way was there out?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You agree, then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t. You&rsquo;d save our faces for us, but what d&rsquo;you suppose we&rsquo;d think
-      of ourselves? The thing&rsquo;s not decent. People don&rsquo;t do things like that.
-      Men can run off with other men&rsquo;s wives and still respect themselves; if
-      they did what you suggest&mdash;take the husband&rsquo;s happiness and his good
-      name as well&mdash;they&rsquo;d know what to call themselves, though no one else
-      suspected.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Blackguards.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So in your opinion it&rsquo;s worse to take a wife with her husband&rsquo;s consent
-      than to steal her? Humph!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He leant across the table for a cigar. With great deliberation he cut the
-      end. When it was well alight, he thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat
-      pockets, looking me up and down. When he spoke, he left gaps between his
-      words. There was the rumble of suppressed anger in what he said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I thought you were a strong man, Cardover, or I shouldn&rsquo;t have spoken to
-      you the way I have. You fell in love with my wife without knowing she was
-      married; I don&rsquo;t blame you for that. But after you knew, you followed her&mdash;followed
-      her to her home-town. You&rsquo;ve made an impossible situation. You can&rsquo;t leave
-      it at that; you&rsquo;ve got to help out, and, by God, you shall. I&rsquo;ve got to
-      lose her and stand the disgrace of it. You&rsquo;ve got to lose your
-      self-respect. What d&rsquo;you think life is, anyhow? If you gamble, you incur
-      debts. We&rsquo;re going to play this game to a finish. You talk of decency and
-      honor; you should have thought of them earlier. You came here to rob me of
-      my wife; well, now I&rsquo;m going to give her to you because she can&rsquo;t do
-      without you. And now, out of consideration for me, you want to crawl out
-      at the last minute. Your crawling out may save appearances, but it don&rsquo;t
-      alter facts. You&rsquo;re something worse than a blackguard&mdash;a quitter.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He drew in his breath as if he were about to strike; then he flung out his
-      fist, shaking it at me. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you want her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You know I want her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then what&rsquo;s the matter? Are you afraid of the price?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The price she&rsquo;d have to pay and you&rsquo;d have to pay&mdash;yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He frowned. His face was puckered with suspicion. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it that you&rsquo;re
-      afraid for yourself?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The heat of his anger scorched me. I had watched this interpretation of my
-      conduct taking shape under my repeated refusals.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been accused of counting the cost before to-day,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not
-      counting the cost now. I&rsquo;m thinking of Vi with her clean standards and her
-      sense of duty. If she were the woman to consent to what you&rsquo;re proposing,
-      I wouldn&rsquo;t want to marry her and you wouldn&rsquo;t be willing to sacrifice
-      yourself for her. But she won&rsquo;t consent, and I won&rsquo;t consent.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Lurching heavily to his feet, he stood over me threateningly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you
-      know I can force you? If I divorced her you&rsquo;d have to marry her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I would if I thought it was only for my sake you were refusing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only partly for your sake.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why, then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve shared your hospitality.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And because of that you won&rsquo;t take her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll make you&mdash;&mdash; For the last time, will you take her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not on those terms.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Our voices had risen. A silence followed. Behind us we heard a sound. The
-      temperature of the room seemed lowered, as though something we had killed
-      had entered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Turning, we saw Vi standing in the doorway. Her hair fell loose about her
-      shoulders. She was thinly clad and had risen hastily from bed. Our quarrel
-      must have reached her through the silent house. Her face was pinched and
-      pitiful. As she watched us her eyes searched Randall&rsquo;s in terror and her
-      hands plucked at her breasts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there? Did she know
-      how we had been degrading her? What had she gathered from my last words?
-      She had found us haggling over her as though she were a chattel, each one
-      trying to force the other to accept her, neither showing any sign that he
-      desired her for himself. In the chilly room we shivered, hanging our
-      heads.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Slowly she crossed the room. Her eyes were fixed on Randall; for all the
-      attention she paid me, I might not have been there.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t mean it. You can&rsquo;t have meant it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He lifted his head weakly, in one last effort to be firm.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I did, Vi. It&rsquo;s for your sake&mdash;for your happiness.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She flung her arms about him, holding him to her though he tried to draw
-      back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you forgot&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I forgot nothing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You did&mdash;there&rsquo;s Dorrie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing her heart out. He eyed me
-      sullenly. He looked an old man. Awkwardly, with a gesture that was afraid
-      of its tenderness, he let his hand wander across her hair. She raised her
-      face to his, clinging against him, and kissed him on the mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      They traversed the room, going from me; their footsteps died out upon the
-      stairs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Never once had she looked at me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the grayness of the morning, before the servants had begun to stir, I
-      packed my bag and left.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      BOOK IV&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN
-    </h2>
-    <p>
-      <i>Thou hast been in Eden. Thou shalt eat the fruit of thy doings, yea,
-      even the fruit of thy thoughts.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER I&mdash;THE HOME-COMING
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>eaving the hansom
-      at the foot of Pope Lane and carrying my bags, I walked up the avenue of
-      limes. The wantonness of spring was in the air and its melancholy. Above
-      the high walls the golden hurry of the sunset quivered. A breeze tore past
-      me down the passage, twisting and turning like a madcap ballet-dancer.
-      Overhead in the young greenness of the trees a host of sparrows fluttered,
-      impudently publishing their love-making.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Plymouth on landing I had been met by letters from my lawyers and from
-      Uncle Obad. They were addressed to Sir Dante Cardover. It was rather
-      pleasant to be addressed as Sir Dante; until then I had not realized my
-      luck. The memory of that last night at Sheba had numbed my faculties and
-      taken my future from me. But now, with the thought of Woadley, life began
-      to weave itself into a new pattern.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the run up to London, as the quiet of English landscapes and the
-      greenness of English meadows drifted by, I lost my bitter sense of
-      isolation: I belonged to this; it was part of me. At the same time, the
-      impassive wholesomeness of English faces awoke me in a strange way to the
-      enormity of what I had done. It was odd how far I had wandered from old
-      traditions and old landmarks in the delirium of the past two years. Even I
-      was a little scandalized by some of my recollections.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day I purposed to go down to Woadley; to-night I would spend with my
-      father at Pope Lane. There were explanations to be made; explanations
-      where my father was concerned, were never comfortable. I walked with a
-      pebble in my shoe till I had got them over. I had sure proof that he was
-      annoyed, for none of my letters, written to him since my recovery, had
-      been answered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Thrusting my hand into the creeper, I found the knob. Far away at the back
-      of the house the bell tinkled; after an interval footsteps shuffled down
-      the path. The door opened cautiously; in the slit it made I saw the face
-      of Hetty. There was something in its expression that warned me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Father at home?&rdquo; I asked cheerfully, pushing forward.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Master Dante, or Sir Dante as I should say, don&rsquo;t you go for to see &rsquo;im.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s bitter against you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What nonsense! Here, take one of these bags. Why should he be bitter
-      against me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She crumpled her apron nervously. &ldquo;&rsquo;Cause of &rsquo;er&mdash;the woman in
-      Ameriky. I don&rsquo;t know the rights of it, but &rsquo;e&rsquo;s &rsquo;ardly
-      spoke your name since.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ve come to see him. I&rsquo;ve only just landed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stared at me gloomily, barring the entrance. Across her shoulder I
-      could see the path winding round the house and down to the garden where
-      everything was familiar. Once I had longed to leave it! How much I would
-      now give to get back! The leaves shivered, making patches of sunlight move
-      like gold checkers, pushed forward and backward on the lawn. My mind
-      keenly visualized all the details that lay out of sight. I knew just how
-      my father must look sitting writing at his study-window. I ought to have
-      told him; he might have understood. But the barrier of reticence had
-      always divided us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If I was you, Sir Dante, I&rsquo;d go away and write &rsquo;im. I&rsquo;ll see that
-      &rsquo;e reads it this time. Yes I will, if I loses my plaice.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;<i>This time?</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her cheeks went crimson. &ldquo;&rsquo;E didn&rsquo;t read the letters you sent after
-      &rsquo;ers. &rsquo;E tossed &rsquo;em aside.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But the Snow Lady and Ruthie, they&rsquo;ll see me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked furtively over her shoulder at the house, then she slipped out
-      into the lane beside me, almost closing the door.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There ain&rsquo;t no Miss Ruthie now,&rdquo; she said sadly. Then, in a voice which
-      betrayed pride, &ldquo;She&rsquo;s Lady Halloway. &rsquo;Is Lordship, &rsquo;e were
-      a wery &rsquo;ot lover, &rsquo;e were&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t take no for an
-      answer and suchlike. After you&rsquo;d gone away angry and no one knew where
-      you&rsquo;d gone, Miss Ruthie felt kind o&rsquo; flat; but she kept on sayin&rsquo; no to
-      &rsquo;is Lordship, though she was always cryin&rsquo;. Then that letter came from
-      Americky. It kind o&rsquo; took us by surprise; Miss Ruthie especially. We felt&mdash;well,
-      you know, sir&mdash;disrespectable. So she gave way like, and now she&rsquo;s
-      Lady Halloway. And there you are. We&rsquo;ve &rsquo;ad a &rsquo;eap of
-      trouble.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Little Ruthie the wife of that man! I had made them unrespectable, so she
-      had rectified my mistake by marrying the father of Lottie&rsquo;s child!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better write.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She had edged herself into the garden and held the door at closing-point.
-      I could see the house no longer. Her head looked out through the slit as
-      though it had no body. I was sick and angry&mdash;angry because of
-      Ruthita. Anger restored my determination. They should not condemn me
-      without a hearing; their morality was stucco-fronted&mdash;a cheap
-      imitation of righteousness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I pushed roughly past Hetty like an insolent peddler, and left her
-      bleating protests behind. In the hall I dropped my bags and entered my
-      father&rsquo;s study unannounced.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He glanced up from under the hand with which his eyes were shaded. His
-      mouth straightened. He went on with his writing, feigning that he had not
-      heard me enter. I remembered the trick well&mdash;as a boy it had made
-      punishment the more impressive. It was done for that purpose now; he had
-      never accustomed himself to think of me as a grown man.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I watched him. How lean, and threadbare, and overworked he looked! How he
-      tyrannized over himself! The hair had grown thin about the temples; his
-      eyes were weak, his forehead lined. He had disciplined joy out of his
-      life. But there was something big about him&mdash;a stern forcefulness of
-      character which came of long years of iron purpose. He had failed, but he
-      would not acknowledge his failure. All these years his daily routine of
-      drudgery had remained unchanged. Outside the spring was stirring, just as
-      it had stirred in his children&rsquo;s lives. But his windows were shut against
-      the spring because he had to earn his daily bread. The anger I had felt
-      turned to pity. He was so lonely in his strength. Had he been weaker, he
-      would have been happier.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You did not want to see me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He blotted his page carefully and laid aside his pen. &ldquo;I had good reason.&rdquo;
-       His voice was cold and tired.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t judge of that; you haven&rsquo;t heard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can conjecture.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I have at least the right to explain. You can&rsquo;t conjecture the
-      details that led up to it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;These things are usually led up to by the same details. All I know is
-      that any meeting between us now can only cause pain, and I cannot afford
-      to be upset. You have your standards of honor; I have mine. Evidently they
-      are divergent. You didn&rsquo;t give me your confidence before you sailed; I
-      don&rsquo;t invite it now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He had allowed me to remain standing, making me feel my intrusion on his
-      privacy. I had always felt that in talking to him I was keeping him from
-      his work. My mind went back to the fear with which I had entered his study
-      in the old days. And this was the end of it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can never have cared much for me,&rdquo; I threw out bitterly, &ldquo;if you can
-      break with me so lightly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His pale face flushed; his distant manner broke down. &ldquo;How should you know
-      how much I cared?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How should I know! All my life you&rsquo;ve been silent and there were times&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He interrupted. &ldquo;It is because I cared so much. I was so anxious for you
-      and wanted you to do so well. I&rsquo;m not demonstrative. I always hoped that
-      we might be friends. But you never came to me with your troubles from a
-      little chap, anyone was better than your father&mdash;servants, your
-      Uncle Spreckles, Ruthita, anybody. With me you were dumb.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You never encouraged my confidence and now you condemn me unheard.
-      Silence between us has become a habit.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. His emotions were stirred; he
-      was afraid he might betray them. So he spoke hurriedly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s too late to
-      cover old ground. We&rsquo;ve drifted apart, that&rsquo;s certain&mdash;and now this
-      has happened... this disgrace... this adultery of thoughts... this lust
-      for a married woman.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I walked across to the window and drummed upon the panes. Across the
-      garden a soft gray dusk was falling. Along those paths Ruthita and I had
-      played; the garden was empty and very lonely. Scene after scene came back,
-      made kindly by distance. I turned. &ldquo;Father, I&rsquo;m not going to let you turn
-      me out until you know all about it. For the first time you&rsquo;ve told me
-      frankly that you wanted me. I was always frightened as a little chap.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Instead of taking me up angrily as I expected, he spoke gently. &ldquo;Why
-      shouldn&rsquo;t I want you? I thought you&rsquo;d understand by the way I worked. Sit
-      down, boy; why are you standing? How... how did it happen?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The Snow Lady rapped on the door and almost entered. My father signed to
-      her to go away, saying that we would come to her later. Then I told him.
-      And while I told him I kept thinking how strange it was that until now,
-      when we had quarreled, we should never have found one another, but, like
-      two people eager to meet, had walked always at the same pace, in the same
-      direction, out of sight, round and round on opposite sides of the same
-      house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was dark when I finished. He leant out and laid his hand on my arm.
-      &ldquo;And now that it&rsquo;s all ended, we can make a new start together.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It may not be all ended.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it is. You&rsquo;re not going to tell me that you&rsquo;re still hankering after
-      a married woman?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The kindness went from his voice. He rang the bell, waited in silence till
-      Hetty brought the lamp, and took it from her at the door to prevent her
-      entering.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You say it isn&rsquo;t ended, this criminal folly. I can&rsquo;t conceive what you
-      mean by it. One of these days you&rsquo;ll drag my name through the dirt. There
-      are other people to consider besides yourself. There&rsquo;s Ruthita&mdash;her
-      husband&rsquo;s sensitive already. In fact, he doesn&rsquo;t want to meet you, and he
-      doesn&rsquo;t want you to meet her. What it comes to is this: we can&rsquo;t be
-      friends unless you give this woman up absolutely.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not possible. Randall threatened to divorce her. If he does, it will
-      be that I may marry her. I shall have to marry her, and I shall be jolly
-      glad to marry her. What has happened since I left I can&rsquo;t tell. Until I
-      know, I hold myself prepared. So I can&rsquo;t promise anything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The choice is between her and your family.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I choose her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then until you&rsquo;ve come to your senses, there can be no communication
-      between us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He sat down noisily at his desk. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll excuse me; there&rsquo;s nothing more
-      to be said.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I still waited, he took up his pen. &ldquo;I have an article here that I
-      must get finished.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I walked slowly down the lane. The door swung to behind me. I felt that I
-      was seeing this for the last time. All the old, trivial, sweet
-      associations came thronging back: the dying affections, the lost innocence
-      which had seemed so permanent, stretched out hands to restrain me. Even
-      Hetty had condemned; it was written in her face. Long ago Hetty and I had
-      viewed the world from the same angle, we had criticised and schemed
-      against our tyrants together. The chapter of home life was ended. Whatever
-      happened as regards Vi, there could be no going back.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER II&mdash;DREAM HAVEN
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> did not go to
-      Woadley as I had planned. My position was too uncertain at present for me
-      to venture where further explanations would be required. My father had
-      made me aware of that. I was unwilling to cover the same ground of
-      argument with Grandmother Cardover, so I had my lawyers visit me in
-      London.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Until something had been definitely settled, I did not care to return to
-      Oxford or to seek out any of my friends; I should at once be called upon
-      to account for my erratic departure and prolonged absence. So I made
-      myself inconspicuous in the crowds of London, waiting for some final word
-      from Sheba. It was quite likely that none would ever come&mdash;and that
-      would be an answer in itself. Yet, now that I had done what had seemed to
-      me right and had thrust her from me, I hoped against hope that, somehow,
-      she might come back. I felt that though I might have to wait for years, I
-      would resolutely wait for her. No other woman could ever take her place.
-      And none of this could I tell her. She might think that I had counted the
-      cost and considered it too expensive. She might put the worst construction
-      on the words she had overheard on that last night; yet unless she
-      approached me first, I was irrevocably pledged to silence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Too late for my peace of mind I recognized my weakness: if I had wanted
-      her, I should have taken her strongly in the early days and faced the
-      consequences; now, through making truces with my conscience and
-      conventions, I had lived so long in thoughts of her that I should always
-      desire her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I would like to have gone to Ruthita, but that was forbidden. Lord
-      Halloway riding the high horse of morality was exceedingly comic, but I
-      knew exactly how men of his stamp argued: to introduce a questionable
-      relation into the family was anathema. I wondered continually what secret
-      causes lay behind Ruthita&rsquo;s marriage. I felt sure that she had consented
-      on the impulse, and that love had had nothing to do with it. The suspicion
-      that I was somehow responsible left me worried.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Spring had reached the point of perfection where it merges into summer.
-      The tides of life flowed strongly through the dazzling streets of London;
-      I was too young not to respond to their energy. Everywhere the persistent
-      hope of spring planted banners of green and set them waving. Ragged shrubs
-      in decrepit squares bubbled into blossom. Window-boxes lent a touch of
-      braveness. Water-carts passed up and down parched streets, settling the
-      dust. In the kind of suburb that walks always with a hole in its stocking,
-      slatternly maids pressed their bosoms against area-railings chaffing with
-      butcher-boy or policeman&mdash;their idea of love. Where a street-organ
-      struck up, little children gathered, dancing in the gutter. Even the
-      sullen Thames, the gray hair of London, was dyed to gold between the
-      bridges by the splendid sun. The spirit of youth had invaded the city;
-      flower-girls, shouting raucously above the traffic, shaking their posies
-      in the face of every comer, seemed heralds of a new cheerfulness, shaming
-      Despair of his defiance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This severing of oneself from friendship was dull. Leisurely crowds
-      laughing along sunlit pavements, made me ache for companionship. I was in
-      this frame of mind when I chanced to think of Uncle Obad&rsquo;s letter. It had
-      met me at Plymouth on my arrival, and bore the characteristically
-      flamboyant address of <i>Dream Haven, Dorking.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He must have chosen Dorking as a place of residence because it had given
-      its name to a famous breed of fowls. Perhaps he thought such a
-      neighborhood would be propitious to his own experiments. His letter was
-      brief and to the point: if I could spare the time, he and Aunt Lavinia
-      would feel honored to entertain me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Uncle Obad was stilted in his written use of language; he felt <i>honored</i>
-      when he meant to say <i>jolly well glad</i>. There was always an obedient
-      servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he had
-      undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for familiar
-      letter-writing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My good
-      fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose, served
-      to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since the Christian
-      Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The thought of him
-      had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind&mdash;which made it all the
-      kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had heard before writing
-      of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch
-      first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple
-      whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky
-      white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the calves
-      of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering importance,
-      but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however,
-      was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel
-      he wore a scarlet geranium.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. &ldquo;Very good of you to come,
-      I&rsquo;m sure&mdash;kind and very thoughtful.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      It was his pretense manner&mdash;the one he adopted with grown-ups. I
-      wanted to remind him that with me he could take off his armor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Still go in for breeding hens?&rdquo; I asked him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      His face brightened. &ldquo;I should say so. Our little place is quite a
-      menagerie. We&rsquo;ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens!
-      Well, I should say so.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;<i>And hens</i>,&rdquo; I laughed. &ldquo;Remember the old white hen you gave me? It
-      laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Should have given it gravel or oyster-shells.&rdquo; Poultryraising was a
-      subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining
-      with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald
-      pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and
-      squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you know what this reminds me of?&mdash;That first day we spent
-      together. You remember&mdash;when you drove me away from Pope Lane behind
-      Dollie?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He pulled out his handkerchief and trumpeted. His eyes became dreamy
-      beneath his bushy brows. &ldquo;A long time ago! They were good days, but not as
-      good as these, old chap.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything
-      came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always been,
-      and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his armor of
-      pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that first day
-      when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we talked of the
-      Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A warm wind
-      fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly, dropping
-      his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to satisfy
-      himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That <i>Sir</i> don&rsquo;t seem to have spoiled you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched
-      before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a
-      wooded ridge, somnolent with pines; to the right lay a village-common
-      across which geese waddled in solemn procession.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins. &ldquo;This won&rsquo;t buy a pair of
-      shoes for the baby. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s waiting for us; she&rsquo;s just as keen as I
-      was to see whether you&rsquo;ve altered.&rdquo; Then to the pony, &ldquo;Gee-up, Toby.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We turned off into the pine-wood by a narrow roadway. The fragrance of
-      balsam made me long to close my eyes. At the edge of the road, on either
-      side, ran a ditch through which water tinkled over gravel. On its banks
-      grew fern and foxglove. The silent aisles of the wood were carpeted with
-      the tan of fallen needles. Sunlight, drifting between branches, slashed
-      golden rags in the olive-tinted shadows. My mind became a blank through
-      pure enjoyment as I listened to the monologue of gay chatter that was
-      going on beside me. He was doing for me now just what he had done for me
-      so often as a child, throwing down the walls of conventional tyrannies and
-      showing me the road of escape to nature.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Suddenly out of the basking stillness rose a farmyard clamor&mdash;cocks
-      crowing, ducks quacking, and the boastful clucking of hens. We had reached
-      the top of the ridge and were bowling along the level. Toby pricked up his
-      ears and quickened his trotting. Round a bend we swung into sight of a
-      low-thatched house, standing in a clearing. Its windows were leaded and
-      opened outwards. In front grew a garden, sun-saturated, riotous with
-      flowers, and partly hidden by a high hawthorn hedge. In the hedge was a
-      white swing-gate, from which a red-brick path ran up to the threshold.
-      Across the gate one had a glimpse of beehives standing a-row; the air was
-      heavy with mingled scents of pine, wild thyme, and honey. The impression
-      that fastened on my imagination was one of exquisite cleanliness: the sky,
-      the gleaming chalk road, the white-painted woodwork of the cottage,
-      everything was dazzlingly spotless.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Our wheels had hardly halted before the gate, when I saw Aunt Lavinia in
-      the doorway unfastening her apron. Neat and methodical as ever, she folded
-      it carefully, and laid it on a chair before coming out to us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lavinia, Lavinia! We&rsquo;re here,&rdquo; shouted Uncle Obad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She came down the path, prim and unhurried, determined not to let herself
-      go. &ldquo;Repose is refinement&rdquo; she used to tell me. Nothing in her manner was
-      ruffled. She still carried herself with a certain grave air of sweet
-      authority. The rustle of her starched print-dress gave her an atmosphere
-      of nurse-like austerity. She had not changed, save that the look of worry
-      had gone from her face, and her eyes were untired.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s glad I am to see you.&rdquo; She spoke quietly and, when she kissed me,
-      was careful not to crumple her dress.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dignified and graceful&mdash;that&rsquo;s her,&rdquo; said Uncle Obad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had plenty to talk about while we were getting over our first
-      strangeness. I had to see the house and all its arrangements. My room was
-      at the back, looking out from the ridge over smoking tree-tops far away
-      across undulating downs.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Windows and doors were always open, so the passages were blowy with the
-      dreamy, drowsy smell of green things growing. Creepers tumbled across
-      sills; leaves tapped whenever the breeze stirred them; pigeons flew into
-      the dining-room at meal-times and perched on Uncle Obad&rsquo;s shoulder.
-      Usually everything within a house is man-made. At Dream Haven Nature was
-      encouraged to tiptoe across the threshold; so bees entered humming, and
-      blackbirds came for grain to the windows, and all day long the wild things
-      were sending their ambassadors. Beating wings of birds and cooing of doves
-      filled one&rsquo;s ears with the peace and adventure of contentment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      These were the recreations of Dream Haven, but its stern business, as one
-      might suppose, was the raising of fowls. At the back of the cottage on a
-      southern slope were arranged coops, and pens, and houses, gleaming white
-      against the golden gravel like a miniature military encampment. Each pen
-      had its trumpeter, who strode forth at intervals to raise his challenge;
-      whereupon every male in camp tried to outdo him, from the youngest
-      stripling, whose shrill falsetto broke like a boy&rsquo;s voice in the middle,
-      to the deep, rich tones of the oldest campaigner. Falsetto, tenor, bass,
-      baritone shook the stillness like an army on the march, with rattle of
-      accoutrements, and brass-bands playing, <i>cock-a-doodle-doo,
-      cock-a-doodle-doo</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the hush that followed from far away, as from scattered detachments
-      replying, came the counter-sign. Below the ridge in the village on the
-      downs every rooster felt his reputation endangered. In farmhouses out of
-      sight the challenge was caught up and the boast flung back. To one
-      listening intently, the clamor could be heard spreading across the
-      countryside till it spent itself at last in the hazy distance. Then the
-      ladies of the camp commenced their flatteries, <i>tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck,
-      our men did best, our men did best</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Uncle Obad took childish delight in the comedy; he knew the voice of each
-      male bird in his yard and the sequence of precedence in which they should
-      aspire. If they got out of order, he would recognize at once which
-      cockerel was trying to oust his senior. If the ambitious fellow was one of
-      his experiments in crossing strains, he was vastly tickled. To him they
-      all had their personalities; he used to say that a poultry-yard could
-      teach you a whole lot about humans.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you men go out for a walk?&rdquo; said Aunt Lavinia; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure Dante
-      would like to look about.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She knew that we had always had our secrets. It was seven o&rsquo;clock; there
-      were still some hours of daylight. We set off through the poultry-runs
-      down the hillside till we came to the edge of the clearing; Uncle Obad
-      looked round furtively to make sure that we were unobserved, then he
-      beckoned and slipped behind a shed. There he sat down with his back
-      against the warm wooden wall and we lit our pipes. &ldquo;She makes me take
-      exercise now,&rdquo; he grunted between puffs; &ldquo;thinks I&rsquo;m getting fat.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps she&rsquo;s right. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s always been right ever since I can
-      remember.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I should say so. She doesn&rsquo;t look it, but she&rsquo;s always worn the trousers,
-      and small blame to her. But she was wrong once.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When was that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He narrowed his eyes and watched the smoke curl up into the velvet air.
-      When it had drifted a few yards away, one could imagine that it was a
-      galleon cloud sailing slowly through infinity. I got to thinking how much
-      more picturesque the world becomes when we lose our standards of
-      perspective. Uncle Obad had won his happiness by making small things
-      important to himself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He did not answer my question. I was too lazy to trouble him again. The
-      rich spicy fragrance of woodlands lulled my senses. I watched through a
-      gap in the trees how the sun&rsquo;s rays shortened across the downs. All the
-      out-door world was bathed in tepid light. The fierceness had gone out of
-      the day.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Spuffler always made me philosophize; he was a failure, but he had
-      found a secret. He had known how to discover nooks and crannies in the
-      persistent present where he could be content. I had lost that fine faculty
-      for carelessness since I had grown older.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He knocked out his pipe and commenced to refill it. &ldquo;But she wasn&rsquo;t always
-      right,&rdquo; he chuckled. &ldquo;I may be only an old knacker, but once I was righter
-      than her.&mdash;What d&rsquo;you think of all this?&rdquo; He jerked his thumb across
-      his shoulder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the last word... just what we always dreamt.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I called it Dream Haven. Not so bad for a man of my years
-      after keeping a Christian Boarding House!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Make it pay?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not yet. Don&rsquo;t need to, by Golly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t need to! How&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Business knowledge. Sound judgment. Backing my opinion when the odds were
-      against me. I doubled up my fists and stood square against the world.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A kind of brave Horatius?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s he?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kept the bridge or something. Was a friend of Macaulay.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never heard of him. Did he keep poultry?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;May have done; he was the kind of man who&rsquo;d keep anything he laid his
-      hands on. But how the dickens d&rsquo;you hang on to this place if it isn&rsquo;t
-      paying?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Got money. Got money to burn. Got enough to last me to my journey&rsquo;s end
-      without earning a penny.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He was a small boy boasting. What a lot of fun he&rsquo;d have extracted from
-      being Squire of Woadley. I wished I might learn how to spuffle; it so
-      multiplied one&rsquo;s opportunities for pleasure. But I couldn&rsquo;t get as excited
-      as he expected; I had heard him talk this way before on a certain day at
-      Richmond.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you make it out of the boarding-house?&rdquo; I inquired incredulously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      He laughed deep down in his throat. &ldquo;Not exactly. I received an envelope
-      one morning; inside was a slip of paper on which was written &lsquo;<i>Compensation
-      for a damaged character</i>&rsquo; There was no address.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But there must have been more than that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You bet. There was a banker&rsquo;s draft. How much for? Guess.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t guess.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Five thousand pounds.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Whoof! One of your charitable bigwigs sent it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not half. Came from Rapson. That&rsquo;s what comes of sticking to your
-      friends. That&rsquo;s why I say that your Aunt wasn&rsquo;t always wiser than the poor
-      old knacker.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Mines?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So he said. He&rsquo;s been to see me since then. The way your Aunt Lavinia
-      treated him was as funny as a cock without feathers.&mdash;I always
-      believed in Rapson.&mdash;He had a bad streak though.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Which one?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He passed over my slur. &ldquo;Women.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Kitty?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I meant. He&rsquo;s sorry now; wishes he&rsquo;d married her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph! If you don&rsquo;t make your place pay, what are you doing?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His face took on an expression of intense earnestness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Breeding the Spreckles. Remember them, don&rsquo;t you? I had terrible work at
-      first; couldn&rsquo;t make the strain permanent; in the third and fourth
-      generations it was always going back to the original crossings. Well, now
-      I&rsquo;ve done it. Come and look at &rsquo;em.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The old bond was established. His enthusiasm and my response to it swept
-      aside the misunderstandings of years. I seemed a little boy, following him
-      into a retreat of impossible glamour. He showed me a pen of magnificent
-      slate-blue fowls; they had the extra toe of the Dorking, the drooping comb
-      of the Leghorn, yellow legs of the Game, and full plump body of the
-      Plymouth Rock. He enumerated their merits, insisted that I should guess
-      what mixings of blood had gone to their making, and was delighted when he
-      found I had not forgotten the old knowledge he had taught me. He was going
-      to enter them at the shows this year, but he was worried over one point&mdash;what
-      name should he call them?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve given them their name.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know, I know, old chap; but my conscience troubles me. Yer see, I
-      shouldn&rsquo;t have been able to do it if it hadn&rsquo;t been for Rapson. I think I
-      ought to call &rsquo;em the <i>Rapsons</i>.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If you feel like that, why don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t let me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Share the glory then. Call &rsquo;em <i>Spreckles</i> in public, and <i>Rapsons</i>
-      among ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      His simple old face lit up. &ldquo;Believe you&rsquo;ve solved it.&rdquo; We returned to our
-      place by the shed, from which we could watch the haze of evening drifting
-      across the billowy uplands. In the village at our feet, cattle were being
-      driven home lowing to the milking. On the common boys were playing
-      cricket; their laughter came to us softened by distance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What made you ask me?&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ask you? Ask you what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;To come and visit you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. But I&rsquo;m not popular at Pope Lane at present; I believe you
-      know the reason. Grandmother Cardover must have told Aunt Lavinia that
-      this was going to happen. That was why you sent that letter to the ship to
-      meet me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He looked shy and awkward, and drew his hat down over his brows; I knew
-      that he was making up his mind not to answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;When I was a boy,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;I always felt that I could come to you
-      frankly. You, somehow, understood before anything had been said. I
-      thought, perhaps, you might have understood this time, and that that was
-      why you asked me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He threw his arm across my shoulder. &ldquo;I did, old chap. But you&rsquo;ve grown
-      older and, since you&rsquo;ve got all this book-learning and all these grand
-      friends, I kind o&rsquo; felt I was a stranger&mdash;thought you didn&rsquo;t need me
-      like you used to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My grand friends and book-learning won&rsquo;t help me this turn,&rdquo; I grumbled
-      slowly. &ldquo;I may need you pretty badly&mdash;perhaps, more than ever I did.
-      You&rsquo;ve heard?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Umph!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What d&rsquo;you think about it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t much matter what an old knacker thinks about anything.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Why on earth d&rsquo;you keep calling yourself an old knacker?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dunno. It&rsquo;s amusin&rsquo;. It&rsquo;s a kind o&rsquo; luxury after spuffling all my life to
-      be able at last to depreciate one&rsquo;s self. Everything&rsquo;s amusin&rsquo;. I know you
-      are; I suppose I am; there&rsquo;s no doubt about your father. Nothing&rsquo;s
-      overserious in this gay old world. Mustn&rsquo;t take things to heart, old chap.
-      Look at me, what I&rsquo;ve come through. Here I am and not much the worse for
-      wear&mdash;battered, but useful, yours truly Obadiah Spreckles, successful
-      breeder of an entirely new strain of perpetually laying hens.&rdquo; He gave
-      himself a resounding whack upon the chest and cocked his eye at me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What do I think about you and the lady in America? Speaking as the
-      ex-proprietor of a Christian Boarding House, I think it&rsquo;s shocking.
-      Speaking as a man of leisure, I think it&rsquo;s confoundedly human. Speaking as
-      a shipwrecked cabin-boy who&rsquo;s suddenly been promoted to captain, I should
-      say that it&rsquo;s one of life&rsquo;s ups and downs. There&rsquo;s no accounting for how
-      love takes a man; it&rsquo;s as fluky as settings of eggs&mdash;all cocks one
-      day, all hens tomorrow, and the day after that nothing. Dash my boots, I
-      sometimes think that nobody&rsquo;s to blame for anything. Love&rsquo;s shocking or
-      interesting, according to your fancy. Take Lavinia and myself. I haven&rsquo;t
-      made her a good husband. I&rsquo;ve been a failure and a slacker. I&rsquo;ve made her
-      happy now only by an accident. People look at us and wonder what we find
-      in one another. They don&rsquo;t know&mdash;can&rsquo;t see beneath the surface. We
-      never had any children. It&rsquo;s been hard fighting. But I swear she&rsquo;s never
-      regretted.&mdash;Aye, it&rsquo;s wonderful the pains God takes to bring a man
-      and a woman together. These things ain&rsquo;t accidents. If you&rsquo;re meant to
-      have her, you may have to wait, but nothing can stop you&mdash;just like
-      me and my fowls. Life&rsquo;s a <i>leading</i>. &lsquo;He leadeth me beside the still
-      waters,&rsquo; eh, what! But it&rsquo;s often rough treading till you get there.&mdash;That&rsquo;s
-      all I have to say about it, old chap.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;The door of Pope Lane&rsquo;s shut against me,&rdquo; I told him. &ldquo;Ruthie&rsquo;s married
-      the fellow I detested. They&rsquo;re none of them talking to me now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The old fellow turned on me snorting like a stallion. &ldquo;That don&rsquo;t matter,
-      lad. You&rsquo;re your own world. Do without &rsquo;em. Everything comes right
-      in the end.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>Dream Haven!</i> How cool the name sounds! What memories of sunshiny
-      mornings it brings back. Day after day I watched and waited for the letter
-      from America. There were times when I made sure that I could feel it
-      approaching. &ldquo;It will be here to-morrow,&rdquo; I said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I tortured myself by picturing how different life would have been had I
-      taken Randall at his word. It was the kind of torture that became a
-      luxury. I should have brought her to Dream Haven, perhaps. I played with
-      my fancy, pretending that we were here together; so actual were my
-      imaginings that I was incredulous when, on coming to myself, I found her
-      absent. The dreams were more real than the reality.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Wakened in the morning by the twittering of birds, I would raise myself on
-      my elbow and marvel at the sweet flushed face beside me on the pillow and
-      the glorious, yellow streaming hair. Slowly it would fade and vanish.
-      There were walks which we took through the lonely woodlands when all the
-      delayed intimacies of love filled life with unashamed passion. There were
-      wild days on the downs, when rain and wind, driving our bodies together,
-      stung me to a new protecting ecstasy. There were quiet evenings in the
-      gloaming&mdash;Sunday evenings were the best&mdash;when Vi sat at the
-      piano playing and singing, while Dorrie knelt beside her, fingering her
-      dress. All these ghost-scenes stand clear in my memory as though they had
-      happened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I must have cultivated this unreal life to the point of danger in my
-      effort to escape the ache of the present. Had I lived by myself I might
-      have crossed the border-line, but the comedy of Uncle Obad was always
-      drawing me back. He kept watch over me like a kind old spaniel.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the morning from where I sat in the garden, I could see him farther
-      down the slope through the orchard, trotting in and out his pens with his
-      disreputable dust-coat flapping. Just as once, when he had no money, the
-      appearance of affluence had been his hobby, so now, when he could afford
-      to dress respectably, he delighted in looking shabby. He left his clothes
-      unfastened in the most unexpected places; Aunt Lavinia was continually
-      making grabs at him and buttoning him up. In the afternoon she sent us off
-      for long walks together to prevent his getting fat. On these occasions he
-      would explain his loose philosophy, which consisted of a large-minded,
-      stalwart carelessness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Keep your end up; it&rsquo;s in each one of us to be happy. Don&rsquo;t do too much
-      remembering; live your day as it comes. Your Grandmother calls me the
-      Spuffler&mdash;so I am. Where&rsquo;d I be now, I ask you, if I hadn&rsquo;t
-      spuffled?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So the summer fled by, and the woods grew browner, and the air had a
-      sharper tang. The letter from Sheba had not come. I could mark time no
-      longer; at last I left for Woadley.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER III&mdash;NARCOTICS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was twenty-six
-      when I entered into possession of Woadley. By my grandfather&rsquo;s will I
-      inherited an annual income of seven thousand pounds. I was at an age when,
-      for most men, everything of importance lies in the future and that which
-      lies behind is of no consequence&mdash;in the nature of an experiment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not regard my past in that light. It was vital. Until the woman I
-      loved should share my fortunes I felt the future to be an indefinite
-      postponement. How she could come into my life again I dared not surmise;
-      that she would come, I never doubted. I knew now that the letter which I
-      had both hoped for and dreaded, would never arrive. For Dorrie&rsquo;s sake they
-      had decided to remain together. In my wiser moments I was glad of it; I
-      knew that, had she chosen otherwise, our love would have been degraded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Strong influences were brought to bear to press me into public life. My
-      situation and training entitled me to take up a position of some local
-      importance. I might have stood for Parliament, but I shrank from
-      publicity. All I asked was to be left alone to follow up my own interests
-      in quiet. I had come so suddenly into a sphere of power which I had done
-      nothing to merit, that ambitions which had still other ambitions for their
-      goal, ceased to allure me. My temperament was natively bookish; by nature
-      I was a Fellow of Lazarus and by compulsion a conscientious country
-      squire. When I was not at Oxford, dreaming in libraries, I was at Woadley,
-      superintending the practical management of my estate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The joy of sex and its fulfilment in a home, which apply the spur to most
-      men&rsquo;s activities, to me were denied; it was unthinkable that I should
-      marry any woman other than Vi. The energies which should have found a
-      domestic expression with me became the mental stimulus of an absorbing
-      scholarly pursuit.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Through my Oxford lectures and fugitive contributions to periodicals, I
-      began to be known as an authority on the intellectual revolt of the
-      Renaissance; by slow degrees I set about writing the life of that strange
-      contradiction, half-libertine, half-saint, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Engaged in these employments, I grew to love the smooth gray days of
-      Woadley which stole by ghost-like and unnumbered. And I came to love the
-      Woadley country with a passion which was as much due to its associations
-      as to its beauty. When I had grown tired of researches into things
-      ancient, one of my greatest joys was to plod to Ransby through rutted
-      lanes deep in hedges, and so out to the north beach where the sea strummed
-      against the land, and the wind raged, and the blackened hull of the wreck
-      crouched beneath the weight of sky.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Grandmother Cardover&rsquo;s shop saw me often. There in the keeping-room, with
-      its dull red walls and leisurely loud ticking clock, we would talk
-      together of bygone times and of those which were, maybe, coming. At first
-      she urged me to marry, and to take up the position in the county which
-      should be mine. But soon, with the easy fatalism of old age, she accepted
-      me for what I was, and ceased to worry.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With my father I held no communication&mdash;the breach had become final;
-      so of Ruthita I heard next to nothing. But as regards Lord Halloway, quite
-      inadvertently I increased my knowledge.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One squally night I was returning from Ransby, driving up the sodden road
-      to the Hall, when my attention was attracted by a camp-fire. I halted out
-      of curiosity, and struck across the turf to the light. Between me and the
-      fire was a wind-break of young firs, a diminutive plantation behind which,
-      as behind bars, figures prowled. As the flames shot up, the figures
-      yearned toward the clouds; as the flames died down, the figures seemed to
-      creep into the ground. On reaching the wind-break a lurcher growled, and I
-      heard a man&rsquo;s voice telling the beast to lie quiet. I was about to declare
-      myself, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I leapt aside, peering into
-      the darkness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right, brother,&rdquo; a voice said huskily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m meaning you no hurt.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A woman&rsquo;s face pushed itself out of the blackness; by the light of the
-      fire I saw that it was Lilith&rsquo;s.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re here, brother, we&rsquo;ve come back to Woadley.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke as though our meeting had been pre-arranged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Gazing through the trees I saw the old yellow caravan: and G&rsquo;liath; the
-      gaudy woman was there, and the hag who had tried to tell Vi&rsquo;s fortune on
-      the marshes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The huddled gipsy tents became an accustomed sight and the center of a new
-      interest in my landscape. The proud lawlessness of the gipsies appealed to
-      my own suppressed wildness. They opened a door of escape from commonplace
-      environment. Their unannounced comings and goings had an atmosphere of
-      mystery and stealth which filled me with excitement. Of a night I would
-      look out from my bedroom windows and see the red glow of their camp across
-      the park-land; in the morning nothing would remain but blackened turf and
-      silence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I went on many tramping expeditions with Lilith. She had become curiously
-      elflike and wilful since those early days. She seemed to live wholly in
-      the moods and sensations of the present; of the past she would speak only
-      in snatches. Sometimes, when she softened, she would mention Ruthita; but
-      it was long before I discovered her secret and the reason why for so many
-      years the gipsies had refused to camp at Woadley.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All one day in the height of summer we had wandered, across meadows and by
-      unfrequented by-roads, too content to pay heed to where we were going;
-      when evening overtook us we were miles from home. It was too late to turn
-      back, unless we walked on to the nearest village and hired a trap and
-      drove. Lilith scouted the proposal with scornful eyes as too utterly
-      conventional. We would make a camp for the night and return to-morrow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There, alone in the open, with great clouds thumbing the western sky, and
-      birds sinking into tree-tops singing, &ldquo;Home, home, home,&rdquo; life liberated
-      itself and rose in the throat as though it had never been bound and
-      civilized. We spoke only in monosyllables; even words were a form of
-      captivity. Collecting brushwood, we built our fire and ate our meal
-      between the walls of bushes. Slowly the silver trumpet of the moon rose
-      above leafy spires.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We made a strange pair, Lilith and I&mdash;she the untamed savage,
-      gloriously responsive, and I, for all my attitudes of mind, outwardly the
-      sluggish product of reserve and education. Through the gray smoke I
-      watched her, with her red shawl falling from her splendid shoulders, her
-      glittering ear-rings and her large soft eyes. I told myself stories about
-      her quite in the old childish vein. I recalled how the Bantam and I had
-      always been hoping to find her. What fun it would be to vanish for a time,
-      leaving responsibilities behind, and to take to the road together! White
-      mists, rising from the meadows, erected a tent about us which towered to
-      the sky. Here in the open was privacy from the impertinent knocking of
-      destiny.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But she was not thinking of me. Her eyes gazed far away. Her arm was
-      hollowed and her head bowed, as though a little one pressed against her.
-      With her right hand she fumbled at her breast, loosening her bodice. Her
-      body swayed slowly to and fro in a soothing, rocking motion. I had seen
-      her like this before when she thought no one was looking.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Leaning forward I plucked a twig from the fire to light my pipe. She threw
-      herself back from me startled and sprang to her feet. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me.&rdquo; Her
-      voice was hoarse and choking.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Looking up from where I sat, I saw that her bosom panted and that her
-      nostrils were quivering with animal fright. But it was her eyes that told
-      me; they were wide and fixed like those of one who has been roused from
-      sleep, and is not yet fully awake.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t trying to touch you, Lil. I&rsquo;m your pal, girl, Dante Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I spoke she came to herself and recognized me. Her fear vanished and
-      her arms fell limp to her side. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m goin&rsquo;.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the trouble? I thought we were to camp here to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dun know.&rdquo; She swept back the hair from her forehead and drew her shawl
-      tighter. &ldquo;I dun this before, just the two of us&mdash;and it didn&rsquo;t end
-      happy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But not with me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Afore ever I knew you, silly. When I was little more&rsquo;n a child&mdash;long
-      time ago.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We stamped out the fire before we left, and stole silently across the
-      moonlit meadows. She walked ahead at first in defiance; presently, ashamed
-      of the distrust she had shown, she fell back and we traveled side by side.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lil, I watched you; you were dreaming that you had your little baby
-      back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She placed her hand in mine, but she gave me no answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who was he&mdash;the man who did this to you long ago, when you camped
-      alone together?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned her face away; her voice shook with passion. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t have to
-      tell you; you know &rsquo;im.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The people were few with whom we were both acquainted. I ran over the
-      names in my mind; the truth flashed out on me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Was it because of that you wouldn&rsquo;t camp at Woadley?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She bent her head, but the cloud of hatred in her face would have told me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      After learning this new fact about Halloway, he was never long absent from
-      my mind; for Lilith, though we never referred to him and she had at no
-      time mentioned him by name, was a continual reminder. I became familiar
-      with his doings through the papers. He was making a mark for himself in
-      politics; there was even a talk that he might find a seat in the cabinet.
-      I read of Lady Halloway&rsquo;s seconding of her husband&rsquo;s ambitions. From time
-      to time her portrait was printed among those of society hostesses. But
-      this Ruthita was unreal to me; she had nothing to do with the shy
-      girl-friend whom I had known. Of the true Ruthita I learnt nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I often wondered what was the condition of affairs between herself and
-      Halloway. Was she happy? Was he kind? Was it possible that she should have
-      outlived her first judgment of him? Perhaps all this outward display of
-      success had its hidden emptiness. Behind Halloway lay a host of ruined
-      lives, Lilith&rsquo;s among them, the waste of which he could not justify.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had been five years at Woadley, when my work made it necessary that I
-      should spend some weeks in London in order to be near libraries. It was
-      just after Christmas that I came to town. With my usual clinging to old
-      associations, I took rooms at Chelsea, almost within sight of the mansion
-      which had witnessed my uncle&rsquo;s brief reign of splendor. From my windows I
-      could see the turgid river sweeping down to Westminster, and the
-      nurse-girls with perambulators and scarlet dots of soldiers loitering
-      beneath bare trees of the Embankment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On rising one morning, I found that the subdued grays and browns had
-      vanished&mdash;that London was glistening with snow. My spirits rose to an
-      unaccustomed pitch of buoyancy; I tossed aside my writing and went out
-      into the streets. Coming to the Spuffler&rsquo;s old house I halted; the memory
-      of the Christmas I had spent there leapt into my mind with every detail
-      sharpened. Things which I had not thought of for years came back
-      luminously&mdash;scraps of conversation, gestures, childish excitements.
-      This wintry morning was reminiscent of a snow-lit, sun-dazzled morning of
-      long ago. I recalled how Ruthita had bounced into my room to let me see
-      her presents; how she had balanced herself on the edge of my bed in her
-      long white night-gown, with her legs curled under her and her small feet
-      showing; how she had laughed at my care of her when I wrapped the
-      counterpane about her shoulders to prevent her from catching cold. Every
-      memory was somehow connected with Ruthita. And here I stood, a man of
-      thirty, looking up at the windows from which we had once gazed out
-      together&mdash;and I had not seen her to speak to for five years.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not get her out of mind. I did not want to. I kept tracing
-      resemblances to her in the girls whom I passed in the streets. Some of
-      them were carrying their skates, with flying hair and flushed faces.
-      Others, whom I met after lunch in the theatre districts, were going to
-      matinées with school-boy brothers. I wanted to be back again in the old
-      intimacy, walking beside her. Since that was impossible, I set myself
-      deliberately to remember.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the afternoon I strolled into the Green Park. Constitution Hill was
-      scattered with spectators all agape to see the quality drive by. Every now
-      and then a soldier or statesman would be recognized; the word would pass
-      from mouth to mouth with a flutter of excitement. The trees enameled in
-      white, the grass in its sparkling blanket, the sky banked with soft
-      clouds, the flushed faces&mdash;everything added its hint of animated and
-      companionable kindness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Of a sudden in the throng of flashing carriages, my attention was caught
-      by an intense white face approaching, half-hidden in a mass of night-black
-      hair&mdash;the face was smaller than ever, and even more pathetically
-      patient. By her side sat the man whom I now almost hated, looking handsome
-      and important; the years had dealt well with him, and had heightened his
-      air of dignity and aristocratic assurance. He was speaking to her lazily
-      while she paid him listless attention, never meeting his glance. It was
-      plain to see that, whatever he had or had not been to other women, his
-      passion for her was unabated. She looked a snow-drop set beside an exotic
-      orchid; the demure simplicity of her beauty was accentuated by the
-      contrast. Her wandering gaze fell in my direction; for an instant my gaze
-      absorbed her. She started forward from the cushions; her features became
-      nipped with eagerness. Those wonderful eyes of hers, which had always had
-      power to move me, seemed to speak of years of longing. A smile parted her
-      lips; her listlessness was gone. She leant out of the carriage, as though
-      she would call to me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Lord Halloway&rsquo;s hand had gone to his hat, as he turned with a gracious
-      expression, searching the crowd to discover the cause of his wife&rsquo;s
-      excitement. His eyes met mine. His face hardened. Seizing Ruthita&rsquo;s arm,
-      he dragged her down beside him. The carriage swept by and was lost in the
-      stream of passing traffic. All was over in less time than it has taken to
-      narrate.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night at Chelsea I could not sleep for thinking. Across the ceiling I
-      watched the lights of the police-boats flash in passing. I listened to the
-      river grumbling between its granite walls. Late taxis purred by; I took to
-      counting them. Big Ben lifted up his solemn voice, speaking to the stars
-      of change and time. I thought, imagined, remembered. What had happened to
-      us all that we were so gravely altered? What had happened to her? What had
-      he done to quench her? Then came the old, forgotten question: had I had
-      anything to do with it?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next day I set myself to conquer my restlessness, but my accustomed
-      interests had lost their fascination. Neither that day, nor in those that
-      followed, could I recover my grip on my habitual methods of life. What
-      were the temptations, disappointments of a dead past compared with those
-      that were now in the acting? My scholarship, my love of books, my
-      undertakings at Woadley had only been in the nature of narcotics; I had
-      drugged myself into partial forgetfulness. Now the old affections, like
-      old wounds, ached and irked me. One glimpse of Ruthita&rsquo;s white intensity
-      had stabbed me into keenest remembrance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I <i>had</i> to see her again; the hunger to hear her speak was on me&mdash;to
-      listen to the sound of her voice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Several times I saw her driving in the Park, sometimes alone, sometimes
-      with Halloway. She never looked at me, but I was certain she was aware of
-      me by the way her cheek grew pale. Only a few years ago I had been half
-      her life, free to hold her, to come and go with her, to disregard her; now
-      she passed me unnoticed. I haunted all places where I might expect to find
-      her; whether I met or missed her my pain was the same. At the back of my
-      mind was the constant dread that her husband would hurry her away to where
-      I could not follow.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was a blustering afternoon in early March, on a day of laughing and
-      crying&mdash;one of those raw spring days, before spring really commences,
-      capricious as a young girl nearing womanhood, without reason gay and
-      without reason serious. In the sunshine one could believe that it was
-      almost summer, but winter lurked in the shadows. A flush of young green
-      spread through the tree-tops; in open spaces crocuses shivered near
-      together. The streets were boisterous with gusty puffs of wind which sent
-      dust and papers circling. In stiff ranks, like soldiers, the houses stood,
-      erect, straining their heads into the sky, as if trying to appear taller.
-      Clouds hurried and fumed along overhead travel-routes, and rent gashes in
-      their sides as if with knives, letting through the sudden turquoise.
-      Presently slow drops began to patter. Umbrellas shot up. Bus-drivers
-      unstrapped their capes. In the Circus flower-girls picked up their baskets
-      and ran for shelter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On arriving in the Mall I found people standing along the open pavement in
-      a lean, straggling line, despite the threatened deluge, I learnt that
-      royalty were expected. Soon I heard a faint and far-off cheering. A
-      policeman raised his arm; traffic drew up beside the curb. Just as I had
-      caught the flash of Life Guards and the clatter of their accoutrements, a
-      closed brougham reined in across my line of vision. With an exclamation of
-      annoyance I was moving farther down the pavement, when a small gloved hand
-      stretched out from the carriage-window and touched me. I turned sharply,
-      and found myself gazing into Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes. She signed to me to open the
-      door. Before the coachman could notice who had entered, I was beside her.
-      Clutching my arm, she leant out and ordered, &ldquo;Drive to Pope Lane.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e lay back against
-      the cushions. We acted like conspirators&mdash;it was difficult to tell
-      why. The surprise of meeting her thus suddenly had deprived me of words.
-      It must have been the same with her; we clasped hands in silence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I had to see you&mdash;had to speak to you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was panting&mdash;almost crying.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Of course. Why not? It was foolish to go on the way we were going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes, foolish and heartbreaking. It wasn&rsquo;t as though we were wanting to do
-      anything wicked&mdash;only to meet one another, as we used to.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her voice trailed off into a little shivering sob; she flickered her
-      eye-lids to prevent the tears from gathering.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, you mustn&rsquo;t carry on so.&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;What has he done to you?&rdquo; I
-      asked fiercely. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re afraid.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s guessed.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Guessed what?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What you never knew.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you. If you&rsquo;d guessed, it might have made all the
-      difference.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not dare to speak&mdash;her whisper was so ashamed. Her hand was hot
-      in mine. She withdrew it. When I leant over her she shuddered, just as the
-      trees had done when they knew the rain was coming, as though I were a
-      thing to her both sweet and dreadful. She took my face between her hands,
-      and yet shrank back from me. She delighted in and feared the thing she was
-      doing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The rain volleyed against the carriage, shutting us in as with a tightly
-      drawn curtain; yet, did I look up, through the gray mist the tepid gold of
-      the sun was shining.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, it seems almost too good to be true that we&rsquo;re alone at last
-      together&mdash;to have you all to myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Did you ever want me, Dannie?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;<i>Did I ever want you!</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But as much as you wanted her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Differently, yes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You poor boy. And you didn&rsquo;t get either of us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t be helped, Ruthie. That&rsquo;s life&mdash;to be always wanting and
-      never getting. But I have you now and, perhaps, one day&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But how can you? She&rsquo;s married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;One can&rsquo;t tell. Things come unexpectedly. I didn&rsquo;t expect half-an-hour
-      ago that I&rsquo;d be with you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She fell to asking me little stabbing questions. When I only answered her
-      vaguely, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s start with secrets,&rdquo; she implored me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s five years&mdash;there&rsquo;s so much to explain.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;on both sides.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You seemed&mdash;seemed to dislike him,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I never understood&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took me up quickly. &ldquo;Nor did I. Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s talk about it&mdash;not
-      yet, Dante.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So I told her about my doings, the book I was writing and the little daily
-      round at Woadley; and then I told her of why I had quarreled with my
-      father.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But he let me marry Halloway, and you&rsquo;ve never&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I laughed.
-      &ldquo;Ah, but no matter what Halloway did as a bachelor, he was discreet when
-      it came to marriage.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew me forward to the light; doubt was in her eyes. &ldquo;But you&mdash;you&rsquo;re
-      unhappy too.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve gained everything I played for; I played to lose.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Everything?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t deserve Vi. And I didn&rsquo;t deserve you; if I had, I shouldn&rsquo;t have
-      lost you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Not until I had replied did she realize how much she had told me. She was
-      not happy! I wanted to ask her questions, so many questions&mdash;questions
-      which I had no right to ask, nor she to answer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you&mdash;you have no children?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She hesitated. &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm
-      was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children going
-      home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been myself
-      and Ruthie of years ago.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They won&rsquo;t see me,&rdquo; I warned her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Folks at Pope Lane.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not there. Only Hetty&rsquo;s left to take care of the house. They&rsquo;ve
-      gone away for a few days.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then I can see it all again. We can walk in the garden together and
-      pretend that things are exactly as they were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, Dannie!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I <i>can</i> call you Dannie, can&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Time slipped away. She was my little sister now&mdash;no longer Lady
-      Halloway. At the posts before the passage we alighted&mdash;that was the
-      first news the coachman had of whom he had been driving. We went slowly up
-      the lane, where the shadows of the limes groped like tentacles fingering
-      the sunshine. When I felt beneath the creepers and the bell jangled
-      faintly, Ruthita clutched my arm, attempting to appear bold.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty stared at us. &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll be blowed!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We pushed by her smiling, assuring her that we had no objection. Not until
-      we had rounded the house, did I hear the rattle of the door closing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Nothing ever changed in that walled-in garden. Flowers grew in the same
-      places&mdash;crocuses, daffodils, and hyacinths. Peaches on the wall would
-      soon ripen. Presently sunflowers, like sentinels in gold helmets, would
-      stand in stately line. Pigeons strutted on the slates of houses opposite
-      or wheeled against the sky. There was the window of Ruthita&rsquo;s bedroom, up
-      to which I had so often called.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The hole, which had been bricked up between the Favarts&rsquo; garden, was still
-      discernible. Everything retained its record; only we had changed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Truants again, stealing an hour together, I listened expectant to hear
-      Hetty call, &ldquo;Dant-ee. Dant-ee. Bedtime.&rdquo; The old excitement clutched my
-      heart. Her starched skirt would rustle down the path, and we would run
-      into the gooseberry bushes to hide. I glanced at the study-window. Surely
-      I should see my father seated there, leaning across the desk with his head
-      propped by his arm. Surely that hand of Ruthita&rsquo;s in my own was growing
-      smaller. I should turn to find a child in a short print-frock, with
-      clusters of ringlets on her shoulders. A shutter in my mind had opened;
-      the past had become present. Ah, but I was no longer anxious to escape.
-      The walled-in garden was all I wanted. I was tired of liberty. I was ready
-      to be commanded. I was willing that others should order my life.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That the illusion might not slip from me, I half shut my eyes. Drip, drip,
-      drip, from eaves and branches! The earth was stirring in the gentle quiet.
-      Through drenched bushes and on the vivid stretch of lawn blackbirds were
-      hopping, delving with their yellow bills. Perhaps I was dwindling into a
-      small boy, just as I had once hoped in the forest that I might suddenly
-      shoot up into manhood. How absurd to believe that I was thirty, and had
-      seen so much of disillusionment! That was all a dream out of which I was
-      waking&mdash;I had been here all the time in the narrow confines of the
-      walled-in garden. The old enchantment of familiar sensations stole upon me&mdash;I
-      was Dannie Cardover of the Red House; playing tricks with his imagination.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      How did it happen? Was it I or was it Ruthie? Her lips were pressing mine.
-      A step came down the path behind us. We sprang apart, laughing softly with
-      reckless joy at our impropriety. Which of us would have thought ten years
-      ago that there would be anything improper in being caught kissing?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Hetty pretended not to have seen us, but her flustered face told its
-      story.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you remember, Hetty, how I once found you doing that to John?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She writhed her hands under her apron, trying to appear shocked and not to
-      smile. &ldquo;I remember, Sir Dante; &rsquo;t&rsquo;aint likely I&rsquo;d forget.&rdquo; Then,
-      disregarding me for Ruthita, &ldquo;I was about to h&rsquo;arsk your ladyship, whether
-      I should get tea ready.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Ruthita took her by the hand. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t talk to me that way once, Hetty.
-      I&rsquo;m just Ruthie to you always, and Sir Dante is plain Dannie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She looked up and met the laughing reproach in our eyes. Her apron went to
-      her face and her bodice commenced to quiver. &ldquo;Little did I think when I
-      washed and dressed yer little bodies that I should ever see this day,&rdquo; she
-      sobbed. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s breakin&rsquo; me &rsquo;eart, that&rsquo;s what it is, all this quarrelin&rsquo;.
-      Why shouldn&rsquo;t I speak to &rsquo;im if I wants ter? Why shouldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;e
-      kiss &rsquo;is own sister if he likes? Wot&rsquo;s it matter if all the
-      neighbors was lookin&rsquo;? There&rsquo;s too little lovin&rsquo; and too little kissin&rsquo;;
-      that&rsquo;s wot I say. &rsquo;Tain&rsquo;t right ter be ashamed o&rsquo; bein&rsquo; nateral. If it
-      &rsquo;adn&rsquo;t &rsquo;a&rsquo; been for bein&rsquo; afraid and ashamed, I might &rsquo;a&rsquo;
-      married John. The nus-girl next door got &rsquo;im. There&rsquo;s allaws been
-      someone a-lookin&rsquo; when I was courtin&rsquo;&mdash;there&rsquo;s been too little
-      kissin&rsquo; in my life, and it&rsquo;s yer Pa&rsquo;s fault, if I do say it, wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is
-      everlastin&rsquo; look of &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t yer do it.&rsquo;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s as bad as all that, Hetty, I&rsquo;m sure you won&rsquo;t mind if I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-       She made an emotional armful, but between struggling and giggling she
-      allowed me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We had tea together in the formal dining-room, with its heavy furniture
-      and snug red walls. We made Hetty sit beside us; she protested and was
-      scandalized, but we wouldn&rsquo;t let her wait. As we talked, the old freedom
-      of happiness came back to Ruthita&rsquo;s laughter. The mask of enforced
-      prejudices lifted from Hetty&rsquo;s face. All our conversation was of the past&mdash;our
-      adventures, childish mutinies, and punishments. We told Hetty what a
-      tyrant she had been to us. We asked her whether her nightgowns were still
-      of gray flannel. I accused her of being the start of all my naughtiness in
-      the explanation she had given me of how marriages were concocted. It was
-      like putting a wilted flower into water to see the way she picked up and
-      freshened. When she had nothing else to reply, she wagged her head at us,
-      exclaiming, &ldquo;Oh, my h&rsquo;eye&mdash;what goin&rsquo;s on! It&rsquo;s a good thing walls
-      ain&rsquo;t got ears. What would your poor Pa say?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We left her and wandered through the rooms together. We only opened the
-      study-door; we did not enter. It had always, even when we had been
-      invited, seemed to have been closed against us. Books lay on the desk,
-      dust-covered. It was allowed to be tidied only in my father&rsquo;s presence. We
-      both felt that he must know of our trespassing, even though we could not
-      see him. I had the uncanny feeling that he was still there at the table
-      writing; any moment he might glance up, having completed his sentence, and
-      I should hear his voice. Not until we had climbed the stairs did we rid
-      ourselves of the shadow of his disapproval. In the old days when we were
-      romping, we had been accustomed to hear his dreaded door open and his
-      stern voice calling, &ldquo;Children! Children! What d&rsquo;you think you&rsquo;re doing?
-      Not so much noise.&rdquo; It was something of this kind we were now expecting
-      and with the same sensations of trembling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The house was memory-haunted. Following our footsteps, yet so discreetly
-      that we never caught them, were a witch-faced girl and a sturdy boy. Where
-      pools of sunlight lay upon the floor we lost them; when we turned into
-      dark passages, again they followed. On entering rooms, we half expected to
-      find them occupied with their playing; when the budding creeper stirred
-      against the walls, it was as though they whispered. They were always
-      somewhere where we were not&mdash;either in the room we had just left, or
-      the room to which we were going.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We entered what had been my bedroom. The sun was westering, playing
-      hide-and-seek behind crooked chimneypots. Below us the garden lay in
-      shadow, cool and cloistered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Kneeling beside the window, with our elbows on the sill, not watching one
-      another&rsquo;s eyes, we whispered by fits and starts, leaving our sentences
-      unended. Most of what we said commenced with &ldquo;Do you remember?&rdquo; and
-      drifted off into silence as the picture formed. It was like flinging
-      pebbles into a pond and watching the circles spreading. One after another
-      memories came and departed&mdash;all that we had done together and been to
-      one another in that conspiracy of childhood. There was the pink muffler
-      she had made me, the guinea-pig about which I had lied to her, the tragic
-      departures and wild homecomings of schooldays, and the week when the
-      Bantam had declared his love for her. And there were memories which
-      preceded her knowledge&mdash;my quest for the magic carpet. How I wished I
-      might yet find it; I would fly by night to her window and carry her off,
-      re-visiting old happinesses while Lord Halloway lay snoring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I don&rsquo;t know how we came to it&mdash;I suppose we must have been speaking
-      about Vi. Presently Ruthita said, &ldquo;You could only love golden hair, could
-      you, Dannie?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I didn&rsquo;t know what she was driving at; her voice shook and her face was
-      flushing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dark-haired girls never had any chance with you, did they? You told me
-      that long ago, after Fiesole. I remembered because&mdash;because&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was a boy then, and was clumsy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But you spoke the truth, though you did say that for sisters black hair
-      was the prettiest in the world. It hurt because at that time I fancied&mdash;you
-      can guess what.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You never showed it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You never looked for it&mdash;never asked for it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I knew to what she referred. It was on the night of my sudden return from
-      the Red House because the Spuffler had lost our money. I was sitting at
-      this window as I was now sitting. A tap at the door had startled me; then
-      a timid voice had said, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only Ruthita.&rdquo; She had crept in noiselessly
-      as a shadow. Her dear arms went about my neck, drawing down my face. &ldquo;Oh,
-      Dannie, I&rsquo;m so sorry,&rdquo; she had whispered; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never missed welcoming you
-      home ever since you went to school.&rdquo; She had nestled against me in the
-      dark, her face looking frailer and purer than ever. She had slipped on a
-      long blue dressing-gown, I remember, and her black hair hung about her
-      shoulders like a cloud. Just below the edge of the gown her pale feet
-      twinkled. I noticed that a physical change had come over her. Then I had
-      realized for the first time that she was different as I was different&mdash;we
-      were no longer children. I had fallen to wondering whether the same
-      wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring, had come to her. With an
-      overwhelming reverence, I had become aware of the strange fascination of
-      her appealing beauty. In the confessing that followed I had told her of my
-      jilting by Fiesole, and had spoken those stupid words about loving only
-      golden hair. How wounding I had been in my boyish egotism! And that was
-      not the last time I had wounded her in my blindness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Scene after scene came back to me&mdash;into each I read a new meaning in
-      the light of what she had told me: the Snow Lady&rsquo;s hints before I sailed
-      for America; Ruthita&rsquo;s appeal for my protection against Halloway, and her
-      sudden acceptance of him directly she heard that I was with Vi at Sheba.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ruthie, all this was very long ago; so many things have happened since
-      then, there can be no harm in talking about it. You wanted me right up to
-      the last&mdash;and I was too selfish to know it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Right up to the last,&rdquo; she whispered, and I knew she meant right up to
-      now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And this&mdash;and this is what your husband has guessed?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my hands in both her own, speaking with quiet dignity. &ldquo;I had to
-      tell you. Perhaps I too have been selfish, but I couldn&rsquo;t let you
-      misunderstand me any longer. I&rsquo;ve seen you watching for me, and I&rsquo;ve had
-      to go by you without looking. We never had any secrets, you and I; you
-      must have wondered why I let my husband make me cut you&mdash;I&rsquo;ve been
-      wicked&mdash;I couldn&rsquo;t trust myself. When I heard that you&rsquo;d gone to
-      Sheba, I didn&rsquo;t care what happened. I&rsquo;d always hoped and hoped that you
-      might come to love me. But it seemed I wasn&rsquo;t wanted, so I just took&mdash;&mdash;
-      He&rsquo;s been good to me, but it isn&rsquo;t like living with the person you love
-      best, is it? You mustn&rsquo;t hate him any more; to love a woman who can&rsquo;t love
-      you back again makes even success empty&mdash;and he&rsquo;s been used to take
-      love without asking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We sat very still. We saw Hetty come out into the garden and walk down the
-      path as though she were looking for us. We waited to hear her call, but
-      she re-entered the house, leaving the silence unruffled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve made a pretty fair mess of things, haven&rsquo;t I? There was Vi first,
-      and now there&rsquo;s you. I&rsquo;m a pretty fair blighter.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She pressed herself against me to stop me. &ldquo;Oh, you mustn&rsquo;t say that. It
-      hurts. You mustn&rsquo;t say it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I am. Even your husband knows it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Some day you&rsquo;ll marry and everything&rsquo;ll come right.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;For Vi, if we have the luck to come together. But what about you? What
-      about even Halloway?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She avoided answering my self-accusations by attracting attention to
-      herself. &ldquo;From the first he didn&rsquo;t want me to know you; he gave excuses,
-      and I understood. Because I couldn&rsquo;t give him love, I gave him everything
-      else that he wanted. But now&mdash;now that I&rsquo;m going to be a mother, I
-      had to tell you. I want it to be a boy, Dannie. Waiting for him, I&rsquo;ve
-      thought so much of old days. I felt that if you didn&rsquo;t know, somehow,
-      things wouldn&rsquo;t go right&mdash;because when he comes I want him to be like
-      you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She had risen, letting go my hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I had always thought of you as my sister,&rdquo; I faltered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I know&mdash;and
-      you were a dear brother. It was just my foolishness to want you to be
-      something else.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      For a moment she clung to me, hiding her face against my shoulder. Then we
-      passed down the stairs, afraid to be alone any longer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Goin&rsquo;?&rdquo; Hetty inquired. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t tell the master, will yer?&rdquo; She
-      glanced toward the study-door as though he were behind it and might have
-      overheard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the end of the lane the carriage was standing. In the presence of the
-      coachman Ruthita&rsquo;s tones were conventional. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going westwards? Where
-      can I drop you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In the carriage I asked her whether her husband would know of what we had
-      done.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shall tell him.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think he might be willing to let us be friends?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      At Hyde Park Corner the carriage pulled up and I alighted. I watched her
-      eager face looking back at me, growing smaller and smaller.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Wandering aimlessly through the parks, I sat for a time by the Serpentine.
-      The nerves of all that had happened in the past five years were cut. If I
-      had married Ruthita, would she have been happy? The thought of marrying
-      her was just as impossible to me now as it had been when Grandmother
-      Cardover had mentioned it at Ransby. And yet, at a time when I had been
-      most sensitive of injustice, I had been unjust to her&mdash;&mdash; And
-      now she was going to be a mother&mdash;little Ruthita, who seemed to me
-      herself so much a child!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I came into Whitehall, the pale twilight of spring still hovered
-      above house-tops; from streets the flare of London steamed up. The opal of
-      the sky reflected the marigold-yellow of illumined windows; arc-lights,
-      like ox-eye daisies, stared above the grass of the dusk.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I made my way to my club and sank into a chair, aimlessly skimming the
-      papers, reading scarcely a line. Few people were about; the room was empty
-      save for one other loiterer. Spring in the streets was calling.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The man strolled up to me, holding an illustrated weekly in his hand. I
-      knew him slightly and nodded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Writing a book on the Renaissance, ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t you? Here&rsquo;s something a bit in
-      your line. Funny how Paris&rsquo;ll go mad over a thing like that!&rdquo; He smacked
-      the page. &ldquo;Girl comes from nowhere. Her lover writes a play&mdash;that&rsquo;s
-      the story. There&rsquo;s a mystery. The play&rsquo;s difficult to understand, so it
-      must be brainy. Now I like a thing that don&rsquo;t need no explanation: Marie
-      Lloyd, the Empire, musical comedy&mdash;that&rsquo;s my cut.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He tossed me the weekly and turned on his heel to walk out. Annoyed at
-      being disturbed, I glanced down irritably.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From a full-page illustration the face of Fiesole smiled up.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER V&mdash;LA FIESOLE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was ridiculous
-      this curiosity, but I knew how to explain it&mdash;it grew out of my
-      life&rsquo;s great emptiness since I had listened to Ruthita&rsquo;s confession. She
-      had made me realize as never before how I had muddled my chances of
-      happiness. I had heard nothing from Vi in all these years and now I had
-      learnt that, without knowing it, I might have had Ruthita. My interests
-      had lost their charm; I wanted an excuse to leave my work. This matter of
-      Fiesole had cropped up, so here I was on my way to Paris, more for the
-      sake of something to do than anything else.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had not the remotest intention of renewing her acquaintance. Unseen by
-      her, I would watch her from some corner of the theatre, and then slip back
-      to London. There would be piquancy in the thought that I had gone to see
-      her for old time&rsquo;s sake, and that she would never know about it. As for
-      speaking to her, that would be an insult after what had happened at
-      Venice. Probably she hated me. She ought to, if she did not.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Though I smiled at myself, truth to tell, I was rather pleased to find I
-      could still be so impulsive; romance in me was not dead after all these
-      years of uneventful waiting. This journey was the folly of a sentimental
-      boy&mdash;not the cynical act of a man of the world.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> Since she had stared out at me from the
-      printed page I was continually coming across her. Everyone was discussing
-      her; she had sprung out of nowhere into notoriety. Greater than Bernhardt,
-      men said of her: a spontaneous emotional actress of the first rank&mdash;the
-      sensation of the moment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      France took her seriously; England quoted French eulogies in italics.
-      Fantastic legends were woven about her name, made plausible by an
-      occasional touch of accuracy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Antoine Georges had written the play&mdash;it was based on the <i>amours</i>
-      of Lucrezia Borgia. It was said that he was La Fiesole&rsquo;s lover, that she
-      had given him the plot&mdash;that she had even helped him write it; some
-      went so far as to say that it was founded on an incident in her own past
-      life, transposed into a fifteenth century setting. Antoine Georges denied
-      that he was her lover; but the world smiled skeptically&mdash;it liked to
-      believe he was. One story asserted that she had been a <i>fille de joie</i>
-      when he came across her; another, with that French instinct for the
-      theatric, that he had reclaimed her from a low café in Cherbourg in which
-      she danced. Nothing was too incredible in the face of her incredible
-      success. One fact alone was undisputed&mdash;that she was the daughter of
-      the famous Italian actor, many years dead, Signore Cortona.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This confirmed what I already knew about her. I remembered how she had
-      told me in Oxford of her early stage career, which she had abandoned to go
-      traveling. I recalled how she had said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an amateur at living&mdash;always
-      chopping and changing. I&rsquo;ll find what I want some day.&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; So
-      she had found it!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the English press she was made a peg on which to hang a whole wardrobe
-      of side-issue and prejudice. The decency of the French stage was
-      discussed. The question was introduced as to whether such a play would be
-      allowed to be performed in London. The superiority of English morals was
-      the topic of some articles; of others, the brutal prudery by which British
-      art was stifled. A fine opportunity was afforded and welcomed for slinging
-      mud at the censor. The discussion was given academic sanction when Andrew
-      Lang patted it on the head in an ingeniously discursive monologue on the
-      anachronisms of playwrights, in which he made clear that Monsieur
-      Georges&rsquo;s tragedy was riddled with historic falsity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was nearing five when we steamed into the Gare du Nord. My first
-      journey to Paris had been prompted by Fiesole. Then I was escaping from
-      her; now I was going to her. For old time&rsquo;s sake I made my headquarters at
-      the hotel at which I had then stayed in the Rue St. Honoré. After <i>diner</i>
-      I set out through thronged streets to book a seat at the theatre. Upon
-      making my request at the office, the man shrugged his shoulders and turned
-      away with the inimitable insolence of French manners. It was as though he
-      had said, &ldquo;You must be mad, or extremely bourgeois.&rdquo; I had affronted him
-      personally, the theatre-management, La Fiesole and last, but not least,
-      the infallible intelligence of Paris. Did Monsieur not know that La
-      Fiesole was the rage, the fashion? Every seat was taken&mdash;taken weeks
-      ahead.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My second request was apologetic and explanatory: I honored La Fiesole so
-      much that I had journeyed from London on purpose to see her. What was the
-      earliest date at which he could make it possible? He directed me to an
-      agency which had bought up all the best seats in the house; here I secured
-      a box at an extortionate price for five nights later.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the intervening days I was frequently tempted to abandon my project and
-      return. It seemed the height of foolishness to squander five days in order
-      that I might court disappointment. She must have altered&mdash;might have
-      deteriorated. It was just possible there was a grain of truth in the wild
-      stories that circulated about her. And yet&mdash;&mdash; There were
-      memories that came to me full of nobility and gentleness: windswept days
-      at Oxford; a night at Ferrara; days and nights on the lapping lagoons of
-      Venice. I wanted to see her again&mdash;and I did not. I blew hot and
-      cold. And while I hesitated, spring raced through the streets of Paris
-      with tossing arms and reckless laughter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I entered the theatre it was already packed. The audience seemed
-      conscious that it had assembled for a great occasion; it had dressed for
-      its share in the undertaking. Gowns of marvelous cut and audacity were in
-      evidence. The atmosphere was heavy with the perfume of exotic femininity
-      and flowers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My box was on the right-hand side, just above and next to the stage. Below
-      me was a nodding sea of plumed head-dresses, naked shoulders, and gleaming
-      bosoms; rising tier on tier to the gold-domed roof, was a wall of eyes and
-      fluttering white faces. Everything was provocative of expectancy. Gods and
-      goddesses, carved on the columns and painted on the curtain, alone were
-      immobile.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A quick succession of taps sounded, followed by three long raps. The
-      theatre was plunged in shadow. As though a crowd drew away into the
-      distance, the last murmur spent itself. The curtain quivered, then rose
-      reluctantly on the illusion which had brought the unrelated lives of so
-      vast an audience together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We saw an Italian garden, basking in sunlight and languorous with summer.
-      Beneath the black shade of cypress-trees stretched marble terraces,
-      mounting up a hillside, up and up, till they hung gleaming like white
-      birds halfhidden in the velvet foliage. In the foreground a fountain
-      splashed. A little way distant the Pope Alexander lolled, toying with his
-      mistress, Giulia. Up and down pathways lined with statues, groups of
-      courtiers wandered: youths in parti-colored hose and slashed doublets;
-      girls, vividly attired, exquisitely young, engaged in the game of love.
-      Guitars tinkled and masses of bloom flared stridently in the sun. Sitting
-      by the fountain was the Madonna Lucrezia and the young Lord of Pesaro.
-      Her face was turned from us; we could only see her vase-like figure and
-      the way she shook her head in answer to all he offered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The envoy from Naples enters and with him the Duke of Biseglia; he urges
-      the Pope for a last time to make an alliance with his country by
-      betrothing the Madonna Lucrezia to the Duke. But the Pope does not want
-      the alliance; he is joining with Ludovico of Milan against Naples and war
-      will result. While the Pope is refusing, for the first time Lucrezia
-      looks up and her face is turned towards us&mdash;the face I had known in
-      my boyhood, innocently girlish, fresh as a flower, so ardent and beautiful
-      with longing that the theatre caught its breath at sight of it and a
-      muffled &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; swept through the audience.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As though attracted by a power which is outside herself, she rises,
-      hesitating between shyness and daring, and steals to where the young Duke
-      is sullenly standing. She takes his hand and presses it against her
-      breast. He snatches it from her. She commences to speak, at first
-      haltingly, but with gathering passion. Her voice is hoarse and sultry,
-      like that of a Jewess; it is a voice shaken with emotion, which now
-      caresses and now tears at the heart. The drone of merriment in the garden
-      and the tinkling of the guitars is hushed. Listless lovers come out from
-      the shadows and gather about her, amused by her earnestness. She pleads
-      with the Pope, her father, to give her the Duke&mdash;not to send him away
-      from her. Biseglia interrupts haughtily, asserting that he only desired
-      her for State reasons and that since the Pope refuses Naples&rsquo; friendship,
-      he would not marry the Madonna Lucrezia though her father were to allow
-      it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Alexander laughs boisterously at this quarrel of children and like a huge
-      Silenus wanders off into the garden, leaning on his mistress, Giulia,
-      followed by his train of minstrels and dilettantes. Their singing grows
-      more faint as they mount the terraces towards the palace.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Lucrezia watches them depart with a face frozen with despair. As Biseglia
-      turns to go, she darts after him and drags him back, fawning on him,
-      abasing herself, offering herself to him, telling him that whatever comes
-      of it she cannot live without him. He regards her in silence; then falls
-      to smiling and flings her from him, reminding her that she is the Pope&rsquo;s
-      bastard. At that the boy Lord of Pesaro, who has watched everything from
-      the fountain, runs with drawn sword to her defense. But she springs
-      between them, saying that when the time comes to kill Biseglia, she will
-      take revenge in her own way like a Borgia. The great Pope, looking back,
-      has seen her awakened savagery and laughs uproariously. The scene ends
-      with the garden empty and Lucrezia stretched out on the ground, kissing
-      the spot which Biseglia&rsquo;s feet have touched and weeping in a frenzy of
-      abandon, while the Lord of Pesaro looks on impotent and broken-hearted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Between the first act and the second the French have invaded Italy, so the
-      Pope and the King of Naples have found a common enemy and a common need
-      for alliance. The Duke of Biseglia has again been sent to Rome to sue for
-      the hand of Lucrezia. But in the meanwhile she has been betrothed to the
-      Lord of Pesaro, and, to prevent him from joining with the French when
-      Lucrezia is taken from him, his removal has been planned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The curtain goes up on a night of bacchanalian riot in the Papal gardens.
-      Beneath trees a costly table has been spread, at which sit men and women
-      attired in every kind of extravagance, as animals, pagan deities, and
-      mythological monstrosities. In the branches overhead are set sconces and
-      blazing torches. Distantly over white terraces and pathways the moon is
-      rising. In the foreground are mummers and tumblers. The servitors who pass
-      up and down the company are humpbacks, dwarfs, Ethiopians, and
-      dancing-girls.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the center of the table sits the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and
-      next to her Biseglia. Opposite to Biseglia is seated the Lord of Pesaro,
-      and next to him a woman in a mask. With the heat of the wine and the
-      lateness of the hour the women lie back in their lovers&rsquo; arms&mdash;all
-      except the masked woman and the Madonna Lucrezia. Lucrezia sits erect like
-      a frightened child, the one pure thing in the freedom that surrounds her.
-      Biseglia pays her no attention, and from across the table the Lord of
-      Pesaro watches.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The Pope twits Biseglia on his coldness, saying, &ldquo;Think you that my
-      daughter hath a deformity?&rdquo; And Biseglia gives the irritable answer, &ldquo;Can
-      a man love a woman while that young spit-fire glowers green envy at him
-      opposite?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Pesaro leaps to his feet, but the Pope, as though to pacify him, pledges
-      him and hands the goblet to the masked woman to offer to him. Still
-      standing uncertain, Pesaro receives it from her. Raising it slowly, his
-      lips touch the brim; he clutches at his throat, upsetting the cup so that
-      the red stain flows towards Lucrezia. He leans out, gazes in her eyes, and
-      crashes across the table, twisting as he falls, still looking up at her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The silence that follows is broken by a low rippling laugh. The company
-      gaze in astonishment; it is Lucrezia who is laughing. The child in her
-      face is dead; her expression is inscrutable, wicked and sirenish. She
-      sways towards Biseglia, bending back her head and twining her arms about
-      him. &ldquo;Hath the Pope&rsquo;s daughter a deformity that thou canst not love her?
-      Behold, thou shalt judge. She will dance and dance, till she dances thee
-      into rapture and thy soul is poured out upon her.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From the hand of a servitor she snatches a torch and steps into the open.
-      She commences to dance and, as she dances, unbuckles her girdle so that
-      her gown slips from her. As the beat of the music grows more furious she
-      unbinds her hair, so that it writhes like snakes about her firm white arms
-      and bust. Dwarfs clamber into trees and slide out along their branches,
-      raining rose-leaves on her as she passes. The strangely attired company
-      forget their jaded decadence and sprawl across the table, digging their
-      elbows into its scattered magnificence, following the gleam of her young,
-      white body as it twists and turns beneath the whirling torch.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But her gaze is bent always on Biseglia; her eyes are aslant and
-      beckoning. Her bosom rises and falls more fiercely with the wrenching
-      in-take of the breath. Will he never go to her?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She flings back her hair from her shoulders; her body flashes like an
-      unsheathed sword. Nearer and nearer to him she dances. His eyes rest on
-      her moodily, half-closed. Does he make a movement, quickly she withdraws.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She has flung away her torch and is spinning madly with her hands clasped
-      behind her head. The grass is hidden with rose-leaves; she floats&mdash;her
-      feet scarcely stir them. Suddenly she stops; stands erect for an ecstatic
-      moment; sways dizzily; her strength is gone. Her hands, small and pitiful,
-      fly up to cover her eyes. She shakes her hair free to hide her. Her body
-      crumples. She is broken with her shame and futility. Biseglia leaps the
-      table and has her in his arms as she falls, pressing his hot lips against
-      hers. With clenched fists she smites him from her, slips from his embrace,
-      and runs shimmering like a white doe through the forest of blackness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With a shout the revelers shatter the banquet and pour in pursuit of her.
-      Biseglia leads them, darting ahead into the shadows. Dancing and singing,
-      the disheveled bacchanalians stagger across the dark, trouping along dusky
-      terraces with twining arms, following the fleeing dryad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Torches are burnt out and smolder in their sockets. Night is tattered by
-      the dawn. Amid the havoc of trampled chalices and glass sprawls the
-      wine-stained figure of the dead Lord of Pesaro&mdash;the man who, could
-      she have loved him, would have given her all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> We rose as one man as the curtain dropped.
-      We did not care to think whether this was wrong&mdash;it was lovely. She
-      had danced our souls out of their prejudices, out of their walls of
-      restraint into chaos. The rapture of her beauty ran through our veins like
-      wine. Our imaginations pursued her along pale terraces. The fragrance of
-      crushed rose-leaves was in our nostrils and the coolness of night. Our
-      breath came short, as though we had been running. Our senses were reeling
-      and our eyes dazzled. We stood up in our places clutching at the air,
-      calling and calling, hungry for the sight of her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      For myself, I was smitten with blindness. My eyes saw the striving throng
-      through a mist and probed into the beyond, where she ran on and on palely,
-      forever from me. I shouted to her, but she grew more distant; never once
-      did she look back or stay her footsteps.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was aware of a deep stillness&mdash;a hoarse peal of laughter: thousands
-      of eyes glared up at me and down on me, and mouths gaped mockery. The mist
-      cleared; Fiesole was standing before the curtain. The audience had grown
-      hushed at sight of her while I had continued calling. From the stage,
-      twenty feet away, she was smiling at me, insolent and charming, her body
-      still shuddering with exertion beneath the velvet cloak which lay across
-      her shoulders. What did I care, though to-morrow the whole of Paris should
-      laugh? She had danced my soul into ecstasy. I placed my hands on the edge
-      of the box and leant out drunkenly, shouting her name, &ldquo;<i>Fiesole!
-      Fiesole!</i>&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She kissed her hand at me derisively, bowed to the audience, and was gone.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I sank in my place, a sickening nostalgia for her upon me. I did not
-      reason; I only knew I wanted her&mdash;wanted her as she had once wanted
-      me, with her hands and eyes and body. In a dim way I felt angry with
-      myself for having lost her. She had made me disgusted with my coldness at
-      Venice as I had watched my counterpart, the Duke of Biseglia. From the
-      theatric torture in her face I had learnt something of how brutal a man
-      may be when he fancies that he is righteously moral. She, whom I saw now
-      so remotely, might have been mine; through these chilly years La Fiesole
-      might have been my companion, had I had the faith to take what was
-      offered. I had sought the things that were impossible. I had made a god of
-      my scruples. I had sinned weakly, following Vi who did not belong to me. I
-      had sat down to wait for her, and all the while Life was tapping at the
-      door. I tasted Life to-night&mdash;&mdash; And who knows? Perhaps I had
-      broken this woman&rsquo;s heart. I would no longer be niggardly. I would go to
-      her; accuse myself to her; beat down her hatred of me; carry her off.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While these thoughts trooped across my mind, the crooked sphinx-like smile
-      of Paris wandered over me, examined me, hinted at tragedy with laughter,
-      and widened its painted lips at my absurdity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The curtain rustled. The warning raps sounded. Lights sank, and heads bent
-      forward.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a dim-lit room, chilly to the point of austerity, sat Lucrezia. Tall
-      candles shone upon her face&mdash;a face purged of emotion, nunlike and
-      wooden with an expression of distant contemplation. Behind her head was an
-      open window through which floated in the sound of music. She heeded it not
-      at all. In the far corner stood a bed with the curtains drawn back. At an
-      altar a lamp burnt before a shining crucifix. Her women were unrobing her
-      for the bridal night. They spoke to her, but she did not answer. They
-      blamed her for her indifference to Biseglia: she had never kissed him,
-      never caressed him since the night when she had won him. Did she not know
-      that he hungered for her kindness?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She gave them no answer. They lifted her this way and that as though she
-      were a doll; she seemed to have forgotten her body. She might have been in
-      a trance, leading a life separate, dreaming of things innocent and holy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One by one the candles were extinguished; only the lamp burnt before the
-      altar. When her women were gone; she slipped from the bed and knelt with
-      her head bowed before the cross.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The music dies; silence falls. Along the passage comes a creeping
-      footstep. The door opens; Biseglia enters, blinking his eyes at the room&rsquo;s
-      dimness. He whispers her name. At last she hears him and rises, standing
-      before the altar. He crosses the room reverently. He halts, gazing at her.
-      He rushes forward, masters her, crushes her to him, and cries that she
-      torments him&mdash;starves him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she makes no response, but lies pulseless in his arms, he carries her
-      to the bed, incoherently claiming as his right the fondness she does not
-      give him. Then he grows gentle and kneels before her, kissing her feet and
-      calling her his god.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She speaks. Her voice is small. &ldquo;Biseglia, thou didst love me only when I
-      had made myself worthless that I might win thy fondness.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      He yearns up to her with his arms, disowning his former coldness,
-      protesting that he adores her. She leans over him sadly; he raises his
-      lips to hers. As she kisses him, her expression kindles to triumph. She
-      withdraws her hand from her breast; the Borgian dagger sinks into his
-      heart.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She gazes stonily on the man who had once refused her. The lamp before the
-      altar flickers and goes out. The room is plunged in darkness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ong after the
-      curtain had fallen I sat on. I had seen Antoine Georges step before the
-      footlights leading Fiesole. I had seen him alternately bend above her hand
-      and bow his acknowledgments to the applause. I did not like him, this fat
-      little Frenchman, with his thin beard and spindly legs. The polite
-      proprietorship of his bearing towards her had impressed me as offensive. I
-      felt sure that he was smacking his lips and saying, &ldquo;They shall believe
-      that it&rsquo;s all true, this that they say about us.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      From the wings had come lackeys carrying garlands. They had built up a
-      garden about her. The people had gone mad, standing up in their places and
-      thunderously shouting. From all parts of the theatre flowers had rained on
-      her. They had stormed her with flowers. Women had torn bouquets from their
-      dresses and wreaths from their hair. It might have been a carnival; the
-      air was dense with falling blossoms. And she had faced them with the smile
-      of a pleased child, while Monsieur Georges bent double before her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was all over. Men were busy with brooms, sweeping up the litter of her
-      triumph. This happened every night: they got used to it. Already in the <i>fauteuils
-      d&rsquo;orchestre</i> perfunctory faded women were adjusting linen coverings.
-      The last stragglers of the audience were reluctantly going through the
-      doors.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A man entered my box and tapped me on the shoulder. I stared up at him;
-      his expression made me laugh. He evidently mistook me for a crank who was
-      likely to give trouble. I reached for my hat and coat wearily; I felt that
-      I had been beaten all over. As I folded my scarf about my neck I made bold
-      to ask him where I could find Fiesole. He shrugged his shoulders, darting
-      out his hands, palms upwards, as one who said, &ldquo;Ah, it is beyond me! Who
-      can tell?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But it was important that I should see her, I urged; I was an old friend.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      An old friend! These days La Fiesole had many old friends. Were it
-      permitted to her old friends to see her, all the messieurs would cross the
-      footlights. He eyed me with impatience, anxious to see the last of me, his
-      waxlike face wickedly ironic.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I produced a fifty-franc note. Would it not be possible for him to deliver
-      her a message?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      If Monsieur would write out his message he would make certain that La
-      Fiesole got it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      So I scribbled my address on the back of a card, asking her to allow me to
-      speak with her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I folded the fifty-franc note about it and handed it to my tyrant. From
-      the lack of surprise with which he accepted I gathered that he had
-      pocketed greater amounts for a like service.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the street I paused irresolute. From my feet, could I follow it, a path
-      led through crowded boulevards directly to her. I could not be very
-      distant from her; a lucky choice of direction, the chance turning of a
-      corner might bring us face to face. That I was in her mind was probable.
-      She was remembering, as I was remembering, that day at Lido and that night
-      at Venice. Was she satisfied with her revenge? She had always been
-      generous. Somewhere in this passionate white night of Paris her car sped
-      on through illumined gulleys; she lay back on cushions, her eyes
-      half-shut, her mouth faintly smiling, picturing the past at my expense. I
-      liked to think that she hated me; it was in keeping with her character; I
-      respected her for it. The women who had loved me had made things too easy;
-      it had always been I who had done the refusing. My blood was eager for the
-      danger of pursuing. I longed for resistance that I might overcome her. I
-      loved her with my body, I told myself, as I had never loved a woman; my
-      cold, calculating intellectuality was in abeyance. That she should make my
-      path of return difficult added a novel zest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The human tide was drifting towards Montmartre; I fell in and followed. On
-      the pavement before cafés at little round tables <i>boulevardiers</i> were
-      seated, sipping their absinthe, their eyes questing for the first hint of
-      adventure. Taxis flashed by, soaring up &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; like comets, giving
-      me glimpses as they passed of faces drawn near together, ravishing in
-      their transient tenderness. How was it? What had happened? For the first
-      time in my remembrance I had ceased to analyze; I had ceased to sadden my
-      present with foreknowledge.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Far away the Place Pigalle beckoned. Up tortuous streets, between ancient
-      houses, the traffic streamed like a fire-fly army on the march. As I
-      neared the top I entered the pale-gold haze of its unreality. Electric
-      signs of L&rsquo;Abbaye, the Bal Tabarin, and the Rat Mort glittered on the
-      night like paste jewels on the robe of a courtesan. Women trooped by me
-      like blown petals, peering into my face and smiling invitation. I marked
-      down their types in my mind by the names of flowers&mdash;jasmine, rose,
-      poppy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was curiously transformed from that evening of long ago when I had
-      watched these sights with horror, and had fled from Paris in the dawn to
-      Florence. I felt no anger, no revulsion&mdash;only tolerance. I had
-      finished with peeping beneath the surface. Fiesole had taught me to
-      despise all that. <i>Fiesole! Fiesole!</i> I saw her always dancing on
-      before me, mocking my sobriety. Yes, I told myself, she had made me
-      kinder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A couplet from <i>Sir Galahad in Montmartre</i> dinned in my brain and
-      summed up my estimate of my former self
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      &ldquo;He sees not the need in their faces;
-    </p>
-    <p class="indent20">
-      &rsquo;Tis the sin and the lust that he traces.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br />
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had never looked for the need in any woman&rsquo;s face. I had been absorbed
-      in contemplation of my own chastity&mdash;had hurried through life with
-      hands in pockets, fearful lest I might be robbed. Vi&rsquo;s need, which I had
-      recognized, I had made ten times more poignant. I had waited for her. What
-      good had I done by it? I might go on waiting. Meanwhile there were Fiesole
-      and Life knocking at my door. My constancy to Vi had become a luxury.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      A girl slipped her arm in mine. &ldquo;&rsquo;Allo! You zink I am pretty?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was a <i>cocotte</i>, little more than a child, so delicate and
-      slight. Her hair was flaxen and blowy; her complexion a transparent
-      china-white; her dress décolleté and cut in a deep V between the breasts.
-      She pushed her small face up to mine with the red lips parted, clinging to
-      me with the innocent familiarity of one who had asked no more than a
-      roguish question.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re pretty, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Zen we go togezer!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid not.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Pourquoi non?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m hoping to meet someone.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She released me at once with a good-natured smile. &ldquo;La! La! I hopes you
-      find &rsquo;er.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She tripped away, turning before she was lost in the crowd to wave her
-      hand. I told myself that her flower was the jonquil.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It was one o&rsquo;clock when, after wandering about, I found myself back at the
-      same place. I could not sleep; my brain was too active with excitement.
-      Instead of being sad because of Fiesole, I was unreasonably elated. I took
-      a seat at a table on the pavement and ordered coffee and cognac. Every man
-      and woman within sight was a lover, and I sat solitary. As the hour grew
-      later men and women grew more frank in their embraces, and all with that
-      naïve assumption of privacy which makes the Frenchman, even in his vices,
-      seem so much a child. The sex-instinct beat about &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo;&mdash;the
-      air quivered and pulsated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Girls rustled in the shadows. Lovers, chance-met, danced home together.
-      Strange to say, I found nothing sinful in it&mdash;only romance. I had
-      ceased to look beyond the immediate sensation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor boy! You not find &rsquo;er?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked up; my lady of the jonquils was leaning over my shoulder.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, <i>hein!</i> If not, zere are
-      ozers.&rdquo; She waved her small gloved hands in a circle, bringing them back
-      to include herself. She looked a good little soul, standing there so
-      bravely disguising her weariness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Tired?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It ees nozing.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you join me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which had
-      no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin on her
-      knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise eyes. She
-      was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Zere are ozers,&rdquo; she repeated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Not for me,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;not to-night.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?&rdquo; The waiter hovered
-      nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Croûte au pot?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Filet aux truffes.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Salade romaine.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Vouvray.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I turned to her. She had corn-flower eyes like Kitty&mdash;I had been
-      wondering of whom I was reminded. I passed her my cigarette-case. She
-      chose one fastidiously and tilted it between her lips with the smile of a
-      <i>gamine</i>.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      While we ate neither of us said much&mdash;she was hungry; but, as we
-      sipped our coffee and the pile of cigarette ends grew, I found myself
-      telling her&mdash;asking her if a man had refused her once, whether she
-      could ever again love him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If he haf a great heart, oui. If he haf not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She threw her
-      cigarette away. &ldquo;C&rsquo;est la vie! Quoi?&rdquo; She snapped her fingers and leant
-      over and took my hand, this gay little Montmartroise. &ldquo;But you haf; zo
-      courage, my friend.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I did not want to be left alone; she knew it. A <i>fiacre</i>, with a
-      battered race-horse propped between the shafts, had drawn up against the
-      curb. On the box a red-faced <i>cocher</i> nodded. We climbed in and she
-      nestled beside me. The <i>cocher</i> looked across his shoulder, asking
-      where to drive. &ldquo;Straight on,&rdquo; I told him.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We crawled away down &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo;; as we went, she sang contentedly just
-      above her breath. When we reached the Madeleine the <i>cocher</i> halted,
-      inquiring gruffly whither he should drive. &ldquo;Tout droit. Tout droit&rdquo;; we
-      both cried impatiently. So again we moved slowly forward. There was no
-      doubt in the man&rsquo;s mind that we were mad.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She drew closer to me and cuddled into my coat; the foolish prettiness of
-      her dress was no protection against the chill night air. We lay back, her
-      head resting on my shoulder, gazing up at the star-scattered sky. The
-      asphalt surface of the boulevard, polished by petrol and rubber-tires to
-      the dull brightness of steel, glimmered in a long line before us
-      reflecting the arc-lamps like a smooth waterway&mdash;like a slow canal in
-      ancient Venice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Where we went I do not know; I did not care to notice. The creaking <i>fiacre</i>
-      had become a gondola and it was Fiesole who leant against me. Sometimes
-      the <i>cocher</i> drew up to light a cigarette and to glance suspiciously
-      down upon us. Then I was brought back to reality. We circled the Bastille
-      and prowled through the <i>Quartier Latin</i>, where the night was not so
-      late. We crossed the river once more and crept along the <i>Quai des
-      Tuileries</i>; then again we climbed &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; and plunged into the
-      grimy purlieus of <i>Les Halles</i>. Market-carts were already creaking,
-      in from the country with swinging lamps. Wagons piled high with
-      vegetables, loomed mountainous under eaves of houses. From the market came
-      grumbling voices of men unloading, and the occasional squealing of a
-      stallion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The <i>cocher</i> wriggled on his box and confronted me fretfully. Before
-      he could ask his question, &ldquo;Sacré nom d&rsquo;un chien!&rdquo; I shouted fiercely,
-      &ldquo;Allez. Allez.&rdquo; Meekly he jerked at the reins, sinking his head between
-      his obedient shoulders.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I looked down at the tiny face beside me&mdash;the face of a white flower
-      whose petals are folding. She had ceased her singing an hour ago. Feeling
-      me stir, she struggled to open her eyes and slipped her small hand into
-      mine. When I drew my arm tighter about her she sighed happily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Above the tottering roofs of Paris the night grew haggard. One by one
-      stars were snuffed out. Wisps of clouds drove across the moon like witches
-      riding homeward. It was the hour when even Paris grows quiet. Ragpickers
-      were slinking through the shadows, raking over barrels set out on the
-      curb. Women, shuddering in bedraggled finery&mdash;queens of Montmartre
-      once, perhaps, whose only weariness had been too many lovers&mdash;dragged
-      themselves to some sheltered doorway, thankful for a bed in the gutter, if
-      it were undisturbed. In boulevards for lengthy pauses ours was the only
-      sound of traffic.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My head jerked nearer hers. Her breath was on my cheek; I could feel the
-      twitching of her supple body. Poor little lady of the jonquils&mdash;of
-      what was she dreaming? What had she expected from me? She would tell often
-      of this eccentric night and no one would credit her story.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I awoke she was still sleeping. A spring breeze ruffled the trees;
-      sparrows were chirping; a golden morning sparkled across the waters of the
-      Seine. The sun, still ruddy from his rising, stood magnificently young
-      among the chimney-pots, trailing his gleaming mantle beneath the bridges.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The battered race-horse had stumbled with us just beyond the Louvre and
-      stood with his head sagging between his knees, his body lurching forward.
-      The reins had fallen from the <i>cocher&rsquo;s</i> hands; his thick neck was
-      deep in his collar; and his face looked strangled. From across the road a
-      waiter scattered sand between his newly set out tables and watched us with
-      amused curiosity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My body was cramped. As I attempted to uncrook my legs, my companion
-      opened her eyes and stared at me in amazed confusion. She yawned and sat
-      up laughing, patting her mouth. &ldquo;Oh, <i>la, la</i>&mdash;&mdash;. Bonjour, toi!&rdquo;\
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We examined ourselves&mdash;I in my crumpled evening-dress, and she in her
-      flimsy gown and decorative high-heeled shoes. I had a glimpse of my face
-      in imagination&mdash;pale and donnish; the very last face for such a
-      situation. How ill-assorted! Then I laughed too; the <i>cocher</i>
-      lumbered round on his box and burst into a hoarse guffaw at sight of us.
-      We all laughed together, and the waiter ceased sanding his floor to laugh
-      with us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We left the racer to his well-earned rest and all three went across to the
-      café. As we soaked bread in our bowls of coffee and plied our spoons, we
-      chatted merrily like good comrades. Then we parted with the <i>cocher</i>,
-      leaving him agreeably surprised, and sauntered down the Quai where workmen
-      in blue blouses, hurrying from across the bridges, found time to nudge one
-      another knowingly and to smile into our eyes with a glad intimacy which
-      was not at all offensive.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In a narrow street where &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; commenced, she halted and placed
-      both her hands on my shoulders, tiptoeing against me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;One &rsquo;as to go &rsquo;ome sometime, mon ami.&rdquo; She was determined
-      to be a sportsman to the end. &ldquo;But remember, mon petit, if you do not find
-      &rsquo;er, zere are ozers.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I put my hand into my pocket. She examined what I gave her. &ldquo;Mais, non!&rdquo;
-       she exclaimed, flushing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But yes&mdash;for remembrance.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She tilted up her face and her happy eyes clouded; the tired cheeks turned
-      whiter and the painted lips quivered. &ldquo;Little one, keess me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      So I parted from this chance-met waif with her brave and generous heart&mdash;&mdash;
-      And this was what my madness and Fiesole had taught me. For the time the
-      memory of Vi was entirely banished from my thoughts.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;SATURNALIA
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t my hotel I found
-      no message. But it was still early; she might not have received my card
-      and, as yet, did not know my address. The intoxication of the previous
-      night still flicked my spirit into optimism&mdash;perhaps she would answer
-      me in person.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Then came the reaction&mdash;the truer judgment. If she had desired to see
-      me, she could have sent round word to my box at the theatre. After all,
-      why should she desire to see me? She was famous and had made her world
-      without me. When we parted, I had left her with a memory so humiliating
-      that it must scorch her even now. These were things which a woman finds it
-      difficult to forgive&mdash;impossible to forget. Still, there was
-      curiosity&mdash;a woman&rsquo;s curiosity! She might resist it for a time,
-      tantalizing both me and herself; but she would have to see me presently,
-      if only to wound me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I scarcely stirred from my hotel, afraid lest I should miss her. By the
-      time evening fell, I had come to a new conclusion&mdash;that the ironical
-      scoundrel, who had so coolly pocketed my money, had destroyed my card. To
-      make sure of reaching her, I wrote a letter to the theatre, saying many
-      true things foolishly. Then, in sheer restlessness, I hurried to the
-      boulevard in which her theatre was situated, hoping to get a glimpse of
-      her either coming or going.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I could not bring myself to enter&mdash;it was too horrible and beautiful&mdash;she
-      was dancing away her womanhood in there. Shockingly fascinated as I had
-      been by the spectacle, I felt a lover&rsquo;s jealousy that strangers should
-      watch it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I hated the gay crowds seething in to find enjoyment in my shame and her
-      tragedy. They were jesters at something sacred.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I paced the boulevard with clenched hands and snapping nerves; I could not
-      go far away from her, and I could not go to her. Within my brain she was
-      always dancing, dancing, and the jaded eyes of Paris grew young with greed
-      of her sensational perfection. I longed to go to her, to protect her, to
-      save her from herself. She needed me, though she would scorn the idea if I
-      told her. If she would but allow it, I would carry her away from these
-      hectic nights and this subtle, soul-destroying sensualism. Her shame was
-      my doing; I would give all my life to make amends to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      But she gave me no sign that she had either seen or heard from me. What
-      else could I expect? How could I explain my infatuation even to myself,
-      let alone to her, as more than physical attraction? And was it more?...
-      Once she had offered me far more than I now begged; I had churlishly
-      refused it. How could I account to her for my altered valuation of her
-      worth? She would not answer&mdash;I knew that now. I should have to compel
-      her attention.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Next morning in reading the papers I came across her name frequently. She
-      was the madcap darling of Paris; every edition contained some anecdote of
-      <i>La Fiesole</i> and her erratic doings. One item captured my interest
-      especially: there was a certain café in the Champs Elysées to which she
-      went often after theatre hours. For the time being she had made it the
-      most fashionable midnight resort in Paris.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      That night, having bribed heavily for the privilege, I was seated at a
-      table near the entrance. If she came, she could scarcely pass without
-      seeing me. The place was an <i>al fresco</i> restaurant, gorgeously
-      theatric. It stood in a garden, brilliantly romantic and insincere as a
-      stage-setting. Overlooking the garden were white verandahs,
-      creeper-covered and garish with hothouse flowers; throughout it were
-      scattered kiosks and bowers in which the more secret of the diners sat.
-      The plumed trees were knit together with ropes of lights, like
-      pearl-necklaces which had been tossed into their branches casually. In
-      bushes and hidden among blossoms, glow-worm illuminations twinkled, like
-      faeries kindling and extinguishing their lamps. Everything was subdued and
-      sensuous. Fountains played and splashed. Statues glimmered. A gipsy
-      orchestra, fierce-looking and red-coated, clashed frenzied music, which
-      sobbed away into dreamy waltzes and elusive snatches of melody. The effect
-      was bizarre&mdash;artistically unreal and emotionally tropic.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Here one might experience a great passion which consumed by its panting
-      brevity; everyone seemed present for the express purpose of realizing such
-      a passion.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At tables seated in couples were extraordinary people, dressed to play
-      their part in a dare-devil romance. Here were men who looked like Russian
-      Archdukes, bearded, bloodless, and insolently languid. Sitting opposite
-      them were voluptuous women, tragically exotic, dangerously coaxing, with
-      the melodramatic appearance of scheming nihilists. They were reckless,
-      these costly, slant-eyed odalisques&mdash;exiles from commonplace
-      kindliness, born gamblers for the happiness they had thrown away and would
-      never re-capture. There was the atmosphere of intrigue, of indiscreet
-      liaison about almost every couple. They acted as though for one ecstatic
-      moment the world was theirs. Their behavior was everything that is
-      exaggerated, fond, undomestic, and arrogantly well-bred.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      There was something lacking. As each new arrival entered, the slanted eyes
-      of the women and the heavy eyes of the men were raised droopingly with an
-      expression of furtive expectancy. They were a chorus assembled, waiting
-      for the leading actor till the play should commence.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Low rippling laughter, spontaneously joyous, sounded. From the trellised
-      entrance she emerged and halted, looking mock-bashful, taking in the
-      effect she had created, spurning the gravel with her golden slipper. Her
-      gown was of dull green satin, cut audaciously low in the back and neck,
-      and slashed from the hem to expose her slim ankle and golden stocking. She
-      wore no jewels, but between her breasts was a yellow rose, which drifted
-      nodding on the whiteness of her bosom as she drew her breath. Her reddish
-      gold hair was wrapped <i>en bandeaux</i> about her small pale ears and
-      broad pale forehead. It shone metallic; its brightness dulled and
-      quickened as she swayed her splendid body.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At her first appearance a muttering had arisen, gathering in volume. As
-      she lifted her head and her green eyes flashed through her long, bronze
-      lashes, we grew silent. It was as though a tamer had entered a cage of
-      panthers and stood cowing them with her consciousness of power. Yes, she
-      knew what they thought of her, and guessed what they admired in her. She
-      surveyed us with quiet contempt. I felt that behind whatever she did or
-      said there lay hidden a timid girlishness. She was still the old Fiesole,
-      the happy companion who could tramp through rainstorms like a man. Her
-      brave pagan purity these half-way decadents had not tarnished; by them it
-      was unsuspected. I watched her tall, lithe figure; the neck so small that
-      one could span it with a hand; the firm, high bosom, proud and virginal;
-      the straight, frank brows, and the mouth so red and sweetly drooping.
-      Other women looked decorative and tinsel beside her natural perfection.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My throat was parched. My eyes felt scalded. I was unnerved and a-tremble.
-      Her beauty daunted as much as it challenged. What bond still existed
-      between us that would draw her to me? She looked so remote, so hemmed in
-      by the new personality she had developed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her green eyes swept the garden, probing its secret shadows. For whom was
-      she looking? They rested on mine, absorbed me&mdash;then fell away without
-      recognition. I had risen in my place, with head bent forward, ready to go
-      to her at the least sign of friendship. I remained standing and staring.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned to one of her companions and whispered something, at which they
-      both laughed. He was a tall poetic-looking man, slight of hip, blue-eyed,
-      and handsome. His hair was wavy and yellow, his face bearded, and his skin
-      pale with excess. There were other men with her, Monsieur Georges among
-      others; but on the poet alone she lavished her attention. She gave him her
-      arm and came towards me with the undulating stride that I knew so well.
-      For a second I believed she was going to acknowledge me; she went by so
-      closely that her gown trailed across my feet and brushed my hands. It was
-      cruelly intended. The play had opened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The table that had been reserved for her was next to mine, partly hidden
-      from the public gaze by bushes; as I watched, I caught glimpses of her
-      profile, and could always hear the lazy murmur of her voice and
-      occasionally fragments of what was said. I followed her foreign gestures,
-      her tricks of personality&mdash;all of them adorably familiar: the way she
-      shifted her eyebrows in listening, sunk her chin between her breasts when
-      she was serious, and clapped her hands in excitement. She was as simple as
-      a child&mdash;in her heart she had not altered. Even the way in which she
-      made me suffer what she had suffered was childish. This pretending not to
-      know me was so transparent. There were other and more subtle methods by
-      which she could have taken her revenge.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was not the only man who attempted to spy on her; there might have been
-      no other woman present. Languid faces scattered throughout the garden took
-      on a new sharpness. They turned and looked down from balconies on La
-      Fiesole, eager to catch glimpses of her. To their women-companions men
-      listened with a bored pretense of attention. Perhaps it was because of
-      this, in an effort to focus interest on themselves, that the women, as by
-      a concerted plan, became more animated.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Suddenly a girl in scarlet leapt upon a table and commenced to dance with
-      flashing eyes and whirling skirts. I heard someone say that she was a
-      gipsy and that her brother was first-violinist in the orchestra. The music
-      mounted up, wild and unrestrained; the small feet beat faster; the actions
-      became more frenzied. She turned away from her comrade and bent back
-      double, peering into his eyes; she flung herself from him, chaffing him
-      with grim endearments; she feigned to become furious; then she threw
-      herself across his knees exhausted, writhing her arms about his neck. Men
-      eyed her with studied carelessness. She had done it before and they had
-      applauded. They could see her any night. They could not always feast their
-      eyes on La Fiesole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Saturnalia broke loose. Girl after girl rose upon chair or table, or went
-      swaying through the magic garden like a frail leaf harried by a storm.
-      They danced singly, they danced together, going through grotesque
-      contortions, beckoning lovers with their eyes and gestures.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And I watched Fiesole through the bushes. She was not so indifferent to me
-      as she pretended. She was playacting to rouse my jealousy; she was
-      purposely scourging me into madness. I alone of the public was
-      sufficiently near to see clearly what she was doing. She was luring her
-      poet to recklessness, taking no notice of what was in process about her.
-      Did I catch her eye, she looked past me without recognition. But him she
-      enticed by her gentleness. The man was drunk with her favor and beauty. He
-      trembled to put the thoughts of a lover into action; she challenged him
-      with her eyes, warning him from her and beckoning him to her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Stooping over her, so low that his lips were in her hair, he whispered;
-      but she shook her head. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, as
-      though to steady him and to soften the unkindness of her refusal. Quickly
-      he caught it in his own and bent over it, running his lips along her
-      fingers and up her arm&rsquo;s smooth curves. She looked down on him unmoved,
-      disdainful at his breach of manners, yet superbly amorous. Clutching her
-      hotly to him, he kissed her on the throat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Blind anger shook me&mdash;lust for violence such as I had never felt.
-      Breaking into the toy arbor where they sat, I remember standing over him,
-      dragging him backward by the collar, so that his face glared up at mine
-      empurpled. His friends rushed forward, beating me about the head and
-      shoulders, tearing at my hands, trying to make me release my hold.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole had risen like a fury. The table went down with a crash. Her face
-      was deadly pale and her green eyes blazed with indignation. Her hands were
-      clenched as if she also were about to strike me. And I was pouring out a
-      torrent of words, telling her swiftly how I loved her and all that she had
-      made me suffer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her rage died away as she listened and her expression became inscrutable.
-      Quickly she darted back her head, laughing without happiness, mockingly.
-      &ldquo;You are very English, my friend. If you make so much noise, these
-      messieurs will think we are married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I caught her by the wrists, so that she backed away from me. &ldquo;I wish to
-      God we were.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, la, la, la!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She went off into a peal of merriment, pointing her finger at me. The
-      crowd gathered round us uncertain, asking in half-a-dozen languages what
-      had been the provocation and what we were saying.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her look changed. It was as though a mask had fallen. The temptress and
-      witch were gone. I seemed to see in her melancholy eyes all the longing
-      for tenderness and loyalty that I thought had been killed years ago in
-      Venice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She advanced her face to mine and stared at me timidly, as though fearful
-      she had been mistaken.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Take me out of this,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her companions tried to intercept us, gesticulating and protesting. She
-      brushed them aside, explaining that I was not myself and did not know what
-      I was doing. For her sake they let me go without further molestation.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We passed out, leaving them gaping after us. I helped her into her furs
-      and took my place beside her in the coupé. Before we were out of earshot,
-      the gipsy orchestra had swung into a new frenzy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Once Vi had kept me from Fiesole; now Fiesole was taking me from Vi. And
-      these two women who, through me, had influenced one another&rsquo;s destinies,
-      had never met. They were hostile types.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was at a loss
-      what to say to her. Words could not bridge the gulf of more than five
-      years that separated us. Now that anger had subsided, my genius for
-      self-ridicule was at work. What a fool I had made of myself; how supremely
-      silly I must appear in her eyes! It would be in all the papers to-morrow.
-      How would she like that? Where was she taking me and why? Had she come
-      with me simply to get me out of a public place before I committed worse
-      violence?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I pieced together phrases of apology and explanation, but remained
-      tongue-tied. To express the emotions that stormed in my mind all words
-      seemed insincere and inadequate. I was not sufficiently certain of her to
-      venture either speech or action. I was fearful lest her mood might change
-      to one of amusement. My nerves were on edge&mdash;I dared not risk that.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Noiseless as a ghost in a dream-world, the electric coupé drifted up the
-      dully gleaming boulevard. I leant against the padded back and watched her.
-      She sat erect, splendidly self-possessed, her profile framed in the
-      carriage-window with the stealthy lights of Paris slipping by for
-      background. Now she was no more than a blurred outline; now the
-      acetylene-lamps of a swiftly moving car flashed on her like a
-      search-light; now the twinkling incandescence of an illumined café flung
-      jewels in her hair; now her face rested like sculptured ivory on the
-      velvet blackness of the night. She was immobile; even the slender fingers
-      clasped together in her lap never stirred. Our silence had lasted so long
-      that it had ceased to be fragile; it rose between us, a wall of ice.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We drew up against the curb. I had but a vague idea of where we were&mdash;near
-      the Bois, I conjectured. Tall houses stood in shuttered dumbness along one
-      side; on the other, trees shrank beneath the primrose dusk of arc-lights.
-      She stepped out, ignoring my proffered assistance. She crossed the
-      pavement and tapped; as the door swung back I followed her under an
-      archway into a dim courtyard. Having mounted several flights of stairs,
-      she tapped again. To the sleepy maid who opened she whispered hurriedly.
-      The maid discreetly fell behind.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We passed into a room delicately furnished. The floor was heavily carpeted
-      in red. The walls, hung with etchings and landscapes, were paneled in
-      white. Flowers stood about in bowls and slender vases; shaded lamps gave
-      to the room a secret aspect. In the grate a fire of coals was burning and
-      two deep chairs stood one on either side. The atmosphere was intensely and
-      perishably feminine; it gave me the feeling of preparedness&mdash;as
-      though I had been expected. Through tall windows the curious night stared
-      in upon us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole crossed, making no sound save the silken rustle of her dress, and
-      drew the curtains close together. She turned, looking back at me
-      side-long, at once amused and languid. Her coldness and aloofness had
-      vanished. The sparkle of mischief fetched the gold from the depths of her
-      green eyes. Her body became expressive and vibrant. Then I heard her sweet
-      hoarse voice, with its quaintly foreign intonation. It reached me
-      tauntingly, lazy with indifference, holding me at arm&rsquo;s length. &ldquo;Dear man,
-      take a chair by the fire and behave yourself. Mon Dieu, but you were
-      amusing to-night!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laughed softly at remembering and shook her cloak from her white
-      shoulders. A strand of hair broke loose and fell coiling across her
-      breast. She stepped to a mirror, turning her back on me; having twisted it
-      into place, she remained smiling at her reflection, whistling beneath her
-      breath.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her gaiety cut like a lash across my mouth. I was painfully in earnest.
-      She was treating the situation as an incident&mdash;a jest. To me it was a
-      supreme moment&mdash;a turning-point: on what we should say to one another
-      would depend the entire direction of both our lives. I was sorry for her
-      beyond the power of words to express. The success and luxury of her way of
-      living did not blind me to its hollowness and danger. Her frivolity left
-      me affronted and fascinated. She roused in me all the unrestraint of the
-      flesh; and yet I desired to worship her with my mind. I longed to carry
-      her away from the fever and glare of streets to a place of quiet, where
-      the world was blowy&mdash;where she might become what she had once been
-      when I might have had her, genuine and fine. While these thoughts raced
-      through my mind, the insistent question kept repeating itself, why had she
-      brought me here to be alone with her at this late hour of the night?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her eyes flashed out at me maddeningly from the mirror. They prompted to
-      irretrievable folly. They called me to go to her, and to be unworthy of
-      both her and myself. And I knew why: she wished me to say and do the
-      things that were unforgivable that she might have excuse to scorn me, to
-      fling me from her. Once it had been my Puritanism that had thrust us
-      apart; it should not now be my sensualism. I would not let her make a
-      hypocrite of me in my own eyes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The seconds ticked out the silence. Her dress whispered. Her voluptuous
-      white arms, uplifted and curved above her neck as she patted her hair,
-      enhanced the perfect vase-like effect of her body. I would not go to her,
-      I told myself; I would not go to her. I held myself rigid, distraught, and
-      tense. The blood swelled out my throat and beat in my temples. She
-      withdrew her hands. Wickedly, like a shower of largesse, the clustered
-      glory of her hair rained from her head, catching her in a net of
-      smoldering brightness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She glanced with half-closed eyes across her shoulder and feigned
-      astonishment at observing that I had remained standing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Still the same old idjut! Wanting something you&rsquo;re afraid to have, and
-      looking tragic.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Fiesole, girl, don&rsquo;t you understand? It&rsquo;s not that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      My voice sounded odd and strangled. I had spoken scarcely above a whisper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She swung about and surveyed me leisurely. There was a pout on her mouth
-      like that of a naughty child. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re no longer amusing,&rdquo; she faltered;
-      &ldquo;you grow tiresome. Why can&rsquo;t you be sensible, and sit down? I want to
-      hear all this that you&rsquo;ve got to tell me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t make it easy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shrugged her gleaming shoulders. &ldquo;Why should I? You made a horrid row
-      about something that was none of your concern. You nearly choked a friend
-      of mine to death. You don&rsquo;t expect me to say thank you, surely? I ought to
-      punish you; instead, I bring you here. I wanted to have a look at you. Ah!
-      but you were funny&mdash;so righteous and English! You made me laugh....
-      I can forgive anyone who does that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I did not answer, she regarded me puzzled. Slowly her brilliant
-      deviltry and merriment faded. The laughter sank to a whisper and ceased
-      abruptly, frightened at itself. The red lips drooped and parted. Something
-      of my own pinched earnestness was reflected in her expression&mdash;it was
-      as though her soul unveiled itself. She stole across to me wonderingly,
-      her beautiful arms stretched out. She rested the tips of her fingers
-      tremulously on my shoulders.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s not true. You were splendid&mdash;so different from the rest.
-      I&rsquo;m a beast. You made me ashamed of myself. That&rsquo;s why I was angry;
-      because you, who made me what I am, should accuse me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Accuse you! God forbid!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I made a movement to gather her to me, but she slipped past me and sank
-      into a chair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Between us not that.&rdquo; She caught her breath. &ldquo;I hate you. I want to hate
-      you. What else did you expect? But I can&rsquo;t. I cannot. You won&rsquo;t let me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You ought to hate me. Call me what you like; it won&rsquo;t be worse than I
-      deserve. I was cruel and selfish. I see it now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shook back her hair from her forehead and bent forward gazing into the
-      fire, her elbows on her knees, her face cushioned in her hands. A sudden
-      gravity and wistfulness had fallen on her. She was thinking, remembering,
-      weighing me in the balance. I must not touch her&mdash;must not speak to
-      her. If I showed any sign of passion, she would mistake it for pity either
-      of her or of myself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I wanted to forget&mdash;to live you out of my life; but you&rsquo;ve brought
-      it all back&mdash;the old bitterness and heartache. You didn&rsquo;t know what
-      you did to me, Dante. You spared my body; you killed everything&mdash;everything
-      else that was best. Look at me now.&rdquo; She glanced down at the exotic daring
-      of her appearance:&mdash;the golden stocking that was revealed from ankle
-      to knee by the narrow slash in the skirt; the splendid extravagant display
-      of arms, throat, and breast that swelled up riotously, uninterrupted,
-      snowy and amorous from the sheathlike dress&mdash;a flashing blade
-      half-withdrawn from its scabbard.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a devil. You made me that, you virgin man. No, don&rsquo;t speak&mdash;&mdash;
-      I thought I should have died of shame after I left you. I could have
-      killed you. You don&rsquo;t know how a woman feels when she&rsquo;s wanted a man with
-      her whole soul and body, and she knows that she&rsquo;s beautiful; and he&rsquo;s
-      flung her from him when she&rsquo;s offered herself, as though she were
-      worthless. &lsquo;He didn&rsquo;t care,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;so nobody&rsquo;ll ever care.&rsquo;&mdash;&mdash;
-      And then I met Antoine Georges, who had known my father. And I did what
-      you&rsquo;ve seen and I&rsquo;ve won success. When I saw you the other night I wanted
-      to make you suffer. I&rsquo;ve often pictured how I would torture you if ever
-      you should come back&mdash;how I&rsquo;d destroy you&mdash;how I&rsquo;d make you go
-      through the same hell. And now you&rsquo;ve come, and I can&rsquo;t do it.&mdash;&mdash;
-      I may change my mind presently. You&rsquo;d better go while I let you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m never going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She turned her head, scrutinizing my face stealthily from between her
-      hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a fool. What about her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no one else. There never will be.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She gasped. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t marry her?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The strained look in her face relaxed. She laughed softly to herself; why
-      she laughed I could not guess. It was not the laughter which follows
-      suspense, but the laughter of one who courts danger. It was as though she
-      parted her hair into sheaves and glanced out crying, &ldquo;I am Eve, the long
-      desired.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Reaching over to the table she picked out a cigarette. When it was alight,
-      she snuggled down into the chair, kicking off her little gold shoes and
-      resting her feet on the fender. She eyed me dreamily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you made me suffer all that for nothing? You good men can be cruel.&mdash;&mdash;
-      Tell me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Briefly I told her of my useless visit to Sheba; and why I left; and why I
-      was still unmarried. I kept nothing back in my self-scorn and desire to be
-      honest.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She slipped her feet up and down the gleaming rail as she listened, lying
-      deep in cushions, her cigarette tilted in her mouth, her hands clasped
-      behind her head. When I ended, she frowned at me whimsically from beneath
-      her drawn brows.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, you impracticable person, you might have foreseen all that. You
-      didn&rsquo;t need to cross the Atlantic to discover that a husband doesn&rsquo;t let
-      his wife be taken from him without making trouble.&mdash;&mdash; So you
-      wouldn&rsquo;t pay the price to get her! You&rsquo;re a rotten reckoner, old boy, for
-      a man who counts the cost of everything ahead.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her eye-lids flickered as her deep voice droned the words out.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You should put all that in the past tense, Fiesole. I&rsquo;m not counting
-      anything to-night, penalties or pleasures. I&rsquo;m just a man who&rsquo;s wakened. I
-      want something madly. Whatever it costs me or anybody else, I intend to
-      get it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You always wanted what you couldn&rsquo;t have.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke lazily, blowing smoke-rings into the air, following them with
-      her eyes and watching how they broke before they reached the ceiling. She
-      appeared untouched by my emotion, as though nothing had been said that
-      intimately concerned herself. She let her gaze wander, extending her lithe
-      sweet length luxuriously, as though she had nothing to fear from my
-      passion. I was crazed with desire, for all that I kept my tones quiet and
-      steady. She maddened me with her indifference. It was all pretense&mdash;I
-      knew it. She was playing a part with me, courting the inevitable, tempting
-      me to reveal my hidden self. I watched her with clenched hands&mdash;suffering,
-      yet finding fierce joy in the wonderful pride of her body. I would not
-      have had her otherwise; the colder she appeared, the more I coveted her. I
-      could have had her once for my wife, I reflected, had I chosen. I had
-      tormented her; it was just that I should suffer.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The reticence of years fell away from me. I was kneeling at her side,
-      kissing her unshod feet, her hands, her hair. Words tumbled from my lips,
-      broken and unconsidered. I called her by foolish names such as are only
-      used between lovers. I poured my heart out, speaking of the past and the
-      future. I cursed myself, all the time repeating how I worshiped her&mdash;how
-      I had loved her from a boy, but had come to know it only now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And she gave no sign of response: neither forbidding, nor assenting;
-      letting me have my way with her without acknowledging my presence; a quiet
-      smile playing round her lips; as completely mistress of herself as is a
-      statue.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I trembled into silence. She drooped forward, bending over me, just as she
-      had done years ago in her uncle&rsquo;s summer-house.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My dear, there are things that are offered only once. Five years ago I
-      asked you for all that you are now asking. You were afraid of the price,
-      as you were with the other woman. You refused me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s marriage I&rsquo;m asking.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah! Then I asked for less.&mdash;&mdash; I&rsquo;m sorry. You ought to have
-      gone when I told you. I felt that I should have to wound you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her gentle dignity stung me into strength. My turbulence died down. As I
-      knelt, I flung my arms around her body and drew her to me. She struggled
-      to draw back, but I held her so closely that my lips were almost on her
-      mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Listen, Fiesole, I&rsquo;m unfair and I mean to be unfair. I was a brute to you
-      once when I meant only to be honorable. To-night I&rsquo;m not caring what I am.
-      You despise me&mdash;you can go on despising me, but I&rsquo;ll wear you out.
-      I&rsquo;ll make you come to love me even against your will. You&rsquo;ll need me some
-      day; I shall wait for that. I want to spend all my life for you; it&rsquo;s the
-      only thing I ask of life now. Wherever you go I shall follow you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I stopped, panting for breath. She had ceased to struggle. Her eyes were
-      wide; her face hovered pale above me; she stared down at me powerless, yet
-      with reckless challenge, breathing upon my mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a rotter to come back like this,&rdquo; she said hotly, &ldquo;just when I was
-      beginning to be happy. When you speak of marriage, you don&rsquo;t know what
-      you&rsquo;re saying. You spoilt all that for me years ago at Venice. D&rsquo;you think
-      I&rsquo;ll ever believe again in the honor and goodness of a man? You&rsquo;ve come
-      too late. Five years changes people. I&rsquo;m a different woman now&mdash;not
-      at all what you imagine.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You can be any kind of woman you choose, but you&rsquo;re the woman I&rsquo;m going
-      to marry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you haven&rsquo;t heard what people say about me?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;They say I&rsquo;ve had lovers.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe them.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What if I should tell you that I have?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t believe you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d prefer to think that I&rsquo;d lied to you rather than that I&rsquo;d told you
-      the truth?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It would make no difference. You&rsquo;ve always loved me. You love me now. I
-      know that you are pure.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you would never doubt it? Never doubt it of a woman who dances every
-      night, as I do, before the eyes of Paris?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She gazed at me curiously, with tenderness and intentness. Her bosom
-      shuddered; I saw the sob rising in her throat. When she spoke, the words
-      came slowly; her eyes were misted over; she trembled as I clasped her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you know, I believe you&rsquo;re the only living man who&rsquo;d be fool enough to
-      say that?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I was always a fool, Fiesole.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I thought she would have kissed me, her lips came so near to mine. &ldquo;But a
-      dear fool, sometimes,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely; &ldquo;a fool who always comes
-      too late or too early&mdash;but a fool to the end.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stood up and my arms slipped down to her knees as I held her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She laughed brokenly. &ldquo;You nearly made me serious. It won&rsquo;t do to be
-      serious at three o&rsquo;clock in the morning.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t go till you&rsquo;ve promised. Promise,&rdquo; I urged.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She yawned. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sleepy. You&rsquo;ve worn me out.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But answer me before I go.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She smiled down at me mockingly, ruffling my hair. &ldquo;What a hurry he&rsquo;s in
-      after all these years. Don&rsquo;t you ever go to bed?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Tell me to-night. I must know. I can&rsquo;t bear the suspense.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I put up with it for five years.&mdash;&mdash; Well, if you won&rsquo;t go home
-      like a good boy, you won&rsquo;t. There&rsquo;s a couch over there.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She broke from me, leaving me kneeling with my arms empty. As the door
-      opened into the room beyond I had a glimpse of the curtained bed.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I drew my chair closer to the dying fire. Behind the wall I could hear her
-      steps moving up and down as she undressed. Now and then they paused; she
-      was listening for the sound of my departure, uncertain, perhaps, whether I
-      was still there. Some time had elapsed when the door opened gently. I
-      twisted round. Her room was in darkness. She was standing on the
-      threshold. Her feet were bare; she was clad in a white night-robe; across
-      each shoulder, almost to her knees, hung down the red-gold ropes of her
-      braided hair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I meant what I said. I&rsquo;m not going till you tell me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her green eyes met mine roguishly. &ldquo;A persistent fool to-night,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As the door was closing I threw after her, &ldquo;That morning in Venice.... I
-      was going to have asked you to marry me; you were gone....&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Left alone with the last flame flickering in the grate, I watched the
-      little gold shoes.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he sun was
-      streaming in across my shoulder. Someone had pulled back the curtains. I
-      was stiff and stupid from my cramped position. Despite the morning, the
-      electric-lights were still burning in the room; I blinked down at myself
-      and was astonished to find that I was in evening-dress. As I eased myself
-      up, something dropped to the floor&mdash;the gold shoes of Fiesole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From behind two warm arms fastened themselves about my neck, making me
-      prisoner.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re up early, Dante C. You&rsquo;re a great, stupid juggins to sit up all
-      night and spoil your temper, just when I want you to be more than
-      ordinarily pleasant.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;My temper&rsquo;s not spoilt. Don&rsquo;t worry.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I take your word for it. I&rsquo;ve got a secret to tell you. I&rsquo;m going on the
-      spree to-day&mdash;going to be immensely happy. I want you to help. If
-      you&rsquo;ve any of your tiresome scruples left over, you&rsquo;d best chuck &rsquo;em;
-      or I&rsquo;ll find someone else.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Bit early, isn&rsquo;t it, to tackle a chap? I&rsquo;m too stupid to know what you
-      mean. But I&rsquo;m game. How long&rsquo;s this spree to last?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Till it ends.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;ll last forever, so long as it&rsquo;s just you and me.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She dug the point of her chin into my shoulder. Glancing sideways, I
-      caught the impish sparkle of her eyes and the glow of her cheeks, flushed
-      with health and excitement.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps you&rsquo;d like to kiss me,&rdquo; she whispered, bringing her demure red
-      lips on a level with my mouth.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And now, perhaps you&rsquo;d like to kiss me,&rdquo; I suggested.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When I attempted to rise, she restrained me. &ldquo;Not till I&rsquo;ve made my
-      bargain and you&rsquo;ve agreed to my terms. I haven&rsquo;t made up my mind about
-      you, so you needn&rsquo;t start talking marriage. Don&rsquo;t know what I&rsquo;m going to
-      do with you, Dannie. So you&rsquo;re to come with me wherever I choose till I&rsquo;m
-      tired&mdash;and you&rsquo;re to ask no questions. Understand?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You never will be tired. I&rsquo;m coming with you always.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And you&rsquo;ll ask no questions?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No more than I can help.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled shirt-front; I was so
-      obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion. She went off into peals
-      of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth, and
-      clapping her hands. &ldquo;What have I done to you? You&rsquo;re a bottle of
-      champagne; I&rsquo;ve pulled the cork out. I&rsquo;ll never get you all back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I took her hands in mine, folding them together, and drew her to me.
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll never get any of me back. You&rsquo;ve made me love you. That&rsquo;s what
-      you&rsquo;ve done, you adorable witch-woman.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Oh, la, la! Don&rsquo;t talk like that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t help it. Don&rsquo;t want to help it. You&rsquo;ve made me mad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Poor old Dannie! Horrid of me, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      A tap at the door; the maid entered, bringing in rolls and coffee. I
-      started away from Fiesole, but she held me. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t shock Marie; she&rsquo;s
-      hardened; she&rsquo;s heard all about you, and some pretty bad things she&rsquo;s
-      heard.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Over her coffee she grew thoughtful.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You are.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Already?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the
-      morning?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How d&rsquo;you want me dressed?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Got &rsquo;em all at my hotel. I&rsquo;ll slip back.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She slanted her eyes at me. &ldquo;Slip back to London, perhaps! No, Dannie, I
-      don&rsquo;t trust you yet. I don&rsquo;t intend to lose you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed.
-      Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered
-      conversation reached me, scraps of nervously spoken French, and the
-      opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy
-      velvet, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish figure.
-      The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur.
-      The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match.
-      Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted
-      in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty of a coquette. She
-      looked oddly young and distinguished on this rare spring morning. There
-      never was such a woman for arranging her temperament to suit her dress.
-      Her hectic manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy as
-      she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the
-      effect.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So I meet with your approval?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Passing down the stairs, she hugged my arm impulsively&mdash;a trick which
-      brought memories of Ruthita. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s awfully jolly to be loved&mdash;don&rsquo;t
-      you think so?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing. The chauffeur
-      stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the
-      boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze
-      back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry at one another as
-      to the identity of her strangely attired companion. We drew up at my hotel
-      in the Rue St. Honoré.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I give you fifteen minutes. Is that sufficient? Make yourself gay. Don&rsquo;t
-      forget, a tweed suit, brown shoes, a gray felt hat&mdash;oh, and a red tie
-      if you&rsquo;ve got one. I couldn&rsquo;t endure anything black.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I found her with her eager face turned towards the doorway, watching
-      impatiently for me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A good beginning&mdash;ready to the second. Jump in. We&rsquo;re off to
-      somewhere where no one&rsquo;ll know anything about us. Let&rsquo;s see if we can&rsquo;t
-      lose ourselves.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She swung the car round and away we snorted, through the Place de la
-      Concorde blanched in sunlight, up the Champs Elysées where sunlight
-      spattered against blossoming trees and lay in pools on the turf. The
-      streets were animated with little children, women in bright dresses,
-      dashing cars and carriages. Paris gleamed white and green and golden.
-      Overhead the sky foamed and bubbled, yawning into blue and primrose
-      gulleys, trampled by stampeding clouds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the Place de l&rsquo;Etoile the car drew up sharply and skidded; circled like
-      a hound picking up the scent; then darted swiftly away to the Bois, where
-      fashionables already loitered and acacias trembled murmurously.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole was radiant with impatience. A goddess of speed, she bent above
-      the wheel, casting her eyes along the road ahead. Did a gap occur in the
-      traffic, she flung the car forward, driving recklessly, yet always with
-      calculated precision. I marveled at her nerve and the silent power that
-      lay hidden in her thin, fine hands.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As we shot the bridge at St. Cloud the pace quickened. It was as though
-      she shook Paris from her skirts and ran panting to meet wider stretches of
-      wind-bleached country. I had one vivid glimpse of the ribbon of blue
-      river, boat-dotted, winding through young green of woodlands; then cities
-      and sophistication, and all things save Fiesole, myself, and the future
-      were at an end.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Soon the white road curved uninterrupted before us, a streak between
-      pollarded trees and blown meadows. Over the horizon came bounding hills
-      and church-spires, villages and rivers; as they came near to us they
-      halted, like shy deer, for a second; when we drew level, they fled. It was
-      as though we were stationary and the world was rushing past us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The wind of our going brought color to her cheeks and fluttered out her
-      hair. Her eyes were starry, fixed on the distance as she skirted the rim
-      of eternity in her daring. Should an axle break or a tire burst, all this
-      fire of youth would be extinguished forever. I glanced at the speedometer;
-      it quivered from seventy to eighty, to eighty-five kilometers, and there
-      it hovered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The throb of the engine seemed the throb of my passion. We were traveling
-      too fast for talking. She did not want to talk; she was escaping from
-      something, memories, perhaps&mdash;hers and mine. In her modern way she
-      was expressing what I had always felt: the tedium of captivity, sameness,
-      and disappointment&mdash;the need for the unwalled garden, where barriers
-      of obedience and duty are broken down.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At Evreux we halted for petrol. I proposed déjeuner, she shook her head
-      naughtily.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Over there, to the West.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Any particular spot in the West?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll see presently.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How about the theatre?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Time enough,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She spoke breathlessly, remaining at the wheel while the man was filling
-      the tank. Somehow it seemed to me that the town had come between us; we
-      understood one another better when the garden of the world was flying past
-      us.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Before the man was paid, she had turned on the power. As we lunged
-      forward, he jumped aside and I flung the money out. Our wild ride towards
-      the Eden of the forbidden future recommenced.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently, without turning her head, she broke the silence. &ldquo;Slip your arm
-      round me, old boy; my back grows tired.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I placed my arm about the slender, upright figure and slid my shoulder
-      behind her, so she leant against me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the idea, Fiesole? Paolo and Francesca?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And Adam and Eve, if you like; and Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell; and
-      Joseph Parker and Jane Cake-bread. Anything, so long as we keep going.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When I attempted to speak again, she turned on more power and threw me a
-      smile which was a threat.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I clasped her closer. &ldquo;Little devil! I&rsquo;ll keep quiet. You needn&rsquo;t do
-      that.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      But though I kept quiet my heart beat madly. The panorama of change
-      sweeping by, with her face the one thing constant, quickened and
-      emphasized my need of her more than any spoken tenderness. Our thoughts
-      merged and interchanged with a subtlety that speech could never have
-      accomplished. The pressure of her body, the tantalizing joy of her
-      nearness and forbiddenness, the imminence of death, the law of silence&mdash;these
-      summed up in a moment&rsquo;s experience the entire philosophy of love, and of
-      life itself.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I began to understand her meaning, her language; she was temporizing as I
-      had temporized at Venice; but instead of going away from me, she was
-      fleeing with me from circumstance. She was telling me of her woman&rsquo;s pride&mdash;her
-      difficulty to make herself attainable after what had happened. She loved
-      me and she hated me. She drew me to her and she thrust me from her. She
-      could not forget and she dreaded to remember. And she said all this when,
-      in escaping, she took me with her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Now I saw nothing of the hurrying landscape; I watched her. I wrote all
-      her beauty on the tablets of my mind&mdash;nothing should be unremembered:
-      the way her curls crept from under her cap and fluttered about her
-      temples; the clear pallor of her forehead; the firm, broad brows; the
-      quiet challenge of her deep-lashed eyes; how her red mouth pouted and her
-      head leant forward from her frail white neck, like a flower from its
-      stalk, in a kind of listening expectancy. And I observed the tender
-      swelling of her breasts, high and proud, yet humble for maternity; and the
-      pliant strength of her supple body; and her long clean limbs; and the
-      delicately modeled feet and ankles, which shot out from beneath her
-      fur-trimmed skirt&mdash;the feet of a dancer, graceful and fragile as
-      violins.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was mad. I wanted her. No matter how she came to me, I wanted her. I
-      could not bear the thought that we should ever be separated. She was so
-      intensely mine at this present; and yet, though she was mine, I was
-      insanely jealous to preserve her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      With the long fascination of watching her I bent slowly forward. The
-      action was instinctive, uncalculated. How long I took in approaching her,
-      I cannot tell. I was anxious to last out the joy of anticipation; I was
-      not conscious of motion. My lips touched hers. Her hold on the wheel
-      relaxed. Her eyes met mine. The car swerved, hung upon the edge of the
-      road, ran along it balancing; then bounded back into the straight white
-      line.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I was so frenzied that I did not care. She had thought to hold me prisoner
-      by her speed; I would overcome her with defiance. I kissed her again,
-      holding her to me. She kept her eyes on the distance now, but her mouth
-      smiled tenderly.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That was foolish,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I raised my voice to reach her above the moaning of the engine. &ldquo;The whole
-      thing&rsquo;s foolish.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She broke into wild laughter. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I like it, like you, like
-      myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We hovered on the brim of a valley; then commenced to sink as though the
-      earth had given way beneath us. Far below, as far as eye could reach, were
-      orchards smoking with white blossom. Through the heart of the valley a
-      river ran; standing on its puny banks was a gray old town, blinking in the
-      wind and sun like a spectacled grandmother who had nodded to sleep, and
-      wakened bewildered to find spring rioting round her.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where is it?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Lisieux, unless I&rsquo;m mistaken.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Then you know where we&rsquo;re going?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;More or less.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We pulled up in a drowsy, sun-drenched market-place outside a sleepy café.
-      At tables on the pavement, with hands in their blouses and legs sprawled
-      out, sat a few artisans, eyeing their absinthe. Houses tottered and sagged
-      from extreme old age. Across the way a cathedral, scarred by time and
-      chapped by weather, raised its crumbling sculptured towers against the
-      clouds.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She took my hand as she stepped out. &ldquo;You nearly did for us just now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who cares?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;All Paris cares. I&rsquo;m not anxious to be dead;
-      when I am, I&rsquo;d like to look pretty.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced
-      tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing
-      to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I
-      ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. &ldquo;You
-      know, I <i>am</i> pretty.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become
-      alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the
-      square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves
-      close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a Frenchman
-      always pays to feminine beauty.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. &ldquo;This
-      can&rsquo;t go on.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She laughed with her eyes. &ldquo;It can go on as long as there&rsquo;s any petrol
-      left, and as long as you don&rsquo;t try to kiss me when I&rsquo;m speeding.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not what I meant; you know it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What then? The same old thing&mdash;marriage?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I ignored her flippancy. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be turning back directly, and when you
-      get to Paris, you won&rsquo;t be like you are now. You&rsquo;ll be <i>La Fiesole</i>
-      and to-night you&rsquo;ll be dancing with them all watching. I can&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not going back? You&rsquo;ve given up the theatre?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She held me in suspense, letting her eyes wander as though she had not
-      heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting smile of hers. &ldquo;Damn
-      the theatre,&rdquo; she said quietly; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going on with you to the end.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And the end&rsquo;s marriage?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Who can tell? Now don&rsquo;t be a rotter. You&rsquo;re spoiling everything. Let&rsquo;s
-      talk of something else.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When we climbed into the car, &ldquo;You drive,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But to where?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s my secret. Straight on. I&rsquo;ll tell you when to turn.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head
-      was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her.
-      From time to time I looked down at the white slant of her throat, the
-      shadows beneath her lashes, and the almost childish droop of her mouth.
-      How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a
-      Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at hand&mdash;and
-      both were certain. What different versions she gave me of herself! Once a
-      sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to a halt, and
-      listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the agony of loss
-      that must some time accompany the actuality. One day, sooner or later, I
-      told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur. How much time was left
-      to us to find life beautiful between then and now?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      On the bare Normandy uplands, between tilled fields and driving clouds, I
-      waited for her to waken. The air was growing chill; I drew my coat round
-      her. I felt again, in a new and better way, that sense of nearness and
-      forbiddenness which had exhilarated me to the point of delirium on the
-      madcap journey down from Paris. I looked ahead into the pale distance,
-      where the notched horizon bound the earth with a silver band... and I
-      wondered where she was taking me, and what lay at the end. She might fight
-      against it&mdash;she would fight against it; but the end should be
-      marriage. I would watch over her always as I was watching now.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment with
-      undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She pulled
-      herself together, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes and yawning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Gee up, old hoss. This ain&rsquo;t a bloomin&rsquo; cab-stand. You&rsquo;re not home yet.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, I shan&rsquo;t pay you,&rdquo; she laughed; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not fair. Pray what did you
-      think you were doing?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Enjoying myself.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the difference; you like to crawl, I like to hurtle. You&rsquo;re a
-      tortoise; I&rsquo;m a razzle-dazzle. We&rsquo;re an ill-matched pair. Living in Pope
-      Lane has made you pontifical. Oh, Dannie, in ten years your tummy&rsquo;ll be
-      bulgy and your head&rsquo;ll be bald. Pope Lane&rsquo;ll have done it. I know what
-      I&rsquo;ve always missed about you now.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Something horrid? Let&rsquo;s have it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A cowl. You ought to have been a monk in Florence, painting naked angels
-      in impossible meadows.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;So kind of you. Religion mixed with impropriety! If there was someone to
-      relieve me of my conscience, it wouldn&rsquo;t be half bad. But I don&rsquo;t live at
-      Pope Lane any longer. You have the honor of sitting beside Sir Dante
-      Cardover of Woadley Hall, Ransby, of which, you little wretch, you are
-      soon to be mistress.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;That so? Sorry I spoke. Jump out and crank up the engine. It&rsquo;s coming on
-      again&mdash;you&rsquo;re going to have the sentimentals, and you&rsquo;re going to
-      have &rsquo;em bad.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve known you sentimental, Fiesole.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Her lips trembled, and her body stiffened. &ldquo;And you punished me for it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You have a woman&rsquo;s memory.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Odd, seeing I&rsquo;m a woman. Who&rsquo;s going to crank that engine? Am I, or are
-      you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We swung on through the bare bleak country with masked faces. She sat a
-      little apart from me, her knees crossed and her hands clasped about them.
-      Did I glance at her, she turned petulantly in the opposite direction. I
-      cursed myself. I was almost angry with her. What was her plan? Had she
-      given me the privileges of dearness to her simply that she might thwart
-      and taunt me? How could I teach her to forget? How could I teach myself to
-      forget? At the back of my mind I loved her the more because of her
-      perversity.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came to a cross-road. She touched me on the arm; we swerved into it.
-      Far down the white stretch I saw a speck, which resolved itself into a man
-      and woman, traveling away from us with their backs towards us. The man
-      wore the blue blouse and wide, baggy trousers of a peasant; his feet were
-      shod in sabots. The woman was clad in a coarse, loose dress, like a sack
-      drawn over her and tied about the middle; it was neutral in tone, being
-      aged by weather. Her figure was shapeless&mdash;almost animal in its
-      ponderous patience and breadth. Her hair was flaxen from exposure. They
-      plodded through the bleak expanse with heads bowed, bodies huddled, and
-      arms encircling. Every few paces they halted; we saw the gleam of their
-      faces as they clung lip to lip in hasty ecstasy.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The wind was blowing from them towards us; they were unaware of us. I had
-      my hand on the horn, when Fiesole clutched me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t. They&rsquo;ve nothing in the world but this moment. God knows what lies
-      before them!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We followed them at a distance. The symbolism of their silent figures awed
-      us: overhead, the soundless battle of high-flying clouds; beneath, the
-      gray vacancy with springtime stirring; around, the dun, unheeding earth;
-      through the bareness the white road sweeping on unhurrying toward the land
-      of sunsets; traveling along it a man and woman, for the time forgetful of
-      their poverty, the focus-point of responsive passion. They had nothing but
-      this moment.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And what have we?&rdquo; I questioned.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She crouched beside me; her soft arm stole about my neck. &ldquo;Dearest,
-      forgive me,&rdquo; she murmured.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Her eyes were blinded; my lips against her cheek were salt. She clung to
-      me desperately, as though a hand pressed on her shoulder to jerk her from
-      me&mdash;Vi&rsquo;s hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Where a rutted lane sloped down to a wooded hollow, the lovers turned.
-      Among pollarded trees we lost them. They would never know that we had
-      watched them. So they vanished out of our lives, walking hand-in-hand
-      toward child-bearing and the inevitable separation of death that lurked
-      for them at some hidden cross-road. We, equally unknowing, to what place
-      of parting were we faring?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I tilted up her face. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been a selfish fool. I&rsquo;ll never speak another
-      word about marriage or anything that will pain you. Oh, Fiesole, if you
-      could only love me&mdash;love me as I love you&mdash;as though there was
-      nothing else left!&rdquo; She took my hands in her small ones, pressing them to
-      her breast, quoting in a low sing-song, &ldquo;Laugh, for the time is brief, a
-      thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud
-      pageant of man.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I like that&mdash;&lsquo;the old proud pageant of man.&rsquo; I wonder where you got
-      it. But is there to be nothing deeper between us than laughter?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If we do the laughing,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;life&rsquo;s ready to do the rest. But
-      you&rsquo;re a puritan at heart: you suspect that gladness is somehow unholy.
-      Don&rsquo;t you know, Mr. Bunyan, that laughter is the language they speak in
-      heaven?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t; neither do you. But when you say so laughing, I can almost
-      believe it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      When we had once again started, she became more frank. It was because my
-      hands were occupied, perhaps. Laying her cheek against my shoulder,
-      &ldquo;Dante, I&rsquo;m not a flirt,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I just can&rsquo;t make up my mind about
-      you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Maybe, I&rsquo;ll make it up for you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Maybe. But I want you to understand why I did what I did this morning&mdash;speeding
-      like that and behaving as though I was cracked. I was afraid you were
-      going to make love to me every moment&mdash;and I didn&rsquo;t want it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you want it now?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo; She dragged the words out wide-apart. &ldquo;And yet I do know;
-      but I&rsquo;ve no right to allow it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You silly child, why on earth not?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m inconstant; I&rsquo;m like that now. I should make you happy first and
-      sorry afterwards.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll risk it. I made you sorry first and now I&rsquo;m going to make you
-      happy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do you think you are?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Sure of it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The road began to descend, at first gradually. The bare, tilled uplands
-      where winter lingered, were left behind and we ran through a sheltered
-      land of orchards. The air pulsated with the baaing of lambs and the sweet
-      yearning of fecundity. Under blown spray of fruit-trees the little
-      creatures gamboled, halting by fits and starts, calling to their mothers,
-      or kneeling beneath them, their thirsty throats stretched up and their
-      long tails flapping. Surrounded by lean trees, lopped of their lower
-      branches, gray farmhouses rose up, watching like aged shepherds.
-      Slowfooted cattle, heavy-uddered, wandered between the hedges with their
-      great bags swinging. Women with brass jars on their shoulders, which
-      narrowed at the neck like funeral urns, walked through the meadows to the
-      milking.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Do we turn or go on?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Go on.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;How much farther?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A little farther.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s getting older and older isn&rsquo;t it, Fiesole?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;No, younger and younger, stupid. Look at all the lambs.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Before us the land piled up into a hillock, breaking the level sweep of
-      sky-line and hiding what lay beyond. The road curved about it in a slow
-      descent.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole leant past me, shutting off the power. &ldquo;Let her coast,&rdquo; she said.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      At the bend in the road I jammed on the brakes, halting the car. She
-      slipped her hand into mine; we filled our eyes with the sight, saying
-      nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Sheer against the sky rose a jagged rock and perched on its summit, so
-      much a part of it that it seemed to have been carved, stood a ruined
-      castle. Its windows were vacant; its roof had long since fallen; its walls
-      had been bruised and broken by cannon. It tottered above the valley like a
-      Samson blinded, groping on the edge of the precipice, its power shorn.
-      Round the embattled rock, like children who trusted the old protector,
-      gathered mediaeval houses. Some of them, centuries ago, had wandered off
-      into the snowy orchards and stood tiptoe, as though listening, ready to
-      run back should they hear the tramp of an invading army. Through the
-      valley and into the town a narrow stream darted, flashing like an arrow.
-      Behind town and castle, across the horizon, towered a saffron wall of
-      cloud, tipped along the edge with fire and notched in the center where the
-      molten ball of the setting sun rested. From quaint gray streets came up a
-      multitude of small sounds, like the lazy humming of women spinning. And
-      over all, across orchards and roofs of houses, the grim warden on the rock
-      threw his shadow. It was a valley forgotten by the centuries&mdash;a
-      garden without barriers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Where are we?&rdquo; I whispered.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Falaise, my darling. I always promised myself that if ever I should love
-      a man, I would bring him to Falaise to love him. Can&rsquo;t you feel it&mdash;the
-      slow quiet, the sense of the ages watching?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She was aflame in the light of the sunset. Her face was ivory, intense and
-      ardent with glory. Her waywardness and fondness for disguise were gone;
-      her true self, steady and unafraid, gazed out on me. The havoc of passion
-      was replaced by the contentment of a desire all but satisfied.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go to the castle first,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You remember its story?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      I remembered: how Robert the Devil, Duke of the Normans, had found
-      Arlotta, the tanner&rsquo;s daughter, washing linen in that same little beck;
-      and had loved her at sight and had carried her off to his castle on the
-      rock, where was born William the Bastard, conqueror of England and
-      greatest of all the Normans.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Leaving the car in the village street, we climbed the rock and gained
-      admittance. As we gazed down from the splintered battlements into the
-      winding streets, Fiesole drew me to her, throwing her arm carelessly about
-      my neck as though we were boy and girl.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; she whispered, pointing sheer down to the foot of the precipice,
-      &ldquo;there&rsquo;s the tannery still standing and the beck running past it. And see,
-      there are girls washing linen; one of them might be Arlotta. In nine
-      hundred years nothing has altered.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We stole across the threshold of the stone-paved room in which the
-      Conqueror was born. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to shock you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I always think of
-      Falaise as another Bethlehem&mdash;the Bethlehem of war. The Bethlehem of
-      peace has crumbled, shattered by war; but here&rsquo;s Falaise unchanged since
-      the day when Robert the Devil seized Arlotta and galloped up the rock, and
-      bolted his castle door. It sets one thinking&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Thinking something dangerous, I&rsquo;ll warrant.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She brushed the rebellious curls from her forehead and leant back against
-      the wall laughing. &ldquo;Thinking all kinds of thoughts: that it pays best in
-      this world to steal what you want.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps&mdash;if you steal strongly.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But I have stolen strongly; see how I&rsquo;ve carried you off.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by a
-      garden and opened out beyond into a misty orchard. At sound of our
-      entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office,
-      holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole
-      detained me. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re my prisoner,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m responsible. You stay
-      here and I&rsquo;ll tell her what we want.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent
-      indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard,
-      where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the
-      sabots clap along the causeways.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that little
-      was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to think: for
-      me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not what memories.
-      We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of live hands was
-      the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen when we wandered
-      out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling directionless under broken
-      archways, past ancient churches&mdash;bribes to God for forgiveness for
-      wrongs still more ancient.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We peeped into crouching cottages as we passed. We were glad of their
-      company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult of feeling that ran
-      riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set out
-      to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing panes of
-      kindly peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made furnishings.
-      Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were passed, the
-      family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary candle in the
-      center; looming out of the shadows on the wall was the cross. Sometimes
-      the man was still at work, carving sabots or weaving, while the woman held
-      a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on the stone-paved floor.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      One by one the lights were quenched and the doors fastened.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head
-      upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor of
-      her body and hear the fluttering intake of her breath. The wind,
-      whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant in our
-      nostrils. For intervals there was no sound save the rustle of falling
-      blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale
-      dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between
-      steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon
-      plunged onward, scattering the clouds before it.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      We came again to the hostel; when we entered, we walked apart. Quickly, as
-      though seized with sudden misgiving, Fiesole left me. I heard her footstep
-      mounting the stairs and saw the light spring up in her window. Every other
-      window was in darkness. From where I sat in the courtyard I could see the
-      shadow of her figure groping, and her arms uplifted as she unbound her
-      hair. The light went out. I wondered if she watched me. I listened to hear
-      her stirring; I could hear nothing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the dim quiet, shut out from the excitement of her presence, I had
-      leisure to reflect on whither I was going. I drew apart from myself and
-      eyed my doings impartially. It was a whim of curiosity that had brought me
-      to Paris&mdash;one of those instinctive decisions which construct a
-      destiny. The sight of her as Lucrezia had stabbed me to remorse, and then
-      to folly. That she had hated me up to last night and that the desire of
-      her wild heart had been to torture me, I did not doubt; but I thought that
-      there were moments in this day when she had loved me with the old
-      uncalculating kindness. What was her intention now?
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Unaccountably out of the past, Fiesole had returned&mdash;Fiesole, the
-      girl-woman I had loved as a boy before Vi. I felt like a broken gamester
-      who has discovered an overlooked coin in his pocket after having believed
-      himself penniless. So strange was this happening that it could not be
-      fortuitous&mdash;we had met because we had been piloted.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      All seeming failure of the past would take on an aspect of design and
-      would appear a straight road leading to this moment, were our journeyings
-      to end in marriage. And, though she would not own it, she needed the
-      protection of a man who loved her to guard her against her success and
-      self-reliance.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My thoughts ran on, picturing the home and little children we would have.
-      Children would be walls about our love, making it secure. For these I was
-      hungry&mdash;desperately afraid lest the hope of them should be withdrawn.
-      In imagination they seemed already mine, I would speak my heart out: she
-      should understand before it was too late that my need was also hers.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I entered the hostel. In the office the old woman nodded above her
-      knitting. I roused her and asked for my candle.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ah, Monsieur,&rdquo; she said in apology, &ldquo;I had not thought. For a room so
-      small I supposed that one would be sufficient. I have given Madame the
-      candle. If Monsieur will wait, I will fetch another.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      In my surprise I told her that it did not matter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I felt my way up the unlit stairs. At the bedroom-door I knocked.
-      Fiesole&rsquo;s voice just reached me, whispering to me to enter. On the
-      threshold I paused, peering into the darkness. The floor was bare; there
-      was little furniture. In the shadows against the wall, a canopied,
-      high-mattressed bed loomed mountainous. Through the window, reaching
-      almost to my feet, a ray of moonlight slanted; in it, gleaming white,
-      stood Fiesole.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as
-      the silence lengthened, the space between us seemed impassable.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      She held out her arms; her hoarse voice spoke, yearning towards me with
-      its lazy sweetness. &ldquo;Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      <br /><br />
-    </p>
-    <hr />
-    <p>
-      <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a>
-    </p>
-    <div style="height: 4em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-    <h2>
-      CHAPTER X&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN
-    </h2>
-    <p class="pfirst">
-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had been for a
-      saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found
-      Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a
-      paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my
-      footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me
-      beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish
-      eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning.
-      &ldquo;Shall I order déjeuner out here?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She nodded. &ldquo;Where else, but in the sunshine?&rdquo; When I came back from
-      giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Something interesting?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Rather.&rdquo; She raised her green eyes mischievously. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all up. We&rsquo;ll be
-      collared within the hour.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s all up? Who&rsquo;s got the right to collar us?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but most
-      particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the
-      theatre-management.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Let &rsquo;em try. We don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn&rsquo;t have been here now
-      if it hadn&rsquo;t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them. They
-      gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch. It
-      isn&rsquo;t playing the game, as I understand it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s damages for a broken contract they&rsquo;re after, I&rsquo;ll settle that for
-      you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me
-      extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected
-      her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for
-      half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the
-      crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an
-      under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their
-      places stamping and threatening, shouting for <i>La Fiesole</i>. The
-      curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping
-      and wringing his hands, saying that <i>La Fiesole</i> had been kidnaped by
-      an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time
-      was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the
-      audience out, and the money refunded.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The journalist&rsquo;s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few
-      nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had
-      grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had
-      created a scene between himself and <i>La Fiesole</i> at a café in the
-      Champs Elysées&mdash;a scene which had terminated by them going away
-      together.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Make you out quite a desperate character, don&rsquo;t they, old darling?&rdquo; she
-      drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so much
-      publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder. &ldquo;Come,
-      drink up your coffee, little woman; it&rsquo;s getting cold. Why waste time over
-      all this nonsense? You&rsquo;re out of it. It&rsquo;s all ended.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t. Paris won&rsquo;t let it be ended. They&rsquo;re making more row about
-      me than they did about La Gioconda. They&rsquo;ve offered a reward of five
-      thousand francs for my recovery.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And if they did find us, they couldn&rsquo;t do anything. Discovery won&rsquo;t be
-      easy.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t it? We were seen yesterday going together towards St. Cloud;
-      they&rsquo;ve got the number of my car and particulars of my dress from Marie.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But didn&rsquo;t you warn Marie?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Silly fellow, how should I? Didn&rsquo;t know myself what I was going to do
-      when we started&mdash;at least I didn&rsquo;t know positively.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Ripping, isn&rsquo;t it, for a chap like you as &rsquo;as allaws lived decent and
-      &rsquo;oped to die respected? Dannie, Dannie, you&rsquo;re a regular Robert the Devil&mdash;only
-      I stole you, and nobody&rsquo;ll ever believe it.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter what they say about me; it&rsquo;s your good name that
-      matters.&mdash;I promised yesterday never to speak another word about
-      marriage. May I break my promise?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve done it. Go on, John Bunyan.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Well, here&rsquo;s my plan: that we motor through to Cherbourg and skip over to
-      Southampton.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Get a special license in the shortest time possible. When we&rsquo;re
-      discovered, you&rsquo;ll be Lady Cardover.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t necessary that I should be Lady Cardover. I&rsquo;m not ashamed of
-      anything. Are you?&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;Perhaps not; but there&rsquo;s nothing to be gained by dodging the conventions.
-      I ought to know; I&rsquo;ve been dodging &rsquo;em ever since I can remember.
-      I&rsquo;ve come to see that there&rsquo;s something grand about conventions; they&rsquo;re a
-      sort of wall to protect someone you love dearly from attack. We&rsquo;re man and
-      wife already by everything that&rsquo;s sacred; but we shall never be securely
-      happy unless we&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Our meal was finished. We wandered off into the orchard at the back. When
-      we were safe from watching eyes, Fiesole gave me her hand. We came to a
-      place where trees grew closer together; here we rested. She leant against
-      me, her face wistful and troubled; the sun through the branches scattered
-      gold and the blossoms snowflakes in her hair.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Presently she disentangled herself from my arms, and jumped to her feet,
-      smiling gently. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve a surprise for you, my virgin man. I want you to
-      stop here for half an hour and promise not to follow.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;A long time to be without you.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;But promise.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      &ldquo;All right. Very well.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      She stooped over me quietly before she went. I watched her pass swaying
-      across the dappled turf, under the dancing shadows and rain of petals.
-      Just before she entered the courtyard, she turned and waved her hand.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Something in Fiesole&rsquo;s distant aspect, something of seeming maidenly
-      daintiness, brought to mind another woman&mdash;gold and ivory, with
-      poppies for her lips, were the words which had described her. While I had
-      walked Falaise that morning I had striven to banish her from my thoughts.
-      And now Fiesole, from whom I had hoped to obtain forgetfulness, Fiesole
-      herself had unconsciously reminded me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      In the stillness I confronted myself: I was being faithless to the loyalty
-      of years&mdash;I had done and was about to do a thing which was traitorous
-      to all my past. Vi&rsquo;s memory, though in itself sinful, had demanded
-      chastity from me.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Yet my present conduct was not incompatible with my past: it was the
-      result of it. Puppy passions of thought had grown into hounds of action&mdash;that
-      was all.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      From the first my pagan imagination, at war with my puritan conscience,
-      had lured me on. All my life I had been breaking bounds imaginatively:
-      innocently for Ruthita in my childhood; in appearance for Fiesole at
-      Venice; dangerously for Vi; and at last in fact for Fiesole. Narrower
-      affections I had passed by, not perceiving that their narrowness made for
-      safety and kindness. The unwalled garden of masterless desire had proved a
-      wilderness; its fruit was loneliness.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Last night, sitting in the courtyard, I had told myself that in remaining
-      constant to Vi, I had gambled for the impossible. Was it true? In any
-      case, to have followed up the risk strongly was my only excuse for having
-      gambled at all. By turning back I abandoned the prize, and made the sin of
-      loving a forbidden woman paltry.&mdash;Might she not have been waiting for
-      me all these years, as I had been waiting! What an irony if now, when I
-      was destroying both the hope and reward of our sacrifice, she were free
-      and preparing to come to me!
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      And Fiesole! I had used her to drug my unsatisfied longing. Should I not
-      do her more grievous wrong in marrying her while I loved another woman?&mdash;I
-      had been mad. I was appalled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Could I ever be at peace with her&mdash;ever make her happy? Fiesole was
-      so flippant, so casual of all that makes for wifehood. And she was almost
-      right in saying that I had made her what she was&mdash;first by my virtue,
-      now by my lack of it. All we could give one another would be passion,
-      swift and self-consuming. Soon would come satiety, the fruit of my doings;
-      after that regret, the fruit of my thoughts. And if we did not marry, I
-      should eat the same fruit, made more bitter by self-scorn.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong
-      lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of
-      domestic affection, giving shelter and security.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door
-      should be closed on the past&mdash;&mdash;
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging
-      of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the
-      inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I
-      felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear
-      it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me.
-      It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and
-      fainter.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran
-      across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up
-      the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the
-      direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. &ldquo;For
-      Monsieur from Madame.&rdquo;
-     </p>
-    <p>
-      Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers.
-      The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist
-      its words into another meaning.
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      The note ran:
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      <i>My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman&rsquo;s memory; you&rsquo;ll
-      remember Potiphar&rsquo;s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely.
-      You see, I&rsquo;m what you made me: Lucrezia&mdash;your handiwork. For years I
-      have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you.
-      It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday&mdash;you know the
-      rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer
-      all that you once made me suffer. And I&rsquo;m almost sorry; for here, at
-      Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can&rsquo;t be done.</i>
-    </p>
-    <p>
-      Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris.
-      The cloud of dust had vanished.
-    </p>
-    <h3>
-      THE END
-    </h3>
-    <div style="height: 6em;">
-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
-    </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
-
-
-End of Project Gutenberg's The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson
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-

-The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson

-

-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most

-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions

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-

-

-Title: The Garden Without Walls

-

-Author: Coningsby Dawson

-

-Release Date: May 28, 2017 [EBook #54801]

-Last Updated: October 4, 2018

-

-Language: English

-

-Character set encoding: UTF-8

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-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS ***

-

-

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-Produced by David Widger from page images generously

-provided by the Internet Archive

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-</pre>

-

-    <div style="height: 8em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h1>

-      THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS

-    </h1>

-    <h2>

-      By Coningsby Dawson

-    </h2>

-    <h4>

-      New York: Grosset &amp; Dunlap Publishers

-    </h4>

-    <h3>

-      1913

-    </h3>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">

-      <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h5>

-      <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>

-    </h5>

-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">

-      <img src="images/0002.jpg" alt="0002 " width="100%" /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h5>

-      <a href="images/0002.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>

-    </h5>

-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">

-      <img src="images/0003.jpg" alt="0003 " width="100%" /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h5>

-      <a href="images/0003.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>

-    </h5>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">

-      <img src="images/0005.jpg" alt="0005 " width="100%" /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h5>

-      <a href="images/0005.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>

-    </h5>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <b>CONTENTS</b>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I&mdash;THE WALLED-IN GARDEN</b> </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I&mdash;MY MOTHER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II&mdash;THE MAGIC CARPET </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III&mdash;THE SPUFFLER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V&mdash;MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;THE YONDER LAND </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE OPEN WORLD </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;RECAPTURED </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE SNOW LADY </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK II&mdash;THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS</b>

-      </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER I&mdash;THE RED HOUSE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER II&mdash;CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH

-      COMFORTERS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER III&mdash;THE WORLD OF BOYS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;NEW HORIZONS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER V&mdash;THE AWAKENING </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;WHAT IS LOVE? </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE

-      SPUFFLER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;MONEY AND HAPPINESS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER X&mdash;THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XI&mdash;STAR-DUST DAYS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>BOOK III&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS</b>

-      </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER I&mdash;I MEET HER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER II&mdash;I MEET HER AGAIN </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER III&mdash;FATE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;THE TRUTH ABOUT HER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER V&mdash;LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;MOTHS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;THE WAY OF ALL FLESH </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE ELOPEMENT </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER X&mdash;PUPPETS OF DESIRE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XI&mdash;SPRING WEATHER </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XII&mdash;THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XIII&mdash;THE TURNING POINT </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XIV&mdash;I GO TO SHEBA </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XV&mdash;THE FLAME OF A SWORD </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> <b>BOOK IV&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN</b>

-      </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER I&mdash;THE HOME-COMING </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER II&mdash;DREAM HAVEN </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER III&mdash;NARCOTICS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER V&mdash;LA FIESOLE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER VI&mdash;SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VII&mdash;SATURNALIA </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER VIII&mdash;LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS </a>

-    </p>

-    <p class="toc">

-      <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER X&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN </a>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      BOOK I&mdash;THE WALLED-IN GARDEN

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <i>And God planted a garden and drove out man; and he placed at the east

-      of Eden angels and the flame of a sword.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER I&mdash;MY MOTHER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t happened about

-      six in the morning, in a large red room. A bar of sunlight streamed in at

-      the window, in which dust-motes were dancing by the thousand. A man and

-      woman were lying in bed; I was standing up in my cot, plucking at the

-      woman with my podgy fingers. She stirred, turned, rubbed her eyes, smiled,

-      stretched out her arms, and drew me under the bed-clothes beside her. The

-      man slept on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This is my earliest recollection. If it be true that the soul is born not

-      at the same time as the body, but at a later period with the first

-      glimmering of memory, then this was the morning on which my soul groped

-      its way into the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I have sometimes thought that I have never grown wiser than the knowledge

-      contained in that first recollection. Nothing that I have to record in

-      this book will carry me much further. The scene is symbolic: a little

-      child, inarticulate, early awakened in a sunlit room, vainly striving to

-      make life answer questions. Do we ever get beyond that? The woman is

-      Nature. The man is God. The room is the world&mdash;for me it has always

-      been filled with sunlight.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My mother I remember as very tall and patient, vaguely beautiful and

-      smiling. I can recall hardly anything she said&mdash;only her atmosphere

-      and the fragrance of violets which seemed always to cling about her. I

-      know that she took me out beneath the stars one night; there was frost on

-      the ground and church-bells were ringing. And I know that one summer&rsquo;s

-      day, on a holiday at Ransby, she led me through lanes far out into the

-      country till my legs were very tired. We came to a large white house,

-      standing in a parkland. There we hid behind a clump of trees for hours. A

-      horseman came riding down the avenue. My mother ran out from behind the

-      trees and tried to make him speak with her. She held me up to show me to

-      him, and grasped his rein to make him halt. He said something angrily, set

-      spurs to his horse, and disappeared at a gallop. She began to cry, telling

-      me that the man was her father. I was too tired to pay much attention. She

-      had to carry me most of the way home. It was dark when we entered Ransby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In London some months later&mdash;it must have been wintertime, for we

-      were sitting by the fire-light&mdash;she took me in her arms and asked me

-      if I would like to have a sister. I refused stoutly. At dawn I was wakened

-      by hurrying feet on the staircase. Next day I was given a new box of

-      soldiers to keep me quiet. A lot of strange people stole in and out the

-      house as if they owned it. I never saw my mother again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All I had known of her had been so shy and gentle that it was a good deal

-      of a surprise to me to learn years later that, as a girl, she had been

-      considered rather dashing. She had been called &ldquo;The gay Miss Fannie

-      Evrard&rdquo; and her marriage with my father had begun with an elopement. Her

-      father was Sir Charles Evrard, brother-in-law to the Earl of Lovegrove; my

-      father&rsquo;s folk were ship-chandlers in Ransby, outfitting vessels for the

-      Baltic trade.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The inequality of the match, as far as social position was concerned, made

-      life in Ransby impossible. My father was only a reporter on the local

-      paper at the time of his escapade; the Evrards lived at Woadley Hall and

-      were reckoned among the big people in the county. It must have been to

-      this house that my mother took me on that dusty summer&rsquo;s day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After his marriage my father settled down in London, gaining his living as

-      a free-lance journalist. I believe he was very poor at the start. He did

-      not re-visit Ransby until years later. Pride prevented. My mother returned

-      as often as finances would allow, in the vain hope of a reconciliation

-      with her family. On these occasions she would stay at the ship-chandler&rsquo;s,

-      and was an object of curiosity and commiseration among the neighbors.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Most of the facts which lie outside my own recollection were communicated

-      to me by my grandmother. She never got over her amazement at her son&rsquo;s

-      audacity. It was without parallel in her experience until I attempted to

-      repeat his performance with an entirely individual variation. She never

-      tired of rehearsing the details; it was noticeable that she always

-      referred to my mother as &ldquo;Miss Fannie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Often and often,&rdquo; she would say, &ldquo;have I seen Miss Fannie come a-prancin&rsquo;

-      down the High Street with her groom a-followin&rsquo;. She was always mounted on

-      a gray horse, with a touch of red about her. Sometimes it was a red

-      feather in her hat and sometimes a scarlet cloak. When Sir Charles rode

-      beside her you could see the pride in his eye. She was his only child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After my small sister failed to arrive someone must have told me that my

-      mother had gone to find her. I would sit for hours at the window, watching

-      for her homecoming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER II&mdash;THE MAGIC CARPET

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was born in South

-      London on a crowded street lying off the Old Kent Road. It was here that

-      my mother died. When I was about six, a false-dawn came in my father&rsquo;s

-      prospects, on the promise of which he moved northward to the suburb of

-      Stoke Newington.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the time of which I write, Stoke Newington still retained a village

-      atmosphere. The houses, for the most part, were old, bow-windowed, and

-      quaint. Many of them were occupied by leisured people&mdash;retired

-      city-merchants, maiden-ladies, and widows, who came there because it was

-      reasonable in price without being shabby. It was a backwater of the

-      surging stream of London life where one found time to grow flowers, read

-      books, and be kindly. Its red, tree-shaded streets witnessed many an

-      old-fashioned love-affair. The early morning was filled with country

-      sounds&mdash;singing of birds, creaking of wooden-gates, and cock-crowing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our house was situated in Pope Lane, a blind alley overgrown with limes.

-      It had posts set up at the entrance to prevent wheel-traffic. You could

-      not see the houses from the lane, so steeply did the walls rise up on

-      either side. It led nowhere and was a mere tunnel dotted with doors. Did

-      the doors open by chance as you were passing, you caught glimpses of

-      kitchen-gardens, shrubberies, and well-kept lawns. We rarely saw our

-      neighbors. Each door hid a mystery, on which a child could exercise his

-      fancy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father was too strenuously engaged in wringing an income out of

-      reluctant editors to pay much attention to my upbringing. In moving to

-      Pope Lane, he had made an increase in his expenditure which, as events

-      proved, his prospects did not warrant. The keeping up of appearances was a

-      continuous and unrelenting fight. Early in the morning he was at his desk;

-      the last thing in the evening, when I ventured into his study to bid him

-      good-night, his pen was still toiling industriously across the page. His

-      mornings were spent in hack-work, preparing special articles on

-      contemporary economics for a group of daily papers. His evenings were

-      given over to the writing of books which he hoped would bring him fame,

-      many of which are still unpublished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He coveted fame and despised it. He wrote to please himself and expected

-      praise. He was an unpractical idealist, always planning huge undertakings

-      for which there was no market. His most important work, which occupied

-      twenty years of his life, was <i>The History of Human Progress</i>. It was

-      really a history of human selfishness, written to prove that every act

-      which has dug man out of the mire, however seemingly sacrificial and

-      noble, had for its initial motive an enlightened self-interest. He never

-      managed to get it before the public. It was disillusionizing. We all know

-      that we are selfish, but we all hope that with luck we could be heroes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The trouble with my father was that he was an emotionalist ashamed of his

-      emotions. He wanted to be scrupulously just, and feared that his

-      sentiments would weaken his judgments. Temperamentally he was willing to

-      believe everything. But he had read Herbert Spencer and admired the

-      academic mind; consequently he off-set his natural predisposition to faith

-      by re-acting from everything accepted, and scrawled across the page of

-      recorded altruism a gigantic note of interrogation. He gave to strangers

-      and little boys the impression of being cynical and hard, whereas he had

-      within him the smoldering enthusiasms and compassion which go to the

-      kindling of martyrs and saints. He was planned for a man of action, but

-      had turned aside to grope after phantoms in the mazes of the mind. His

-      career is typical of the nineteenth century and sedentary modes of life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Looking back I often wonder if he would not have been happier as a

-      ship-chandler, moving among jolly sea-captains, following his father&rsquo;s

-      trade. How many hours, mounting into years, he wasted on literary failures&mdash;hours

-      which might have been spent on people and friendships. As a child I rarely

-      saw him save at meal-times, and then he was pre-occupied. For some years

-      after my mother&rsquo;s death he was afraid to love anyone too dearly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He solved the problem of my immediate existence by locking the door into

-      the lane, and giving me the freedom of the garden. I can recall it in

-      every phase. Other and more recent memories have passed away, but, when I

-      close my eyes and think back, I am there again. Moss-grown walks spread

-      before me. Peaches on the wall ripen. I catch the fragrance of box,

-      basking in sunshine. I see my father&rsquo;s study-window and the ivy blown

-      across the pane. He is seated at his desk, writing, writing. His face is

-      turned away. His head is supported on his hand as though weary. I am

-      wondering why it is that grown people never play, and why it is that they

-      shut smaller people up always within walls.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I saw nothing of the outside world except on Sundays. My father used to

-      lead me as far as the parish church, and call for me when service was

-      ended. He never came inside. His intellectual integrity forbade it. He was

-      an agnostic. My mother, knowing this, had made him promise to take me. He

-      kept his word exactly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Few friends called on us. My companions were cooks and housemaids. I

-      borrowed my impressions of life, as most children do, from the lower

-      orders of society. A servant is a prisoner; so is a child. Both are

-      subject to tyranny, and both are dependent for their happiness on

-      omnipotent persons&rsquo; moods and fortunes. A maidservant is always dreaming

-      of a day when she will marry a lord, and drive up in a glittering carriage

-      to patronize her old employer. A child, sensitive to misunderstanding, has

-      similar visions of a far-off triumph which will consist in heaping coals

-      of fire. He will heap them kindly and for his parents&rsquo; good, but

-      unmistakably.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was in Pope Lane that I first began to dream of a garden without walls.

-      As I grew older I became curious, and fretted at the narrowness of my

-      restraint. What happened over there in the great beyond? Rumors came to

-      me; sometimes it was the roar of London to the southward; sometimes it was

-      the sing-song of a mower traversing a neighbor&rsquo;s lawn. I dreamt of an

-      unwalled garden, through which a child might wander on forever&mdash;an

-      Eden, where each step revealed a new beauty and a fresh surprise, where

-      flowers grew always and there were no doors to lock.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a book which gave the first impulse to this thought; in a sense it

-      was responsible for the entire trend of my character and life. In recent

-      years I have tried to procure a copy. All traces of it seem to have

-      vanished. If I ever knew the name of the author I have forgotten it. I am

-      even uncertain of the exact title. I believe it was called <i>The Magic

-      Carpet</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mine was a big red copy. The color came off when your hands got sticky. It

-      had to be supported on the knees when read, or the arms got tired. It was

-      a story of children, ordered about by day, who by night went forth

-      invisible to wander the world, riding on the nursery carpet. Absurd! Yes,

-      but this carpet happened to be magic. All you had to do was to seat

-      yourself upon it, hold on tight, and wish where you wanted to be carried.

-      In a trice you were beyond the reach of adults, flying over roofs and

-      spires, post-haste to the land of your desire. In that book little boys

-      ate as much as they liked and never had stomach-ache. They defeated whole

-      armies of cannibals without a scratch. They rescued fair ladies, as old as

-      housemaids, but ten times more beautiful, who wanted to marry them. No one

-      seemed to know that they were little. No one condescended or told them to

-      run away and wash their faces. Nobody went to school. Everybody was

-      polite.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The pictures which illustrated the adventures still seem in remembrance

-      the finest in the world. They typify the spirit of romance, the soul of

-      youth, the revolt against limitations. They appealed to the lawless

-      element within me, which still yearns to straddle the stallion of the

-      world and go plunging bare-back through space.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried every carpet in the house, but none of ours were magic. I lay

-      awake imagining the lands, I would visit if I had it. I would go to my

-      mother first, and try to bring her back. I remembered vaguely how

-      care-free my father had been when we had had her with us. Perhaps, if she

-      returned, he would be happy. Then an inspiration came; there was one

-      carpet which I had <i>not</i> tested&mdash;it lay before the fire-place in

-      my father&rsquo;s study. But how should I get at it? Only in the hours of

-      darkness was it different from any other carpet, and in the evenings my

-      father was always there. I never doubted but that this was the carpet; its

-      difficulty of access proved it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One night I lay awake, pinching myself to stave off sleep. It was winter.

-      Outside I could hear the trees cracking beneath the weight of snow upon

-      their boughs. The servants came to bed. I saw them pass my door, casting

-      long shadows, screening their candles with their hands lest the light

-      should strike across my eyes and rouse me. I waited to hear the study-door

-      open and close. In waiting I began to drowse. I came to myself with a

-      shudder. What hour it was I could not guess. I got out of bed. Stealing to

-      the top of the stairs I looked down; all was blackness. Listening, I could

-      hear the heavy breathing of sleepers. Bare-footed, I crept down into the

-      hall, clinging to the banisters. The air was bitter. I was frightened.

-      Each step I took seemed to cause the house to groan and tremble. The door

-      of the study stood open. By the light of the fire, dying in the grate, I

-      could just make out the carpet. Darting across the threshold, I knelt upon

-      it. &ldquo;Take me to Mama,&rdquo; I whispered. The minutes ticked by; it did not

-      stir. I spoke again; nothing happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I heard a sound in the doorway&mdash;a sudden catching of the breath. I

-      turned. My father was standing, watching me. I did not scream or cry out.

-      He came toward me through the darkness. What with fear of consequences and

-      disappointment, I fell to sobbing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I think he must have seen and overheard everything, for, with a tenderness

-      which had something hungry and awful about it, he gathered me in his arms.

-      Without a word of question or explanation, he carried me up to bed. Before

-      he left, he halted as though he were trying to utter some thought which

-      refused to get said. Suddenly he bent above the pillow, just as my mother

-      used to do, and kissed me on the forehead. His cheeks were salty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As my eyes closed, a strange thing happened. The snow lay on the ground

-      and there were no flowers, but the room was filled with the fragrance of

-      violets.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER III&mdash;THE SPUFFLER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day there was a

-      ring at the door in the lane, followed by a loud and impatient rat-a-tat.

-      A gentleman, who was a stranger to me, hurled himself across the

-      threshold. He wore the frown of one who is intensely in earnest, whose

-      mind is very much occupied. His mustaches were the fiercest and most eager

-      that I ever saw on any man. They stuck out at right angles from under his

-      nose like a pair of shaving-brushes. They were of an extraordinary

-      purplish color, and would have done credit to a pirate. But his dress was

-      more clerical than sea-faring. It consisted of a black frock coat, bound

-      with braid at the edges where the cloth was fretted; his vest was low-cut

-      to display an ocean of white shirt, above which a small tie of black silk

-      wobbled. Hurrying up the path, tugging at his bushy eye-brows, he

-      disappeared into the house. The last I saw of him was a red bandana

-      handkerchief, streaming like a danger-signal from his coat-tail pocket. I

-      thought he must be one of those hostile publishers my father talked about

-      or, at the very least, an editor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty, the maid, came into the garden looking worried. She did not stand

-      on the steps and yell, as was customary, as though daring me to disobey

-      her. She caught up her skirts with a dignified air and spoke my name

-      softly, employing the honeyed tones with which she enticed our milkman

-      every morning. I perceived at once that something momentous had occurred,

-      and came out from behind the bushes. Then I saw the reason for her sudden

-      change of manners&mdash;the purple mustached stranger was watching us from

-      behind the curtains of my father&rsquo;s study-window. I was most agreeably and

-      unpresentably grubby. Hetty was distressed at my appearance; I knew she

-      was by the way she kept hurting my hand and muttering to me to hide behind

-      her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we got inside the house she became voluble, but only in whispers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now, Master Dante, I can&rsquo;t &rsquo;elp it if the soap do get into your

-      mouth. You&rsquo;ve got to be a clean boy fer once in yer h&rsquo;existence. It may

-      mean h&rsquo;everythin&rsquo;. That gent&rsquo;s some relation o&rsquo; yourn. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s goin&rsquo;

-      to take you away wiv him, an&rsquo; he may &rsquo;ave money. I shall &rsquo;ate

-      to lose yer. Now let&rsquo;s look at yer neck.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She scrubbed away at my face till it was scarlet; she let the water from

-      the flannel trickle down my back. I was too awe-inspired to wriggle; by

-      some occult power the dreadful personage downstairs might learn about it.

-      Having been pitched into my Sunday sailor-suit and squeezed into a pair of

-      new boots and prickly stockings, I was bundled into the august presence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I entered he was straddling the fire-place carpet&mdash;the one which

-      ought to have been magic&mdash;and waggling his coat-tails with his hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father rose from his chair. &ldquo;This is your great-uncle, Obadiah

-      Spreckles. Come and be introduced, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Up to now I had never heard of such a relative, but I came timidly forward

-      and shook hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A fine little fellow. A very fine little fellow, and the image of his

-      mother,&rdquo; said my great-uncle.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father winced at the mention of my mother. My great-uncle spread his

-      legs still wider and addressed me in a jerky important manner.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Got a lot of dogs and cats. Got a goat and a cow. Got some hens. Got up

-      early this morning. Saw the sun shining. Thought you might like to take a

-      look at &rsquo;em, young man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning to my father, &ldquo;Well, Cardover, I must be going. I&rsquo;ll take good

-      care of him and all that. I&rsquo;m very busy&mdash;hardly a moment to spare.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Before I knew what had happened, I had said good-bye to my father and was

-      standing in the lane alone with my strange uncle.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the door had banged and he knew that no grownup could see him, he

-      changed his manner. His hurry left him. Placing his hands on my shoulders,

-      he looked down into my face, laughing. &ldquo;Now for a good time, old chap.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At the end of the lane, where the posts blocked the passage, stood a

-      little dog-cart and pony. My bag was stowed under the seat; at a click of

-      the tongue from my uncle, the little beast started up like the wind.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a bright June morning. The sky was intensely blue and cloudless.

-      The air was full of flower-fragrance and dreamy somnolence. I had seen so

-      little of the world that everything was vivid to me, and touched with the

-      vagrant poetry of romance. Tram-lines were streaks of silver down the

-      streets, shops were palaces, cabbies gentlemen who plied their trade

-      because they loved horses. Postmen going their rounds were

-      philanthropists. Everyone was free, doing what he liked, and happy. In my

-      child&rsquo;s way I realized that neither my father nor myself was typical&mdash;not

-      all little boys were locked in gardens and not all grown men slaved from

-      morning to midnight. A great lump came into my throat. It would have been

-      quite easy to cry, I was so glad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Uncle Obadiah kept chatting away, telling me that the name of his little

-      mare was Dollie and how he came to buy her. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t afford it, you know,

-      old chap. She costs me ten shillings a week for fodder. But when I saw

-      that coster whacking her, and she looked up into my eyes when I went to

-      stop him, I just couldn&rsquo;t resist her. She seemed to be asking me to buy

-      her, and I did. You should have heard what your Aunt Lavinia said.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      All the way along the streets he kept pointing with his whip to things

-      that he thought were interesting. He engaged me in conversation&mdash;a

-      thing which no one had thought worth doing. He asked me questions which

-      were not senseless, and seemed to suppose that a child had reasoning

-      powers. I was flattered, and began to surprise myself by the boldness of

-      the things I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We rattled down the City Road, past the Mansion House, over London Bridge

-      to the Elephant and Castle, and so out toward Dulwich till we came within

-      sight of the Crystal Palace.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He began to slow down and grow pensive, as though working out a problem.

-      &ldquo;You see, she&rsquo;ll have lunch ready. She&rsquo;s expecting us. She&rsquo;s very precise

-      about the keeping of hours and won&rsquo;t like it.&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;Hang it all. We may

-      as well have a holiday now we&rsquo;re out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Shaking loose the reins we started forward again, racing everything we met

-      upon the road. My uncle&rsquo;s high spirits returned. I don&rsquo;t know where we

-      went. I know there were woods and farm-houses. We stopped for lunch at a

-      village-inn. It stood on the edge of a gorse-common. On the common a

-      donkey was grazing. A flock of geese wandered across it. Boys were playing

-      cricket against a tree-stump. Several great wagons, piled high with

-      vegetables, were drawn up, the horses with their heads deep in nose-bags.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had our meal in the tap-room with the wagoners. While they were present

-      my uncle assumed his pontifical manner, addressing me as &ldquo;young man&rdquo; and

-      them as &ldquo;my good fellows.&rdquo; He was very dignified, and benevolent, and

-      haughty. They were much impressed. But when they had left and we were

-      alone, he winked his eye at me solemnly, as much as to say &ldquo;that was all

-      pretense. Now let&rsquo;s be natural,&rdquo; and entered once more into my boy&rsquo;s world

-      of escapades and gilded shadows.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While the mare rested, we strolled round. In a hollow of the woods we came

-      across a gipsy encampment. Three yellow caravans were drawn up together. A

-      fire was burning in the open, over which an iron pot was suspended from a

-      bough. A fierce, gaudily clad woman was bent above it stirring. She looked

-      up at sound of our approach and the big ear-rings which dropped upon her

-      neck jangled. Recognizing my uncle she nodded, and allowed us to sit down

-      and watch her. Presently a rough man came out of the woods and threw

-      himself down beside us. A young woman returned from fortune-telling, with

-      her baby in a shawl across her shoulders. Bowls were brought out, and we

-      had a second lunch from the great pot bubbling on the fire. Pipes were

-      produced; the women smoked as well as the men. My uncle asked them where

-      they had been and how they had fared since last he saw them. I listened

-      intently to their answers; it seemed that they must have discovered the

-      boundless garden of which I had only dreamt.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the dog-cart on the homeward journey, I learnt that my uncle was

-      acquainted with a number of queer people. &ldquo;Everybody&rsquo;s interesting,

-      Dante,&rdquo; he said, by way of excuse and explanation; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s never safe to

-      despise anyone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In course of conversation he informed me that he had always longed to be a

-      gipsy, but had never dared. When I asked why not, he answered shortly,

-      &ldquo;Your Aunt Lavinia&mdash;she&rsquo;s not like us and wouldn&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But if there wasn&rsquo;t any Aunt Lavinia&mdash;would you dare then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I might have to,&rdquo; he said, smiling grimly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I didn&rsquo;t know at all what he meant. He didn&rsquo;t intend I should. After all

-      these years those words, chance-spoken to a child, remain with me. They

-      were as near to a confession that his wife supported him as was possible

-      for a proud man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My grandmother Cardover at Ransby, whose sister he had married, had a

-      habit of nicknaming people with words of her own invention. She called my

-      great-uncle The Spuffler. Whether the verb <i>to Spuffle</i> is Suffolk

-      dialect or a word of her own coining, I have never been able to find out&mdash;but

-      in its hostile sense it described him exactly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A spuffler is a gay pretender, who hides his lack of success beneath the

-      importance of his manners. Time is his one possession, and to him it is

-      valueless; yet he tries to impress the world with its extreme rarity. A

-      spuffler is always in a hurry; he talks loudly. He plays a game of

-      make-believe that he is a person of far-reaching authority; he deceives

-      others and almost deceives himself. He is usually small in stature and not

-      infrequently bald-headed. In conversing he makes an imaginary lather with

-      his hands and points his finger, at you. He may splutter and spit when he

-      gets excited; but this is accidental and not necessary. The prime

-      requisite is that he should affect the prosperity of a bank-president and

-      be dependent on some quite obscure source for his pocket-money. Since I

-      have lived in America I have become familiar with a word which is very

-      similar&mdash;<i>a bluffer</i>. But a bluffer is a conscious liar and may

-      be a humorist, whereas a spuffler does all in his power to deceive himself

-      and is always in dead earnest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It is a curious fact that the men whom I loved best as a child were all

-      three incompetents in the worldly sense. They were clever, but they lacked

-      the faculty of marketing their talents. They were boys in men&rsquo;s bodies.

-      With children they had the hearts of children and were delightful. With

-      business men their light-heartedness counted as irresponsibility and was a

-      drawback. In two out of the three cases named, the disappointments which

-      resulted from continual defeat produced vices. Only my Uncle Obadiah, clad

-      in his armor of unpierceable spuffle, rode through the ranks of life

-      scatheless, with his sweetness unembittered and his integrity untarnished.

-      But they were all good men.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through the June twilight we returned to the outskirts of London. We

-      turned in at a ruined gateway, and rode through a tunnel of overhanging

-      trees where laburnum blazed through the dusk. A long rambling house grew

-      up before us. At one time it must have been the country estate of some

-      city-merchant. At sound of our wheels on the gravel, the front-door opened

-      and a little lady stepped out to greet us. She was neat and speckless as a

-      hospital nurse. Her body was slim and dainty as a girl&rsquo;s. There was an air

-      of decision and restraint about her, which was in direct opposition to my

-      uncle&rsquo;s hurried geniality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we had halted, she lifted me out of the dog-cart and carried me into

-      the house to a large room at the back, which looked into a shadowy garden

-      and a paddock beyond. It seemed older and more opulent than any house I

-      had known as yet. There was so much space about it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle came in from stabling Dollie. &ldquo;Well, Lavinia, I couldn&rsquo;t get home

-      to lunch. Very sorry, but it couldn&rsquo;t be helped.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He darted a look across at me, wondering how much I had told her. The

-      secret was established; I knew that I must hold my tongue. I knew

-      something else&mdash;that he was afraid of her. Throughout the meal he

-      kept up a stream of strenuous pretense, discussing large plans aloud with

-      himself. What they were I cannot now remember. I suppose my grandmother

-      would have called them spuffle. Suddenly he rose from the table, saying

-      that he had a lot of letters to answer and excused himself. But when I

-      went into his room an hour later to bid him good-night, he was sitting

-      before his desk, doing nothing in particular, biting the end of his pen.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When my aunt and I were left together I felt very lonely at first. She had

-      sat so silent all through supper.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But when the door had closed, she turned to me laughing. I knew at once

-      that, like most grown-ups when they are together, she had only been

-      shamming. Now she was-going to be real.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did you have a good day in the country?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Oh, he can&rsquo;t deceive

-      me; I could tell by the dust on the wheels.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, realizing, I suppose, that it was not fair to pump me, she stopped

-      asking questions and began to speak about myself. She drew up a chair to

-      the window and sat with me in the dark with her arms about me. She seemed

-      extraordinarily young, and when her silky gray hair touched my cheek as

-      she bent above me, I wondered what had made my uncle say that she wasn&rsquo;t

-      like us and wouldn&rsquo;t understand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They each had their secret world of desire: his was the open road, where

-      liberty was and lack of convention; hers was a home with fire-light and

-      children. She was childless. Into both these worlds a little boy might

-      enter. That night as I lay awake in bed I was puzzled. Why was it that

-      grown people were so funny, and could never be real with one another?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was my Uncle

-      Obadiah who first opened my eyes to the mysteries of the animal world. In

-      so doing he flung wide a door into happiness which many a wiser man has

-      neglected. He derived nearly all his pleasures from the cheerful little

-      things of life. A curious sympathy existed between him and the lower

-      creation. All the cats and dogs in the district were his friends. He

-      attributed to them almost human personalities, and gave them special names

-      of his own choosing. It was a wonderful day for me when he first made me

-      realize that all-surrounding was a kingdom of beasts and birds of which I,

-      who had always been ruled, might be ruler.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the paddock which lay between the garden and orchard, he had his own

-      especial kingdom. His subjects were a cow, a goat, some very domestically

-      inclined rabbits, about a hundred hens, and innumerable London sparrows.

-      The latter he had trained to fly down from the trees and settle on his

-      shoulders when he whistled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Early in the morning we would go there together; the first duty of the day

-      was to feed the menagerie. How distinctly I can recall those scenes&mdash;the

-      dewy lawn, dappled golden by sunlight falling through leaves, the droning

-      of bees setting forth from hives on their day&rsquo;s excursion, the smoke

-      slowly rising in the summer stillness from distant chimney-pots, and my

-      uncle&rsquo;s voice making excited guesses at how many eggs we should gather.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Eggs represented almost his sole contribution to the family income. Among

-      his many Eldorados was the persistent belief that he could make his

-      fortune at poultryraising. He would talk to me about it for hours as we

-      worked in the garden, like a man inspired, making lightning calculations

-      of the sums he would one day realize. He was continually experimenting and

-      crossing breeds with a view to producing a more prolific strain of layers.

-      He had a dream that one day he would produce the finest strain of fowl in

-      the world. He would call it <i>The Spreckles</i> &mdash;his name would be

-      immortalized. He would be justified in the eyes of Aunt Lavinia; and

-      success would justify him in the eyes of all men.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Meanwhile my aunt declared that Obad spent more time and thought on that

-      blest live-stock than he would ever see back in money. &ldquo;Obad&rdquo; was her

-      contraction for his name; when she spoke to him sharply it sounded like

-      her opinion of his character. But, in her own way, she was fond of him.

-      Perhaps she had come to love his very failings as we do the faults of our

-      friends. She was secretly proud of her own capacity; her thwarted

-      mother-instinct found an outlet in the sense of his dependence.

-      Nevertheless, the great fundamental cleavage lay between them: she lived

-      in an anxious world where tradesmen&rsquo;s bills required punctual payment; his

-      world was a careless playground in which no defeat was ever final. She was

-      stable in her moods, self-reliant and tenaciously courageous. He was

-      forever changing: with adults he was like a house in mourning, shuttered,

-      austere, grave; but should a youngster pass by, the blinds were jerked

-      aside and a laughing face peered out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His most important make-believe was that he was a benefactor of humanity.

-      He held honorary positions of secretary to various philanthropic societies&mdash;<i>The

-      Society for the Housing of Gipsies; The Society for the Assisting of

-      Decrepit Ladies</i>, etc. The positions were honorary because he could

-      find no one willing to pay him. He worked for nothing because he was

-      ashamed of being forever out of employment. He got great credit for his

-      services among charitable people; the annual votes of thanks which he

-      received helped to bolster up his self-respect throughout the year.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I grew older and more observant, I used to wonder what had induced my

-      aunt to marry him. Again it was my Grandmother Cardover who told me, &ldquo;He

-      spuffled Lavinia into it, my dear.&rdquo; It seems that he caught her by the

-      vast commercial and humanitarian possibilities of one of his many plans.

-      When she awoke to the fact that her husband was not a man, but the

-      incarnation of perpetual boyhood, she may have been disappointed, but she

-      did not show it. Like a sensible woman, instead of crying her eyes out,

-      she set about earning a livelihood. Uncle Obad had one marketable asset&mdash;his

-      religion and the friends he gained by it. She took a decayed mansion in

-      Charity Grove and established a Christian Boarding House. All her lodgers

-      were young men, and by that proud subterfuge of poverty they were known as

-      paying-guests.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The only Christian feature that I can remember about her establishment was

-      that my uncle said grace before all meals at which the lodgers were

-      present. At the midday meal, from which they were absent, it was omitted.

-      The Christian Boarding House idea caught on with provincial parents whose

-      sons were moving up to the city for the first time; it seemed to guarantee

-      home morals. The sons soon perceived how matters stood and buried their

-      agnostic prejudices beneath good feeding.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A general atmosphere of obligation was created by my aunt in her husband&rsquo;s

-      favor; she always spoke as though it was very kind of so public a man as

-      Mr. Spreckles to squander his scanty privacy by letting paying-guests

-      share his roof. She made such a gallant show with what she earned that

-      everyone thought her husband had a private fortune, which enabled him to

-      live in such style and give so much time to charitable works. She would

-      hint as much in conversing with her friends, and invariably feigned the

-      greatest pride and contentment in his activities. Thanks to his spuffling

-      and her courage, there were not five people outside the family who ever

-      guessed the true circumstances.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But when all is said, the real business of my Uncle Obad&rsquo;s life was not

-      philanthropy or running a boardinghouse, but poultry-raising. It was he

-      who gave me the old white hen, without which I might never have met

-      Ruthita. My money-making instincts were roused by his talk of the profits

-      to be derived from eggs. I was enthusiastic to follow in his footsteps. To

-      this end, at the hour of parting, when I was returning to Pope Lane, he

-      gave me an ancient white Leghorn. He did not tell me she was ancient; he

-      recommended her to me as belonging to a strain that could never get

-      broody.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the long drive home across London, my grief at leaving Charity Grove

-      was partly mitigated by my new possession. It was a tremendous experience

-      to feel that I had it in my power to make a live thing, even though it

-      were but a hen, sad or happy. I discussed with Uncle Obad all the care

-      that was necessary for egg-production. I got him to work out sums for me.

-      If my hen were to lay an egg every other day throughout the year, how much

-      money would I make by selling each egg to my father at a penny? I felt

-      that the foundations of my financial fortunes were secure. The genuineness

-      of my expectations made my uncle restless and ashamed; he knew that the

-      hen had passed her first youth, and suggested that pepper in her food

-      might help matters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was supper-time when I arrived home. I let the hen loose on the lawn to

-      stretch her legs. My father was busy as usual, but he delayed a little

-      longer over the meal in honor of my home-coming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Some of the things I blurted out about my uncle must have revealed to him

-      the comradeship that lay between us. He had risen from the table, but he

-      sat down again. &ldquo;You have known your uncle just a fortnight,&rdquo; he said,

-      &ldquo;and yet you seem to have told him more about yourself than you have told

-      me in all these years. Why is it, Dante? You&rsquo;re not afraid of me? It can&rsquo;t

-      be that.&rdquo; We were both of us shy. He reached over and took my hand,

-      repeating, &ldquo;It can&rsquo;t be that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He knew that it was that and so did I. Yet he was hungry for my affection.

-      He was making an unaccustomed effort to win my confidence and draw me out.

-      But he spoke to me as though I was a grown man, whereas my uncle to get

-      near me had become himself a child. If he had only talked to me about my

-      white hen, I should have chattered. But I was awed by his embarrassment,

-      and remained silent and unresponsive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He went on to tell me that all the time he was away from me in his study

-      he was working for my sake. &ldquo;I want to have the money to give you a good

-      start in life. I never had it. You must succeed where I have failed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I understood very little of what he was saying except that money and

-      success seemed to be the same. That was the way Uncle Obad had talked

-      about poultry-raising. I had no idea where money came from or how it was

-      obtained. I must have asked him some question about it, for I recall one

-      of the phrases he used in replying, &ldquo;A man succeeds not by what he does,

-      but by the things at which he has aimed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The red sun fell behind the trees while we talked, peered above my

-      father&rsquo;s shoulder, and sank out of sight. It was dusk when I ran into the

-      garden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt prisoned again&mdash;the door into the lane was locked and the

-      walls were all about me. The lamp in my father&rsquo;s study was kindled and

-      flung a bar of light across the shrubbery. He was working to get the money

-      that I might be allowed to work. I didn&rsquo;t like the idea. I didn&rsquo;t want to

-      work. Why couldn&rsquo;t one drive always through the sunshine, pulling up at

-      taverns and sitting beside gipsy camp-fires?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I commenced to search for the white hen and so forgot these economic

-      complications. Here and there I came across places where she had been

-      scrabbing, but I could see her nowhere. At last I discovered her roosting

-      on the branch of an apple-tree which grew close by the wall at the end of

-      the garden. I spoke to her kindly, but she refused to come down. She was

-      too high up for me to reach her from the ground. When I scattered grain,

-      she blinked at me knowingly, as much as to say, &ldquo;Surely you don&rsquo;t think

-      I&rsquo;m as big a fool as that.&rdquo; It seemed to me that she was grieving for all

-      the cocks and hens to whom she had said farewell. She was embittered

-      against me because she was solitary. I explained to her that, if she&rsquo;d lay

-      eggs, I&rsquo;d buy her a husband. She remained skeptical of my good intentions.

-      There was nothing for it&mdash;but to climb. I could hear the leaves

-      shaking and the apples bumping on the ground; my hand was stretched out to

-      catch her when, with a hoarse scream of defiance, she flapped her wings

-      and disappeared into the great nothingness over our neighbor&rsquo;s wall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Unless the white hen had blazed the trail, I might have remained in the

-      walled-in garden for years without ever daring to discover a way out. I

-      was too excited at this crisis to measure my temerity. In my fear of

-      losing her I did a thing undreamt of and unplanned&mdash;I swung myself

-      from the branch on to the top of the brickwork and dropped on the other

-      side. A bed of currant bushes broke my fall. I got upon my feet scratched

-      and dazed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The first thing I saw was a long stretch of grass bordered by flowers. At

-      the end of it was a small two-storied house, gabled and with verandas

-      running round it. In one of the upper-story windows a light was burning;

-      all the rest was in darkness. In the middle of the lawn I could see my

-      white hen strutting in a very stately manner. I stole up behind her, but

-      she began clucking. In my fear of discovery, I lost all patience and

-      commenced to chase her vigorously. I ran her at last into a bed of peas,

-      where she became entangled. I had her in my arms when I heard a voice,

-      &ldquo;Who are you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning suddenly, I found that a little girl was standing close behind me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My name&rsquo;s Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And mine&rsquo;s Ruthita.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We stared at one another through the dusk. I had never spoken to a little

-      girl and for some reason, difficult to explain, commenced to tremble. It

-      was not fear that caused it, but something strong and emotional.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;How pretty!&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;Where do you live?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I jerked my thumb in the direction of the wall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You climbed over?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I nodded. She laughed softly. &ldquo;Could you do it again? Oh, do come often,

-      often. I&rsquo;m so lonely, and we could play together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then the voice of Hetty began to call in the distance,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dan-tee, Dan-tee, where are you? Come to bed di-rectly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice drew nearer. She was searching for me, and passed quite close to

-      us on the other side of the wall. We could hear the indignant rustle of

-      her skirt and her heavy breathing with bending down so low to peer under

-      bushes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita came near to me so that I had my first glimpse of her eyes in the

-      dark&mdash;eyes which were always to haunt me. Her hands were clasped

-      against her throat in eagerness&mdash;she seemed to be standing tiptoe.

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t tell,&rdquo; she pleaded. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s our secret. But come again to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I promised.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She watched me scrambling for a foot-hold in the wall. When I sat astride

-      it, just before I vanished, she waved her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The white hen had lost her importance in my thoughts;

-      I bundled her into the tool-house, and then surrendered to Hetty. Hetty

-      was very cross. She wanted to discover where I had been hiding, but I

-      wouldn&rsquo;t tell her. When she left me, I crept out of bed and knelt beside

-      the window for a long time gazing down into the blackness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Far away a bird was calling. The tall trees waved their arms. The moon

-      leapt out of clouds, and the branches reached up to touch her with their

-      fingers. A little beam of light struggled free and ran about the garden. I

-      tried to tell myself it was Ruthita.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The garden seemed less of a prison now&mdash;rather a place of magic and

-      enchantment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER V&mdash;MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I was

-      up early. Spiders&rsquo; webs were still crystal with dew in the garden; they

-      had not yet been tattered by the sun lifting up the flowers&rsquo; heads. I had

-      no hope that I would see Ruthita, but I wanted to peep across the wall

-      while everyone was in bed and there was no one to observe me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had covered half the distance to the apple-tree, when I heard a sound of

-      voices. They came from behind the tool-house. I fisted my hands and

-      listened. A man and woman were conversing, but in such low tones that I

-      could hear nothing that was said. I made sure they were thieves who had

-      heard about my hen, and had come to rob me. I looked back at the windows

-      of our house. All the blinds were lowered; everyone was sleeping. There

-      was no sign of life anywhere, save the hopping of early risen blackbirds

-      between bushes in search of early risen worms. With a quickly beating

-      heart I crouched beside the wall, advancing under cover of a row of

-      sunflowers. Looking out from between their stalks, I discovered a man

-      sitting on a wheelbarrow; a woman was balanced on his knee with her arm

-      about his neck. The woman was Hetty and the man was our gardener.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty was wearing her starched print-dress, ready to begin her morning&rsquo;s

-      work. She wasn&rsquo;t a bit scornful or solemn, but was laughing and wriggling

-      and tossing her head. She seemed quite a different person from the stern,

-      moral housemaid, God&rsquo;s intimate friend, who told me everything that God

-      had thought about me through the day when at night she was putting me to

-      bed. Up to that moment it had never occurred to me that she was pretty,

-      but now her cheeks were flushed and the sun was in her rumpled hair. While

-      I watched, our gardener drew her close and kissed her. She squeaked like a

-      little mouse, and pretended to struggle to free herself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I never dreamt that grown people ever behaved like that. I hadn&rsquo;t the

-      faintest notion what she was doing or why she was doing it; but I knew

-      that it was something secret, and silly, and beautiful. I also had the

-      feeling that it was something pleasant and wrong, just like the things I

-      most enjoyed doing, for which I was punished. I wanted to withdraw and

-      tried to; but tripped over the sunflowers and fell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty and the gardener sprang apart. I knew what was going to happen next;

-      I had caught them being natural&mdash;they were going to commence

-      shamming. The gardener became very busy, piling his tools into the barrow.

-      Hetty, talking in her cold and distant manner, said to him, &ldquo;And don&rsquo;t

-      forget the lettuce for breakfast, John. Master&rsquo;s very partic&rsquo;lar about

-      it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I came from my hiding, thrusting my hands deep in my pockets, as though I

-      kept my courage there and was frightened of its dropping out. The

-      gardener&rsquo;s back was towards me, but he caught sight of me from between his

-      legs. He just stopped like that with his face growing redder, his mouth

-      wide-open, and stared. Hetty didn&rsquo;t look as pretty as she had been

-      looking, but before she could say anything I said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry. I didn&rsquo;t

-      mean to. I came to see my fowl&mdash;&mdash; but I won&rsquo;t tell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bless &rsquo;is little &rsquo;eart,&rdquo; cried John; &ldquo;I thought it were &rsquo;is

-      Pa, I wuz that scared.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty knelt down beside me and rocked me to and fro half-hysterically,

-      making me promise again and again that I would never tell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Was you doin&rsquo; somethin&rsquo; wrong?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;What was you doin&rsquo;?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      They looked foolishly at one another.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All that day they kept me near them on one pretext or another, afraid to

-      let me get away from them. I had never known them so sensible and

-      obliging; they did all kinds of things for me that they had never done

-      before. After breakfast, while Hetty was dusting, John built me a little

-      fowl-run. In the afternoon, while he was cutting the grass, Hetty sat with

-      me beneath the apple-tree and told me what life meant. She spoke in

-      whispers like a conspirator, and all the time that she was talking, I

-      could hear Ruthita humming just the other side of the wall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I understood it, this was what she told me. When you first get here,

-      <i>here</i> being the world, you own nothing; and know nothing. Then, as

-      you grow up, you know something but still own nothing. That&rsquo;s why you&rsquo;re

-      ordered about and told not to do all the things that you want most to do.

-      You can only please yourself when nobody&rsquo;s looking and must obey nearly

-      everyone until you get money. There are several ways of getting it, and

-      the pleasantest is sweet-hearting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Here I interrupted her to inquire what was sweet-hearting. &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; she

-      said, turning her face away and looking dreamily at John, who was pushing

-      the mower across the lawn, &ldquo;sweet-heartin&rsquo;s what you saw me and John

-      doin&rsquo;.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Does it always have to be done before breakfast?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She threw back her head and laughed, swaying backwards and forwards. Then

-      she became solemn and answered, &ldquo;I &rsquo;ave to do it before breakfast

-      &rsquo;cause I&rsquo;m a servant. But I does it of evenin&rsquo;s on my night out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She went on to tell me that sweet-hearting was the first step towards

-      freedom and money. The second step was a honeymoon, which consisted in

-      going away with a person of the other sex for a week to some place where

-      you weren&rsquo;t known. When you came back to the people who knew you, they

-      said you were married. So marriage was the third and last step. After that

-      you were given a house, and money, and all the things for which you had

-      always yearned. You had other people, who were like you were before you

-      went sweet-hearting, to take your orders, and run your errands, and say

-      &ldquo;Sir&rdquo; or &ldquo;Madam.&rdquo; Sometimes when you came back from your honeymoon, you

-      found children in the house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So through that long summer&rsquo;s afternoon beneath the apple-tree, with the

-      leaves gently stirring and the sound of Ruthita humming across the wall, I

-      gained my first lesson in sexology and domestic economics. It solved a

-      good many problems by which I had been puzzled. For instance, why Uncle

-      Obad had a pony and I hadn&rsquo;t; why I was sent to bed always at the same

-      hour and my father went only when he chose; why big people could lose

-      their tempers without being wicked, whereas God was always angry when I

-      did it. There was only one thing that I couldn&rsquo;t understand: why two boys

-      couldn&rsquo;t go on a honeymoon together, or two girls, and have the same

-      results follow. Except for this, the riddle of society was now solved as

-      far as I was concerned. Marriage seemed a thousand times more wonderful

-      than the magic carpet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was tremendously interested in the possibilities of sweet-hearting and

-      promised to help Hetty all I could. In return she declared that, when she

-      was married, she would persuade my father to let her take me out of the

-      garden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That evening I crept over the wall and found Ruthita waiting. She was a

-      slim dainty little figure, clad in a short white dress. She had great gray

-      eyes, and long black hair and lashes. Her voice was soft and caressing,

-      like the twittering of a bird in the ivy when one wakens on a summer

-      morning. I told her in hurried whispers what I had discovered. It was all

-      news to her. She slipped her hand into mine while I spoke and nestled

-      closer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Little boy,&rdquo; she whispered when I had ended, &ldquo;you <i>are</i> funny! You

-      come climbing over the garden-wall and you tell me everything.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      An old man came out of the house and began to pace up and down the walks.

-      His head was bent forward on his chest and he had a big red scar on his

-      forehead. A cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. He carried a stick in

-      his hand on which he leant heavily. Ruthita said he was her grandfather.

-      Soon he began to call for her, and she had to go to him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Little by little I learnt her story. Her grandfather was a French general.

-      He had fought in the Franco-Prussian War until the Fall of the Empire and

-      Proclamation of the Republic. Shortly after the flight of the Empress

-      Eugénie he had come to England in disgust. His son, Ruthita&rsquo;s father, had

-      stayed behind and been cut to pieces in the Siege of Paris. Ruthita&rsquo;s

-      mother was an Englishwoman. She had never recovered from the shock of her

-      husband&rsquo;s death. It was her light that I saw burning in the bedroom window

-      of evenings. They were almost poor now and lived in great seclusion. The

-      grandfather had dropped his rank and was known as plain Monsieur Favart.

-      So Ruthita was even a closer prisoner than myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      What did we talk about in those first stolen hours of&rsquo; childish

-      friendship? I asked her once when we were grown up, but she could not tell

-      me. Perhaps we did not say much. We felt together&mdash;felt the mystery

-      of the enchanted unseen world. Why, the pigeons strutting on the housetops

-      had seen more than we had; and they were not half as old as we were! They

-      spread their wings, soared up into the clouds, and vanished. We told one

-      another stories of where they went; but long before the stories were ended

-      Monsieur Favart would come searching for Ruthita or the voice of Hetty

-      would ring through the dusk, calling me to bed. Then I would lie awake and

-      imagine myself a pigeon, and finish the story to myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The great beauty of our meetings was that they were undiscovered. It was

-      always I who went to Ruthita&mdash;she was nothing of a climber, and the

-      red bricks and green moss would have left tell-tale marks upon her dress.

-      We had a nest of straw behind the currant bushes. Here, with backs against

-      the hard wall and fingers digging in the cool damp earth, we would sit and

-      wonder, talking in whispers, of all the mysteries that lay before us.

-      Ruthita had vague memories of Paris, of soldiers marching and the beating

-      of drums. Sometimes she would sing French songs to me, of which she would

-      translate the meaning between each verse. My contribution to our little

-      store of knowledge was limited to what I have written in these few

-      chapters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I don&rsquo;t know at what stage in the proceedings our great idea occurred. It

-      must have been in the early autumn, for the evenings were drawing in and

-      often it was chilly. I had been talking about Hetty, when suddenly I

-      exclaimed, &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t we do that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do what?&rdquo; she questioned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get married!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I reminded her of the extreme simplicity of marriage as explained by

-      our housemaid. All we had to do was to slip out of the garden for a few

-      days, and then come back. We should find a house ready for us. Perhaps I

-      should have a pony like Uncle Obad, and, instead of dolls, Ruthita would

-      have real babies. It was the real babies that caught her fancy. Because of

-      her mother, she needed a little persuading. &ldquo;What will she do wivout me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what would she do if you&rsquo;d never been borned?&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita had five shillings in her money-box. I had only a shilling; for

-      the white hen, in spite of pepper, had failed to lay any eggs. Six

-      shillings seemed to us a fortune&mdash;ample to provide for the honeymoon

-      of two small children.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The gate from Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s garden was never locked: that was

-      evidently our easiest way out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;THE YONDER LAND

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat did we hope to

-      find that autumn morning when we slipped through that narrow door,

-      forsaking the walls? It was all a guess to us&mdash;what lay beyond; but

-      we knew that it must be something splendid. Of one thing we were quite

-      certain: that at the end of a few days we should have grown tall; we

-      should return to Pope Lane a man and woman. The little house would be

-      there waiting, magically built in our hours of absence. Perhaps work had

-      been begun already upon the babies that Ruthita wanted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the first time I had kissed her that morning, awkwardly and shyly,

-      feeling that somehow it was proper. At any rate, Hetty and our gardener

-      always kissed when they got the chance and no one was looking.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s door swung to behind us. We ran as quickly as our legs

-      would carry us. The fear of pursuit was upon us. Pinned to the pillow of

-      each of our empty beds was a sheet of paper on which was scrawled, &ldquo;<i>Gon

-      to git Maried.&rdquo;</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When at last we halted for breath, we seemed to have covered many miles of

-      our journey. We were standing in a long, quaint street. On one side flowed

-      a river, railed in so we couldn&rsquo;t get near it. On the other side stood an

-      irregular row of substantial houses, for the most part creeper-covered. No

-      faces appeared in the houses&rsquo; windows. No one passed up or down the

-      street. It was as yet too early. It seemed that the world was empty, and

-      that we and the birds were its only tenants. We turned to the right,

-      half-walking, half-running. I held Ruthita&rsquo;s hand tightly; the feel of it

-      gave me courage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We must have made a queer pair in the mellow autumn sunlight. Ruthita wore

-      a white dress with a red cloak flung over it. On her head was a yellow

-      straw poke-bonnet, which made her face look strangely small. She had on

-      black shoes, fastened by a single strap, and black and white socks which,

-      when she ran, kept dropping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had no idea of direction, but just hurried on with a vague idea that we

-      must keep moving forward.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently we came across a drover, driving a flock of bewildered, tired

-      sheep. He was a lame man. He had an inflamed red face and one of his eyes

-      was out. When he wanted to make his flock move faster, he jabbed viciously

-      at their tails with a pointed stick and started hopping from side to side,

-      barking like a dog. He passed right by us, saying nothing, waving a red

-      flag in his left hand with which he would sometimes mop his forehead. We

-      followed. We followed him through streets of shops all shuttered; we

-      followed him up a broad-paved hill; we followed him down a winding lane to

-      a bridge across a river, beyond which lay marshes. Then he turned and

-      called to us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Little master, where be you goin&rsquo; and why be you followin&rsquo;?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To the country, I told him, to find the forest. I wanted to show Ruthita

-      the unwalled garden through which my uncle had led me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The man screwed up his one eye, and gazed upon us shrewdly. &ldquo;You be wery

-      small to be goin&rsquo; to the forest. But so be you&rsquo;re travellin&rsquo; along my

-      route you might as well &rsquo;elp an old feller.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We made our bargain with him. We would help him with his sheep, if he

-      would guide us to the forest. We ran beside him across the short, crisp

-      grass, imitating his cries to prevent the sheep from scattering. He told

-      us that he had driven them from Epping up to London, but that times were

-      cruel bad and the farmer who employed him had been unable to sell them.

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s cruel &rsquo;ard on a man o&rsquo; my years,&rdquo; he kept saying, &ldquo;cruel &rsquo;ard.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I asked him what was cruel hard, he shook his head as though language

-      failed to express his wrongs: &ldquo;The world in gineral.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      There was one of the sheep whose leg was broken. It kept lagging behind

-      the rest, which made the man jab at it furiously. Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes filled

-      with tears of indignation when she saw it. She stamped her little foot and

-      insisted that he should not do it. The man pushed back his battered hat

-      and scratched his forehead, staring at her. He seemed embarrassed and

-      tried to excuse himself. &ldquo;Humans is humans, miss, and sheep is sheep. It

-      makes an old chap, made in Gawd&rsquo;s h&rsquo;image, kind o&rsquo; bitter to &rsquo;ave

-      to spend his days a-scampering after a crowd o&rsquo; silly quadrupeds. But if

-      yer don&rsquo;t like it, I won&rsquo;t do it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The river wound round about us. Sometimes it would leave us, but always it

-      came flowing after us, in great circles as though lonely and eager for our

-      company. On its banks stood occasional taverns, gaily painted, with wooden

-      tables set before them. The grass about them was trodden bare, showing

-      that they were often populous; but now they were deserted. Big barges lay

-      sleepily at anchor, basking in the sun.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The drover commenced speaking again. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an old soldier, I am. I lost me

-      eye and got lamed in the wars; and now they makes game o&rsquo; my h&rsquo;infirmities

-      and calls me&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The name they called him was evidently too dreadful. He sighed heavily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor man,&rdquo; said Ruthita, slipping her hand into his horny palm. &ldquo;What do

-      they call you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Old-Dot-and-Carry-One, &rsquo;cause o&rsquo; the way I walks. It&rsquo;s woundin&rsquo;.

-      It &rsquo;urts me feelin&rsquo;s, after the way I&rsquo;ve served me country.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We seated ourselves by the muddy river-bank, while the sheep grazed and

-      rested. Far in the distance trees broke the level of the sky-line, so I

-      knew that we were going in the right direction and our guide was to be

-      trusted. Dot-and-Carry-One produced a loaf of bread from his pocket and,

-      dividing it into three pieces, shared it with us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Little by little he gave us his confidence, telling us of the world as he

-      knew it. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a place o&rsquo; wimen and war. To the h&rsquo;eye wot&rsquo;s prejoodiced

-      there&rsquo;s nothin&rsquo; else in it. But your h&rsquo;eye ain&rsquo;t prejoodiced, and don&rsquo;t

-      yer never let it git so, young miss and master. I&rsquo;ve seen lots. I wuz in

-      the Crimea and I wuz in h&rsquo;India, but I never yet seen the country where a

-      man can&rsquo;t be &rsquo;appy if he wants. There&rsquo;s music, an&rsquo; there&rsquo;s nature,

-      an&rsquo; there&rsquo;s marriage. Now music for h&rsquo;instance.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He produced from his ragged coat a penny whistle and trilled out a tune

-      upon it. While he played he looked as merry a fellow as one could hope to

-      meet in a day&rsquo;s march. The sheep stopped cropping to gaze at us. We

-      clapped our hands and asked him to go on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook his head and replaced his pipe. &ldquo;Then there&rsquo;s nature. Just now I

-      wuz complainin&rsquo;. But supposin&rsquo; I do drive sheep back and forth, how many

-      men wuz up in Lun&rsquo;non to see the sunrise this mornin&rsquo;? I never miss it, &rsquo;ceptin&rsquo;

-      when I&rsquo;m drunk. I knows the seasons o&rsquo; the bloomin&rsquo; flowers, Gawd bless &rsquo;em,

-      and can h&rsquo;imitate the birds&rsquo; songs and call &rsquo;em to me. That&rsquo;s

-      somethin&rsquo;. An&rsquo; if I don&rsquo;t sleep in a stuffy bed, which would be better,

-      for me rheumatics, I can count the stars and have the grass for coverin&rsquo;.

-      And then there&rsquo;s marriage&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused. His eye became moist and his face gentle. &ldquo;I &rsquo;ad a

-      little nipper and a girl once.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That was all. We wanted to ask him questions about marriage, but he pulled

-      his hat down over his eyes and lay back, refusing to answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita and I guarded the sheep and kept them from straying, while he

-      slept. We made chains out of flowers, and, taking off our shoes and socks,

-      paddled in the water. Then Ruthita grew tired and, leaning against my

-      shoulder, persuaded me to tell her the story of where we were going.

-      Before the tale was ended, her eyes were closed and her lips were parted.

-      My arms began to ache terribly; I wondered whether it was with holding her

-      or because I was growing. I hoped it was because I was growing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dot-and-Carry-One woke up. He looked at the sun. &ldquo;Time we wuz h&rsquo;orf,&rdquo; he

-      remarked shortly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had not gone far along the river-bank when we came to a tavern on our

-      side of the water. Ruthita said that she was thirsty, so we entered. The

-      drover spread himself out on a bench and, soliciting my invitation, called

-      for &ldquo;a pint of strong.&rdquo; Good beer, he said, never hurt any man if taken in

-      moderation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We must have sat for the best part of the morning, watching him toss off

-      pot after pot while we gritted our feet on the sanded floor. For each pot

-      he thanked us, taking off his battered hat to Ruthita and blowing away the

-      froth from the top in our honor. He explained to all and sundry that we

-      wuz his little nipper and girl wot he had losht. He losht us years ago, so

-      long he could hardly remember. The tavern-girl entered into a discussion

-      with him, saying that we could not be more than nine and that he was at

-      least seventy. He became angry, demanding whether a man of seventy hadn&rsquo;t

-      lived long enough to know his own children, and what bloody indifference

-      it made to her, anyway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It occurred to me that it might be just possible that he really was

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s father. I had no idea what dying meant. I had been told that the

-      dead were not really dead&mdash;only gone. So I thought that death might

-      mean not being with your friends in the garden. I half expected to find my

-      mother in the forest, just as I had hoped to bring her back on the magic

-      carpet. So when Dot-and-Carry-One was so positive, I asked him if he had

-      heard of the Siege of Paris. He was in a mood when he had heard of

-      everything, been everywhere, and had had every important person for a

-      friend. Of course he had heard of the Siege of Paris; if it hadn&rsquo;t been

-      for him, to-day there wouldn&rsquo;t be any Paris. When I told him of General

-      Favart, he wept copiously and called for another pot.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The tavern-girl told him that that must be his last, and he said that it

-      was cruel &rsquo;ard the way an old soldier were persecooted. When we had

-      paid for his drinks, we discovered that we had only three shillings and

-      eightpence left of our little stock of money. The tavern-girl said we were

-      poor h&rsquo;innercent lambs and she should set the police on him. The drover

-      told her that spring, not autumn, was the lambing season.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All through the long and drowsy afternoon we wandered on.

-      Dot-and-Carry-One seemed in no great hurry to reach his destination. Beer

-      had had a transfiguring effect upon him. He lurched along jauntily, his

-      hat cocked sideways on his head, winking with his one good eye at any

-      girls we met in our path. His cares and sense of injustice were forgotten.

-      He told us tales of his wars, painting tremendous and bloody scenes of

-      carnage. He slew whole armies that afternoon, and at the end of each

-      battle he was left alone, wounded but dauntless, with the dead &rsquo;uns

-      piled high about him. He went into grisly details of the manner of their

-      dying, and stopped now and then to show us with his stick the different

-      ways in which you could kill a man with a sword. Cockney lovers on the

-      river gaped after us, resting on their oars. They saw nothing but an

-      intoxicated old ruffian in charge of a flock of sheep and two small

-      children. But we were in hero-land, and Dot-and-Carry-One was our

-      giant-killer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Ruthita got tired, he hoisted her on to his shoulders, where she rode

-      straddling his neck, with her hands clasped about his forehead. The

-      forest, like a green silent army, with its flags unfurled marched nearer.

-      The sun sank lower behind us; our long lean shadows ran on before us till

-      they lay across the backs of the sheep.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We left the marshes and entered on a white dusty road. Carriages and

-      coaches and wagons kept passing, which made the sheep bewildered. They

-      kept turning this way and that, bleating pitifully. Ruthita had to walk

-      again, while Dot-and-Carry-One barked and waved his stick to keep the

-      flock from scattering. The night came on and we were hungry. At last

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s legs gave out and she sat down by the roadside crying, saying

-      that she was frightened and could go no further. Then Dot-and-Carry-One

-      drove his flock into the forest, and borrowed a shilling from me and left

-      us, promising to go and buy food with it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The sheep lay down about the roots of the trees, and we pillowed our heads

-      against their woolly backs. The silence became intense; the last of the

-      twilight vanished. I was glad when Ruthita put her arms round my neck, for

-      I too was nervous though I would not own it. We waited for the drover to

-      return, and in waiting slept.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I woke with a start. The moon was shining; long paths of silver had been

-      hewn between the trees. The fleece of the kneeling sheep was sparkling and

-      dewy. Far down one of the paths I could see a limping figure approaching.

-      He was shouting and singing and stabbing at his shadow. As he came nearer

-      I could distinctly see that he held a bottle in his hand. Something warned

-      me. I roused Ruthita, telling her to make no sound. We ran till we were

-      breathless and the shouting could be no more heard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Trees grew wider apart where we had halted. Far away a flare of light

-      shone up; as we watched we saw that people passed before it. Hand-in-hand

-      we advanced. Something groaned quite near us. We commenced to run, but,

-      looking back, saw that it was only a tethered donkey. We came to the

-      outskirts of the crowd. We wanted company badly. Burrowing under arms and

-      legs we made our way to the front. A great linen sheet was stretched

-      between two trees. Set up on iron rings before it was a line of cocoanuts.

-      On either side flaring naphtha-lamps were burning. About thirty yards away

-      from the sheet a woman was serving out wooden balls. Between the sheet and

-      the cocoanuts a man was darting up and down, dodging the balls as they

-      were thrown and returning them. The man and woman were calling out

-      together, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball &rsquo;its a

-      cocoanut. Down she goes. &rsquo;Ere you are, sir. Two for the children

-      and one for the missis. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Whether a cocoanut went down or stayed up, they continued to assert in a

-      hoarse, cracked monotone that it had fallen. Their faces were dripping

-      with perspiration. The man returned the balls and the woman served them

-      out again mechanically. The throwers took off their coats and hurled

-      furiously, to the accompaniment of the shrill staccato chatter of the

-      crowd.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita and I stood blinking in the semi-darkness, our eyes dazzled by the

-      lamps. Suddenly I called out, and pushing my way between the throwers,

-      commenced running up the pitch. The man behind the cocoanuts, realizing

-      that the balls had ceased coming, stopped dodging and looked up to see

-      what was the matter. Just then an impatient thrower hurled a ball which

-      went whizzing over me, missed the cocoanuts, and hit the man on the head,

-      splitting his eyebrow. I was terribly afraid that he would topple over and

-      lie still, like Dot-and-Carry-One had told me men did in battle. Instead

-      of that, when I came within reach of him he clutched me angrily by the

-      shoulder, asking me what the devil I meant. The blood, creeping down his

-      face in a slow trickle, made him look twice as fierce as when I had first

-      met him with my Uncle Obad by the gipsy campfire. He drew me near to one

-      of the lamps, smearing his forehead with the back of his hand. He

-      recognized me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, it&rsquo;s you, you young cuss, is it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then the fortune-telling girl came up, whom I had seen before with

-      the baby on her back. She was carrying Ruthita.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Here, Lilith,&rdquo; he said, speaking gruffly, &ldquo;take &rsquo;im to your tent.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then he commenced again, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball

-      &rsquo;its a cocoanut. Down she goes,&rdquo; etc.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was glad to creep into the cool darkness, clinging close to Lilith&rsquo;s

-      skirt. I was a little boy now, with scarcely a desire to be a husband.

-      When I looked across my shoulder the game was in full swing. The woman was

-      serving out the balls; the crowd was paying its pennies; the man was

-      dodging up and down before the sheet, avoiding the balls and returning

-      them. I heaved a sigh of relief; then he had not succumbed&mdash;he was

-      not yet a dead&rsquo;un.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE OPEN WORLD

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night in the

-      tent I slept soundly, with the fortuneteller&rsquo;s arm about me and my head

-      nearly touching Ruthita&rsquo;s across her breast. The soft rise and fall of her

-      bosom made me dream of my mother.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Glimmerings of the early autumn sunrise crept in through holes in the

-      canvas. I raised myself cautiously and gazed at the woman who had cared

-      for me. I call her a woman, for she seemed to me a woman then; she was

-      about seventeen&mdash;little more than a girl. Her face was gentle and

-      passionate; her jet black hair streamed down in a torrent across her tawny

-      throat and breast. She smiled in her sleep and murmured to herself; the

-      arm which clasped Ruthita kept twitching, as though to draw her nearer.

-      While I watched, her eyes opened; she said nothing, but lay smiling up at

-      me. Presently she put her free arm about my neck, and drew me down so my

-      cheek rested against hers. She turned her head and I saw that, though she

-      looked happy, there were tears on her long dark lashes. Her lips moved and

-      I knew what she wanted. Putting my arms about her, I kissed her

-      good-morning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Rousing Ruthita, she raised the flap of the tent and we slipped out. Mists

-      were drifting across the woodland, pink and golden where the sunrise

-      caught them, but lavender in the shadows. It was a quiet fairy world, like

-      the face of a sleeping woman, which was pale with dew upon the forehead

-      and copper and bronze with the streaming hair of faded foliage. Outside

-      the door the grass was blackened in a circle where a gipsy fire had burnt.

-      The yellow caravan stood near. In and out the bracken rabbits were

-      hopping, nibbling at the cool green turf. The gipsy&rsquo;s lurcher watched

-      them, crouched with his nose between his paws, waiting his opportunity to

-      steal closer. Lilith set about gathering brushwood for the fire and we

-      helped her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, am I taller?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She eyed me judicially and shook her curls. &ldquo;No. But p&rsquo;raps we shall grow

-      tall quite suddenly, when the honeymoon is ended.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was beginning to have my doubts of that, so I changed the subject.

-      &ldquo;Lilith has a baby. She carries it on her back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where does she keep it now?&rdquo; asked Ruthita. &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t on her back last

-      night in the tent.&rdquo; Then she commenced to hop about like an eager, excited

-      little bird. &ldquo;I shall ask her. I shall ask her, Dante, and she&rsquo;ll let me

-      hold it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But when we ran to Lilith her back was straight and unbulgy. And when we

-      asked her where she kept the baby, she dropped the bundle of sticks she

-      was carrying and sank to her knees, with her hands pressed against her

-      breast. She swayed to and fro, with her eyes closed, muttering in a

-      strange language. Then she bent forward, kissing the ground and chanting

-      words which sounded like, &ldquo;Coroon! Coroon! Oh, dearie, come back. Come

-      back!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We heard the door of the caravan open. Lilith sprang to her feet and

-      picked up her sticks as though ashamed of what she had been doing. The

-      fierce man stood on the caravan steps. He strode across the grass to

-      Lilith and laid his hand on her shoulder with a rough gesture which was

-      almost kindly. &ldquo;The wind blows, sister,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and it sinks behind the

-      moon. The flowers grow, sister, and they fall beneath the earth. Where

-      they have gone there is rest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He passed on, whistling to his lurcher. The gaudily dressed woman came

-      out; while he was gone, the fire was kindled and breakfast was prepared.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      During breakfast a great discussion arose in their strange language. When

-      it was ended, Lilith took us with her into the tent. She closed the flap

-      carefully and began to undress us. While she was doing it she explained

-      matters. She told us that the man was too busy just now with the

-      cocoanut-shies to spare time to go and fetch my uncle to us. In a few

-      days he would go, but meanwhile we must stay with them in camp. She said

-      that they were good gipsies, but no one would believe it if they saw us

-      with them. They would have to make us like gipsy children so no one would

-      suspect. So she daubed our bodies all over a light brown color, and she

-      stained my hair because it was flaxen. Then she gave us ragged clothes,

-      without shoes or stockings, and dug a hole in the ground and hid ours. She

-      was curious to know what had brought us to the forest; but we would not

-      tell. We had the child&rsquo;s feeling that telling a grown-up would break the

-      spell&mdash;we should never be married then, the little house would never

-      be built, and none of the other pleasant things would happen. We should

-      have to go back to the garden again and live always within walls.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Those days spent in our first dash for freedom stand out in my memory as

-      among the happiest. I ate of the forbidden fruit of romance and reaped no

-      penalties. Ruthita cried at times for her mother; but I had only to

-      remind her of the babies she would have, and her courage returned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The smell of the camp-fire is in my nostrils as I write; I can feel again

-      the cool nakedness of unpaved woodlands beneath my feet and open skies

-      above my head. I see Ruthita unsubdued and bare-legged, plunging

-      shoulder-high into golden bracken, shouting with natural gladness,

-      followed by the gipsy boys and girls. We tasted life in its fullness for

-      the first time, she and I, on that fantastic honeymoon of ours. We felt in

-      our bones and flesh the simple ecstasy of being alive&mdash;the wide,

-      sweet cleanness of the open world. And remembering, I wonder now, as I

-      wondered then, why men have toiled to learn everything except to be happy,

-      and have labored with so much heaviness to build cities when the tent and

-      the camp-fire might be theirs.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Books, schoolmasters, and universities have taught me much since then.

-      They have spattered the windows of my soul with knowledge to prevent my

-      looking out. Luckily I discovered what they were doing and stopped the

-      rascals. But I knew more things that were essentially godlike before they

-      commenced their work. The major part of what they taught me was a

-      weariness to the flesh in the learning, and a burden to the brain when

-      learnt. Of how many days of shouting and sunshine they robbed me with

-      their mistaken kindness. Of what worth is a Euclid problem at forty, when

-      compared with the memory of a childhood&rsquo;s day of flowers, and meadows, and

-      happiness?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For twenty years my father sat prisoner at a desk, unbeautifully and

-      doggedly driving his pen across countless pages that he might be able to

-      buy me wisdom. With all his years of sacrifice and my years of laborious

-      study, he gave me nothing which was half so valuable as that which a boy

-      of nine stole for himself in his ignorance in the forest. There I learnt

-      that the sound of wind in trees is the finest music in the world; that the

-      power to feel in one&rsquo;s own body the wholesome beauties of nature is more

-      rewarding than wealth; that to know how to abandon oneself to the simple

-      kindness of living people is a wiser knowledge than all the elaborate and

-      codified wisdom of the dead.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We roamed the countryside with Lilith by day, listening to her telling

-      fortunes. By night we slept in her arms in the tent. Only one thing was

-      forbidden us&mdash;to speak with strangers. But there was one man who

-      recognized us in spite of that. It was on the first morning. We were

-      sitting by the side of the road with the fierce man; he was showing us how

-      to make a snare for a rabbit. We were so interested that we did not notice

-      a flock of sheep approaching until they were quite close. Then I looked up

-      and caught the eye of old Dot-and-Carry One burning in his head, glaring

-      out at us as if it would fly from its socket. He would have spoken had he

-      dared, but just then the fierce man saw him. He sank his chin upon his

-      breast and, for all that he was &ldquo;a human, made in Gawd&rsquo;s h&rsquo;image,&rdquo; limped

-      away into the distance in a cloud of dust, as meekly sheepish as any of

-      the sheep he followed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita spent a lot of her time in searching for Lilith&rsquo;s baby. She wanted

-      so badly to hold it. We felt quite certain that she had hidden it

-      somewhere, as she had our clothes. Even if it was a dead&rsquo;un, it was absurd

-      to suppose that a person so clever as to tell fortunes should not know

-      where it might be found. We determined to watch her. We thought that if

-      her baby was really dead and she went to it by stealth, then by following

-      her we should be able to find my mother and, perhaps, Ruthita&rsquo;s father.

-      Ruthita had already abandoned the dread that Dot-and-Carry-One had had

-      anything to do with her entrance into the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Naphtha-lamps were extinguished. The crowd of merrymakers had departed. I

-      was roused by Lilith stirring. Very gently she eased her arm from under

-      me. I kept my eyes tightly shut and feigned that I was undisturbed.

-      Cautiously she pulled aside the flap of the tent and stole out. I rose to

-      my feet when she had gone. Ruthita was sleeping soundly, her small face

-      cushioned in her hand. Without waking her I followed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Near to the caravan the camp-fire smoldered, making a splash of red like a

-      pool of blood in the blackness. As I watched, it was momentarily blotted

-      out by a moving shadow. The lurcher shook himself and growled. Lilith&rsquo;s

-      voice reached me, telling him to lie down. A bank of cloud lay across the

-      moon, but I knew the way she went by the rustle of the fallen leaves,

-      turning beneath her tread. I followed her down the glades of the forest,

-      peering after her, glancing behind me at the slightest sound, timid lest I

-      might lose her, timid lest I might lose myself, stealing on tiptoe into

-      the unknown with sobbing, stifled breath. The ground began to descend into

-      a hollow at the bottom of which a pond lay black and sullen. A tall beech

-      stood at its edge, spreading out its branches and leaning across it as if

-      to hide it. The leaves beneath her footsteps ceased to stir.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I could no longer hear her, a horrible, choking sense of solitude

-      took hold of me. What if she had entered into the tree and should never

-      return? Without her, how should I find my way back? I crept as near the

-      pond as I dared, and crouched among the dead leaves, trembling. The water

-      began to splash. &ldquo;Someone,&rdquo; I thought, &ldquo;is rising out of it.&rdquo; Little

-      waves, washing in the rushes, caused the brittle reeds to shake and

-      shiver, whispering in terror among themselves. A low sing-song muttering

-      commenced. It came from the middle of the pond. I tried to stop breathing.

-      It seemed quite possible that the baby was hidden there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The bank of cloud trailed across the sky. The yellow harvest moon dipped,

-      broad and smiling, into the latticework of boughs which roofed the dell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the middle of the pond, knee-deep, Lilith stood. She had cast aside her

-      Romany rags and rose from the water tall and splendid. Her tawny body was

-      a gold statue glistening beneath the moon. Her night-black hair fell sheer

-      from her shoulders like a silken shadow. She was bending forward, peering

-      eagerly beneath the water&rsquo;s surface, whispering hurried love-words. Of all

-      that she said I could only catch the words, &ldquo;Coroon. Coroon. Come back,

-      little dearest. Come back.&rdquo; She laughed gladly and held out her arms, as

-      though there drifted up towards her that which she sought. I could see

-      nothing, for her back was towards me. Still lower she bent till her lips

-      kissed the water&rsquo;s surface; plunging her arms in elbow-deep, she seemed to

-      support the thing which she saw there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lilith, oh Lilith!&rdquo; I cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She started and turned. I feared she was going to be angry. &ldquo;Show me my

-      Mama,&rdquo; I whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She put her finger to her lips, and beckoned, and nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hastily I undressed, tossing my rags beside hers. I waded out to where she

-      was standing. The night air was chilly. She gave me her hand and drew me

-      to her. Placing me before her, so that I could gaze into the pond like a

-      mirror, she chanted over and over a low, wild tune. She peered above my

-      shoulders. At first I could see only my own reflection and hers. Then, as

-      she sang, the water moved, the inky blackness reddened; I forgot

-      everything, the cold, Lilith, my terror, and lived only in that which was

-      coming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the bottom of the pool, infinitely distant, a picture grew. It came so

-      near that I thought it would touch me; I became a part of it. I saw my

-      mother. She was seated by a fire in an unlighted room. A little boy lay in

-      her lap with his arms about her. She glanced up at me smiling faintly,

-      gazing into my eyes directly. For a moment I saw her distinctly, and

-      caught again the fragrance of violets that clung about her. The water

-      rippled and the vision died away in smoke and cloud. Lilith gathered me to

-      her cold wet breast and carried me to the shore and dressed me. Without

-      knowing why, I knew that this was a happening that I must not tell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We returned to camp. Woods were stirring. Shadows were thinning. Dawn was

-      breaking. The coldness in the air became intense. We threw branches on the

-      fire and blew the smoldering embers, till sparks began to fly and twigs to

-      crackle. Lilith sat with me in her arms, and hushed and mothered me. I was

-      not ashamed; for five years I had wanted just that. I was glad that she

-      understood. Ruthita could not see me; nobody but the dawn would ever know.

-      So I fell asleep and went back to the fragrance of violets, the fire, and

-      the cosy darkened room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;RECAPTURED

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span> uthita and I were

-      terribly puzzled about that baby. We couldn&rsquo;t make out how it had found

-      its way into the world. We supposed that God had made a mistake in sending

-      it to Lilith, and that was why He had taken it back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our difficulty rose from the fact that Lilith did not appear ever to have

-      been married. The fierce man was not her husband. So far as we could

-      discover from the gipsy children she had never had a husband. Then she

-      couldn&rsquo;t have had a honeymoon: and, if she had never had a honeymoon, she

-      oughtn&rsquo;t to have had a baby. Our ideas on the question of birth were

-      utterly disorganized. There was only one explanation&mdash;that we had

-      been misinformed by Hetty and people could have babies by themselves. The

-      effect of this conjecture on Ruthita was revolutionizing: it made our

-      honeymoon unnecessary and me entirely dispensable. She had only been

-      persuaded to elope for the sake of exchanging dolls for babies, and now it

-      appeared she could have them and her mother as well. I had no argument

-      left with which to combat her desire to return. There was only one way of

-      arriving at the truth on the subject, and that was by inquiring of Lilith.

-      Neither of us would have done this for worlds after the way she had cried

-      when we found that her back was no longer bulgy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The days grew shorter and the forest became bare. We could see long

-      distances now between the tree-trunks; it was as though the branches had

-      fisted their hands. Holiday-seekers came to the cocoanut-shies less and

-      less. The fierce man, whom we learnt to call G&rsquo;liath, had hardly any

-      bruises on his face and hands; he dodged the balls easily. The few chance

-      throwers had no crowd to make them reckless; they shied singly now and not

-      in showers. The gaudily dressed woman lost her hoarseness. She no longer

-      had to shout night and morning, &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny.

-      Every ball &rsquo;its a cocoanut. Down she goes,&rdquo; etc. Why should she?

-      There was no one to get excited&mdash;nobody to pay her pennies. Instead

-      she sat by the fire, weaving wicker-baskets, watching the pearl-colored

-      smoke go up in whiffs and eddies. Though she seldom said anything, she had

-      taken a fancy to Ruthita and would spread for her a corner of her skirt

-      that she might sit beside her while she worked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Every day as Ruthita became more sure that she could have a baby all by

-      herself, she wanted to go home more badly. One evening the gaudy woman

-      found her crying. She told G&rsquo;liath that next morning he must harness in

-      his little moke and go for Mr. Spreckles. I did not hear her tell him, but

-      Lilith told me when she came to lie down beside me in the tent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night she held me closer. I could feel her heart thumping. She roused

-      me continually in the darkness to ask me needless questions. Whether I

-      would ever forget her. &ldquo;No.&rdquo; Whether I would like to see her again. &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-       Whether I would like to become a gipsy. &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t I!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was silent for so long that I began to drowse. I awoke with the

-      tightening of her arms about me. When I lifted my face to hers, she

-      commenced to kiss me passionately. &ldquo;You shall. You shall,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll

-      make a gipsy of you, so you&rsquo;ll always remember and never be content with

-      their closed-in world. They&rsquo;ll take you from me to-morrow, but your heart

-      will never be theirs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I didn&rsquo;t understand, but at dawn she showed me. Frost lay on the ground.

-      Every little blade of grass was stiff and sword-like. It was as though the

-      hair of the world had turned white from shock and was standing on end.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She led me away through the tall stark forest to a glade so secret that no

-      one could observe us. At first I thought she was escaping with me,

-      carrying me off to her gipsy-land. But she made me kneel down beside her.

-      As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little knife from

-      beneath her dress, and pricked her wrist and mine so that they bled. She

-      held her hand beneath our wrists, catching the blood in her palm so it

-      mingled. Then she let it drip through her fingers, making scarlet stains

-      on the frosted turf.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As it fell she spoke to the grass and the trees and the air, telling them

-      that I was hers and, because our blood was mingled, was one of them.

-      &ldquo;Whenever he hears your voice,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it will speak to him of me. If

-      he goes where you do not grow, oh grass, then the trees shall call him

-      back. If he goes where you do not grow, oh trees, then the wind shall tell

-      him. His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears

-      your voice, oh grass, or your voice, oh trees, or your voice, oh winds, he

-      shall turn his face from walls and come back. Though he leaves us he shall

-      always hear us calling, for he is ours!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And it seemed to me when her voice had ceased that I heard the grass

-      nodding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping through

-      the trees, stooping their leafless branches as though they gave assent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That morning for the first time we had breakfast in the caravan. After

-      breakfast Lilith and I went out together, hand-in-hand. G&rsquo;liath was

-      harnessing in his donkey. We watched him drive down the road and vanish. I

-      did not want to go back and he knew it; he looked ashamed of himself. The

-      country was bitter and cheerless; it had an atmosphere of parting&mdash;everything

-      was withered. Birds huddled close on branches with ruffled feathers.

-      Fields were harsh and cracked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Little brother,&rdquo; Lilith said, &ldquo;one day you will be a man. Until then they

-      will keep you prisoner and try to make you forget all the things which you

-      and I have learnt. They will tell you that the trees have no voices: that

-      it is only the wind that stirs them. They will tell you that rivers are

-      only water flowing. But remember that out in the open they are all waiting

-      for you, and that the other people who have no bodies are there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I thought of the picture I had seen in the pool and knew what she meant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Towards evening we returned to the camp. The melancholy autumn twilight

-      lay about us; in the heart of it the fire burnt red. We sat round it in

-      silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and listening for

-      G&rsquo;liath coming back. &ldquo;Ruthita,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;do you think we shall find

-      the little house?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shook her head doubtfully, as if she scarcely cared. She was thinking

-      of the lighted room, perhaps, and the long white bed, where her mother was

-      eagerly awaiting her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Coming up the road we heard a sharp tap-a-tap. Dancing in and out the

-      tree-trunks we saw the golden eyes of carriage-lamps. The dog-cart and

-      Dollie came into sight and halted; my Uncle Obad jumped out. He had come

-      alone to fetch us; I was glad of that. I could explain things to him so

-      much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand.

-      Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his

-      arms. All he could say was, &ldquo;Well, well, well!&rdquo; His face was beaming;

-      every little wrinkle in his face was trembling. He hugged me so tightly

-      that he took away my breath. I didn&rsquo;t get a chance to speak until he had

-      set me down. Then I said, &ldquo;Uncle Obad, this is Ruthita.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He held out his hand to her gravely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Dante

-      Cardover,&rdquo; he said. Then, because she was such a little girl and her face

-      looked so thin and wistful, he took her in his arms and hugged her as

-      well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Suddenly the gaudy woman remembered that we were still clothed in our

-      gipsy rags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but Uncle

-      Obad wouldn&rsquo;t hear of it. He insisted on carrying us off to Pope Lane just

-      as we were.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was night when he said, &ldquo;Dollie is rested; we must be going.&rdquo; When we

-      rose to our feet to say good-by, Lilith was not there. He lifted us into

-      the dog-cart and wrapped rugs about our shoulders to make us cozy. Then he

-      jumped in beside us and we had our last look at the camp. The gaudy woman

-      was standing up by the fire with her children huddled about her skirts. I

-      could see the gleam of her ear-rings shaking, the lighted window of the

-      caravan in the background, and the lurcher sneaking in and out the

-      shadows. G&rsquo;liath and his donkey travelled slowly; they had not returned

-      when we left. Uncle Obad cracked his whip; we started forward across the

-      turf and were soon bowling between the dim skeletons of trees down the

-      hard road homeward.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita crept closer to me. She may have been cold and she may have been

-      lonely, but I think she was just feeling how flat things were now our

-      great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now,

-      womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and then

-      she drew her fingers across my face&mdash;a little love-trick she had. She

-      leant her head against my shoulder and was soon sleeping soundly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Old chap, why did you do it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked up at my uncle; I could not see his face because of the darkness.

-      His voice was very solemn and kindly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t see anything in the garden,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;we wanted to find where

-      the pigeons went.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But why did you take the little girl?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I hesitated about telling. It might spoil what was left of the magic; I

-      still had a faint hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might have

-      grown into a man. And then, in telling, I might do Hetty a damage. Instead

-      of answering, I asked him a question.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When you&rsquo;re married, you get everything you want, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That depends on what you call everything, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, money, and a house, and a pony, and babies.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not always.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He spoke softly. Then I knew I oughtn&rsquo;t to have mentioned babies, because,

-      like Lilith, he hadn&rsquo;t any.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It wasn&rsquo;t I who wanted the babies,&rdquo; I explained hurriedly; &ldquo;that was

-      Ruthie. She wanted them instead of dolls to play with. I wanted to be

-      allowed to go in and out, like the children with the magic carpet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He knew at once what I meant. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t want to have grown people always

-      bothering, telling you to do this and not to do that, and locking doors

-      behind you? You wanted always to be free and jolly, like you and I are

-      together? And you thought that you could be like that if you were

-      married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He slowed Dollie down to a walk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Little man, you&rsquo;ve been trying to get just what everyone&rsquo;s reaching

-      after. When you&rsquo;re a boy you say, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll have it when I&rsquo;m a man.&rsquo; When

-      you&rsquo;re a man you say, &lsquo;I&rsquo;ll have it when I&rsquo;m married.&rsquo; You&rsquo;ve been

-      searching for perpetual happiness. You&rsquo;ll never have it in this world,

-      Dante. And don&rsquo;t you see why you&rsquo;ll never have it? You hurt other people

-      in trying to get it. Your father and Ruthita&rsquo;s mother, all of us have been

-      very anxious. I&rsquo;ve often been tempted to run away myself because I&rsquo;m not

-      much use to anybody. But that would mean leaving someone I love; so I&rsquo;ve

-      had to stop on and face it out. You ran away to enjoy yourself, and other

-      people were sorry. Other people always have to be sorry when a fellow does

-      that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook the reins over Dollie and she commenced to trot again. Presently

-      he said, half-speaking to himself, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a better word than happiness,

-      and that&rsquo;s duty. If a chap does his duty the best he can, he makes other

-      folk happy. Then he finds his own happiness by accident, within himself.

-      I&rsquo;m a queer one to be talking&mdash;I&rsquo;m not awfully successful. I&rsquo;ve run

-      away a little. But you must do better. And if you can&rsquo;t bear things, just

-      <i>imagine</i>. What&rsquo;s the difference between the things you really have

-      and the things you pretend? Imagination is the magic carpet; you can

-      pretend yourself anything and anywhere. If you&rsquo;ve learnt that secret, they

-      can lock all the doors&mdash;it won&rsquo;t matter. I can&rsquo;t put it plainer;

-      there are things that it isn&rsquo;t right for you to understand&mdash;this

-      business about marriage. You&rsquo;ll know when you&rsquo;re a man. Now promise that

-      you&rsquo;ll never run away again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I promised.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we got to Pope Lane it must have been very late. I suppose I fell

-      asleep on the journey, for I remember nothing more until the light flashed

-      in my eyes and my father was bending over me. Ruthita wasn&rsquo;t there; she

-      had been left already at her mother&rsquo;s house. My father had me in his arms.

-      He was standing in the hall. The door was wide open and my uncle was going

-      down the steps, calling &ldquo;Good-night&rdquo; as he went. Behind me I could see

-      Hetty peering over the banisters in a gray flannel nightdress&mdash;her

-      night-dresses were all of gray flannel. When my father turned, she

-      scuttled away like a frightened rabbit.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He carried me into his study&mdash;just as I was, clad in my gipsy rags&mdash;and

-      closed the door behind him with a slam. His lamp on the table was turned

-      low. The floor was littered with books and papers. A fire in the hearth

-      was burning brightly. He drew up an easy-chair to the blaze and sat down,

-      still holding me to him. I was always timid with my father, especially

-      when we were alone together. This time I was very conscious of

-      wrong-doing. I waited to hear him say something; but he remained silent,

-      staring into the fire. The lamp flickered lower and lower, and went out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Father, I&mdash;I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I saw that he was crying. His tears splashed down. His face had lost

-      that stem look. I was shaken by his sobs as he held me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Little son. My little son,&rdquo; he whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The room grew fainter. The pictures on the walls became shadowy. My eyes

-      opened and closed. When I awoke the gray light of morning was stealing in

-      at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly. My

-      father was sitting in the easy-chair, his head sunk forward&mdash;but his

-      arms were still about me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE SNOW LADY

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y father never

-      asked me why I had run away or where I had gone. His tongue was ever

-      stubborn at loving with words. With Hetty it was different. When my father

-      had wakened and let me out of his arms to go upstairs and dress, she

-      caught me into her bosom and half-smothered me, scolding and comforting by

-      turns. Her corsets hurt me and her starched print-dress was harsh; I was

-      glad when she left off and set me down on the bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And who ever &rsquo;eard the likes o&rsquo; that,&rdquo; she said: &ldquo;a little boy to

-      run away from his dear Pa and take with &rsquo;im a little sweet-&rsquo;eart

-      as we never knew &rsquo;e &rsquo;ad. Oh, the deceit of children for all

-      they looks so h&rsquo;innercent! And &rsquo;ere was your dear Pa a-tearin&rsquo; all

-      the &rsquo;air out of &rsquo;is &rsquo;ead. And &rsquo;ere was me and

-      John&mdash;we couldn&rsquo;t do no work and we couldn&rsquo;t do nothin&rsquo; for thinkin&rsquo;

-      where you&rsquo;d went. And there was you a-livin&rsquo; with those dirty gipsies and

-      wearin&rsquo; their dirty rags&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not dirty,&rdquo; I interrupted, &ldquo;and I shan&rsquo;t like you if you talk

-      like that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;m only tellin&rsquo; you the truth; you was always perwerse and &rsquo;eadstrong.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t tell me the truth when you told me about marriage,&rdquo; I said.

-      &ldquo;Everything&rsquo;s just the same as when we left. We ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any taller, and we

-      hav&rsquo;n&rsquo;t got a little house, and&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She sat back on her heels and stared at me. &ldquo;Oh, Lor,&rdquo; she burst out, &ldquo;was

-      that why you did it?&rdquo; And then she began to laugh and laugh. Her face grew

-      red and again she fell upon me, until her corsets cut into me to such an

-      extent that I called to her to leave off.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What I told you was gorspel true,&rdquo; she said solemnly, &ldquo;but you didn&rsquo;t

-      understand. That&rsquo;s wot &rsquo;appens to wimmen when they goes away with

-      men. I wasn&rsquo;t speakin&rsquo; of little boys and girls. But it&rsquo;ll never &rsquo;appen

-      to you when you grow up if you tell anybody wot I said.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That morning after breakfast, instead of going into his study to work, my

-      father led me round to the Favarts&rsquo;. As we came up the path I saw Ruthita

-      at the window watching for us. Monsieur Favart opened the door to our

-      knock. He said something to my father in French, shook me by the hand

-      gravely, and led the way upstairs. We entered a room at the back of the

-      house, overlooking the garden. A lady, almost as small as Ruthita, was

-      lying on a couch with cushions piled behind her head. She was dressed

-      completely in white; she had dark eyes and white hair, and a face that

-      somehow surprised you because it was so young and little. From the first I

-      called her the Snow Lady to myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She held out her hand to me and then, instead, put her arm about my waist,

-      smiling up at me. &ldquo;So you are Dante, the little boy who wanted to marry my

-      little girl?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice was more soft and emotional than any voice I had ever heard. It

-      held me, and kept me from noticing anything but her. It seemed as though

-      all the eagerness of living, which other people spend in motion, was

-      stored up in that long white throat of hers and delicate scarlet mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t marry Ruth yet, you know,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you hav&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any money.

-      But if you like, you may go and kiss her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned me about and there was Ruthita standing behind me. I did what I

-      was told, shyly and perfunctorily. There was no sense of pleasure in doing

-      what you were ordered to do just to amuse grown people. The Snow Lady

-      laughed gaily. &ldquo;There, take him out into the garden, Ruthita, and teach

-      him to do it properly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As I left the room, I saw that my father had taken my place by the couch.

-      Monsieur Favart was looking out of the window, his hands folded on the

-      head of his cane and his chin resting on them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We played in the garden together, but much of the charm had gone out of

-      our playing now that it was allowed. The game we played was gipsies in the

-      forest. We gathered leaves and made a fire, pretending we were again in

-      camp. I was G&rsquo;liath; Ruthita was sometimes the gaudy woman and sometimes

-      Lilith telling fortunes. But the pretense was tame after the reality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;we ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t married. What Hettie told me was all swank.

-      It&rsquo;s only true of men and women, and not of boys and girls.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But we can grow older.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. But it&rsquo;ll take ages.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She folded her hands in her pinafore nervously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We can go on loving till then,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the way home my father told me that he liked Ruthita&mdash;liked her so

-      much that he had arranged with Madam Favart to have a door cut in the wall

-      between the two gardens so that we could go in and out. I didn&rsquo;t tell him

-      that I preferred climbing over; he could scarcely guess it for himself.

-      There was no excitement in being pushed into the open and told to go and

-      play with Ruthita. It was all too easy. The fun had been in no one knowing

-      that I did play with such a little girl&mdash;not even knowing that there

-      was a Ruthita in the world. We tried to overcome this by always pretending

-      that we were doing wrong when we were together. We would hide when we

-      heard anybody coming. I despised the door and only went through it when a

-      grown person was present, otherwise I entered by way of the apple-tree and

-      the wall. My father caught me at it, and couldn&rsquo;t understand why I did it.

-      Hetty said it was because I liked being grubby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through the gray autumn months I wandered the garden, listening to the

-      dead leaves whispering together. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll take you from me, but your heart

-      will never be theirs,&rdquo; Lilith had said, and I tried to fancy that the

-      rustling of leaves was Lilith&rsquo;s voice calling. It was curious how she had

-      plucked out my affections and made them hers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Often I would steal into the tool-house and tell the white hen all about

-      it. But she also was a source of disillusionment. After long waiting I

-      found one egg in her nest. I thought she must be as glad about it as I

-      was, so left it there a little while for her to look at. I thought the

-      sight of it would spur her on to more ambitious endeavors. But when I came

-      back her beak was yellowy and the egg had vanished. After this unnatural

-      act of cannibalism I told her no more secrets; she had proved herself

-      unworthy. Shortly afterwards she died&mdash;perhaps of remorse. I made my

-      peace with her by placing her in a cardboard shoe-box for a coffin and

-      giving her a most handsome funeral.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One evening, when I had been put to bed, I stole to the window to gaze

-      into the blackness. I saw a man with a lantern go across our lawn and

-      disappear by the apple-tree through the door in the wall. After that I

-      watched. Nearly every night it happened. I was always too sleepy to stay

-      awake to see at what hour he came back. But I knew that he did come back,

-      for with the first fall of snow I traced his returning footsteps. They

-      came from Monsieur Favart&rsquo;s door and entered in at our study-window. So I

-      guessed that the man was my father.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Madam Favart seemed to be growing stronger; she was able to get up and

-      walk about. Sometimes I would go into her house for tea, and she would sit

-      by the firelight and tell Ruthita and myself stories. She used to try and

-      get me to climb on her knee while she told them. I always refused, because

-      my mother used to do that. The Snow Lady used to laugh at me and say,

-      &ldquo;Ruthita, Dante won&rsquo;t make love to Mother. Isn&rsquo;t he silly?&rdquo; Then I would

-      grow sulky and sit as far off as I could.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Christmas came round, the Favarts were invited over to spend it with

-      us. The Snow Lady brought a bunch of misletoe with her and hung it about

-      our house. After dinner the General fell asleep in his chair, and we

-      children played hide and seek together. I wanted to hide so securely that

-      Ruthita would never catch me. It was getting dark, and I knew that she

-      wouldn&rsquo;t hunt for me in my father&rsquo;s study. I was a little awed myself at

-      going there. I pushed open the door. The room was unlighted. I entered,

-      and then halted at the sound of voices whispering. Standing in the window,

-      silhouetted against the snow, were my father and Madam Favart. He was

-      holding a sprig of misletoe over her; his arm was about her, and they were

-      leaning breast to breast. She saw me first and started back from him, just

-      as Hetty had done when I found her with John. Then my father, turning

-      sharply, saw me. He called to me sternly, &ldquo;Dante, what are you doing,

-      sir?&rdquo; He sounded almost afraid because I had been watching. Then he called

-      again more softly, &ldquo;Dante, my boy, come here.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But a strange rebellious horror possessed me. It seemed as though

-      something were tearing out my heart. I was angry, fiercely angry because

-      he had been disloyal to my mother. At that moment I hated him, but hated

-      Madam Favart much worse. I knew now why she had told me stories, and why

-      she had wanted me to climb on her knee, and why she had tried to force me

-      to make love to her. I rushed from the room and down the passage. Ruthita

-      ran out laughing to catch me, but I pushed her aside roughly and unjustly.

-      I wanted to get away by myself and fled out into the snow-covered garden.

-      My father came to the door and called. But Madam Favart was with him; I

-      could see by the gaslight, which fell behind them, the way she pressed

-      towards him. I could hear her merry contralto laugh, and refused to

-      answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll come by himself,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the door closed and they left me, I felt miserably lonely. They had

-      been wicked and they were not sorry. Hetty said that God was twice as

-      angry with you for not being sorry as He was with you for doing wrong.

-      Hetty knew everything about God; she used to hold long conversations with

-      Him every night in her gray flannel nightdress. Soon the snow began to

-      melt into my shoes and the frost to nip my fingers. I wished they would

-      come out again and call me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I became pathetic over the fact that it was Christmas. I pictured to

-      myself a possible death as a result of exposure. I saw myself dying in a

-      beautiful calm, forgiving everybody, and with everybody kneeling by my

-      bedside shaken with sobbing; the sobs of Madam Favart and my father were

-      to be the loudest. I was to be stretching out long white hands, trying to

-      quiet them; but their sense of guilt was to have placed them beyond all

-      bounds of consolation. Every time I tried to comfort them they were to cry

-      twice as hard. Then I saw my funeral and the big lily wreaths: &ldquo;From his

-      broken-hearted father&rdquo;; &ldquo;From Madam Favart with sincere regrets&rdquo;; &ldquo;From

-      Hetty who told God untruths about him&rdquo;; &ldquo;From Ruthita who loved him.&rdquo; And

-      in the midst of these tokens of grief I lay fully conscious of everything,

-      arrayed in a gray flannel nightshirt, opening one eye when no one was

-      looking, and winking at Uncle Obad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to feel little pangs of hunger, and my pride gave way before them.

-      Reluctantly I stole nearer the house and peeked into the study. They were

-      all there seated round the fire, callously enjoying themselves. The secret

-      was plainly out&mdash;my father was holding Madam Favart&rsquo;s hand. Ruthita

-      was cuddled against my father&rsquo;s shoulder; she was evidently reconciled

-      rather more than stoically. I tapped on the pane. The old General saw me.

-      He signed to the others to remain still. He threw up the window and lifted

-      me into the warmth. I believe he understood. Perhaps he felt just as I was

-      feeling. At any rate, when it was decreed that I should go to bed at once

-      and drink hot gruel, he slipped a crown-piece into my hand and looked as

-      though he hadn&rsquo;t done it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Within a month the marriage was celebrated, my father being a methodical

-      man who hated delays and loved shortcuts. It was a vicarious affair;

-      Ruthita and I had taken the honeymoon, and our parents were married. If

-      Uncle Obad hadn&rsquo;t given me the white hen, and the hen hadn&rsquo;t flown over

-      the wall, and I hadn&rsquo;t followed, these things would never have happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I grew to admire the Snow Lady immensely. She always called me her little

-      lover. She never ordered me to do anything or played the mother, but

-      flirted with me and trusted to my chivalry to recognize her wants. We

-      played a game of pretending. It had only one disadvantage, that it shut

-      Ruthita out from our game, for one couldn&rsquo;t court two ladies at once. I

-      learnt to kiss Ruthita as a habit and to take her, as boys will their

-      sisters, for granted. It is only on looking back that I realize how

-      beautiful and gentle she really was, and what life would have been without

-      her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      General Favart lived in the other house through the door in the wall. He

-      came to visit us rarely. He leant more heavily on his cane, and his cloak

-      seemed to have become blacker, his hair whiter, and his scar more

-      prominent. He could scarcely speak a word of English, so I never knew what

-      he thought. But it seemed to me he was sorrowing. One day we children were

-      told that he was dead; after that the door between the two gardens was

-      taken down and the hole in the wall bricked up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      BOOK II&mdash;THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <i>And man returned to the ground out of which he was taken, and his wife

-      bare children and he builded walls. But thou shalt think an evil thought

-      and say, &ldquo;I will go up to the land of unwalled villages.</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER I&mdash;THE RED HOUSE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ante, it&rsquo;s time

-      you went to school.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For the past three years, since he had married the Snow Lady, my father

-      had given me lessons in his study for the last hour of every morning

-      before lunch. It had been the Snow Lady&rsquo;s idea; she said I was growing up

-      a perfect ignoramus.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father tilted up his spectacles to his forehead, and gazed across the

-      table at me thoughtfully. &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; he repeated, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be sorry to lose you,

-      my boy; but it&rsquo;s time you went to school.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was to lose me; then I was to go away! My heart sank, and leapt, and

-      sank again with a dreadful joy of expectation. In my childish way I had

-      always been impatient of the present&mdash;a Columbus ceaselessly watching

-      for the first trace of seaweed broken loose from the shores of the

-      unknown. Change, which at mid-life we so bitterly resent, was at that time

-      life&rsquo;s great allurement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The school selected was one of the smaller public-schools, lying fifteen

-      miles distant from Stoke Newington. It was called the Red House and stood

-      on Eden Hill. It was situated in lovely country, so my father said, and

-      had for its head-master a man with whom he was slightly acquainted, whose

-      name was the Reverend Robert Sneard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the next few weeks I was a semi-hero. Ruthita regarded me with the

-      kind of pitying awe that a bullock inspires in children, when they meet it

-      being driven lowing along a road to be slaughtered. Everyone became busy

-      over preparations for my departure&mdash;even the Snow Lady, who seldom

-      worked. I was allowed to sit up quite late, watching her pretty fingers

-      flashing the needle in and out the flannel that grew into shirts for me to

-      wear. Ruthita would snuggle up beside me, her long black curls tickling my

-      cheek. There were lengthy silences. Then Ruthita would look up at her

-      mother and say, &ldquo;Mumsie, I don&rsquo;t know whatever we shall do without him.&rdquo;

-       And sometimes, when she said it, the Snow Lady would laugh in her Frenchy

-      way and answer, &ldquo;Why, Ruthita, what&rsquo;s one little boy? He&rsquo;s so tiny; he

-      won&rsquo;t leave much empty space.&rdquo; But once, it was the night before I left,

-      she choked in the middle of her laughing and took us both into her arms,

-      telling us that she loved us equally. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think what I&rsquo;ll do without

-      my little lover,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Of a sudden I had become a person of importance. The servants no longer

-      made a worry of doing things for me. They watched me going about the house

-      as though it were for the last time, and spoke of me to one another as,

-      &ldquo;Poor little chap.&rdquo; I had only to express a want to have it gratified. I

-      was treated as the State treats a condemned criminal on the day of his

-      execution, when they let him choose his breakfast. I gloried in my

-      eminence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was arranged that my uncle should drive me to the Red House. Before I

-      went, I was loaded with good advice. My father sent for me to his study

-      one night and, with considerable embarrassment, alluded to subjects of

-      which I had no knowledge, imploring me to listen to no evil companions but

-      to keep pure. His language was so delicately veiled that I was none the

-      wiser. I thought he referred to such boyish peccadilloes as jam stealing

-      and telling lies. Even the Snow Lady, who took delight in being frivolous,

-      read me a moral story concerning the rapid degeneration, through

-      cigarettes and beer-drinking, of a boy with the face of an angel. Neither

-      of these temptations was mine, and I had never regarded myself as

-      particularly angelic in appearance. They beat about the bush, hunting

-      ghostly passions with allegories.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I noticed that Ruthita would absent herself for an hour or more at a

-      stretch. When I followed her up to her room the door was locked, and she

-      would beseech me with tears in her voice not to peek through the key-hole.

-      The mystery was explained when she presented me with a knitted muffler,

-      the wool for which she had purchased from her own savings. I came across

-      it, moth-eaten and faded, in my old school play-box the other day. It was

-      cold weather when she made it, for a little girl to sit in a bedroom

-      without a fire. I hope I thanked her sufficiently and did not accept her

-      surprise as though it were expected.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On an afternoon in January I departed. Then I realized for the first time

-      what going away from home meant. The horror of the unknown, not the

-      adventure, pressed upon me. We all pretended to be very gay&mdash;all

-      except Hetty, who threw her apron over her head and, in the old scripture

-      phrase, lifted up her voice and wept. They accompanied me out of the

-      garden, down Pope Lane, to where the dog-cart was tethered. I mounted

-      reluctantly, stretching out the last moment to its greatest length, and

-      took my place beside Uncle Obad. My father had his pen behind his ear, I

-      remember. It seemed to me as though the pen were saying, &ldquo;Hurry up now and

-      get off. Your father can&rsquo;t waste all day over little boys.&rdquo; Dollie lifted

-      her head and began to trot. The Snow Lady waved and waved, smiling

-      bravely. Then Ruthita broke from the group and ran after us down the long

-      red street for a little way. We turned a corner and they were lost to

-      sight.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I drew nearer to my uncle, pressing Ruthita&rsquo;s muffler to my lips and

-      gazing straight before me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&mdash;what&rsquo;ll it be like?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook his head. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t say,&rdquo; he muttered huskily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After about an hour&rsquo;s driving, he broke the silence with a kindly effort

-      to make conversation. He told me that we were on the Great North Road,

-      where there used to be highwaymen. He spoke of Dick Turpin and some of his

-      exploits. He pointed out a public-house at which highwaymen used to stay.

-      He could not stir my imagination&mdash;it was otherwise occupied. I was

-      wondering why I should be sent to school, if my going made everyone

-      unhappy. I was picturing the snug nursery, with the lamp unlighted, and

-      the fire burning, and Ruthita seated all alone on the rug before the fire.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We left the Great North Road, striking across country, through frosty

-      lanes. My uncle ceased speaking; he himself was uninterested in what he

-      had been saying. We passed groups of children playing before clustered

-      cottages, and laborers plodding homeward whistling. It seemed strange to

-      me that they should all be so cheerful and should not realize what was

-      happening inside me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came in sight of the Red House. It could be seen at a great distance,

-      for it stood out gauntly on the crest of Eden Hill, and the sunset lay

-      behind it. In the lowlands night was falling; lights were springing up,

-      twinkling cheerfully. But the Red House did not impress me as cheerful&mdash;it

-      had no lights, and struck me with the chill and repression that one feels

-      in passing by a prison.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, old chap, we&rsquo;re nearly there,&rdquo; said my uncle with a futile attempt

-      to be jolly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I darted out my hand and dragged on the reins. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t&mdash;don&rsquo;t drive so

-      fast. Let Dollie walk.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He looked down at me slantwise. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be brave, old chap.

-      Nothing&rsquo;s as bad as it seems at the time. Nothing&rsquo;s so bad that it can&rsquo;t

-      be lived through. Why, one day you&rsquo;ll be looking back and telling yourself

-      that these were your happiest days.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Despite his optimisms, he did as I requested and let Dollie walk the rest

-      of the way. While she climbed the hill, we got out and walked beside her.

-      My uncle put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a half-crown. He

-      balanced it in his palm; tossed it; put it back into his pocket; drew it

-      out again. &ldquo;Here, Dante,&rdquo; he said at last, &ldquo;see what I&rsquo;ve found. You&rsquo;d

-      best take it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As we approached nearer, he was again moved to generosity. He was moved

-      three times, to be exact; each time he considered the matter carefully,

-      then rushed the coin at me. He gave me seven shillings in all. I am sure

-      he could ill afford them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the top of the hill he beckoned me to jump into the trap. It was

-      fitting, I suppose, that we should drive up to my place of confinement

-      grandly. Then a great idea seized me. My box was under the seat behind. I

-      had all my belongings with me. There were no walls to restrain us now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Uncle,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want to go there. You once said you were

-      tired of houses. Why shouldn&rsquo;t we run away?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He heard the tremble in my voice. He lifted me in beside him and drove

-      along the outside of the school-walls, not entering at the gate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s beastly hard,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;and the trouble is that I can&rsquo;t explain it.

-      All through life you&rsquo;ll be wanting to run away, and all through life, if

-      you&rsquo;re not a coward, you won&rsquo;t be able. You see, people have to earn a

-      living in this world, and to earn a living they must be educated. Your

-      father&rsquo;s trying to give you the best education he can, and he means to be

-      kind. But it&rsquo;s a darned shame, this not being able to do what you like. I

-      can&rsquo;t run away with you, old chap. There&rsquo;s nothing for it; you&rsquo;ve just got

-      to bear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He stopped, searching for words. He wanted to tell me something really

-      comforting and wasn&rsquo;t content with what he had said. He found it. Turning

-      round in the dogcart, he threw his arm about my shoulder and pointed above

-      my head, &ldquo;Look up, there.&rdquo; I raised my eyes and saw the blue black sky

-      like an inverted cup, with a red smudge round the western rim where a

-      mouth of blood had stained it. One by one the silver stars were coming out

-      and disappearing, like tiny bubbles which break and form again. As I

-      looked, night seemed to deepen; horizons dropped back; the earth fell

-      away. The sky was no longer a cup; it was nothing measurable. It was a

-      drifting sea of freedom, and I was part of it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They can rob you of a lot of things,&rdquo; my uncle said, &ldquo;but they can never

-      take that from you. It&rsquo;s like the world of your imagination, something

-      that can&rsquo;t be stolen, and that you can&rsquo;t sell, and that you can&rsquo;t buy.

-      It&rsquo;s always yours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We drove through the gate to the main entrance. My box was deposited in

-      the hall. My uncle shook hands with me in formal manner when he said

-      good-by, for the school-porter was present. He turned round sharply to cut

-      proceedings short, and disappeared into the night. I listened to his

-      wheels growing fainter. For the first time I was utterly alone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER II&mdash;CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH COMFORTERS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n delicate

-      schoolboy slang, I was a new-bug&mdash;a thing to be poked and despised,

-      and not to be spoken to for the first few days. There were other new-bugs,

-      which was some consolation; but we were too shy to get acquainted. We

-      moped about the playground sullen and solitary, like crows on a plowed

-      field. Every now and then some privileged person, who was not a new-bug,

-      would bang our shins with a hockey-stick; after which we would hop about

-      on one leg for a time, looking more like crows than ever.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady had packed fifty oranges in my box. I made holes in the tops

-      of them with my thumb and rammed in lumps of sugar, sucking out the juice.

-      Not because I was greedy, but because there seemed nothing else to do, I

-      ate every one of the fifty the first day. The following night I was ill,

-      which did not help my popularity. One dark-haired person, about my own

-      age, with a jolly freckled face, took particular offense at my

-      misdemeanor. His real name was Buzzard, but he was nicknamed the Bantam

-      because of his size and his temper. He never said a word about the

-      oranges, but he punished me for having been ill by stamping on my toes. He

-      did this whenever he passed me, looking in the opposite direction in an

-      absent-minded fashion. My quietness in putting up with him seemed to

-      irritate him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The afternoon was frosty; I was hobbling miserably about the playground

-      with Ruthita&rsquo;s muffler round my throat. It was a delicate baby-pink, and

-      the Bantam easily caught sight of it. He came up and jerking it from me,

-      trod on it. I had never fought in my life, but my wretchedness made me

-      reckless. I thought of little Ruthita and the long cold hours she had

-      spent in making it. It seemed that he had insulted her. I hit him savagely

-      on the nose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Immediately there were cries of, &ldquo;A fight! A fight!&rdquo; Games were stopped.

-      Boys came running from every direction. Even the new-bugs lifted up their

-      heads and began to take an interest in the landscape.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;ve done it,&rdquo; the Bantam shouted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He started out, accompanied by the crowd to the bottom of the playground.

-      I followed. The laboratory, a long black shed, stood there, with a roof of

-      galvanized iron and rows of bottles arranged in the windows. Behind it we

-      were out of sight of masters, unless they happened to be carrying on

-      experiments inside.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A ring was formed. The Bantam commenced to take off his coat and collar. I

-      did likewise. A horrid sickening sense of defenselessness came over me. I

-      experienced what the early Christians must have felt when they gazed round

-      the eager amphitheatre, and heard the lions roaring.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A big fellow stepped up. &ldquo;Here, new-bug, d&rsquo;you know how to fight?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I shook my head, he grinned at me cheerfully. &ldquo;Hold your arms well

-      up, double your fists, and go for him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The advice was more easy to give than to put into action. The Bantam was

-      on top of me in a flash. He made for my face at first, but I lowered my

-      head and kept my arms up, so he was content to pummel me about the body.

-      He hurt, and hurt badly; I had never been treated so roughly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Something happened. Perhaps it was a fierce realization of the injustice

-      of everything&mdash;the injustice of being sent there by people whom I

-      loved, the injustice of not being spoken to, the injustice of the boys

-      jeering because I was getting thrashed. I felt that I did not care how

-      much I got damaged if only I might kill the Bantam. He thumped me on the

-      nose as I looked up; my eyes filled with tears. I dashed in at him,

-      banging him about the head. I heard his teeth rattle. I heard the

-      shouting, &ldquo;Hurrah! Go it, new-bug. Well done, new-bug.&rdquo; In front of me the

-      wintry sunset lay red. I remember wondering whether it was sunset or

-      blood. Then the Bantam tried to turn and run. I caught him behind the ear.

-      He tripped up and fell. I stood over him, doubtful whether he were dead.

-      Just then the door of the laboratory opened. The boys began to scatter,

-      shouting to one another, &ldquo;The Creature! Here he comes. The Creature!&rdquo; The

-      Bantam picked himself up and followed the crowd.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A man came round the side of the shed. He looked something like

-      Dot-and-Carry-One, only he was smaller. His hair was the color of a

-      badger&rsquo;s, shaggy and unbrushed. His face was stubbly and besmirched with

-      different colored chalks from his fingers. His clothes were stained and

-      baggy. He approached sideways, crabwise, in a great hurry, with one hand

-      stretched out behind and one in front, like flappers. His gestures were

-      those of a servant in a Chinese etching; they made him absurdly

-      conspicuous by their self-belittlement. Beyond everything, he was dirty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What they been beating you for?&rdquo; he inquired in his shorthand way of

-      talking. &ldquo;You hit him first! What for?&rdquo; He pulled a stump of a pencil out

-      of his mouth as though he were drawing a tooth. After that I could hear

-      him more clearly. &ldquo;A muffler? He trod on it? Well, that&rsquo;s nothing to fight

-      about. Oh, your sister gave it you? That&rsquo;s different.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The last two sentences were spoken very gently&mdash;quite unlike the

-      rest, which had been angry. &ldquo;Humph! His sister gave it him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He took me by the hand and led me into the shed, closing the door behind

-      him. An iron stove was burning. The outside was red hot; it glowered

-      through the dusk. Running round the sides of the room were taps and

-      basins, and above them bottles. Ranged on the table in the middle were

-      stands, bunsen-burners and retorts. He went silently about his work. He

-      was melting sulphur in a crucible.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Every now and then the sulphur caught and burnt with a violet flame; and

-      all the while it made a suffocating smell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt scared. I didn&rsquo;t know what he was going to do with me. The boys had

-      called him The Creature, which sounded very dreadful. He had dragged me

-      into his den just like the ogres the Snow Lady read about.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently his experiment ended. He gave me a seat by the stove, and came

-      and sat beside me. He didn&rsquo;t look at all fierce now. He struck me as old

-      and discouraged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Always fight for your sister,&rdquo; he said. Then after a pause, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s she

-      called?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I found myself telling him that she wasn&rsquo;t really my sister, that her name

-      was Ruthita, and that she had knitted me the muffler. He patted me on the

-      knee as I talked. He might almost have been The Spuffler.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Boys are horrid beasts,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;They don&rsquo;t mean to be unkind. They

-      don&rsquo;t think&mdash;that&rsquo;s all. Soon you&rsquo;ll be one of them.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He led the way out of the laboratory, turning the key behind him. The bell

-      in the tower was ringing for supper. The school was all lit up. He climbed

-      the railing which divided the playground from the football field, telling

-      me to follow. We passed across the meadows to the village, which lay on

-      the northward side of Eden Hill; it snuggled among trees. The cottages

-      were straw-thatched. Frost glistened on the window-panes, behind which

-      lamps were set. Unmelted snow glimmered here and there in the gardens in

-      patches among cabbage stumps. We turned in at a gate. The Creature raised

-      the latch of the door and we entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How cozy the little house was after the bare stone corridors and cold,

-      boarded dormitories. All the furnishings of the room into which he led me

-      were worn and out-of-date; but they had a homelike look about them which

-      atoned for their shabbiness. The walls bulged. Pictures hung awry upon

-      them. The springs of the sofa had burst; you sank to an unexpected depth

-      when you sat upon it. The carpet was threadbare; patch-work rugs covered

-      the worst places. Yet for all its poverty, you knew that it was a room in

-      which people had loved and been kind to one another. An atmosphere of

-      memory hung about it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Creature appeared to be his own house-keeper. He left me alone while

-      he went somewhere into the back to get things ready. I could hear him

-      striking matches and jingling cups against saucers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I sat looking curiously round at wax-fruit in glass-cases and a stuffed

-      owl on the mantel-shelf, the door was pushed open gently. An old lady

-      entered. She trod so lightly, gliding her feet along the floor, that I

-      should not have heard her save for the turning of the handle. She was

-      dressed from head to foot in clinging muslin. Her face and hands were so

-      frail and white that you could almost see through them. Her faded hair

-      fell disordered and scanty about her shoulders. Her eyes were unnaturally

-      large and luminous. She showed no surprise at seeing me. She looked at me

-      so stealthily that she seemed to establish a secret. Crossing her hands on

-      her breast she courtesied, and then asked me as odd a question as was ever

-      addressed to a little boy. &ldquo;Are you my Lord?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you please, mam,&rdquo; I faltered, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Dante Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her look of intense eagerness faded, and one of almost childish

-      disappointment took its place. She moved slowly about the room, from

-      corner to corner, bowing to people whom I could not see and whispering to

-      herself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My host came shuffling along the passage. He was carrying a tea-tray. When

-      he saw the woman, he set it hurriedly down on the table and went quietly

-      towards her. &ldquo;Gipie,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;Egypt, we&rsquo;re not alone; we have a guest.

-      Tell them to go away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He spoke to her soothingly, as though she were a child. Her eyes narrowed,

-      the strained far-away expression left her face. She made a motion with her

-      hand, dismissing the invisible persons. He led her to me. It was strange

-      to see a grown woman follow so obediently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Gipie,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I want you to listen to me. This boy is my friend. They

-      were fighting him up there,&rdquo; jerking his head in the direction of the

-      school. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s lonely; so I brought him to you. Tell him that you care.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The old lady lifted her hands to my shoulders&mdash;such pale hands. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m

-      sorry,&rdquo; she said. It was like a child repeating a lesson.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He introduced us. &ldquo;This is my sister, Egypt; and this is Dante Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I don&rsquo;t know what we talked about. I can only remember that the little old

-      man and woman were kind to me and gave me courage. There are desolate

-      moments in life when one hour of sympathy calls out more gratitude than

-      years of easy friendship.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night as the Creature walked back with me from his cottage, he told

-      me to come to him whenever I was lonely. At the Red House he explained my

-      absence to the house-master. I went upstairs to the dormitory, with its

-      rows of twelve white beds down either side, feeling that I had parted from

-      a friend.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I undressed in the darkness the Bantam spoke to me. &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t mean to

-      fight you, Cardover. Make it up.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So I made it up that night with the boy whose nose I had punched. He was a

-      decent little chap when off his dignity. We began to make confidences in

-      whispers; I suppose the darkness helped us. He told me that his father was

-      in India and that he hadn&rsquo;t got a mother. I told him about the Snow Lady,

-      and Hetty, and Uncle Obad; I didn&rsquo;t tell him about Ruthita because of the

-      muffler. Then I began to ask him about the Creature. I wanted to know if

-      that was his name. The Bantam laughed. &ldquo;Course not. He&rsquo;s Murdoch the

-      stinks&rsquo; master. We call him the Creature &rsquo;cause he looks like one.

-      Weren&rsquo;t you funky when he took you to his rabbit-hutch? Was Lady Zion

-      there?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lady Zion?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. Lady Zion Holy Ghost she calls herself. She&rsquo;s his sister, and she&rsquo;s

-      balmy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was going to enter into some interesting details about her, when the

-      monitor and the elder boys came up. He hid his face in the pillow and

-      pretended to be sleeping soundly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The Bantam needs hair-brushing,&rdquo; the monitor announced. &ldquo;Here you, wake

-      up. You&rsquo;re shamming.&rdquo; He pulled the clothes off the Bantam&rsquo;s bed with one

-      jerk. The Bantam sat up, rubbing his eyes with a good imitation of having

-      just awakened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Out you come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      One boy held his hands and another his legs, bending his body into a

-      praying attitude. He fought like a demon, but to no purpose. They yanked

-      his night-shirt up, while the monitor laid into him with the bristly side

-      of a hairbrush. He addressed him between each blow. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s one for

-      bullying a new-bug. And that&rsquo;s another for fighting. And that&rsquo;s another

-      for being licked and getting in a funk, etc.&rdquo; By the time they had done he

-      was sobbing bitterly. Then the light went out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I suppose I ought to have been glad at being avenged; but I wasn&rsquo;t.

-      Somehow I felt that the big boys had punished him not from a sense of

-      justice, but only because they were big and wanted to amuse themselves.

-      Then I got to thinking what a long way off India was, and how dreadful it

-      must make a boy feel never to see his father. It had been a long while

-      dark in the dormitory and almost everyone was breathing heavily. I

-      stretched out my hand across the narrow alley which separated me from the

-      Bantam.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bantam,&rdquo; I whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He snuffled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bantam.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt his fingers clutch my hand. I crept out and put my arms about him.

-      Then I got into his bed and curled up beside him, and so we both were

-      comforted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER III&mdash;THE WORLD OF BOYS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I

-      became great friends. He was a brave daredevil little chap, prematurely

-      hardened by the absence of home influences to make the best of life&rsquo;s

-      vicissitudes. Within an hour of having been beaten, he would be gay again

-      as ever. He was a soldier&rsquo;s son, and never wasted time in pitying himself.

-      He was greedy for joy, as I am to this day, and we contrived to find it

-      together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yet, when I look back, the making of happiness at the Red House seems to

-      me to have been very much like manufacturing bricks without straw. I am

-      amazed at our success. Very slight provision was made for our comfort. Our

-      daily routine was in no way superior to that of a barrack; the only

-      difference was that they drilled our heads instead of our arms and legs.

-      The feminine influence was entirely lacking, and a good deal of brutality

-      resulted. If the parents could have guessed half the shocking things that

-      their fresh-faced innocent looking darlings did and said in the three

-      months of each term that they were away from home, they would have been

-      broken-hearted. And yet they might have guessed. For here were we, young

-      animals in every stage of adolescence, herded together in class-rooms and

-      dormitories, uninformed about ourselves, with only paid people to care for

-      us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Apart from the masters we governed ourselves by a secret code of honor.

-      One of the favorite diversions, when things were dull, was to find some

-      boy who was unpopular, in a breach of schoolboy etiquette. He would then

-      be led into a class-room, held down over a desk, and thrashed with

-      hockey-sticks. I have seen a boy receive as many as ninety strokes, laid

-      on by various young barbarians who took a pride in seeing who could hit

-      hardest. Usually at the end of it the victim was nearly fainting, and

-      would be lame for days after. The masters knew all about such proceedings,

-      but they were too indifferent to interfere. They boasted that they trusted

-      to the school&rsquo;s sense of justice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A boy, who was at all sensitive, went about in a state of terror. If you

-      escaped hockey-sticks by day, there was always the dormitory and

-      hair-brush to be dreaded. The way to get beyond the dread of such

-      possibilities was to make yourself popular, and the easiest way to become

-      popular was to play ingenious pranks on the masters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The glorious hours of liberty that broke up the monotonous round of tasks

-      stand out in vivid contrast to the discipline. We lived for them and kept

-      charts of the days, because this seemed to bring them nearer. There were

-      two half-holidays a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays, on which, if

-      sufficient excuse were given, we were allowed to go out of the

-      school-grounds. If the permission were withheld, we broke bounds and took

-      the risk of discovery and consequent thrashings. These stolen expeditions

-      had a zest about them that made them the more pleasurable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Bantam and I did most things together. We had a common fund of money.

-      His memories of India lent a touch of romance to our friendship. He would

-      spin long yarns of man-eating tigers and terrible battles with

-      hill-tribes. He had a lurid imagination and added some fresh detail each

-      time he told his tales. Not to be behindhand, I narrated my escape to the

-      forest&mdash;leaving out the Ruthita part of it&mdash;and how Lilith had

-      made me a gipsy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These stories became a secret between us which we shared with no one. We

-      created for ourselves a mirage world which we called IT. In IT we had only

-      to speak of things and they happened. In IT there were man-eating tigers

-      to whom we threw our masters when they had been unpleasant to us. We would

-      drag them by their feet through the jungle, and then let out a low

-      blood-thirsty wailing sound. Immediately we had done it, we would drop our

-      victim and climb trees, for we could hear the tigers coming. The victim

-      was bound so he couldn&rsquo;t run away and while he lay there &ldquo;in the long rank

-      grass with bulging eyes,&rdquo; we would remind him of his crimes committed at

-      the Red House. The account of his tortures and dying words would become a

-      dialogue between the Bantam and myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then the tiger seized him by the arm and chawed him,&rdquo; the Bantam would

-      say.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And the other tiger seized him by the leg, pulling in an opposite

-      direction,&rdquo; said I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then old Sneard looked up at me, with imploring eyes. &lsquo;I&rsquo;ve been a

-      beast,&rsquo; he moaned, &lsquo;and you were always a good boy. Call them off for the

-      sake of my little girl.&rsquo; But I only laughed sepulchrally,&rdquo; said the

-      Bantam.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your little girl will be jolly well glad when you&rsquo;re dead,&rdquo; said I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Everybody will be glad,&rdquo; said the Bantam. &ldquo;And then a third tiger crept

-      out of the bushes and bit off his head, putting an end to his agony.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t have killed him so soon,&rdquo; I would expostulate discontentedly.

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d got something else I wanted to do to him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All right,&rdquo; the Bantam would assent cheerfully; &ldquo;let&rsquo;s kill him again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So real was this land of IT to us, that we would shout with excitement as

-      we reached the climax of our narrations. The English fields through which

-      we wandered became swamps, deserts, and forests at will.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It became part of our game to pretend that we might meet Lilith any day.

-      Often we would break bounds, stealing down country lanes and peering

-      through hedges, hoping that at the next turn we should discover her seated

-      before her camp-fire. Hope deferred never curbed our eagerness; we always

-      believed that we should meet her next time.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If we did not meet Lilith, we met someone equally strange&mdash;Lady Zion,

-      the Creature&rsquo;s sister. It was the Bantam who told me all about her. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s

-      wrong up there,&rdquo; he said, tapping his forehead. &ldquo;She thinks she&rsquo;s

-      something out of the Bible; that&rsquo;s why she calls herself Lady Zion Holy

-      Ghost. She goes about the country dressed in white, riding on a donkey,

-      muttering to herself, looking for someone she can never find. She thinks

-      that she&rsquo;s in love with old Sneard, and that he don&rsquo;t care for her. They

-      say that once he was going to marry her and then threw her over. That&rsquo;s

-      what sent her balmy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I grew older I learnt the truth about the Creature and his sister. He

-      became a firm friend of mine before schooldays were ended. He was a man

-      who possessed a faculty for not getting on in the world which, had it been

-      of value, would have amounted to genius. Anyone else with his brains and

-      instinct for daring guess-work in scientific experiment, would have made a

-      reputation. Instead of which he pottered his life out at the Red House,

-      defending his sister and allowing himself to be imposed on both by boys

-      and masters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Popularity was the armor which permitted you to do almost anything with

-      impunity. A boy would take almost any chance to get it. Very early in my

-      school experience the Bantam thought out a plan which he invited me to

-      share&mdash;with the dire result that I was brought into intimate contact

-      with Mr. Sneard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Every night between seven and eight the lower forms assembled to prepare

-      their next day&rsquo;s lessons. The Creature usually presided, chiefly because

-      he was good-natured and the other masters were lazy. It was part of his

-      penance. The room in which we assembled was illumined by oil-lamps, which

-      hung low on chains from the ceiling. If the chimney of one of these broke,

-      the light became so bad in that quarter that work was suspended until it

-      had been replaced. The Bantam conceived the happy idea of persuading them

-      to break in an almost undiscoverable manner. It was simplicity itself&mdash;to

-      spit across the room so skilfully as to hit the chimney, whereupon the

-      moisture on the hot glass would cause it to crack. We practised at sticks

-      and gate-posts in the fields at first; having become more or less

-      proficient, we practised aiming at objects above our heads. This was more

-      difficult. Our progress was slow; it was dry work. Still, within a month

-      we considered ourselves adepts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One night in prep we put our plan to the test. The Creature was seated at

-      his raised desk, absorbed in some scientific work. The Bantam, judging his

-      distance carefully, took aim and the chimney cracked. As soon as the

-      lamp-boy had been sent for and the chimney had been replaced, it was my

-      turn. I was no less successful. For a week prep was disorganized; every

-      night the same thing happened. I felt secretly ashamed of myself, for I

-      knew that I was behaving meanly to a man who had always been kind in his

-      dealings with me; but I was intoxicated with popularity. The Bantam and I

-      were the heroes of the hour. Boys who had never condescended to speak to

-      us, now offered us their next week&rsquo;s pocket-money to instruct them in an

-      art in which we excelled. Games were abandoned. All over the play-ground

-      groups of young ruffians might be seen industriously spitting at some

-      object by the hour together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I suppose the Creature must have watched us from the laboratory and put

-      two and two together. One night, when three chimneys had broken in

-      succession, he caught me in mid-act. I say he caught me, but he did not so

-      much as look up from the book he was reading. He just said, without

-      raising his head, &ldquo;Cardover, you must report yourself to Mr. Sneard

-      to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      To have to report oneself to Mr. Sneard was the worst punishment that an

-      under-master could measure out. Somehow it had never entered my head that

-      the Creature would be so severe as that. Why, I might get expelled or

-      publicly thrashed! My imagination conjured up all sorts of disgraces and

-      grisly penalties.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night in the dormitory the Bantam told me of a way in which I might

-      save myself; it was my first lesson in the value of diplomacy in helping

-      one out of ticklish situations. It appeared that Mr. Sneard was always

-      lenient with a boy who professed conversion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day as I was hesitating outside his private room, screwing up my

-      courage to tap, the Bantam sidled up behind me. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going too,&rdquo; he said.

-      Before I could dissuade him, he had turned the handle.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Sneard was a sallow cadaverous person; he affected side-whiskers and had

-      red hair. He wore clerical attire, the vest of which was very much spotted

-      through his nearsightedness when he ate at table. He was probably the

-      least scholarly master in the school, but he owed his position to his

-      manners. They were unctuous, and had the reputation of going down with the

-      parents. I suppose that was how he caught my father. He composed hymns,

-      which he set to music and compelled us to sing on Sundays. They were

-      mostly of the self-abasement order, in which we spoke of ourselves as

-      worms and besought the Almighty not to tread on us. For years my mental

-      picture of God was that of a gigantic school-master in holy orders, very

-      similar in appearance to Sneard himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we entered, he was seated behind his desk writing. He prolonged our

-      suspense by pretending not to see us for a while. Suddenly he cast aside

-      his pen and wheeled round in a storm of furious anger. When he spoke, it

-      sounded like a dog yapping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You young blackguards, what&rsquo;s this I hear about you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He forced us to tell him the stupid details of our offense. He could have

-      had no sense of humor, for while we were speaking he covered his eyes with

-      his hand as though staggered with horror at the enormity of our depravity.

-      Later experience has taught me that what he meant us to believe was that

-      he was engaged in prayer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When in small throaty whispers we had finished our confession, he looked

-      up at us. &ldquo;Your poor, poor fathers,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;one in India and one my

-      friend! What shall I tell them? How shall I break this news to them?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then he straightened himself in his chair. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing else for it;

-      Cardover, it&rsquo;s over there. Will you please fetch it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He pointed to a cane in the corner, which leant against a book-shelf. It

-      was at this crisis that the Bantam made use of his stratagem.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you please, sir, I&rsquo;ve been troubled about my soul again.&rdquo; Then he

-      added loyally, &ldquo;And Cardover&rsquo;s been lying awake of nights thinking about

-      hell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      If the truth be told I had been lying awake imagining Sneard being bled to

-      death very slowly, and very torturingly, by a hill-tribe. But Sneard

-      caught at the bait. &ldquo;I am glad to hear it. Cardover, before I cane you,

-      come here and tell me about your views on hell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Before we left him, great crocodile tears were streaming from our eyes by

-      reason of knuckles rubbed in vigorously. We were not punished. The last

-      sight I had of Sneard he was gazing with holy joy at a great oil-painting

-      of himself which hung above his desk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Most of the boys in the Red House were converted many times&mdash;as often

-      as they came within reach of the birch. Sneard made much coin out of

-      referring to these touching spiritual experiences in public gatherings of

-      parents. I have never been able to decide whether we really did fool him.

-      I am inclined to believe that his eyes were wide open to our hypocrisy,

-      but that he found it paid to encourage it. Part of his salary was derived

-      from percentages on the tuition fees of all boys over a certain number. He

-      found that the best card to play with parents for the attracting of new

-      pupils, was a statement of the numerous conversions which were brought

-      about through his influence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;NEW HORIZONS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I

-      won immunity from bullying in a quite unexpected manner.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our beds stood next together. Every night the younger boys were sent up to

-      the dormitory at nine; fifteen minutes later the lights were turned out.

-      The upper-classmen didn&rsquo;t come up till ten. For three-quarters of an hour

-      each night we could whisper together in comparative privacy about IT,

-      going on wildest excursions in our hidden land. Not unnaturally the

-      curiosity of the other small boys of our dormitory was aroused&mdash;they

-      wanted to share our secret, and we wouldn&rsquo;t let them. We were quite their

-      match if it came to a fight, which was all the more irritating. We

-      steadily refused to fight with them, or play with them, or to tell them

-      anything. They became sulky and suspicious; in their opinion our

-      conversation was too low to bear repetition. I suppose one of them must

-      have sneaked to Cow&mdash;Cow was monitor of our dormitory. One night he

-      came up early and on tiptoe. The first thing I knew he was standing in the

-      darkness looking down on me, where I lay whispering on the Bantam&rsquo;s bed. I

-      was fairly caught.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Young&rsquo;un, what&rsquo;s that you&rsquo;re saying?&rdquo; he asked sternly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To have told him would have spoilt everything. Only when my night-shirt

-      had been stripped off and I saw that a grand gala-night of hair-brushing

-      was being planned, did I venture an explanation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was only telling the Bantam a story.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a lie. Let&rsquo;s hear it,&rdquo; said the Cow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t begin when you&rsquo;ve got my shirt,&rdquo; I expostulated. &ldquo;Let me get back

-      into bed; then I&rsquo;ll tell you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was arranged that I should be given a respite while the older boys

-      undressed. Once safe in bed, I set my imagination galloping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Once upon a time,&rdquo; I commenced, &ldquo;there was a great pirate and he was

-      known as the Pirate King. He had a wife called One-Eye, and she was the

-      only person he was afraid of in all the world. He sailed the blood-red

-      seas with a crew of smugglers and highwaymen, most of whom he had rescued

-      at the last minute from the gallows. They were devoted to him, and the

-      vessel in which he sailed was called <i>The Damn</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The name of the vessel fetched them. There was no more talk of

-      hair-brushing. At half-past ten the light went out and we heard old Sneard

-      shuffling down the passage, going his final round of inspection. At each

-      door he halted, lifting his candle above his head and craning out his long

-      thin neck. Satisfied that all was in order, he shuffled on to his own

-      quarters and we heard his door slam. That night I must have lain in the

-      darkness recounting the adventures of the Pirate King till long past

-      twelve. Every now and then a voice would interrupt me from one of the

-      narrow white beds, asking a question. I fell asleep in the midst of my

-      recounting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After that it became a practice that each night a fresh development in the

-      life of this wonderful man should be unfolded. It was a good deal of a tax

-      on the imagination, but the Bantam came to my help, and we told the story

-      turn and turn about. We told how <i>The Damn</i> sailed into Peru and came

-      back blood-drenched and treasure-laden; how the Pirate King took strange

-      maidens to his breast in coloring all the way from alabaster to ebony, and

-      what his wife One-Eye had to say about it; how the Pirate King could never

-      be defeated and became so strong that he made himself Pope till he got

-      tired of it. Discrepancies in chronology caused us no more inconvenience

-      than they usually do historic novelists. In our world Joan of Arc and

-      Julius Cæsar were contemporaries. They met for the first time as

-      prisoners, when they were introduced by the Pirate King on board <i>The

-      Damn</i>. It was owing to the Roman Emperor that the Maid escaped and

-      survived to be burnt.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But the part which found most favor was that which described the sack of

-      London, and how the boys of the Red House enlisted with the pirates and

-      took all the masters, except the Creature, out to sea and made them walk

-      the plank. I refused to allow the Creature to be murdered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the story became personal, the Bantam and I discovered ourselves the

-      possessors of unlimited power. We were lords of the other boys&rsquo; destinies.

-      We could make them heroes or cowards, give them fair maidens or forget to

-      say anything about them. Frequently we received bribes to let the giver

-      down easily or to make him appear more valiant. I&rsquo;m afraid we drifted into

-      being tyrants, like Nero and all the other men whose wills have been

-      absolute, and took our revenge with the rod of imagination. In the middle

-      of some thrilling escapade of the pirates, when only courage could save

-      them from calamity, we would tell how one of the boys in a near-by bed

-      turned traitor and went over to the enemy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Out of the darkness would come an angry voice, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t, you little

-      beasts. You know quite well, I didn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, you did,&rdquo; we would say, and proceed to make him appear yet more

-      infamous. If he expostulated too frequently, arms would be reached out and

-      a shower of boots would fly about his head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our reputation spread beyond the dormitory; the history of the Pirate

-      King, his wife One-Eye, and the good ship <i>Damn</i>, became a kind of

-      school epic in which all the latest happenings at the Red House were

-      chronicled. No one dared to offend us, small as we were. Like Benvenuto

-      Cellini, sniffing his way through Europe and petulantly turning his back

-      on kings and cardinals with impunity, we attained the successful genius&rsquo;s

-      privilege of being detested for our persons, but treasured for our

-      accomplishments. So at last we were popular in a fashion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      What contrasts of experience we had in those days!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The crestfallen returns to the Red House, with play-boxes stuffed with

-      feeble comfort in the shape of chocolates and cake; the long monotony of

-      term-time with the dull lessons, the birchings, the flashes of excitement

-      on half-holidays and the counting of the weeks till vacations came round;

-      then the wild burst of enthusiasm when trunks were packed and Sneard had

-      offered up his customary prayer in his accustomed language, and we set off

-      shouting on the homeward journey.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All the discipline and captivity were a small price to pay for the

-      gladness of those home-comings. Ruthita would be at the end of the Lane

-      waiting for me, a little shy at first but undeniably happy. The Snow Lady

-      would be on the door-step, her pretty face all aglow with merriment. My

-      father would forsake his study for the night and sit down to talk to me

-      with all the leisure and courtesy that he usually reserved for grown men.

-      Until they got used to me again I could upset my tea at table, slide down

-      the banisters, and tramp through the house with muddy boots&mdash;no one

-      rebuked me for fear the welcome should be spoiled. The Snow Lady called me

-      The Fatted Calf, wilfully misinterpreting the Bible parable. Little by

-      little Ruthita would lose her shyness; then we would begin to plan all the

-      things we would do in the seemingly inexhaustible period of freedom that

-      lay before us. In those days weeks were as long as years are now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was once a time when I had no secrets from Ruthita. But a change was

-      creeping over us almost imperceptibly, forming little rifts of reserve

-      which widened. Walls of a new and more subtle kind were growing up about

-      us, dividing us for a time from one another and from everybody else.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was one holiday in which I became friendly with a butcher-boy. He

-      was a guinea-pig fancier; I arranged to buy one from him for a shilling.

-      My intention was to give it to Ruthita on her birthday. I told no one of

-      my plan&mdash;it was to be a surprise. A little hutch was knocked up in

-      the tool-shed which the old white hen had tenanted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The night before the birthday the butcher-boy came, and smuggled the

-      little creature in at the gate. Next morning I wakened early. Ruthita was

-      standing beside my bed in her long white night-gown, beneath which her

-      rosy toes peeped out. When I had kissed her, she seemed surprised that I

-      had no present for her. I became mysterious. &ldquo;You wait until I&rsquo;m dressed,&rdquo;

-       I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Slipping into my clothes I ran into the garden to get things ready. To my

-      unspeakable astonishment when I looked into the hutch, I found three

-      guinea-pigs, two of them very tiny, where only one had been the night

-      before. I felt that something shameful and indelicate had happened.

-      Exactly what I could not say, but something that I could not tell Ruthita.

-      When she traced me down to the tool-shed, I drove her away almost angrily;

-      I felt that I was secretly disgraced.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That morning when the butcher-boy called for orders, I took him aside. I

-      sold him back the three guinea-pigs for ninepence, and thought the loss of

-      threepence a cheap price to pay to rid myself of such embarrassment. The

-      butcher-boy grinned broadly and winked in a knowing manner. To me it was

-      all very serious, and with a boy&rsquo;s pride I did not invite enlightenment. I

-      took Ruthita out and let her choose her own present up to the value of

-      ninepence. I lied to her, saying that that was what I had intended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Arguing by analogy from this experience, I gradually came to realize that

-      all about me was a world of passion, the first boundaries of which I was

-      just beginning to traverse.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Bantam, having no home to go to, would sometimes return with me to

-      Pope Lane for the vacation; the Snow Lady was attracted by his freckled

-      face and impudently upturned nose. In the early years he, Ruthita, and I

-      would play together. Then, as we grew more boyish, we would play games in

-      which she could not share. But at last a time came when I found that it

-      was I who was excluded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I found that Ruthita and the Bantam had a way of going off and hiding

-      themselves. It was quite evident that they had secrets which they kept

-      from me. An understanding lay between them in which I could not share. I

-      became irritable and began to watch.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One summer evening after tea I could not find them, The gate into the Lane

-      was unlatched; I followed. There was a deserted house no great way

-      distant, standing shuttered in the midst of overgrown grounds. We had

-      found a bar broken in the railings, and there the Bantam and I played

-      highwaymen. Naturally I thought of this haunt first.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Creeping through the long grass I came upon them. The Bantam had his arm

-      about Ruthita&rsquo;s waist. She was tossing back her hair; her face was

-      radiant. I could only catch a glimpse of her sideways, but it came home to

-      me that the qualities in her which, in my blindness, I had taken for

-      granted, were beautiful and rare. As I watched, the Bantam kissed her. She

-      drew back her head, glad and yet ashamed. I crept away with a strange

-      sense of forlornness in my heart; they had stumbled across a pleasure of

-      which I was ignorant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Poor little Ruthita!&mdash;it was short-lived. Hetty, having quarreled

-      with the gardener, had not married. What I had seen, she also saw a few

-      days later and told my father. He was very angry. I can see Ruthita now,

-      with her long spindly legs and short skirts, standing up demurely to take

-      her scolding. I listened to the scorching words my father spoke to her;

-      the burden of his talk was that her conduct was unladylike. I came to her

-      defense with the remark, &ldquo;But, father, she only did what I saw you and the

-      Snow Lady doing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That night I went to bed supperless and I had no more pocket-money for a

-      week. The Bantam&rsquo;s visit was cut short; he was bundled back to the Red

-      House. I was sent down to Ransby to stay with my Grandmother Cardover. I

-      have the fixed remembrance of Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes very red with weeping. The

-      utmost comfort I could give her was the promise that I would carry

-      messages of her eternal faithfulness to her lover on my return to school.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The world had grown very complicated. Love was either wicked or stupid.

-      Hetty had acted as though it was wicked when I caught her with John; my

-      father, when I had caught him, as though it was stupid. Yet he was not

-      ashamed of love now that he was married. I could not see why Ruthita

-      should be so scolded for doing what her mother did every day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER V&mdash;THE AWAKENING

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t a distance I had

-      been sorry for the Bantam, but at close quarters his hopeless passion for

-      Ruthita bored me. On my return to the Red House he overwhelmed me with a

-      flood of maudlin confessions. There was nothing pleased him better than to

-      get me alone, so that he could outline to me his impossible plans for an

-      early marriage. He talked of running away to sea and making his fortune in

-      a distant land. It sounded all very easy. His only fear was that in his

-      long absence Ruthita might be forced to marry some other fellow. &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo;

-       he would say, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re a lucky chap to have been always near her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This kind of talk irritated me, partly because I was jealous of an ecstasy

-      which I could not understand, and partly because I had known Ruthita so

-      many years that I thought I knew her exact value a good deal better than

-      the Bantam. There was something very absurd, too, in the contrast between

-      this gawky boy, with his downy face and clumsy hands, and these

-      exaggerated expressions of sentiment. I began to avoid him; at that time I

-      did not know why, but now I know it was because of the herd spirit which

-      shuns abnormality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Nevertheless he had stirred something latent within me. My days became

-      haunted with alluring conjectures; beneath the cold formality of human

-      faces and manners I caught glimpses of a boisterous ruffianly passion.

-      Sometimes it would repel me, making me unspeakably sad; but more often it

-      swept me away in a torrent of inexplicable riotous happiness. I had come

-      to an age when, shut him up as you may in the garden of unenlightenment, a

-      boy must hear from beyond the walls the pagan pipes and the dancing feet

-      of Pan.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Of nights I would lie awake, still and tense, reasoning my way forward and

-      forward, out of the fairy tales of childhood into reality. Sometimes I

-      would bury my face in my pillow, half glad and half ashamed of my strange,

-      new knowledge. Now all the glory of the flesh in the Classics, which

-      before had slipped by me when encountered as a schoolboy&rsquo;s task, burned in

-      my brain with the vehement fire of immemorial romance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Old Sneard had a terrifying sermon, which he was fond of preaching on

-      Sunday evenings when the chapel was full of shadows. His heated face,

-      startlingly illumined by the pulpit-lamps, would take on the furious

-      earnestness of an accusing angel as he leant out towards us describing the

-      spiritual tortures of the damned. He spoke in symbolic language of the

-      causes which led up to damnation. Until quite lately I had wondered what

-      in the world he could be driving at. His text was, &ldquo;Son of man, hast thou

-      seen what the elders of the house of Israel do in the dark, every man in

-      his chambers of imagery?&rdquo; The grotesque unreality of likening a group of

-      school-boys to the elders of Israel never occurred to me; I was too

-      carried away by the reality of sin itself and the terror of what was said.

-      When service was ended I would steal up the stone stairway to the

-      dormitory in silence, almost fearful that my guilt might be betrayed by my

-      shadow....

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was summer-time. Those of us who professed an interest in entomology

-      were permitted during the hour between prep and supper to rove the country

-      with butterfly-nets. The results of these expeditions were given to the

-      school natural history museum; most of the boys hunted in pairs. Things

-      being as they were between myself and the Bantam, I preferred to go by

-      myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All day it had been raining. The sky was still damp with heavy clouds and

-      the evening fell early. I slipped out into the cool wet dusk, eager to be

-      solitary. Some boys were kicking a ball and called to me to come and play

-      with them. In my anxiety not to be delayed, I doubled up my fists and ran.

-      They followed in pursuit, but soon their shouts and laughter grew fainter,

-      till presently I was alone in a dim, green world. The air was exquisitely

-      fragrant with earth and flower smells. Far away between the trees of Eden

-      Hill a watery sunset faded palely. Nearer at hand dog-roses and convolvuli

-      glimmered in the hedges.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I threw myself down in the dripping grass, lying full-length on my back,

-      so that I could watch the stars struggle out between the edges of clouds.

-      Oh, the sense of freedom and wideness, and the sheer joy of being at large

-      in the world! I listened to the stillness of the twilight, which is a

-      stillness made up of an infinity of tiny sounds&mdash;birds settling into

-      their nests, trees whispering together, and flowers drawing closer their

-      fragile petals to shut out the cold night air. I told myself that all the

-      little creatures of the fields and hedgerows were tucking one another safe

-      in bed. Then, as if to contradict me, the sudden passion of the

-      nightingale wandered down the stairway of the silence, each note

-      separately poignant, like glances of a lover who halts and looks back from

-      every step as he descends. From far away the passion was answered, and

-      again it was returned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A great White Admiral fluttered over my head. I picked up my net and was

-      after it. So, in a second, the boy within me proved himself stronger than

-      the man. But the butterfly refused to let me get near it and would never

-      settle long enough for me to catch it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I followed from field to field, till at last it came to the cricket-ground

-      and made a final desperate effort to escape me by flying over the hedge

-      into the private garden of Sneard&rsquo;s house. His garden was forbidden

-      territory, but the twilight made me bold to forget that. Breaking through

-      the hedge I followed, running tiptoe down a path which ended in a

-      summer-house. The White Admiral settled on a rosebush; I was in the act of

-      netting it when I heard someone stirring. Standing in the doorway of the

-      summerhouse was a girl about as tall as myself. We eyed one another

-      through the dusk in silence. Her face was indistinct and in shadow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t know how you frightened me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Directly she spoke I knew that she was not Beatrice Sneard, as I had

-      dreaded. Her voice was too friendly; it had in it the lazy caressing

-      quality of a summer&rsquo;s afternoon when bees are humming in and out of

-      flowers. Her way of pronouncing words was halting and slightly foreign. In

-      after years I came to know just how much power of temptation her voice

-      possessed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose you&rsquo;re not allowed in here,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but you needn&rsquo;t worry&mdash;I

-      shan&rsquo;t tell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The boy in me prompted me to answer, &ldquo;You can tell if you care to.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She gave a secret little laugh. &ldquo;But I shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After all my gallant imaginings of what I would do on a like occasion, I

-      stood before her awkwardly, tongue-tied and ungracious&mdash;so far

-      removed are dreams from reality. The White Admiral, tired with the long

-      pursuit, still clung to the rose&rsquo;s petals. Across misty fields

-      nightingales called, casting the love-spell, and the moon, in intermittent

-      flashes, caused the dripping foliage to glisten.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She rested her hand on my arm&mdash;such a small white hand&mdash;and drew

-      me into the seclusion of the summerhouse.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not afraid of girls, are you?&rdquo; she questioned, and then

-      inconsequently, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m awfully lonely.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      There was a note of appeal in her tones, so I found my tongue and asked

-      why she was lonely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I quarrel with Beatrice&mdash;we don&rsquo;t get on together. Do you

-      know, she thinks all you boys are simply horrid persons?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps we are,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Most people think that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she answered promptly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Gradually my constraint left me. She had an easy kindness and assurance in

-      her manner that I had never found in any other girl. She slipped her hand

-      into mine; made bold by the darkness of the summer-house, I held it

-      tightly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I like you. I like you very much,&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve never spoken to me before. Why should you like the?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned her face to mine, so that our lips were quite near together. &ldquo;I

-      suppose because I&rsquo;m a girl.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The bell for supper began to ring. I pretended not to hear it. Through the

-      roses across the lawn I saw Sneard stand in his study-window, struggling

-      into his gown. Then the window became dark and I knew that he had gone to

-      read evening prayers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The bell is ringing,&rdquo; she said at last. &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t go, you&rsquo;ll get

-      punished.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s for your sake, I don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She pushed me gently from her. &ldquo;Go away now. If you get into trouble,

-      you&rsquo;ll not be able to come back tomorrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She ran down the path with me as far as the hedge. The bell was at its

-      last strokes, swinging slower and slower. At the hedge we halted. I knew

-      what I wanted to do; my whole body ached to take her in my arms and kiss

-      her. But something stronger than will&mdash;the habit of restraint&mdash;prevented.

-      Some paces away on the other side of the hedge I remembered that I did not

-      even know her name. Without halting I called back to her questioning, and

-      as I ran the answer followed me through the shadows, &ldquo;Fiesole.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After the monitors had come up and the lights had been put out, I waited

-      for an hour till all the dormitory was sleeping; then, very stealthily, I

-      edged myself out of bed. Standing upright, I listened to make sure that I

-      was undetected. I stole out into the corridor bare-foot. I feared to dress

-      lest anyone should be aroused. In my long linen night-gown I tiptoed down

-      the corridor, down the stairs, and entered the fifth-form class-room.

-      Throwing up the window I climbed out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      An English summer&rsquo;s night lay before me in all its silver splendor&mdash;huge

-      shadows of trees, scented coolness of the air, and damp smoothness of turf

-      beneath my tread. The exultation of life&rsquo;s bigness and cleanness came upon

-      me. I knew now that it was right to be proud of the body and to love the

-      body. Oh, why had it been left to a glimpse in the dusk of a young girl&rsquo;s

-      face to teach me that? At a rush I had become possessed of all the codes

-      of mediaeval chivalry. Every woman, however old or unpleasing, was for

-      Fiesole&rsquo;s sake most perfect&mdash;a person to be worshiped; for in serving

-      her I should be serving Fiesole. What a name to have! How all her

-      perfectness was summed up in the beauty of those full vowel sounds, <i>Fi-es-sol-le</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I trespassed again in the garden. In the quiet of the rose-scented night I

-      entered the summer-house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Far away the nightingales sang on. There were words to their chanting now

-      and their song was no, longer melancholy. And these were the words as I

-      heard them: &ldquo;<i>Fiesole&mdash;Fiesole&mdash;Fiesole. Love in the world.

-      Love in the world. Glad&mdash;glad&mdash;glad.</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;WHAT IS LOVE?

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y secret was too

-      big and beautiful to keep to myself. There was no one I could tell it to

-      save the Bantam. But the Bantam had grown shy of me; he knew that within

-      myself I had been laughing at him. He turned away when I tried to catch

-      his eye, and bent with unaccustomed diligence above his lessons.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Not till after lunch did I get a chance to approach him. All the other

-      boys had changed into flannels and had hurried off to the cricket-nets. I

-      wandered into the empty playground and there found him seated alone in a

-      corner. His knees were drawn up so that his chin rested on them; in his

-      eyes was a far-away sorrowful expression. I halted before him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bantam.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not look up, but I knew by the twitching of his hands that he had

-      heard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bantam, I&rsquo;ve got something to tell you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Slowly he turned his head. He was acting the part of Hamlet and I was

-      vastly impressed. &ldquo;Is it about Ruthita?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Partly. But it&rsquo;s happened to me too, Bantam.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wot?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A girl.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A genuine look of live-boy astonishment overspread his countenance. &ldquo;A

-      girl!&rdquo; he ejaculated. &ldquo;But there ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t any about&mdash;unless you mean

-      Pigtails.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being leveled

-      at me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you say that again, I&rsquo;ll punch your head.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, so it is Pigtails.&rdquo; He rose to his feet lazily and began to take off

-      his jacket. &ldquo;Come on and punch it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But a fight wasn&rsquo;t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him

-      with my hands held down.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Silly ass, how could it be Pigtails? Do I look that sort? It&rsquo;s another

-      girl. I came to you &rsquo;cause you&rsquo;re in love, and you&rsquo;ll understand.

-      I&rsquo;ve been a beast to you&mdash;won&rsquo;t you be friends?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager for

-      sympathy, however, to be discouraged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s called Fiesole,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that beautiful?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthita&rsquo;s better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s got gold hair with just a little&mdash;a little red in it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I prefer black.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not talking about Ruthita; I&rsquo;m telling you about Fiesole.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know that,&rdquo; said the Bantam; &ldquo;you never do talk about Ruthita now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I walked away from him angrily in the direction I had taken on the

-      previous evening. As I approached the nets I saw a little group of

-      spectators. Then I made out the clerical figure of Sneard and the figure

-      of Pigtails dressed in gray, and between them a slim white girl. Behind me

-      I heard the pit-a-pat of running feet on the turf. The Bantam flung his

-      arm about my shoulders, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been a beast and you&rsquo;ve been a

-      beast; but we won&rsquo;t be beasts any longer.&rdquo; Then, following the direction

-      of my eyes, &ldquo;What are you staring at? Is that her? My eye, she&rsquo;s a

-      topper!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He prodded me to go forward. When I showed reluctance, he used almost

-      Fiesole&rsquo;s words, &ldquo;Why, surely, Dante, you ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t afraid of a girl!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was afraid, and always have been wherever my affections are concerned.

-      But I wasn&rsquo;t going to own it just then. I let him slip his arm through

-      mine, and we sauntered forward together. Through the soft summer air came

-      the sharp <i>click</i> of the ball as it glanced off the bat, and the long

-      cheer which followed as the wicket went down. Fiesole turned, clapping her

-      hands, and our eyes met. Then she ceased to look at me; her gaze rested on

-      the Bantam, while a half-smile played about her mouth. A pang of jealousy

-      shot through me. With the instinctive egotism of the male, I felt that by

-      the mere fact of loving her I had made her my property. However, Pigtails

-      came to my rescue, for I saw her jolt Fiesole with her elbow; her shocked

-      voice reached me, saying, &ldquo;Cousin Fiesole, whatever are you staring at?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I tugged at the Bantam&rsquo;s sleeve and we turned away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My golly, but she is a ripper,&rdquo; he whispered....

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As the distance grew between us and her, he kept glancing across his

-      shoulder and once halted completely to gaze back. I envied him his

-      effrontery. My fate from the beginning has been to run away from the women

-      I love&mdash;and then to regret it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had entered into another field and were passing a laburnum tree, when

-      the Bantam drew up sharply. He pointed to its blossom all gold and yellow.

-      &ldquo;The color of her hair,&rdquo; he said, and promptly threw himself under it,

-      lying on his back, gazing up at its burning foliage. The sun filtered down

-      through its leaves upon us, making fantastic patterns on our hands and

-      faces. The field was tall in hay, ready for the cutting, so we had the

-      boy&rsquo;s delight of being completely hidden from the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the color of her eyes?&rdquo; he asked presently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know; it was dusk when I saw her. I expect it&rsquo;s the same as

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who is she?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Met her in Sneard&rsquo;s garden&mdash;Pigtails called her &lsquo;cousin&rsquo; just now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s called Fiesole! Pretty name. How it suits her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not prettier than Ruthita,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He sat up and grinned at me. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;re you getting at? You wanted me to say

-      all that half-an-hour ago in the playground; now I&rsquo;ve said it. I can think

-      she&rsquo;s pretty, can&rsquo;t I, and still love Ruthita best?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you oughtn&rsquo;t to love her at all,&rdquo; I expostulated with a growing sense

-      of indignant proprietorship.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; explained the Bantam seriously, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re jealous. That&rsquo;s the

-      way I felt about you when you told me that you weren&rsquo;t Ruthita&rsquo;s brother;

-      I quite understand. But if I&rsquo;m to marry Ruthita, I shall be your

-      brother-in-law. Sha&rsquo;n&rsquo;t I? And if you marry Fiesole, she&rsquo;ll be my

-      sister-inlaw. Won&rsquo;t she? Well then, I&rsquo;ve got a right to be pleased about

-      her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I took him at his word and told him everything that had happened and all

-      that I knew about her. Continually he would break in with feverish words

-      of surprise and flattery, leading me on still further to confess myself.

-      In the magic world of that summer&rsquo;s afternoon no difficulties seemed

-      insuperable. Married we could and would be. Parents and schoolmasters only

-      existed for one purpose&mdash;to prevent boys and girls who fell in love

-      from marrying: that was why grown-ups had all the money. In a natural

-      state of society, where men lived in the woods, and wore skins, and

-      carried clubs, these injustices would not happen.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So we unbosomed ourselves, only understanding vaguely the immensities that

-      love and marriage meant. Then the bell for four o&rsquo;clock school began

-      calling and, like the slaves we were, we returned, on the run, to the Red

-      House.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We found that we were not the only persons to be inflamed by the beauty

-      of Fiesole. All the boys were talking about her. One of our chief fears

-      was set at rest&mdash;her surname was not Sneard, but Cortona. Her father

-      had been a famous Italian actor married to Sneard&rsquo;s sister, and both her

-      parents fortunately were dead. She had quite a lot of money and had come

-      from a convent at Tours, where she was being educated, to stay with her

-      uncle on a visit of undetermined length or brevity. This news had all been

-      gathered by the Cow, who had that curious faculty for worming out

-      information which some boys possess. He had extracted it from the

-      groundman, who had extracted it from Sneard&rsquo;s gardener, who had extracted

-      it from Sneard&rsquo;s housemaid, with whom he was on more than friendly terms&mdash;so

-      of course it was authentic.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That evening after prep I again stole out. The Bantam showed himself very

-      impertinent&mdash;he wanted to come with me. I had great difficulty in

-      persuading him that it wasn&rsquo;t necessary. I found Fiesole in the

-      summer-house. She was subdued and wistful, and insisted on asking

-      questions about that nice boy she had seen with me. I told her frankly

-      that he was engaged to my sister, and gave her a graphic account of how my

-      father had turned him out of Pope Lane. I fear I made him seem altogether

-      too romantic. She made careful inquiries about the appearance of Ruthita,

-      which I took as a sign of encouragement&mdash;a foreknowledge that sooner

-      or later I intended to ask her to become one of my family. When the bell

-      rang for prayers and we parted, I held her hand a little longer, but

-      experienced my old reluctance in the matter of kissing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning fate played me a scurvy trick; I woke with a bad sore throat,

-      due I suppose to my escapade of the night earlier, and was sent to the

-      infirmary. On the evening of the day I came out, which was four days

-      later, I was summoned after prep to report myself to the doctor. This made

-      me late in getting to the summer-house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The bell for prayers had commenced to ring as I got there. I was climbing

-      through the hedge when I heard footsteps on the garden path. There were

-      two children standing hushed amid the roses, the one with face tremulously

-      uplifted, the other looking down with eager eyes. As I watched their lips

-      met. It was impossible for me to stir without making my presence known.

-      One of them came bolting into me, going out by the way I was entering. We

-      rolled over and I recognized the Bantam. Fiesole, hearing the angry voices

-      of two boys quarreling, ran. And so I got my first experience of the

-      lightness of woman&rsquo;s affection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      However, if I was seeking a revenge, I got it. Before the end of the

-      summer term Pigtails became suspicious, and discovered the Cow in the

-      summer-house with the fickle Fiesole. The Cow, because he was a monitor,

-      was expelled and I was appointed in his place&mdash;Mordecai and Haman

-      after a fashion. Fiesole, on account of her kissing propensities, was

-      regarded as a dangerous person and sent away. I was a grown man when next

-      I met her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SPUFFLER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was during the

-      last week of the summer term, while I was convalescing from Fiesole&rsquo;s

-      sudden exit and was beginning to forgive the Bantam his treachery, that

-      the magic personality of George Rapson first flashed into my little world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was sitting listlessly at my desk one sunshiny morning. The window at my

-      side was open, commanding a view of the school garden, the driveway

-      leading through it, and beyond that of the sleepy village street. Below

-      the window grew a bed of lavender whose fragrance, drifting in, made me

-      forgetful of the book which lay before me and of the master at the

-      black-board chalking up dull problems in algebra. I was dreaming as usual,

-      telling myself a story of what I would do if old Sneard should pop his

-      head inside the door and say, &ldquo;My dear Cardover, you have worked so well

-      that I intend to make an example of you by giving you this day as a

-      holiday.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then the master at the board turned round and jumped me into a

-      realization of the present. &ldquo;Cardover, you will please stand up and repeat

-      my explanation of this problem.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I stood up and gazed stupidly at the medley of signs and abbreviated

-      formulae, hoping to discover some clue of reasoning in their apparent

-      meaninglessness. &ldquo;Well?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you please, sir, I wasn&rsquo;t attending.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought not. If you had been, you would have known that I have not

-      explained it yet. You will come to me after class and&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But his sentence was never ended. At that moment the head of every boy

-      turned as one head; yes, and even the head of the master turned. Up the

-      driveway came the sound of prancing hoofs, the soft crunch of wheels in

-      the gravel, and cries of, &ldquo;Whoa, girl! Steady there, steady.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Past the window flashed a high yellow dog-cart, drawn by a tandem of

-      spirited chestnuts. A tiger in livery and top-hat sat behind with arms

-      folded, superbly aware of his own magnificence. Between the wheels ran a

-      Dalmatian, a plum-pudding dog as we used to call them. On the high

-      front-seat were two men, equally gorgeous. The one who drove wore a large

-      fawn coat with enormous pearl buttons, distinctly horsey in cut and

-      fashion. On his head was a tall beaver hat. He was a massively built man

-      and had the appearance of a sporting aristocrat. To make him more

-      splendid, he was young, with a bronzed complexion, full red lips, and

-      finely chiseled features. His companion looked like a Methodist parson,

-      trying to pass as a racing gent. He was attired in a light tweed suit of a

-      rather pronounced black and white check. On his head was a gray felt hat,

-      and in his button-hole blazed a scarlet geranium. They were laughing in

-      deep full-throated guffaws as they whizzed past, with the sun flashing on

-      their wheels and harness. The tiger and the Dalmatian were the only solemn

-      things about them. What was my surprise to have recognized in the second

-      man a relative?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my uncle!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Even the master, so recently bent on my humiliation, seemed to hold his

-      breath in regarding the nephew of so resplendent a person. Here was poetic

-      justice with a vengeance. Most of the boys&rsquo; friends, if they were too rich

-      to walk from the station when they came to visit them, crawled up the hill

-      in a musty creaking cab, with hard wooden seats, and two or three handfuls

-      of straw on the floor, more or less dirty. In the history of the Red House

-      no boy&rsquo;s relative had dashed up to visit him with such a barbaric clatter

-      and display of wealth. Ah, if Fiesole had been there to envy me, how she

-      would have blamed herself for her falseness!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Cardover, you may sit down.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The master turned again to the black-board, forgetting the threatened

-      penalty. The boys eyed me above the covers of their books, and awaited

-      further developments.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The door opened and Sneard peered round on us shortsightedly. A pleased

-      smile played about the corners of his diplomatic mouth. His happiness at

-      receiving such distinguished callers seemed to have had an effect upon his

-      hair, turning it to a yet more fiery red. Usually when he spoke he

-      snapped, but now his tones were as fluty as he could make them with so

-      little practice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning to the master, &ldquo;Is Dante Cardover here?&rdquo; he inquired. When I was

-      pointed out to him he said, &ldquo;Mr. George Rapson is here and with him your

-      uncle, Mr. Spreckles. You may take a holiday, Dante, and go out with

-      them.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I rose from my seat in an ecstasy of bewilderment. What under the sun had

-      happened that old Sneard should call me Dante, and who was Mr. George

-      Rapson? As I picked my way through the labyrinth of forms and desks;

-      getting glimpses of my school-mates&rsquo; lengthened faces, I felt that I was

-      taking the sunlight from the room by my good fortune as I left.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I followed Sneard to his study, which I had so often visited on such

-      different errands. Even now as I crossed its threshold, I could not quite

-      shake off my accustomed clammy dread. The Spuffler, catching sight of me,

-      ran forward in his gayest manner. &ldquo;Ah, Dante, old chap, it&rsquo;s good to see

-      you. Rapson&rsquo;s heard so much about you that he couldn&rsquo;t keep away any

-      longer. &lsquo;Spreckles,&rsquo; he said, &lsquo;you&rsquo;ve got to introduce me. It&rsquo;s Dante,

-      Dante, all day long. You can&rsquo;t talk of anyone else.&rsquo; So here we are.

-      Rapson, this is my nephew.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Rapson grabbed me by the shoulder with a large white hand and gazed

-      down on me. There was a jolly-dog air about him combined with a big

-      healthy strength, which made one both like and fear him from the first.

-      And there was so much of him to like; he was over six foot in height and

-      proportionately built in breadth. &ldquo;Hm! Dante. Glad to meet you. Let&rsquo;s get

-      out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Sneard wanted me to put on my Sunday suit, but Mr. Rapson wouldn&rsquo;t hear of

-      it. &ldquo;Hated clothes when I was a kid. Still think we ought to go naked. Let

-      him be as he is. He&rsquo;s got nothing to spoil and therefore&rsquo;ll enjoy

-      himself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Without waiting for a reply, he nodded to Sneard, heaved his great

-      shoulders through the doorway, so down the hall and out on to the steps

-      where the tiger was holding the horses&rsquo; heads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just like Rapson,&rdquo; my uncle said. &ldquo;Masterful fellow. Makes up his mind

-      and then goes ahead. Good-day, Mr. Sneard. Oh, yes, we&rsquo;ll take care of him

-      and bring him back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      They took me up in front beside them; the whip cracked and the tiger

-      sprang away from the leader. Off we sped, down the hill and into the

-      valley, winding in and out of overgrown lanes where we had to duck our

-      heads to avoid the boughs; then out again with fields on either side of

-      us, up hill and down dale never slackening, with the wind on our cheeks

-      and the sun in our faces. Mr. Rapson&rsquo;s attention was completely taken up

-      with his driving; it needed to be, for he swung round corners and squeezed

-      between farm-wagons in outrageously reckless fashion. I watched his strong

-      masterful hands, how they gathered in the reins and forced the horses to

-      obedience. My eyes wandered up him and rested on his face: the face of a

-      man a little over thirty, calm and yet when stern almost cruelly

-      determined, with a shapely beak of a Roman nose planted squarely in the

-      middle of it&mdash;a sign-post to his purpose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I glanced at my uncle with his fashionable checks and scarlet

-      geranium. I remembered that my grandmother called him the Spuffler, and

-      wondered what she would call him now, could she see him. That nervous air

-      he had had, of at once asserting and apologizing for himself with a

-      pitiful display of bluster, had vanished. He carried himself with the

-      jaunty confidence of a middle-aged gentleman unsubdued by the world&mdash;one

-      who knew how to be dignified when necessary, but who preferred at present

-      to relax. Above all he conveyed the impression of one beautifully fond of

-      life&rsquo;s simple pleasures and quietly composed in a happy self-respect. What

-      had done it? Was it George Rapson, or had he at last had success with one

-      of his poultry experiments?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Perhaps he guessed some of the inquiries that were running through my

-      head, for, as I crouched near him in the little space allotted me on our

-      high up perch, he squeezed my hand, hinting at some great secret, for the

-      telling of which we must be alone by our two selves.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With foam flying from the horses&rsquo; mouths we entered Richmond and glittered

-      down those quaint and narrow streets, which have always seemed to me more

-      like streets of a seaport than of an inland town. We turned a corner; full

-      before us drifted up the long and shadowy quiet of the Thames.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Rapson refused to be sociable until he had seen to the rubbing down

-      and stabling of his horses; so we two wandered off together along the

-      miniature quays, where boatmen with a deep-sea sailor&rsquo;s swagger pulled

-      clay pipes from their mouths and wished us a cheerfully mercenary

-      &ldquo;Good-mornin&rsquo;.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My curiosity was inarticulate with a multitude of crowding questions. I

-      couldn&rsquo;t make my choice which to ask first. I watched the swans sail in

-      and out the tethered boats, and racked my brain for words. Then I blurted

-      out, &ldquo;What does it all mean, Uncle Obad?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His eyes filled with tears. &ldquo;My boy, it means success.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I mumbled something typically boylike and inadequate about being &ldquo;jolly

-      glad.&rdquo; He slipped his arm through mine with that endearing familiarity he

-      had, as though I were a man. He was too excited to sit down, so we

-      strolled along the quays, under the creeper-covered redbrick walls of the

-      houses, and out of Richmond along the open river-bank.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No one ever believed that I&rsquo;d do it, Dante. I don&rsquo;t think you did

-      yourself. They all said, &lsquo;Oh, Spreckles! Ha, the fellow who twiddles his

-      thumbs while his wife works!&rsquo; They didn&rsquo;t say it to my face&mdash;they

-      didn&rsquo;t dare. But that was what they thought about me. I seemed a failure&mdash;a

-      good-natured incompetent. Even people who liked me felt ashamed of me&mdash;I

-      mean people who were dear to me, living in the same house. Women want

-      their husbands to measure up to the standards of other men. It&rsquo;s natural&mdash;I

-      don&rsquo;t blame &rsquo;em. But, you know, I never had a chance, old chap&mdash;never

-      seemed to find my right kind of work. I couldn&rsquo;t do little things well.

-      I&rsquo;m one of those imperial men who need something big to bring the best out

-      of&rsquo; &rsquo;em. And now I&rsquo;ve got it&mdash;I&rsquo;ve got it, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I caught his excitement, and begged him to tell me what this wonderful

-      something was that had so suddenly transformed him from a nobody into a

-      powerful person. I felt sure he was powerful, apart from anything he said,

-      for he radiated opulence. He halted in the middle of the tow-path,

-      gripping me by the shoulders, laughing into my face and bidding me guess.

-      I guessed everything possible and impossible. Losing patience, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s

-      diamond mines,&rdquo; he burst out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how did you get &rsquo;em, Uncle Obad, and where?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For an instant I had a wild vision of men with pickaxes, shovels, and

-      miners&rsquo; lamps, digging down into the bowels of the Christian Boarding

-      House.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We seated ourselves on the bank with legs dangling above the water, and he

-      told me. It seemed that Mr. George Rapson was the cause of this meteoric

-      rise to prosperity. In April he had come to stay at Charity Grove as an

-      ordinary paying-guest. From the first he was extraordinary and had amazed

-      them with his wealth&mdash;his horses, his clothes, his friends, and his lavish

-      manners. Most of his fellow boarders were struggling young men, who

-      earned two pounds a week in the City and paid twenty-five shillings for

-      their keep and lodging. On the start they only knew that he was a South

-      African, holiday-making in England. Little by little he let out that he

-      was interested in diamond mines, and later that he owned <i>The Ethiopian</i>,

-      one of the most promising properties of its kind in the world. The more

-      communicative he became, the more surprised they were that he should make

-      his head-quarters at a Christian Boarding House. There seemed no reason

-      why he should not pay a higher price and enjoy the advantages of a secular

-      environment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One night he took my uncle into his room, locked the door, and let the cat

-      out of the bag. It was my uncle and his personality that had attracted

-      him. He had seen his name as secretary to so many thriving philanthropic

-      societies that he had been led to appreciate his worth as an organizer. He

-      wanted his help. He had come to England to unload a number of shares in <i>The

-      Ethiopian</i> diamond mines, but it had to be done quietly and without

-      advertisement. He had a number of unscrupulous enemies in the mining world

-      who wanted to merge his property with theirs. They had tried to crowd him

-      out in various ways&mdash;once by bringing about a law-suit to dispute his

-      title to his holdings. If they should get wind that shares in <i>The

-      Ethiopian</i> were to be bought in the open market, they would buy up

-      every share in sight in an effort to gain control. Therefore it was

-      necessary that business should be carried on in a private manner, and as

-      far as possible through channels of personal friendship rather than those

-      of the City and the Stock Exchange.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had studied my uncle carefully and was convinced that he was just the

-      man for the work. He proposed giving him a salary of one thousand pounds a

-      year to act as his English agent, and a five-per-cent commission on all

-      sales of shares that he was instrumental in effecting. His chief service

-      was to consist in supplying lists of names and addresses of the moneyed

-      religious public, and in applying his influence to the attracting of

-      purchasers. The lists were of course to be culled mainly from the

-      contributors to the charitable societies of which he was secretary. In

-      fact, what the proposal amounted to, as I see it now, was that my uncle&rsquo;s

-      integrity, well-known among religious circles, was to guarantee the worth

-      of the shares.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a close secret, Dante,&rdquo; my uncle said. &ldquo;Rapson won&rsquo;t let me tell

-      anyone, not even your Aunt Lavinia, the basis of our understanding. But I

-      had to tell somebody; happiness isn&rsquo;t happiness when you keep its reason

-      to yourself. So I&rsquo;ve told you, because we&rsquo;ve had so many secrets

-      together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We sat on, quite forgetful of time, watching the sleepy flowing of the

-      river, building castles in the air. Last month they had declared their

-      half-yearly dividend and it had amounted to twenty per cent. Since then

-      the sale of shares had quickened enormously. Why, there was one morning&rsquo;s

-      mail when my uncle&rsquo;s commissions alone had amounted to fifty pounds. Think

-      of that&mdash;and it was only the beginning! Then we commenced to reckon

-      how much he would have in five years, if his commissions amounted always

-      to fifty pounds a morning, and he made a rule to spend nothing but his

-      salary. It was the old childish game which had first made us chummy, of so

-      many hens laying so many eggs, and how much would we have at the end of a

-      twelvemonth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He could afford to joke now concerning the penury of his lean years before

-      the great Rapson had put in an appearance. He even made fun of his own <i>spuffing</i>,

-      and laughed as he told me how much economy those odd shillings and

-      half-crowns, which he used to give me in such a large manner, had cost

-      him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s all over now,&rdquo; he said cheerfully, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m going to be an

-      important man. People are beginning to look up to me already. Who knows?&mdash;one

-      day I may enter Parliament. I&rsquo;m moving in a different social set&mdash;Rapson&rsquo;s

-      friends. He&rsquo;s very well-connected. They&rsquo;re a little gay and larky, you

-      know; your Aunt Lavinia don&rsquo;t quite know what to make of &rsquo;em.

-      She&rsquo;ll get over that. Oh, but it&rsquo;s a big new world for me, Dante, and

-      there&rsquo;s heaps of things to do in it that I never knew about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      On our way back the great George Rapson himself met us, and we found that

-      we&rsquo;d been gone an hour. He told us that he&rsquo;d ordered lunch at a little

-      inn, called <i>The White Cross</i>&mdash;one which hung over the river.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How proud I was to walk beside him as we re-entered Richmond! Everyone

-      turned to stare after him as he passed, with his long fawn coat open and

-      flapping, his easy rollicking laugh, his great height and distinguished

-      presence. And I, Dante Cardover, was by way of being the friend of such a

-      man! The gates of romance were indeed opening.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>The White Cross Inn</i> had separate balconies, built out from each of

-      its second-story windows. In one of these our table was set. The little

-      tiger helped the maid of the inn to wait upon us. And what a meal we had!&mdash;salmon

-      and salad and fowl, stuffed veal and pine-apple, dates, almonds, and

-      raisins&mdash;everything that a boy could ask to have. Up the walls of the

-      inn climbed rambler roses and tumbled over the sides of the balcony.

-      Beneath us lay the river, like a silver snake, lazily uncurled, sunning

-      itself in great green meadows.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;This is to be your day, Dante,&rdquo; Mr. Rapson said. &ldquo;We brought some of

-      these things from London because we knew you liked &rsquo;em. You discovered

-      your Uncle Obad before I did, and when no one else had. He&rsquo;s told me all

-      about it. Here&rsquo;s your very good health.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The tiger, who had been drawing the cork out of a large green bottle about

-      half as tall as himself, now poured out a golden foamy liquid. I found one

-      glass of it had the same care-freeing effect that the holding of Fiesole&rsquo;s

-      hand in the summer-house had had. I felt myself at ease in the world, and

-      began to speak of the Reverend Robert Sneard as &ldquo;jolly old Sneard,&rdquo; and of

-      all people who had authority over me with tolerant contempt. I gazed back

-      from the security of my temporary Canaan, and gave my entertainers a

-      whimsical account of my perilous journey through the wilderness of

-      boyhood. It was wonderful even to myself how suddenly my shyness had

-      vanished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Rapson seemed highly amused. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll do, young&rsquo;un,&rdquo; he said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, little by little, he began to speak of Africa&mdash;the dust, the

-      Kaffirs, and the wide, parched veldt. He spoke of adventures with lions

-      far up in the interior, and of how he had once been an ivory-hunter before

-      he struck it lucky in the south. &ldquo;I ran away from home when I was a

-      youngster of twenty and all because of a girl.&rdquo; He nodded at me wisely

-      across the table, &ldquo;Keep clear of the girlies, they&rsquo;re the devil.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I thought of Fiesole and inquired if some girls weren&rsquo;t quite attractive

-      devils. My uncle looked shocked in a genial fashion at this very free use

-      of a forbidden word&mdash;the fear of Aunt Lavinia purged his vocabulary

-      even when she was absent. But Mr. Rapson went red in the face and smacked

-      his hands together, laughing loudly. &ldquo;Of course they&rsquo;re attractive; else

-      how&rsquo;d they tempt us?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A punt, which had stolen up beneath our balcony, now caught his attention.

-      A girl in a gown of flowered muslin, with a broad pink sash about her

-      waist, was standing in the stern. She was alone, and all the river formed

-      a landscape for her daintiness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Rapson stared hard at her; her back was towards us. &ldquo;Seem to know her

-      hair,&rdquo; he muttered. He half rose. &ldquo;By George, it&rsquo;s Kitty!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Leaning far out over the balcony he called to her impulsively, &ldquo;Kitty!

-      Kitty!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Very leisurely she lifted up to him a small flushed face, all laughter and

-      naughtiness, and waved her hand. She was as pretty as love and a summer&rsquo;s

-      day could make a woman&mdash;but I wasn&rsquo;t supposed to be old enough to

-      observe such things as that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She brought her punt in to the bank, while Mr. Rapson went down to help

-      her out. When he gave her his hand to steady her, she kept it in hers. As

-      she glanced mischievously up at him I heard her say, &ldquo;Why, George, you

-      terror, who&rsquo;d have thought of meeting you here!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He whispered something to her with a frown; she dropped him a mocking

-      courtesy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he brought her up on to the balcony, he introduced her as his cousin

-      Kitty. She bowed to us with a roguish grace, clinging close to his arm.

-      &ldquo;Now, Kitty,&rdquo; he said, freeing himself, &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve got to behave.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Seeing that my uncle was looking at her in a puzzled manner, she took the

-      center of the stage without embarrassment, explaining, &ldquo;Georgie and I are

-      very old friends and I&rsquo;ve not seen him, oh, for ages.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When they had told her how they happened to be there and that it was my

-      day, and that they had stolen me away from my lessons, she swung round on

-      me with a kind of rapture. &ldquo;Oh, what darlings to do that! And what a nice

-      boy!&rdquo; Without further ado she patted my face and kissed me. It was a new

-      sensation. I blushed furiously, and was both pleased and abashed. &ldquo;You may

-      be older than I am,&rdquo; I thought; &ldquo;but you&rsquo;re only a girl. In three years I

-      could marry you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was like a happy little dog in a meadow; never still, sending up birds&mdash;following

-      nothing and chasing everything. In her conversation she gamboled about and

-      never ceased gamboling. She didn&rsquo;t sit quietly like the Snow Lady and all

-      the other ladies of my acquaintance, putting in a word now and then, but

-      letting the men do the talking. She made everybody look at her&mdash;perhaps,

-      because she was so well worth looking at. Even before she had kissed me I

-      was in love with her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Rapson seemed a little nervous, and she appeared to delight in his

-      fear of her daring.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Georgie&rsquo;s always had a passion for me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;though he won&rsquo;t own

-      it.&rdquo; Then suddenly, seeing the troubled expression on his face, &ldquo;How much

-      has the poor dear told you about himself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She wriggled out of me something of the story of his doings. She eyed him

-      archly from under her big hat and, when I had ended, leant across the

-      table so their faces nearly met. &ldquo;How many lions did my Georgie kill in

-      Africa?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Be quiet, you little devil,&rdquo; he laughed, seizing her by the hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The employment of that forbidden word set me wondering whether this was

-      the girl for love of whom he first went wandering. But she looked too

-      young for that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We went into her punt and drifted down the river with the current. She

-      played the madcap all the way, speaking to him often in baby language. He

-      seemed to be amused by it, as a St. Bernard might be amused by the

-      impertinence of a terrier. When she got too bold he would hold her hands

-      until she was quiet, overpowering her with his great strength much the

-      same as he did his horses. Then she would turn her attentions to me for a

-      time, and I would make believe to myself she was Fiesole. My uncle looked

-      on like a benevolent Father Christmas, dignified and smiling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dusk was settling when we started on the return journey. We found that we

-      had drifted further than we had intended. Mr. Rapson took the pole and did

-      the punting. Miss Kitty sang to him, she said to encourage him. I think it

-      must have been then that I first heard <i>Twickenham Ferry</i>. She had to

-      leave off part way through the last verse I remember. She said that the

-      mist from the river choked her; but I, lying on the cushions beside her,

-      somehow gathered the impression that she was nearly crying. When she broke

-      down, under cover of darkness I got my hand into hers, and then she

-      slipped her arm about me. After that she was very subdued and silent. My

-      uncle fell off to sleep, and Mr. Rapson kept his face turned away from us,

-      busy with his punting. I wondered if, after all, Miss Kitty was happy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was night when we arrived. She insisted on parting with us at the

-      landing, saying that her houseboat was just across the river and she could

-      take the punt home quite well unaccompanied. We had said good-by and were

-      walking along the quay, when Rapson left us and ran back. I saw him come

-      close and bend over her. They seemed to be whispering together. Then she

-      pushed out into the river; the lights of the town held her for a time;

-      darkness closed in behind her and she vanished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the drive back to the Red House I grew drowsy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried to keep my eyes open, but even the soft moonlight seemed dazzling.

-      The meadows and tall trees stealing by, ceased to stand out separate, but

-      became a blur. The sharp <i>trit-trot, trit-trot</i> of the horses&rsquo; hoofs

-      on the hard macadam road lulled me by their monotonous regularity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I came to myself I heard my uncle saying, &ldquo;I like that little cousin

-      of yours, Rapson; she&rsquo;s charming and different from any woman that I ever

-      met.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Daresay she is,&rdquo; Rapson answered, dryly; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve led such a sheltered

-      life. Of course she isn&rsquo;t my cousin.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who is she, then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, a nymph.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A nymph! You have the better of me there. That&rsquo;s a classical allusion, no

-      doubt. I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never mind, papa,&rdquo; Mr. Rapson said cheerfully; &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think you would

-      understand. It&rsquo;s just as well.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then he commenced speaking to his horses. &ldquo;So, girl! Steady there!

-      Steady!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I rubbed my eyes, and saw that we were ascending Eden Hill.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;MONEY AND HAPPINESS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>eep down in their

-      secret hearts all the Spuffler&rsquo;s relations had felt that his permanent

-      failure to get on in the world was a kind of disgrace to themselves. They

-      resented it, but as a rule kept quiet about it &ldquo;for the sake of poor

-      Lavinia.&rdquo; My aunt was always &ldquo;poor Lavinia,&rdquo; when mentioned by her family.

-      Before strangers, needless to say, they helped him to keep up his

-      pretense of importance and spoke of him with respect. But the thought that

-      a man who had intermarried with them, should have lowered his wife to the

-      keeping of a boarding-house rankled. Even as a child I was conscious that

-      my close attachment to my uncle Obad was regarded with disapprobation. He

-      was the Ishmael of our tribe.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At first none of his relatives would believe in his mushroom prosperity.

-      Perhaps, they did not want to believe in it; it would entail the sacrifice

-      of life-long prejudices. They pooh-poohed it as the most extravagant

-      example of his fantastic spuffling. On my return home for the summer

-      holidays I very soon became aware of an atmosphere of half-humorous

-      contempt whenever his name was mentioned. Once when I took up the cudgels

-      for him, declaring that he was really a great man, the Snow Lady patted my

-      hand gently, calling me &ldquo;a blessed young optimist.&rdquo; My father, who rarely

-      lost his temper, told me I was speaking on a subject concerning which I

-      was profoundly ignorant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On a visit to Charity Grove I was grieved to find that even Aunt Lavinia

-      was skeptical. Despite the jingling of money in my uncle&rsquo;s pockets, she

-      insisted on living in the old proud hand-to-mouth fashion, making the

-      spending capacity of each penny go its furthest. Her house was still

-      understaffed in the matter of servants&mdash;servants who could be

-      procured at the lowest wages. She still did her shopping in the

-      lower-class districts, where men cried their wares on the pavement beneath

-      flaring naphtha-lamps and slatternly women elbowed your ribs and mauled

-      everything with dirty hands before they purchased. Here housekeeping could

-      be contrived on the smallest outlay of capital.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Uncle Obad might go to fashionable tailors; she clothed herself in black,

-      because it wore longest and could be turned. She listened to his latest

-      optimisms a little wearily with a sadly smiling countenance, as a mother

-      might listen to the plans for walking of a child hopelessly crippled. She

-      had heard him speak bravely so many, many times, and had been

-      disappointed, that she had permanently made up her mind that she would

-      have to go on earning the living for both of them all her life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yet she loved him as well as a woman could a man for whom she was only

-      sorry; she was constantly on the watch to defend him from the

-      disapprobation of the world. But she refused ever again to be beguiled

-      into believing that he would take his place with other men. So, when he

-      told her that they didn&rsquo;t need to keep on the boarding-house, she scarcely

-      halted long enough in her work to listen to him. And when he said that he

-      could now afford her a hundred pounds for dress, she bent her head lower

-      to hide a smile, for she didn&rsquo;t want to wound him. And when he brought her

-      home a diamond bracelet, she tried to find out where it had been purchased

-      in order that she might return it on the quiet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Gradually, however, she began to be persuaded that this time it wasn&rsquo;t all

-      bluster. The gallantry of his attitude towards herself was the

-      unaccountable element. Not so long ago it had been she who was the man

-      about the house, and he had been a kind of grown-up boy. Once she had

-      allowed him to kiss her; now he kissed her masterfully as by right of

-      conquest. He had become a man at last, after halting at the hobbledehoy

-      stage for fifty years. He treated her boldly as a lover, striving to draw

-      out her womanhood. He was making up the long arrears of affection which,

-      up to this time, he had not felt himself worthy to display.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One evening in the garden he tore the bandage of doubt from her eyes. I

-      was there when it happened. We were down in the paddock, the home of the

-      fowls, where so many of our dreams had taken place. The gaunt London

-      houses to the right of us were doing their best to shut out the sunset.

-      Aunt Lavinia began to wonder how much the little hay-crop would fetch this

-      year. She was disappointed because it had grown so thin, and there seemed

-      no promise of rain.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter, my dear,&rdquo; said my uncle cheerfully.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Obad, how can you say that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He pressed up to her flushing like a boy, placing his arms about her and

-      lifting her face. &ldquo;Lavinia, are you never going to trust me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The sudden tenderness and reproach in his voice stabbed her heart into

-      wakefulness. When she spoke, her words came like a cry: &ldquo;Oh, Obad, how I

-      wish I could believe it true this time!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it is true, my dearest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I stole away, and did not see them again till an hour later when they

-      wandered by me arm-in-arm through the wistful twilight. Within a week I

-      knew that she had accepted his prosperity as a fact, for he gave her a

-      blue silk dress and she wore it. But he had harder work in getting her to

-      give up the boarding-house. His great argument was that Rapson advised it&mdash;it

-      would advance their social standing. She fenced and hesitated, but finally

-      promised on the condition that he was still succeeding in November.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I think it must have been the news of her surrender that sapped the last

-      foundation of my father&rsquo;s skepticism. At any rate, shortly after this,

-      when my uncle by special invitation came over to Pope Lane, he was given

-      one of my father&rsquo;s best cigars as befitted a rich relative. The best glass

-      and silver were put out. We all had unsoiled serviettes and observed

-      uncomfortable company manners. In the afternoon he was carried off to my

-      father&rsquo;s study and remained there till long past the tea-hour.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Later my father told me the subject of their discussion. By dint of hard

-      saving he had put by two thousand pounds for planting me out in the world,

-      part of which was to pay for my Oxford education. Having heard of that

-      half-yearly twenty-per-cent dividend which the <i>Ethiopian</i> shares had

-      paid and that they were still being issued privately, at par value, he was

-      inclined to entrust his money to my uncle, if he could prove the

-      investment sound. If the mines were as good as they appeared to be, he

-      would get four hundred pounds a year in interest&mdash;which would make

-      all the difference to our ease of life. There was another consultation;

-      the next thing I knew the important step had been taken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All our power of dreaming now broke loose. It became our favorite pastime

-      to sit together and plan how we would spend the four hundred pounds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, it&rsquo;s an income in itself,&rdquo; my father would exclaim; &ldquo;I shall be

-      freed forever from the drudgery of hack-work.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And the Snow Lady would say, &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;ll be able to turn your mind to the

-      really important things of life&mdash;the big books which you&rsquo;ve always

-      hoped to write.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      And Ruthita would sidle up to him in her half-shy way, and rub her cheek

-      against his face, saying nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A wonderful kindliness nowadays entered into all our domestic relations.

-      My father&rsquo;s weary industry, which had sent us all tiptoeing about the

-      house, began to relax. Even for him work lost something of its sacredness

-      now that money was in sight. He no longer frowned and refused to look up

-      if anyone trespassed into his study. On the contrary, he seemed glad of

-      the excuse for laying aside his pen and discussing what place in the whole

-      wide world we should choose, when we were free to live where we liked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It should be somewhere in Italy&mdash;Florence, perhaps. For years it had

-      been his unattainable dream to live among olive-groves of the Arno valley.

-      We read up guide-books and histories about it. Soon we were quite familiar

-      with the Pitti Palace, the Ponte Vecchio, and the view from the Viale dei

-      Colli at sundown. These and many places with beautiful and large-sounding

-      names, became the stock-in-trade of our conversation. And the brave,

-      looked-down-on Spuffler was the faery-godmother who had made these dreams

-      realities.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A tangible proof of the promised change in our financial status was

-      experienced by myself on my return to school in a more liberal allowance

-      of pocket-money. As yet it was only a promised change, for the half-yearly

-      dividend would not be declared until January, and would not be paid till a

-      month later.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      What one might call &ldquo;a reflected proof&rdquo; came when we went over to spend

-      Christmas with Uncle Obad at Chelsea.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yes, Aunt Lavinia had succumbed to her good fortune. The Christian

-      Boarding House had been abandoned and a fine old house had been rented,

-      standing nearly at the corner of Cheyne Row, looking out across the river

-      to Battersea.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On Christmas Eve my uncle&rsquo;s carriage came to fetch us. That was a surprise

-      in itself. It was his present to Aunt Lavinia, all brand new&mdash;a roomy

-      brougham, with two gray horses, and a coachman in livery. From this it

-      will be seen that he had not kept his bargain with himself, made that day

-      at Richmond, to live only on his salary.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A slight fall of snow was on the ground; across London we drove, the

-      merriest little family in all that shopping crowd. We had scarcely pulled

-      up against the pavement and had our first peep of the fine big house, when

-      the front-door flew open, letting out a flood of light which rippled to

-      the carriage like a golden carpet unrolled across white satin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There stood Uncle Obad, frock-coated and glorious, with Aunt Lavinia

-      beside him, dressed all in lavender&mdash;not at all the prim,

-      businesslike little woman, half widow, half hospital nurse, of my earliest

-      recollection. She was as beaming and excited as a young girl, and greeted

-      the Snow Lady by throwing her arms about her and whispering, &ldquo;Oh, doesn&rsquo;t

-      it seem all too good to be true?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady kissed her gaily on both cheeks, saying, &ldquo;True enough, my

-      dear. At any rate, Obad&rsquo;s carriage was very real.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      How changed we were from the solemn polite personages who had considered

-      it a point in our favor that we knew how to bottle our emotions. We

-      laughed and rollicked, and made quite poor jokes seem brilliant by the

-      sparkle with which we told or received them. And all this was done by

-      money; in our case, merely by the promise of money! When a boy remembered

-      what we all had been, it was a transformation which called for reflection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle with his jolly rich-relative manner was the focus-point of our

-      attentions. Aunt Lavinia and, in fact, we all felt flat whenever he went

-      out of the room. She followed after him like a little dog, with dumb

-      admiring eyes, waiting to be petted. She told the Snow Lady that she

-      couldn&rsquo;t blame herself enough and could never make it up to him, for

-      having lived with him in the same house all those years without having

-      discovered his goodness. Then, as ladies will, they kissed for the

-      twentieth time and did a little glad crying together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So the stern grayness, which comes of a too frequent pondering on a

-      diminishing bank-account, had vanished from the faces of our elders.

-      Ruthita and I looked on and wondered. A great house had something to do

-      with it, and heavy carpets, and wide fire-places, and fine shiny

-      furniture, but underlying it all was money.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Christmas Eve I was awakened by the playing of waits outside my window. I

-      looked out at the broad black river, with the ropes of stars, which were

-      the lights of bridges, flung across it. And I looked at the untrodden

-      snow, stretching far down the Embankment, gleaming and shadowy, making

-      London seem a far-away, forgotten country. Then fumbling in the darkness,

-      I looked in my stocking and drew out a slip of paper. By the light of a

-      match, I discovered it to be a check from my aunt and uncle for fifty

-      pounds. Comparing notes in my night-gown with Ruthita next morning, I

-      found that she had another for the same amount.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ah, but that was something like a Christmas! Never a twenty-fifth of

-      December comes round but I remember it. My father summed it all up when he

-      said, &ldquo;Well, Obad, now you&rsquo;ve struck it lucky, you certainly know how to

-      be generous.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He certainly did, and proved amply that only poverty had prevented him in

-      former days from being the best loved man in the family. Only one person

-      roused more admiration than my uncle, and that was Mr. Rapson. My father

-      had never met him, so he had been invited to the Christmas dinner. At the

-      last moment he had excused himself, saying that he had an unavoidable

-      engagement with a lady. However, he turned up late in the evening with

-      Miss Kitty on his arm and a fur-coat on his back. Somehow they both seemed

-      articles of clothing; he wore them with such perfect assurance, as though

-      they were so much a part of himself. In the hall he took off his fur-coat,

-      and then he had only Miss Kitty to wear.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was awe-inspiring to see the deference that was paid him and the ease

-      with which he accepted every attention. My father, with the sincerest

-      simplicity, almost thanked him to his face for selling him <i>The

-      Ethiopian</i> shares.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Of course he had to tell his lion-stories and how he went hunting ivory in

-      Africa. My uncle trotted him about as though he were a horse, reminding

-      him of all his paces. Mr. Rapson was <i>his</i> discovery&mdash;<i>his</i>

-      property. We all sat round and hero-worshiped. Miss Kitty seemed

-      overwhelmed by the greatness of the house and the general luxury.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She appeared particularly shy of the ladies. After she had gone they

-      declared her to be a dumb, doll-like little creature, with her quiet eyes

-      and honey-colored hair. I sniggered, and they said, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter

-      with the boy? Why are you gurgling, Dante?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was thinking of another occasion, when she was neither dumb nor

-      doll-like.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now, quite contrary to her behavior at Richmond, she remained almost

-      motionless on the chair in which Mr. Rapson had placed her, looking like a

-      beautiful obedient piece of jewelry, waiting till her owner got ready to

-      claim her. Only at parting did she show me any sign of recollection and

-      then, while all eyes were occupied with Mr. Rapson, she whispered, &ldquo;You

-      were good to me at Richmond. I don&rsquo;t forget.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We stayed with my uncle four days. To us children it was a kind of tragedy

-      when we left. &ldquo;We must do this every year,&rdquo; my uncle said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If we ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t in Florence,&rdquo; my father replied gaily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Going back to school this time was a sore trial&mdash;it meant moving out

-      of the zone of excitement. It seemed that every day something new must

-      happen; and then there was so much to talk about. However, I got my

-      pleasure another way&mdash;by the things I let out at school, with a boy&rsquo;s

-      natural boastfulness, about my uncle. I found myself, what I had always

-      desired to be, genuinely and extremely popular. Money again! I let them

-      know that they would probably only have the privilege of my society for a

-      little while as, in all likelihood, I should be living in Florence next

-      year.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This term two events happened, intimately related to one another in their

-      effect upon my career, though at the time no one could have suspected any

-      connection between them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Lady Zion, the Creature&rsquo;s sister, had certainly got more crazy in the

-      years that had elapsed since I first met her. The winter was a heavy one

-      and the snow fell far into February; yet nothing could restrain her, short

-      of an asylum, from wandering about in the bleakest weather all over the

-      countryside. Sometimes she would stay out far into the night, and on

-      several occasions the Creature and I had to go out and search for her. I

-      have seen her pass me five miles from home, riding on her little ass,

-      talking to herself, all unaware of anything around her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was a temptation to the village-boys, and they would frequently

-      torment her. The antagonism between the Red House and the village ran

-      high. In a sense she was school property; we would make a chance of

-      rescuing her an excuse for a free-fight. This meant that when the enemy

-      found her alone, they took the opportunity of displaying their spite.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the fourteenth of February she had been out all day. No one had seen

-      her; by nightfall she had not returned. The Creature got permission to

-      have me go out with him to hunt for her. It was necessary that someone

-      should go with him because he was short-sighted. We investigated all her

-      favorite haunts, but found not a trace of her. We inquired of farmers and

-      travelers on the road, but heard nothing satisfactory. If she had gone by

-      field-routes this was not remarkable, for all the country was covered with

-      snow. Her white draped figure against the white landscape made it easy for

-      her to escape observation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The poor old Creature was getting worried; we had been three hours

-      searching and hadn&rsquo;t got a clue. I did my best to cheer him, and at last

-      proposed that we should return to his cottage as sometimes the donkey had

-      brought her back of himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From the point where we then stood our shortest route lay cross-country

-      through a wood, skirting a little dell. Under the trees it was very dark

-      although the moon was shining, for the trees grew close together. We were

-      passing by the dell when I happened to look aside. The moonlight, falling

-      across it, showed me something standing there. I asked the Creature to

-      wait while I went and examined it. As I got nearer, I saw it was alive;

-      then I recognized Lady Zion&rsquo;s donkey. It had halted over what appeared to

-      be a drift of snow. On coming closer I saw that it was Lady Zion herself.

-      Something warned me not to call her brother.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Bending down, I turned her over and drew the straggling hair from off her

-      face. There was a red gash in her forehead and red upon the snow. By the

-      fear that seized me when I touched her, I knew.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Coming back to the Creature I told him it was nothing&mdash;I had been

-      mistaken. At the school-house I made an excuse to leave him while he went

-      on to the cottage. When he was out of sight I ran panic-stricken to

-      Sneard&rsquo;s study and told him. The two of us, without giving the alarm,

-      returned to the wood and brought her home. The Creature was just setting

-      out again when we reached the cottage. By the limp way in which she hung

-      across the donkey&rsquo;s back, he realized at a glance what had happened.

-      Catching her in his arms, he dragged her down on to the road and, kneeling

-      over her, commenced to sob and sob like an animal, not using any words, in

-      a low moaning monotone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One by one windows in the village-street were thrown open; frowsy heads

-      stuck out; lights began to grope across the panes; the sleeping houses

-      woke and a promiscuous crowd of half-clad people gathered. Above the

-      intermittent babel of questions and answers was the constant sound of the

-      Creature&rsquo;s sobbing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning the news of Lady Zion&rsquo;s death was common property. Detectives

-      came down from London and a thorough effort was made to trace the

-      murderer. Near the spot in the dell where she had been discovered,

-      half-a-dozen snowballs lay scattered. It was supposed that a village-boy

-      had come across her there, and in one of the snowballs he had thrown,

-      purposely or accidentally, had buried a stone; then, seeing her fall, had

-      run away in terror.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the school various rumors went the round. The one which found most

-      favor, though we all knew it to be untrue, was that Sneard had done it.

-      His supposed motive was his well-known annoyance at Lady Zion&rsquo;s irritating

-      obsession that he had once loved her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the midst of this excitement, while the London detectives were still

-      hunting, I received a telegram from my father, unexplained and peremptory,

-      &ldquo;<i>Return immediately. Bring all belongings.</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      Of course the telegram was connected in some way with the payment of the

-      first half-yearly dividend. Perhaps my father had decided on an instant

-      removal to Italy. So my schoolmates thought as they stood enviously

-      watching me pack.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Towards evening I stepped into the village&rsquo;s one and only cab. I shook the

-      dust of the Red House from my feet without regret. With the intense

-      selfishness of youth, my own hope for the future made me almost forgetful

-      of the Creature&rsquo;s tragedy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was about eight o&rsquo;clock when I reached Pope Lane. All the front of the

-      house was in darkness. I tugged vigorously at the bell, feeling a little

-      slighted that none of them had been on the look-out. Directly the door

-      opened, I rushed in with a mouthful of excited questions. Hetty stared at

-      me disapprovingly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t make so much noise, Master Dante,&rdquo; she said;

-      &ldquo;your mother and Miss Ruthita &rsquo;ave &rsquo;ad a worryin&rsquo; day and &rsquo;ave

-      gorn to bed. They didn&rsquo;t know you was comin&rsquo;.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I noticed that the stairway was unlighted, that the gas in the hall was on

-      the jet, and that Hetty herself was partly prepared for bed. I was

-      beginning to explain to her about the telegram, speaking below my breath

-      the way one does when death is in the house. Just then my father came out

-      from his study. His pen was behind his ear and his shoulders looked

-      stoopy. His face had the worn expression of the old days, which came from

-      overwork.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Father, why did you send for me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He led me into the study, closing the door behind him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be brave.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At his words my heart sank. My eyes retreated from his face. I wanted to

-      lengthen out the minutes until I should know the worst.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My boy, your Uncle Obad&rsquo;s gone to smash. We&rsquo;ve lost everything.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He seated himself at the table, his head supported on his hand. He had

-      tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as much as to say, &ldquo;Of course

-      this is just what we all expected.&rdquo; But I could see that hope had gone out

-      of him. I wanted to say something decent and comforting; but everything

-      that came to me seemed too grandiloquent. There was nothing adequate that

-      could be said. Florence, realization of dreams, respite from drudgery&mdash;all

-      the happiness that money alone could purchase and that had seemed so

-      accessible, was now placed apparently forever beyond reach of his hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He took his pen from behind his ear and commenced aimlessly stabbing the

-      blotting-pad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He spoke again, looking away from me. &ldquo;That money was yours. I saved it

-      for you. It was for giving you a chance in the world. I ought to have

-      known that your uncle wasn&rsquo;t to be trusted&mdash;he&rsquo;s never been able to

-      earn a living by honest work. But there, I don&rsquo;t blame him as much as I

-      blame myself. I must have been mad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t we get anything back?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook his head. &ldquo;This fellow Rapson is a common swindler, from what I

-      can make out. He simply used your uncle. He may never have had any diamond

-      mines. If he had, they were worthless. He doesn&rsquo;t appear to have had any

-      capital except what he got by your uncle selling his shares. He paid his

-      one dividend last summer in order to tempt investors, and now he&rsquo;s

-      decamped. We shan&rsquo;t see a penny back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried to tell him that he needn&rsquo;t worry for my sake&mdash;I could work.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s why I sent for you. Of course your fees are

-      all paid for this term; but if you&rsquo;ve got to enter the commercial world,

-      the sooner the better. You&rsquo;ve come to an age when every day spent at

-      school is a day wasted, unless you&rsquo;re going to enter a profession. You

-      can&rsquo;t get a University education without money and, in any case, it&rsquo;s

-      worse than valueless unless you have the money to back it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t mind working,&rdquo; I assured him; &ldquo;I shall be glad to work.

-      P&rsquo;raps by starting early I&rsquo;ll be able to earn a lot of money and help you

-      one day, Dad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He frowned at my cheerfulness; he had finished with optimism forever. &ldquo;You

-      don&rsquo;t know what you&rsquo;re saying. Money isn&rsquo;t so easily earned. It took me

-      fifteen years of pinching and scraping to save two thousand pounds.&rdquo; Then,

-      conscious of ungraciousness, he added, &ldquo;But I like your spirit, Dante, and

-      it was good of you to say that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His fear of heroics and sentiment made him rise quickly and turn out the

-      lamp.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Best go to bed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I groped my way upstairs through the darkened house. There was something

-      unnatural about its darkness. Its silence was not the silence of a house

-      in which people were sleeping, but one in which they lay without rest

-      staring into the shadows. In my bedroom I felt it indecent to light the

-      gas. I sat by the window, looking out across gardens to our neighbors&rsquo;

-      illumined windows. Someone was playing a piano; it seemed disgustingly bad

-      taste on their part to do that when we had lost two thousand pounds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My thought veered round. What after all were two thousand pounds to be so

-      miserable about! I began to feel annoyed with my father that he should

-      have made such a fuss about it. I was sure that neither the Snow Lady nor

-      Ruthita had wanted to go to bed so early. Probably he didn&rsquo;t really want

-      to himself. He just got the idea into his head, and had forced it on the

-      family. In our house, until Mr. Rapson came along, it had always been like

-      that: he punished us, instead of the people who had hurt him, by the moods

-      that resulted from his disappointments. Why, if it was simply a matter of

-      my going to work, I rather liked the prospect. Anyhow, it was for the most

-      part my concern. And then I remembered how sad he had looked, and was

-      sorry that such thoughts had come into my head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A tap at my door made me jump up conscience-stricken. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only Ruthita,&rdquo;

-       a low voice said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She crept in noiselessly as a shadow. Her warm arms went about my neck,

-      drawing my face down to hers. &ldquo;Oh, Dannie, I&rsquo;m so, so sorry,&rdquo; she

-      whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What about?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I&rsquo;ve never missed welcoming you home ever since you went to

-      school, and you needed me most of all this evening&mdash;and because

-      you&rsquo;ve got to go to work.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter, Ruthie. If I go to work I&rsquo;ll earn money, and then

-      I&rsquo;ll be able to do things for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For me! Oh, you darling!&rdquo; Then she thought a minute and her face clouded.

-      &ldquo;But no, if you go to work you&rsquo;ll marry. That&rsquo;s what always happens.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stood gazing up at me, her face looking frailer and purer than ever in

-      the darkness. She had slipped on a long blue dressing-gown to come and see

-      me, and her long black hair hung loose about her. Just below the edge of

-      her gown her small pale feet showed out. Then I realized for the first

-      time that she had changed as I had changed; we were no longer children.

-      Perhaps the same wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring, had come to

-      her. For her also the walls of childhood, which had shut out the far

-      horizon, were crumbling. Then, with an overwhelming reverence, I became

-      aware of the strange fascination of her appealing beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She snuggled herself beside me in the window. We spoke beneath our breath

-      in the hushed voices of conspirators, lest we should be heard by my

-      father.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t sleep,&rdquo; she said apologetically. &ldquo;I was lonely, so I came to

-      you. Everything and everybody seem so sad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was your thoughts that were sad, Ruthie. What were you thinking

-      about?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She rubbed her cheek against mine shyly and I felt her tremble. &ldquo;I was

-      thinking about you. We&rsquo;re growing up, Dante. You may go away and forget&mdash;forget

-      all about me and the Snow Lady.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I denied stoutly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To which she replied, &ldquo;But people do.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Forget. And then I&rsquo;m not your sister really&mdash;only by pretense.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Look here,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you say that when boys earn money they marry. I

-      don&rsquo;t think I ever shall because&mdash;well, because of something that has

-      happened. So why shouldn&rsquo;t you and I agree to live always together, the

-      same as we do now?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She said that that would be grand; she would be a little mother to me. But

-      she wanted to know what made me so sure that I would always be a bachelor.

-      With the sincere absurdity of youth, the more absurd because of its

-      sincerity, I confided my passion for Fiesole. &ldquo;After what she has done,&rdquo; I

-      said, &ldquo;I could never marry her; and yet I love her too well ever to marry

-      anybody else. I can only love golden hair now, and the golden hair of

-      another girl would always remind me of Fiesole.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita was silent. Then I remembered that her hair was black and saw that

-      I had been clumsy in my sentiment, so I added, &ldquo;But, Ruthie, in a sister I

-      think black hair is the prettiest color in the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After she had tiptoed away to her room and I had crept into bed, I lay

-      awake thinking over her words&mdash;that she was only my sister by

-      pretense.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day my father called me to him. &ldquo;You had fifty pounds given you last

-      Christmas. I want you to let me have it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I supposed that he wanted me to lend it to him, so I gave him my book and

-      we went together to the savings bank and drew it out. I noticed that he

-      drew out Ruthita&rsquo;s fifty pounds as well. We climbed on to the top of an

-      omnibus; nothing was said about where we were going.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had bought a paper and I read it across his arm as we journeyed. As he

-      turned over from the first page my eye caught a column headed

-      DISAPPEARANCE OF GEORGE RAPSON. Underneath was a complete account of the

-      whole affair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle had been interviewed by a reporter and had given a generously

-      indiscreet history of the catastrophe from beginning to end. He tried to

-      defend Rapson, and by his own innocent disclosures pilloried himself as a

-      sanguine, gullible old ass. He insisted on believing in Rapson&rsquo;s

-      integrity. Things looked queer of course, but sooner or later there would

-      be an explanation, satisfactory to everybody. What the nature of that

-      explanation was likely to be he could not tell, but he hoped for the best.

-      He was reported as having said that Mr. Rapson had repeatedly referred to

-      secret enemies in the financial world. This was the reason he had given to

-      Mr. Spreckles for not disposing of his shares through the ordinary

-      channels.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Mr. Spreckles stated in his interview that, on the evening of the third of

-      January, Rapson had called at his house. He seemed excited and said that

-      certain plots were culminating against his interests which made an instant

-      and secret visit to South Africa essential. He had not hinted at anything

-      definitely serious, but, on the contrary, had given orders for the

-      declaration of the half-yearly dividend, payment of which would not fall

-      due till February. That evening he had disappeared; since then nothing had

-      been heard of him. When four weeks later Mr. Spreckles drew checks on

-      Rapson&rsquo;s bank-account for payment of the dividends, they were all returned

-      to him dishonored. A month previously, on the morning of January the

-      third, Rapson had withdrawn every penny.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All the names of the people who had lost money in the adventure were

-      appended. For the most part they were wealthy widows and spinsters, heavy

-      contributors to various philanthropies, just the kind of people who would

-      lack the business judgment which would have prevented them from entering

-      into such a gamble. My father&rsquo;s name was the exception, and was given

-      special attention, being headed <i>A Hard Case</i>. &ldquo;Mr. Cardover, having

-      endured in his early life the humiliations and struggles which not

-      infrequently fall to the lot of an ambitious penniless young man, had

-      determined that his son, Dante, should not suffer a like embittering

-      experience. To this end he had saved two thousand pounds to start his son

-      on a professional career. This boy was Mr. Spreckles&rsquo; favorite nephew. Mr.

-      Spreckles quotes the fact that it was he who induced Mr. Cardover to

-      invest this money in <i>The Ethiopian Diamond Mines</i> as proof of his

-      own honest belief in the value of the shares. The boy will probably now

-      have to be withdrawn from the Red House, where he is being educated. Was

-      it likely, Mr. Spreckles asked, that he would have been a party to the

-      ruin of those whom he loved best, if he had for a moment suspected that

-      the investment was not all that it was represented?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I had proceeded so far with my reading, when my father crushed the paper

-      viciously into a ball and tossed it over the side of the bus. For the

-      first time within my remembrance I heard him swear. He was so overcome

-      with irritation that he had to alight and walk it off. He kept throwing

-      out jerky odds and ends of exclamations, speaking partly to me, partly to

-      himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The bungling ass!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why did he need to drag our names into it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A regular windbag!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;First picks my pocket, then advertises my poverty. Thinks that he can

-      prove himself honest by doing that!&rdquo; I put in a feeble word for my uncle,

-      hinting that he didn&rsquo;t mean any harm and that it was easy to be wise after

-      the event.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the worst of people like your Uncle Spreckles,&rdquo; my father retorted

-      hotly; &ldquo;they never do mean any harm, and yet they&rsquo;re always getting into

-      interminable messes.&rdquo; The storm worked itself out; we climbed on to

-      another bus. At the end of an hour the streets became familiar, and I knew

-      that we were nearing Chelsea.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We got down within a stone&rsquo;s throw of my uncle&rsquo;s house. There it stood

-      overlooking the river, shut in with its wrought-iron palings, red and

-      comfortable, and outwardly prosperous as when we had parted on its steps,

-      promising to come again next Christmas if we weren&rsquo;t in Florence. But when

-      we attempted to enter, we had proof that its outward appearance was a

-      sham. The glory had departed, and with it had gone the white-capped

-      servants.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The door was opened to us on the chain. A slatternly kitchen-maid peered

-      out through the crack. She commenced to address us at once in a voice of

-      high-pitched, impudent defiance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wot yer want? Mr. Spreckles ain&rsquo;t &rsquo;ere, I tell yer. Yer the

-      fortieth party this mornin&rsquo; that&rsquo;s come nosin&rsquo; rawnd. D&rsquo;ye think I&rsquo;ve got

-      nothin&rsquo; ter do &rsquo;cept run up and darn stairs h&rsquo;answering bells? It&rsquo;s

-      a shime the waie yer all piles inter one man. I calls it disgustin&rsquo;. A

-      better master a girl never &rsquo;ad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I loved her for those words. They were the first that I had heard spoken

-      in my uncle&rsquo;s defense. She was uttering all the pent up anger and sense of

-      injustice that I had been too cowardly to express. Even on my father her

-      fierce working-class loyalty to the under-dog had its effect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My good girl,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;t talk to me like that. I&rsquo;m Mr.

-      Cardover, who was staying here last Christmas.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her manner changed audibly, literally audibly, at his tone of implied

-      sympathy. She boo-hooed unrestrainedly as she slipped back the chain,

-      permitting us to enter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I begs yer pardon, Mr. Cardover,&rdquo; she sniveled, dusting her eyes with her

-      dirty apron. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m kind o&rsquo; unnerved. My poor dear master&rsquo;s got so many

-      h&rsquo;enemies nar; I didn&rsquo;t rekernize yer as &rsquo;is friend. Yer see, the

-      moment this &rsquo;ere &rsquo;appened all the other servants left like a

-      pack o&rsquo; rats. They didn&rsquo;t love &rsquo;im the waie I did; I come along wiv

-      &rsquo;im from the boardin&rsquo; &rsquo;arse. This mornin&rsquo; &rsquo;e gives me

-      notice, &rsquo;e did. &lsquo;Car&rsquo;line, I carn&rsquo;t pay yer no more wyges,&rsquo; &rsquo;e

-      says. &lsquo;Gawd bless yer,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;an&rsquo; if yer carn&rsquo;t, wot does that matter?

-      I ain&rsquo;t one of yer &rsquo;igh and mighty, lawdy-dah hussies that I should

-      desert yer.&rsquo; Oh, Mr. Cardover, it&rsquo;s a shime the loife they&rsquo;re leadin&rsquo; the

-      poor man. But there, if they sends &rsquo;im to prison, I&rsquo;ll never agen

-      put me nose h&rsquo;insoide a church nor say no prayers. I&rsquo;ll just believe there

-      ain&rsquo;t no Gawd in the world. The landlord, &rsquo;e&rsquo;s in there h&rsquo;at

-      present wiv&rsquo;im, a-naggin&rsquo; at &rsquo;im. I was listenin&rsquo; at the key&rsquo;ole

-      when yer rang the bell. But there, I&rsquo;m keepin&rsquo; yer witin&rsquo;! Won&rsquo;t yer step

-      into the drarin&rsquo; room till &rsquo;e&rsquo;s by &rsquo;imself? H&rsquo;excuse me

-      dirty &rsquo;ands. I &rsquo;as to do h&rsquo;everythin&rsquo; for &rsquo;im&mdash;there&rsquo;s

-      only me and the master; even the Missis &rsquo;as left.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As she was closing the door behind her, my father called after her, &ldquo;Mrs.

-      Spreckles left! That&rsquo;s astounding. Why has she done that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The tousled hair and red eyes re-appeared for a second. &ldquo;Gorn back to

-      start up the bo-ordin&rsquo; &rsquo;arse,&rdquo; she stammered with a sob.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How different the room looked from when we were last in it! The cushions

-      on the sofa were awry. The windows winked at you wickedly, one blind

-      lowered and the other up. It had the bewildered, disheveled swaggerness of

-      a last night&rsquo;s reveler betrayed by the sunrise.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Since Caroline had spoken my mind out for me, I felt awkward alone with my

-      father. I was afraid of what he might say presently.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I picked up a small, handsomely bound volume from the table while we were

-      waiting. I began turning the pages, and found that it was a collected

-      edition of tracts, written by my uncle and ostensibly addressed to young

-      men. They had been a kind of stealthy advertisement of The Christian

-      Boarding-House, calculated to make maiden aunts, into whose hands they

-      fell, sit up and feel immediately that the author was the very person for

-      influencing the morals of their giddy nephews. Through the persuasive

-      saintliness expressed in these tracts Uncle Obad had procured many of his

-      paying-guests. My eye was arrested by the title of one of them, THE

-      DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES. I read, &ldquo;One of our greatest poets has written of

-      finding love in huts where poor men lie. Oh, that young men might be

-      brought to ponder the truth contained in those words! What is more

-      difficult to obtain than love in the whole world? Can riches buy love?

-      Nay, but on the contrary love and wealth are rarely found together. Many a

-      powerful financier and belted earl would give all that he has in exchange

-      for love. Young men, when you come to die, which of all your possessions

-      can you carry with you to an after-world? Then, at least, you will learn

-      the deceitfulness of riches. You thought you had everything; too late you

-      know that you had nothing. Even in this life some men live to learn that

-      gold is but a phantom&mdash;a vampire phantom destroying friendship.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I had got so far when footsteps and voices, loud in contention, sounded in

-      the hall. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got to be out of here in a fortnight, d&rsquo;yer understand?

-      You&rsquo;re letting down my property the longer you stay here. You&rsquo;re giving my

-      house a bad name. The address is in all the papers; people are already

-      pointing it out. I won&rsquo;t stand it. That&rsquo;s my last word.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The front door slammed. I heard the chain being put up. The handle of the

-      drawing-room door turned hesitatingly and my uncle entered. He still wore

-      the clothes of affluence, and yet the impression he made was one of

-      shabbiness. He seemed to have shrunk. His jolly John Bull confidence had

-      vanished and had been replaced by the hurried, appeasing manner of a

-      solicitor of charity. He avoided our eyes and commenced talking at once,

-      presumably to prevent my father from talking. He did not offer to shake

-      hands. &ldquo;Well, Cardover, this is good of you. I hardly expected it. And, &rsquo;pon

-      my word, there&rsquo;s Dante. I&rsquo;ve been having a worried time of it. I&rsquo;m a badly

-      misunderstood man. But there, adversity has one advantage: it teaches us

-      who <i>are</i> our friends. When the little storm has blown over I shall

-      know who to drop from my acquaintance. This sudden departure of Rapson has

-      had a very unfortunate effect&mdash;most unfortunate. I expect a letter

-      from him by every mail; then I&rsquo;ll be able to explain matters. A good

-      fellow, Rapson. A capital fellow. As straight as they make &rsquo;em. One

-      of the best. Still, I wish he&rsquo;d told me more of his movements; for the

-      moment affairs are a trifle awkward, I must confess.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and sank down on the sofa

-      with the air of one who, being among pleasant companions, brushes aside

-      unpleasant topics. &ldquo;Well, how&rsquo;s Dante?&rdquo; he asked, turning to me, &ldquo;and

-      how&rsquo;s the Red House?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I didn&rsquo;t know how to answer. The question seemed so inappropriate and

-      irrelevant. All the kindness which lay between us made such conversation a

-      cruel farce. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was, and yet I daren&rsquo;t in my

-      father&rsquo;s presence. I realized that such cheeriness on my uncle&rsquo;s part was

-      an insult, and yet I understood its motive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father&rsquo;s face had hardened. He had expected some apology, some sign of

-      humility, or at least some direct appeal to his sympathy. If any of these

-      things had happened after what Caroline had said, I believe he would have

-      responded. But this insincere praise of the archculprit and ostrich-like

-      refusal to face facts simply angered him. He rose to his feet with the

-      restrained impatience of a just man; the drawn sternness of his mouth was

-      terrible. His voice had a steely coldness that pierced through all

-      pretenses.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Stop this nonsense, Obad,&rdquo; he said sharply. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you realize that

-      you&rsquo;ve ruined me? Won&rsquo;t you ever play the man? You know very well that

-      Rapson will never come back, unless the police bring him. You&rsquo;ve been the

-      tool of a conspiracy to swindle the public; it was your religious standing

-      that made the swindle possible. No one&rsquo;s called you a thief as yet, but

-      that&rsquo;s what everyone&rsquo;s thinking. I know you&rsquo;re not a thief, but you&rsquo;ve

-      been guilty of the grossest negligence. Can&rsquo;t you bring home to yourself

-      the disgrace of that? You&rsquo;ve always been a shirker of responsibility. For

-      years you&rsquo;ve let your wife do all the work. And now, when through your

-      silly optimism you&rsquo;ve brought dishonor on the family, you still persist in

-      hiding behind shams. I tell you, Obad, you&rsquo;re a coward; you&rsquo;re trying to

-      evade the moral consequences of your actions. If you can&rsquo;t feel shame now,

-      you must be utterly worthless. Your attitude is an offense against every

-      right-thinking man. I didn&rsquo;t set out this morning with the intention of

-      speaking to you like this. But your present conduct and that idiotic

-      interview in the newspapers have made me alter my mind about you. To many

-      men they would prove you nearly as big a rascal as Rapson.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle had sat with his body crouched forward, his knees apart, his

-      hands knitted together, and his eyes fixed on the carpet while my father

-      had been talking. Now that there was silence he did not stir. I watched

-      the bald spot on his head, how the yellow skin crinkled and went tight

-      again as he bunched up and relaxed his brows. He looked so kindly and yet

-      so ineffectual. My father had flayed him naked with his words. He had

-      accused him of not being a man; but that was why I loved him. It was his

-      unworldliness that had made it possible for him to penetrate so far into a

-      child&rsquo;s world. Caroline snuffled on the other side of the keyhole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle pulled apart his hands and raised his head. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve said some

-      harsh things, Cardover. You&rsquo;ve reminded me about Lavinia; I didn&rsquo;t need to

-      be told that. I may be a fool, but I&rsquo;m not a scoundrel. I can only say

-      that I&rsquo;m sorry for what&rsquo;s happened. I was well-meaning; I did it for the

-      best. Is there anything else you want to tell me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s just this.&rdquo; My father handed him an envelope. &ldquo;It may help you to

-      do the right thing in paying the investors a little of what&rsquo;s left. Of

-      course you&rsquo;ll have to sell off everything and pay them as much as you can.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what is this you&rsquo;ve given me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The hundred pounds you gave to Dante and Ruthita at Christmas.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He flushed crimson; then the blood drained away from his hands and face,

-      leaving them ashy gray. His lip trembled, so that I feared terribly he was

-      going to cry with the bitterness of his humiliation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But&mdash;but it was a gift to them. I didn&rsquo;t expect this. Won&rsquo;t you let

-      them keep it? I should like them to keep it. It&rsquo;ll make so little

-      difference to the whole amount.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Obad, when will you appreciate the fact that everything you have

-      given away or have, is the result of another man&rsquo;s theft?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My uncle glanced round the room furtively, taking in the meaning of those

-      words. It had been my father&rsquo;s purpose to make him ashamed; that was amply

-      accomplished now. He huddled back into the sofa, a broken man. He had been

-      stabbed through his affections into a knowledge of reality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My father beckoned to me and turned. I stretched out my hand and touched

-      my uncle. He took no notice. The sunlight streamed in on the creased bald

-      head, the dust, and the forfeited splendor. Reluctantly I tiptoed out and

-      was met in the hall by the hot indignant eyes of Caroline, accusing me of

-      treachery across the banisters.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER X&mdash;THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n after years it

-      became a habit with my father to say grimly that Uncle Obad&rsquo;s Christmas

-      dinner was the most expensive he had ever eaten&mdash;it had cost him two

-      thousand pounds. This was the only reference to the unfortunate past that

-      he permitted himself. On calm reflection I think he was a little sorry for

-      the caustic frankness of some of his remarks; he was willing to forget

-      them. Besides, as it happened, one of my uncle&rsquo;s least forgivable offenses&mdash;the

-      mentioning of our names to the newspaper men&mdash;resulted in an

-      extraordinary stroke of luck.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A week after our visit to Chelsea, my father received a letter. It was

-      from a firm of lawyers and stated that a friend, who had read of our loss,

-      was anxious to provide the money for my education; the only condition made

-      was that he should be allowed to remain anonymous.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At first my father flatly refused to put himself under such an obligation

-      to an unknown person. &ldquo;One would think that we were paupers,&rdquo; he said;

-      &ldquo;such an offer may be kindly meant, but it&rsquo;s insulting.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was so sensitive on the subject that we none of us dared to argue the

-      matter. We considered the affair as closed, and began to consider what

-      walk of business I should enter. Then we discovered that my father had

-      gone off on the quiet and interviewed the lawyers; as a consequence, a

-      second and more pressing letter arrived, stating that the anonymous

-      benefactor would be gravely disappointed if we did not accept. He was

-      childless and had often wished to do something for me. My father&rsquo;s

-      misfortune was his opportunity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our curiosity was piqued. Who of our friends or acquaintance was

-      childless? We ran over the names of all possible benefactors&mdash;a task

-      not difficult, for we had few friends.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The name of my mother&rsquo;s father, Sir Charles Evrard, was suggested. He

-      fitted the description exactly; the long estrangement which had resulted

-      from my father&rsquo;s elopement supplied the motive for his desire to suppress

-      his personality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Out of this guess Ruthita wove for me a romantic future, opening to my

-      astonished imagination a career more congenial than any I had dreamt in my

-      boldest moments. Up to this time, save for whispered hints from my

-      grandmother Cardover, no mention had been made of my mother&rsquo;s family. My

-      father&rsquo;s plebeian pride had never recovered from the shock and humiliation

-      of his early years. At first out of jealous purpose, latterly from force

-      of habit and the delicacy which men feel after re-marriage, he had allowed

-      me to grow up in almost entire ignorance of my maternal traditions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now that the subject had to be discussed he became obstinately silent to

-      the point of sullenness. The Snow Lady came to the rescue. &ldquo;Leave him to

-      me,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I know how to manage him, my dear.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laid it tactfully before him that he had no right to let his personal

-      likes or dislikes prevent me from climbing back into my mother&rsquo;s rank in

-      society. I was my grandfather&rsquo;s nearest kin and, if our surmise proved

-      correct, this might be Sir Charles&rsquo;s first step towards a reconciliation&mdash;a

-      step which might end in his making his will in my favor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover was communicated with and instructed to report on the

-      lie of the country. She replied that folks said that old Sir Charles was

-      wonderfully softened. She also informed us that Lord Halloway, the next of

-      kin to myself, had been up to some more of his devilry and was in disgrace

-      with his uncle. This time it was to do with a Ransby bathing-machine man&rsquo;s

-      daughter. Lord Halloway was my second-cousin, the Earl of Lovegrove&rsquo;s son

-      and heir. His Christian name was Denville; I came to know him less

-      formally in later days as Denny Halloway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was packed off to my grandmother, ostensibly for a week&rsquo;s holiday at

-      Ransby&mdash;in reality to put our hazard to the test.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ransby to-day is a little sleepy seaside town. The trade has gone away

-      from it. Every summer thousands of holiday-makers from London invade it

-      with foreign, feverish gaiety; when they are gone it relapses into its

-      contented old-world quiet. In my boyhood, however, it was a place of

-      provincial bustle and importance. The sailing vessels from the Baltic

-      crowded its harbor, lying shoulder to shoulder against its quays,

-      unloading their cargoes of tallow and timber and hemp. Now all that

-      remains is the herring fishery and the manufacture of nets.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover&rsquo;s house stood near the harbor; from the street we

-      could see the bare masts of the shipping lying at rest. In the front on

-      the ground-floor was the shop, piled high with the necessaries of

-      sea-going travel. There were coils of rope in the doorway, and anchors and

-      sacks of ship&rsquo;s biscuits; a little further in tarpaulin and oil-skin

-      jackets hung from the ceiling, interspersed with smoked hams; and, at the

-      back, stood rows of cheeses and upturned barrels on which ear-ringed

-      sailor-men would sit and chat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Behind the counter was a door, with windows draped with red curtains. It

-      led into what was called the keeping-room, a cozy parlor in which we took

-      our meals, while through the window in the door we could watch the

-      customers enter. The keeping-room had its own peculiar smell, comfortable

-      and homelike. I scarcely know how to describe it; it was a mixture of

-      ozone, coffee, and baking bread. Out of the keeping-room lay the kitchen,

-      with its floor of red bricks and its burnished pots and pans hung in rows

-      along the walls. It was my grandmother&rsquo;s boast that the floor was so

-      speckless that you could eat a meal off it. Across the courtyard at the

-      back lay the bakehouse, with its great hollow ovens and troughs in which

-      men with naked feet trod out the dough.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother had never been out of Ransby save to visit us at Pope Lane,

-      and this rarely. Even then, after a fortnight she was glad to get back.

-      She said that Ransby was better than London; you weren&rsquo;t crowded and knew

-      everyone you met. The streets of London were filled with stranger-windows

-      and stranger-faces, whereas in Ransby every house was familiar and had its

-      story.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She carried, strung from a belt about her waist, all the keys of her bins

-      and cupboards. You knew when she was coming by the way they jangled. She

-      was a widow, and perfectly happy. On Sundays she attended the Methodist

-      Chapel in the High Street, with its grave black pulpit and high-backed

-      pews. On week-days she marshaled her sea-captains, handsome bearded men,

-      and entertained them at her table. In spite of younger rivals, who tried

-      to win their patronage from her by cuts in prices, she held their custom

-      by her honest personality. I believe many of them made her offers of

-      marriage, for she was still comely to look at; she refused them as lovers

-      and kept them as friends. She usually dressed in black, with a gold locket

-      containing the hair of her husband, many years dead, hung about her neck.

-      Her hair was arranged in two rows of corkscrew curls, which reached down

-      to her shoulders from under a prim white cap. She had a trick of making

-      them waggle when she wished to be emphatic. She was a good deal of a

-      gossip, was by instinct an antiquary, and had a lively sense of wit which

-      was kept in check by a genuine piety&mdash;in short, she was a thoroughly

-      wholesome, capable, loving woman. The type to which she belonged is now

-      quickly vanishing&mdash;that of the more than middle-aged person who knows

-      how to grow old usefully and graciously: a woman of the lower-middle class

-      not chagrined by her station, who acknowledged cheerfully that she had her

-      superiors and, demanding respect from others, gave respect ungrudgingly

-      where it was due. She was a shop-keeper proud of her shop-keeping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That week at Ransby was a kind of tiptoe glory. My Grannie took me very

-      seriously; she had under her roof a boy who would surely be a baronet,

-      perhaps a lord, and maybe an earl. What had only been an expectation with

-      us was for her a certainty. The floodgate of her reminiscence was opened

-      wide; she swept me far out into the romantic past with her accounts of my

-      mother&rsquo;s ancestry. The Evrards were no upstart nobility; they had their

-      roots in history. She could tell me how they returned from exile with King

-      Charles, or how they sailed out with Raleigh to destroy the Armada. But I

-      liked to hear best about my mother, how she rode into Ransby under her

-      scarlet plumes, on her great gray horse, with her flower face; and how my

-      father caught sight of her and loved her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to understand my father in a new way, entirely sympathetic. He was

-      a man who had tasted the best of life at the first. There was something

-      epic about his sorrow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These conversations usually took place in the keeping-room at night. The

-      shutters of the shop had been put up. The gas was unlighted. The flames of

-      the fire, dancing in the grate, split the darkness into shadows which

-      groped across the walls. Everything was hushed and cozy. My Grannie,

-      seated opposite to me, on the other side of the fireplace, would bend

-      forward in her chair as she talked; when she came to exciting passages her

-      little gray curls would bob, or to passages of sentiment she would remove

-      her shiny spectacles to wipe her eyes. If she stopped at a loss for the

-      next topic, all I had to say was, &ldquo;And how did Sir Charles Evrard look,

-      Grannie, when he came to you that first morning after they had run away?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He looked, as he has always looked, my dear, an aristocrat.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how did he treat you? Wasn&rsquo;t he angry?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Angry with a woman! Certainly not. He treated me like a courtly gentleman&mdash;with

-      respect. He dismounts and comes into my shop as leisurely as though he had

-      only stepped in to exchange the greetings of the day. He raises his hat to

-      me as he enters. &lsquo;A fine day, Mrs. Cardover,&rsquo; he says.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;&lsquo;A fine day, Sir Charles, but inclined to blow up squally,&rsquo; says I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then he turns his face away and inquires, &lsquo;If it&rsquo;s not troubling you, can

-      I see your son this morning?&rsquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;&lsquo;He went to London early,&rsquo; says I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He puts his hand to his throat quickly, as if he were choking. Then he

-      asks huskily, still not looking at me, &lsquo;Did he go alone?&rsquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;&lsquo;That, Sir Charles, is more than I can say.&rsquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;&lsquo;Quite right. Quite right.&rsquo; And he speaks so quickly that he startles me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then he turns round, trying to smile, and shows me a face all old and

-      pale. &lsquo;A very fine day for someone; but it&rsquo;s true what you say, it&rsquo;ll blow

-      up squally later.&rsquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And with that he leaves me, raising his hat, and rides away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you knew all the time?&rdquo; I ask.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We both knew all the time,&rdquo; she replies.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      During the daytime we went through the flat wind-swept country on

-      excursions to Woadley Hall. Our hope was that we might meet Sir Charles,

-      and that he would recognize me. Unfortunately, on the afternoon of my

-      arrival he had a hunting accident, and kept the house during all the

-      period of my stay. My nearest approach to seeing him was one evening, when

-      the winter dusk had gathered early; I hid in the shrubbery outside the

-      library and saw his shadow fall across the blind. He seemed to stand near

-      the window listening. We were not more than two yards separated. I wonder,

-      did some instinct, subtler than the five senses, let him know of the

-      starved yearning that was calling to him out there in the dark? How those

-      long watches in Woadley Park stirred up memories, and made my mother live

-      again!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the week had expired, I returned to Pope Lane. The offer was

-      re-debated and at last accepted. I went back to the Red House and there

-      learnt the fickleness of popularity. My uncle&rsquo;s downfall had caused me to

-      become a far less exalted person. My influence was gone; a period of

-      persecution threatened. The Bantam alone stood by me; even in his eyes I

-      was a Samson shorn of his glory. The renewed, half-shy interest taken in

-      me by the Creature was a doubtful asset. Our friendship was a coalition of

-      two weaknesses, and resulted in nothing profitable in the way of social

-      strength. He did his best to make things up to me. He was almost womanly

-      in his kindness. Now that Lady Zion was gone he felt a great emptiness in

-      life; he borrowed me that, in some measure, I might fill her place. He

-      told Sneard that he wished to coach me that I might sit for a scholarship

-      at Oxford. Permission was granted, so we both got off prep.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Evening after evening I would spend at his cottage, the lamp lighted and

-      the books spread out on the table. He decided that I was not much good at

-      natural science, and declared that I must specialize in history. He was a

-      genius in his way, and had amazing stores of information. When he overcame

-      his hesitating shyness, he showed himself a scholar of erudite knowledge

-      and intrepid imagination. He had a passion for antiquity that amounted to

-      idolatry, and a faculty which was almost uncanny for making the dead world

-      live again. While he spoke I would forget his shabbiness, his

-      chalk-stained hands, uncouth gestures, and revolting untidiness. He was a

-      magician who unlocked the doors of the storied past; he owned the

-      right-of-way through all men&rsquo;s minds, from Homer to Herbert Spencer. When

-      he spoke of soldiers, his air was bullying and defiant. But it was when he

-      spoke of women that he spoke with his heart. Then, all unaware of what he

-      was doing, he pulled aside the curtains and let me gaze in upon the empty

-      rooms of his life. It was he who pointed out to me that, with rare

-      exceptions, it is not the virtuous but only the beautiful women that the

-      world remembers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was odd to think what images of loveliness went to and fro behind that

-      soiled mask of outward personality, in the hidden temples of his brain.

-      The Creature was a man you had to love or dislike, to know altogether or

-      not to know at all. In that last year and a half at the Red House, when he

-      tapped me on the shoulder and led me away by the revelation of his curious

-      secret charm, I got both to know and to love him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And yet there was always fear in my friendship. He was queer like his

-      sister before him. Her death seemed to have unbalanced his reason; it was

-      a weakness that grew upon him. He seemed to have lost his power of

-      distinguishing between the present and the imaginary or the past. Often in

-      the cottage he would forget that his sister was not still alive and,

-      rising from the table, would look beyond me as if he saw her, or would go

-      out into the passage and call to her. Nothing in the cottage had been

-      changed since her departure. Her belongings lay untouched, just where she

-      had left them, as though her return was hourly expected.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He fell into the way of imitating her gestures, and humming snatches of

-      her crazy songs. He would tumble over the precipice into the abyss of

-      insanity without warning, in the middle of being rational; and would

-      clamber back just as suddenly, apparently without knowledge of where he

-      had gone. Of one of her songs he was extremely fond. I had often heard

-      Lady Zion sing it as she rode between the hedges, and had been made aware

-      of her approach long before I caught sight of her:&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      &ldquo;All the chimneys in our town

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Wake from death when the cold comes down;

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Through the summer against the sky

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Tall, and silent, and stark they lie&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      But every chimney in our town

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Starts to breathe when the cold comes down.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Some safe-guarding astuteness prevented him from showing his weakness at

-      the Red House; and I was too fond of him to tell. To the rest of the boys

-      he was only the grubby, somewhat eccentric little &ldquo;stinks&rdquo; master.

-      Nevertheless, sane or insane, it was through the Creature&rsquo;s efforts that,

-      after a year of coaching, I won a history scholarship at Lazarus for

-      eighty pounds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Still, eighty pounds would not carry me to Oxford. It became a worrying

-      problem to my family exactly what my grandfather, if he were my

-      benefactor, had meant by &ldquo;undertaking the expenses of my education.&rdquo; His

-      generosity might be co-terminous with my school-days. A month after the

-      winning of the scholarship the lawyers wrote, setting our minds at rest

-      and congratulating me on my success in the name of their client. This

-      letter was gratifying in more than a monetary sense&mdash;it was a sign

-      that the anonymous friend was keeping a close watch on my doings.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Since the interview at Chelsea there had been no intercourse between my

-      father and Uncle Obad. I had once contrived to see my uncle by stealth,

-      but the first question he had asked me was, did I come with my father&rsquo;s

-      knowledge. When I could not give him that assurance, he had sorrowfully

-      refused to have anything to do with me. At the time I shrank from

-      mentioning the matter to my father; so for a year and a half my uncle and

-      his doings had dropped completely out of my life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But my treatment of him weighed on my conscience. My last term at school

-      had ended. It was August, and in October I expected to go up to Oxford.

-      With my scholarship and the money the lawyers sent me I should soon be a

-      self-supporting person. Already I thought myself a man. I felt that on the

-      whole my father&rsquo;s quarrel with my uncle was reasonable, but I could not

-      see why I should be made to share it. So one day as I got up from

-      breakfast, I mentioned casually that I was going to run over to Charity

-      Grove.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was just such another golden morning as the one of ten years earlier,

-      when I had driven for the first time across London behind Dollie. What a

-      big important person the Spuffler had seemed to me then! How wonderful

-      that he, a grown-up, should take so much trouble to be friendly to a

-      little chap! Then my mind wandered back over all his repeated kindness&mdash;all

-      that he had stood for in the past as a harbor of refuge from the stormy

-      misunderstandings of childhood. He and the Creature, both failures and

-      generally despised, were two of the best men that I had ever met. Whatever

-      his faults, he still was splendid.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I came to the Christian Boarding House, and passed up the driveway shut in

-      with heavy evergreens. Caroline, tousled of hair, all loose ends, girt

-      about her middle with a sackcloth apron, was on her knees bricking the

-      steps. She did not recognize me. The Mistress was out shopping, she said,

-      but the Master was in the paddock. &ldquo;Ah, yes,&rdquo; I thought, &ldquo;feeding the

-      fowls.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I passed through the decayed old rooms, with their heavy shabby furniture,

-      so evidently picked up cheap at auctions; then I passed out through the

-      French windows into the cool garden, where sunshine dappled the lawn,

-      struggling with difficulty through the crowded branches. At the gate into

-      the paddock I halted. There he was with a can of water in his hand,

-      fussing, in and out his coops and hutches, so extremely busy, as though

-      the future of the world depended on his efforts. I suppose he was still

-      evolving that strain of perpetually laying hens, The Spreckles, which was

-      to bring him fame and fortune.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I called to him, &ldquo;Uncle Obad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When he had recovered from his emotion, I soon found that the old fellow

-      had long ago emerged from all personal sense of disgrace with his usual

-      corklike irrepressibility. He chatted with me cheerily, calling me, &ldquo;Old

-      chap,&rdquo; just as though nothing painful had happened to separate us. On

-      being ousted from Chelsea, he had immediately dropped back, with something

-      like a sigh of relief, into his former world of momentous trifles&mdash;philanthropy

-      and fowls. &ldquo;We lived at a terrible pace, old chap. It was wearing us out.

-      We couldn&rsquo;t have stood it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He spoke as if the abdication of his brief period of affluence had been

-      voluntary. I scented here one of his spuffling explanations to his

-      neighbors for his precipitate return to the boarding-house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On inquiry I found that all his philanthropic societies had forgiven and

-      taken him back. After sulking a while and flirting with various paid

-      secretaries, they had agreed for economy&rsquo;s sake to let bygones be bygones.

-      They had been unable to find any other person who would serve them as

-      loyally without salary, and who at the same time was able to offer up such

-      beautiful extempore prayers. The list of their contributors had afforded

-      Rapson his happiest hunting-ground. Procuring my uncle&rsquo;s services for

-      nothing was their only way of getting anything back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what about Rapson?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Do you still believe in him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook his head dolefully. &ldquo;I begin to lose faith, Dante; I begin to

-      doubt.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But have you heard from him since he went away?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never a word.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He hesitated and then he said, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Kitty, you know. He didn&rsquo;t do the

-      straight thing by her. No, I&rsquo;m afraid Rapson wasn&rsquo;t a good man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At mention of Kitty I pricked up my ears; I had often wondered about her.

-      &ldquo;What had Kitty to do with him?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Were they engaged?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, unfortunately.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In love?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish they had been. After he&rsquo;d left her, she was awfully cut up. I did

-      what I could for her. You remember that hundred pounds?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My father&mdash;at Chelsea&mdash;the Christmas present?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. I couldn&rsquo;t keep it. I gave it to her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You always have to be giving something,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We were sitting on an upturned barrow in the paddock when this

-      conversation took place. I thought how characteristic of Uncle Obad that

-      was&mdash;to be helping others at a time when he himself was most in need

-      of help. But his kindness knew no seasons. Then I began, as a very young

-      man will, to think of Kitty, and, because of her frailty, to picture her

-      through a haze of romance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;s Kitty now?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s in a photographer&rsquo;s at Oxford. She serves behind a counter. But,

-      come, you&rsquo;ve not told me yet what you think of my fowls.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XI&mdash;STAR-DUST DAYS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he walls of the

-      garden had fallen. Childhood was ended and with it all those absurd,

-      aching fears lest I should never be a man and lest time might be a

-      stationary, unescapable present, with no trap-doors giving access to the

-      future. The experiment of life had begun in earnest, and the adventure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That first October night of my residence at Oxford is forever memorable.

-      Before leaving Pope Lane I had been led aside by my father. He had taken

-      it for granted that I was now capable of a man&rsquo;s follies and had warned me

-      against them. Somehow his assumption that I had it in my choice to become

-      a Don Juan warmed my heart; it impressed me as a tribute to my manhood&mdash;a

-      tacit acknowledgment that I was a free agent. Free at last!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not understand one-tenth part of all that he hinted at. But his

-      presumption that I did understand seemed to me a form of compliment. To

-      ask for an explanation was a heroism of which I was not capable. So I left

-      home clad in the armor of ignorance to do battle with the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita wanted to accompany me to the station. I would not let her. She

-      was weepy in private; I knew that in public she would be worse. I had

-      inherited my father&rsquo;s dread of sentiment and his fear lest other people

-      should construe it as weakness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At Paddington I met the Bantam; we were entering the same college and

-      traveled up together. We chose our places in a &ldquo;smoker&rdquo; by way of

-      emphasizing to ourselves our emancipation. We tried to appear ordinary and

-      at ease; beneath our mask of carelessness we felt delightfully bold and

-      bad. In our carriage were three undergraduates, finished products of

-      indifferent haughtiness. Though no more than a year our seniors, they

-      loaded their pipes and puffed away without fear or furtiveness. They

-      affected to be unaware of us. They were infinitely bored in manner and

-      addressed the porters in a tone of lackadaisical, frigid tolerance. What

-      masterfulness! And yet one term of Oxford would give us the right to be

-      like that!&mdash;we, who so recently had been liable to be told that

-      children must be seen and not heard. The assurance of these youthful men

-      imperiled our courage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As we neared Iffley, the domes and spires of the Mecca of dreamers swam

-      up. The sky was pearl-colored without a cloud. Strewn throughout its great

-      emptiness was the luminous dust of stars. All the tinsel ambitions which

-      had lately stirred me were forgotten as the home of lost causes claimed

-      me. I grew large within myself as, in watching its advance behind the

-      river above the tree-tops, I merged my personality in this vision of

-      architectural romance. Leaning against the horizon, stretching up and up,

-      out of the murk of dusk and the blood-red decay of foliage, it symbolized

-      for me all the yearning after perfection and the passionate desire for

-      freedom that had always lain hidden in my heart. I wanted to be like that&mdash;the

-      thing that gray pyramided stone seen at twilight can alone express&mdash;wise,

-      unimpassioned, lovely, immutable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came to a standstill in the shabby station, which of all stations is

-      probably the best beloved.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thank the Lord, we&rsquo;re here at last.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In a hansom, with a sporting cabby for our driver, we rattled through the

-      ancient lamp-lit town where the ghosts of the dead summer rustled and

-      reddened against the walls. Past the Castle we sped, through Carfax, down

-      the High, past Oriel and Christ Church till we drew up with a jerk at

-      Lazarus. Whatever we had suffered in the train in the way of lowered

-      opinion of self was now made up to us; the servility of the College porter

-      and scouts was eloquent of respect. We were undoubtedly persons of

-      importance. If we wanted further proof of it, this awaited us in the pile

-      of communications from Oxford tradesmen, notified beforehand of our

-      coming, humbly soliciting our patronage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Bantam&rsquo;s room and mine were next door to one another in Augustine&rsquo;s

-      Quad; fires were burning in the grates to bid us welcome. The scout, who

-      acted as guide, seized the opportunity to sell us each a second-hand tin

-      bath, a coal-scuttle, and a kettle at very much more than their first-hand

-      prices. We felt no resentment. His deferential manner was worth the extra.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Just as we had commenced unpacking, the bell began to toll. We slipped on

-      our gowns and followed the throng into a vaulted, dimly-lighted hall,

-      where we dined at long tables off ancient silver, and had beer set before

-      us. Surely we were men!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night the Bantam and I sat far into the small, cold hours of the

-      morning; there was no one to worry us to go to bed. When the Bantam had

-      left, I lay awake in a state of bewildered ecstasy. I had become aware in

-      the last ten hours of my unchartered personality. I realized that my life

-      was my own to command, to make or mar. As the bells above the sleeping

-      city rang out time&rsquo;s progress, all the pageant of the lads of other ages,

-      who had come up to Oxford star-eyed, as I had come, passed before me. When

-      the withered leaves tapped against the walls, I could fancy that it was

-      their footfall. They had come with a chance equal to mine; at the end of a

-      few years they had departed. Some had succeeded and some had failed. Of

-      all that great army which now stretched bivouacked throughout eternity,

-      only the latest recruits were in sight. The scholar-monks, the

-      soldier-saints, the ruffian-students of early centuries, the cavaliers,

-      the philosophers, and the statesmen, together with the roisterers of the

-      rank and file, were all equally and completely gone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the silence of my narrow room, with the flickering fire dying in the

-      hearth, there brooded over me the shadowy darkness of the ages. What

-      religion does for some men, for me the gray poetry of this poignant city

-      accomplished. I had become aware that from henceforth the ultimate

-      responsibility for my actions must rest forever with myself. I was

-      strangely unafraid of this knowledge.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They were dim dawn-days that followed, when the air was filled with

-      star-dust&mdash;neither with suns, nor moons, nor stars, only with the

-      excitement of their promise. My world was at twilight, blurred and

-      mysterious; only the huge design was clearly discernible&mdash;the cracks

-      and imperfections were concealed from me, shrouded in dusk. I lived in a

-      land of ideals, drawing my rules of conduct from the realism of the

-      classics&mdash;a realism which even to the Greeks and Romans was only an

-      aspiration, never a practice. Existence had for me all the piquant

-      fascination which comes of half-knowledge&mdash;the charming allurement,

-      leaving room for speculation, which the glimpse of a girl&rsquo;s face has at

-      nightfall. It was an age when all things seemed possible, because all were

-      untested.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Gradually, out of the wilderness of strange faces, some became more

-      familiar than others; little groups of friends began to form. The

-      instinctive principle on which my set came together was enthusiastic

-      rebellion against convention and eager curiosity concerning existence. One

-      by one, without appointing any place of meeting, we would drift into some

-      man&rsquo;s room. This usually occurred about eight in the evening, after dinner

-      in hall. The lamp would be left unlighted; the couch would be drawn near

-      the fire; then we would commence a conversation which was half jesting and

-      half confessional.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Under the cloak of laughing cynicism we hid a desperate purpose. We wanted

-      to know about life. We sought in each new face to discover if it could

-      tell us. We had nothing to guide us but the carefully prepared disclosures

-      which had been vouchsafed us in our homes. We had risen at a bound into a

-      man&rsquo;s estate, and still retained a boy&rsquo;s knowledge. We realized that life

-      was bigger, bolder, more adventurous, more disastrous than we had

-      reckoned. Why was it that some men failed, while others had success? What

-      external pressures caused the difference in achievement between Napoleon,

-      for instance, and Charles Lamb? Who was responsible for our varying

-      personalities? Where did our own responsibility begin, and where did it

-      end?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The problems we argued predated the Decalogue, yet to us they were

-      eternally original and personal. We attacked them with youthful insolence.

-      The authority of no social institution was safe from our irreverence. We

-      accepted nothing, neither religion, nor marriage; we had to go back to the

-      beginning and re-mint truth for ourselves. Our real object in coming

-      together was that we might pool our scraps of actual experience, and out

-      of these materials fashion our conjectures.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was one topic of inexhaustible interest. It permeated all our

-      inquiry&mdash;<i>woman</i>. We knew so little about her; but we knew that

-      she held the key opening the door to all romance. What gay cavaliers we

-      could be in discussing her, and how sheepish in the presence of one

-      concrete specimen of her sex&mdash;especially if she were beautiful, and

-      not a relative!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All the adventures we had ever heard of seemed now within our grasp. Woman

-      was the great unknown to us. We knew next to nothing of the penalties&mdash;only

-      the romance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Little by little the boldest among us, recognizing that talk led nowhere,

-      began to put matters to the test. The same shy restraint that had made me

-      afraid of Fiesole when she had tempted me to kiss her, made me an onlooker

-      now. A saving common sense prompted me to await the proof of events. I

-      acted on instinct, not on principle. The difference between myself and

-      some of my friends was a difference of temperament. Perhaps it was a

-      difference between daring and cowardice. There are times when our

-      weaknesses appear to be virtues, preserving us from shipwreck. I was

-      capable of tempestuous thoughts; while they remained thoughts I could

-      clothe them with idealism and glamor. But I was incapable of impassioned

-      acts; their atmosphere would be beyond my control&mdash;the atmosphere of

-      inevitable vulgarity which results from contemporary reality. My

-      observation of unrestraint taught me that unrestraint was ugly. In short,

-      I had a pagan imagination at war with a puritan conscience.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In my day, there was no right or wrong in undergraduate Oxford&mdash;no

-      moral or immoral. Every conventional principle of conduct which we had

-      learnt, we flung into the crucible of new experience to be melted down

-      and, out of the ordeal, minted afresh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We divided ourselves into two classes: those who experimented and those

-      who watched. There was only one sin in our calendar&mdash;not to be a

-      gentleman. To be a gentleman, in our sense of the word, was to be a

-      sportsman and to have good manners.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In our private methods of thought we were uninterfered with by those in

-      authority. The University&rsquo;s methods of disciplining our actions were, and

-      still are, a survival of mediævalism. If an undergraduate was seen

-      speaking to a lady, he had to be able to prove her pedigree or run the

-      risk of being sent down. At nine o&rsquo;clock Big Tom rang; ten minutes later

-      every college-door was shut and a fine was imposed for knocking in or out.

-      In the streets the proctors and their bulldogs commenced to go the rounds.

-      Until twelve a man was safe in the streets, provided he appeared to be

-      innocently employed and wore his cap and gown. Knocking into college after

-      twelve was a grave offense.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If a man observed these rules or was crafty, he might investigate life to

-      his heart&rsquo;s content. Public opinion was extremely lenient. Conduct was a

-      purely personal matter as long as it did not inconvenience anybody else.

-      If a man had the all-atoning social grace, and was careful not to get

-      caught in an incriminating act, though everybody knew about it from his

-      own lips afterwards, he was not censured.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My cousin, Lord Halloway, had been a Lazarus man. Oxford still treasured

-      the memory of his amorous exploits.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had been a good deal of a dare-devil and was regarded as something of a

-      hero; he inspired us with awe, for, despite his recklessness, he had

-      played the game gaily and escaped detection. The impression that this kind

-      of thing created was that indiscretions were only indiscreet when they

-      were bungled. Punishment seemed the penalty for discovery&mdash;not for

-      the sin itself. Naturally it was the foolish and less flagrant sinners who

-      got caught. For instance, there was the Bantam.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The first term the Bantam watched and listened. There were occasions when

-      he was a little shocked. When Christmas came round, having no home to go

-      to, he kept on his rooms in college, and spent the vacation in residence.

-      I returned to Pope Lane, and found that the womanliness of Ruthita and the

-      Snow Lady had a sanitary effect. The wholesome sweetness of their

-      affection, after the hot-house discussions of a group of boyish men, came

-      like a breath of pure air. I fell back into the old trustfulness. I

-      recognized that society had secret restraints and delicacies, a disclosure

-      of the motives for which was not yet allowable; at the proper season life

-      would explain itself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When college re-assembled I noticed a change in the Bantam. He was soulful

-      and sentimental&mdash;he took more pains with his dressing. He was

-      continually slipping off by himself; when he returned he volunteered no

-      information as to the purpose of his errand. When the eternal problem of

-      woman was discussed, he smiled in a wise and melancholy manner. If he

-      contributed a remark, it was not a guess, but had the air of authoritative

-      finality. One night I tackled him. &ldquo;What have you been up to, Bantam? You

-      know too much.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He twisted his pipe in his mouth pensively. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s the sweetest little

-      girl in the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He would not tell me her name. He had pledged her his word not to do that.

-      There was a reason&mdash;she was working, and she belonged to too high a

-      rank in society to work. She wished to remain obscure, until she could

-      re-instate herself. She was a Cinderella who would one day emerge from

-      poverty into splendor. The Bantam said his emotions were almost too sacred

-      to talk about. Nevertheless, he meandered on with his mystery from

-      midnight to three o&rsquo;clock. She was a lady and terribly persecuted. He had

-      come to her rescue just at the identical moment when a good influence was

-      most needed. All through the Christmas Vac he had acted the big brother&rsquo;s

-      part, shielding her from temptation. She was lovely&mdash;there lay the

-      pity of it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I pointed out that there were ten thousand ways of flirting with girls,

-      and that this was the most dangerous. His white knighthood was affronted

-      by that word <i>flirting</i>. He became indignant and said I was no

-      gentleman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As time went on, acquaintance after acquaintance would drop in to see me,

-      and would hint gravely at a deep and romantic passion which the Bantam had

-      imparted to them alone. When I informed them that I also was in his

-      confidence, they would repeat to me the same vague story of persecuted

-      loveliness, but always with embellishments. By and by, the embellishments

-      varied so irreconcilably that I began to suspect that they referred to

-      more than one girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Most of us were in love with love in those days; we were all quite certain

-      that an incandescent purifying passion lay ahead of us. It might knock at

-      our door any hour&mdash;and then our particular problem would be solved.

-      This hope was rarely mentioned. To one another we strove to give the

-      impression of being cynical and careless. Yet always, beneath our pose of

-      flippancy, we were seeking the face pre-destined to be for us the most

-      beautiful in all the world. For myself, I was feverishly eager in its

-      quest. I would scour the green-gray uplands of the Thames, telling myself

-      that she might lie hidden in the cheerful quiet of some thatched farm.

-      Every new landscape became the possible setting for my individual romance.

-      I lived each day in expectancy of her coming. Sometimes at nightfall I

-      would pause outside a lighted shop-window, arrested by a girl&rsquo;s profile,

-      and would pretend to myself that I had found her. That was how Rossetti

-      found Miss Siddall; perhaps that was how it would happen to myself. One

-      thing was certain: whenever and wherever I found her, whether in the guise

-      of shop-girl, dairy-maid, or lady, for me the golden age would commence. I

-      stalked through life on the airy stilts of an æsthetic optimism.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ah, but the Bantam, he was all for doing! If he could not find the love he

-      wanted, he would seize the next best. Yet he would never admit that he was

-      in love. He deceived himself into believing that he acted on the most

-      altruistic motives. If others misunderstood him, it was because they were

-      of grosser fiber. Other men, doing the things he did, laughingly

-      acknowledged their rakishness; he, however, considered himself a

-      self-appointed knight-errant to ladies in distress. He became involved in

-      endless entanglements. It was by appealing to his higher nature with some

-      pitiful story, that his transient attractions caught him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I never knew a man so unfortunate in his genius for discovering lonely

-      maidens in need of his protection. He always meant to be noble and

-      virtuous, but his temperament was not sufficiently frigid to carry him

-      safely through such ticklish adventures. He never learnt when to leave

-      off; his fatal and theatric conception of chivalry continually led him on

-      to situations more powerfully tempting. It would be easy to explain him by

-      saying that he was a sentimental ass. But so were we all. The Bantam came

-      to his ruin because he was lonely, because he had no social means of

-      meeting women who were his equals, and because he was too kind-hearted;

-      but mainly because he attributed to all women indiscriminately a virtue

-      which unfortunately they do not all possess.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He sinned accidentally and therefore carelessly&mdash;not wisely, but too

-      well. A man like Lord Halloway sinned of set purpose and laid his plans

-      ahead; so far as society&rsquo;s opinion of him was concerned he came off

-      comparatively scatheless. The worst that was ever said of him was that he

-      was a gay dog. Women even seemed to like him for it. I suppose he

-      intrigued their fancy, and made them long to reform him. From this I

-      learnt that the gaping sins of a gay dog are more easily forgiven than the

-      peccadilloes of a sentimental donkey.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the Easter Vacation of our first year at Oxford, the Bantam stayed at

-      Putney. In the same house was an actress, very beautiful and more sorely

-      used by the world than even the first girl. In the summer-time there was a

-      widow at Torquay. In the beginning of our second year of residence there

-      was a bar-maid at Henley. After that they followed in rapid succession.

-      Wherever he went he found some woman starving for his sympathy. They were

-      all ladies and phenomena of beauty, to judge from his accounts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he came to make confession to me, it was a little difficult to follow

-      which particular lady he was talking about. He never mentioned them by

-      name, and seemed to try to give the impression that they were one

-      composite person.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One evening I got him with his back to the wall. &ldquo;Bantam, who is this

-      Oxford girl&mdash;the first one you got to know about?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then he admitted that she was a shop-girl. I knew what that meant: some of

-      the Oxford tradesmen engaged girls for the prettiness of their faces, that

-      they might attract custom by flirting with the undergrads. Little by

-      little I narrowed him down in his general statements till I had guessed

-      the shop in which she worked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is she a good girl?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Instead of taking offense, he answered, &ldquo;Dante, the thought of her

-      goodness often makes me ashamed of myself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was evident, though he would not admit it, that this affair at least

-      was serious.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why does she stay there?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She can&rsquo;t help herself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why can&rsquo;t she help herself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s an orphan and has a living to earn. She&rsquo;s afraid to get out of a

-      situation.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what good are you doing her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Helping her to keep up her courage by letting her know that one man

-      respects her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think she may get to expect more than that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Certainly not. Why should she?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just because girls do,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Do you write her letters?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sometimes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do you write about?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He wouldn&rsquo;t tell me that. Next day I went down to the shop to investigate

-      matters. Since the Bantam wouldn&rsquo;t listen to sense, I intended to hint to

-      the girl the danger of what she was doing. Of course she could never marry

-      him; but I was morally certain that that was what she was aiming at.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The shop was a stationer&rsquo;s. I had chosen an hour in the afternoon when it

-      was likely to be empty, everyone being engaged in some form of athletics.

-      I entered and saw a daintily gowned woman with her back turned towards me.

-      She was all in white. Her waist was of the smallest. She had a mass of

-      honey-colored hair. She swung about at sound of my footstep.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, Kitty, of all people in the world! I didn&rsquo;t expect to find you

-      here.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As good as old times,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve often seen you pass the window,

-      but I thought you wouldn&rsquo;t want to know me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And why not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because of what happened.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Rapson?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She flushed and hung her head. I wondered if she meant what I thought she

-      meant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I hated to see her sad; she looked so young and pretty. I began to ask her

-      what she was doing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Doing! Minding shop, remembering, growing old, and earning my living.

-      It&rsquo;s just horrid to be here, Dante. I have to watch you &rsquo;Varsity men

-      having a good time&mdash;and once I belonged to your set. And they come in

-      and stare at me, and pay me silly compliments&mdash;and I have to smile

-      and pretend I like it. That&rsquo;s what I&rsquo;m paid for. They don&rsquo;t know how I

-      hate them. When they have their sweethearts and sisters up, they walk past

-      me as though they never knew me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But are they all like that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She smiled, and I knew she loved him. When she spoke her voice trembled.

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s one of them is different.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kitty, he&rsquo;s the one I came to talk about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With instinctive foreknowledge of the purpose of my errand, her face

-      became tragic. &ldquo;His father&rsquo;s in India,&rdquo; I explained. &ldquo;From what I hear of

-      him he&rsquo;s very proud. If the Bantam made a marriage that could in any way

-      be regarded as imprudent, he&rsquo;d cut him off. He&rsquo;d be ruined. You know how

-      it would be; the world would turn its back on him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do we care about the world?&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;The world&rsquo;s a coward.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was wonderful how coldly practical I could become in dealing with

-      another man&rsquo;s heart affairs&mdash;I, who spent my time dreaming of the

-      most extraordinarily unconventional marriages.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The world may be a coward, Kitty, but you have to live in it. Besides,

-      are you sure that the Bantam really cares for you? Have you told him

-      everything?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stared into my eyes across the counter with frightened fascination. I

-      knew that I was acting like a brute and I despised myself. I had hardly

-      meant to ask her the last question&mdash;it had slipped out. While we

-      gazed at one another there drifted through my memory all the scenes of

-      that day at Richmond&mdash;the gaiety of it, and the hunger with which she

-      had clutched me to her as we punted back in the dark. I understood what

-      this little bit of love must mean to her after her experience of

-      disillusion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I have not told him. I daren&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;m afraid to lose him. Oh, Dante,

-      don&rsquo;t tell him; it&rsquo;s my one last chance to be good.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve got to tell him, Kitty. If his love&rsquo;s worth anything, he&rsquo;ll

-      forgive you. He&rsquo;d be sure to find out after marriage.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t care about marriage,&rdquo; she whispered desperately.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Even then, you ought to tell him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A customer came into the shop. We tumbled from our height of emotion. It

-      was another example of how reality makes all things prosaic. She had to

-      compose herself, and go and serve him. He had come to admire her and

-      showed a tendency to dawdle. His purchase was the excuse for his presence.

-      I had an opportunity to watch her&mdash;how charmingly fresh she looked

-      and how girlish. And yet she was three years older than myself&mdash;that

-      seemed incredible. At last the customer went.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kitty, I feel I&rsquo;ve been a horrid beast to you&mdash;it&rsquo;s so often like

-      that when one speaks the truth. I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you. I want to see

-      you happy. I&rsquo;ll not interfere. You must do what you feel to be right about

-      it.&rdquo; And with that I left her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with training,

-      going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little of him. The

-      night before the races he came into my room. He looked brilliantly healthy&mdash;lean

-      and tanned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Are you alone?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can see I am. What&rsquo;s the trouble?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He sank into a chair and grinned at me. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all up. I&rsquo;ve been an awful

-      ass.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wrote two letters; one to the widow at Torquay and the other to the

-      actress. They were nice friendly letters, but far too personal. I put &rsquo;em

-      in the wrong envelopes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And they&rsquo;ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your

-      infidelity. Poor old Bantam!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They haven&rsquo;t. They&rsquo;re keeping them as proof. They&rsquo;ve both struck out the

-      same line of action and talk about a breach of promise suit. They&rsquo;re both

-      coming to see me to-morrow, and they&rsquo;re sure to meet. There&rsquo;ll be a gay

-      old row, and I shall get kicked out of Lazarus.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I whistled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You may well whistle,&rdquo; he said, ridiculously puckering his mouth; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a

-      serious affair. Here have I been trying to be decent to two women, and

-      they&rsquo;re going to try to make me out a kind of letter-writing Bluebeard. I

-      know quite well I&rsquo;ve written silly things to them that could be construed

-      in a horribly damaging manner. I only meant to be cheery, you know, but I

-      see now that there&rsquo;ve been times when I&rsquo;ve crossed the boundary of mere

-      friendship. They can both make a case against me I suspect and so can all

-      the other girls. Once the thing leaks into the papers, they&rsquo;ll all swoop

-      down like a lot of vultures to see what they can get.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What are you going to do about it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can run away to-night without leaving any address. That would leave the

-      crew in the lurch; we&rsquo;d get bumped every night on the river&mdash;so I

-      can&rsquo;t do that. I can stop and face it out&mdash;let my pater in for all

-      kinds of expense in the way of damages, and get sent down. Or I can marry

-      one of &rsquo;em, and so shut all the others&rsquo; mouths. It isn&rsquo;t money

-      they&rsquo;re wanting&mdash;it&rsquo;s me as a husband. Isn&rsquo;t it a gay old world?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He pushed his hands deep into his trouser-pockets and thrust out his legs.

-      He didn&rsquo;t seem adequately desperate&mdash;in fact he gave the impression

-      of being glad this thing had happened. I was puzzling over what I ought to

-      say to him, when it occurred to me that I hadn&rsquo;t offered any expression of

-      sympathy; I told him I was awfully sorry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Needn&rsquo;t be. You see, there&rsquo;s only one girl I greatly care about, and

-      she&rsquo;s just all the world. She had a mishap some years back with a cad&mdash;she

-      only told me a month ago, and because of it she refused to marry me. She&rsquo;s

-      got it into her head that I&rsquo;m too good for her. Well, now I can prove to

-      her that it&rsquo;s the other way about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Bantam ruffled his hair. He spoke with genuine feeling; this was quite

-      different from any of his former confessions. He moistened his lips

-      nervously, and turned away his eyes from me. &ldquo;There are some girls,&rdquo; he

-      said, &ldquo;who never need to be forgiven. Whatever they&rsquo;ve done and whatever

-      they&rsquo;re doing, doesn&rsquo;t matter. They seem always too pure for us men.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I leant forward and took his hand. I felt proud of him. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll stand by

-      you, old chap. How can I help?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;By being awfully decent to these two women to-morrow. Take &rsquo;em out

-      on the river and keep &rsquo;em quiet. Drug &rsquo;em with flattery.

-      They&rsquo;re both of them immensely good-looking. P&rsquo;raps if you treat &rsquo;em

-      well, they&rsquo;ll be ashamed to make a row. Then, when Eights&rsquo; Week is over

-      and the crew doesn&rsquo;t want me any longer, I&rsquo;ll slip up to London, and

-      establish a residence, and get married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As he was going out of the room I called him back. &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the name of the

-      girl you&rsquo;re going to marry?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kitty,&rdquo; he whispered below his breath, as though it were a word too

-      sacred to mention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The widow from Torquay arrived next morning; so did the actress from

-      Putney. I let each one suppose that the other was my near relative, and

-      never left them for a moment together, lest they should discover their

-      error. I gave them separately to understand that their troubles would be

-      satisfactorily settled. I made much of the rigors of training, which

-      compelled the Bantam to absent himself. They didn&rsquo;t meet him until after

-      they had seen him racing, by which time he had become a kind of hero to

-      them. I saw them safely off at the station by different trains&mdash;so

-      the crash was averted. When Eights&rsquo; Week was ended the Bantam vanished,

-      without explanation to the college. A month later I attended his wedding.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Kitty had asked permission to invite one guest&mdash;she wouldn&rsquo;t tell us

-      his name. When we three had assembled in the little Church of Old St.

-      Mary&rsquo;s, Stoke Newington, who should come fussing up the aisle but my

-      uncle, the Spuffler. He wore a frayed frock-coat; the end of his

-      handkerchief was hanging out of his tail-pocket, as usual.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All through the service he gave himself such important airs that the

-      clergyman took it for granted that the bride was his daughter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We jumped into a couple of hansoms and drove down to Verrey&rsquo;s to lunch.

-      The Bantam said he knew he couldn&rsquo;t afford it, but he was determined to

-      have one good meal before he busted. We had a private room set apart for

-      us. The Spuffler tasted the best champagne he had drunk since his fiasco.

-      It made him reflective. He kept on telling us that life was a switchback&mdash;an

-      affair of ups and downs. The Bantam cut him short by proposing a toast to

-      all the ladies he hadn&rsquo;t married. And I sat and stared at Kitty, with her

-      cornflower eyes and sky-blue dress, and wondered where my eyes had been

-      that I hadn&rsquo;t married her myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We went to the Parks and took a boat on the Serpentine. It was there that

-      the Bantam let his bomb burst: he was sailing on the <i>Celtic</i>, via

-      New York, for Canada. He felt sure his father would disown him for having

-      spoilt his Oxford opportunities, so he was going to start life afresh in a

-      land where no one would remember.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the autumn, when I returned to Lazarus, I had an opportunity to judge

-      how the world treats breakers of convention. No one had a good word to say

-      for the Bantam. Everybody was eager to disclaim him as his friend&mdash;he

-      had married a shop-girl. Yet Halloway, who sinned cavalierly without

-      twinge of conscience or attempt at reparation, was spoken of, even by

-      persons who had never known him, with a kind of tolerant, admiring

-      affection. So much for what this taught me of social morality. Playing

-      safe, and not ethical right or wrong, was the standard of conventional

-      righteousness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Star-dust days were drawing to an end. The grim, inevitable facts of life

-      were looming larger and nearer. Romance was slowly giving way before

-      reality. It was the last year at Oxford for most of the men in my set.

-      Conversations began to take a practical turn, as to how a living might be

-      earned. For myself, I listened with a languid interest. These discussions

-      did not concern my future. I expected that my grandfather would continue

-      my allowance. I should not be forced to sell myself by doing uncongenial,

-      remunerative kinds of work. I should have time to mature. I wanted to make

-      a study of the Renaissance. About twenty years hence I should publish a

-      book; then I should be famous. Meanwhile I should collect my facts, and

-      probably enter Parliament as member for Ransby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was wonderful how bravely confident we were. We gazed into the future

-      without fear or tremor. We all knew that we were sure of success. Already

-      we were picking out the winners&mdash;the naturally great men, who would

-      arrive at the top of the tree with the first effort. It was a belief among

-      us that genius was nothing more than concentrated will-power. Then

-      something happened which startled me into a novel display of energy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ever since leaving the Red House, the Creature had written me once a week,

-      usually on a Sunday, with clockwork regularity. One Monday I went to the

-      porter&rsquo;s lodge for my mail and missed his letter. The following morning,

-      glancing down the paper, my eye was attracted by a headline which read,

-      TRAGIC DEATH OF A SCHOOLMASTER. The news-item announced the death of Mr.

-      Murdoch, science master of the Red House. It appeared that the boys had

-      gone down to the laboratory to attend the experimental chemistry class. On

-      opening the door they had been driven back by a powerful smell of gas, but

-      not before they had caught a glimpse of Mr. Murdoch fallen in a heap upon

-      the floor. When the room was entered it was quite evident that the death

-      was not accidental. Every burner in the room was full on, and the

-      ventilators were stopped with rags.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Some days later I received a legal letter informing me that the Creature

-      had left a will in my favor. His total estate amounted to three hundred

-      pounds. I was requested to call at the lawyer&rsquo;s office. I got leave of

-      absence from my college and went to London. There I learnt that at the

-      time that the will had been made, a little over five years ago, the value

-      of the estate had been a thousand pounds. Of this I had already received

-      over seven hundred, remitted to me by his lawyers from time to time

-      according to his instructions. He had originally saved the money in order

-      that he might provide for his sister in the event of his dying first. On

-      her death, he had executed the present will, making me his heir.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So Sir Charles Evrard was not the author of my prosperity! The

-      disappointment of the discovery robbed me for an instant of all sense of

-      gratitude. I felt almost angry with the Creature for having been the

-      innocent cause of all this building of air-castles. This was the second

-      time that fortune had led me on to expect, only to trick me when the

-      future seemed secure. The uncertainty of everything unnerved me. Life

-      seemed to pucker its brows and stare down at me with a frown. All the

-      money that had been spent on my education had taught me nothing

-      immediately useful&mdash;and now I had a living to earn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Luckily, just about this time, it was suggested to me that, after I had

-      taken my Finals, I should enter for some of the history fellowships in the

-      autumn. It was expected that I would gain an easy First; if I did that, I

-      had a fair chance of winning a fellowship at my own college.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now that my fool&rsquo;s paradise had melted into nothingness, I felt the spur

-      of necessity, and commenced to work strenuously. Gradually a higher motive

-      than the mere hope of reward began to actuate my energy. I wanted to be

-      what the Creature had hoped for me. Now that he was gone, he became very

-      near to me. He was always haunting my memory. He had robbed himself that

-      he might give me my chance. I felt humbled that I should have spent his

-      money with so free a hand, while he had been living in comparative

-      poverty. I could picture just how he looked that morning when the boys

-      burst into the laboratory. His hands were stained with chalk. His uncombed

-      hair fell back from his wrinkled forehead. He was wearing the same old

-      clothes&mdash;the tweed jacket and gray flannel trousers&mdash;that I knew

-      so well. Probably he looked both tired and dirty, and a little

-      disreputable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I reproached myself for the shortness of my letters to him. I saw now, in

-      the light of after events, how I might have been a strength to him. He had

-      given me everything; I had given him nothing. His fineness of feeling had

-      led him to prevent my gratitude. Never by the slightest hint had he left

-      me room to guess that I was beholden to him. And now he was beyond reach

-      of thanks.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I recalled how I had teased him as a youngster, and had courted popularity

-      at his expense. When I was most angry against myself, I would drift back

-      into the class-room where the boys were baiting him, and would hear him

-      making his peace-offering, &ldquo;Penthil, Cardover? Penthil, Buzzard? Want a

-      penthil?&rdquo; And then, in spite of indignation, I had to laugh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Finals came on I won my First and in the autumn gained a history

-      fellowship at Lazarus. It was worth two hundred pounds a year. It allowed

-      me ample time to travel and was tenable for seven years, on the condition

-      that I did not marry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      BOOK III&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <i>And behind them a flame burneth: and the land is as the garden of Eden

-      before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER I&mdash;I MEET HER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was June and

-      wind was in the tree-tops. All the world was rustling and birds were

-      calling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the past seven months, since the winning of my fellowship, I had been

-      over-working and making myself brain-sick with thought. I was

-      twenty-three, and had arrived at &ldquo;the broken-toy age&rdquo; when a young man,

-      having pulled this plaything of a universe to pieces, begins to doubt his

-      own omniscience&mdash;his capacity to put it together. The more I sought

-      help from philosophies, the more I came to see that they were all

-      imperfect. No one had yet evolved a theory which had not at some point to

-      be bridged by faith&mdash;that beautiful optimism which is nothing less

-      than the hearsay of the heart. I was all for logic these days.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So, when I heard the June wind laughing in the trees, I tossed my books

-      aside. I left my doubts all disorderly upon the shelves to grow dusty, and

-      ran away. I would seek for the garden without walls. Having failed to find

-      it in libraries, I would search for it through the open country. I had

-      only two certainties to guide me&mdash;that I was young, and that the

-      world was growing lovelier every day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I came down to quaint little Ransby, perched high and red above the old

-      sea-wall. Life was taken so much for granted there. No one inquired into

-      its why or wherefore. Everything that happened was accepted with a quiet

-      stoicism, as &ldquo;sent from God.&rdquo; When the waves rumbled on the shore, they

-      said the sea was talking to itself. When a crew sailed out and never

-      returned, they said &ldquo;God took them.&rdquo; When times were bad, they looked back

-      and remembered how times were worse before. No one ever really died there,

-      for in the small interests of a quiet community nothing was forgotten&mdash;all

-      the characteristic differences and shades of personality were treasured in

-      memory, and so the dead lived on. Life for them was an affair of

-      compensations. &ldquo;If there weren&rsquo;t no partin&rsquo;s, there&rsquo;d be no meetin&rsquo;s,&rdquo; my

-      grandmother used to say. And death was explained after the same simple

-      fashion. Every pious Ransbyite believed that heaven would be another

-      Ransby, with no more storms and an empty churchyard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I traveled down from London by an afternoon train. Shortly after six we

-      struck the Broads, or inland waterways, which now narrow into rivers, now

-      widen into lakes, flowing sluggishly through fat marshes to the sea. On

-      the left hand as we flashed by, one caught glimpses of the spread arms of

-      windmills slowly turning, pumping meadows dry, or jutting above gray

-      sedges the ochre-colored sails of wherries plodding like cart-horses from

-      Ransby up to Norwich. Startled by the clamor of our passage, a lonely

-      heron would spring up and float indignantly away into the distant quiet.

-      Now we would come to a field of wheat faintly yellowing in the summer

-      sunshine. Between green-gold stalks would flash the scarlet of the Suffolk

-      poppy. Across the desecrated silence we hurled the grime and commotion of

-      cities, leaving an ugly blur of gradually thinning smoke behind.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The evening glow was beginning. Picked out in gold, windows of thatched

-      cottages and steeples of sleeping hamlets burnt for an instant splendid in

-      the landscape. A child, warned of our approach, clambered on a stile, and

-      waved; laborers, plodding homeward with scythes across their shoulders,

-      halted to watch us go by. We burst as a disturbing element into the midst

-      of these rustic lives; in our sullen hurry, they had hardly noticed us

-      before we had vanished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With the country fragrance of newly-mown hay there began to mingle the tar

-      and salt of a seaport. We swayed across the tresseled bridge, where the

-      Broads met the harbor. Ozone, smell of fish and sea-weed assailed our

-      nostrils. Houses grew up about us. Blunt red chimneys, like misshapen

-      thumbs, jabbed the blue of the horizon; above them tall masts of ships

-      speared the sky. With rush and roar we invaded the ancient town, defiling

-      its Dutch appearance of neatness, and affronting with our gadabout swagger

-      its peaceful sense of home-abiding. We came to a standstill in the

-      station; all was clatter and excitement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The visitors&rsquo; season was just commencing. The platform was crowded with

-      Londoners greeting one another. Drawn up on the other side of the

-      platform, parallel with the train, was a line of cabbies, most of whom

-      were standing up in their seats, shouting and gesticulating. They had a

-      touch of the sea about them&mdash;a weatherbeaten look of jolliness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I got out, my eye was attracted to a little girl who was climbing down

-      from a neighboring compartment. She was unlike any English child&mdash;she

-      lacked the sturdy robustness. My attention was caught by the dainty

-      faeriness of her appearance. She wore a foamy white muslin dress, cut very

-      short, with spreading flounces of lace about it. It was caught up here and

-      there with pink baby-bows of ribbon. Her delicate arms were bare from the

-      elbow. She was small-boned and slender. Her skirt scarcely reached to her

-      knees, so that nearly half her tiny height seemed to consist of legs. She

-      had the slightness and moved with the grace of a child-dancer escaped from

-      a ballet. But what completed her baby perfection was the profusion of

-      flaxen curls, which streamed down from her shoulders to her waist. She saw

-      me looking at her and laughed up with roguish frankness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Having secured my luggage, I was pushing my way out of the station through

-      the long line of visitors and porters, when I saw the child standing

-      bewildered by herself. In the crowd she had become separated from whoever

-      was taking care of her. I spoke to her, but she was crying too bitterly to

-      answer. Setting down my bags, I tried to comfort her, saying that I would

-      stay with her till she was found. Suddenly her face lit up and she darted

-      from my side. I had a hurried vision of a lady pushing her way towards

-      her. While she was stooping to take the little girl in her arms, I made

-      off as quickly as I was able. Like my father, I detested a scene, and had

-      a morbid horror of being thanked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How good it was to smell the salt of the sea again. I passed up the harbor

-      where the fishing-fleet lay moored against the quay-side, and sailormen,

-      with hands deep in trouser-flaps, leant against whatever came handiest,

-      pulling meditatively at short clay pipes. The business of the day was

-      over. Folk were tenacious of their leisure in Ransby; they had a knack,

-      peculiarly their own, of filling the evening with an undercurrent sense of

-      gaiety. Though townsmen, they were villagers at heart. When work was done,

-      they polished themselves up and sat outside their houses or came into the

-      streets to exchange the news of the day. I turned from the harbor and

-      passed down the snug quiet street in which stood the house with CARDOVER

-      painted above the doorway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I approached, the bake-house boy was putting the last shutter into

-      place against the window. I entered the darkened shop on tiptoe, picking

-      my way through anchors, sacks of ships&rsquo; biscuit, and coils of rope, till I

-      could peer through the glass-panel of the door into the keeping-room. I

-      loved to surprise the little old lady with the gray corkscrew curls and

-      rosy cheeks, so that for once she might appear undignified. But, as I

-      peered through, I met her eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, Dante, my boy,&rdquo; she cried, reaching up to put her arms round me,

-      &ldquo;how you have grown!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was always a boy to her; she would never let herself think that I had

-      ceased to grow, for then I should have ceased to be a child.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We sat down to a typically Ransby meal, which they call high-tea. There

-      were Ransby shrimps and Ransby bloaters on the table; everything was of

-      local flavor, and most of it was home-made. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t get things like

-      them in Lun&rsquo;non,&rdquo; Grandmother Cardover said, falling back into her Suffolk

-      dialect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night we talked of Sir Charles Evrard. Rumor proclaimed that Lord

-      Halloway had finally ruined his chances in that direction by his latest

-      escapade. It concerned a pretty housemaid at Woadley Hall, and the affair

-      had actually been carried on under Sir Charles&rsquo;s very nose, as one might

-      say. The girl was the daughter of a gamekeeper on the estate and&mdash;&mdash;!

-      Well there, my Grannie might as well tell me everything!&mdash;there was

-      going to be a baby. All that was known for certain was that Mr. Thomas,

-      the gamekeeper&mdash;a &rsquo;ighly respectable man, my dear&mdash;had gone up

-      to the Hall with a whip in his hand and had asked to see Master Denny. The

-      old Squire, hearing him at the door, had gone out to give him some

-      instructions about the pheasantry. Mr. Thomas had given him a piece of his

-      mind. And Sir Charles, having more than he could conveniently do with, had

-      made a present to Denny Halloway of a bit of his mind. After which Master

-      Denny had left hurriedly for parts unknown. It was said that he had

-      returned to Oxford, to read for Holy Orders as a sort of atonement. It was

-      my grandmother&rsquo;s opinion that the marriage-service wasn&rsquo;t much in his

-      line.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So we rambled on, and the underlying hint of it all was that I had come to

-      Ransby in the nick of time to make hay while the sun was shining.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Grannie, you&rsquo;ll never get me worked up over that again,&rdquo; I told her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well but, if his Lordship don&rsquo;t inherit, who&rsquo;s goin&rsquo; to?&rdquo; she persisted.

-      &ldquo;I tell you, Dante, he&rsquo;s got to make you his heir&mdash;he can&rsquo;t help it.

-      The whole town&rsquo;s talking about it. Sir Evrard&rsquo;s bailiff hisself was in

-      here to-day and I says to him, &lsquo;Mr. Mobbs, who&rsquo;s going to be master now at

-      Woadley Hall when the dear old Squire dies?&rsquo; And he answers me

-      respectful-like, &lsquo;It don&rsquo;t do to be previous about such matters, Mrs.

-      Cardover; but if you and me was to speak out our minds, I daresay we

-      should guess the same.&rsquo; &lsquo;Is Sir Charles as wild with Lord Halloway as

-      folks do say?&rsquo; I asks him. Like a prudent man he wouldn&rsquo;t commit hisself

-      to words; but he throws up his hands and rolls his eyes. Now what d&rsquo;you

-      think of that? If you knew Mobbs as I know him, you&rsquo;d see it was a sign

-      which way the wind is blowing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was trying to think otherwise. I had banished this expectation from my

-      mind and wasn&rsquo;t anxious to court another disappointment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If it happens that way, it will happen that way,&rdquo; said I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But my grandmother wasn&rsquo;t in favor of such indifferent fatalism. She loved

-      to picture me in possession of Woadley. She commenced to describe to me

-      all its farmlands and broad acres. She spoke so much as if they were

-      already mine that at last I began to dream again. So we rambled on until

-      at five minutes to midnight the grandfather clock cleared its throat,

-      getting ready to strike.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lawks-a-daisy me,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;there&rsquo;s that clock crocking for

-      twelve! How you do get your poor old Grannie on talking!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We lit our candles and climbed the narrow stairs to bed. Outside my

-      bedroom-door she halted. I wondered what else she had to tell me. Holding

-      her candle high, so that its light fell down upon her laughing face, she

-      made me a mocking courtesy, saying, &ldquo;Good-night, Sir Dante Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning I was up early. As I dressed I could smell the bread being

-      carried steaming out of the bakehouse. Looking out of my window into the

-      red-brick courtyard I could see men&rsquo;s figures, white with flour-dust,

-      going to and fro. The morning was clear and sparkling, as though washed

-      clean by rain. The sun was dazzling and the wind was blowing. From the

-      harbor came the creaking of sails being hoisted, and the cheery bustle of

-      vessels getting under way. Of all places this was home. My spirits rose. I

-      laughed, remembering the cobwebs of theories which had tangled up my

-      brain. Nothing seemed to matter here, save the wholesome fact of being

-      alive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After breakfast I stepped out into the street and wandered up toward the

-      harbor. The townsmen knew me and greeted me as I went by. I caught them

-      looking after me with a new curiosity in their gaze. I began to wonder

-      whether I had made some absurd mistake in my dressing. I grew

-      uncomfortable and had an insane desire to see what kind of a spectacle my

-      back presented. I tried to use shop-windows as mirrors, twisting my neck

-      to catch glimpses of myself. Then there occurred to me what my grandmother

-      had said to me on the previous night. So it <i>was</i> true, and all the

-      town was talking about me!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I approached the chemist shop at the top of the road, Fenwick, the

-      chemist, was sunning himself in the doorway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, Mr. Cardover!&rdquo; he exclaimed, stepping out on to the pavement and

-      seizing my hand with unaccustomed effusiveness. Then, lowering his voice,

-      &ldquo;Suppose you&rsquo;ve heard about Lord Halloway?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s lucky to be you,&rdquo; he added knowingly. &ldquo;But, there, I always did tell

-      your Grannie that luck would turn your way.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I passed on through the sunshine in a wild elation. What if it were true

-      this time? I asked myself. What if it were really true?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ransby is built like a bent arm, jutting out into the sea, following the

-      line of the coast. At the extreme point of the elbow, where I was now

-      standing, is the wooden pier, on which the visitors parade. Running from

-      the elbow to the shoulder is the sheltered south beach and the esplanade,

-      given up to visitors and boarding-houses. These terminate in the distance

-      in a steep headland, on which stands the little village of Pakewold. On

-      the other side of the pier is the harbor, entering or departing out of

-      which fishing vessels and merchantmen may be seen almost any hour of the

-      day. From the elbow to the finger tips, running northward, is the bleak

-      north beach, gnawed at by the sea and bullied by every wind that blows.

-      Here it is that most of the wrecks take place. The older portion of the

-      town, climbing northward from the harbor, overhangs it, scarred and

-      weather-beaten. Where the town ends, seven miles of crumbling gorse-grown

-      cliff continue the barricade.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Separating the town from the north beach, stretch the denes&mdash;a broad

-      strip of grassy sand, on which fishing-nets are dried. Parallel with the

-      denes is the gray sea-wall; and beyond the wall a shingle beach, low-lying

-      and defended at intervals by breakwaters. Here the waves are continually

-      attacking: on the calmest day there is anger in their moan. From far away

-      one can hear the scream of pebbles dragged down as the waves recede, the

-      long sigh which follows the weariness of defeat, and the loud thunder as

-      the water hurls itself in a renewed attack along the coast. On the denes

-      stands a lighthouse, warning vessels not to come too close; for, when the

-      east wind lashes itself into a fury, the sea leaps the wall and pours

-      across the denes to the foot of the town, like an invading host. A vessel

-      caught in the tide-race at such a time, is flung far inland and left there

-      stranded when the waves have gone back to their place. Facing the denes,

-      lying several miles out in the German Ocean, are a line of sand-banks;

-      between them and the shore is a channel, known as the Ransby Roads, which

-      affords safe anchorage to vessels. Beyond the Roads and out of sight, lies

-      the coast of Holland.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned my steps to the northward, passing through the harbor where

-      groups of ear-ringed fisher-folk were unloading smacks, encouraging one

-      another with hoarse, barbaric cries. I stopped now and then to listen to

-      the musical sing-song conversation of East Anglia, so neighborly and so

-      kindly. Here and there mounds of silver herring gleamed in the morning

-      sunshine. The constant sound of ropes tip-tapping as the breeze stirred

-      them, sails flapping and water washing against wooden piles, filled the

-      air with the energy and adventure of sturdy life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The exultation of living whipped the wildness in my veins. As I left the

-      harbor, striking out across the denes, I caught the sound of breakers&mdash;the

-      long, low rumble of revolt. Girls were at work, their hair tumbled, their

-      skirts blown about, catching up nets spread out on the grass beneath their

-      feet and mending the holes. Some of them were singing, some of them were

-      laughing, some of them were silent, dreaming, perhaps, of sailor-lovers

-      who were far away.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I advanced, I left all human sounds behind. The red town, piled high on

-      the cliff, grew dwarfed in the distance. I entered into a world of nature

-      and loneliness. Larks sprang from under my feet and rose into the air

-      caroling. Overhead the besom of the wind was busy, sweeping the sky. From

-      cliffs came the shy, old-fashioned fragrance of wall-flowers nestling in

-      crannies. Yellow furze ran like a flame through the bracken. Far out from

-      shore waves leapt and flashed, clapping their hands in the maddening

-      sunshine. My cheeks were damp and my lips were salt with in-blown spray.

-      It was one of those mornings of exultation which come to us rarely and

-      only in youth, when the joy of the flesh is roused within us, we know not

-      why, and every nerve is set tingling with health&mdash;and the world, as

-      seen through our eyes, clothes itself afresh to symbolize the gay abandon

-      of our mood.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The fluttering of something white, low down by the water&rsquo;s edge, caught my

-      attention. Out of sheer idleness I became curious. It was about a quarter

-      of a mile distant when I first had sight of it. Just behind it lay the

-      battered hull of an old wreck, masts shorn away and leaning over on its

-      side. A sea-gull wheeled above the prow, flew out to sea and returned

-      again, showing that it had been disturbed and was distressed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I approached, I discovered the white thing to be the stooping figure of

-      a child; by her hair I recognized her. Her skirts were kilted up about her

-      tiny waist and she was bare-legged. I could see no one with her, so I

-      waited till she should look up, lest I should frighten her. Then, &ldquo;Hulloa,

-      little &rsquo;un,&rdquo; I shouted. &ldquo;Going to let me come and play with you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spread apart her small legs, like an infant Napoleon, and brushed back

-      the curls from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion. She looked

-      even prettier and more faery than she had on the previous night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, you ith the man what found me!&rdquo; she cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She made such speed as she could across the pebbles to greet me. It was

-      hard going for her bare little feet. When she came opposite to me, she

-      halted with a solemn childish air of dignity. &ldquo;I want to fank you,&rdquo; she

-      said, &ldquo;and tho doth Vi.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stood gazing at me shyly. When I bent down to take her hand in mine,

-      she pursed her mouth, showing me what was expected.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I asked her what she was playing. She shook her curls, at a loss for

-      words. &ldquo;Jest thomething,&rdquo; she said, and invited me to come and join.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I took her in my arms to save her the rough return journey. She showed no

-      fear of me. Soon we were chatting on the lonely beach, firm friends, quite

-      gaily together. She showed me the channel she had scooped out, leading

-      into the miniature harbor. Every time the surf ran up the shore the harbor

-      filled with water. In the basin was a piece of wood, which floated when

-      the surf ran in, and stranded when it receded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo; I asked her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s our thip.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the name of our ship?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I fordet&mdash;it&rsquo;s the big thip in what we came over.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s we?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, me and Vi.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We set to work to make the harbor wider, going on our knees side by side.

-      I thought of a fine plan&mdash;to start the ship at the beginning of the

-      channel, that so it might ride in on the in-rush of the water. The little

-      girl was delighted and leant over my shoulder, brushing my face with her

-      blown about hair, and clapping her hands as she watched the success of the

-      experiment. In the excitement of the game, we had forgotten about everyone

-      but our two selves, when we heard a voice calling, &ldquo;Dorrie, darling!

-      Dorrie, darling! Are you all right?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned round, but could see no one&mdash;only the lonely length of the

-      shore and the black wreck blistering in the wind and sunshine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yeth, I&rsquo;m all right,&rdquo; piped the little girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then she explained to me, &ldquo;That wath Vi.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And who are you?&rdquo; I asked her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For me the zest had gone out of the game. I kept turning my head, trying

-      to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice. It had sounded so lazy and

-      pleasant that I was anxious to see what Vi looked like; but then I was not

-      sure that my company would prove so welcome to a grownup as it had to

-      Dorrie. To run away would have looked foolish&mdash;as though there were

-      something of which to be ashamed; and then there was nowhere to run to in

-      that wide open space. Yet my intrusion was so unconventional that I did

-      not feel comfortable in staying.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A slim figure in a white sailor dress came out from the wreck. She had

-      been bathing, for she wore neither shoes nor stockings, and her hair was

-      hanging loose about her shoulders to dry. She started at sight of me, and

-      seemed, for a moment, to hesitate as to whether she should retire. I rose

-      from my knees, holding Dorrie&rsquo;s hand, and stood waiting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not help gazing at her; we looked straight into one another&rsquo;s

-      eyes. Hers were the color of violets, grave and loyal. They seemed to

-      stare right into my mind, reading all that I had thought and all that I

-      had desired. Her face was of the brilliant and transparent paleness that

-      goes with fair complexions sometimes. In contrast her lips were scarlet,

-      and her brows delicately but firmly penciled. Her features were softly

-      molded and regular, her figure upright and lithe. She appeared brimful of

-      energy, a good deal of which was probably nervous. And her hair was

-      glorious. It was flaxen like Dorrie&rsquo;s; the salt of the sea had given to it

-      a bronzy touch in the shadows. She was neither short nor tall, but

-      straight-limbed and superbly womanly. She possessed Dorrie&rsquo;s own fragile

-      daintiness. The likeness between them was extraordinary; I judged them at

-      once to be sisters. As for her age, she looked little more than twenty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She stood gazing down on me from the sullen wreck, with La Gioconda&rsquo;s

-      smile, incarnating all the purity of passion that I had ever dreamt should

-      be mine. &ldquo;Gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips,&rdquo; was the thought that

-      described her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie cut short our silence. Letting go my hand, she stumbled up the

-      beach, explaining the situation in her lisping way. &ldquo;Deareth, thith

-      gentleman hath been playing with me. He&rsquo;th the man what found me

-      yetherday.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Noticing that neither of us uttered a word, she turned on me

-      reproachfully. &ldquo;I thought you wath kind,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;Come thith minute,

-      and thpeak to Vi.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her air of baby imperiousness made us smile. That broke the ice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She placed her arm about Dorrie, hugging her against her side. As I came

-      up to the wreck, she held out her hand frankly. &ldquo;This is very

-      unconventional,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but things sometimes happen this way. I was so

-      sorry you wouldn&rsquo;t stop to let me thank you yesterday. I was hoping we

-      would meet again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It seemed quite natural to sit down beside this stranger. Usually in the

-      presence of women I was tongue-tied and had to rack my brains to think

-      what to say. When the opportunity to escape came, I always took it, and

-      spent the next hour in kicking myself for having behaved like a frightened

-      boy. On this occasion it was quite otherwise. Sprawled out in the shadow

-      of the wreck, gazing up into her girlish face while she cuddled Dorrie to

-      her, I found myself talking with a fearlessness and freedom which I was

-      not aware of at the time.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were bathing?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shook out her hair. &ldquo;Looks like it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you shouldn&rsquo;t bathe here, you know. It&rsquo;s dangerous. The south beach

-      is the proper place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m rather a good swimmer. I&rsquo;m not afraid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t matter. You oughtn&rsquo;t to do it. You might get drowned. I&rsquo;m

-      awfully serious. I wish you wouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She seemed amused at my concern for her. Yet I knew she liked it. Her eyes

-      were saying to me, &ldquo;Oh, you nice, funny boy! You&rsquo;ve known me less than an

-      hour. If I were to drown, what difference would it make to you?&rdquo; She

-      looked down at Dorrie. &ldquo;If Vi were to go out there, and sink beneath a

-      wave, and never come back again, would Dorrie mind?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said Dorrie; &ldquo;don&rsquo;t be thtupid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We talked about a good many things that morning as the wind blew, and the

-      waves broke, and the sun climbed higher. I wanted to find out who she was,

-      so that I might make certain of meeting her again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you live in Ransby?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No. We only arrived yesterday. I never was in England till a week ago.

-      We&rsquo;ve been traveling on the Continent. I wanted a place in which to be

-      quiet. I heard someone in the hotel at which we stayed in London talking

-      about Ransby. They said it was old-world and bracing&mdash;that was why I

-      came.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never been out of England in my life,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;I&rsquo;d like to break

-      loose some time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where would you go?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When we began to talk of foreign countries, she amazed me with her

-      knowledge. She seemed to have been in every country of Europe except

-      Russia. Last winter, she told me, she had spent in Rome and the spring in

-      Paris. She always spoke as if she had been unaccompanied, except for

-      Dorrie. It struck me as strange that so young and beautiful a woman should

-      have traveled so widely without an escort or chaperon of any kind. I was

-      striving to place her. She spoke excellent English, and yet I was certain

-      she was not an Englishwoman. For one thing, her manner in conversation

-      with a man was too spontaneous and free from embarrassment. She had none

-      of that fear of talking about herself which hampers the women of our

-      nation; nor did she seek to flatter me and to hold my attention by an

-      insincere interest in my own past history. She had an air of

-      self-possession and self-poise which permitted her to make herself

-      accessible. I longed to ask her to tell me more about herself, but I did

-      not dare. We skimmed the surface of things, evading one another&rsquo;s

-      inquisitiveness with veiled allusions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The child looked up. &ldquo;Dorrie&rsquo;s hungry,&rdquo; she said plaintively. .

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Pulling out my watch I discovered that it was long past twelve. Making the

-      greatest haste, I could not get back to my grandmother&rsquo;s till lunch was

-      over.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t go unless you want,&rdquo; said Vi. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve enough for the three of

-      us. It was Dorrie and I who delayed you; so we ought to entertain you.

-      That&rsquo;s only fair.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie wriggled her toes and clambered over me, insisting that I accept

-      the invitation. And so I stayed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They disappeared for ten minutes inside the wreck; when they came out they

-      had completed their dressing. Vi had piled her hair into a gold wreath

-      about her head. She was still hatless, but her feet were decorously

-      stockinged and shod in a shiny pair of high-heeled slippers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the meal was ended, I had told myself, I ought to take my departure;

-      but Dorrie gave me an excuse for stopping. She curled herself up in my

-      arms, saying she was &ldquo;tho thleepy.&rdquo; I could not rise without waking her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the child no longer kept guard between us, we began to grow

-      self-conscious. In the silences which broke up our whispered conversation,

-      we took slow glances at one another and, when we caught one another&rsquo;s

-      eyes, looked away sharply. I thought of the miracle of what had happened,

-      and wondered if the same thought occupied her mind. Here were she and I,

-      who that morning had been nothing to one another; by this afternoon every

-      other interest had become dwarfed beside her. I knew nothing of her. Most

-      of the words which we had interchanged had been quite ordinary. Yet she

-      had revealed to me a new horizon; she had made me aware of an unsuspected

-      intensity of manhood, which gave to the whole of life a richer tone and

-      more poignant value.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She took her eyes from the sea and looked down at Dorrie. &ldquo;You hold her

-      very tenderly. You are fond of children.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose I am; but I didn&rsquo;t know it until I met your little sister.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A warm tide of color spread over her pale face and throat. She leant over

-      me and kissed Dorrie. When the child opened her eyes she said, &ldquo;Come,

-      darling, it&rsquo;s nearly time for tea. We must be going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I helped her to gather up her things, taking all the time I could in the

-      hope that she would ask me to accompany her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She offered me her hand, saying, &ldquo;Perhaps we shall meet again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I hope so. Ransby is such a little place.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, but our movements are so uncertain. I don&rsquo;t know how long we may be

-      staying.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At any rate we&rsquo;ve had a good time to-day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. You have been very kind. I&rsquo;m sure Dorrie will remember you.

-      Good-by.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I watched them grow smaller across the sands, till they entered into the

-      shadow of the cliff. I had a mad impulse to pursue them&mdash;to follow

-      them at a distance and find out where they lived. How did I know that they

-      had not vanished forever out of my life? I called myself a fool for not

-      having seized my opportunities, however precipitately, while they were

-      mine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The wreck looked desolate now; all the romance had departed from it. The

-      long emptiness of the shore filled me with loneliness. As I walked

-      homeward, I strove to memorize her every tone and gesture. Their memory

-      might be all that I should ever have of her. I was mortally afraid that we

-      should never meet again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER II&mdash;I MEET HER AGAIN

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I

-      walked along the north beach in the hope that I might catch sight of her.

-      I was sure that she had shared my quickening of passion; it was because

-      she had felt it and been frightened by it, that she had wakened Dorrie and

-      hurried so abruptly away. I was sufficiently vain to assure myself that

-      only the timidity of love could account for the sudden scurry of her

-      flight.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With incredible short-sightedness, I had allowed them to leave me without

-      ascertaining their surname. My only clue, whereby I might trace them, was

-      the abbreviated forms of their Christian names. Dorrie probably stood for

-      Dorothy or Dorothea; Vi for Vivian or Violet. Directly after breakfast I

-      had studied the visitors&rsquo; list in <i>The Ransby Chronicle</i>, hoping to

-      come across these two Christian names in combination with the same

-      surname. My search had been unrewarded, for only the initials of Christian

-      names were printed and the V&rsquo;s and the D&rsquo;s were bewilderingly plentiful.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On approaching the wreck I became oppressed with a nervous sense of the

-      proprieties. I was ashamed of intruding myself again. If she were there,

-      how should I excuse my coming? That attraction to her was my only motive

-      would be all too plain. I had at my disposal none of the social cloaks of

-      common interests and common acquaintance, which serve as a rule to

-      disguise the primitive fact of a man&rsquo;s liking for a woman. The hypocrisy

-      of pretending that a second meeting in the same place was accidental would

-      be evident.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I got there my fears proved groundless; nervousness was followed by

-      disappointment. The shore was deserted. I called Dorrie&rsquo;s name to make my

-      presence known; no answer came. Having reconnoitered the wreck from the

-      outside, I entered through a hole in the prow where the beams had burst

-      asunder. Then I knew that Vi had been there that morning. The surface of

-      the sand which had drifted in had been disturbed. It was still wet in

-      places from her bathing and bore the imprint of her footsteps, with

-      smaller ones running beside them which were Dorrie&rsquo;s. I must have missed

-      them by less than a hour.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning back to Ransby, I determined to spend the rest of the day in

-      searching. Surely she must be conscious of my yearning&mdash;sooner or

-      later, even against her inclination, it would draw her to me. Even now,

-      somewhere in the pyramided streets and alleys of the red-roofed

-      fishing-town, her steps were moving slower and her face was looking back;

-      presently she would turn and come towards me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All that morning I wandered up and down the narrow streets, agitated by

-      unreasonable hopes and fears. Ransby has one main thoroughfare: from

-      Pakewold to the harbor it is known as the London Road; from the harbor to

-      the upper lighthouse on the cliff it is known as the High Street. Leading

-      off from the High Street precipitously to the denes are winding lanes of

-      many steps, which are paved with flints; they are rarely more than five

-      feet wide and run down steeply between gardens of houses. They make Ransby

-      an easy place in which to hide. As I zigzagged to and fro between the

-      denes and the High Street by these narrow passages, I was tormented with

-      the thought that she might be crossing my path, time and again, without my

-      knowing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At lunch my grandmother inquired whether I had been to Woadley Hall. She

-      had noticed how preoccupied I had been since my arrival, and attributed it

-      to over-anxiety concerning my prospects with Sir Charles.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The best thing you can do, my dear,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;is to go along out there

-      this afternoon. I&rsquo;m not at all sure that you oughtn&rsquo;t to make yourself

-      known at the Hall. At any rate, you&rsquo;ve only got to meet Sir Charles and

-      he&rsquo;d know you directly. There&rsquo;s not an ounce of Cardover in you; you&rsquo;ve

-      got your mother&rsquo;s face.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Falling in love is like committing crime; it tends to make you secretive.

-      You will practise unusual deceptions and put yourself to all kinds of

-      ridiculous inconvenience to keep the sweet and shameful fact, that a woman

-      has attracted you, from becoming known. My grandmother had set her heart

-      on my going to Woadley. There was no apparent reason why I shouldn&rsquo;t go.

-      It would be much easier to make the journey, than to have to concoct some

-      silly excuse for not having gone. So, with great reluctance, I set out,

-      having determined to get there and back with every haste, so that I might

-      have time to resume my search for Vi before nightfall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had been walking upwards of an hour and was descending a curving country

-      lane, when I heard the smart trotting of a horse behind. The banks rose

-      steeply on either side. The road was narrow and dusty. I clambered up the

-      bank to the right among wild flowers to let the conveyance go by. It

-      proved to be a two-wheeled governess-car, such as ply for hire by the

-      Ransby Esplanade. In it were sitting Dorrie and Vi. Vi had her back

-      towards me but, as they were passing, Dorrie caught sight of me. She

-      commenced to shout and wave, crying, &ldquo;There he ith. There he ith.&rdquo; They

-      were going too fast on the downgrade to draw up quickly, and so vanished

-      round a bend. Then I heard that they had halted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I came up with the conveyance, Dorrie reached out her arms impulsively

-      and hugged me. She was all excitement. Before anything could be said, she

-      began to scold me. &ldquo;Naughty man. I wanted you to play thips with me thith

-      morning, like you did yetherday.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was looking across the child&rsquo;s shoulder at Vi. Her color had risen. I

-      could swear that beneath her gentle attitude of complete control her heart

-      was beating wildly. Her eyes told a tale. They had a startled, frightened,

-      glad expression, and were extremely bright.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should have liked to play with you, little girl,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;but I didn&rsquo;t

-      know where you were staying. I looked for you this morning, but couldn&rsquo;t

-      find you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dorrie seems to think that you belong to her,&rdquo; said Vi, in her laughing

-      voice. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a little bit spoilt, you know. If she wants anything, she

-      wants it badly. She can&rsquo;t wait. So, when we didn&rsquo;t run across you, she

-      began to worry herself sick. If we hadn&rsquo;t found you, I expect there&rsquo;d have

-      been an advertisement in to-morrow&rsquo;s paper for the young man who played

-      ships with a little girl on the north beach.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t go away again,&rdquo; coaxed Dorrie, patting my face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where are you walking?&rdquo; asked Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To Woadley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s where we&rsquo;re going, so if you don&rsquo;t mind the squeeze, you&rsquo;d better

-      get in and ride.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A governess-car is made to seat four, but they have to be people of

-      reasonable size. The driver&rsquo;s size was not reasonable. Good Ransby ale and

-      a sedentary mode of life had swelled him out breadthwise, so that there

-      was no room left on his side of the carriage except for a child;

-      consequently I took my seat by Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The driver thought he knew me, but was still a little doubtful in his

-      mind. With honest, Suffolk downrightness, he immediately commenced to ask

-      questions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You bain&rsquo;t a Ransby man, be you, sir?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a half-and-half.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thought I couldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;a&rsquo; been mistooken. I&rsquo;ve lived in Ransby man

-      and boy, and I never forgets a face. Which &rsquo;alf of you might be

-      Ransby?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m Ransby all through on my parents&rsquo; side, but I&rsquo;ve lived away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, you bain&rsquo;t Mr. Cardover, be you&mdash;gran&rsquo;son to old Sir Charles?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve guessed right.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, I never! And to think that you should be goin&rsquo; to Woadley! Why, I

-      knew your Ma well, Mr. Cardover; The gay Miss Fannie Evrard, we called &rsquo;er.

-      Meanin&rsquo; no disrespec&rsquo; to you, sir, I was groom to Miss Fannie all them

-      years ago, before she run away with your father. She were as nice and kind

-      a mistress as ever a man might &rsquo;ope to find. It&rsquo;s proud I am to

-      meet you this day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As we bowled along through the leafy country, all shadows and sunshine, he

-      fell to telling me about my mother, and I was glad to listen to what he

-      had to say. The story had been told often before. By his inside knowledge

-      of the elopement, he had acquired that kind of local importance which

-      money cannot buy. It had provided him with the one gleam of lawless

-      romance that had kindled up the whole of his otherwise dull life.

-      According to his account, the marriage would never have come off, unless

-      he had connived at the courting. My mother, he said, took him into her

-      confidence, and he was the messenger between her and my father. He would

-      let my father know in which direction they intended to ride. When they

-      came to the place of trysting, he would drop behind and my mother would go

-      on alone. He pointed with his whip to some of the meeting-places with an

-      air of pride. He was godfather, as you might say, to the elopement. After

-      it had taken place, Sir Charles had discovered his share in it, and had

-      dismissed him. The word had gone the round among the county gentry&mdash;he

-      had never been able to find another situation. So he had bought himself a

-      governess-car and pony, and had plied for hire. &ldquo;And I bain&rsquo;t sorry, sir,&rdquo;

-       he said. &ldquo;If it were to do again, I should be on the lovers&rsquo; side. I&rsquo;m

-      only sorry I &rsquo;ad to take to drivin&rsquo; instead o&rsquo; ridin&rsquo;; it makes a

-      feller so &rsquo;eavy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi laughed at me out of the corners of her eyes. She had listened

-      intently. I felt, without her telling me, that this little glimpse into my

-      private history had roused her kindness. And the affair had its comic side&mdash;that

-      this mountain of flesh sitting opposite should be my first ambassador to

-      her, bearing my credentials of respectability.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ha&rsquo; ye heerd about Lord Halloway?&rdquo; he inquired.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I nodded curtly. Encouraged by my former sympathetic attention, he failed

-      to take the intended warning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thar&rsquo;s a young rascal for ye, for all &rsquo;e &rsquo;olds &rsquo;is

-      &rsquo;ead so &rsquo;igh! Looks more&rsquo;n likely now that you&rsquo;ll be the

-      nex&rsquo; master o&rsquo; Woadley. Doan&rsquo;t it strike you that way, sir?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I maintained silence, he carried on a monologue with himself. &ldquo;And &rsquo;e

-      war goin&rsquo; to Woadley, he war. And I picks &rsquo;un up by h&rsquo;axcident

-      like. And I war groom to &rsquo;is ma. Wery strange!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But there were stranger things than that, to my way of thinking: and the

-      strangest of all was my own condition of mind. A golden, somnolent content

-      had come over me, as though my life had broken off short, and commenced

-      afresh on a higher plane. Every motive I had ever had for good was

-      strengthened. The old grinding problems were either solved or seemed

-      negligible. I saw existence in its largeness of opportunity, and I saw its

-      opportunity in a woman&rsquo;s eyes. It was as though I had been colorblind, and

-      had been suddenly gifted with sight so penetrating that it enabled me to

-      look into exquisite distances and there discern all the subtle and

-      marvelous disintegrations of light.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As the car swung round corners or rattled over rough places, our bodies

-      were thrown into closer contact as we sat together, Vi and I. Now her

-      shoulder would lurch against mine; now she would throw out her hand to

-      steady herself, and I would wonder at its smallness. I watched the demure

-      sweetness of her profile, and how the sun and shadows played tricks with

-      her face and throat. The fragrance of her hair came to me. I followed the

-      designed daintiness of the little gold curls that clustered with such

-      apparent carelessness against the whiteness of her forehead. I noticed the

-      flicker of the long lashes which hid and revealed her eyes. How perishable

-      she was, like a white hyacinth, or a summer&rsquo;s morning&mdash;and how

-      remotely divine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And the tantalizing fascination of it all was that I must be restrained.

-      She might escape me any day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In a hollow of the country from between the hedges, Woadley crept into

-      sight. First we saw the gray Norman tower of the church, smothered in ivy;

-      then the thatched roofs of the outlying cottages; then the sun-flecked

-      whiteness of the village-walls, with tall sunflowers and hollyhocks

-      peeping over them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As we passed the churchyard the driver slowed down. &ldquo;Thar&rsquo;s the last place

-      your father met &rsquo;er, Mr. Cardover, before they run away. It war a

-      summer evenin&rsquo; about this time o&rsquo; the year, and they stayed for upwards o&rsquo;

-      an hour together in the porch. She&rsquo;d told old Sir Charles that she war

-      goin&rsquo; to put flowers on &rsquo;er mawther&rsquo;s grave. Aye, but she looked

-      beautiful; she war a fine figure o&rsquo; a lady.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I told him I would alight there. He was closing the door, on the point of

-      driving on, when I said to Vi, &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t you like to get out as well? The

-      church is worth a visit.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She gave me her hand and I helped her down. The governess-car went forward

-      to the village inn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They had been scything the grass in the churchyard and the air was full of

-      its cool fragrance. Dorrie ran off to gather daisies in a corner where it

-      still stood rank and high.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We walked up the path together to the porch and tried the door. It was

-      locked. We turned away into the sunlight, where dog-roses climbed over

-      neglected graves and black-birds fluttered from headstones to bushes, from

-      bushes to the moss-covered surrounding walls.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was Vi who broke the pleasant silence. &ldquo;I hope you didn&rsquo;t mind the man

-      talking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all. I expect I should have told you myself by and by.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your mother must have been very beautiful. I like to think of her. All

-      this country seems so different now I know about her; it was so impersonal

-      before. Was&mdash;was she happy afterwards?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I told her. I told her much more than I realized at the time. So few

-      people had ever cared to hear me talk about her, and for all of them she

-      was something past&mdash;dead and gone. My grandmother talked of her as a

-      lottery-ticket; so did the Spuffler; at home we never mentioned her at

-      all. Yet always she had been a real presence in my life. I felt jealous

-      for her; it seemed to me that she must be glad when we, whom she had

-      loved, remembered her with kindness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie came back to us with her lap full of flowers. Seeing that we were

-      talking seriously, she seated herself quietly beside us and commenced to

-      weave the flowers into a chain.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The gate creaked. Footsteps came up the path. They paused; seemed to

-      hesitate; came forward again. Behind us they halted. Turning my head, I

-      saw an erect old man, white-haired, standing hat in hand, his back toward

-      us, regarding a weather-beaten grave.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We rose, instinctively feeling our presence irreverent. My eye caught the

-      name on the headstone of the grave:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <h3>

-      MARY FRANCES EVRARD

-    </h3>

-    <h3>

-      BELOVED WIFE OF SIR CHARLES EVRARD

-    </h3>

-    <h3>

-      OF WOADLEY HALL

-    </h3>

-    <p>

-      The old gentleman put on his hat, preparing to move away. Recognizing our

-      intention to give him privacy, he turned and bowed with stiff,

-      old-fashioned courtesy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I gazed on him fascinated. It was the first time I had seen my

-      grandfather. His eyes fell full on my face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His was one of the most remarkable faces I have ever gazed on. He was

-      clean shaven; his skin was ashy. His features were ascetic, boldly

-      chiseled and yet sensitively fine. They seemed to remodel themselves with

-      startling rapidity to express the thought that was passing in his mind.

-      The forehead was bony, high, and wrinkled. The nose was large-nostriled

-      and aquiline. The eye-brows were shaggy; beneath them burnt sparks of

-      fire, steady and almost cruel in their scorching penetration. From the

-      nostrils to the corners of the mouth two heavy lines cut deep into the

-      flesh, creating an expression of haughty contemplation and aloof sadness.

-      The mouth was prominent, fulllipped, and almost sensual, had it not been

-      so delicately shaped. The chin was long, pointed, and sank into the

-      breast. It was an actor&rsquo;s face, a poet&rsquo;s face, a rejected prophet&rsquo;s face,

-      according to the mood which animated it. When the lines deepened into

-      sneering melancholy and the corners of the large mouth drooped, it became

-      almost Jewish. The strong will that was always striving to cast the

-      outward appearance into an expression of immobile pride, was continually

-      being thwarted by the man&rsquo;s quivering, abnormal capacity to feel and to be

-      wounded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He stared at me in troubled amazement. Yearning, despairing tenderness

-      fought its way into his eyes; for an instant, his whole expression relaxed

-      and softened. He had recognized my mother in me and was remembering. He

-      made a step towards me. Then his face went rigid again. The skin drew

-      tight over the cheek-bones. Setting his hat firmly on his head, he turned

-      upon his heel. At the gate he looked back once, against his will. Then he

-      passed out resolutely and vanished down the road.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Twilight was gathering as we drove back to Ransby. Rays of the sun crept

-      away from us westward through the meadows, like golden snakes. Vi and I

-      were silent&mdash;the presence of the driver put a constraint upon us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He had a good deal to say, for he had warned all the village of my

-      arrival, and all the village, furtively from behind curtained windows, had

-      watched Sir Charles&rsquo;s journey to and from the churchyard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It had been pleasant at the inn to hear myself addressed as &ldquo;Miss Fannie&rsquo;s

-      son.&rdquo; The windows of the low-ceilinged room in which we had had our tea,

-      faced out on the tall iron gates which gave entrance to the park. Far up

-      the driveway, hidden behind elms, we had just caught a glimpse of Woadley

-      Hall. And all the while we were eating, the broad-hipped landlady had

-      stood guard over us, talking about my mother and the good old days. She

-      had mistaken Vi for my wife at first; in speaking to Dorrie she had

-      referred to me as &ldquo;your Papa.&rdquo; Up to the last she had persisted in

-      including Vi and Dorrie in her prophecies for my future. She never doubted

-      that Vi and I were engaged. She assured us that she &rsquo;oped to see us

-      at the &rsquo;All one day, and a &rsquo;andsome couple we would make.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the time we had been abashed by her conversation, and had drunk our tea

-      in flustered fashion with our eyes in our cups. We had hated this big

-      complacent person for her clumsy, interfering kindness. But now, as the

-      little carriage threaded its way through dusky lanes, her errors gave rise

-      to a pleasant train of imaginings. I saw Vi as my wife&mdash;as Lady

-      Cardover, mistress of Woadley Hall. I planned the doings of our days, from

-      the horse-back ride in the early morning to the quiet evenings together by

-      the cozy fire. And why could it not be possible?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Country lovers, unashamed, with arms encircling one another, drew aside to

-      let us pass, as our lamps flashed down the road. Night birds were calling.

-      Meadowsweet and wild thyme spread their fragrance abroad. As the wind blew

-      inland, between great silences, it carried to our ears the moan of the

-      sea. While twilight hovered in the open spaces Dorrie, since no one talked

-      to her, kept up an undercurrent song:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      &ldquo;How far is it to Babylon?

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      <i>Three score miles and ten</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      Can I get there by candlelight?

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      <i>Ah yes,&mdash;and back again.</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As night crept on, the piping little voice grew indistinct and murmurous,

-      like a bee humming; the fair little head nodded and sank against the arm

-      of the bulky driver. Vi leant forward to lift her into her lap; but I took

-      Dorrie from her. With the child in my arms, for the first time the desire

-      to be a father came over me. In thinking of what love might mean, I had

-      never thought of that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered Ransby at the top of the High Street and drew up outside an old

-      black flint house. Vi got out first and rang the bell. When the door

-      opened, I put Dorrie into her arms. I bent over and kissed the sleeping

-      child. Vi drew back her head sharply; my lips had passed so near to hers.

-      We faced one another on the threshold. The light from the hall, falling on

-      her face, showed me that her lips were parted as though she had something

-      that she was trying to get said. Then, &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo; she whispered, and

-      the door closed behind her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I crossed the street and wandered to and fro, watching the house. All the

-      front was in darkness; her rooms must be at the back. I was greedy for her

-      presence; if I could only see her shadow pass before a window I would be

-      content. With the closing of the door, she seemed to have shut me out of

-      her life. There was so much to say, and nothing had been said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned out of the High Street down a long dark score, toward the beach.

-      Walls rose tall on either side. The salt wind, hurrying up the narrow

-      passage, struck me in the face and caused the gas-lamps to quiver. Far

-      down the tunnel at the end of the steps lay a belt of blackness, and

-      beyond that the tossing lights of ships at sea.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Reaching the Beach Road, I passed over the denes. The town stretched tall

-      across the sky, like a shadowy curtain through which peered golden eyes.

-      The revolving light of the lighthouse on the denes pointed a long white

-      finger inland, till its tip rested on the back of Vi&rsquo;s house. I fancied I

-      saw her figure at the window. The finger swept on in a circle out to sea,

-      leaving the town in darkness. The upper-light on the cliff replied,

-      pointing to the place where I was standing, making it bright as day. If

-      she were still at the window, she would be able to see me as I had seen

-      her. Next time her window was illumined she had vanished. I watched and

-      waited; she did not return.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I roamed along the shore towards the harbor, purposeless with desire. The

-      sea, like a blind old man, kept whimpering to itself, trying to drag

-      itself up the beach, clutching at the sand with exhausted fingers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Wearied out with wandering, I turned my steps homeward. The shop looked so

-      dark that I was ashamed to ring the bell lest they had all retired. I

-      tapped on the shutters, and heard a shuffling inside; my grandmother

-      opened the door to me. She was in her dressing-gown and a turkey-red

-      petticoat. The servant had been in bed some hours.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the keeping-room I found a supper spread. Instead of being annoyed, she

-      was bubbling over with excitement. She could not sit down, but stood over

-      my chair while I ate; she was sure something wonderful had happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So you saw Sir Charles, my boy, and he recognized you! Tell me

-      everything, chapter and verse, with all the frills and furbelows.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I had not much that I could tell, but I spread it out to satisfy her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what did you think of &rsquo;im?&rdquo; she asked. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t he every inch

-      the aristocrat?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. But why is he so dark? There are times when he looks almost Jewish.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, my dear, that&rsquo;s &rsquo;cause he&rsquo;s got gipsy-blood. His mother was one of

-      the Goliaths. Didn&rsquo;t your father ever tell you that? Seems to me he don&rsquo;t

-      tell you nothing. You have to come to your poor old Grannie to learn

-      anything. Why, yes, old Sir Oliver Evrard, his father, your

-      greatgrandfather, fell in love with a gipsy fortune-teller and married &rsquo;er.

-      Ever since then the gipsies have been allowed to camp on Woadley Ham. They

-      do say that it was the wild gipsy streak that made your mother do what she

-      did. But there&mdash;that&rsquo;s a long story. It&rsquo;ll keep. We&rsquo;d better go to

-      bed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER III&mdash;FATE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> could not

-      understand Vi. It would seem that she was trying to avoid me. If I met her

-      in the street she was usually driving and, while she bowed and smiled,

-      never halted. I took many strolls by her house, hoping to catch her going

-      in or out. I think she must have watched me. Once only, when she thought

-      the coast was clear, I came upon her just as she was leaving the house.

-      She saw me and flushed gloriously; then pretended that she had not seen me

-      and re-entered, closing the door hurriedly behind her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After that I gave up my pursuit of her. It seemed not straightforward&mdash;too

-      much like spying. I kept away from the places she was likely to frequent.

-      Wandering the quays, where there were only sailors and red-capped Brittany

-      onion-sellers, I racked my brains, trying to recall in what I had

-      offended. I felt no resentment for Vi&rsquo;s conduct. It never occurred to me

-      that she was a coquette. I thought that she might be actuated by a woman&rsquo;s

-      caution, and gave her credit for motives of which I had no knowledge. The

-      more she withdrew beyond my attainment, the more desirable she became to

-      me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My grandmother noticed my fallen countenance and concluded that Sir

-      Charles&rsquo;s indifference was the cause of it. She tried to cheer me with

-      fragments of wise sayings which had helped her to keep her courage. She

-      told me that there were more fish in the sea than ever came out of it. She

-      even feigned contempt for Sir Charles, saying that I should probably be

-      just as happy without his begrudged money. She resorted to religion for

-      comfort, saying that if God didn&rsquo;t intend me to inherit Woadley, it was

-      because it wouldn&rsquo;t be good for me. She painted for me the pleasures of

-      the contented life:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      &ldquo;No riches I covet, no glory I want,

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      H&rsquo;ambition is nothing to me;

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      The one thing I beg of kind &rsquo;eaven to grant

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Is a mind independent and free.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But she couldn&rsquo;t stir me out of my melancholy, for she didn&rsquo;t know its

-      cause. She physicked me for financial disappointments; what I wanted was a

-      love-antidote.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As my whole energies had formerly been bent on encountering Vi, so now

-      they were directed towards avoiding her. For hours I would lounge in the

-      bake-house or sit in the shop while Grandmother Cardover did her knitting,

-      served customers, or gossiped with her neighbors. Then, against my better

-      judgment, curiosity and longing for one more glimpse of her would drag me

-      out into the streets. Yet, once in the streets, my chief object was to

-      flee from her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now when I should have refrained from pestering her, some obstinate fate

-      was always bringing us face to face. I was sorriest for the effect that

-      our attitude was having on Dorrie. At first she would rush forward in a

-      gale of high spirits to greet me, until restrained by Vi. Next time, with

-      a child&rsquo;s forgetfulness, she would lift to me her pansy-face smiling, and

-      remembering would hang back. At last she grew afraid of my troubled looks,

-      and would hide shyly behind Vi&rsquo;s skirts when she saw me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For five days I had not met them. A desperate suspicion that they had left

-      town grew upon me. I became reckless in my desire for certainty. I could

-      not bear the suspense. I was half-minded to call at the house where she

-      had been staying, but that did not seem fair to her. I called myself a

-      fool for not having stopped her in the street while I had the chance, when

-      an explanation and an apology might have set everything on a proper

-      footing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the sixth morning of her absence I rose early and went out before

-      breakfast. The skies were gray and squally. A slow drizzle had been

-      falling all night and, though it now had ceased, the pavements were wet.

-      The wind came in gusts, whistling round corners of streets and houses,

-      whirling scraps of paper high in the air. When I came to the harbor, I saw

-      that the sea was choppy and studded with white horses. Against the piles

-      of the pier waves were dashing and shattering into spray. From up channel,

-      all along the horizon, drove long lines of leaden clouds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I struck out across the denes between the sea-wall and the Beach Road. No

-      one was about. I braced myself against the wind, enjoying its stinging

-      coldness. The tormented loneliness of the scene was in accord with my

-      mood. The old town, hanging red along the cliff, no longer seemed to watch

-      me; it frowned out on the desolate waste of water in impersonal defiance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My thoughts were full of that first morning when I had met her. I gave my

-      imagination over without restraint to reconstructing its sensuous beauty.

-      I saw the fire of the furze again, and scented the far-blown fragrance of

-      wall-flowers, hiding in their crannies. But I saw as the center of it all

-      the slim white girl with the mantle of golden hair, the deep inscrutable

-      eyes of violet, and the slow sweet smile of <i>La Gioconda</i> playing

-      round the edges of her mouth: gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips

-      and sunshine for a background.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The hot blood in me was up&mdash;the gipsy blood. A stream of impassioned

-      fancies passed before me. Ah, if I were to meet her now, I would have done

-      with fine-spun theories of what was gentlemanly. On the lonely beach I

-      would throw my arms about her, however she struggled, and hold her fast

-      till she lay with her dear face looking up, crushed and submissive in my

-      breast. After that she might leave me, but she would at least have learnt

-      that I was a man and that I loved her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ahead lay the sullen wreck. I had been there only once since our first

-      meeting. Motives of delicacy, which I now regretted, had held me back. Now

-      I could go there. On such a morning, though she were still in Ransby,

-      there would be no fear of surprising her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On entering the hull through the hole in the prow, the wind ceased, though

-      it whistled overhead. I leant against the walls of the stranded ship,

-      recovering my breath. I drew out my pipe, intending to take a smoke while

-      I rested. As I turned to strike a match, an open umbrella lying in a

-      corner on the sand, caught my attention. I went over and looked behind it;

-      there lay a pair of woman&rsquo;s shoes and stockings, and a jacket, with stones

-      placed on it to keep it down. Beneath the jacket was a disordered pile of

-      woman&rsquo;s clothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My first thought was shame of what she might think of me, were she to find

-      me. My second was of angry fear because she had been so foolhardy as to

-      bathe from such a shore on such a morning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hurrying out of the wreck, I strode across the beach to where the surf

-      rushed boiling up the pebbles. The waves ran high, white, and foam-capped,

-      hammering against the land. Gazing out from shore, I could see nothing but

-      leaden water, rising and falling, rising and falling. The height of the

-      waves might hide a swimmer from one standing at the water&rsquo;s level; I raced

-      back up the beach, and climbed the wreck. I could not discover her. The

-      horror of what this meant stunned me; I could think of nothing else. My

-      mind was in confusion. Then I heard my voice repeating over and over that

-      she was not dead. The sheer monotony of the reiterated assertion, produced

-      a sudden, unnatural clearness. &ldquo;If she is not drowned, she must be

-      somewhere out there,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I commenced to sweep the sea with my eyes in ever widening circles. Two

-      hundred yards down the shore to the left and about fifty out, I sighted

-      something. It was white and seemed only foam at first. The crest of a wave

-      tossed it high for a second, then shut it out; when the next wave rose it

-      was still there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I shouted, but my voice would not carry against the wind. The next time

-      the white thing rose on the crest I was sure that it was the face of a

-      woman. I saw her arm thrown out above the surface; she was swimming the

-      overarm stroke in an effort to make headway toward the land. I knew that

-      she could never do it, for the current along the north beach runs seawards

-      and the tide was going out. I gazed round in panic. The shore was forlorn

-      and deserted. Behind me to the northward stretched the gaunt, bare cliffs.

-      To the southward, a mile distant across the denes, stood the outskirts of

-      the sleepy town. Before ever I could bring help, she would have been

-      carried exhausted far out to sea, or else drowned. There was no boat on

-      the shore between myself and the harbor. There was nothing between her and

-      death but myself. And to go to her rescue meant death.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I scarcely know what happened. I became furious with unreasonable anger. I

-      was angry with her for her folly, and angry with the world because it took

-      no notice and did not care. I was determined that, before it was too late,

-      I would go to her, so that she might understand. Yet, despite my passion,

-      I acted with calculation and cunning. All my attention was focused on that

-      speck of white, bobbing in the waste of churned up blackness. As I ran

-      along the beach I kept my eyes fixed on that. When I came opposite, I

-      waved to it. It took no notice. I hurried on a hundred yards further; the

-      current would bear her down towards me northwards. I stripped almost

-      naked, tearing off everything that would weigh me down. I waded knee-deep

-      into the surf, up to where the beach shelved suddenly. I waited till a

-      roller was on the point of breaking; diving through it, I struck out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was difficult to see her. Only when the waves threw us high at the same

-      moment, did I catch a glimpse of her and get my direction. The shock of

-      the icy coldness of the water steadied my nerves and concentrated my

-      purpose. I was governed by a single determination&mdash;to get to her. My

-      thought went no further than that. Nothing else mattered. I had no fear of

-      death or of what might come after&mdash;I had no time to think about it. I

-      wanted to get her in my arms and shake her, and tell her what a little

-      fool she was, and kiss her on the mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Lying on my right side, keeping low in the water, I dug my way forward

-      with an over-arm left-stroke. As my first wind went from me and I waited

-      for my second, I settled down into the long plugging stroke of a mile

-      race. The tide was with me, but the roughness of the water prevented rapid

-      progress. I had to get far enough out to be at the point below her in the

-      current to which she was being swept down.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I started counting from one to ten to keep myself from slackening, just as

-      the cox of a racing-eight does when he forces his crew to swing out. I

-      regarded my body impersonally, without sympathy, as though we were

-      separate. When it suffered and the muscles ached, I lashed it forward with

-      my will, silently deriding it with brutal profanities. The wind poured

-      over the sea; the spray dashed up and nearly choked me. It was difficult

-      to keep her in sight. When I saw her again, I smiled grimly at her courage

-      and hit up a quicker pace. Who would have thought that her fragile body,

-      so flower-like and dainty, had the strength and nerve to fight like that?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was far enough out now to catch her. I halted, treading water; but the

-      inaction gave my imagination time to get to work, and, when that happened,

-      I felt myself weakening. I started up against the current, going parallel

-      with the beach, to meet her. The one obsessing thought in my mind was to

-      get to her. It was not so much a thought as an animal instinct. I was

-      reduced to the primitive man, brutally battling his way towards his mate

-      at a time of danger. While I acted instinctively, the flesh responded;

-      directly I paused to think, my body began to shirk and my strength to ebb.

-      Somewhere in that raging waste of water I must find and touch her. I did

-      not care to hear her voice&mdash;simply to hold her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Thirty feet away a gray riot of stampeding water rose against the horizon;

-      in it I saw her face. With the swift trudging stroke of a polo-player I

-      made towards her. In the foam and spray I saw what looked like golden

-      seaweed. She was drifting past me; I caught her by the hair. Out of the

-      mist of driven chaos we gazed in one another&rsquo;s eyes. Her lips moved.

-      &ldquo;You!&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My mind was laughing in triumph. My body was no longer weary&mdash;it was

-      forgotten and strong again. In all the world there were just she and I.

-      She had tried to escape me, but now the waves jostled us together. She had

-      striven not to see me, but now my face focused all her gaze. She might

-      look away into the smoking crest of the next roller, but her eyes must

-      always come back. Of all live things we had loved or hated, now there

-      remained just she and I. We had been stripped of all our acquirements and

-      thrown back to the primitive basis of existence&mdash;a man and a woman

-      fighting for life in chaos. For us all the careful conventions, built up

-      by centuries, were suddenly destroyed. The polite decencies and safeguards

-      of civilization were swept aside. The shame of so many natural things,

-      which had made up the toll of our refinement, was contemptuously blotted

-      out&mdash;the architecture of the ages was shattered in an instant. We

-      were thrown back to where the first man and woman started. The only virtue

-      that remained to us was the physical strength by which death might be

-      avoided. The sole distinguishing characteristic between us was the

-      female&rsquo;s dependence on the male, and the male&rsquo;s native instinct to protect

-      her, if need be savagely with his life. Over there, a mile away, stood the

-      red comfortable town on the cliff, where all the smug decencies were

-      respected which we had perforce abandoned. Between us and the shore

-      stretched fifty yards of water&mdash;a gulf between the finite and the

-      infinite. Over there lay the moment of the present; here in eternity were

-      she and I.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I gazed on her with stern gladness; I had got to her&mdash;she was mine.

-      The madness for possession, which had given me strength, was satisfied.

-      Now a fresh motive, still instinctive and primal, urged me on&mdash;I must

-      save her. I lifted her arm and placed it across my shoulder, so that I

-      might support her. The great thing was to keep her afloat as long as

-      possible. There was no going back over the path that we had traversed&mdash;both

-      tide and current were dead against us. Already the shore was stealing away&mdash;we

-      were being carried out to sea.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I remembered, how on that first morning, when I had warned her against

-      bathing from the north beach, she had told me she was a good swimmer. In

-      my all-embracing ignorance of her, I had no means of estimating how much

-      or how little that meant. For myself, barring accidents, I judged I could

-      keep going for two hours.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi was weakening. With her free left hand she was still swimming pluckily,

-      but her right hand kept slipping off my shoulder; I had to watch her

-      sharply and lift it back. Her weight became heavier. Her lips were blue

-      and chattering. I noticed that her fingers were spread apart; she had

-      cramp in the palms of her hands. Her body dragged beside me; she was

-      losing control of it. She was no longer kicking out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      To talk, save in monosyllables, was impossible, and then one had to shout.

-      Our ears were stopped up with water; the clash of the wind against the

-      waves was deafening. My one fear for her was that the cramp would spread.

-      If that happened, we would go down together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt her cold lips pressed against my shoulder. As I looked round, she

-      let go of me. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m done,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She went under. I slipped my arm about her and turned over on my back, so

-      that my body floated under her, and she lay across my breast. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t

-      go,&rdquo; I panted furiously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let me,&rdquo; she pleaded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But I held her. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t go,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My anger roused her. I turned over again, swimming the breast-stroke. She

-      placed her arm round my neck. Her long hair washed about me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Sometimes her eyes were closed and I thought she had fainted. Her lips had

-      ceased to chatter. Her face lay against my shoulder, pinched and quiet as

-      though she were dead. My own motions were becoming mechanical. It was

-      sheer lust of life that kept me going. I had lost sensation in my feet and

-      hands. The shore had dwindled behind us; it seemed very small and blurred,

-      though it was probably only half-a-mile distant. The water was less

-      turbulent now; it rose and fell, rose and fell, with a rocking

-      restfulness. I felt that I would soon be sleeping soundly. But in the

-      midst of drowsing, my mind would spring up alert and I would drag her arm

-      closer about my neck.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Above the clamor of the waves I heard a shout. At first I thought that I

-      had given it myself. I heard it again; it was unmistakable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Looking up out of the trough of a wave, I saw a patched sail hanging over

-      us. My sight was misty; the sail was indistinct and yet near me. As I rose

-      on the crest, a hand grabbed me and I felt myself lifted out on to a pile

-      of nets.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;THE TRUTH ABOUT HER

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>har, lad, lie

-      still. Yow&rsquo;ll be &rsquo;ome direc&rsquo;ly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The gray-bearded man at the tiller smiled to me in a friendly manner. He

-      didn&rsquo;t seem at all excited, but took all that had happened stoically, as

-      part of the day&rsquo;s work. Seeing me gaze round questioningly, he added, &ldquo;The

-      lassie&rsquo;s well enough, Mr. Cardover. She&rsquo;ll come round. A mouthful o&rsquo; salt

-      water won&rsquo;t &rsquo;urt &rsquo;er.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I wondered vaguely how he knew my name. Then, as my brain cleared, I

-      remembered him as one of the fishermen who called in at my grandmother&rsquo;s

-      shop for an occasional chat, seated on a barrel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I raised myself on my elbow. We were rounding the pier-head, running into

-      the harbor. I was in a little shrimping-boat. The nets hung out over the

-      stern. The old man at the tiller was in oilskins and a younger man was

-      shortening sail.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt sick, and giddy, and stiff. A tarpaulin was thrown over me. I tried

-      to recollect how I came there. Then I saw Vi lying near me in the bows. A

-      sailor&rsquo;s coat was wrapped about her. Her hair lay piled in a golden heap

-      over her white throat and breast. Her eyes were closed. The blueness of

-      the veins about her temples enhanced her pallor. I made an effort to crawl

-      towards her; but the motion of the boat and my own weakness sent me

-      sprawling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      People from the pier-head had seen us. As we stole up the harbor,

-      questions were shouted to the man at the tiller and answers shouted back.

-      When we drew in at the quayside an excited crowd had gathered. To every

-      newcomer the account was given of how Joe Tuttle, as &rsquo;e war

-      a-beating up to the &rsquo;arbor, comed across them two a-driftin&rsquo; off

-      the nor&rsquo; beach, &rsquo;alf a mile or so from land.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Coats were torn off and folded round us. Someone was sent ahead to warn

-      neighbor Cardover of what she must expect. Vi was tenderly lifted out and

-      carried down the road in the arms of Joe Tuttle. I was hoisted like a sack

-      across the shoulders of our younger rescuer. Accompanying us was a

-      shouting, jabbering, eager crowd, anxious to tell everyone we passed what

-      had happened. My most distinct recollection is the shame I felt of the

-      bareness of my dangling legs.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The tramp of heavy feet invaded the shop. I heard the capable voice of

-      Grandmother Cardover getting rid of sightseers. &ldquo;Now then, my good people,

-      there&rsquo;s nothing &rsquo;ere for you. Out you go; you&rsquo;re not wanted in my

-      shop. Thank goodness, we can worry along without your &rsquo;elp.&rdquo; Then I

-      heard her in a lower voice giving directions for us to be carried

-      upstairs.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hot blankets, brought from the bake-house oven, were soon about me and I

-      was tucked safe in bed. I have a faint recollection of the doctor coming

-      and of hot spirits being forced down my throat. Then they left me alone

-      and I fell into the deep sleep of utter weariness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I awoke, the room was in darkness and a fire was burning. I felt lazy

-      and comfortable. I turned on my side and found that I was alone. I began

-      to think back. The thought that filled my mind seemed a continuation of

-      what I had been dreaming. I was in the trough of a wave, the sea was

-      washing over me, Vi&rsquo;s arm was heavy about my neck, and her lips were

-      kissing my shoulder. I looked round; her eyes shone into mine, and her

-      hair swayed loose about her like the hair of a mermaiden. I listened.

-      There were footsteps on the stair. The door opened and my grandmother

-      tiptoed to the bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I raised myself up. The torpor cleared from my brain. Before the question

-      could frame itself, my grandmother had answered it. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s all right,

-      Dante; she&rsquo;s in the spare bedroom and sleeping soundly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She seated herself beside me and slipped her wrinkled old hand into mine

-      beneath the bed-clothes. She sat in silence for some minutes. The light

-      from the street-lamp shining in at the window, fell upon her. I could see

-      her gray curls wabbling, the way they always did when she was agitated. At

-      last she spoke. &ldquo;How did it &rsquo;appen, Dante?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I told her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you knowed &rsquo;er before?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Little by little I gave her all the story.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A nice young rascal you are,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;and a pretty way you&rsquo;ve got o&rsquo;

-      love-making. You beat your own father, that you do. And what&rsquo;s her name?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t know!&rdquo; She laughed till the tears ran down her face. &ldquo;And I

-      suppose you think you&rsquo;re goin&rsquo; to marry &rsquo;er?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know I am.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, the sooner the better I say. Judging by her looks, you might &rsquo;ave

-      chose worse. When it comes to wimmen, the Evrards and the Cardovers are

-      mad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She went downstairs to get me some supper. I had given her Vi&rsquo;s address,

-      that she might send off a message to Vi&rsquo;s landlady. Poor little Dorrie

-      must be beside herself by now, wondering what had happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While I ate my supper, my grandmother kept referring to what I had told

-      her. She was very proud and happy. Her eyes twinkled behind her

-      spectacles. I had added an entirely original chapter to the history of our

-      family&rsquo;s romance. &ldquo;I keep wishin&rsquo;,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;that your dear ma &rsquo;ad been

-      alive. It would just &rsquo;a&rsquo; suited her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The morning broke bright and sunny. I insisted on getting up to breakfast.

-      I was a trifle stiff, but apart from that none the worse for my

-      experience. It was odd to think that Vi was sleeping in the same house&mdash;Vi,

-      who had passed me in the streets without seeing me, Vi from whom I had

-      hidden myself, Vi who at this time yesterday morning had seemed so utterly

-      unattainable. The sense of her nearness filled me with wild enthusiasm. I

-      hummed and whistled while I dressed. I wondered how long she would make me

-      wait before we were married. She was mine already. Why should we wait? I

-      was impatient to go to her, I could feel the close embrace of her long

-      white arm about my neck. I was quite incurious as to who she was or where

-      she came from. Life for me began when I met her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I passed her door I halted, listening. I could hear my grandmother

-      talking inside, but in such a low voice that I could catch nothing of what

-      was said. She was bustling about, beating up the pillows and, as I judged,

-      making Vi tidy. Hearing her coming towards the door, I hurried down the

-      stairs. The stairs entered into the keeping-room. When she came down, she

-      carried an empty breakfast-tray in her hand. I noticed that she had on her

-      Sunday best: a black satin dress, a white lace apron trimmed with black

-      ribbon, and her finest lace cap spangled with jet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s been askin&rsquo; for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I jumped up from my chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But she won&rsquo;t see you until you&rsquo;ve breakfasted.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      While I hastened through the meal, my grandmother chattered gaily. She

-      quite approved my choice of a wife and had drawn from Vi one fact, of

-      which I was unaware&mdash;that she was an American. She was burning with

-      curiosity to learn more about her and was full of the most rosy

-      conjectures. She was quite sure that Vi was an heiress&mdash;all American

-      women who traveled alone were.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She went up to see that all was ready; then she came to the top of the

-      stairs and beckoned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m goin&rsquo; to leave you alone,&rdquo; she whispered, taking my face between her

-      hands. &ldquo;God bless you, my boy.&rdquo; Then she vanished all a-blush and

-      a-tremble into the keeping-room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The blood was surging in my brain. I felt weak from too much happiness.

-      Opening the door slowly, I entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I scarcely dared look up at first. The room swam before me. The

-      old-fashioned green and red flowers in the carpet ran together. I raised

-      my eyes to the large four-poster mahogany bed&mdash;it seemed too large to

-      hold such a little person. I could see the outline of her figure, but the

-      heavy crimson curtains, hanging from the tester, hid her face from me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi, darling!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She sat up, with her hands pressed against her throat. The sunlight,

-      shining in at the window, poured down upon her, burnishing her two long

-      plaited ropes of hair. She turned towards me; her eyes were misty, her

-      bosom swelling. She seemed to be calling me to her, and yet pushing me

-      back. I felt my knees breaking under me, and the sob beginning in my

-      throat. I ran towards her and knelt down at the bedside, placing my arms

-      about her and drawing her to me. For an instant she resisted, then her

-      body relaxed. I looked up at her, pouring out broken sentences. I felt

-      that the tears were coming through excess of gladness and bowed my head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was bending over me, so near she stooped that her breath was in my

-      hair. The sweet warmth of her was all about me. Her lips touched my

-      forehead. I held her more closely, but I would not meet her eyes. I dared

-      not till my question was answered. The silence between us stretched into

-      an eternity. Her hands wandered over me caressingly; it seemed a child

-      comforting a man. &ldquo;Poor boy,&rdquo; she whispered over and over, &ldquo;God knows,

-      neither of us meant it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I lifted my face to hers, the tenderness in her expression was wiped

-      out by a look of wild despair. She tore my hands from about her body and

-      tumbled her head back into the pillows with her face turned from me,

-      shaken by a storm of sobbing. Muttered exclamations rose to her lips&mdash;things

-      and names were mentioned which I only half heard, the purport of which I

-      could not understand. I tried to gather her to me, but she broke away from

-      me. &ldquo;Oh, you mustn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she sobbed, &ldquo;you mustn&rsquo;t touch me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With her loss of self-control my strength returned. I sat beside her on

-      the bed, stroking her hand and trying to console her&mdash;trying to tell

-      myself that this was quite natural and that everything was well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Gradually she exhausted herself and lay still. &ldquo;You ought to go,&rdquo; she

-      whispered; but when I rose to steal away, her hand clutched mine and drew

-      me back. In a slow, weary voice she began to speak to me. &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t do what

-      you ask me; I&rsquo;m already married. I thought you would have guessed from

-      Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She paused to see what I would say or do. When I said nothing, but clasped

-      her hand more firmly, she turned her face towards me, gazing up at me from

-      the pillow. &ldquo;I thought you would have left me after that,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s

-      all my fault; I saw how things were going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dearest, you did your best.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, I did my best and hurt you. When I told you that I was done

-      yesterday, why didn&rsquo;t you let me go? It would all have been so much

-      easier.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I wanted you,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;and still want you.&rdquo; The silence was so

-      deep that I could hear the rustle of the sheets at each intake of her

-      breath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t have me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice was so small that it only just came to me. &ldquo;I belong to Dorrie&rsquo;s

-      father. He&rsquo;s a good man and he trusts me, though he knows I don&rsquo;t love

-      him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She sat up, letting go my hand. I propped the pillows under her. She

-      signed to me to seat myself further away from her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She is mine. She is mine,&rdquo; I kept thinking to myself. &ldquo;We belong to one

-      another whatever she says.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall be better soon,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;then I can go away. You must try to

-      forget that you ever knew me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can never forget. I shall wait for you.&rdquo; Then the old treacherous

-      argument came to me, though it was sincerely spoken. &ldquo;Why need we go out

-      of one another&rsquo;s lives? Vi dearest, can&rsquo;t we be friends?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She hesitated. &ldquo;I was thinking of <i>you</i> when I said it. For me it

-      would be easier; I have Dorrie to live for. It would be more difficult for

-      you&mdash;you are a man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you trust me, Vi? You told me that he trusted you just now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice was thin and tired. &ldquo;Could we ever be only friends?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We must try&mdash;we can pretend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But such trials all have one ending.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ours won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her will was broken and her desire urged it. She held out her hand. &ldquo;Then

-      let&rsquo;s be friends.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I took it in mine and kissed it. Even then, I believe, we doubted our

-      strength.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER V&mdash;LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he <i>Ransby

-      Chronicle</i> had a full account of the averted bathing fatality. In a

-      small world of town gossip it was a sensation almost as important as a

-      local murder. Columns were filled up with what Vi&rsquo;s landlady said, and Joe

-      Tuttle, and Mrs. Cardover, and even Dorrie. They tried to interview me

-      without success; they couldn&rsquo;t interview Vi, for she was in bed. From the

-      landlady they gleaned some facts of which I was ignorant. Vi was Mrs.

-      Violet Carpenter, of Sheba, Massachusetts. Her husband was the owner of

-      large New England cotton factories. She had been away from America upwards

-      of a year, traveling in Europe. She expected to return home in a month.

-      The history of my parentage was duly recorded, including an account of my

-      father&rsquo;s elopement. All the old scandal concerning my mother was raked up

-      and re-garnished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Knowing what my intentions had been toward Vi, my grandmother was terribly

-      flustered at the discovery that Vi was a married woman. She was hurt in

-      her pride; she wanted to blame somebody. Her sense of the proprieties was

-      offended, and she felt that her reputation was secretly tarnished. An

-      immoral situation was existing under her roof&mdash;at least, that was

-      what she felt. She wanted to get rid of Vi directly, but the doctor

-      forbade her to be moved.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And to think I should &rsquo;ave come to this!&rdquo; she kept exclaiming,

-      &ldquo;after livin&rsquo; all these years honored and respected in my little town!

-      Mind, I don&rsquo;t blame you, and I don&rsquo;t blame &rsquo;er. Poor things! You

-      couldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;elp it. But I can&rsquo;t get over it&mdash;there was you

-      a-proposin&rsquo; in my spare bedroom to a married woman, and she a-lyin&rsquo; in

-      bed! What would folks say if they was to &rsquo;ear about it? And in my

-      &rsquo;ouse! And me so honored and respected!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her horror seemed to center in the fact that it should have happened in

-      the spare bedroom of all places, where all her dead had been laid out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She took it for granted that Vi and I would part forever, as soon as she

-      was well enough to travel. &ldquo;By all showings, it&rsquo;s &rsquo;igh time she

-      went back to &rsquo;er &rsquo;usband,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She suffered another shock when I undeceived her. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re playin&rsquo; with

-      fire, Dante; that&rsquo;s what you&rsquo;re doin&rsquo;. Take the word of an old woman who

-      knows the world&mdash;friendship will drift into familiarity and, more&rsquo;n

-      likely, familiarity &rsquo;ll drift into something else. A Cardover&rsquo;s bad

-      enough where wimmen is concerned, but an Evrard&rsquo;s the devil. It&rsquo;s the

-      gipsy blood that makes &rsquo;em mad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned a deaf ear to all her protests. Vi and I had done nothing wicked,

-      and we weren&rsquo;t going to run away from one another as though we had. A

-      mistake had occurred which concerned only ourselves; we had nothing to be

-      ashamed of. Then my grandmother threatened to send for Ruthita so that, at

-      least, we might not be alone together. I was quick to see that Ruthita&rsquo;s

-      presence would be a protection, so agreed that she should be invited down

-      to Ransby provided she was told nothing. Meanwhile no meetings between Vi

-      and myself were allowed. My grandmother guarded the spare bedroom like a

-      dragon.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But in a timid way, in her heart of hearts, she was proud of the

-      complication. It intrigued her. It made us all interesting persons. She

-      wore the indignant face of a Mother Grundy because she knew that society

-      would expect it of her; in many little sympathetic ways she revealed her

-      truer self. She would take her knitting up to Vi&rsquo;s bedside&mdash;Mrs.

-      Carpenter as she insisted on calling her&mdash;and would spend long hours

-      there. When conversing with me in the keeping-room late at night, she

-      would grow reminiscent and tell brave stories of the rewards which came at

-      length to thwarted lovers. I learnt from her that Mr. Randall Carpenter

-      was much older than either Vi or myself. If he were to die&mdash;&mdash;!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the second morning that Vi had been in the house I returned from a

-      desultory walk to find my grandmother in close conference with a stranger.

-      He was a dapper, perky little man, white-haired, bald-headed, whiskered,

-      with darting birdlike manners and a dignified air of precision about him.

-      He had the well-dressed appearance of a city gentleman rather than of a

-      Ransbyite. He wore a frock-coat, top-hat, gray trousers, shiny boots, and

-      white spats. I judged that he belonged to a profession.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Apologizing for my intrusion, I crossed the keeping-room, and was on the

-      point of mounting the stairs when the little man rose, all smiles.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your grandson, Mrs. Cardover, I presume? He&rsquo;s more of an Evrard than a

-      Cardover&mdash;all except his mouth.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was introduced to me as Mr. Seagirt, the lawyer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Happy to know you, Mr. Cardover. Happy to know you, sir.&rdquo; He pulled off

-      his gloves and shook hands in a gravely formal manner. &ldquo;We shall see more

-      of one another as time goes on. I hope it most sincerely. In fact, I may

-      say, from the way things are going, there is little doubt of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We all sat down. There was a strange constrained atmosphere of excitement

-      and embarrassment about both Mr. Seagirt and my grandmother. They balanced

-      on the edge of their chairs, flickering their eyelids and twiddling their

-      thumbs. Lawyer Seagirt kept up a hurried flow of procrastinating

-      conversation, continually limiting or overemphasizing his statements.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I have heard of what you did a day or two ago, Mr. Cardover&mdash;we have

-      all heard of it. You have created an excellent impression&mdash;most

-      excellent. The papers have been very flattering, but not more so than you

-      deserve. Ransby feels quite proud of you. Though you are a Londoner, you

-      belong to Ransby&mdash;no getting away from that. I suppose you&rsquo;d tell us

-      that you belong to Oxford. Ah, well, it&rsquo;s natural&mdash;but we claim you

-      first.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      All the time he had been talking he and my grandmother had been signaling

-      to one another with their eyes, as though one were saying, &ldquo;You tell him,&rdquo;

-       and the other, &ldquo;No, you tell him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When they did make up their minds to take me into their secret, they did

-      it both together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your grandfather&mdash;Sir Charles Evrard,&rdquo; they began, and there they

-      stuck.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last it came out that my grandfather had expressed a wish to see me,

-      and had sent Lawyer Seagirt to make the necessary inquiries about me. This

-      action on his part could have but one meaning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Two days later I was invited over to Woadley Hall to spend a week there.

-      Before I went, I had an interview with Vi, in my grandmother&rsquo;s presence.

-      She promised me that she would not leave Ransby until after I returned. My

-      fear had been that some spasm of caution might make her seize this

-      opportunity to return to America.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I drove out to Woadley Hall late in the afternoon, planning to get there

-      in time for dinner. I felt considerably nervous. I had been brought up in

-      dread of Sir Charles since childhood. I did not know what kind of conduct

-      was expected from me or what kind of reception I might expect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As we swung in through the iron gates and passed up the long avenue of

-      chestnuts and elms which led through the parkland to the house, my

-      nervousness increased into childish consternation. The pride of ancestry

-      and the comfortable signs of wealth filled me with distress. I belonged to

-      this, and was on my way to be examined to see whether I could prove

-      worthy. I was not ashamed of my father&rsquo;s family, but I was prepared to be

-      angry if anyone else should show shame of them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Far away, on the edge of the green grassland, just where the woods began

-      to cast their shadow, I could see dappled fallow-deer grazing. Colts,

-      hearing us approaching, lifted up their heads and stared, then whisking

-      their tails galloped off to watch us from behind their dams. Turrets and

-      broken gables of the old Jacobean Hall rose out of the trees before us.

-      Rooks were coming home to their nests in the tall elms, cawing. The

-      home-farm lay over to our left; the herd was coming out from the milking,

-      jingling their bells. A streak of orange lay across the blue of the west&mdash;the

-      beginning of the sunset.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Immediately on my arrival, I was shown to my bedroom to dress. I began to

-      have the sense of &ldquo;belonging.&rdquo; The windows looked out on a sunken garden,

-      all ablaze with stocks, snap-dragon, sweet-william, and all manner of

-      old-world flowers. In the scented stillness I could hear the splash of a

-      fountain playing in the center. Beyond that were other gardens, Dutch and

-      Italian, divided by red walls and terraces. Beyond them all, through the

-      shadowed trees one caught glimpses of a lake, with swans and gaily-painted

-      water-fowl sailing like toy-yachts upon its surface.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the servant had left me, I commenced to dress leisurely. After that I

-      sat down, waiting for the gong to sound. I wondered if this was the room

-      where my mother had slept. How much my father&rsquo;s love must have meant to

-      her that she should have sacrificed so much prosperous certainty to share

-      his insecure fortunes. Yet, as I looked back, it was a smiling face that I

-      remembered, with no marks of misgiving or regret upon it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not meet my grandfather until the meal was about to be served. I

-      think he had planned our first encounter carefully, so that our conduct

-      might be restrained by the presence of servants. His greeting was that of

-      any host to any guest. Our conversation at dinner was on impersonal,

-      intellectual topics&mdash;the kind that is carried on between well-bred

-      persons who are thrown together for the moment and are compelled to be

-      polite to one another. The only way in which he betrayed nervousness was

-      by crumbling his bread with his left hand while he was conversing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Finding that I was not anxious to force matters, he became more at his

-      ease. He addressed me as Mr. Cardover, with stiff and kindly courtesy. We

-      took our cigars out on to the terrace to watch the last of the sunset. He

-      was talking of Oxford, and the changes which had taken place in the

-      University since he was an undergraduate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I believe you are a Fellow of Lazarus, Mr. Cardover?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I had a nephew there a few years ago, Lord Halloway, the son of my poor

-      brother-in-law, the Earl of Lovegrove. You may know him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Only by hearsay. He was before my time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My grandfather knocked the ash from his cigar. Then, speaking in a low

-      voice, very deliberately, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid you have heard nothing good about

-      him. He has not turned out well.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused: I felt that I was being tested. When I kept silent, he

-      continued, &ldquo;I have no son. He was to have followed me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Shortly afterwards he excused himself, saying that he was an old man and

-      retired early to bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For six days we maintained our polite and measured interchange of

-      courtesies. I was left free most of the time to entertain myself. He was a

-      perfect host, and knew exactly how far to share my company without

-      appearing niggardly of his companionship or, on the other hand, intruding

-      it on me to such an extent that we wore out our common fund of interests.

-      For myself, I wished that I might see more of him. Never by any direct

-      statement did he own that there was any relationship between us. Yet

-      gradually he began to imply his intention in having me to visit him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I would have been completely happy, had it not been that Vi was absent. I

-      reckoned up the hours until I should return. All day my imagination was

-      following her movements. I refused to look ahead to the certainty of

-      approaching separation&mdash;it was enough for me that I could be near

-      her in the present.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was strange how poignant the world had become, how subtly, swiftly

-      suggestive, since I had discovered her presence in it. All my sensations,

-      even those outwardly unrelated to her, grouped themselves into a memory of

-      her sweetness. It was a blind and pagan love she had aroused&mdash;one

-      which recognized no standards, but craved only fulfilment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There were times when I stood back appalled, as a man who comes suddenly

-      to the edge of a precipice, when I realized where this love was leading.

-      Then my awakened conscience would remind me of my promise&mdash;that we

-      would be only friends.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These were the thoughts which now made me glad, now sorrowful, as I rode

-      through the leafy lanes round Woadley at the side of my proud old

-      grandfather. I would steal guilty glances at him, marveling that no rumor

-      of what I was thinking had come to him by some secret process of

-      telepathy. He looked so cold and unimpassioned, I wondered if he had ever

-      loved a woman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to love the Woadley country with the love which only comes from

-      ownership. The white Jacobean Hall, with the chestnuts and elm-trees

-      grouped about it and the doves fluttering above its gables, became the

-      starting point for all the future chapters of my romance. I began to see

-      life in its prosperous, substantial aspect. The stately dignity of my

-      environment had its subconscious effect upon my lawless turbulence. In the

-      morning I would wake with the rooks cawing and, going to the window, would

-      look out on the sunken garden, the peaches ripening against the walls, the

-      dew sparkling on the trim box-hedges, and the leaves beating the air like

-      wings of anchored butterflies as the wind from the sea stirred them.

-      Everywhere the discipline of history was apparent&mdash;the accumulated,

-      ordered effort of generations of men and women dead and gone. I had been

-      accustomed to regard myself as an isolated unit, responsible to myself

-      alone for my actions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The last evening on entering my bedroom, I noticed that there had been a

-      change in the ornaments on my dressing-table. A gold-framed miniature had

-      been placed in the middle of the table, face up, before the mirror. It was

-      a delicate, costly piece of work done on ivory. I held it to the light to

-      examine it, wondering how it had come there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It must have been taken in the heyday of my mother&rsquo;s girlhood, when all

-      the county bachelors were courting her. The gray eyes looked out on me

-      with bewitching frankness. The red lips were parted as if on the point of

-      widening into laughter. The long white neck held the head poised at an

-      angle half-arch, half-haughty. As I gazed on it, I saw that the similarity

-      between our features was extraordinary. It was my grandfather&rsquo;s way of

-      expressing to me the tenderness that he could not bring himself to utter.

-      .

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After breakfast next morning, he led the way into the library. He looked

-      graver and more unapproachable than ever. &ldquo;Mr. Cardover, your visit has

-      been a great pleasure to me. Mr. Seagirt will be here before you leave.

-      Before he comes I wish to say that I want no thanks for what I am doing.

-      It is more or less a business matter. All your life there have been

-      strained relations between myself and your father, which it is impossible

-      for any of us to overlook or forget. So far as you are concerned, you owe

-      him your loyalty. I do not propose to bring about unhappiness between a

-      father and a son by encouraging your friendship further. This week was a

-      necessary exception; I could not take the step I have now decided on

-      without knowing something about you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He cleared his throat and rose from his chair, as if afraid that I might

-      lay hold of him. He walked up and down the library, with his head bowed

-      and his right hand held palm out towards me in a gesture that asked for

-      silence. He halted by the big French window, on the blind before which

-      years ago I had watched his shadow fall. He stood with his back towards

-      me, looking down the avenue. Then he turned again to me. The momentary

-      emotion which had interrupted him had vanished. His voice was more cold

-      and polite than ever. Only the twitching of the muscles about his eyes

-      betrayed the storm of feeling that stirred him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In any case,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;you would have inherited my baronetcy. Perhaps,

-      you did not know that. I could not alienate that from you. The patent

-      under which it is held allows it to pass, for one generation, through the

-      female line to the next male holder. Until recently my will was made in

-      the favor of my nephew, Lord Halloway. Circumstances have arisen which

-      lead me to believe that such a disposal of my estate would be unwise. We

-      Evrards have had our share of frailties, but we have always been noted as

-      clean men. Something that I saw about you in the papers brought your name

-      before my notice. I made up my mind then and there that, if you proved all

-      that I hoped for, I would make you my successor. As I have said, this is a

-      business transaction, in return for which I neither expect nor wish any

-      display of gratitude.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      While we had been speaking I had heard the trot of a horse approaching.

-      Just as he finished Mr. Seagirt entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mr. Seagirt,&rdquo; said Sir Charles, &ldquo;I have explained the situation to Mr.

-      Cardover. Any communications he or I have to make to one another relative

-      to the estate, we will make through you. If you have brought the will, I

-      will sign it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was fingering his pen, when I startled him by speaking. &ldquo;Sir Charles,

-      you have spoken of not encouraging my friendship. I am a grown man and of

-      an age to choose my own friendships where I like, and this without offense

-      to my father. I have another loyalty, to my dead mother&mdash;a loyalty

-      which you share. If you care to trust me, I should like to be your

-      friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He took my hand in his and for one small moment let his left hand rest

-      lightly on my shoulder. We gazed frankly into one another&rsquo;s eyes without

-      pretense or disguise. Then the shame of revealing his true feelings

-      returned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We shall see. We shall see,&rdquo; he muttered hastily; &ldquo;I am an old man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;MOTHS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week had worked

-      wonders with Grandmother Cardover. She had fallen a victim to Vi&rsquo;s charm

-      and, in that strange way that old folks have, had warmed her age at the

-      fire of Vi&rsquo;s youth. There was an unmistakable change in her; the

-      somberness of her dress was lightened here and there with a dash of

-      colored ribbons. As long as I could remember, the only ornaments she had

-      permitted herself were of black jet, as befitted her widowed state. But

-      now the woman&rsquo;s instinct for self-decoration had come to life. Vi&rsquo;s

-      exquisite femininity had made her remember that she herself was a woman.

-      She had rummaged through her jewelry and found a large gold-set cameo

-      brooch, which she wore at her throat, and some rings, and a long gold

-      chain, which she now wore about her neck, from which her watch was

-      suspended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi&rsquo;s vivid physical beauty and intense joy in life had broadened the

-      horizons of everyone in the house, and set them dreaming. Ruthita, coming

-      down from London, had at once become infatuated. From day to day she had

-      prolonged Vi&rsquo;s visit, now with one excuse, now another. They had brought

-      Dorrie down to stay with Vi at the shop&mdash;little Bee&rsquo;s Knee as my

-      Grannie called her, because she was so tiny and a bee&rsquo;s knee was the

-      smallest thing she could think of with which to compare her. It was many

-      years since a child&rsquo;s prattle had been heard about that quiet house. Vi&rsquo;s

-      comradeship with her little daughter finished the persuading of my

-      grandmother that she was safe and good. All virtuous women believe in the

-      virtue of a woman who is fond of children.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They were sitting down to lunch in the keeping-room when I entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, if it isn&rsquo;t Dante!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The greeting I received was in welcome contrast to the cold, guarded

-      reserve of the past seven days. A place was made for me at table between

-      my grandmother and Ruthita. It was a gay little party that waited,

-      watching me curiously across the dishes and plates, to hear my news. Just

-      then I preferred the cosiness of my grandmother&rsquo;s shop to the chilly

-      dignity of Woadley Hall. Outside the sunshine slanted across the

-      courtyard, leaving one half in shadow, the other golden white. The maid,

-      coming in and out from the kitchen in her rustling print-dress, with her

-      smiling country face, was a pleasanter sight than the butler at Woadley.

-      From the shop came the smell of tar and rope and new-made bread.

-      Everything was so frank and kindly, and unashamed of itself. Here in the

-      keeping-room of the ship-chandler&rsquo;s shop we were humanly intimate&mdash;&ldquo;coxy-loxy&rdquo;

-       as my grandmother would have expressed it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I told a sorrowful tale at first, which seemed to foreshadow a sorrowful

-      ending. I spoke of the stiff formality of my reception, the garnished

-      gentility which had marked my intercourse with Sir Charles, the withheld

-      confidence&mdash;the fact that my mother&rsquo;s name was scarcely mentioned.

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s hand sought mine beneath the table; I could feel the fingers

-      tremble.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;This morning,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he called me into his study. He told me that I

-      must leave within the hour and that our friendship could go no further.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The old rascal!&rdquo; exclaimed Grandmother Cardover, bringing down her knife

-      and fork on her plate with a clatter. &ldquo;What was he a-doin&rsquo;, gettin&rsquo; you

-      there to Woadley? He must &rsquo;a&rsquo; known what we all expected.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I tilted back my chair, putting on an expression of long-suffering

-      melancholy. &ldquo;He wanted to see what I was like, I suppose. His chief reason

-      was that he wanted to make a new will.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Babel broke loose. Why hadn&rsquo;t I told them earlier? Why had I harrowed up

-      their feelings for nothing? What were the particulars? I was cruel to have

-      kept them in suspense.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover was hysterical with joy. She wanted to run out into

-      the streets and tell everybody. She began with the maid in the kitchen,

-      and would have gone on to the men in the bake-house if I hadn&rsquo;t stopped

-      her by appealing to her curiosity, saying there was more to tell. As for

-      Ruthita, she just put her arms about me and laid her head on my shoulder,

-      crying for sheer gladness. Little Bee&rsquo;s Knee looked on open-mouthed,

-      shocked that grownups should behave so foolishly. Vi gazed at me with a

-      far-away stare in her eyes, picturing the might-have-beens, and I gazed

-      back at her across the gulf that widened between us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Discretion was thrown to the wind. When Vi gathered Dorrie to her and

-      began to excuse herself, she was told that she must stay and make one of

-      the family. Then the story was told again with the new perspective.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With shame and self-reproach I look back and perceive how carelessly I

-      accepted all Ruthita&rsquo;s admiration. My new good fortune promised nothing

-      for her; yet she could rejoice in it. In her shy girl&rsquo;s world, had I known

-      it, I figured as something between a faery-prince and a hero. Through me

-      she looked out into a more generous world of glamour than any she had

-      personally experienced. Poor little Ruthita, with her mouse-like

-      timidity! She had lived all her days in a walled-in garden, treading the

-      dull monotonous round of self-sacrificing duties. No one ever credited her

-      with a career of her own. No one stopped to think that she might have

-      dreams and a will of her own. They told her what to do and let their

-      gratitude be taken for granted. She humored my father when he was

-      discouraged, did the housekeeping, and took shelter behind the superior

-      social grace of the Snow Lady. We all loved her, but we made the mistake

-      of not telling her&mdash;we supposed she knew. All the strong things that

-      men and women do together, all love&rsquo;s comedy and tragedy, were so much

-      hearsay to her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That afternoon and evening she sat beside me holding my hand with frank

-      affection, making me feel that in loving Vi I was stealing something that

-      belonged to her. More than that, I was feeling for this woman, who had

-      been nothing to me a few weeks ago, a quality of kindness and

-      consideration that I had always withheld from the child-friend who had

-      tiptoed her way up to womanhood beside me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After tea we mounted to the drawing-room, which was over the shop and

-      faced the street. It was usually occupied only on Sundays and feast-days,

-      or when a visiting Methodist minister had been apportioned to my

-      grandmother for entertainment. Faded engravings of sacred subjects and

-      simpering females elaborately framed, hung upon the walls. On the

-      mantelshelf stood some quaint specimens of Ransby china&mdash;red-roofed

-      cottages with grapes ripening above the porch, and a lover coming up the

-      path while his lady watched him from the window. The chairs were

-      upholstered in woolwork on canvas, which my grandmother had done in her

-      youth. In one corner stood a heavy rosewood piano on which all the family

-      portraits were arranged. In this room comfort was sacrificed to appearance&mdash;the

-      furniture was sedate rather than genial. Nothing was haphazard or awry.

-      The mats and antimacassars never budged an inch from their places. No

-      smell of beer, or cheese, or baking bread vulgarized the sacred

-      respectability of its atmosphere.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Here, as we sat together talking, the light began to fade. Heavy footsteps

-      of sailors in their sea-boots, passing down the street from the harbor to

-      the cottages, only emphasized the quiet. We watched the sky grow pink

-      behind the masts of shipping, then green, then gray. Cordage and rigging

-      were etched distinctly against the gloom of the oncoming night. At the top

-      of the street a light sprang up, then another, then another. The

-      lamp-lighter with his long pole and ladder passed by. Now with the heavy

-      tread of men&rsquo;s feet the tip-a-tap of girls&rsquo; footsteps began to mingle.

-      Sometimes a snatch of laughter would reach us; then, as if afraid of the

-      sound it made, it died abruptly away. While we talked in subdued voices,

-      it seemed to me that all the sailor-lovers with their lassies had

-      conspired to steal by the house that night. I fell to wondering what it

-      felt like to slip your arm about the waist of a woman you loved, feel her

-      warmth and trust and nearness, feel her head droop back against your

-      shoulder, see her face flash up in the starlight and know that, while your

-      lips were trembling against hers, she was abandoning herself soul and body

-      to you in the summer dusk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie had crept into her mother&rsquo;s lap. Her soft breathing told that she

-      was sleeping. One small hand, with fingers crumpled, rested against her

-      mother&rsquo;s throat. Someone had called to see Grandmother Cardover, so Vi,

-      Ruthita, and I were left alone together. Sitting back in our chairs out

-      of reach of the street-lamp, we could not see the expression on one

-      another&rsquo;s faces.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I would give all the world to be you, Mrs. Carpenter,&rdquo; Ruthita whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To be me! Why? I sometimes get very tired of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If I were you I should have Dorrie. It must be very sweet to be a mother.

-      Why is it that she always calls you Vi and never mother?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She picked that up from her father. I never corrected her because&mdash;well,

-      because somehow I like it. It makes me seem younger.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t need to <i>seem</i> young,&rdquo; I interrupted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How old do you think I am?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;About the same age as myself and Ruthita.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laughed. &ldquo;That couldn&rsquo;t be; Dorrie is eight.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I give up guessing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I

-      married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mother married early,&rdquo; said Ruthita, &ldquo;and my papa was only twenty at the

-      time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi made no answer. The silence grew awkward. We could almost hear one

-      another&rsquo;s thoughts trying to hide. Why had she explained in that tone of

-      half-apology, &ldquo;I was little more than a child; you see, when I married.&rdquo;

-       Why didn&rsquo;t she say something now? Was it because an early marriage had

-      proved for her disastrous? Then, if it had, what moral obligation

-      separated us? Who was this husband who could dispense with her for a year,

-      and yet had the power to stretch out his arm across the Atlantic and

-      thrust me aside?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled her face and

-      smoldered in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young

-      girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an ideal

-      lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin; it had never been a man&rsquo;s

-      possession. It was almost mine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s remark about the happiness of early marriages was forgotten,

-      when Vi returned to the subject. &ldquo;They may be sometimes,&rdquo; she said,

-      speaking doubtfully.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had

-      divulged a secret, she hurried into an implied defense of her husband.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I had a letter from Mr. Carpenter this morning. He&rsquo;s lonely. He says he

-      can&rsquo;t bear to be without me any longer. He wants me to return home at

-      once. He&rsquo;s not seen Dorrie for nearly a year. He&rsquo;s afraid she&rsquo;ll forget

-      him entirely. If I don&rsquo;t go to him, he says he&rsquo;ll come and fetch me. It&rsquo;s

-      been horrid of me to stay away so long. When we left, we only intended to

-      be gone for three months. Somehow the time lengthened. I wanted to see so

-      much. He&rsquo;s been too easy with me. He&rsquo;s been awfully kind. He always has

-      been kind. He treats me like a spoilt child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not heard the

-      creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see my grandmother

-      standing in the doorway. Vi turned to Ruthita with a pretense of gaiety,

-      &ldquo;No wonder you English don&rsquo;t understand us. Don&rsquo;t you think that American

-      husbands are very patient?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure I do,&rdquo; said Ruthita. &ldquo;What makes them so different from English

-      husbands?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They love their wives.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was impossible to tell from the bantering tone in Vi&rsquo;s voice, whether

-      she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover took her literally. Her national pride was touched.

-      She believed that an aspersion had been cast on the affection of all

-      married Englishmen. She advanced into the room with suspicions aroused,

-      bristling with morality. &ldquo;If that&rsquo;s what they call love in America,&rdquo; she

-      snorted, &ldquo;then it&rsquo;s glad I am that I was born in Ransby. &lsquo;They shall be

-      one flesh&rsquo;&mdash;that&rsquo;s what the Holy Book says about marriage. And &rsquo;ow

-      can you be one flesh if you stay away from one another a twelvemonth at a

-      time? Why, when my Will&rsquo;am was alive, I never slept a night away from &rsquo;im,

-      from the day we was married to the day he died.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The darkness about her seemed to quiver with indignation. I could see her

-      gray curls bobbing, and hear the keys hanging from her waist jangle, as

-      she trembled. Ruthita cowered close to me, shocked and frightened. Dorrie

-      woke and began to whimper to be taken to bed. We all waited for a natural

-      expression of anger from Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She set Dorrie on to her feet very gently, whispering to her mothering

-      words, telling her not to cry. Drawing herself up, she faced into the

-      darkness. When she spoke there was a sweet, low pleading in her voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mrs. Cardover, you took me too seriously. I&rsquo;m sorry. You misunderstood

-      me. I believe all that you have said&mdash;a wife ought to be her

-      husband&rsquo;s companion. There have been reasons for my long absence, which I

-      cannot explain; if I did, you might not understand them. But I want <i>you</i>

-      always to believe well of me. I have never had such kindness from any

-      woman as you have given me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I heard my Grannie sniffle. Vi must have heard her. She left Dorrie and,

-      running across the room, put her arms about her. I heard them blaming

-      themselves, and taking everything back, the way women do when they ask

-      forgiveness. I lifted Dorrie into my arms, and Ruthita and I tiptoed from

-      the room.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently they came down to us. Grandmother Cardover was smiling

-      comically, as though she was rather pleased at what had happened. Vi said

-      that she must be going. Ruthita and I volunteered to accompany her back to

-      her lodgings. So the storm in the tea-cup ended, leaving me with new

-      materials for conjecture and reflection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the way up the High Street we chatted volubly, trying to overlay what

-      had occurred with a new impression. We talked against time and without

-      sincerity. When we had reached the black flint house and the door had

-      shut, Ruthita snuggled close to me with a relieved little sigh. Ever since

-      my return from Woadley she had been waiting for this moment of privacy.

-      With a sweet sisterly air of proprietorship she slipped her arm through

-      mine. We turned down a score and struck out across the denes to the north

-      beach, where we could be quiet. A wet wind from the sea pattered about our

-      faces, giving Ruthita an excuse to cling yet more closely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked the

-      fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble in her self-esteem, too

-      self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned

-      something more lasting than mere physical beauty&mdash;the loveliness of a

-      pure spirit looking out from her quiet eyes. She was one of those domestic

-      saints, unaware of their own goodness, that one sometimes finds in

-      middle-class families; women who are never heard of, who live only through

-      their influence on their menfolk&rsquo;s lives.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in

-      its carriage. Her complexion white, but ready to suffuse with color at the

-      least sign of appreciation. Her glory was in her hair, which was black and

-      abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her feet and

-      hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never told her any

-      of these flattering observations, which would have meant so much if put

-      into words. Brothers don&rsquo;t&mdash;and I was as good as her brother.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think,&rdquo; said Ruthita, &ldquo;that there&rsquo;s something awfully queer

-      about Mrs. Carpenter&rsquo;s marriage? I&rsquo;ve been with her nearly a week now, and

-      I&rsquo;ve never heard her mention her husband until to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And Dorrie doesn&rsquo;t speak of him either.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ve noticed that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then Ruthita surprised me. &ldquo;Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the wrong

-      man must be purgatory.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, to hear you speak one&rsquo;d suppose you&rsquo;d been in love. Have you ever

-      thought that you&rsquo;ll have to marry some day?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I have.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;ll he have to be like?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She held her tongue. My jauntiness had made her shy. &ldquo;Come, Ruthie,&rdquo; I

-      said, &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t mean to hurt you. I hate to own that you&rsquo;re grown up. I

-      didn&rsquo;t think you&rsquo;d given a thought to marriage. Tell me, what&rsquo;ll he have

-      to be like?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore a

-      hunted look of cornered perplexity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never spoken of these things even to mother,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;They all

-      treat me as though I were still a child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the

-      eagerness for confession on her trembling mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed at the

-      transformation. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly tranquillity had

-      slipped aside; I saw all the longing of her unnoticed womanhood focused

-      for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled out to sea again. I

-      repeated, &ldquo;What must he be like?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. &ldquo;I think he

-      must be like you,&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Of all answers that was the last I had expected. I had thought myself on

-      the brink of some great discovery&mdash;that she, too, had some secret

-      lover. I slipped my arm about her and we strolled on through the darkness

-      in silence. Ahead the harbor-lights, reflected across the water, drew

-      nearer. We climbed the beach and the sea-wall, and made our way across the

-      denes to the town.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re all wrong,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Some day, when you do fall in love, you&rsquo;ll

-      get a better standard.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered the lamp-lit town. For the rest of the evening we did not say

-      much. I was thinking how easy it is for two people to live always together

-      and yet never to understand each other. Who would have guessed that little

-      Ruthita had this hunger to be loved?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While we were seated at breakfast next morning, someone walked across the

-      shop and tapped on the door of the keeping-room. Before any of us could

-      spring up, Lawyer Seagirt entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Keep your seats. Keep your seats,&rdquo; he said cheerily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure you&rsquo;ll

-      excuse this early call when you hear what I&rsquo;ve come about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      With his back to the empty fireplace, he straddled the hearthrug, bowing

-      first to my grandmother, then to Ruthita. Then he settled his gaze on me,

-      with the beaming benevolence of a bachelor uncle. He cleared his throat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ahem! Ahem! Mr. Cardover, I congratulate you. After you left yesterday,

-      Sir Charles spoke of you with considerable feeling. He expressed

-      sentiments concerning you which from him meant much&mdash;much more than

-      if uttered by any other man. For many years he has honored me with his

-      confidence, yet on no occasion do I remember him to have displayed so much

-      emotion. Of course all this is strictly between ourselves and must go no

-      further.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Like three mandarins we nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It is my pleasant duty to have to inform you, Mr. Cardover, that Sir

-      Charles has been pleased to make you an allowance. It will be paid

-      quarterly on the first day of January, April, July, and October, and will

-      be delivered to you through my hands.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Again he halted. Grandmother Cardover, losing patience, forgot her

-      manners. &ldquo;God bless my soul,&rdquo; she exclaimed, &ldquo;how the man maunders! How

-      much?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Madam,&rdquo; said Lawyer Seagirt, &ldquo;the amount is four hundred pounds per

-      annum.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The good man had never found himself so popular. He was made to sit down

-      to table with us, despite his protests that he had breakfasted already.

-      The money might have been coming out of his own pocket for all the fuss we

-      made of him. Every now and then the fact of my prosperity would strike

-      Grandmother Cardover afresh. Throwing up her hands she would exclaim,

-      &ldquo;Four &rsquo;undred pounds, and he&rsquo;s got two &rsquo;undred already from

-      his fellowship! It&rsquo;s more than I&rsquo;ve ever earned in any year with all my

-      wear and tear. Just you wait till his pa &rsquo;ears about it!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That morning I took Ruthita to Norwich. She was puzzled when I told her to

-      get ready to come. All the way over in the train she kept trying to guess

-      my purpose. The truth was I had contrasted her with Vi. Vi was not only

-      exquisite in herself, but as expensively exquisite as fine clothes could

-      make her. Ruthita, on the other hand, had the appearance of making the

-      most genteel impression at the minimum expenditure of money. My father&rsquo;s

-      means were narrow, and she was not his daughter; therefore the Snow Lady

-      insisted on making most of her own and Ruthita&rsquo;s dresses. Rigid economies

-      had been exercised; stuffs had been turned, and dyed, and made over again.

-      Now that I could afford it, I was determined to see what fine feathers

-      could do for this shy little sister.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the gowns came home, even Ruthita was surprised at the prettiness

-      that filmy muslins and French laces accentuated in her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My word, Ruthie, you&rsquo;re a dainty little armful. You won&rsquo;t have to wait

-      long for that lover now,&rdquo; I told her, when she came down into the

-      keeping-room to show herself to me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She pouted and made a face at me like a child. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want lovers,&rdquo; she

-      laughed. &ldquo;I only want my big brother.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When she had gone upstairs my grandmother turned to me. &ldquo;You can go too

-      far with her, Dannie.&rdquo; She only called me Dannie when she was saying

-      something serious or a little wounding. &ldquo;You can go too far with her,

-      Dannie. I should advise you to be careful.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What are you driving at?&rdquo; I asked bluntly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just this, that however you may pretend to one another, she isn&rsquo;t your

-      sister and you aren&rsquo;t her brother. Any day you may wake something up in

-      her that you didn&rsquo;t mean to.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Stuff and nonsense,&rdquo; I replied. &ldquo;At heart she&rsquo;s only a child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All I can say is you&rsquo;re going the right way to work to make her a woman,&rdquo;

-       my grandmother said shortly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That afternoon I persuaded Ruthita to put on all her finery and come for a

-      walk on the esplanade. I wanted her to lose her timidity and to discover

-      for herself that she was as good as anybody. I felt a boyish pride in

-      walking beside her; she was my creation&mdash;I had dressed her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had passed the pier and entered the long trim walk, lined with

-      sculptured Neptunes, which runs along the seafront from Ransby to

-      Pakewold, when a figure which had a morbid interest for me came in sight.

-      It was that of a buxom broad-hipped woman, handsome in her own bold

-      fashion, leading by the hand an over-dressed, half-witted child. As she

-      drew nearer, the rouge on her face became discernible. She strolled with a

-      swagger through the fashionable crowd, eyeing the men with sly effrontery.

-      She was known in Ransby by the nickname of &ldquo;Lady Halloway.&rdquo; She was the

-      bathing-machine man&rsquo;s daughter, and had been the victim of one of my

-      cousin&rsquo;s earliest amorous adventures. It was commonly believed that he was

-      the father of her child.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Since the news had got abroad that I had supplanted Halloway in my

-      grandfather&rsquo;s favor, she had glowered at me, with undisguised hostility,

-      whenever we met.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As we passed, Ruthita&rsquo;s parasol just touched her. It was the woman&rsquo;s

-      fault, for she had crowded us purposely. I raised my hat, muttering an

-      apology, and was on the point of moving forward, when she wrenched the

-      parasol from Ruthita&rsquo;s hand and flung it to the ground. Ruthita stared at

-      her too surprised to say a word. The woman herself, for the moment, was

-      too infuriated to express herself. All the bitterness of a deserted

-      mistress, the pent-up resentment against years of contempt and the false

-      pride with which she had brazened out her shame among her fellow-townsmen,

-      came to the surface and found an excuse for utterance. People nearest to

-      us halted in their promenade and, gathering round, began to form the

-      nucleus of an audience. An audience for her oratory was what &ldquo;Lady

-      Halloway&rdquo; most desired. Her lips were drawn back from her teeth and her

-      hands were clenched; anger re-created her into something almost

-      magnificent and wholly brutal. When she spoke, she addressed herself to

-      Ruthita, but her eyes were fixed on mine in vixenish defiance. The

-      over-dressed, top-heavy oddity at her side steadied himself by clinging to

-      her skirts, gazing from one to the other of us with a vacant, wondering

-      expression.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I picked up Ruthita&rsquo;s parasol and handed it back to her, whispering that

-      she should go on. The woman heard me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, go on, my fine lady,&rdquo; she sneered in savage sarcasm. &ldquo;Go on. You&rsquo;re

-      too good ter be zeen a-talkin&rsquo; wi&rsquo; the likes o&rsquo; me. Yer know wot I am. I&rsquo;m

-      a woman wot&rsquo;s fallen. I ain&rsquo;t too bad, &rsquo;owsomever, for Mr. Cardover

-      to diddle me out o&rsquo; my property. He&rsquo;s a grand man, Mr. Cardover, wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is

-      high airs and proud ways. And where do &rsquo;e get them from, I ax. From

-      old Cardover&rsquo;s bake-&rsquo;ouse around the corner ter be sure, and from &rsquo;is

-      mawther, wot ran orf wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is father and &rsquo;ad the good luck

-      ter get married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I interrupted her. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m very sorry for you,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;but you&rsquo;ve got to

-      stop this at once. You don&rsquo;t know what you&rsquo;re saying, neither does anyone

-      else. Please let us pass.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stepped in front of us with her plump arms held up in fighting

-      attitude, blocking our path.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Zorry for me. Zorry for me,&rdquo; she laughed, still addressing Ruthita. &ldquo;I

-      doan&rsquo;t want &rsquo;is zorrow. Your man&rsquo;s a thief, my gal, and it&rsquo;s the

-      likes o&rsquo; him wot despises me&mdash;me as should be Lady Halloway if I &rsquo;ad

-      me rights, me as should be livin&rsquo; at Woadley &rsquo;All as zoon as Sir

-      Charles be dead and gorn. &rsquo;E says &rsquo;e&rsquo;s zorry for me, wi&rsquo; the

-      lawful heir, the child &rsquo;e &rsquo;as robbed, a-standin&rsquo; in &rsquo;is

-      sight. The imperdence of &rsquo;im!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She gave the idiot&rsquo;s hand a vicious jerk, swinging him in front of her, so

-      that the lawful heir began to holloa. Someone who had newly joined the

-      crowd, inquired what was up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wot&rsquo;s up, you axed. This gentleman, as &rsquo;e calls &rsquo;isself,

-      told &rsquo;is gal to barge inter me. That&rsquo;s wot&rsquo;s up, and I won&rsquo;t stand

-      it. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s robbed my kid, wot was heir, o&rsquo; wot belongs ter &rsquo;im.

-      And &rsquo;e&rsquo;s robbed my &rsquo;usband, for &rsquo;e&rsquo;s as good as my &rsquo;usband

-      in the sight o&rsquo; almighty Gawd. &rsquo;E treats me like a dorg and tells

-      &rsquo;is gal to barge inter me, and &rsquo;e thinks I&rsquo;ll stand it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      While she had been exploding I had tried to back away from her, but she

-      followed. Now a policeman&rsquo;s helmet showed above the heads of the

-      spectators. Just then the bathing-machine man strolled up from the beach

-      out of curiosity. Seeing his daughter the center of disturbance, he fought

-      his way to the front and seized her by the wrists with a threatening

-      gesture. &ldquo;Yer fool, Lottie,&rdquo; he panted, &ldquo;when are yer goin&rsquo; ter be done

-      a-disgracin&rsquo; o&rsquo; me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For a moment she was cowed. But as he dragged her away to the

-      bathing-machines, she tore one hand free and shook her fist at me. &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s

-      comin&rsquo; down to-morrer,&rdquo; she shouted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve writ and told &rsquo; im wot

-      you&rsquo;ve been a-doin&rsquo; at Woadley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita was trembling all over with disgust and excitement. I took her

-      back to the shop. When I was alone with my grandmother I asked her what

-      kind of a woman Lottie was.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,&rdquo; she answered,

-      &ldquo;until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day I had a chance of judging for myself the worth of Lord Halloway.

-      In the afternoon, just as I was going out, I was told that he was waiting

-      to see me in the shop. I went to meet him prepared for trouble. I found a

-      tall, aristocratic man of about thirty-five, filling up the doorway,

-      looking out into the street with his legs wide apart. He was swinging his

-      cane and whistling softly. The impression one got from his back-view was

-      that he was extremely athletic. When he turned round I saw that he was

-      magnificently proportioned, handsome, high complexioned, and graceful to

-      the point of affectation. When he smiled and held out his hand, his manner

-      was so winning that every prejudice was for the moment swamped. He had the

-      instinctive art of charm.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Awfully sorry to have to meet you like this for the first time,&rdquo; he said.

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re second-cousins, aren&rsquo;t we? Strange how we&rsquo;ve managed to miss one

-      another, and being members of the same college and all.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He had removed his hat, and was leaning against the door-jamb, with his

-      legs crossed. I watched him narrowly while he was talking. I had expected

-      to see a cultured degenerate&mdash;the worst type of bounder. Instead of

-      being exhausted and nervous with a spurious energy, he was almost military

-      in his upright carriage. He had a daredevil air of careless command, which

-      was so much a part of his breeding that it was impossible to resent it. A

-      man would have summed up his vices and virtues leniently by saying that he

-      was a gay dog. A good woman might well have fallen in love with him, and

-      excused the attraction that his wickedness had for her by saying that she

-      was trying to convert him. The only sign of weakness I could detect was a

-      light inconsequent laugh, strangely out of keeping with the virility of

-      his height and breadth; it was like the vain and meaningless giggle of a

-      silly woman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I asked him if he would not come inside. He shook his head, saying that

-      this was not a social visit, but that he had come to apologize. Then he

-      faced me with an openness of countenance which impressed me as manly, but

-      which might have been due to shamelessness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I want to tell you how sorry I am for the beastly row you had yesterday.

-      Lottie&rsquo;s not a bad sort, but she gets fancies and they run away with her.

-      I&rsquo;ve talked with her, and I can promise you it won&rsquo;t happen again. She&rsquo;s

-      been writing me angry letters for the past week, ever since you made it up

-      with Sir Charles. I was afraid something like this would happen, so I

-      thought I&rsquo;d just run down. I wish I&rsquo;d managed to get here earlier.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He stopped suddenly, gazing toward the keeping-room door. Ruthita came out

-      and crossed the shop. She had on one of her new dresses and was on her way

-      to tea with Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He followed her with his eyes till she was gone. There was nothing

-      insulting in the gallantry with which he admired her; he seemed rather

-      surprised&mdash;that was all. For a minute he continued conversing with me

-      in an absent-minded manner, then he wished me good-by, hoping that we

-      might meet again in Oxford. I walked out on to the pavement and watched

-      him down the street. Then I hurriedly fetched my hat and followed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It might have been accidental and I may have been over-suspicious, but his

-      path lay in the same direction as Ruthita&rsquo;s; he never walked so quickly as

-      to overtake her or so slowly as not to keep her well in sight. When she

-      entered the old flint house, he hesitated, as though the purpose of his

-      errand was gone; then, seeing me out of the tail of his eye, he turned

-      leisurely to the left down a score. Next day I heard that he had departed

-      from Ransby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not rid myself for many days of the impression this incident had

-      created. Like a Hogarth canvas, it typified for me the ugly nemesis of

-      illicit passion in all its grotesque nakedness. There was horror in

-      connecting such a man as Halloway with such a woman as Lottie. The horror

-      was emphasized by the child. Yet Lottie had once been &ldquo;as nice and kind a

-      little girl as there was in Ransby,&rdquo; until he destroyed her. Doubtless at

-      the time, their sinning had seemed sweet and excusable&mdash;much the same

-      as the love of any lover for any lass. Only the result had proved its

-      bitterness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This thought made me go with a tightened rein. When impulse tempted me to

-      give way, the memory of that woman with her half-witted child, brazening

-      out her shame before a crowd of pleasure-seekers on the sunlit esplanade,

-      sprang into my mind and turned me back like the flame of a sword.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the late

-      afternoon of a September day. We had had tea early at the black flint

-      house, Vi, Ruthita, Dorrie, and I. After tea a walk had been proposed; but

-      Dorrie had said she was &ldquo;tho tired&rdquo; and Ruthita had volunteered to stay

-      with her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For two months Vi and I had never allowed ourselves the chance of being

-      alone together; yet every day we had met. To her I was &ldquo;Mr. Cardover&rdquo;; to

-      me she was &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter.&rdquo; Even my grandmother had ceased to suspect

-      that any liking deeper than friendship existed between us. She loved to

-      have young people about her, and therefore encouraged Vi and Dorrie. She

-      thought that we were perfectly safe now that we had Ruthita. Through the

-      last two months we four had been inseparable, rambling about, lazy and

-      contented. Our conversations had all been general, Vi and I had never

-      trusted ourselves to talk of things personal. If, when walking in the

-      country, Ruthita and Dorrie had run on ahead to gather wild flowers, we

-      had made haste to follow them, so betraying to each other the tantalizing

-      fear we had one of another. We were vigilant in postponing the crisis of

-      our danger, but neither of us had the strength to bring the danger to an

-      end by leaving Ransby, lest our separation should be forever.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If our tongues were silent, there were other ways of communicating. Did I

-      take her hand to help her over a stile, it trembled. Did I lift her wraps

-      and lean over her in placing them about her shoulders, I could see the

-      faint rise of her color. Her eyes spoke, mocked, laughed, dared, and

-      pleaded, when no other eyes were watching.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Since the one occasion that has been related, Vi had not mentioned her

-      husband. Whether he was still urging her to return, or had extended her

-      respite, or was on his way to fetch her, I had no means of guessing. I

-      lived in a secret delirium of exalted happiness and torturing foreboding.

-      Each day as it ended was tragic with farewell. The hour was coming when I

-      must return to Oxford and when she must return to America. Soon we should

-      have nothing but memories. However well we might disguise our motives for

-      dawdling in Ransby, it could not be long before their hollowness would be

-      detected. Already Sir Charles had ceased to serve me as an excuse; I had

-      not seen him since my departure from Woadley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The very suavity of our interchanged courtesies and unsatisfying pretense

-      of frank friendship gave edge to my yearning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had come at last to the breaking-point. I did not know it. I still told

-      myself that we were both too honorable to step aside: that we had too much

-      to lose by it; that I loved her too dearly to let her be anything to me

-      unless she could be my wife. The casuistry of this attitude was patent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As my hunger increased I grew more daring. No thoughts that were not of

-      her could find room in my mind. I had lost my interest in books&mdash;they

-      were mere reports on the thing I was enduring. Nature was only my

-      experience made external on a lower physical plane. My imagination swept

-      me on to depths and heights which once would have terrified. I grew

-      accustomed to picturing myself as the hero of situations which I had

-      formerly studied with puzzled amazement in other men&rsquo;s lives.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The face of Lottie, encountered daily in the gray streets of Ransby, which

-      had at first restrained me by reminding me of sin&rsquo;s ultimate ugliness,

-      ceased to warn me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Ruthita made the suggestion that we should go for our walk alone

-      together, I had expected a prompt refusal from Vi. She rose from the

-      disordered tea-table and walked over to the window, turning her back on

-      us. I could see by the poise of her head that she was gazing down the

-      gardens, across the denes to the wreck, where everything important had

-      taken place. I could guess the memories that were in her mind.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From where I sat I could see her head, framed in the window against the

-      slate-colored expanse of water, the curved edge of the horizon, and the

-      orange-tinted sky.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Creeping across the panes under full sail came a fleet of fishing smacks,

-      losing themselves one by one as they advanced into the tangled amber of

-      her hair. I counted them, telling myself that she would speak when the

-      foremost had re-appeared on the other side. Then it occurred to me that

-      she was waiting for me to urge her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter,&rdquo; I said casually, &ldquo;won&rsquo;t you come? It&rsquo;s going to be a

-      jolly evening. We can go by way of St. Margaret&rsquo;s Church to the Broads and

-      watch the sunset.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Without moving her body, she commenced to drum with her fingers on the

-      panes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That would take time,&rdquo; she procrastinated. &ldquo;We couldn&rsquo;t get back before

-      eight. Who&rsquo;d put Dorrie Darling to bed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t worry,&rdquo; Ruthita broke in with eagerness. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d love to do it. Dorrie

-      and I&rsquo;ll take care of one another and play on the sands till bedtime.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yeth, do go,&rdquo; lisped Dorrie. &ldquo;I want Ruthita all to mythelf.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      These two who had stood between us, for whose sakes we had striven to do

-      right, were pushing wide the door that led into the freedom of temptation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A shiver ran through her. She turned. The battle against desire in her

-      face was ended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will come,&rdquo; she said slowly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Left in the room by myself while they went upstairs to dress, I did not

-      think; I abandoned myself to sensations. I could hear their footsteps go

-      back and forth above my head. The running ones were Dorrie&rsquo;s. The light,

-      quick ones were Ruthita&rsquo;s. The deliberate ones, postponing and anticipating

-      forbidden pleasures&mdash;they were Vi&rsquo;s. The sound of her footsteps, so

-      stealthy and determined, combined with the long gray sight of the German

-      Ocean, sent my mind back to Guinevere&rsquo;s description of her sinning, which

-      covered all our joint emotions:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent30">

-      &ldquo;As if one should

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even,

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Down to a cool sea on a summer day;

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Until one surely reached the sea at last,

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea, all past

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Washed utterly out by the dear waves o&rsquo;ercast,

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      In a lone sea, far off from any ships!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She entered. She was alone. The others were not yet ready. I could not

-      speak to her. &ldquo;Come,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely. Her voice had the distressed

-      note of hurry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We hastened up the High Street like fugitives. Windows of the stern red

-      houses were eyes. They knew all about us. They had watched my mother

-      before me; by experience they had become wise. At the top of the town we

-      turned to the left, going inland towards the hill on which the tower of

-      St. Margaret&rsquo;s rose gray against the sky, beyond which lay the open

-      country. We did not walk near together, but with a foot between us. Now we

-      slackened our pace and I observed her out of the corners of my eyes. She

-      was dressed in white, all billowy and blowy, with a wrap of white lace

-      thrown over her shoulders, and a broad white hat from which drooped a blue

-      ostrich feather. Whatever had been her intention, she looked bridal. The

-      slim slope of her shoulders was unmatronly. Her long neck curved forward,

-      giving her an attitude of listening demureness. Her mass of hair and large

-      hat scarcely permitted me to see her face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came to St. Margaret&rsquo;s and passed. Was it a sense of the religious

-      restraints that it represented, that made us hurry our footsteps? We

-      turned off into a maze of shadowy lanes. We were happier now that we were

-      safe from observation. We could no longer fancy that we saw our own

-      embarrassment reflected as suspicion in strangers&rsquo; eyes. We drew together.

-      My hand brushed hers. She did not start away. I let my fingers close on

-      it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The golden glow of evening was in the tree-tops. The first breath of

-      autumn had scorched their leaves to scarlet and russet. Behind their

-      branches long scarves of cloud hung pink and green and blood-red. Far

-      away, on either side, the yellow standing wheat rustled. Nearer, where it

-      had been cut, the soil showed brown beneath the close-cropped stubble.

-      Honeysuckle, climbing through the hedges, threw out its fragrance. Evening

-      birds were calling. Distantly we could hear the swish of scythes and the

-      cries of harvesters to their horses. Hidden from the field-workers, we

-      stole between the hedges with the radiant peace of the sunset-on our

-      faces. As yet we had said nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew her hand free from mine and halted. Scrambling up the bank, she

-      pulled down a spray of black-berries. I held the branch while she plucked

-      them. We dawdled up the dusty lane, eating them from her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said softly, &ldquo;we have tried to be only friends. What next?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was smiling. She knew that I did not hint at parting. She smiled back

-      into my eyes; then looked away sharply. I put my arm about her and drew

-      her to me. Without a struggle, she lifted up to me her mouth, all stained

-      with blackberries like any school-girl&rsquo;s. I kissed her; a long contented

-      sigh escaped her. &ldquo;We have fought against it,&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, dearest, we have fought against it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A rabbit popped out into the road; seeing us, it doubled and scuttled back

-      into the hedge. The smoke of a cottage drifted up in spirals. We

-      approached it, walking sedate and separate. A young mother, seated on the

-      threshold, was suckling her child. A man, who talked to her while he

-      worked, was trimming a rose-bed. They glanced up at us with a friendly

-      understanding smile, as much as to say, &ldquo;We were as you are now last

-      September.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When a corner of the lane had hidden us, I again placed my arm about her.

-      &ldquo;Tell me, what have you to lose by it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lose by it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. I know so little of your life. What is he like?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My husband?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She flushed as she named him. I nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He is kind.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You always say that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I say it because it is all that there is to say. He is a good man, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And in spite of that <i>but</i> you married him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I was married to him. He was over forty, and I was only eighteen at

-      the time. He was in love with me. My father was a banker; he lent my

-      father money to tide him over a crisis. Then they told me I must marry

-      him. I was only a child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you never loved him? Say you never loved him!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She raised her head from my shoulder and looked me in the face with her

-      fearless eyes. &ldquo;I never loved him. I have been a sort of daughter to him.

-      I scarcely knew what marriage meant until&mdash;until it was all over.

-      Then for a time I hated him; I felt myself degraded. Dorrie came. I fought

-      against her coming. Then I grew reconciled. I tried to be true to him

-      because he was her father. He made me respect him, because he was so

-      patient. Dante, when I think of him, I become ashamed of what we are

-      doing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her nostrils quivered, betraying her suppressed emotion. She had spoken

-      with effort.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why did you leave him? Did you intend to go back to him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She became painfully confused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why do you put so many questions?&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you trust me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi, I trust you so much that for you I&rsquo;m going to alter all my life. I&rsquo;m

-      so glad that you too are willing to be daring.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why do you question me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I want to be more sure that he has no moral right to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I left him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;because I could no longer refuse him. He was

-      breaking down my resistance with his terrible kindness. If he had only

-      been unjust and had given me some excuse for anger, I could have endured

-      it. But day after day went by with its comfort, and its heartache, and its

-      outward smoothness. And day after day he was looking older and more

-      patient, and making me feel sorrier for him. He got to calling me &lsquo;My

-      child.&rsquo; People said how beautiful we were together. I couldn&rsquo;t bear to

-      stay and watch him humbling himself and breaking his heart about me. So I

-      asked him to let me go traveling with Dorrie. He let me go, thinking that

-      absence and a change of scene might teach me how to love him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She hid her face against me. It was burning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He thinks you are coming back again?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He thinks so in every letter he writes. I thought so too when I went

-      away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi, you never wear a wedding ring. Why is that if you meant to return to

-      him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wanted to be young just for a little while. They made me a woman when I

-      was only a child.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And that was why you taught Dorrie to call you Vi?&rdquo; The pity of it got me

-      by the throat. I kissed her eyes as she leant against me. &ldquo;Poor girl, then

-      let us forget it.&rdquo; She struggled feebly, making a half-hearted effort to

-      tear herself away. &ldquo;But we can&rsquo;t forget it,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t,

-      however we try. There&rsquo;s Dorrie. He loves her terribly. He would give me

-      anything, except Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And we both love Dorrie,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;we could never do anything that would

-      spoil her life&mdash;that would make her ashamed of us one day. You&rsquo;re

-      trembling like a leaf, Vi. You mustn&rsquo;t look afraid of me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Gradually she nestled closer in my embrace. It was not me that she had

-      feared, but consequences. We became sparing in our words; words stated

-      things too boldly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Coming to the end of the lane, we sauntered out on to a broad white road.

-      It wound across long flat marshes where the wind from the sea is never

-      quiet. The marshes are intersected with dikes and ditches, dotted with

-      windbreaks for the cattle, and bridged here and there with planks. One can

-      see for miles. There is nothing to break the distance save square Norman

-      towers of embowered churches in solitary hamlets and oddly barrel-shaped

-      windmills with sails turning, for all the world like stout giants,

-      gesticulating and pummeling the sky. Here the orchestra of nature is

-      always practising; its strings, except when a storm is brewing, are muted.

-      From afar comes the constant bass of the sea, striking the land in deep

-      arpeggios. Drawing nearer is the soprano humming of the wind or the

-      staccato cry of some startled bird. Then comes a multitude of intermittent

-      soloists,&mdash;frogs croaking, reeds rustling, cattle lowing, the

-      rumbling wheels of a wagon. They clamor in subdued ecstasy, now singly and

-      now together. Through all their song runs the murmuring accompaniment of

-      water lapping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In gleaming curves across this green wilderness flow fresh-water lagoons

-      and rivers which are known as the Broads. Dotted with water-lilies,

-      barriered with bulrushes, they reflect the sky&rsquo;s vast emptiness. Brimming

-      their channels they slip over into the meadows, flashing like quicksilver

-      through ashen sedges.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The sun had vanished. The lip of the horizon was scarlet. The dust of

-      twilight was drifting down. In this primitive spaciousness and freedom

-      one&rsquo;s thoughts expanded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;we&rsquo;re two sensible persons. Of what have we to be

-      afraid? Only ourselves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the future.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The future doesn&rsquo;t belong to us. We have the present. All our lives we&rsquo;ve

-      wanted to be happy. Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s spoil our happiness now that we have it.

-      Just for to-night we&rsquo;ll forget you&rsquo;re married. We&rsquo;ll be lovers together&mdash;as

-      alone as if no one else was in the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And afterwards?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Afterwards I&rsquo;ll wait for you. Afterwards can take care of itself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The misshapen shadow of sin which had followed and stood between us,

-      holding us at arm&rsquo;s length, awkward and embarrassed, was banished. If this

-      was sin, then wrongdoing was lovely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We began to talk of how everything had happened&mdash;how, out of the

-      great nothingness of the unknown, we had been flung together. How easy it

-      would have been for us to have lived out our lives in ignorance of one

-      another and therefore free from this temptation. We justified ourselves in

-      the belief that our meeting had been fated. It could not have been

-      avoided. We were pawns on a chess-board, manipulated by the hand of an

-      unseen player. We had tried to escape one another and had been forced

-      together against our wills. The outcome of the game did not come within

-      the ruling of our decision.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The theory brought re-assurance. It excused us. We were not responsible.

-      Then my mind fled back to my mother. She and my father had had these same

-      thoughts as they had wandered side by side through these same fields and

-      hedges. Why had I been brought back to the country of their courting to

-      pass through their ordeal?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Night was coming down, covering up landmarks. Darkness lent our actions

-      modesty; they lost something of their sharpened meaning because we could

-      not see ourselves acting. We lived unforgettable moments. Passing over

-      narrow plank-bridges from meadow to meadow, we seemed to be traveling out

-      of harsh reality into a world which was dream-created.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She carried her hat in her hand. A soft wind played in her hair and

-      loosened it in places. Her filmy white dress was all a-flutter. Mists

-      began to rise from the marshlands, making us vague to one another.

-      Traveling out of the east swam the harvest moon, nearing its fullness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, taking both her hands in mine, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t know yourself&mdash;you&rsquo;re

-      splendid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laughed up into my eyes with elfin daring and abandon.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re the kind of woman for whom a man would willingly die.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I ought to know that,&rdquo; she mocked me, &ldquo;for one tried.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If this were five hundred years ago, do you know what I&rsquo;d do to-night?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t five hundred years ago&mdash;that makes all the difference. But,

-      if it were, what would you do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d ride off with you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, no, you wouldn&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should. I shouldn&rsquo;t care what happened a week later. They might kill me

-      like a robber. It wouldn&rsquo;t matter&mdash;a week alone with you would have

-      been worth it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you wouldn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she insisted; &ldquo;you wouldn&rsquo;t ride off with me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shouldn&rsquo;t I? And why?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She freed her hands from mine and placed her arms about my neck. The

-      laughter had gone from her face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dear Dante, you wouldn&rsquo;t do it, because <i>you</i> are <i>you</i>.&rdquo; The

-      burning thoughts I had had died down. We wandered on in silence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ahead of us a flickering light sprang up. Out of curiosity we went towards

-      it. We found ourselves treading a rutted field-path which led back in the

-      direction of the main road. Out of the mist grew up a clump of

-      marsh-poplars. The light became taller and redder. We saw that it was the

-      beginning of a camp-fire. Over the flames hung a stooping figure.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-evening.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The figure turned. It was that of a shriveled mummy of a woman&mdash;gray-haired,

-      fantastic, bent, with face seamed and lined from exposure. A yellow shawl

-      covered her head and shoulders. She held a burning twig in her hand, with

-      which she was lighting her pipe.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-evening, mother. Good luck to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nowt o&rsquo; luck th&rsquo; day, lad,&rdquo; she grumbled. &ldquo;All the folks is in the fields

-      at th&rsquo; &rsquo;arvest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We seated ourselves at the blaze. She went back into the darkness. We

-      heard the snapping of branches. She returned out of the clump of poplars

-      with a companion; each of them was carrying a bundle of dead wood for

-      fuel. Her companion was a younger woman of about thirty. She nodded to us

-      with a proud air of gipsy defiance and sat herself down on the far side of

-      the fire, holding her face away from the light of the flames. The one

-      glimpse I had had of her had shown me that she was handsome.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s bin nowt o&rsquo; luck th&rsquo; day,&rdquo; the older woman continued. &ldquo;They

-      hain&rsquo;t got their wage for th&rsquo; &rsquo;arvest yet and they be too cumbered

-      wi&rsquo; work for fortune-tellin&rsquo;.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you tell fortunes?&rdquo; asked Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do I tell fortunes!&rdquo; the crone repeated scornfully. &ldquo;I should think I did

-      tell fortunes. Every kind o&rsquo; folk comes ter me wot wants ter read the

-      future. Farmers whose sheep is dyin&rsquo;. Wimmem as wants childen and hasn&rsquo;t

-      got &rsquo;em. Gals as is goin&rsquo; ter have childen and oughtn&rsquo;t ter have &rsquo;em.

-      Wives whose &rsquo;usbands don&rsquo;t love &rsquo;em. Lovers as want ter get

-      married, but shouldn&rsquo;t. Lovers as should get married, but don&rsquo;t want ter.

-      They all comes to their grannie. I&rsquo;ve seen a lot o&rsquo; human natur&rsquo; in my

-      day, I &rsquo;ave.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what do you tell them?&rdquo; asked Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I tell &rsquo;em wot&rsquo;s preparin&rsquo; for or agen &rsquo;em. I read th&rsquo;

-      stars and I warn &rsquo;em.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can they escape by taking your advice?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s more&rsquo;n I can say. Thar was Joe Moyer, wot was hanged at Norwich

-      for murthering &rsquo;is sweetheart. I telt &rsquo;im &rsquo;is fortune a year

-      ago come St. Valentine&rsquo;s Day. &lsquo;Joe,&rsquo; says I, &lsquo;your &rsquo;and &rsquo;ll

-      be red before the poppies blow agen and you neck &rsquo;ll be bruk before

-      th&rsquo; wheat is ripe. Leave off a-goin&rsquo; wi&rsquo; &rsquo;er,&rsquo; says I. And the

-      lassie a-standin&rsquo; thar by &rsquo;is side, she laughs at her grannie. But

-      it all come true, wot I telt &rsquo;im.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Could you read the stars for me?&rdquo; asked Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice was so thin and eager that it pierced me like a knife. I

-      quivered with fearful anticipation. All our future might depend on what

-      this hag by the roadside might say. I did not want to hear her. She might

-      release terror from the ghost-chamber of conscience. However much we

-      scoffed at her words, they would influence our actions and haunt our

-      minds. Who could say, perhaps Joe Moyer would never have murdered his

-      sweetheart and would not have been hanged at Norwich, if she hadn&rsquo;t

-      suggested his crime.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said sternly, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t believe in fortune-telling. We must be

-      going; it&rsquo;s getting late.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Hee-hee-hee!&rdquo; the gipsy tittered, &ldquo;if she don&rsquo;t believe in

-      fortune-tellin&rsquo;, we knows who do. Come, don&rsquo;t be afeard, me dearie. Cross

-      me &rsquo;and wi siller and I&rsquo;ll read the stars for &rsquo;ee.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi crossed her palm with a shilling. The gipsy flung fresh twigs on the

-      fire, that she might study the lines in Vi&rsquo;s hands more clearly. As the

-      flames shot up, they illumined the other woman. Her features were strongly

-      Romany, dark and fierce and shy. Somewhere I had seen them; their memory

-      was pleasant. She regarded me fixedly, as though in a trance, across the

-      fire. She too was trying to remember. Then, rising noiselessly, she stole

-      like a panther into the poplars away from the circle of light. From out

-      there in the darkness I felt that her eyes were still watching.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The old fortune-teller had flung back her shawl from her head. Her

-      grizzled hair broke loose about her shoulders. She was peering over Vi&rsquo;s

-      hand, tracing out the lines with the stem of her foul pipe. Every now and

-      then she paused to ask a whispered question or make a whispered statement.

-      Now she would look up at the stars, and now would pucker her brows. Her

-      head was near to Vi&rsquo;s. The flames jumped up and showed their faces

-      clearly: the one white and pure, and crowned with gold; the other cunning,

-      mahogany-colored, and witch-like. The flames died down; the shadows danced

-      in again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I drew nearer and heard the gipsy muttering, &ldquo;You was born under Venus,

-      dearie. Love&rsquo;ll be the makin&rsquo; o&rsquo; yer, an&rsquo; love&rsquo;ll be the ruin o&rsquo; yer.

-      You&rsquo;ll always be longin&rsquo; an&rsquo; longin&rsquo; an&rsquo; lookin&rsquo; for the face o&rsquo; &rsquo;im

-      as is comin&rsquo;. You&rsquo;re married, dearie, but it warn&rsquo;t to the right &rsquo;un, and

-      yer&rsquo;ve &rsquo;ad childen by &rsquo;un. Cross me &rsquo;and wi&rsquo; siller, dearie. Cross me &rsquo;and

-      wi&rsquo; siller. I can&rsquo;t see plain. That&rsquo;s better. Now I see un. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s

-      comin&rsquo;, dearie, and &rsquo;e&rsquo;ll be tall and masterfu&rsquo;, yer &rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave

-      ter sin ter get &rsquo;un. Aye, it&rsquo;s all writ &rsquo;ere, but it gets

-      mazed&mdash;the lines rin t&rsquo;gether.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She dragged Vi&rsquo;s hand lower to the ground, nearer the fire. She was

-      excited and clearly puzzled. She kept on croaking out what she had said

-      already, &ldquo;Yer &rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave ter sin ter get &rsquo;un. It&rsquo;s all writ &rsquo;ere.

-      Aye, but it can&rsquo;t be&mdash;it can&rsquo;t be for sartin. It gets all mazed and

-      tangled.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned her head, blinking across the blaze to where her companion had

-      been sitting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lil, Lil,&rdquo; she cried hoarsely, &ldquo;come &rsquo;ere. I can&rsquo;t see plain.

-      Young eyes is better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Lil emerged out of the shadows, treading as softly as retribution

-      following temptation. She bent over the hand, unraveling the lines to

-      which the fortune-teller pointed with her pipe-stem.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Lil! Lil! Where had I heard that name before? The wind rustled the leaves

-      of the poplars and caused the ash of the fire to scatter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Whenever he hears your voice, it shall speak to him of me. If he goes

-      where you do not grow, oh, grass, then the trees shall call him back. If

-      he goes where you do not grow, oh, trees, then the wind shall tell him.

-      His hand shall be as ours, against the works of men. When he hears your

-      voices, he shall turn his face from walls and come back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you want to know the future?&rdquo; she asked, peering into Vi&rsquo;s face

-      gravely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi hesitated. &ldquo;Is it so terrible?&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not terrible as we gipsies reckon it; but sweet and dangerous and

-      reckless, and it ends in&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lilith.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I caught her by the wrist. She shot upright and faced me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you know me? I&rsquo;m Dante&mdash;Dante Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi had sunk upon her knees and stared up at us, steadying herself with her

-      hands. The old hag gazed angrily from behind Lilith, stretching out her

-      long thin neck.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I remember you, brother,&rdquo; said Lilith. &ldquo;You are one of us. I knew that

-      one day you would hear us calling.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wot did &rsquo;ee see in the lady&rsquo;s &rsquo;and?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The fortune-teller laid a skinny claw on Lilith&rsquo;s shoulder; her voice

-      quavered with eagerness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I will not tell,&rdquo; said Lilith.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did &rsquo;ee see&mdash;&mdash;?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Lilith clapped her hand over the woman&rsquo;s mouth. &ldquo;You shan&rsquo;t tell,

-      grannie,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not good to tell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Down the field-track came the creaking sound of wheels. I looked up and

-      saw through the poplars the swinging lanterns of a caravan.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi touched me on the arm. She was unnerved and trembling. &ldquo;Take me home,

-      Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned to Lilith. &ldquo;Who is that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;G&rsquo;liath.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll you be camping to-morrow? At Woadley Ham?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A cloud passed over her face. &ldquo;We never camp there, now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The crone broke in with a spiteful titter: &ldquo;But we used ter, until she

-      wouldn&rsquo;t let us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Lilith spoke hastily. &ldquo;We&rsquo;re going to Yarminster Fair. We get there

-      to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll see you there,&rdquo; I told her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The caravan had come to a halt. I could see the tall form of G&rsquo;liath

-      moving about the horses. I did not want to meet him just then. Skirting

-      the encampment, we hurried off across fields to the highroad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A sleepy irritable landlady opened the door to Vi. By the time I had

-      walked down the High Street to the shop, it was nearly midnight. Ruthita

-      was sitting up for me; my grandmother had been in bed two hours. She eyed

-      me curiously. &ldquo;You had a long walk,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, longer than we expected.&rdquo; I spoke brusquely. I was afraid she would

-      question me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the top of the stairs, just as I was entering my room, she stole near

-      to me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante, ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t you going to kiss me good-night?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was bending perfunctorily over her lifted face, when I saw by the light

-      of the candle in my hand that her eyes were red.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, you little goose, you&rsquo;ve been crying. What&rsquo;ve you been crying

-      about?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve not,&rdquo; she denied indignantly, and broke from me. After she had

-      entered her room I tiptoed down the passage and listened outside her door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the stillness of the house I could hear her sobbing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;THE WAY OF ALL FLESH

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or good luck&rsquo;s

-      sake smile, Ruthita,&rdquo; said my grandmother. &ldquo;There you&rsquo;ve sat all through

-      breakfast lookin&rsquo; like a week o&rsquo; Sundays, with your face as long as a yard

-      o&rsquo; pump water. What&rsquo;s the matter with you, child? Ain&rsquo;t you well?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I saw the brightness come into Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes and the lashes tremble. I

-      knew by the signs that directly she heard her own voice she would begin to

-      cry, so I answered for her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can tell you what&rsquo;s the matter. I upset her last night. It was nearly

-      twelve when I got home from my walk with Mrs. Carpenter. Ruthie&rsquo;d got

-      herself all worked up. Thought we&rsquo;d been getting drowned again or

-      something, didn&rsquo;t you, Ruthie? It was too bad of me to keep her sitting up

-      so late.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A heavy silence fell. Ruthita dropped her eyes, trying to recover her

-      composure. My grandmother&rsquo;s face masked itself in a non-committal stare.

-      She gazed past me out of the window, and seemed to hold her breath; only

-      the faint tinkling of the gold chain against the jet of her bodice, told

-      how her breath came and went. She had placed her hand on the coffee-pot as

-      I began to speak. When I ended, it stayed there motionless. From the

-      bake-house across the courtyard came the bump, bang, bump of the bakers

-      pounding the dough into bread.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So you stayed out with Mrs. Carpenter till nearly twelve?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My grandmother never used dialect when she wished to be impressive. Her

-      tones were icily refined and haughty&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I recognized them as belonging to her company manners. She could be

-      crushingly aloof and dignified when her sense of the moralities was

-      offended. She had practised her talent for &ldquo;settin&rsquo; folks down and makin&rsquo;

-      &rsquo;em feel like three penn&rsquo;orth o&rsquo; happence&rdquo; to some purpose on

-      grizzled sea-captains.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, till nearly twelve. It was pretty late, wasn&rsquo;t it? We met some

-      interesting people camping on the marshlands&mdash;old friends of mine and

-      Ruthita&rsquo;s.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Indeed! And you walked back from the Broads about midnight with a married

-      woman.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, no. It wasn&rsquo;t much after ten when we started back. Time passed

-      quickly; we didn&rsquo;t realize how late it was getting. It didn&rsquo;t matter,

-      except for Ruthita. It was bright moonlight. The country looked perfect.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It must ha&rsquo; done,&rdquo; said my grandmother sarcastically.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It did. Some day we must try it all together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And who were your interesting friends? Respectable people, no doubt, to

-      be camping on the marshlands.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They weren&rsquo;t respectable. They were gipsies.&rdquo; Then, turning to Ruthita,

-      &ldquo;It was Lilith that we met. You remember Lilith of Epping Forest&mdash;that

-      time we ran away to get married. Fancy meeting her after all these years!

-      And just as I left, I saw G&rsquo;liath drive up. I could swear it was the same

-      old caravan, Ruthie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Curiosity and love of romance melted my grandmother&rsquo;s reserve.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;G&rsquo;liath! Why, that&rsquo;s the gipsy family to which Sir Charles&rsquo;s mother

-      belonged. They must be kind o&rsquo; relatives o&rsquo; yours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose they must. I never thought of that. I&rsquo;ll have to ask Lilith

-      about it. They were on their way to Yarminster Fair. We&rsquo;ll run over and

-      see them.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then the errand boy, who was minding the shop, tapped at the

-      keeping-room door and handed in a note for me. I saw that it was unstamped

-      and addressed in a handwriting that I did not recognize.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where did this come from?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It war left jist nar acrost the counter by a sarvant-gal.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All right.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of Lilith.

-      I ripped open the envelope and read:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can.

-      Vi.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s your letter from?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From Mrs. Carpenter.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It&rsquo;s not more&rsquo;n nine hours

-      since you saw her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She wants my advice on&mdash;on a business matter.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! I &rsquo;ope she may profit by it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As I was sauntering out of the shop Ruthita called after me in her high

-      clear voice, &ldquo;Going to take me to Yarminster to-day, Dante?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know yet. I&rsquo;ll tell you later.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure I

-      was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and

-      baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by

-      affectionate relatives in the way I was.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was puzzled by Vi&rsquo;s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I

-      jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which

-      overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the

-      curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table.

-      Upstairs I could hear Dorrie&rsquo;s piping voice and, now and then, could catch

-      a phrase of what she was saying.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don&rsquo;t want to play wiv Annie.

-      I want to play wiv Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to

-      stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly

-      to the kitchen.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the

-      door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect in

-      her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high color

-      in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted a

-      foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it gently.

-      Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally polite

-      and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the slow rise and

-      fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid beauty&mdash;everything

-      about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments, I wondered, what

-      campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild desires to duty were

-      going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip on her hand tightened;

-      I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my yearning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is it? Why did you send for me? You&rsquo;ve changed since last night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I

-      had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all over, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She whispered the words, wringing her hands and staring away from me out

-      to sea. I slipped my arm about her shoulder. &ldquo;It can never be all over,

-      dearest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For answer she handed me a letter. It bore a United States stamp and was

-      addressed to her in a bold, emphatic, perpendicular hand which revealed

-      the writer&rsquo;s vigorous determination of character.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;From my husband. Read it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Standing a little apart from her at the window, I drew out a carefully

-      folded letter. It was dated from Sheba, Massachusetts, nine days previous

-      to its arrival. While I read it, I watched her stealthily, how she stood

-      charmingly irresolute, twisting the gold-band off and on her finger.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>My dearest Vi:</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>I have written you many times, asking you to fix definitely the day of

-      your return. You&rsquo;ve put me off with all kinds of excuses. Latterly you

-      have not even referred to my question. My dear child, don&rsquo;t think I blame

-      you; you probably have your own reasons for what you are doing. But people

-      are beginning to talk about us here. For your own sake you ought to

-      return. We&rsquo;ve always tried to play fair by one another. You were always

-      game, Vi; and now it&rsquo;s up to you.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>I&rsquo;m lonely. I want my little Dorrie. Most of all I want my wife. I

-      can&rsquo;t stand this absence much longer. On receipt of this send me a cable

-      &ldquo;Coming,&rdquo; followed by the date of your sailing. If I don&rsquo;t receive such a

-      cable within ten days of mailing this letter, I shall jump on a boat and

-      come over. I don&rsquo;t distrust you, but I&rsquo;m worn out with waiting. Can&rsquo;t you

-      understand how I want you? Nothing in the world matters to me, my child,

-      except you.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Your affectionate husband,</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Randall.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I re-folded it methodically and returned it to the envelope. I tried to

-      picture this man who had sent it. He was manifestly elderly. Probably he

-      was portly, a trifle pompous and genially paternal in his manners. What

-      volumes his trick of calling her &ldquo;my child&rdquo; revealed concerning their

-      relations. I contrasted him with Vi. Vi with her eager youth, her passion

-      to taste life&rsquo;s rapture, her slim white body so alluring and so gracious,

-      her physical fineness, her possibilities for bestowing and receiving

-      natural joy. If I let her go, she would slowly lose her zest for life. She

-      would forget that she was a woman and would sink prematurely into stolid

-      middle-age. Her possibilities of motherhood would slip from her untaken

-      and never to be renewed. The little rascals, with golden hair and features

-      which should perpetuate her beauty, would never be born to her. Those

-      children should be hers and mine. <i>Hers and mine</i>. How the words beat

-      upon my brain! They were like the fists of little children, battering

-      against the closed doors of existence. It was monstrous that the justice

-      of this husband&rsquo;s claim to her should be based on his injustice in having

-      married her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Again I formed my mental picture of him, formed it with the cruel sarcasm

-      of youth. His body was deteriorated; his skin puckered and yellow; the

-      fine lines of suppleness and straightness gone; the muscles flabby and

-      jaded. Then I looked at her: gold and ivory, with poppies for a mouth.

-      Sweet and nobly chaste. A woman to set a man on fire&mdash;to drive him to

-      the extremes of sorrow or gladness. A woman to sin for.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned from the window and took one step towards her. I could feel her

-      body throbbing against mine. The fierce sweet ecstasy of my delight hurt

-      her. I saw nothing but her eyes. All else in the world was darkness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let me go,&rdquo; she panted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you want to go?&rdquo; I whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She sank her head on my shoulder. Her arms were about my neck. I could

-      only see her golden hair. Her answer came to me broken and muffled. &ldquo;No,

-      no, no.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t ever despise me, will you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      How absurd her question sounded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Without any reference to our ultimate purpose, we set about making our

-      plans. We must get away from Ransby. We must not be seen together any more

-      that day. We would meet at the station that evening, and travel up to

-      London together by the train leaving Ransby at six-thirty-eight. Our plans

-      went no further.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now that all had been arranged, a new embarrassment arose between us&mdash;a

-      sweet shamefulness. She clung to me, yet she cast down her eyes, her

-      cheeks encrimsoned, not daring to look me in the face. We touched one

-      another shyly and shuddered at the contact. Our hearts were too full for

-      words, our thoughts too primitively intimate to be expressed. The veils

-      had dropped from our eyes. The mystery of mysteries lay exposed. We saw

-      one another, natural in our passions&mdash;exiles from society. No

-      artificial restraints stood between us; in our conduct with one another we

-      were free to be governed by our own desires.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A scurry of little feet in the passage. The sound of heavier ones

-      pursuing. We sprang apart. Dorrie entered, running with her arms stretched

-      out towards me. &ldquo;Catch me, Dante. Don&rsquo;t let her get me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The rueful face of Annie appeared in the doorway; her plump arms covered

-      to the elbows with flour. &ldquo;If &rsquo;ee please, mum,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;it

-      warn&rsquo;t no fault o&rsquo; mine. She nipped out afore I could get a-holt o&rsquo; her,

-      while I war a-makin&rsquo; o&rsquo; the pudden.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re juth horwid,&rdquo; cried Dorrie. &ldquo;Go &rsquo;way. I want to thpeak to

-      Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She scrambled on my knee, clutching tightly to my coat till Annie had

-      vanished. Then she tossed her curls out of her eyes, and told me all that

-      she and Ruthita had done together on the previous evening. While she was

-      talking, I watched Vi, trying to realize the seemingly impossible truth

-      that she had promised herself to me, and would soon be mine. A host of

-      bewildering images rushed through my mind as I gazed into the future. I

-      was amazed at myself that I should feel no fear of the step which we

-      contemplated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Old thtupid,&rdquo; cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, &ldquo;you weren&rsquo;t

-      lithening.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give her

-      my attention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it

-      some other time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All wite,&rdquo; she acquiesced contentedly; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a pwomith.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi accompanied me to the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What wath you thaying?&rdquo; asked Dorrie.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nothing, my darling.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered.

-      She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles. &ldquo;Well,

-      my man of business, did she take your advice?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course. Why shouldn&rsquo;t she? She&rsquo;s seen my grannie, and knows how she&rsquo;s

-      profited by it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Clever boy,&rdquo; she retorted. &ldquo;Who made your shirt? When a man of business

-      is born among the Cardovers, pears&rsquo;ll grow on pines. Look at your father.

-      Look at the Spuffler. Look at yourself. I hope she won&rsquo;t act on it. What

-      was it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t tell you now. I find I&rsquo;ve got to run up to London to-night and I&rsquo;ve

-      promised to take Ruthie to Yarminster. There&rsquo;s only just time.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s takin&rsquo; you to London? You didn&rsquo;t say anythin&rsquo; about it this

-      marnin&rsquo;.&rdquo; She dropped her knitting in her lap. &ldquo;Dante, is it anythin&rsquo; to

-      do with her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Partly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced

-      meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our

-      heads nearly touched. &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better stay there, laddie,&rdquo; she whispered.

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been thinkin&rsquo; and usin&rsquo; me eyes. This ain&rsquo;t no place fur you at

-      present. She&rsquo;s gettin&rsquo; too fond of you and you of her. I know.&rdquo; She

-      nodded. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been through it. I watched your pa at it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At what you and Mrs. Carpenter are doin&rsquo;. Don&rsquo;t pretend you&rsquo;re a fool,

-      Dante, &rsquo;cause you&rsquo;re not&mdash;and neither is your old grannie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then Ruthita looked out of the keeping-room. I was glad of the excuse

-      to cut this dangerous conversation short. &ldquo;Hurry up, Ruthie; get on your

-      togs. I&rsquo;m going to drive you over to Yarminster.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When she had gone, my grandmother turned to me again. &ldquo;And there&rsquo;s another

-      of &rsquo;em. Lovers can&rsquo;t keep their secrets to theirselves nohow&mdash;they

-      give theirselves away with every breath. Did ye see the way she flushed

-      wi&rsquo; pleasure? She&rsquo;s a tender little maid. If you made her unhappy, though

-      she&rsquo;s none o&rsquo; my body, I&rsquo;d never forgive ye, Dante. If you don&rsquo;t intend to

-      marry &rsquo;er, be careful.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Rubbish,&rdquo; I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a

-      dog-cart from the livery-stables.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Aye, rubbish is well enough,&rdquo; was my grandmother&rsquo;s final retort; &ldquo;but

-      broken eggs can&rsquo;t be mended. No more can broken hearts.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      There was just room enough on the front-seat to take the two of us. As I

-      drove down the street I saw Ruthita come out of the shop and stand waiting

-      on the pavement. She looked modest and pretty as a sprig of lavender.

-      There was always something quaintly virginal about her, as though she had

-      stepped out of an old English love-song. Her eyes were unusually bright

-      this morning with the pleasure of anticipation. With subtle flattery, she

-      had put on one of the gowns I had bought her. It was her way of saying,

-      &ldquo;This day is to be mine and yours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t I do you proud?&rdquo; she laughed, using one of Vi&rsquo;s Americanisms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, you don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I said, with pretended harshness, &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t think where

-      you got such a dunducketty old dress from.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A man gave it me. Didn&rsquo;t he show bad taste?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He showed himself a perfect ass. Now, if I were to buy you a dress,

-      Ruthie, which of course I shan&rsquo;t&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Here, get off with you, you rascals. What&rsquo;re you a-doin&rsquo;, blockin&rsquo; up my

-      pavement?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover stood in the doorway, her hands folded beneath her

-      black satin apron, her keys jangling. The gray cork-screw curls from under

-      her cap were wobbling; her plump little body was shaking with enjoyment.

-      All her crossness and caution on Vi&rsquo;s account were gone at seeing Ruthita

-      and myself together. We started up at a smart trot. As we turned the

-      corner into the High Street, we looked back. She was still there, gazing

-      after us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      By the road which follows the coast, Yarminster is eight miles from

-      Ransby. I turned inland by a roundabout route; I wanted to pass through

-      Woadley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My spirits ran high with the thought of what was to happen shortly. I was

-      in a mood to be gay. Clouds were flying high. The country lay windswept

-      and golden in the sunshine. The air had the sharp tang of autumn&mdash;the

-      acrid fragrance which foretells the decay of foliage. A pleasant

-      melancholy lurked in the reds and yellows of woods and hedges. Tops of

-      trees were already growing thin of leaves where the gales had harried

-      them. Pasturing in harvested fields, flocks of sheep lent a touch of

-      grayness to the landscape. Here and there overhead gulls hovered, or slid

-      down the sky on poised wings, as though brooding on the summer that was

-      gone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita and I spoke of Lilith, recalling childhood&rsquo;s days. We laughed over

-      our amazement at discovering that her back was no longer humpy&mdash;that

-      her baby had left her. Then we fell to wondering whether she had ever been

-      married and what was her story. Our conversation became intimate and

-      confessional. I had never known much of Ruthita&rsquo;s secret thoughts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;why did they leave us to find out everything?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I slowed the horse down to a walk. &ldquo;I know what you mean, Ruthie. They

-      brought us up on fables. They left us to fight with all kinds of fantastic

-      imaginings. They allowed us to infer that so many things were shameful.

-      D&rsquo;you remember what a fuss they made when they found that the Bantam had

-      kissed you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded, casting down her eyes. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never got over it. It&rsquo;s made me

-      awkward with men&mdash;self-conscious and afraid of...&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And yet they were kind to us, Ruthie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But they never treated us honestly,&rdquo; she said sadly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That same intense look, a look almost of hunger, which transformed her,

-      came into her face&mdash;the look which the flash-light had revealed to me

-      that night on the denes. Sudden fear of what we might say next made me

-      shake up the horse. The jolting of the wheels prevented us from conversing

-      save by raising our voices.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We passed a man on the road. He shouted after us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At first I thought he was chaffing. He kept on shouting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you stop?&rdquo; said Ruthita. &ldquo;We may have dropped something.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We had turned a bend. I looked back, but could not see him. I halted until

-      he should come up. A big-framed man in a shooting-jacket, gaiters, and

-      knickerbockers came swinging round the corner. I was surprised to

-      recognize in him Lord Halloway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Halloa,&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re going in my direction. Would you mind giving

-      me a lift as far as Woadley?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not at all,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;This horse is restive. I can&rsquo;t leave the reins. I

-      suppose you can lower the back-seat without help.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He drew level on the far-side from me and stood with his hand resting on

-      the splashboard, gazing at Ruthita. &ldquo;My sister,&rdquo; I said shortly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While he lowered the back and drew but the seat, he explained himself.

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to Woadley to look after some farms my father owns round

-      there.&rdquo; What he was really saying was, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not going to try to cut you

-      out with Sir Charles, so you needn&rsquo;t fear me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His manner was friendly. He had gained a high color with his walking. He

-      looked brilliantly handsome and manly, with just that touch of indolence

-      about him that gave him his charm. Without being warned, no one would have

-      guessed that he was a rake. In his presence even I disbelieved half the

-      wild tales of dissipation I had heard narrated of him. Yet, when my

-      distrust of him was almost at rest, he would arouse it with his inane,

-      high-pitched laugh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When he had clambered in and we had started, I began to tell him, for the

-      sake of conversation, where we were traveling. At the mention of Lilith,

-      he interrupted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lilith! Lilith! Seem to remember the name. Was she ever in these parts

-      before? There was a little girl named Lilith, who used to camp with the

-      Goliaths, the gipsies, on Woadley Ham. They haven&rsquo;t been there for years.

-      I recall her distinctly. She was wild and dark. I used to watch her

-      breaking in ponies when I was a boy stopping with Sir Charles.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She must be the same.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You might tell her that you met me, when you see her,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;She was

-      the pluckiest little horsewoman for her age I ever saw. She could ride

-      anything. I can see her now, gripping a young hunter I had with her brown

-      bare legs, fighting his head off. It&rsquo;s odd that you should have mentioned

-      her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He tailed off into his giggling girlish laugh.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Little by little he commenced to address his remarks exclusively to

-      Ruthita. This was natural, for I could not turn round to converse with him

-      because of attending to the horse. I observed him out of the corner of my

-      eye, and began to understand the secret of his power over women. For one

-      thing he talked entirely to a woman, bestowing on her an intensity of

-      attention which many would consider flattering. Then again he put a woman

-      at her ease, drawing her out and speaking of things which were within her

-      depth. Most of the topics which he drifted into were personal. When he

-      mentioned himself, he lowered his voice as if he were confessing. When he

-      mentioned her, his tones became earnest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was surprised to see how Ruthita, usually so reticent, lowered her guard

-      to his attack. She twisted round on her seat, that she might watch him.

-      Her face grew merry and her eyes twinkled with fun and laughter. She was

-      being, what she had declared she never was&mdash;natural with a man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Out of the corner of my eye I saw one thing which displeased me immensely.

-      With apparent unconsciousness, Halloway&rsquo;s arm was slipping farther and

-      farther along the back of the seat against which Ruthita rested. A little

-      more, and it would have encircled her. But before that was accomplished,

-      he stopped short, leaving nothing to complain of. He was simply steadying

-      himself in a jolting dog-cart.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a glimpse

-      of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where the

-      gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as I

-      wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and myself

-      together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were still

-      industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of his

-      errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the seat.

-      That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t you say you were going to Woadley?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, yes,&rdquo; he laughed. &ldquo;I have to get out at the next cross-road and

-      walk. The farms are over in that direction.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told

-      me nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, here&rsquo;s the next cross-road.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my

-      tones.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m awfully grateful to you,&rdquo; he said; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve saved me a long walk and

-      I&rsquo;ve enjoyed your company immensely.&rdquo; As he spoke the last words he smiled

-      directly into the eyes of Ruthita. &ldquo;I shall hope to meet Miss Cardover

-      again&mdash;perhaps at Oxford.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not think it necessary to tell him that Ruthita&rsquo;s surname was not

-      Cardover but Favart. We watched him stride away, clean-limbed and splendid&mdash;a

-      man who had sinned discreetly and bore no physical marks of his

-      shortcomings.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At last Ruthita spoke. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I like him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t let him know it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He made me forget. He made me remember I was a woman. No man&rsquo;s ever

-      spoken to me as he spoke.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a clever fellow to make you forget the esplanade and Lottie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re angry,&rdquo; she laughed, and snuggled closer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered the old marketplace of Yarminster where the Fair was being

-      held. Leaving our horse at <i>The Anchor</i> to be baited, we threaded our

-      way between booths and whirligo-rounds. Presently I heard a familiar cry,

-      &ldquo;Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball &rsquo;its a cocoanut.

-      Down she goes. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Dodging up and down behind the pitch, was G&rsquo;liath, not much altered. The

-      gaudy woman was absent; it was Lilith who was serving out the balls to the

-      country bumpkins.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Here&rsquo;s Ruthita,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You remember the little girl in the Forest?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She went on catching the wooden balls which G&rsquo;liath returned to her. Trade

-      was busy. Between reiterating his call, she conversed with us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I remember. (Two shies a penny). It doesn&rsquo;t seem long ago. (Every ball &rsquo;its

-      a cocoanut. Walk up). How long is it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The best part of fourteen years.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was difficult to carry on a conversation under the circumstances.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wanted to ask you about last night,&rdquo; I whispered. &ldquo;When&rsquo;ll you be

-      free?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not until midnight.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I saw Ruthita listening, so I changed the subject. &ldquo;By the way, we met

-      someone who knew you when you were a girl at Woadley. He wanted to be

-      remembered to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her handsome face darkened. &ldquo;A man?&rdquo; she asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My cousin, Lord Halloway.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She halted and looked round on me in proud astonishment. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; she gasped,

-      and renewed her calling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita broke in to tell her of my good fortune. She did not pay much

-      attention at first. Then it seemed to dawn on her. &ldquo;So he&rsquo;s out of it, and

-      you&rsquo;ll be master at Woadley Hall?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo; I lowered my voice. &ldquo;And then you must come back to Woadley Ham.

-      You were good to me once, Lilith.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I never forget.&rdquo; There was a look of the old kindness in her eyes as she

-      said it. &ldquo;When you need me, I shall come.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The crowd pressed about us, curious to overhear, surprised at seeing

-      gentlefolks so chatty with a gipsy hussy. She signed to us to go. We drew

-      off a few paces, looking on, recalling that night at Epping, when we fled

-      from Dot-and-Carry-One and came to G&rsquo;liath&rsquo;s encampment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Shortly after that the clock of St. Nicholas boomed three, and we

-      departed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE ELOPEMENT

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>uthita was anxious

-      to accompany me to the station.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want you,&rdquo; I told her. &ldquo;Women always make a fuss over partings.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But not sensible women,&rdquo; she protested, smiling. &ldquo;Let me come. There&rsquo;s a

-      dear.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll try to kiss me. You&rsquo;ll make a grab at my neck just as the train is

-      moving. I shall feel embarrassed. You&rsquo;ll probably slip off the platform

-      and get both your legs cut off. A nice memory to take with me to London!

-      No, thank you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I won&rsquo;t try to kiss you, and I won&rsquo;t grab at your neck. I&rsquo;ll be most

-      careful about my legs. And I don&rsquo;t think it&rsquo;s nice of you to mention them

-      so callously, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I always tell folks,&rdquo; put in my grandmother, &ldquo;that, if there wer&rsquo;n&rsquo;t no

-      partin&rsquo;s, there&rsquo;d be no meetin&rsquo;s. It&rsquo;s just come and go in this life. If

-      he don&rsquo;t want you, my dear, don&rsquo;t bother &rsquo;im.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But he does want me,&rdquo; Ruthita persisted. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve always seen him off. I

-      used to run beside the trap till I was ready to drop when Uncle Obad drove

-      him away to the Red House. He&rsquo;s only making fun.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, really, Ruthie, I&rsquo;d much rather say good-by to you here in the shop.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you&rsquo;re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you&rsquo;ll have to run,&rdquo; said

-      my grandmother.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that something

-      was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and followed me out

-      on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There they stood waving and crying after me, &ldquo;Good-by. God bless you.

-      Good-by.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In passing the chemist&rsquo;s shop I glanced in at the clock. It was five

-      minutes faster than my watch. I turned into the High Street at something

-      between a trot and a walk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart.

-      The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to

-      give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages. I

-      had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money

-      through. &ldquo;&rsquo;Fraid you won&rsquo;t get the six-thirty-eight,&rdquo; said the

-      clerk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the guard

-      blew his whistle.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Too late,&rdquo; growled the collector, closing the gate in my face with all

-      the impersonal incivility of a man whose action is supported by law.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a lady and a little girl on board,&rdquo; I panted; &ldquo;they&rsquo;re expecting

-      me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sorry,&rdquo; said the man; &ldquo;should &rsquo;ave got &rsquo;ere sooner.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Just then the train began to move and I recognized the uselessness of

-      further argument. As the tail of it vanished out of the station, the

-      collector slid back the gate. Now that there was no danger of my

-      disobeying him, he could afford to be human. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s h&rsquo;orders, yer know,

-      sir, else I wouldn&rsquo;t ha&rsquo; done it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Friends who had been seeing their travelers off came laughing and chatting

-      toward the barrier. As the crowd thinned, half way down the platform I

-      caught sight of Vi. She was standing apart, with her hand-baggage

-      scattered beside her in disorder. Dorrie was hanging to her skirts,

-      looking up into her face, asking questions. Neither of them saw me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Hulloa!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I spoke to her, Vi started. Her eyes brimmed. There shone through her

-      tears a doubtful gladness. &ldquo;I thought&mdash;I thought you wer&rsquo;n&rsquo;t coming.

-      I thought&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi dearest! Was that likely?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her fingers closed about my arm warningly as I called her dearest. She

-      cast a scared look at Dorrie. &ldquo;Not before her,&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I shrugged my shoulders. The position was queer. For a man and a woman in

-      our situation there was no readymade standard of conduct. I began to feel

-      lost in the freedom we were making for ourselves. There were no landmarks.

-      Even now we were beyond the conventional walls of right and wrong which

-      divide society from the outcast. We were running away to seek our

-      happiness&mdash;and we were taking Dorrie!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to explain hurriedly how I happened to miss the train.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthita wanted to come to the station. I lost time in dissuading her.

-      When I got away, I discovered that my watch was slow by five minutes. And

-      then to crown all, when I could have caught the train, the man at the

-      gate...&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; she said generously. &ldquo;How long before the next train

-      starts?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;About half-an-hour.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;ll do nearly as well. My boxes have gone on, but I can claim them in

-      London.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t want to stand in this stuffy station,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go for a

-      walk.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She began to speak, and then stopped.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shan&rsquo;t&mdash;shan&rsquo;t we be recognized?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not if we go round the harbor. We shan&rsquo;t be likely to meet anyone there

-      who knows us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was odd, this keeping up of respectable appearances to the last.

-      Ruthita, Grandmother Cardover, Sir Charles, my father&mdash;all the world

-      would know to-morrow. They would spread their hands before their faces and

-      look shocked, and peek out at us through their fingers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No one ever thpeaks to me.&rdquo; Dorrie was reproachfully calling our

-      attention to her presence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll both thpeak to you now,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;Give me your hand, Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Leaving our baggage with a porter, we went out of the station to the

-      harbor, which lay just across the station-yard. Vi manouvered herself to

-      the other side of me, so that the child walked between us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The heavy autumn dusk was falling. Lanterns were being run up the masts.

-      The town shone hospitably with street-lamps. Groping their way round the

-      pier-head came a part of the Scotch herring fleet. We could see how their

-      prows danced and nodded by the way the light from their lamps lengthened

-      and shortened across the water. Soon the ripple against the piles near to

-      where we were standing quickened with the disturbance caused by their

-      advance. Then we heard the creaking of ropes against blocks as sails were

-      lowered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Leaning against the wall of the quay we watched them, casting furtive

-      glances now and then at the illumined face of the station-clock.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie asked questions, to which we returned indifferent answers. It had

-      begun to dawn on her that I was going up to London with them. She

-      construed our secretiveness to mean that our plot was for her special

-      benefit; people only acted like that with her when they were concealing

-      something pleasant. Her innocent curiosity embarrassed us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Why were we going to London? she asked us. We had not dared to answer that

-      question even to one another. For my part I tried not to hear her; she

-      roused doubts&mdash;phantoms of future consequence. I pictured the scene

-      of long ago, when Ransby was rather more than twenty years younger, and

-      another man and woman had slipped away unnoticed, daring the world for

-      their love&rsquo;s preservation. Had they had these same thoughts&mdash;these

-      hesitations and misgivings? Or had they gone out bravely to meet their

-      destiny, reckless in their certainty of one another?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Behind us, as we bent above the water, rose the shuffling clamor of

-      numberless feet. Up and down the harbor groups of fisher-girls were

-      sauntering abreast, in rows of three and four. Now and then we caught

-      phrases in broad Scotch dialect.. They had been brought down from their

-      homes in the north, many hundreds of them, for the kippering. They paraded

-      bareheaded, with rough woolen shawls across their shoulders, knitting as

-      they walked. I was thankful for them; they distracted attention from

-      ourselves. Vi and I said nothing to one another; our hearts were too full

-      for small-talk. The child was a barrier between us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A man halted near us. He had a heavy box on his back, covered with

-      American-cloth. He set it down and became busy. In a short time he had

-      lighted a lantern and hung it on a pole. He mounted a stool, from which he

-      could command the crowd, raising the lamp aloft. Fisher-girls, still

-      knitting, stopped in their sauntering and gathered round him. Several

-      smacksmen and sailors, with pipes in their mouths, and hands deep in

-      pockets, loitered up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The man began to talk, at first at random, like a cheap-jack, trying to

-      catch his hearers&rsquo; attention with a laugh. Then, when his audience was

-      sufficiently interested, he unrolled a sheet upon which the words of a

-      hymn were printed. He held it before him like a bill-board, so that all

-      could see and the light fell on it. He sang the first verse himself in a

-      strong, gusty baritone. One by one the crowd caught the air and joined in

-      with him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They sang four verses, each verse followed by a chorus. The man allowed

-      the sheet to drop, and handed the pole with the lantern to a bystander.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His brows puckered. His eyes concentrated. His somewhat brutal jaw squared

-      itself. His face had become impassioned and earnest all of a sudden. It

-      had been coarse and rather stupid before; now a certain eagerness of

-      purpose gave it sharpness. He began to talk with vehemence, making crude,

-      forceful gestures, thrashing the air with his arms, bringing down his

-      clenched right-fist into the open palm of his left-hand when a remark

-      called for emphasis. His thick throat swelled above the red knotted

-      handkerchief which took the place of a collar. He spoke with a kind of

-      savage anger. He mauled his audience with brutal eloquence. His way of

-      talking was ignorant. He was displeasing, yet compelling. There were

-      fifteen minutes until the train started. I watched him with cynicism as a

-      diversion from my thoughts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Brothers and sisters,&rdquo; he shouted, &ldquo;we are &rsquo;ere met in the sight

-      of h&rsquo;Almighty Gawd. It was &rsquo;im as brought us together. Yer didn&rsquo;t

-      know that when yer started out this starlit h&rsquo;evenin&rsquo; for yer walk. It was

-      &rsquo;im as sent me &rsquo;ere ter tell yer this evenin&rsquo; that the wages

-      o&rsquo; sin is death. I know wot h&rsquo;I&rsquo;m a-saying of, for I was once a sinner.

-      But blessed be Gawd, &rsquo;e &rsquo;as saved me and washed me white

-      h&rsquo;in &rsquo;is son&rsquo;s precious blood. &rsquo;E can do that for you

-      ter-night, an &rsquo;e sent me&rsquo;ere ter tell yer.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Some of the Cornish Methodists, in Ransby for the herring season, began to

-      warm to the orator&rsquo;s enthusiasm. They urged him to further fervor by

-      ejaculating texts and crying, &ldquo;Amen!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Blessed be &rsquo;is name!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Glory!&rdquo; etc.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The man sank his voice from the roaring monotone in which he had started.

-      &ldquo;The wages o&rsquo; sin is death,&rdquo; he repeated. &ldquo;Oh, my friends, h&rsquo;I speak as a

-      dyin&rsquo; man to dyin&rsquo; men. Yer carn&rsquo;t h&rsquo;escape them wages nohow. The fool &rsquo;as

-      said in &rsquo;is &rsquo;eart, &lsquo;There ain&rsquo;t no Gawd.&rsquo; &rsquo;Ave you

-      said that? Wot&rsquo;ll yer say when yer &rsquo;ave ter take the wages? Now yer

-      say, &lsquo;No one&rsquo;s lookin&rsquo;. They&rsquo;ll never find out. H&rsquo;everyone&rsquo;s as bad as I

-      h&rsquo;am, only they doan&rsquo;t let me know it. I&rsquo;ll h&rsquo;injoy myself. There ain&rsquo;t no

-      Gawd.&rsquo; I tells yer, my friends, yer wrong. &rsquo;E&rsquo;s a-watchin&rsquo; yer now,

-      lookin&rsquo; down from them blessed stars. &rsquo;E looks inter yer &rsquo;eart

-      and sees the sin yer a-meditatin&rsquo; and a-planning. &rsquo;E knows the

-      wages yer&rsquo;ll &rsquo;ave ter take for it. &rsquo;E sees the

-      conserquences. And the conserquences is death. Death ter self-respec&rsquo;!

-      Death ter &rsquo;uman h&rsquo;affection! Death ter the woman and children yer

-      love! Death ter &rsquo;ope and purity! Damnation ter yer soul! &rsquo;Ave

-      yer thought o&rsquo; that? Death! Death! Death!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He hissed the words, speaking slower and slower. His voice died away in an

-      awestruck whisper. In the pause that followed, the quiet was broken by a

-      shrill laugh. All heads turned. On the outskirts of the crowd stood &ldquo;Lady

-      Halloway.&rdquo; She had evidently been drinking. A foolish smile played about

-      her mouth. Her lips were swollen. She mimicked the evangelist in a hoarse,

-      cracked voice, &ldquo;Death! Death! Death!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I signed to Vi. Going first, carrying Dorrie in my arms, I commenced to

-      force a passage. We had become wedged against the wall. Our going caused a

-      ripple of disturbance. Attention was distracted from &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; to

-      ourselves. She turned her glazed eyes on us. Stupid with drink, she did

-      not recognize me at first. I had to pass beneath the lantern quite near

-      her. As the light struck across my face, she saw who I was. &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s

-      got another gal,&rdquo; she tittered so all could hear her. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s easy come and

-      easy go-a. Love &rsquo;ere ter-day and thar ter-morrer. Good-evenin&rsquo;, Sir

-      Dante Cardover, that is ter be. And &rsquo;oo&rsquo;s yer noo sweet-&rsquo;art? Is

-      she as pretty h&rsquo;as me? Let a poor gal &rsquo;ave a look at &rsquo;er.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I pushed by her roughly. She would have followed, but some of the crowd

-      restrained her. She made a grab at Vi. I could hear Vi&rsquo;s dress rending.

-      &ldquo;So I ain&rsquo;t good &rsquo;nough!&rdquo; she shouted. &ldquo;I ain&rsquo;t good &rsquo;nough

-      for yer! And &rsquo;oo are you ter despise me, I&rsquo;d like ter h&rsquo;arsk?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She said a lot more, but her voice was drowned in a protesting clamor. I

-      turned my head as I crossed the station-yard. Beneath the evangelist&rsquo;s

-      lantern I saw her arms tossing. Her hair had broken loose. Her eyes

-      followed us. I entered the station and saw no more. Not until we had

-      slipped through the barrier on to the platform did we slacken. Even while

-      loathing her for her display of bestiality, my grandmother&rsquo;s words came

-      back to me, &ldquo;She was as nice and kind a little girl as there was in

-      Ransby, until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We found that the porter, with whom we had left our luggage, had secured

-      three seats for us. Two of them were corners. I took mine with my back to

-      the engine, so that Vi and I sat facing one another. Dorrie sat beside Vi

-      for a few minutes, uncomfortably, with her legs dangling. Then she slipped

-      to the floor and climbing up my knees, snuggled herself down in my arms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll have fine timeth in London together, won&rsquo;t we?&rdquo; she questioned.

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tho glad you&rsquo;s toming.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was strange how difficult I found it to speak to Vi. I wanted to say so

-      much. I knew I ought to say something. Yet all I could think to mention

-      was some reference to what had happened beside the harbor&mdash;and that

-      was so contaminating that I wanted to forget it. Luckily, just then, an

-      old countrywoman bundled in with a basket on her arm.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Gooing ter Lun&rsquo;non, me dear?&rdquo; she asked of Vi. &ldquo;Well, ter be sure, I

-      intend ter goo ter Lun&rsquo;non some day. I get out at Beccles, the nex&rsquo; stop.&rdquo;

-       Lowering her voice, &ldquo;That your little gal, and &rsquo;usband, bor? Not

-      your &rsquo;usband! Well, &rsquo;e do seem fond o&rsquo; your little gal, now doan&rsquo;t

-      &rsquo;e, just the same as if &rsquo;e wuz &rsquo;er father?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The train began to move. The lights of Ransby flashed by, twinkling and

-      growing smaller. We thundered across the bridge which separates the Broads

-      from the harbor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was

-      talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls

-      falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers, one was

-      drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was reading a

-      paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which fell from the

-      lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with my thoughts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the harbor

-      disturbed me. The face of &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; proved the truth of his

-      assertions. His words would not be silenced. Strident and accusing, they

-      rose, above the rumbling of the train, and wove themselves into a

-      maddening chorus: &ldquo;<i>The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is

-      death; the wages of sin is death</i>.&rdquo; A man whose intellect I despised,

-      to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken truth&mdash;and

-      I had heard it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man

-      woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his

-      corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There

-      were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its

-      journey through the dark.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Comfortable, Vi?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded and leant her face against the cushioned back of the carriage,

-      closing her eyes. I watched her pure profile&mdash;the arched eyebrows,

-      the heavy eyelids, the straight nose, the full and pouting mouth, the

-      rounded chin, the long, sensuous curve of the graceful neck. I traced the

-      small blue veins beneath the transparent whiteness of her temples. I

-      studied her beauty, committing it to memory. Then I commenced to compare

-      her with Dorrie, discovering the likeness. I wondered whether I had first

-      felt drawn to her because she was so like Dorrie, or only for herself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had thought her sleeping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Just wakened?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been awake all the time. I&rsquo;ve been thinking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Last night. How different it was! We didn&rsquo;t have to hide. No one was

-      looking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then we&rsquo;ll go again to where no one is looking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We can&rsquo;t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What was it this time?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the

-      night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. &ldquo;How cruel it was,

-      what he said to us!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The man there in Ransby.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But he didn&rsquo;t speak to us. He was one of those people who shout at

-      street-corners because they like to hear their own voices.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He was speaking to me,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;though he didn&rsquo;t know it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi, you&rsquo;re not growing nervous?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That isn&rsquo;t the word. I&rsquo;m looking forward and thinking how horrid it would

-      be to have to hide always.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at Dorrie, making no reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently she spoke again. &ldquo;Dante, have you ever thought of it? I&rsquo;m four

-      years older than you are.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I&rsquo;ve never thought of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You ought to.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because four years makes a lot of difference in a woman. You&rsquo;ll look

-      still young when I&rsquo;m turning forty.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pooh!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She ignored my attempt to turn from the topic. &ldquo;If&mdash;if we should ever

-      do anything rash, people would say that I was a scheming woman; that I&rsquo;d

-      taken advantage of you; that, being the elder, I ought to have known

-      better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The idea of Vi leading me astray was so supremely ridiculous that I

-      laughed outright. Dorrie stirred, and gazed up in my face. &ldquo;Dear Dante!&rdquo;

-       she muttered, and sank back again.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Her father will be waiting for the cable,&rdquo; said Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I wondered if this was the kind of conversation my father and mother had

-      carried on all those years ago when they ran away. I felt that if my arms

-      were only free to place about her, all would be well.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We shall have to tell him, Vi,&rdquo; I whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She pretended not to hear me. Her eyes were closed. One hand shaded them

-      from the light. She was again playing hide-and-seek with the purpose of

-      our errand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The rumble of the wheels droned on. I planned for what I would do when the

-      train reached London and the moment of decision should arrive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Perhaps two hours passed in silence. The glare of London was growing in

-      the distance. Towns and houses became more frequent. One had glimpses of

-      illumined windows and silhouettes against the blinds. Each house meant a

-      problem as large to someone as mine was to me. The fact that life was so

-      teeming and various robbed my crisis of its isolated augustness. Locals

-      met us with a crash like thunder. As we flashed by, I could glance into

-      their carriages and see men and women, all of whom, at some time in their

-      existence, would decide just such problems of love and self-fulfilment&mdash;to

-      each one of them the decision would seem vital to the universe, and in

-      each case it would be relatively trivial. How easy to do what one liked

-      unnoticed in such a crowded world! How preposterous that theory of the man

-      by the harbor! As if any God could have time to follow the individual

-      doings of such a host of cheese-mites!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our fellow-traveler in the corner woke and removed the paper from before

-      his eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wife tired?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, it&rsquo;s a tedious journey.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was too much trouble to correct him as to our exact relations.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He cleared the misty panes and looked out at a vanishing station.

-      &ldquo;Stratford. We&rsquo;ll be there in a quarter of an hour. Live in London?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. At least, sometimes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He commenced to get his baggage together, keeping up his desultory volley

-      of questions.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi&rsquo;s hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes

-      to-night or to-morrow?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To-morrow&rsquo;ll do,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler alighted,

-      refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering our luggage,

-      inquired whether we wanted a cab.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where to?&rdquo; he asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned to Vi. &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll we stay?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went

-      forward to engage the cabby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,&rdquo; she whispered. &ldquo;Everything has

-      been so&mdash;so hurried. You understand, dearest, don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having

-      told the man to drive to the <i>Cecil</i>, I was about to enter. She

-      checked me. &ldquo;We shall be able to get on all right.&rdquo; Then, in the darkness

-      of the cab, her arms went passionately about my neck, and, all pretense

-      abandoned, I felt her warm lips pressed against my mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As the door banged Dorrie roused. Seeing me standing on the platform, she

-      stretched her arms out of the window, crying, &ldquo;Oh, I fought you was toming

-      wiv&rsquo; us, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not to-night, darling,&rdquo; said Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To-morrow,&rdquo; I promised her. Then to Vi, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll be round at the <i>Cecil</i>

-      shortly after ten. Will that do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded. I watched them drive away, after which I jumped into a hansom

-      and set off to pay Pope Lane a surprise visit.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not sleep that night; was making plans. The haste with which this

-      step had been approached and taken had terrified Vi. I had been unwise.

-      Her sensitiveness had been shocked by the raw way in which a desire takes

-      shape in action. And the man by the harbor had upset her. I must get her

-      away to a cottage in the country, where we could be alone, and where she

-      would have time to grow accustomed to our altered relations.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning, full of these arrangements, I sought her at the <i>Hotel

-      Cecil</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was not there; the office had no record of her. I remembered that her

-      boxes had been left at Liverpool Street overnight. When I got there and

-      made inquiries of the clerk, I found that the lady I described had been to

-      the baggage-room an hour before me and had claimed them. After much

-      difficulty I hunted out the cabman who had driven her. He showed me

-      alcoholic sympathy, at once divining the irregularity of our relations,

-      and told me that the lady had countermanded my orders and instructed him

-      to drive her to the <i>Hotel Thackeray</i>. I arrived at the <i>Hotel

-      Thackeray</i> in time to be informed that she had already left.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Four days later I received a letter which had been sent on from Ransby. It

-      was from Vi, despatched with the pilot from the ship on which she was

-      sailing to America.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She had not dared to see me again, she said. She was running away from the

-      temptation to be selfish. She had reckoned up the price which her husband,

-      Dorrie, and myself would have to pay that she might gain her happiness;

-      she had no right to exact it. As far as her husband and Dorrie were

-      concerned, if we had done what we had contemplated, we should have

-      shattered something for them which we could never replace. She was going

-      back to do her duty. That the task might not be made too difficult, she

-      begged me not to write.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER X&mdash;PUPPETS OF DESIRE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> returned to

-      Oxford. My rooms at Lazarus were in Fellows&rsquo; Quad&mdash;one was a big room

-      in which I lived and worked, the other was a small bedroom leading out of

-      it. My windows overlooked the smooth lawns and gravel paths of the college

-      garden. Flowers were over, hanging crumpled and brown on their withered

-      stalks. Here and there, a solitary late-blooming rose shone faintly. The

-      garden stood upon the city-wall, overlooking the meadows of the Broad

-      Walk. Every evening white mists from the river invaded it, billowing

-      across the open spaces, breaking against the shrubs, climbing higher and

-      higher, till the tops of the trees were covered. Sitting beside my fire I

-      could hear the leaves rustle, and turning my head could see them falling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The ceiling of my living-room was low; the walls were paneled in white

-      from bottom to top. The furniture was covered in warm red. The hearth was

-      deep and the fender of polished steel, which reflected the glow of the

-      coals when the day drew near its close. It was a room in which to sit

-      quietly, to think, and to grow drowsy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was October when I returned. Meadows were turning from green to

-      ash-color. Virginia-creeper flared like scarlet flame against pale walls.

-      The contented melancholy of the austere city was healing. It cured

-      feverishness by turning one&rsquo;s thoughts away from the present. In its stoic

-      calm it was like an old man&mdash;one who had grown indifferent to the

-      world&rsquo;s changefulness. In healthy contrast to its ancientness was the

-      exuberant youth of the undergrads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Most grief arises from a thwarted sense of one&rsquo;s own importance. Here,

-      among broken records of the past, the impermanence of physical existence

-      was written plainly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Defaced hopes of the ages encountered one at every corner. Of all the men

-      who had wrought here, nothing but the best of what they had thought stood

-      fast; their personalities, the fashion of their daily lives were lost

-      beneath the dust of decades. No place could have been found better in

-      which to doctor a wounded heart.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through the winter that followed Vi&rsquo;s departure, the new conception I had

-      of her nobility upheld me. I could not sink beneath her standard of honor.

-      When the temptation to write to her came over me, I shamed myself into

-      setting it aside.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I recognized now what would have been the inevitable penalty, had we

-      followed our inclination that night. Only the madness of the moment could

-      have blinded me to its result. We should have become persons cast off by

-      society&mdash;insecure even in our claim on one another&rsquo;s affections,

-      continually fleeing from the lean greyhound of remorse. Never for a day

-      should we have been permitted to forget the irregularity of our relation.

-      We should have been continually apologizing for our fault. We should have

-      been continually hiding from curious, unfriendly eyes. The shame with

-      which other people regarded us would have re-acted on our characters. And

-      then there was Dorrie! She would have had to know one day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had the man by the harbor and &ldquo;Lady Halloway&rdquo; to thank for our escape.

-      The strange combination of influences they had exerted at our hour of

-      crisis, had saved us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Black moments came when I gazed ahead into the vacant future. I must go

-      through life without her. Unless some circumstance unforeseen should

-      arise, we would never meet again. Then I felt that, to possess her, no

-      price of disgrace would be too high to pay.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I trained myself like an athlete to defeat the despair which such thoughts

-      occasioned. I tried to banish her from my mind. In my conscious moments I

-      succeeded by keeping myself occupied. But in sleep she came to me in all

-      manner of intimate and forbidden ways.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I crowded my hours with work that I might keep true to my purpose. And yet

-      this method of fighting, when analyzed, consisted chiefly in running away.

-      I took up tutorial duties at my college. I commenced to make studies for a

-      biography of that typical genius of the Renaissance, half libertine, half

-      mystic, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, known to history in his old age as Pope

-      Pius II. I tried to fill up my leisure with new friendships. In none of

-      these things could I become truly interested. My thoughts were crossing

-      the ocean. When I was deepest in study I would start, hearing her voice,

-      sharp and poignant.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One afternoon I was sitting with my chair drawn up to the hearth, my feet

-      on the fender, a board across my knees, trying to write. A tap fell on the

-      door. Lord Halloway entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been wanting to

-      speak to you for some time,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;wanting to explain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wanting to explain what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Myself in general. You don&rsquo;t like me; I think you&rsquo;re mistaken. I&rsquo;m not

-      the man I was.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But why should you explain to me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because I like you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t see why you should. Woadley&rsquo;s probably coming to me&mdash;which you

-      once thought was to be yours.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t worry me. I&rsquo;ll have the Lovegrove estates when my father

-      dies. But I don&rsquo;t like to feel that any man despises me&mdash;it hampers a

-      chap in trying to do right. You pass me in the quads with a nod, and hurry

-      as you go by so that I shan&rsquo;t stop you. Why?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Want to know the truth?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s because of the woman they call &lsquo;Lady Halloway&rsquo; and all the other

-      girls you&rsquo;ve ruined.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought it. That was why I wanted to tell you that I&rsquo;m done with that

-      way of life. I was a colossal ass in the old days. But, you know, a good

-      many fellows have been what I was, and they&rsquo;ve married, and settled down

-      and become respected.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what of the girls they&rsquo;ve ruined?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He leant forward, clasping his hands and spreading his knees apart.

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re blaming me for the injustices of society. Women have always had to

-      suffer. But I&rsquo;ve always done the sportsmanlike thing by the girls I&rsquo;ve

-      wronged. All of them are provided for.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;These things are your own affairs,&rdquo; I said shortly; &ldquo;but I&rsquo;ve always felt&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Felt what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Felt that the most disreputable thing about most prodigals is the method

-      of their returning. They leave all the women they&rsquo;ve deceived and all

-      their bastards in the Far Country with the swine and the husks, while they

-      hobble home to forgiveness and luxury. Simply because they acknowledge the

-      obvious&mdash;that they&rsquo;ve sinned and disgraced their fathers&mdash;they

-      expect to escape the rewards of their profligacy. It&rsquo;s cheap, Halloway.

-      You speak as though marriage will re-instate your morals. A man should be

-      able to bring a clean record to the woman he marries.&rdquo; The off-hand manner

-      in which he referred to his villainies had made me cold with a sense of

-      justice. His lolling, fashionably attired person and his glib assertion

-      that he had done with that way of life, roused my anger when I remembered

-      his idiot son and the scene on the esplanade. He regarded me with a

-      friendly man-of-the-world smile, pointing his delicate fingers one against

-      the other. I would have liked him better had he shown resentment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You make things hard,&rdquo; he objected. &ldquo;If everyone thought as you do,

-      there&rsquo;d be no incentive for reformation. The man who had been a little

-      wild would never be anything else. According to your way of thinking, he&rsquo;d

-      be more estimable as a rake than as the father of a family. You shut the

-      door against all coming back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He spoke reasonably, trying to lift what had started as a personal attack,

-      on to the impartial plane of a sociological discussion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the unfairness of it that irks me,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You tempt a girl and

-      leave her to her disgrace. She bears both her own and your share of the

-      scandal, while you scramble back into respectability. If you brought her

-      back with you, I shouldn&rsquo;t object. But, after you&rsquo;ve persuaded her to go

-      down into the pit, you draw up the ladder and walk away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He gave his high-pitched laugh. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how the world&rsquo;s made. It&rsquo;s none of

-      my doing. If I married one of these girls, neither of us would be happy.

-      One of these days I shall be Earl of Lovegrove. They&rsquo;re better as they

-      are. You know that, surely?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I suppose so.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, why prevent me, when I&rsquo;m trying to get on to higher ground? I know

-      I&rsquo;ve been a rotter. I&rsquo;ve made a mess of things. I don&rsquo;t need anyone to

-      remind me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I held out my hand, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been censorious. I&rsquo;m sorry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      After this he dropped in often to see me. He was coaching the Lazarus

-      toggers that autumn; his usual time for calling was between four and five,

-      on his way up from the river. I got to know him well and to look for him.

-      His big robustness and high color filled the student atmosphere of my room

-      with an air of outdoor vitality. He was always cheerful. And yet I could

-      not get away from the idea that he was making use of me for some

-      undisclosed purpose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He was an egoist at heart&mdash;a charming egoist. Much of his

-      conversation turned about himself. &ldquo;Now that you know me better, do you

-      still think that I&rsquo;m barred from marriage?&rdquo; he would ask.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All kinds of people marry. It still seems unfair to me that, after

-      knocking about the way you have, you should marry anyone who doesn&rsquo;t know

-      the world pretty thoroughly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You mean I&rsquo;m tarnished and should marry a woman who is tarnished. You

-      don&rsquo;t understand me, Cardover. My very knowledge of evil makes me worship

-      feminine purity.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was difficult to regard Lord Halloway as tarnished when you looked at

-      his splendid body. His healthy physical handsomeness seemed an excuse for

-      his transgressions. He upset all your ideas of the degrading influences of

-      immorality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After Christmas I had Ruthita down to stay at Oxford. We were walking

-      along the tow-path towards Iffley on the afternoon of her arrival, when

-      the Lazarus Eight went by. Halloway was mounted, riding along the bank,

-      shouting orders to the cox. As he passed us, he recognized Ruthita. I saw

-      her color flame up. She halted abruptly, following him with her eyes round

-      the bend of the river.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Shall we meet them again if we go on?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I told her we should be certain to meet them, as they would turn at Iffley

-      Lock.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t want to meet them.&rdquo; Then, in a whisper, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid of him,

-      Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We retraced our steps to Folly Bridge and walked out to Hinksey to avoid

-      him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re an odd little creature, Ruthie. Why on earth should you be afraid

-      of him? He can&rsquo;t do you any harm.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s his eyes. When he looks at me so hard, I forget all that I know

-      about him, and begin to like him. And then, when he&rsquo;s gone, I come to

-      myself and feel humiliated.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Now that I had found someone who would run him down, I changed sides and

-      began to plead his cause. &ldquo;Seems to me it&rsquo;s a bit rough on the chap to

-      remember his old faults. He&rsquo;s quite changed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But the woman at Ransby hasn&rsquo;t,&rdquo; she retorted bitterly. &ldquo;He didn&rsquo;t leave

-      her a chance.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was pleasant having Ruthita with me. I liked to hear the swish of her

-      skirts as she walked, and to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my

-      arm. She spoke with her face tilted up to mine. It was such a tiny face,

-      so emotional and innocent. The frost in the air had brought a color to her

-      cheeks and a luster to her hair. She loved to make me feel that she was my

-      possession for the moment; I knew that I pleased her when I used her as

-      though she were all mine. We treated one another with frank affection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you ever hear from Vi?&rdquo; she asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was awfully strange the way she left Ransby&mdash;so suddenly, without

-      saying good-by. I had just one little note from her before she sailed;

-      that was all. I&rsquo;ve written to her several times since then, but she&rsquo;s

-      never answered.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned the subject by saying, &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this about Uncle Obad? Is he

-      giving up the boarding-house?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, he&rsquo;s going down into Surrey to raise fowls. He&rsquo;s already got his

-      farm. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s wild about it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But where does he get his money?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Nobody knows, and he refuses to tell. Papa says that he must have found

-      another Rapson.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But he isn&rsquo;t selling shares again, is he?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh dear no. He&rsquo;s become wonderfully independent, and says he doesn&rsquo;t need

-      to make his poultry pay. It&rsquo;s just a hobby.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dear old chap! I hope he doesn&rsquo;t come another cropper.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He says he can&rsquo;t, but he won&rsquo;t explain why. And d&rsquo;you know, I believe

-      he&rsquo;s given Papa back the two thousand pounds that he lost.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it. What makes you think that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because Papa&rsquo;s stopped talking against him, and because I caught him

-      looking up those guide-books to Italy again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We turned off from the Abingdon Road and curved round to the left through

-      the sheep-farms of Hinksey. Hedges bristled bare on either side. Uplands

-      rose bleak against the steely sky. Rutted lanes were brittle beneath our

-      feet, crusted over here and there with ice. On thatched roofs of cottages

-      sparrows squatted with ruffled feathers. Icicles hung down from spouts.

-      The lambing season was just commencing. As we drew near farms the warm

-      smell of sheep packed close together assailed our nostrils. From far and

-      wide a constant, distressful bleating went up. Quickly and silently,

-      rising out of the ground, dropping down from the sky, darkness closed in

-      about us. In the cup of the valley, with the river sweeping round it, lay

-      Oxford with its glistening towers and church spires. Little pin-points of

-      fire sprang up, shining hard and frosty through the winter&rsquo;s shadows. They

-      raced through the city, as though a hundred lamp-lighters had wakened at

-      once and were making up for lost time. Soon the somber mass was a blazing

-      jewel, flinging up a golden blur into the night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita hugged my arm. &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t it make you glad to be alive? I&rsquo;m never so

-      happy as when I&rsquo;m alone with you, Dante. It isn&rsquo;t what we say that does

-      it. It&rsquo;s just being near one another.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke like a child, groping after words, feeling far more than she

-      could ever utter. But I knew what she meant. The woman in her was

-      striving. Just as her flowerlike womanhood, unfolding itself to me

-      secretly, made me hungry for Vi, so my masculinity stung her into wistful

-      eagerness for a man&rsquo;s affection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a queer little kiddie. What you need&rsquo;s a husband. I shall be

-      frightfully jealous of him. At first I shall almost hate him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you hated him, I shouldn&rsquo;t marry him. Besides, I don&rsquo;t believe I shall

-      ever marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We trudged back to Oxford in a gay mood, carrying on a bantering

-      conversation. When we had entered Lazarus, I left her at the lodge,

-      telling her to go to Fellows&rsquo; Quad while I ordered tea at the pantry. As I

-      approached my rooms, I heard the sound of voices. Opening the door, I saw

-      the lamp had not been lit. By the flare of the fire, I made out the

-      profile of Ruthita as she leant back in the arm-chair, resting her feet on

-      the fender. Standing up, looking down on her, with his arm against the

-      mantelshelf was Lord Halloway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He glanced towards me in his careless fashion. &ldquo;This is quite the

-      pleasantest thing that could have happened. I&rsquo;ve often thought about the

-      drive to Woadley and wondered whether we three should ever meet all

-      together again.&rdquo; Then, turning to Ruthita, &ldquo;Your brother&rsquo;s so secretive,

-      Miss Cardover. He never breathed a word about your coming.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My sister&rsquo;s name is not Cardover,&rdquo; I corrected him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He drew himself to his full height languidly. &ldquo;I must apologize for having

-      misnamed you, Miss&mdash;Miss&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My name is Favart,&rdquo; put in Ruthita.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it strange,&rdquo; he asked, &ldquo;that a brother and sister should be named

-      differently?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I had another illustration of how he could draw out women&rsquo;s

-      confidence. Ruthita had just run three miles in the opposite direction to

-      avoid him, yet here she was eagerly telling him many things that were most

-      intimate&mdash;all about her father and the Siege of Paris, and how I

-      climbed the wall and discovered her, and how we had run off to get married

-      and stayed with the gipsies in the forest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The tea-boy came and set crumpets and muffins down by the hearth. I lit

-      the lamp. Still they went on talking, referring to me occasionally, but

-      paying little heed to my presence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The bell began to toll for Hall.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Halloway rose. &ldquo;How long are you going to be in Oxford, Miss Favart?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That depends on Dante, and how long he will have me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you&rsquo;re staying a little while?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I ask, because I&rsquo;d like to take Cardover and yourself out driving. I have

-      my horses in Oxford and you ought to see some of the country.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That depends on Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ll talk it over to-morrow,&rdquo; I said brusquely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the next few days, wherever we went we were unaccountably coming

-      across Halloway. He always expressed surprise at meeting us, and always

-      made himself delightful after we had met. If we walked out to Cumnor, or

-      Sandford or Godstow, it made no difference in which direction, we were

-      sure to hear the sharp trit-trotting of his tandem, and to see his high

-      red dog-cart gaining on us above the hedges. Then he would rein up, with a

-      display of amazed pleasure at these repeated accidents, and insist on our

-      mounting beside him. Ruthita told me that she was annoyed at the way he

-      broke up our privacy; but her annoyance was saved entirely for his

-      absence. In his company she allowed him to absorb her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had accompanied Ruthita back to the <i>Mitre</i>, where she was staying.

-      It was her last night. On returning to my rooms, I found Halloway waiting.

-      I was surprised, for the hour was late. I noticed that his manner was

-      unusually serious and pre-occupied for such an habitual trifler. When I

-      had mixed him a whiskey and soda, I sat down and watched him. He tapped

-      his teeth with his thumbnail.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I grew restless. &ldquo;What is it?&rdquo; I asked. &ldquo;Something on your mind?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know how to express it. You&rsquo;ve made it difficult for me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;By the things you&rsquo;ve said from time to time. You see, it&rsquo;s this way.

-      Until I met Miss Favart I was quite unashamed of myself. Her purity and

-      goodness made me view myself in a new light. Since then I&rsquo;ve tried to

-      retrieve my past to some extent. Of course, I can never be worthy of her,

-      but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Worthy of her! I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo; I leant forward in my chair,

-      frowning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You do understand,&rdquo; he said quietly. &ldquo;You must have guessed it from the

-      first. I&rsquo;m in love with her and intend to make her my wife.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Intend!&rdquo; I repeated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He rose to his feet, as though willing to show me his fine body, and began

-      to pace the room with the stealthy tread of a panther. He kept his eyes on

-      mine. When he spoke there was a purring determination in his voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, intend. I&rsquo;ve always had my way with women. You&rsquo;ll see; I shan&rsquo;t fail

-      this time. I may have to wait, perhaps.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Halloway,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t suppose you&rsquo;re capable of realizing how

-      decent people feel about you. Of course there are many men who disguise

-      their feelings when they see you trying to do better. But very few of

-      those same men would introduce you to their sisters, or daughters, or

-      wives. To put it plainly, they&rsquo;d feel they were insulting them. So now you

-      know how I feel about what you&rsquo;ve just told me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He paused above me, looking down with an amused smile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear Cardover, that&rsquo;s just what I expected from you. You virgin men

-      are so brutally honest where your ideals are concerned&mdash;so hopelessly

-      evasive in facing up to realities. Don&rsquo;t you know that life <i>is</i> a

-      coarse affair? I&rsquo;ve lived it naturally&mdash;most strong men have at some

-      time. I&rsquo;ve been open in what I&rsquo;ve done. Everybody knows the worst there is

-      to know about me. Most men do these things in secret. I couldn&rsquo;t be secret

-      and preserve my self-respect. Skeletons in the cupboard ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t much in my

-      line. Ruthita knows me at my wickedest now; when she knows me at my best,

-      she&rsquo;ll love me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When my sister marries,&rdquo; I said coldly, &ldquo;it&rsquo;ll be to a man who can bring

-      her something better than the dregs of his debaucheries.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He gave his foolish laugh. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a new name for the Lovegrove titles.

-      I&rsquo;d better be going. If I stay longer, you may make me angry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I rose to see him take his departure. He had passed out and gone a few

-      steps down the passage, when I heard him returning. The door just opened

-      wide enough for him to look in on me. &ldquo;My dear Cardover,&rdquo; he said, &ldquo;I came

-      back to remind you of another of those evasive realities. You know, she

-      isn&rsquo;t your sister.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A week later I received an indignant letter from Ruthita, saying that Lord

-      Halloway had been to Pope Lane to see my father, and had asked for her

-      hand in marriage. She had refused even to see him. By the same mail came a

-      letter from the Snow Lady, couched in milder terms and asking for

-      information. She wanted to know whether Halloway was as black as he was

-      painted. I referred her to Ruthita, telling her to ask her to describe

-      what happened on the esplanade. As a result I received a final letter,

-      agreeing with me that the matter was impossible, but at the same time

-      enlarging on the wealth and prestige of the Lovegrove earldom.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For a fortnight I refused to have anything to do with my cousin, but his

-      imperturbable good-humor made rancor impossible. In the cabined intimacies

-      of college life a quarrel was awkward. To the aristocratic much is

-      forgiven; moreover he was a splendid all-round athlete and one of the

-      hardest riders to hounds that the &rsquo;Varsity had ever had. So he was popular

-      with dons and undergraduates alike. One morning when he stopped me in

-      Merton Street, offering me his hand, I took it, agreeing to renew his

-      acquaintance. My commonsense told me that the defeated party had most

-      cause for grievance. His sporting lack of bitterness sent him up in my

-      estimation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Spring broke late on the world that year in a foam of flowers. Like a

-      swollen tide it swept through our valley in wanton riot and stormed across

-      the walls of our gray old town. It surged into shadowy cloisters and

-      dashed up in spray of may-blossom and lilac. Every tree was crested with

-      the flying foam of its hurry. The Broad Walk, leading down to the barges,

-      was white with blown bloom of chestnuts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Quadrangles became gay with geraniums. Through open windows music and

-      men&rsquo;s laughter sounded. Flanneled figures, carrying rackets and

-      cricket-bats, shot hither and thither on bicycles. At evening, in the

-      streets beneath college windows, groups of strolling minstrels strummed on

-      banjos and sang. Fresh-faced girls, sweethearts and sisters of the

-      undergraduates, drifted up and down our monastic by-ways, smiling eagerly

-      into their escort&rsquo;s eyes, leaving behind them ripples of excitement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All live things were mating. The instinct for love was in the air. My

-      longing for Vi was quickened. The sight of girls&rsquo; faces filled me with

-      poignancy. Every beauty of sound, or sight, or fragrance became

-      commemorative of her. By day I traced her resemblance in the features of

-      strangers. Inflamed desire wove tapestries of passion on the canvas of the

-      night. Roaming through lanes of the countryside, I would meet young lovers

-      in secluded places, and flee from them in a tempest of envy. Had she sent

-      me one little sign that she still cared, I would have abandoned everything

-      and have gone to claim her. My mind was burning. I poured out my heart to

-      her in letters which, instead of sending, I destroyed. I became afraid.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Halloway was in the same plight. He never mentioned Ruthita; but he would

-      come to my room, and pause before her photograph and fall silent. However,

-      he knew how to shuffle his fortune to convenience his environment. He had

-      his comforters. Gorgeous young females fluttered in and out of his

-      apartments, like painted butterflies. His only discretion was in the

-      numbers of his choice. They might have been the daughters of dukes by

-      their appearance, but you knew they were chorus-girls from London. One day

-      when I questioned him, he threw me a cynical smile, saying, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m trying

-      the expulsive power of a new affection.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The phrase took root. If I was to do the honorable thing by Vi, I also

-      must employ my heart in a new direction. The thing was easy to say, but it

-      seemed impossible that I should ever be attracted by another woman.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It had become my habit to spend much of my time sitting by the open window

-      of my room, gazing out into the college garden. Hyacinths, tulips,

-      crocuses bubbled up from beneath the turf. Every day brought a change. In

-      the spring breeze the garden tossed and nodded, applauding its own

-      endeavor. Songsters had returned to their last year&rsquo;s nests. From morn to

-      dusk they caroled in the shrubberies. Twittering their love-songs or

-      trailing straws, they flashed across gulfs which separated the chestnuts.

-      Over Bagley Wood, as I sat at work, I could hear the cuckoo calling. From

-      the unseen river came the shouting of coaches to their crews, and the long

-      and regular roll of oars as they turned in their rowlocks.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I glanced up from my books one evening. The glow of sunset, hovered along

-      the city-wall. Leaning over its edge, looking down into the meadows, a

-      tall girl was standing. Her back was towards me. She was dressed in the

-      palest green. Her hair was auburn. She held her skirt daringly high,

-      disclosing the daintiest of ankles. Her open-work stockings were also of

-      green to match the rest of her attire. Her companion was Brookins, the

-      assistant chaplain, an effeminate little man, who was known among the

-      undergraduates as the doe-priest. He seemed ill at ease; she was

-      manifestly flirting with him. In the stillness of the garden the

-      penetrating cadence of her gay voice reached me. It was friendly, and had

-      the lazy caressing quality of a summer&rsquo;s afternoon when bees are humming

-      in and out of flowers. I was tantalized by a haunting memory. She turned

-      her face part way towards me. I caught her mocking profile. The way the

-      red-gold curls fell across her forehead was familiar; and yet I could not

-      remember. She came along the terrace, walking in long, slow, undulating

-      strides. The west shone full upon her. She was brilliant and gracious, and

-      carried herself with an air of challenging pride. Her tall, slim figure

-      broke into exquisite lines as she walked, revealing its shapely frailty.

-      Her narrow face, with its arch expression of innocence, promised a

-      personality full of secrets and disguises.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I stepped across the sill of my window into the garden. They were near

-      enough now for me to catch an occasional word of their conversation. I

-      approached across the lawn towards them. She glanced in my direction

-      casually; then she steadied her gaze. I saw that her eyes were green,

-      specked with gold about the iris. She stooped her head, still gazing at

-      me, and asked a question of the doe-priest in a lowered voice. I heard him

-      speak my name. A bubbling laugh sprang from her lips. She came tripping

-      towards me with her hand extended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not going to pretend you don&rsquo;t know me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do know you, and yet I can&rsquo;t recall where we have met or what is your

-      name.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Were you ever in Sneard&rsquo;s garden at the Red House?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole Cortona, and you&rsquo;re Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We stood there holding one another&rsquo;s hands, searching one another&rsquo;s faces

-      and laughing gladly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well I never!&rdquo; I kept repeating. &ldquo;Fancy meeting you after all these

-      years!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Am I much changed?&rdquo; she questioned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re more beautiful,&rdquo; I said boldly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded her head roguishly. &ldquo;I can see you&rsquo;re no longer afraid of

-      girls. You were once, you remember.&rdquo; The doe-priest had stood by watching

-      us nervously. It was plain that Fiesole had scared him&mdash;he was glad

-      to be relieved of her. The bell in the tower began to toll for dinner.

-      Brookins jangled his keys, edging towards the gate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor Mr. Brookins, are you hungry? Must you be going?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like to be late at high table, Miss Cortona,&rdquo; he replied stiffly.

-      &ldquo;The Warden is very particular about punctuality.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never mind, Brookins,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll look after Miss Cortona. You cut

-      along.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Brookins made his farewells with more alacrity than politeness. Fiesole

-      gazed after his departing figure with mischievous merriment in her eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He thinks me a dangerous person,&rdquo; she pouted. &ldquo;He thinks I was luring him

-      on to be naughty. He&rsquo;ll go and preach a sermon about me. He&rsquo;s bristling

-      with righteousness. And now that he&rsquo;s managed to escape, he&rsquo;s locking poor

-      innocent you, Dante, all alone in the garden with the wicked temptress.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I rather like it. Besides, I know a way out&mdash;over there, through my

-      window.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As we strolled across the lawn I asked her, &ldquo;Where, under the sun, did you

-      pick up Brookins? He doesn&rsquo;t seem just your sort.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I picked him up at Aix-les-Bains. He was sowing his wild oats

-      imaginatively and eyeing the ladies in <i>La Villa des Fleurs</i>. He was

-      trying to find out what it felt like to be truly devilish.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That doesn&rsquo;t sound like Brookins. I suppose he was gathering experience,

-      so that he might be able to deal understanding with erring undergrads.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re charitable. At any rate, when I met him he was playing the truant

-      from morality. I was in the Casino.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What doing? Gambling?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded. &ldquo;You see I was nearly as bad as Mr. Brookins. He came and

-      stood behind my chair while I was playing. When I got up and went out into

-      the garden, he followed. It was all dusky and dimly lit with faery-lamps.

-      I suppose it made him feel romantic. I saw what he was doing out of the

-      corner of my eye; so, for the fun of it, I tried to fascinate him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll warrant you did. It was the old game you played with me and the

-      Bantam. You take delight in making other people uncomfortable. It&rsquo;s the

-      most adventurous thing about you, Fiesole. You&rsquo;ve got the name of a

-      lullaby and the manners of a mustard-plaster. You&rsquo;ll be trying to sting me

-      presently, when you catch me sleepy and unaware.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not you, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke my name coaxingly, veiling her eyes with her long lashes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you did once.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did I? So you still remember?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was unwilling to be sentimental. &ldquo;What did you do next to poor

-      Brookins?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took up the thread of her story with feigned demureness. &ldquo;I chose out

-      a bench well hidden in the shadows. He came and seated himself on the edge

-      of it, as far away as he could get from me. He cleared his throat several

-      times. I could hear him moistening his lips. Then he whispered, almost

-      turning his back on me, &lsquo;Je vous aime.&rsquo; And I whispered, turning my back

-      on him, &lsquo;Do you? Now isn&rsquo;t that lovely!&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, then, finding I was English, he became more comfy. He began to boast

-      about Oxford and mentioned Lazarus. So I thought to-day the least I could

-      do was to call on him. I didn&rsquo;t know he was a parson. You should have seen

-      his face when he saw me. I&rsquo;ve been getting even with him all this

-      afternoon. He thinks I&rsquo;ve risen out of the buried past to haunt him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She broke into low musical laughter, shaking her shoulders.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were cruel, Fiesole. What he said to you was the sum total of the

-      intent of his wickedness. He had reached the limit of his daring.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know it. That&rsquo;s why I don&rsquo;t like him. He isn&rsquo;t thorough. He told me

-      that his name was Jordan at Aix. When I asked for him at the lodge to-day,

-      the porter said there weren&rsquo;t no sich purson. I was turning away, when I

-      saw him coming across quad in full clericals, walking by the side of a

-      stooping old gentleman shaped like the letter C.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That would be the Warden.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, was it? Well, he didn&rsquo;t see me and was walking right by me. I tapped

-      him on the arm and said, &lsquo;Good-afternoon, Mr. Jordan.&rsquo; He paled to his

-      lips and stared. The old gentleman raised his hat to me and said, &lsquo;This is

-      Mr. Brookins, not Mr. Jordan, my dear young lady. You must be mistaken.&rsquo;

-      &lsquo;Jordan&rsquo;s my pet name for him,&rsquo; I answered. The old gentleman smiled, and

-      smiled again and left us. Then I turned to Mr. Brookins and said, &lsquo;Je vous

-      aime. Be sure your sins will find you out.&rsquo; After that I tried to be very

-      nice to him, but somehow I couldn&rsquo;t make him happy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not surprised. Brookins was wondering how he could explain to the

-      Warden not knowing a charming young lady, who had a pet name for him.

-      They&rsquo;re asking him about it now at the high-table, and he&rsquo;s lying fit to

-      shame the devil. His pillow will be drenched to-night with tears of

-      penitence. You rehearsed the Judgment Day to him. You&rsquo;ve turned the tables

-      on him, because, you know, that&rsquo;s his profession every Sunday.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I helped her to step across the sill of my window. She gazed round my

-      room, taking in the pipes and tobacco-ash and clothes strewn about. &ldquo;I

-      love it,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s so cosy and mannish.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She perched herself on the arm of a chair, so that the golden, after-glow

-      fell athwart her. I watched her, thinking how little she had changed from

-      the old Fiesole. She was still tantalizing, as mischievous as a

-      school-girl; once she had fiddled with boys&rsquo; heartstrings, now she took

-      her pastime in breaking men&rsquo;s.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was a creature of vivid mysteries, alternately wooing and repelling.

-      She could beckon you on with passionate white arms and thrust you from her

-      with hands of ice. She came out of nowhere like a wild thing from a wood.

-      You looked up and saw her&mdash;she vanished. She courted capture and

-      invited pursuit; but you knew that, though you caught her, you would never

-      tame her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She had plucked a deep-cupped daffodil from a vase on the table. She was

-      bending over it with a tender air of contemplation. She held the long slim

-      stalk low down in her dainty, long, slim fingers. The golden dust of the

-      petals seemed the reflection of the golden glint that was in her hair. The

-      stalk was the color of her eyes. Her tempestuous loveliness&mdash;made to

-      lure and torture men, to fill them with cravings which she could not

-      satisfy&mdash;was resting now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked up at me with calculated suddenness. She read admiration in my

-      eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You find me pretty nice, don&rsquo;t you, Dante?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not disguising it, am I?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought, maybe, you were cross with me about Brookins. We never quite

-      approved of one another, did we, Dante? You thought and still think me a

-      coquette.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, aren&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;With some people, but not with you. I only played with the Bantam to draw

-      you out of your shell.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Really.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then the absurdity of being serious over an affair of childhood struck us

-      and we went off into gales of laughter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s be sensible,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;What are you doing? Staying at Oxford with

-      friends?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No. I&rsquo;m traveling alone with my maid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have you any engagement for this evening?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why shouldn&rsquo;t we spend it together?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No reason in the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where&rsquo;ll we spend it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Here, if you like.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But we can&rsquo;t spend it here, just you and I. The college doesn&rsquo;t allow it.

-      Besides, you haven&rsquo;t had dinner. Where&rsquo;ll we dine?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Anywhere.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do you say to punting down to Sandford and dinner at the inn there?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m game.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      As we passed through the quads, men were coming out of Hall from dinner.

-      Some of them went thundering up wooden-stairs to their rooms, tearing off

-      their gowns. Others strolled arm-in-arm joking and conversing, smoking

-      cigarettes. At sight of Fiesole, they hauled up sharply. She was a man&rsquo;s

-      woman, and they were struck by her beauty. With one accord they turned

-      unobstrusively and hurried their steps towards the lodge, to catch one

-      more glimpse of her face as she passed out. She betrayed no sign that she

-      was aware of the sensation she was creating. She advanced beside me with

-      eyes modestly lowered, enhancing her allurement with a serene air of

-      innocence. Out in the street her manner changed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The men do that always,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;and, do you know, I rather like them

-      for it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do they do?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Stare after me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t wonder Brookins was shocked by you, Fiesole. You&rsquo;re a very shocking

-      person. You say the most alarming things.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laid her hand on my arm for a second. &ldquo;But I say them charmingly.

-      Don&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      On our way through the meadows to the barges, I asked her what she had

-      been doing all these years.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For a time I tried the stage, but lately I&rsquo;ve been traveling in Europe. I

-      have no relations&mdash;nothing to keep me tethered. I roam from place to

-      place with my maid, moving on and on again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not the kind of woman who marries. Men like me, but when it comes to

-      making me their wife, it&rsquo;s &lsquo;Oh no, thank you.&rsquo; They want a woman a little

-      more stupid. Are you married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Hardly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shot me a penetrating glance. &ldquo;Engaged?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not that I&rsquo;m aware of.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We came to the Lazarus barge. I piled cushions in a punt for her. She lay

-      with her back to the prow, so that she faced me. I took the pole and

-      pushed off into midstream.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had the river to ourselves; its restful loneliness caused us to fall

-      silent. We left the barges quickly; then we drifted slowly. Fields were

-      growing white and vaporous. The air was damp, and cool, and earthy. Behind

-      us the spires of Oxford shone like a clump of spears against the

-      embattled, orange-tinted sky. Before us, swimming in blue haze, was Iffley

-      Mill. Everything was becoming ill-defined&mdash;receding into nothingness.

-      Far away across meadows to the right we caught sounds of gritting hoofs

-      and the grinding of a wagon. Sometimes a bird uttered one long fluty cry.

-      Sometimes a swallow swooped near us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante, all the others have passed on, and there&rsquo;s only you and I. What&rsquo;s

-      happened to the Bantam?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Married in Canada. He&rsquo;s farming.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I believe you thought you loved me in the old days.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I could tell you some things to prove it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t do much to prove it at the time. You were a terribly shy and

-      stubborn boy. You left me to do all the courting. I&rsquo;ve often laughed at

-      the things I did to try and make you kiss me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And that was what I was wanting most to do all the time. D&rsquo;you know what

-      sent me to the infirmary?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I told her how I had crept out of bed and out of doors in the middle

-      of the night to visit the summer-house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What a little beast I was,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m always being a little beast,

-      Dante. That&rsquo;s the way I&rsquo;m made. Can&rsquo;t help it. But I&rsquo;ll never be like that

-      to you again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      By the time we got to Sandford it was night. Lamps in the inn were

-      lighted, shining through the trees across the river. We had dinner in the

-      room next to the bar, in an atmosphere of beer and sawdust and tobacco.

-      The windows were open; the singing of water across the weir was

-      accompaniment to our conversation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She told me the beginning of many things about herself with a strange

-      mixture of frankness and restraint. She spoke of the early days in Italy

-      before her parents died, and of the ordered quiet of her convent life at

-      Tours. After her expulsion from the Red House she had returned to France,

-      and fallen in with the artistic set that had been her father&rsquo;s in Paris.

-      Her guardian, an old actor, had persuaded her to train for the stage. For

-      a time she had succeeded, but had dropped her profession to go traveling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an amateur at living,&rdquo; she told me; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m always chopping and

-      changing. I&rsquo;ll find what I want some day.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her restlessness had carried her into many strange places. Northern Africa

-      was known to her; she had been through India and Persia. Speaking in her

-      lazy voice, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, she painted

-      pictures of sun-baked deserts with caravans of nodding camels; of decayed,

-      oriental cities sprawled out like bleached bones in palm-groves beside

-      some ancient river-bank; of strange fierce rituals in musty temples,

-      demanding the blood-sacrifice. She made me feel while she spoke how

-      narrowly I had lived my life. Like a fly on a window-pane I had crawled

-      back and forth, back and forth, viewing the adventure of the great

-      outside, rebellious at restraint, but never taking any rational measures

-      for escape.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The river droned across the weir. In the bar-room next door glasses

-      clinked; yokels&rsquo; voices rose and fell hoarsely in argument. Fiesole came

-      to a halt and leant back in her chair, gazing searchingly into my face

-      across the table.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You look queer, Dante. What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I laughed shortly. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been putting the telescope to my eye. You&rsquo;ve

-      been making me see things largely. How was it that you broke loose that

-      way?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I had a horror of growing stodgy. I was born to be a South Sea Islander

-      and to run about naked in the sunshine.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How long are you to be in Oxford?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t know. I&rsquo;ve made no plans. I hadn&rsquo;t expected to spend more than one

-      night. But now&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She did not finish the sentence. We rose from the table. In the porch we

-      loitered, breathing in the deep, cool stillness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll stay a little while, won&rsquo;t you, Fiesole?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my arm and smiled. &ldquo;Of course&mdash;if you want me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Going down through the arbors, we stepped into the punt. The river was

-      a-silver with moonlight.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XI&mdash;SPRING WEATHER

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      I drugged myself with Fiesole to avoid thinking of Vi. Fiesole was so

-      vivid in her personality that, while she was present, she absorbed my

-      whole attention and shut out memory.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was a continual source of pleasure and surprise, for her mood was

-      forever changing. She could be as naughty as a French novel and as solemn

-      as the Church of England Prayer Book. When she tried to be both together

-      she was at her drollest; it was like Handel played on a mouth-organ.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She would never let me take her seriously. There lay the safety of our

-      comradeship. At the first hint of sentiment, she flew like a hare before a

-      greyhound; the way she showed her alarm was by converting what should have

-      been pathos into absurdity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Day after day of memorable beauty I spent with her in that blowy Cotswold

-      country. We would usually appoint our place of meeting somewhere on the

-      outskirts of Oxford. It was not necessary to let everyone know just how

-      much of our time was lived together. This care for public opinion lent our

-      actions the zest of indiscretion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I set out to meet her, I would pass crowds of undergrads, capped and

-      gowned, sauntering off to their morning lectures. I was playing truant,

-      and that gave an added spice to adventure. Each college doorway frowned on

-      my frivolity, calling me back to a sense of duty. But the young foliage

-      glittered and the spring wind romped down the street, and the shadows

-      quivered and jumped aside as the sunlight splashed them. The lure of the

-      feminine beckoned. Where the houses grew wider apart I would find her, and

-      we would commence our climb out of the valley. Now we would come to a

-      farm-house, standing gray and mediaeval in a sea of tossing green. Now we

-      would pass by flowery orchards, smoking with scattered bloom. Brooks

-      tinkled; birds sang; across the hedge a plowman called to his horses and

-      started them up a new furrow. And through all this commotion of new-found

-      life and clamorous hearts we two wandered, glad in one another.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Only the atmosphere of what we talked about remains with me. There were

-      moments when we skirted the seashore of affection, and perhaps pushed out

-      from land a little way, speculating on love&rsquo;s audacities and dangers. But

-      these moments were rare, for Fiesole delighted in love&rsquo;s pursuit and not

-      in its certainty. We made no pretense that our attraction for one another

-      was more than friendly and temporary. If we played occasionally at being

-      lovers, it was understood that we were only playing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole never admitted that she had prolonged her stay in Oxford for my

-      sake. She kept me in constant attendance by the threat that this might be

-      my last chance of being with her. The supposition that her visit was

-      shortly to end gave us the excuse we needed for being always together. We

-      lived the hours which we shared intensely, as friends do who must soon go

-      their separate ways.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But beneath her veneer of wit and frivolity I began to discover a truer

-      and kinder Fiesole. These flashes of self-revelation came when she was off

-      her guard. They were betrayed by a tremor in her tone or a hesitancy in

-      her gaiety. After a day of exquisite sensations, her independence would

-      break down and the fear of loneliness would look out from her eyes. She

-      would prolong her departure, again postponing it beyond the date

-      appointed. I began to suspect that her dashing recklessness was a barrier

-      of habit, which she had erected to defend her shyness from curious

-      observers. Insincerity was a cloak for her sincerity. Hidden behind her

-      tantalizing lightness lay the deep and urgent feminine desire for a man

-      and little children. I had roused in her the mating instinct. I was not

-      the man; she had yet to find him. With myself the same thing was true. I

-      took delight in her partly for herself, but mainly as Vi&rsquo;s proxy. Fiesole

-      and I had come together in a moment of crisis. We saw in each other the

-      shadow of what we desired.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When a month had gone by I began to debate with myself how far our conduct

-      was safe and justifiable. I went so far as to ask myself the question, did

-      I want to marry her. But that consideration was impossible in my state of

-      mind. Besides, as Fiesole herself had said, she was the type of woman that

-      a man may love and yet fear to marry. She had no sense of moral

-      responsibility. She would demand too much of herself and her lover. Her

-      passion, once aroused, would burn too ardently. It would be

-      self-consuming. She was a wild thing of the wood, swift and beautiful, and

-      un-moral.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      May had slipped by. June was nearly ended. Still she delayed. A chance

-      remark of Brookins brought me to my senses and forced me to face the

-      impression we had created. Fiesole, when she visited me in college,

-      invariably brought her maid; we would shut her up in my bedroom while we

-      sat in my study. In this way, we supposed, appearances had been saved. But

-      Brookins&rsquo;s remark proved the contrary&mdash;that he hoped I&rsquo;d let him know

-      when I moved out of Lazarus as he&rsquo;d like to have my rooms.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not moving out of Lazarus. What made you think that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll have to when you&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what makes you think that I&rsquo;m going to be married?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We don&rsquo;t have to think,&rdquo; he tittered. &ldquo;We only have to use our eyes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That decided me. In common fairness we must separate. Since I could not

-      make the suggestion to her, I determined to leave Oxford myself. The term

-      was nearly ended. My work on the Renaissance furnished an excuse for a

-      visit to Italy. I had never been out of England as yet; at Pope Lane we

-      had had all we could do to keep up a plausible appearance of stay-at-home

-      respectability. But Fiesole with her talk of travel, had led me to peep

-      out of the back-door of the world. I made up my mind to start immediately.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a golden summer&rsquo;s evening. How well I remember it! I had not seen

-      her for two days. I was finishing my packing. A trunk stood in the middle

-      of the floor partly filled. Over the backs of chairs clothes hung

-      disorderly. Piles of books lay muddled about the carpet, among socks and

-      shirts and underwear. Through the open window from the garden drifted in

-      the rumor of voices and the perfume of roses.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The door opened without warning. I was kneeling beside the trunk. Glancing

-      over my shoulder I saw her. She slipped into the room like a ray of

-      sunlight, and stood behind me. She wore a golden dress, gathered in at the

-      waist with a girdle of silver. Her arms, bare from the elbow, hung looped

-      before her with the fingers knotted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I glanced at her a moment. Her face was pale with reproach. Her

-      rebelliousness had departed. Her lips trembled. She looked like a

-      sensitive child, trying not to cry when her feelings had been wounded.

-      This was the true Fiesole I had long suspected, but had never before

-      discovered. We had no use for polite explanations; in the past two months

-      we had lived too near together. She knew what it all meant&mdash;the

-      half-filled trunk, the scattered clothing, the piles of books. Feeling

-      ashamed, with a hurried greeting I turned back to my packing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke in a low voice, with a tremble in it. It filled me with panic

-      desire to be kind to her; yet I dared not trust myself. I did not love

-      her. I kept telling myself that I did not love her. My whole mind and

-      being were pledged to another woman. And yet pity is so near to love that

-      I could not allow myself to touch her. I was mad from the restraint I had

-      suffered. To touch her might result in irreparable folly. Kneeling lower

-      over my trunk, I shifted articles hither and thither, pressed them closer,

-      moved them back to their original places, doing nothing useful, simply

-      trying to keep my hands busy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She watched me. I could not see her, but I felt that behind my back the

-      slow, sweet, lazy smile was curling up the corners of her mouth. I knew

-      just how she was looking&mdash;how the eyebrows were twitching and

-      nostrils panting, the long white throat was working. I fixed my mind upon

-      Vi. I was doing this for her. Maybe, if Fiesole had come first, we might

-      have married. But we should not have been happy. I must be true to Vi, I

-      told myself. I was like a man parched with thirst in a burning desert, who

-      sees arise a mirage of green waters and blue palm-trees&mdash;and knows it

-      to be a mirage, and yet is tempted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were going away without telling me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice broke. I listened for the sob, but it did not follow. Outside in

-      the garden a thrush awoke; his notes fell like flashing silver, gleaming

-      dimmer and dimmer as they sank into the silence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You were going away because of me. I would have gone if you had spoken.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Still kneeling, I looked up at her. &ldquo;Fiesole, I didn&rsquo;t dare to tell you.

-      Something was said. We had to separate. I thought this way was best.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Said about me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;About us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What was it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like to tell you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders.

-      Each time I bent back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her

-      breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes. Her

-      voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching my forehead she

-      whispered, &ldquo;And what if they did say it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded. By one slight

-      action of assent, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a hand, I

-      would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would at least be

-      correct&mdash;approved by society; but I should have to sin against Vi to

-      get it&mdash;to sin against a love which was half-sinful.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my head,

-      ruffling my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal of silver

-      laughter fell from her lips. &ldquo;Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you were.

-      You&rsquo;re still afraid of girls.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring attack, but

-      always on the defensive. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed. I

-      had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she was

-      play-acting. And yet I doubted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her,

-      confident now of my power to restrain myself. &ldquo;I was afraid for you&mdash;not

-      of you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why should you be afraid for me when I&rsquo;m not afraid for myself? No,

-      Dante, it wasn&rsquo;t that. You&rsquo;re afraid of yourself. Someone told you long,

-      long ago, when you were quite little, that it was naughty to flirt. You&rsquo;ve

-      never forgotten it, and each time you begin to feel a bit happy you

-      believe you&rsquo;re going to do something bad. So you&rsquo;ve put your heart to bed,

-      and you&rsquo;ve locked the door, and you&rsquo;ve drawn the curtains. You play nurse

-      to it, and every time it stirs, you tiptoe to the door to see that the key

-      is turned, and to the windows to see that they&rsquo;re properly bolted. I&rsquo;ll

-      tell you what&rsquo;s the matter with you, Dante. I stole along the passage and

-      hammered on the door of your heart&rsquo;s bedroom, and your heart half-roused

-      and called, &lsquo;Nurse.&rsquo; There!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She threw herself back against the cushions, seizing both my hands in

-      hers. She gazed at me unflinchingly, daringly, mockingly. She drew me to

-      her and thrust me from her with quick sharp jerks. She treated the

-      situation so lightheartedly, so theatrically, that I could have kissed her

-      with impunity. But it would have been like kissing the statue of a woman.

-      She would have remained unmoved, unresponsive. There would have been no

-      adventure of conquest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, Miss Impudence,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;you&rsquo;re wrong. I wish sometimes my heart

-      were safe in bed. You and I have been good friends. You came to me at a

-      time when I most needed you. You never guessed the good you were doing. If

-      this hadn&rsquo;t happened, I would never have told you. But when I heard

-      something said about you, which no girl would like to have said unless it

-      were true, I thought it was time I should be going. You&rsquo;ve been so good to

-      me that I couldn&rsquo;t return your good with evil.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, my dear, I daresay I&rsquo;ve flirted with half-a-hundred men. It&rsquo;s very

-      nice of you to think I haven&rsquo;t, and to be so careful of me. But really it

-      doesn&rsquo;t matter what anybody says. I don&rsquo;t want you to run away because of

-      that, just when we were having such a good time together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t let me be serious,&rdquo; I protested. &ldquo;Now I want you to imagine for

-      a minute that I&rsquo;m old, and inoffensive, and have white hair.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, yes, and about seventy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;About seventy-five I should say&mdash;I&rsquo;ve known some pretty lively men

-      of seventy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All right. About seventy-five. I&rsquo;m imagining.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear girl, you&rsquo;re twenty-four or thereabouts, and you&rsquo;re extremely

-      beautiful. No man can look at you without being fascinated. I&rsquo;ve often

-      wanted to kiss you myself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then why didn&rsquo;t you do it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole, you&rsquo;re not playing the game,&rdquo; I said sternly. &ldquo;Please go on

-      imagining.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m imagining.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As I was saying, you&rsquo;re extremely fascinating. Everything&rsquo;s in your favor

-      for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have no parents. Now parents are a kind of passport. Seeing that you

-      haven&rsquo;t any, you&rsquo;ve got to be more circumspect than other girls. It has

-      come to my ears that for the past two months you&rsquo;ve been seen every day

-      with one young gentleman. People are beginning to talk about it. Since you

-      don&rsquo;t intend to marry him, you ought to drop him until you are married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who says I don&rsquo;t intend to marry him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded

-      from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to me

-      that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back. I heard

-      men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden streamer,

-      fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing <i>Mr.

-      Dooley</i>. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity. Her hands

-      trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the genuineness of

-      her playacting. I hurried on.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He&rsquo;s

-      pledged to another woman.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her hands fell away. When she spoke it was gravely and with effort. &ldquo;You

-      didn&rsquo;t tell me. You said you weren&rsquo;t engaged when I asked you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Neither am I, nor likely to be.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The silence was broken by her taking my hand. She took it with a sudden

-      gesture and, bowing her head, kissed it. &ldquo;Poor Dante,&rdquo; she whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I rose from the sofa and lit the lamp. Kneeling by my trunk, I

-      blunderingly recommenced my packing. From the window came a muffled,

-      choking sound. Perhaps she was trying not to sob. I had never seen her so

-      gentle as just now. My mind ran back over the long road we had traveled.

-      The Fiesole I had seen was a wild, mad girl, provoking, charming,

-      inconsiderate as a child and frolicsome as the mad spring weather&mdash;but

-      rarely tender. I wondered what other secrets of kindness lay hidden in her

-      personality. She was the sort of woman a man might live with for twenty

-      years and still be discovering. She kept one restless by the very richness

-      of her character. It was true what she had said: many men might love her;

-      few would desire to marry her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She rose from the lounge. Standing between me and the lamp, her long

-      shadow fell across me. I looked up and saw that her lashes glistened.

-      Against the background of the white-paneled room she looked supremely

-      lovely&mdash;a tall, gold daffodil. She held her head high on her splendid

-      shoulders with a gesture of proud despair. And yet an appearance of

-      meekness clothed her. Her face had an expression which a young girl&rsquo;s

-      often has, but which hers had seldom&mdash;an expression which was

-      maternal. She watched my clumsy attempts to squeeze my clothes into

-      smaller compass. Then she came and knelt beside me, saying, &ldquo;Let me do

-      it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her swift white hands plied back and forth, re-arranging, smoothing out

-      with deft touches, reaching out for socks to fill the hollows, rectifying

-      my awkwardness. The thought flashed on me that this sensation I had was

-      one of the sacred things of marriage&mdash;a man&rsquo;s dependence on a woman.

-      As I watched, I imagined the future, if this woman should become a wife to

-      me. But the passion for her was not in me. She was only an emotion. The

-      sight of her made me hungrier, but not for her. I reasoned with myself,

-      saying how many men would desire her. I forced myself to notice the curve

-      of her neck, the way the red-gold curls clustered about her shell-like

-      ears and broad white forehead. I told myself that the best solution for Vi

-      would be that I leave her unembarrassed by marrying Fiesole. But the more

-      I urged matters, the colder grew my emotions. Then my emotions ceased and

-      my observations became entirely mental.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Overhead, strident and uproarious, as if striving to burlesque what should

-      have been chivalrous, the piano thumped and banged; men&rsquo;s voices smote the

-      night like hammer-strokes on steel, singing,

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      &ldquo;Mr. Dooley! Oh, Mr. Dooley!

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent15">

-      Mr. Dooley&mdash;&mdash;ooley&mdash;&mdash;ooley&mdash;&mdash;oo.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s done,&rdquo; she said. Then, &ldquo;Where are you going?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To Italy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My country. When?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll write me sometimes? I shall be lonely, you know, at first.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, certainly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then, if you&rsquo;re going to write to me, I must write to you. You&rsquo;ll have to

-      let me have your addresses so that I can send my letters on ahead.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I wrote her out the list of towns and dates, telling her to address me <i>poste

-      restante</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I accompanied her across the quad to the lodge. I had had no idea it was

-      so late. Big Tom had ceased ringing for an hour. It was past ten. The

-      porter, when I called him out to unlock the gate, eyed us disapprovingly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll see you home,&rdquo; I told her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She hesitated, urged that she could get home quite safely by herself, it

-      was such a short way to go&mdash;but at last she surrendered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through the mysterious, moon-washed streets we walked; but not near

-      together as formerly. We had nothing to say to one another. Or was it that

-      we had too much, and they were things that we were ashamed to utter? The

-      echo of our footfall followed behind us like a presence. At the turnings

-      we lost it. Then it seemed to hurry till it had made up the distance;

-      again it followed. The cobble-stones beneath us made our steps uneven.

-      Sometimes we just brushed shoulders, and started apart with a guilty sense

-      of contact. Sometimes we passed a window that was lighted by a student&rsquo;s

-      lamp. We could see him through the curtains poring over outspread books,

-      holding his head between his hands. As we turned to look in on him, our

-      faces were illumined. Her face was troubled; coming out of the night

-      suddenly it looked blanched and distressful.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me that

-      the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It burned,

-      and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge we caught

-      the sighing of willows along the banks of the Cherwell. I had often

-      thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself; it

-      seemed poignant with anguish, like a fretful heart stirring. Under the

-      bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the subdued

-      laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man&rsquo;s voice reached us.

-      Then memory assailed me. &ldquo;They are even as you and I, Fiesole,&rdquo; my heart

-      whispered, &ldquo;even as you and I once were.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work

-      parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it had

-      seen commenced.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the door of the house in which she lodged we halted abruptly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So this is the end,&rdquo; she said. Then, feigning cheerfulness, she ran up

-      the steps, crying, &ldquo;Good luck to you on your journey.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      From the pavement I called to her, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid, I&rsquo;ve kept you out late, I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The door banged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and words

-      bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses,

-      explanations&mdash;kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a

-      meaning of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow

-      fell across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XII&mdash;THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Englishman is

-      brought up to live his life independently of woman. He considers his

-      masculine solitariness a sign of strength. To be seen in the streets with

-      his wife or sisters is to acknowledge that they are necessary. He feels

-      awkward at being observed publicly in their company. He shows them no

-      gallantries. He walks a little way apart. His conversation with them lacks

-      spontaneity. He is not enjoying himself. He is wanting to be kind and

-      natural, but he dreads lest he should be thought effeminate. His national

-      conception of manliness demands that he should be complete in himself. How

-      he ever so forgets his shyness as to make a woman his wife is one of the

-      unsolved mysteries. Some primeval instinct, deeper than his national

-      training of reserve, goads him to it. On recovering from his madness, he

-      is among the first to marvel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Christian had climbed to the top of the hill his sack of sins fell

-      from his back. When an Englishman lands in France, he drops his bundle of

-      moral scruples in the harbor as he passes down the gang-plank. For

-      morality is a matter of temperament, and for the time being his

-      temperament shall be French. Just as a soul newly departed, may look back

-      with pitying resentment on the chill chaotic body that once confined it,

-      so he looks back across the English Channel at the uncharming rectitude of

-      his former self. Being an Englishman has bored him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I shall never forget the first wild rapture with which I viewed the tall

-      white cliffs of Dieppe. It was about three in the afternoon. The sky was

-      intensely blue, dotted here and there with fleecy islands of cloud. The

-      sun smote down so hotly on the deck that one&rsquo;s feet felt swollen. Far away

-      the gleaming quaintness of the French fishing-town grew up and stole

-      nearer. It seemed to me that as the wind swept towards us from the land, I

-      caught the merry frou-frou of ten thousand skirts. Fields and woodlands

-      which topped the cliffs, hid laughing eyes and emotional white arms

-      eagerly extended. The staccato chatter of happiness lay before me. I had

-      escaped from the Eveless Paradise of my own countrymen. I had slipped out

-      by the back-door of the world. I was free to act as I liked. I was

-      unobserved. Discretion had lost its most obvious purpose. It excited me to

-      pretend to myself that I was almost willing to be tempted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night I sat by the quays at Rouen, observing the groups of men and

-      women, always together, passing up and down. I saw how they drew frankly

-      near to one another. I listened to their scraps of quiet conversation. The

-      lazy laughter, now the hoarse brass of men&rsquo;s voices, now the silver

-      clearness of a woman&rsquo;s, rose and fell. Below me barges from Paris creaked

-      against the piles, and the golden Seine swept beneath the bridges, singing

-      like a gay grisette. As night sank down I was stung to loneliness,

-      thinking of the absence of Vi and Fiesole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I arrived in Paris on the evening of the following day. Hastily depositing

-      my baggage at my hotel in the Rue St. Honoré, I set out to stroll the

-      boulevards. Until three in the morning I wandered from café to café. I

-      searched the faces of passers-by for signs of the gracious abandon to

-      happiness of which I had so often heard. My mind teemed with vivid images

-      of pleasure such as crowd the pages of novels concerning Paris. Flitting

-      moth-like up and down garish tunnels of light I saw a painted death. It

-      simpered at me from under shadows of austere churches. It flirted with me,

-      ogling me with slanted eyes, as I passed beneath the glare of lamps. I

-      crossed the Pont St. Michel going southward, and found it in the guise of

-      girls masquerading in male attire. I went across the bridges again and

-      found it in the Rue de Rivoli, hunting with jaded feverish expression for

-      men. Wherever I went I encountered the same fixed mercenary smile, saw the

-      same lavish display of ankles beneath foamy skirts, and heard the same

-      weary tip-tapping of feet which carried bodies which should be sold to

-      whoever would purchase.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Where was the joy and adventure of which I had heard? The purpose of

-      happiness should be life, not death. Several times that night women turned

-      aside and seated themselves at a table beside me. They roused my pity;

-      pity was quickly changed to disgust by their hot-foot avarice. All around

-      me was a painted death.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Overhead the breeze ruffled the tree-tops. I looked up through the leaves.

-      Stars were going out. I caught between roofs of tired houses a glimpse of

-      the Eternal looking down. Surely the God who kept the wind going and

-      replenished the sky with clouds, meant man to be happy in some better

-      fashion. I went back to my hotel and, gathering together my baggage, fled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At Florence the problem of right and wrong presented itself to me in

-      another aspect. Restraint seemed attended with sadness; license with

-      ugliness and regret. From above dim shrines disfigured Christs bespoke the

-      anguish of crucified passions. On the other hand, Filippino&rsquo;s tattered <i>Magdalene</i>

-      symbolized the hideous rewards of abandonment. Both restraint and

-      unrestraint brought sorrow, and I wanted to be supremely glad. Life should

-      be an affair of singing. I was fascinated by the thought of woman. With

-      one woman I was in love; in another I was interested. Both of them I must

-      forget. I would not love Fiesole because I could not marry Vi. Yet within

-      me was this capacity for passion, smoldering, leaping, expanding, fighting

-      for an outlet. Surely in a rightly governed world it should find some fine

-      expression! Through the by-ways of every city that I entered the lean

-      hound of vice hunted after nightfall, and behind him stalked the painted

-      death. The cleanness of the country called me. Like a captive stag, I

-      longed to feel the cool touch of leaves against my shoulders.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the Accademia at Florence I discovered my own dilemma portrayed. It

-      stated my problem, but it offered no solution. However, it gave me a sense

-      of comradeship to find that Botticelli, so many years ago, had peered down

-      over the same precipice. In <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i> one sees a

-      flowered wood; from leafy trees hangs golden fruit; between their trunks

-      drifts in the flaming light that never was on sea or land. Here a band of

-      maidens have met with a solitary youth to celebrate the renewal of spring.

-      In the center of the landscape, a little back from the group, stands a

-      sad-faced Venus, who might equally well be a madonna listening for the

-      dreadful beat of Gabriel&rsquo;s wings who shall summon her to be mother of a

-      saviour to the world. To her left stand three wanton spirits of earth and

-      air, innocently carnal, eternal in their loveliness. To her right three

-      maidens dance with lifted hands. One of them gazes with melancholy desire

-      towards the youth. He looks away from her unwillingly. In their eyes

-      broods the gloomy foreknowledge of wrong-doing. They would fain be

-      Grecians, but they have bowed to the Vatican. The shadows, the flowers,

-      the rustling leaves are still pagan; but in the young girl&rsquo;s eyes hangs

-      the memory of the tortured Christ. She is wanton in her scarcely veiled

-      nakedness, but she dares not forget; and while she remembers, she cannot

-      be happy. The lips with which she will woo her lover have worshiped the

-      wound-prints of the pierced hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Renaissance made even its sadness exquisite by using it as the vehicle

-      for poetry; but we, having lost our sense of magic, explain our melancholy

-      in mediaeval terms. Magic was still in the world; I was determined to find

-      it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was continually drawn back to the picture. I would sit before it for

-      hours. It explained nothing. If offered no suggestions. It simply told me

-      what I already knew about myself. But in watching it I found rest.

-      Rebellion against social facts which turn love into lust left me. I came

-      to see that a love which is unlawful is only lovely in its unfulfilment.

-      The young girl in the woodland, did she rouse the frenzy in her lover,

-      would lose the purity which was irrecoverable; by evening she would weep

-      among the broken flowers. Perhaps, did I win her, it might be so with Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried to find satisfaction by losing myself in memories of the past. The

-      past is always kindlier than the present because, as Carlyle once said,

-      the fear has gone out of it. The heavy actuality of the sorrows of Romeos

-      makes them pleasurable romance only to latter-day observers. In their own

-      day they were scandals. So I wandered through sun-scorched Italian towns,

-      red and white and saffron, and I hung above ancient bridges, looking down

-      on rushing mountain torrents, and I dreamt myself back to the glory of the

-      loves that had once been self-consuming beneath that forgetful hard blue

-      sky.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I came to Ferrara my mind was stormy with thoughts of Lucrezia Borgia&mdash;Lucrezia

-      of the amber hair. It was here that she came in her pageantry of shame to

-      seek her third husband in the unwilling Alphonso. Ferrara had not changed

-      since that day. She had seen it as I saw it. I entered the town at sunset.

-      The golden light smote against the red-brick walls of the Castello. I

-      imagined that I saw her sweet wronged face, half-saint, half-siren, gazing

-      out from the narrow barred windows across the green-scummed moat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I hired rooms in the primitive <i>Pellegrino e Gaiana</i>. They looked out

-      on the dusty tree-shadowed Piazza Torquato Tasso, where tables with white

-      cloths were spread, on which stood tall bottles of rough country wine. I

-      promised myself that from there, as I sat, I could just discern the

-      Castello. I had my dinner beneath the trees. On the further side of the

-      square was a wine tavern. Men and girls were singing there. Sometimes the

-      door would push open, letting out a rush of light. I tried to think that

-      they were the men-at-arms of long ago. A cool breeze stirred the dust at

-      my feet. The moon was rising. I got up and sauntered through gaunt paved

-      streets, past empty palaces, past Ariosto&rsquo;s house and out toward the

-      country, where vines hung heavy with grapes, festooning the olive-trees.

-      Italy lay languorous and scented in the night, like a fair deep-bosomed

-      courtesan. The sensuous delight of the present mingled with my thoughts of

-      the past. I had been hardly surprised had Lucrezia stolen out from the

-      dusk towards me, with the breeze whipping about her the golden snakes of

-      her hair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Slowly I turned back to the town. At the Castello I halted, peering across

-      the moat at the sullen darkness of the walls on the other side. As I stood

-      smoking my cigar, I saw an English girl coming towards me across the

-      Piazza Savonarola. Her nationality was unmistakable; she walked with a

-      healthy air of self-reliance which you do not find in Latin women. I was

-      surprised to see her. July is not the month for tourists. So far, save for

-      a few Americans, I had had Italy to myself. And I was surprised for

-      another reason&mdash;she was unaccompanied.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As she drew nearer, I turned my back so that she should not be offended by

-      my staring. I heard her step coming closer. It halted at my side. I looked

-      round, supposing she had lost her direction and was about to question me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&mdash;you here!&rdquo; I exclaimed and remained staring.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t think you&rsquo;d expect me,&rdquo; she laughed shyly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course I didn&rsquo;t. How should I? What brought you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was on my way to Venice; but remembering you were here, I stayed over

-      for the night. You don&rsquo;t mind?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mind! I should say not. Where are you staying?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;At the <i>Albergo Europa</i>. I was just on my way over to the <i>Pellegrino

-      e Gaiana</i> to inquire if you were there. I&rsquo;ve asked at all the other

-      hotels.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      While we had been speaking I had been watching her closely. What was it

-      that was changed in her? Was it the voluptuousness of the Italian night

-      that made her more splendidly feminine? She had lost her laughing tone of

-      laziness. Her beauty was strong wine and fire. Something had become

-      earnest in her. Then I asked myself why had she come&mdash;was she really

-      on her way to Venice?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m jolly glad you came,&rdquo; I said impetuously; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been missing you ever

-      since I left.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And I you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my arm, giving it a friendly hug, just as Ruthita did when she

-      was glad. We walked over to the Piazza Torquato Tasso. Seating ourselves

-      at a table beneath the trees, we called for wine. The light from the

-      trattoria fell softly on her face. The air was dreamy with fragrance of

-      limes. At tables nearby other men and women were sitting. Across the way

-      in the tavern my men-at-arms were still singing and carousing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What are you thinking?&rdquo; she asked, leaning across towards me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was thinking that I now begin to understand you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In what way?&rdquo; She jerked the question out. It was as though she had flung

-      up her arms to ward off a blow. Her voice panted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve always puzzled me,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;You are a mixture of ice and fire.

-      The ice is English and the fire is Italian. You&rsquo;re different to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re mediaeval. The fire has melted the ice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my hand gratefully and drew me nearer. &ldquo;Do you like me better?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Much better. I keep thinking how like you are to Simonetta in The <i>Kingdom

-      of Venus</i>. I spent hours sitting before it at the Accademia in

-      Florence. I couldn&rsquo;t tell what was the attraction. Now I know. It was you

-      I was looking at; you as you are now&mdash;not as you were.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you can see what is beautiful in a painting or a poem,

-      but you can&rsquo;t see beauty in things themselves. You&rsquo;re afraid to&mdash;you&rsquo;re

-      afraid of being disillusioned. You see life as reflected in a mirror.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s safer,&rdquo; I smiled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She took me up sharply. There was pain in what she said. &ldquo;Ah, yes, safer!

-      You&rsquo;re always counting the cost and looking ahead for sorrow. You&rsquo;re a

-      pagan, but fear makes you an ascetic. You have the feeling that joy is

-      something stolen, and you grow timid lest you&rsquo;re going to be bad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s true.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you believe,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;that anything that makes two people

-      happy must be right and best?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wish I could.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And that anything that makes them sad must be wicked?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;have you been sad?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She would not answer, but drew herself back into the shadow so I could not

-      see her expression. We sat silent, fingering our glasses, giving ourselves

-      over to the languor of the summer&rsquo;s night. Through the rapturous stillness

-      we heard the breeze from the mountains rustling across the Emilian plain

-      like a woman in silk attire. At a neighboring table a man and a girl,

-      thinking themselves unobserved, swayed slowly towards one another and

-      kissed, as though constrained by some power stronger than themselves.

-      Through the golden windows of the tavern across the way, one could see the

-      silhouettes of men and women trail stealthily across the white-washed

-      walls. The spirit of Lucrezia and her lover-poets seemed to haunt Ferrara

-      that night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going to Venice,&rdquo; I said abruptly. &ldquo;So am I. Perhaps we shall meet

-      there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We might travel there together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should be glad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We rose from the table. It was late. The piazza was growing empty. The

-      apple-green shutters before the windows of the houses were closed. Behind

-      some of them were lights which threw gold bars on the pavement. The

-      streets were silent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How did you know that I would be here?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You forget&mdash;you left me your addresses.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So I did. But you didn&rsquo;t write. Why didn&rsquo;t you write?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was afraid you wouldn&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      What she meant by that I could only guess. Perhaps she hardly knew

-      herself. My blood was rushing wildly through my veins. I was breathing the

-      atmosphere of passion. I did not look ahead; I was absorbed in the

-      present. I had been hungry for Vi&mdash;well, now I had Fiesole. I had

-      been thirsty for the love of a woman. Fiesole was giving me her

-      comradeship. I was intoxicated with life&rsquo;s beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The saffron moon looked down, pillowed on a bank of silver cloud. As we

-      passed the Castello, a fish leapt in the moat, and fell back with a

-      splash. I halted, leaning against the parapet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And it was here we met.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She pressed against me. I could feel the wild beating of her heart; it

-      tapped against my side, calling to my heart for entrance. Her voice shook

-      with emotion; it whispered above the surge of conflicting thoughts like

-      the solemn tolling of a sunken bell. &ldquo;Since then everything has become

-      golden, somehow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I dared not trust myself to respond to her tenderness. I was shaken and

-      awed by her intensity. With her lips just a little way from mine, so that

-      my cheeks were fanned by her breath, her face looked into mine, the chin

-      tilted and the long white throat stretched back. I gazed on her

-      motionless, with my arms strained down against my side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;how many girls and boys have stood here and said

-      that!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her eagerness died out. She slipped her arm into mine. &ldquo;But we are alive.

-      I was thinking of nobody but our two selves to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We plunged into the cool deep shadows of the colonnade. We turned into the

-      Corso della Giovecca. Down the long dim street all the houses stood in

-      darkness, save for a faint patch of light which carpeted the pavement in

-      front of her hotel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your maid will be wondering what has happened.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked at me curiously. &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t. I didn&rsquo;t bring her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-night until to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked back once from the doorway and smiled. She entered. The sleepy

-      porter came out and swung to the gates.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was amazed at her bewitching indiscretion. For myself it did not matter.

-      But what of her, if we should be seen together? A man can afford such

-      accidents; but a woman&mdash;&mdash; I tried to deceive myself. Our

-      meeting was, as she had said, haphazard. We were both alone in Italy. Our

-      routes lay in the same direction. What more natural than that we should

-      travel together? But I knew that this was not the case. I determined to

-      open her eyes to the risks she was taking.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning when I woke, I wondered vaguely what was the cause of this

-      strange elation. Then memory came back. I jumped out of bed and flung the

-      shutters wide. Out in the piazza some earlier risers were already seated

-      at the tables. A man was watering the pavement, singing gaily to himself.

-      Beneath the trees a parrot and a cockatoo screeched, hurling insults at

-      one another from their perches. A soldier showed his teeth and laughed,

-      talking to a broad-hipped peasant girl. At the top of the piazza a slim

-      white figure waited.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I made haste with my dressing. I was extremely happy. I tried to analyze

-      the situation, but lost patience with myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Picking up my hat and running down the stairs, I came across her standing

-      outside the Cathedral, in the full glare of the sun. Before I had spoken

-      she turned, darting like a pigeon, instinctively aware of my approach.

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve beaten you by nearly two hours,&rdquo; she called gaily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We passed into the fruit-market. I bought a basket of ripe figs; sitting

-      down on a bench we ate them together. All round us was stir and bustle.

-      Farmers in their broad straw-hats were unyoking oxen while women spread

-      the wares.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole, there&rsquo;s just one thing I want to say to you, after which I&rsquo;ll

-      never mention it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know what it is. I&rsquo;ve thought it all out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Are you sure you have? Of course no one may ever know. But if by some

-      chance they should find out, are you sure that you think it&rsquo;s worth

-      while?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Reckoning the cost again!&rdquo; she laughed, helping herself to another fig.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll pay gladly. It&rsquo;s you I&rsquo;m considering,&rdquo; I said seriously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She rested her hand on mine. It was cool, and long, and delicate. I was

-      startled at the thrill it gave me. &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;have you ever

-      wanted anything so badly that your whole body ached to get it? When you

-      were very thirsty, say, and you heard a stream, singing &lsquo;Find me. Find me&rsquo;

-      out of sight in the hills among the heather? Then you climbed up and up,

-      and the sun beat down, and your throat was dry, and the stream sang

-      louder, and at last you found it. I&rsquo;m like that. I don&rsquo;t mind what the

-      bank is like. I lie down full-length and let the water sing against my

-      mouth. I&rsquo;ve been thirsty for something, Dante, all my life. Yes, I&rsquo;ve

-      counted the price. If you don&rsquo;t mind having me, Dannie, I&rsquo;ll stay with you

-      for the present.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She rubbed her cheek against my shoulder ever so slightly. I bent towards

-      her. When you&rsquo;ve wounded a woman, there&rsquo;s only one way of making

-      recompense. She saw my intent. She drew back laughing, dragging my hand

-      with her. The quick red blood mounted to her forehead. The gold in her

-      green eyes sparkled with gladness. &ldquo;Not now,&rdquo; she cried. Then recovering

-      herself, &ldquo;But you&rsquo;re a dear to want me like that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That morning we visited the Corpus Domini where Lucrezia Borgia lies

-      buried. We were admitted to a little chapel where all was lonely and

-      silent. Presently a door opened and two nuns dressed in black entered.

-      Their faces were covered from sight by long black veils. All that was

-      human we were permitted to see of them was their eyes, which looked out

-      from two black holes like stars in a dreary night. They had been beautiful

-      perhaps, but because Christ was crucified they had crucified themselves.

-      And these women, who had never tasted life, whose flesh had never throbbed

-      with the sweet torture which was their right, whose bodies were the

-      unremembered sepulchres of little children whose lips had never pressed

-      the breast&mdash;these women were the guardians of her who had been the

-      Magdalene of the Renaissance, whose feet had climbed the Calvary of

-      passion, but not the Calvary of sacrifice. Sunlight, amber-colored as

-      Lucrezia&rsquo;s hair, slipped across the slab which marked her grave. Down

-      there in the unbroken dusk, did her tresses mock decay?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From a hidden cloister the chanting of children&rsquo;s voices broke the quiet.

-      Its very suddenness took me by the throat. It was the future calling out

-      of the sad and moldering content of stupidly misspent lives. Fiesole

-      edged her hand into mine. I smiled into her eyes; then I looked at the

-      nuns again. Who would remember them when three centuries had gone by?

-      Lucrezia, if she had been wanton, had at least given joy; so the world

-      forgave her now that she was buried. We tiptoed out into the tawny street,

-      where water tinkled down the gutters. We had found a new sanction for

-      desire.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was towards evening that we sighted Venice, floating between sea and

-      sky in a tepid light. Where we parted from the mainland, thin trees ran

-      down to the water&rsquo;s edge, shivering and gleaming, like naked boys. As the

-      train thundered across the trestled bridge which spans the lagoon, Fiesole

-      and I crowded against the window, tingling with excitement. The salt wind

-      smote upon our faces and loosened a strand of her red-brown hair.

-      Laughing, I fastened it into place. She snatched up my hand and kissed the

-      fingers separately. We were children, so thrilled with happiness that we

-      could speak only by signs and exclamations. A gondola drifted by, rowed by

-      a poppe in a scarlet sash. Though we both saw it, we cried to one another

-      that it was a gondola, and waved. Then the gold sun fell splashing through

-      the clouds; Venice was stained to orange, and the lagoon to the purple of

-      wine.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Not until the train had halted in the station did it occur to me that we

-      had made no plans.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hotel porters were already fighting to get possession of our baggage.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where are you going to stay?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Wherever you like,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;A good place is the <i>Hotel D&rsquo;Angleterre</i>

-      on the Riva degli Schiavoni.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So she took it for granted that we should put up at the same hotel! We

-      went aboard the steamer and traveled down the Grand Canal in prosaic

-      fashion, with the nodding black swans of gondolas all about us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The <i>Hotel D&rsquo;Angleterre</i> stands facing the Canale di San Marco,

-      looking across to San Maria della Salute. The angle is that from which so

-      many of Canaletto&rsquo;s Venetian masterpieces were painted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The proprietor came out to greet us suave and smiling. &ldquo;A room for

-      Monsieur and Madame?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Two rooms,&rdquo; I said shortly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we went upstairs to look at them, we found that they were next door

-      to one another. Fiesole made no objection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They were both front rooms and faced the Canal. One could hardly find

-      fault with them on the ground that they were too near together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      By the time dinner was over the silver dusk was falling. A hundred yards

-      out two barche, a little distance separated, drifted with swinging

-      lanterns. The tinkling of guitars sounded and the impassioned singing of a

-      girl. Above embattled roofs of palaces to the westward fiery panthers of

-      the sunset crouched. The beauty of it all was stinging&mdash;it seemed the

-      misty fabric of a dream which must instantly shatter and fade into a pale

-      and torturing remembrance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We stepped into a gondola.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke a few hasty words in Italian, then we stole out from the quay

-      across the velvet blackness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo; I asked her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Round the old canals of the Rialto.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Soon every sound, even the faint sounds of Venice, grew fainter and

-      vanished. Only the dip of the oar was heard, the water lapping, and the

-      weird plaintive cry of the poppe as we approached a corner, &ldquo;A-òel,&rdquo; and

-      &ldquo;Sia stali&rdquo; or &ldquo;Sia premi&rdquo; as we turned. We crept along old waterways

-      where the oozy walls ground against the gondola on either side. Far, far

-      up the narrow ribbon of ink-blue sky and the twinkling of stars looked

-      down. Fiesole cuddled against me, like a contented tired child. I kept

-      thinking of what she had said, &ldquo;Have you ever wanted anything so badly

-      that your whole body ached to get it?&rdquo; I wondered if she had got that

-      something now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When we returned to the hotel it was past midnight. The sharp tang of

-      morning was in the air. Lights which had blazed across the lagoon, now

-      smoldered like torches burnt to the socket. Venice floated, a fair Ophelia

-      with eyes drowned and hair disordered; one saw her mistily as through

-      water.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our gondola creaked against the landing, banged by the little waves. A

-      poppe in a nearby barca groaned in his sleep and stirred. We were cramped

-      with our long sitting. I gave Fiesole my arm; she shrank against me. At

-      the door of her room I paused.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve had one brilliant day to remember. You&rsquo;re happy now?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Very happy, dear Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I entered my room and sat down in the dark on the side of the bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not love her. I blundered my way over all the old arguments. I told

-      myself that, since I could not marry Vi, I could not do better than marry

-      Fiesole. But at the thought my soul rebelled&mdash;it was treachery. I

-      tried to expel Vi&rsquo;s image from my mind, but it refused to be expelled. I

-      lived over again all the intoxicating pleasure of the day, but it was Vi

-      who was my companion. I only drugged myself with Fiesole. She appealed to

-      my imagination; her loveliness went like a strong wine to my head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the next room all sounds of stirring had ceased. I looked up; greyhound

-      clouds, long and lean, coursed in pursuit of stars across the moon. I

-      tiptoed to the window. As I leant out, I heard a faint sighing. I caught

-      the glint of copper-gold hair poured across the sill of the neighboring

-      window. Fearing she might see me, I drew back. Why was it, I asked myself,

-      that Fiesole was not my woman? What was the reason for this fantastic

-      loyalty to Vi, who could never be mine? Was it instinct that held me back

-      from Fiesole or mere cold-heartedness?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the next three days we wandered Venice, doing the usual round of

-      churches and palaces. I was feverishly careful to live my life with

-      Fiesole in public. I feared for her sake to be left alone with her. There

-      was protection in spectators. She understood and accepted the situation,

-      though we had not discussed it together. She played the part of a daring

-      boy, carrying herself with merry independence. At times I almost forgot

-      she was a girl. She disarmed my watchfulness, and seemed bent on showing

-      me that it was unnecessary.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the morning of the fourth day, we returned to déjeuner parched and

-      footsore from exploring the stifling alleys which lie back of the Rialto.

-      The air was heavy and sultry. The water seemed to boil in the canals.

-      Every stone flung back the steady glare. Blue lagoons, polished as

-      reflectors, mirrored the blue of the cloudless sky.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From where we sat at table, we could see crowded steamers draw in at the

-      pier and crawl like flies across the bay to Lido.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole made a queer little face at me. &ldquo;Stupid old sober-sides!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She flung herself back in her chair, regarding me with a languid, arch

-      expression. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tired of fudging in and out of old palaces and churches.

-      I came here to enjoy myself. If I promise to be a good girl, will you take

-      me to Lido to bathe? We&rsquo;ll have one dear little afternoon all to

-      ourselves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A warm breeze caught us on the steamer. What ripe lips Fiesole had, and

-      what inscrutable eyes! Since that first night of our arrival, she had

-      prevented me from treating her with any of the privileges of her sex. She

-      had walked when and where she liked. She had insisted on paying her share

-      of everything down to the last centesimi. Now she changed her mood and

-      slipped her arm through mine. We had both grown tired of pretending she

-      was a man. &ldquo;You needn&rsquo;t be afraid to be nice to me,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There were lovers all about us: girls from the glass-factories in white

-      dresses, bareheaded, with tasseled black shawls; sailors from the Arsenal

-      with keen bronzed faces and silky mustaches. Venice was taking a day off

-      and giving us a lesson in happiness. The self-consciousness of the

-      Anglo-Saxon, which makes the expression of pleasure bad taste and

-      distressing, was absent. Each was occupied with him or herself, sublimely

-      unconscious of spectators.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t I been nice?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She patted my hand, entirely the woman now. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been trying to be

-      correct. Why can&rsquo;t you be your own dear self?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Taking the tram across the island, we came to the Stabilimento dei Bagni.

-      We walked through the arcade and down on to the terrace. The sea rolled in

-      flashing, green and silver, in a long slow swell. Leaning over the side,

-      we watched the bathers. Men, with costumes unfastened at the shoulders,

-      sifted golden sand through their fingers on to their naked chests. Women

-      lay beside them, buried in the sand, laughing and chatting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I noticed a blond young giant standing at the water&rsquo;s edge. His face

-      kindled. I followed the direction in which he was looking. A dark-eyed

-      girl had come out of her cabin. She wore a single-piece, tight-fitting

-      suit of stockingette, which displayed her figure in all its splendid

-      curves. Her face was roguish and vivid as that of Carmen. On her head she

-      wore a scarlet turban. Her costume was sky blue.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The men who had been lying on their backs, turned over and regarded her

-      with lazy admiration of her physical loveliness. Seemingly unaware of the

-      interest she aroused, she came tripping daintily to the water&rsquo;s edge, her

-      white limbs flashing. The man held out his hand. With little birdlike

-      exclamations she ran to him; then drew back and shivered as the first wave

-      rippled about her feet. He encouraged her with tender, quickly spoken

-      words. Her timidity was all a pretty pretense and they both knew it; but

-      it gave them a chance to be charming to one another. He seized her hand

-      again; she hung back from him laughing. Then they waded out together,

-      hand-in-hand, splashing up diamonds as they went. They seemed to see no

-      one but each other; they eyed one another innocently, unabashed. When they

-      came to the deeper water, she clasped her arms about his neck; he swam out

-      toward the horizon with her riding on his back. He was like a young

-      sea-god capturing a land-maiden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A stab of envy shot through me. I felt indignant with my inherited

-      puritanism. It would not permit me simply to enjoy myself. I must be

-      forever analyzing motives, and lifting the lid off the future to search

-      for consequences.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked at Fiesole. Her eyes were starry. They seemed to mock me and

-      plead with me saying, &ldquo;Oh, Dannie, why can&rsquo;t we be like that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I glanced down at the beach. The bathers were rising up and shaking off

-      the sand. I noticed that only the women who had no beauty hid themselves

-      behind bathing-skirts. The Italian standard of modesty!&mdash;you only

-      need be modest when you have something to be ashamed of. I accepted the

-      standard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole broke the silence, clapping her hands, crying &ldquo;Wasn&rsquo;t she

-      perfect!&rdquo; Then she took hold of my face in childish excitement and turned

-      my head. &ldquo;Oh, look there!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      An English girl had come out. Her bathing-suit was drab-colored and baggy.

-      Sagging about her knees hung an ugly skirt. In her clothes she might have

-      been pretty; but now she was awkward and embarrassed. Her manner called

-      attention to the fact that she was more sparsely clad than usual. She wore

-      tight round her forehead a wretched waterproof cap.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s Miss England,&rdquo; laughed Fiesole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When we bathe, you be Miss Italy,&rdquo; I laughed back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And she was.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I look back to that sunny July afternoon with the blue and silver

-      Adriatic singing against the lips of the land, the warm wind blowing

-      toward the shore from Egypt&rsquo;s way, the daring flashing of slim white

-      bodies tossed high by glistening waves, and the undercurrent merriment of

-      laughter and secret love-making, I know that I had ventured as far as is

-      safe into the garden which knows no barriers. It is as I saw her then that

-      I like to remember Fiesole. I can see her coming down the golden sands,

-      with a tress of her gold-red hair, that had escaped, lying shining between

-      her breasts. I recall her astonishing girlishness, which she had hidden

-      from me so long. Like a wild thing of the woods, she came to me at last,

-      timid in her daring, halting to glance back at the green covert, advancing

-      again with glad shy gestures. Whatever had gone before was gallant

-      make-belief. Without a word spoken, as her eyes met mine she told me all

-      at the water&rsquo;s edge.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That afternoon I learnt the absurd delirium that may overtake a man who is

-      owned in public by a pretty woman. She was the prettiest woman in Italy

-      that day from her small pink feet to her golden crown. And she knew it.

-      She treated me as though I was hers and, forgetting everything, I was glad

-      of it. I can still thrill with the boyish pride I felt when I fastened her

-      dress, with all the beach watching. Whatever she asked me to do was a

-      delightful form of flattery. It pleased me to know that others were

-      suffering the same pangs of envy that I had felt. They were saying to

-      themselves, &ldquo;How charming she is! What a lucky fellow! That&rsquo;s what youth

-      can do for you. I wonder whether they&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Tucking her arm under mine with a delicious sense of proprietorship, we

-      set out with the crowd through the tropic growth of flowers to the pier

-      from where the steamer started. A little way ahead I saw the blond giant

-      with his gay little sweetheart. He was all care of her. She fluttered

-      about him like a blue butterfly about a tall sunflower. She looked up into

-      his face, making impertinent grimaces. He nodded his head and laughed

-      down.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Was it only the spirit of imitation that caused us to copy them? They gave

-      us a glimpse into the tender lovers&rsquo; world, which we both were sick with

-      longing to enter. If Fiesole was playing a part she played it well. Her

-      cheeks flushed and her eyes were brilliant. She made me feel the same

-      bewilderment of gladness I had felt all those years ago, as a boy at the

-      Red House. How much it would have meant to me then if she had treated me

-      as she did now!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We crossed the bay towards the hour of sunset. Venice swooned in a golden

-      haze. Clouds struck sparks from the burning disk, like hammers falling on

-      a glowing anvil. The lagoon stared at the sky without a quiver. We

-      traveled a pathway of molten fire.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;We must live this day out,&rdquo; I said as we landed. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go to the

-      Bauer-Grunwald to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We hurried upstairs and changed into evening-dress. I tapped at her door,

-      asking, &ldquo;Are you ready?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All except some hooks and eyes. Come in,&rdquo; she replied.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She was seated before the looking-glass, with her arms curved upward,

-      tucking a bow of black ribbon in her hair. It was her reflection that

-      looked into my face and smiled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You do me proud, Fiesole,&rdquo; I said, remembering one of Vi&rsquo;s phrases.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked as simple as a sixteen year old girl. Her dress was of pale

-      green satin, cut high in the waist in Empire fashion, hanging without

-      fullness to just above her ankles. The sleeves left off at the elbows. Her

-      wonderful russet hair was gathered into a loose knot and lay coiled along

-      her neck. She was the Fiesole of my school-days. Had she intended to

-      remind me?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I sat down on the edge of the bed while she finished her dressing,

-      following with my eyes the feminine nick-nacks which were strewn about.

-      But always my eyes came back to her, with the mellow glory from the window

-      transfiguring her face and neck. There was a nipping sweetness in being so

-      near to a woman whom I could not hope to possess. I knew that without

-      marrying her I could not keep her. Platonic friendships are only safe

-      between men and women whose youth is withered. I was wise enough to know

-      that. We were chance-met travelers in Lovers&rsquo; Land&mdash;truants who would

-      soon be dragged back. I kept saying to myself, &ldquo;Intimacy such as we have

-      can go but a short way further; any hour all this may end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I tried to imagine how this evening would seem to me years hence. The

-      poignancy of life&rsquo;s changefulness made me wistful. One day we should both

-      be old. We should be free from tempestuous desires. The generous fires of

-      youth would have burnt out. We should know the worth then of the pleasures

-      we now withheld from one another. We should meet, having grown commonsense

-      or satiated, and would wonder wherein lay the mastering attraction we had

-      felt&mdash;from what source we had stolen our romance. We should be weary

-      then, walking where our feet now ran. Why could we not last out this

-      moment forever?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She rose, shaking down her skirt and courting my admiration.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You may get to work on the hooks and eyes, old boy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice was jerky with excitement. My fingers were awkward with

-      trembling. As I leant over her, she patted my cheek, flashing a caress

-      with her eyes. &ldquo;Do you know, you&rsquo;re handsome, Dante?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I wanted to crush her in my arms, but my habitual restraint prevented. I

-      should destroy the virginal quality in her&mdash;something which could

-      never be put back. My mind conjured the scene. I saw her folded against

-      me, her eyes brimming up to mine in tender amazement. But my arms went on

-      with their business, as though some strong power held them down.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s done. Come, bambino, it&rsquo;s getting late.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She followed me down the stairs. My senses were reeling with the maddening

-      fragrance of her presence. We walked through the Piazzetta and Piazza di

-      San Marco, through the narrow streets and across the bridges till we

-      arrived at the garden beside the canal. Arbors were illumined with

-      faery-lamps. It seemed a scene staged for a theatre rather than a living

-      actuality. Gondolas stole past the garden through the dusk. Mysterious

-      people alighted. Guitars tinkled. In tall mediaeval houses rising

-      opposite, lamps flashed and women looked down. As specters in a dream,

-      people leant above the bridge, gazed into the water, and vanished. Venice

-      walked with slippered feet and finger to lips that night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The silence shivered; a clear peal of laughter rippled on the air. We

-      turned. The girl with the young sea-god was entering the garden. They

-      seated themselves at a table near us&mdash;so near that we could watch

-      their expressions and overhear much that was said. It seemed they were

-      fated to goad us on and make us ambitious of attaining their happiness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole stretched out her hands. I smiled and took them, holding them

-      palms up. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re like petals of pink roses,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her face was laughing. &ldquo;Do you think I&rsquo;m pretty?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve always thought that, and you know it&mdash;ever since you wouldn&rsquo;t

-      kiss me in Sneard&rsquo;s garden.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It was you who wouldn&rsquo;t ask to be kissed,&rdquo; she pouted. &ldquo;What you could

-      have, you didn&rsquo;t value. It&rsquo;s the same now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her hands quivered; her lips became piteous. All the wild commotion of her

-      heart seemed to travel through them to myself. My throat became suddenly

-      parched.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know how it is, Fiesole. It isn&rsquo;t that I haven&rsquo;t affection for you;

-      but to do that kind of thing, if I don&rsquo;t intend to make you more to me,

-      wouldn&rsquo;t be fair.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But if I want it? What if I were to tell you, Dante, that you&rsquo;re the only

-      man I&rsquo;ve ever cared for? What if I were to tell you that you&rsquo;ve always

-      been first in my heart, ever since we first met?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked away from her to the street of water. I had nothing with which to

-      answer. She tried to drag her hands from me, but still I held them.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;look at me.&rdquo; Her voice grew fainter. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not

-      speaking of marriage. Two people can be kind to one another without that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And have I been unkind?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned from my question. &ldquo;You can never marry her,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You

-      know that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A long silence elapsed, which was broken by voices of the girl and her

-      lover at the neighboring table. Fiesole spoke again. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not married.

-      They never will be married. And yet they can share with one another one

-      little corner of their lives.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For me it&rsquo;s all or nothing,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;If it wasn&rsquo;t all, I should be

-      forever thinking of the end. That&rsquo;s how I&rsquo;m made&mdash;it&rsquo;s my training.

-      If I did anything to you, Fiesole, that wounded you ever so little, I

-      should hate myself. Wherever you were, I should be thinking of you&mdash;wanting

-      to leave everything to come to you. I can&rsquo;t forget. My conscience would

-      give me no rest.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew her hands free. &ldquo;And yet you&rsquo;re wounding me now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was always different from other women, doing the unexpected. Instead

-      of sitting melancholy through dinner, she broke into a burst of high

-      spirits. She told me about her father, who had marched with Garibaldi. She

-      rallied me on the awkward little boy I had been when first we met&mdash;all

-      arms, and legs, and shyness. She talked of love in a bantering fashion, as

-      insanity of the will. One minute she was the cynical woman of the world&mdash;the

-      next the innocent young school-girl. She puzzled and played with me. Then

-      she fell back into the vein of tenderness, recalling the good times we had

-      had, stampeding through the Cotswolds in springtime with the mad wind

-      blowing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was nearing midnight when we rose. Going down the little garden, we

-      halted on the steps by the canal. A dozen shadowy figures leapt up with

-      hoarse cries. We beckoned to a poppe; the gondola stole up and we entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t go back yet,&rdquo; Fiesole pleaded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We crept through ancient waterways, all solitary and silent; past churches

-      blanched in the moonlight, and empty piazzas; under bridges from which

-      some solitary figure leant to observe us. Now a swiftly moving barca would

-      overtake us; as it fled by we had a glimpse through the curtains of a man

-      and a woman sitting close together. Now the door of a tavern would

-      suddenly open, flinging across the water a bar of garish light; cloaked

-      figures would emerge and the door would close as suddenly as it had

-      opened. Overhead in balconies we sometimes detected the stir of life where

-      we had thought there was emptiness, and would catch the rustle of a

-      woman&rsquo;s dress or see the red flare of a cigarette. We had the haunted

-      sensation one has in a wood in May-time: though he discerns but little

-      with the eye, he is conscious that behind green leaves an anonymous,

-      teeming world is mating and providing for its momentous cares.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole pressed against me; the darkness seemed to fling out hands,

-      thrusting us together. She slipped off her hood and pushed back her cloak,

-      displaying her arms and throat and hair. The seduction of her beauty

-      enthralled and held me spellbound. The air pulsated with illicit

-      influences. The dreaming city, vague and labyrinthine, was the outward

-      symbol of my state of mind. I had lost my standards; my will-power was too

-      inert to rouse itself for their recovery. I was entranced by a sensuous

-      inner vision of loveliness which exhausted my faculties of resistance. I

-      apprehended some fresh allurement of femininity through each portal of

-      sense. Fiesole&rsquo;s touch made my flesh burn; her eyes stung me to pity; her

-      voice caressed me. Her body relaxed till it rested the length of mine. Her

-      head lay against my shoulder; her arms were warm about my neck. I tried to

-      think&mdash;to think of honor and duty; but I could only think of her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know what you said about Simonetta,&rdquo; she whispered; &ldquo;how you thought

-      I was like her and you spent hours before <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i>. You

-      were wrong, all wrong, Dante, in your thoughts about her. The young man in

-      the picture was Giuliano dei Medici and Simonetta was dear to him for many

-      years. So the flowers weren&rsquo;t broken, Dannie. Instead of broken flowers,

-      they made poetry for Botticelli to paint.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      How could I tell her that there was a difference between love and passion?&mdash;that

-      my feeling for her could be only passion, because my love was with Vi? She

-      loved me&mdash;that made all her actions pure. Morality would sound like

-      the rasping voice of a tired schoolmaster, scolding a classroom of healthy

-      boys. It was even unsafe for me to pity her; when I drew my coat about

-      her, she kissed my hand. I clasped her closely, gazing straight ahead, not

-      daring to look down. Every quiver of her languorous body communicated

-      itself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole, if I don&rsquo;t marry her, I will marry you some day. I promise.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I want you now&mdash;now&mdash;now.&rdquo; Her whisper was sharp-edged with

-      longing; it beat me down and ran out among the shadows like a darting

-      blade.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We floated under the Bridge of Sighs and drew up at the landing. She leant

-      heavily on my arm. We walked along the quay in silence. Few people were

-      about. I saw mistily; my eyes were burning as if they had gazed too long

-      into a glowing furnace. She drooped against me like a crushed flower.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re breaking my heart, Fiesole. I&rsquo;d give you anything, but the thing

-      that would hurt you. Let me have time to consider.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was saying to myself, &ldquo;Perhaps it would be right to marry her.&rdquo; But the

-      memory of her whisper clamored insistently in my ears and prevented me

-      from thinking, &ldquo;<i>I want you now&mdash;now&mdash;now.</i>&rdquo; With her voice

-      she made no reply.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping

-      with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged

-      on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from me,

-      running on ahead.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open

-      and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her

-      leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back in

-      weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her

-      hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall&rsquo;s surface. She

-      was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude

-      was horribly that of one who had been crucified.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did

-      not put my arms about her, she made no response.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by a

-      third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air was

-      flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a

-      palpitating sense of moral danger.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I

-      had never felt more tender towards her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sorry, dear,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She met my gaze with a frozen, focusless expression of despair. Her hands

-      ceased their wandering.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I entered my room and, closing the door, stood pressed against the panel,

-      listening. After what seemed an interminable silence, her door opened and

-      shut. I looked out into the passage; it was empty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I spent a sleepless night and rose with my mind made up; since she wanted

-      it I would marry her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Going downstairs, I found she had not breakfasted. As a rule she was an

-      earlier riser than myself; usually I found her waiting for me. I went for

-      a stroll on the Piazzetta to give her time. On my return she had not

-      appeared. I was beginning to grow nervous; then it occurred to me that she

-      was postponing the first awkwardness of meeting me by breakfasting in bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Taking my place at our table in the window, I told the waiter to carry

-      Fiesole&rsquo;s rolls and coffee up to her bedroom. He looked a trifle blank,

-      and hurried away without explanation. He returned, followed by the

-      proprietor, who informed me with much secret amusement that the signora

-      had called for her bill at seven o&rsquo;clock that morning and had departed,

-      taking her baggage. I inquired if she had left any message for me; the

-      proprietor stifled a laugh and shook his head. I immediately looked up

-      trains, to discover which one she had intended catching. There was one

-      which had left Venice at eight for Milan. At the station I found that a

-      lady resembling Fiesole had taken a ticket for the through-journey. By

-      this time it was ten; the next train did not leave till two o&rsquo;clock. I

-      sent a telegram to catch her at Brescia, to be delivered to her in the

-      carriage. No reply had been returned by the time I left Venice. I reached

-      Milan in the evening and pursued my inquiries till midnight, but could get

-      no trace of her. Either I had been mistaken in her direction, or she had

-      alighted at one of the intermediate stations.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIII&mdash;THE TURNING POINT

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>efore my

-      experience at Venice the world had consisted for me of Vi, myself, and

-      other people; now it was only myself and Vi. I spent my days in shadowy

-      unreality; just as a child, waking from a bad dream, sees one face he can

-      trust gazing over the brink of his horror, so out of the blurred confusion

-      of my present I saw the face of Vi.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole had not shown me love in its purity, but she certainly had taught

-      me something of its courage and selfishness. She had disabused my mind

-      forever of the thought that it was a polite, intensified form of liking. A

-      blazing ship, she had met me in mid-ocean and had set my rigging aflame. I

-      had turned from her, but not in time to get off scatheless. Her wild

-      unrestraint had accustomed my imagination to phases of desire which had

-      before seemed abnormal and foreign to my nature.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I missed her at Milan, I abandoned my pursuit of her. Now that the

-      temptation was over, I realized how near we had come to wrecking each

-      other&rsquo;s lives. Physical lassitude overtook me. Because I had withstood

-      Fiesole, I thought myself safe in indulging my fancy with more intimate

-      thoughts of Vi. I excused myself for so doing, by telling myself that it

-      was her memory that had made me strong to escape. It was like saying that

-      because water had rescued me from fire it could no longer drown me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I traveled northwards into the mountains to Raveno. Each morning I rowed

-      across Maggiore to the island of Isola Madre. Lying beneath the camphor

-      trees, watching the turquoise of the lake filling in the spaces between

-      the yellowing bamboo canes, I gave rein to my longing. Shadowy foliage

-      dripped from shadowy trees, curtaining the glaring light; down spy-hole

-      vistas of overgrown pathways I watched the lazy world drift by. I numbed

-      my cravings with the opiate of voluptuous beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had been there a fortnight when a letter from home arrived. With its

-      confident domestic chatter, it brought a message of trust. It took from me

-      my sense of isolation. One of them would understand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Slowly the thought had taken shape within me that I must go to Vi. If I

-      saw her only once again, I believed that I would be satisfied. It would

-      not be necessary to speak to her&mdash;that would be unsportsmanlike if

-      she had managed to forget me. All I asked was to be allowed just once to

-      look upon her face. She should not know that I was near her; I would look

-      at her and go away. With that strange sophistry that we practise on

-      ourselves, I tried to be persuaded that, were I to see her in her own

-      surroundings with her husband and Dorrie, it would be a lesson to me of

-      how little share I had in her life. Perhaps I had even idealized her

-      memory; seeing her might cure me. So I reasoned, but I was conscious that

-      my own judgment on the wisdom of such a step was not to be trusted.

-      Ruthita was too young to tell. My father, though I admired him, was not

-      the man to whom a son would willingly betray a weakness. I would speak to

-      the Snow Lady.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I drove from the station through London, old scenes and memories woke

-      to life. The city had spread out towards Stoke Newington, so that it had

-      lost much of its quaintness; but it retained enough of its old-world quiet

-      to put me in touch with my childhood.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I alighted at the foot of Pope Lane. The wooden posts still stood there to

-      shut out traffic. I walked quickly up the avenue of fragrant limes with

-      the eager expectancy of one who had been years absent instead of days. In

-      the distance I heard the rumble of London. The golden August evening lay

-      in pools upon the pathway. Sensations of the happy past came back. Dead

-      memories stirred, plucking at my heartstrings. I thought of how Ruthita

-      and I had bowled hoops and played marbles on that same gray pavement,

-      making the air ring with our childish voices. I thought of those rare

-      occasions when the Spuffler had carried me away with him into a boy&rsquo;s

-      world of mysterious small things, which he knew so well how to find. All

-      the comings and goings of school-days, immense exaltations and magnified

-      tragedies, rose before me&mdash;Ruthita waiting to catch first sight of

-      me, and Ruthita running beside the dog-cart, with flushed cheeks and hair

-      flying, to share the last of me as I drove away. What had happened since

-      then seemed for the moment but an interlude in the momentous play.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Passing between the steeply-rising red-brick walls, dotted with gates, I

-      came to the door through which I had been so eager to escape when it had

-      been locked against me. I reflected that I had not gained much from the

-      new things which I had dragged into my life. The narrowness which I had

-      once detested as imprisoned dullness I now coveted as peaceful security.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I found the bell beneath the Virginia creeper. The door was opened by

-      Hetty. Hetty had grown buxom and middle-aged. Her sweetheart had never

-      come for her. The tradesmen no longer made love to her; they left their

-      goods perfunctorily and went out in search of younger faces. Her hips had

-      broadened. The curve between her bust and her waist had vanished. The

-      dream of love was all that she had gained from life. I wondered whether

-      she still told herself impossible stories of the deliverance wrought by

-      marriage. If she did, no signs of her romantic tendencies revealed

-      themselves in her face. Her expression had grown vacantly kind and stolid.

-      To me she was respectful nowadays, and seemed even distressed by the

-      immodesty of the memory that I had once been the little boy whom she had

-      spanked, spoilt, bathed, and dried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She gave a quick cry at catching sight of me, for I had warned no one of

-      my coming.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sh! where are they?&rdquo; I asked her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She told me that the master was at work in his study, and that Miss

-      Ruthita and her ma were in the garden.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I walked round the house slowly, lasting out the pleasure of their

-      surprise. Nothing seemed to have changed except we people. Sunflowers kept

-      guard in just the same places, like ranks of lean soldiers wearing golden

-      helmets. Along the borders scarlet geraniums flared among the blue of

-      lobelia and the white of featherfew, just as they had when I was a boy.

-      Pigeons, descendants of those whose freedom I had envied, perched on the

-      housetops opposite, or wheeled against the encrimsoned sky.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I stole across the lawn to where two stooping figures sat with their backs

-      towards me. Halfway across I halted, gazing over my shoulder. Through the

-      study-window, with ivy aslant the pane, I saw my father. His hair was

-      white. In the stoop of his shoulders was the sign of creeping age. He did

-      not look up to notice me; he had never had time. As the years went by I

-      grew proudly sorry for him. I saw him now, as I had seen him so many times

-      when I paused to glance up from my play. He was cramped above his desk,

-      writing, writing. His face was turned away. His head was supported on his

-      hand as though weary. <i>He</i> was the prisoner now; it was I who held

-      the key of escape. How oddly life had changed!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing

-      towards me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You! You!&rdquo; she cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her

-      because I was unworthy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why did you come back?&rdquo; she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in her

-      voice. She searched my bronzed face.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To see you, chickabiddy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, no. That&rsquo;s not true,&rdquo; she whispered; but she pressed her cheek

-      against my shoulder as though she were willing to distrust her own denial.

-      &ldquo;You can get on quite well without me, Dannie; you would never have come

-      back to see me only.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full of

-      questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a

-      self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes

-      under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she

-      would go and tell my father.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping her

-      arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which they had

-      been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart, half-frivolous,

-      half-saintly; my father&rsquo;s intense reticence had subdued, but not quite

-      silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as ever and her

-      figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially about the

-      eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How is he?&rdquo; I asked.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Your father?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Much the same. He doesn&rsquo;t change.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Is he still at the same old grind?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded. &ldquo;But, Dante,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;you look thinner and older.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s the heat and the rapid traveling. A day or two&rsquo;s rest&rsquo;ll put me

-      right.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She dropped her sewing into her lap and, pressing her cool hand against my

-      forehead, drew me back against her. It was a mothering love-trick of hers

-      that had lasted over from my childhood.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What brought you home so suddenly, laddie?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her hand slipped to my shoulder. I bent aside and kissed it. &ldquo;To see you

-      and Ruthie. I had something to tell you.&rdquo; She narrowed her eyes shrewdly.

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve been worried for nearly a year now. I&rsquo;ve noticed it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Have I shown it so plainly?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Plainly enough for me to notice. Is it something to do with a woman? But

-      of course it is&mdash;at your age only a woman could make you wear a

-      solemn face.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes. It&rsquo;s a woman. And I want you to help me, Snow Lady, just as you used

-      to long ago when I couldn&rsquo;t make things go right.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The slow tears clouded her eyes; yet my news seemed to make her happy.

-      &ldquo;When I was as old as you, Ruthie had been long enough with me to grow

-      long curls.&rdquo; She smiled inscrutably.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From where we sat we could watch the house. While we had been talking, I

-      had seen through the study-window how Ruthita stole to my father&rsquo;s chair.

-      He looked up irritably at being disturbed. Her attitude was all meekness

-      and apology as she explained her intrusion. He seemed to sigh at having to

-      leave his work. She withdrew while he completed his sentence. He laid his

-      pen carefully aside, glanced out into the garden shortsightedly, rose, and

-      melted into the shadows at the back of his cave. The door at the top of

-      the steps opened. He descended slowly and gravely, as though his brain was

-      still tangled in the web of thought it had been weaving.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We sat together beneath the apple-tree while the light faded. Little ovals

-      of gold, falling flaky through leaves on the turf, paled imperceptibly

-      into the twilight grayness. My father&rsquo;s voice was worn and unsteady. It

-      came over me that he had aged; up till now I had not noticed it. Beyond

-      the wall in a neighboring garden children were playing; a woman called

-      them to bed; a lawn-mower ran to and fro across the silence. He questioned

-      me eagerly as to where I had been in Italy, punctuating my answers and

-      descriptions with such remarks as, &ldquo;I always wanted to go there&mdash;never

-      had time&mdash;always felt that such a background would have made all the

-      difference.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was noticeable that Ruthita and the Snow Lady suppressed themselves in

-      his presence; if they ventured anything, it was only to keep him

-      interested or to lead his thoughts in happier directions. Presently he

-      told them that they would be tired if they sat up later. Taking the hint

-      as a command, they bade us good-night.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Darkness had gathered when they left us; to the southward London waved a

-      torch against the clouds. We watched the lights spring up in the bedrooms,

-      and saw Ruthita and then the Snow Lady step to their windows and draw down

-      their blinds. Presently the lights went out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lord Halloway&rsquo;s been here again.&rdquo; When I waited for further explanation

-      my father added, &ldquo;Didn&rsquo;t like the fellow at first; he improves on

-      acquaintance.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I spoke. &ldquo;Depends how far you carry his acquaintance.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My father fidgeted in his chair. &ldquo;He&rsquo;s got flaws in his character, but

-      he&rsquo;s honest in keeping back nothing. Most people in our position wouldn&rsquo;t

-      hesitate two minutes over such a match.&rdquo; Then, after a long pause, &ldquo;And

-      what&rsquo;s to become of Ruthita when I die?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I took him up sharply. I was young enough to fear the mention of death.

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll live for many years yet. After that, I&rsquo;ll take care of her if she

-      doesn&rsquo;t marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My father sat upright. I wondered how I had hurt him. He spoke stiffly.

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll inherit Sir Charles&rsquo;s money. When I married a first and a second

-      time, I didn&rsquo;t consult his convenience, and the responsibilities I

-      undertook are mine. Ruthita&rsquo;s only your sister by accident; already you&rsquo;ve

-      been too much together. We must consider this offer apart from sentiment.

-      He&rsquo;s sowed his wild oats&mdash;well, he&rsquo;s sorry. And he&rsquo;ll be the Earl of

-      Lovegrove by and by. To stand in her way would be selfishness.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His argument took me by surprise. &ldquo;Is Ruthita anxious for it? What does

-      she say?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She knows nothing of the world. She takes her coloring from you. She&rsquo;s

-      afraid to speak out her mind. She thinks you would never forgive her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His voice was high-strung and challenging.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe it,&rdquo; I said quietly. &ldquo;She doesn&rsquo;t love him&mdash;she&rsquo;d be

-      selling herself for safety.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In the interval that followed I could feel the grimness of his expression

-      which the darkness hid from my eyes. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re young; you don&rsquo;t understand.

-      For years I&rsquo;ve had to struggle to make ends meet. I&rsquo;m about done&mdash;I&rsquo;m

-      tired. If Ruthita were settled, I could lie down with an easy mind.

-      There&rsquo;s enough saved to see me and her mother to our journey&rsquo;s end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He rose to his feet suddenly. &ldquo;You think I&rsquo;m acting shabbily. Good-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He walked away, a gaunt shadow moving through the silver night. The awe I

-      had of him kept me from following. I sat there and tried to puzzle out how

-      this thing might be avoided. I could help financially; but my help would

-      be refused because it was Sir Charles&rsquo;s money.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning I woke at six and dressed. Dew was on the turf; it sparkled

-      in the gossamer veils of spider-webs caught among the bushes. Blackbirds

-      and thrushes in trees were calling. A cock crew, and a cock in the

-      distance echoed. The childish thought came back to me&mdash;how much

-      grown-ups miss of pleasure in their anxiety for the morrow. There is so

-      much to be enjoyed for nothing!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A window-sash was raised sharply. Looking up I saw Ruthita in her white

-      night-gown, with her hair tumbled like a cloud about her breast. I watched

-      her, thinking her lovely&mdash;so timid and small and delicate. I called

-      to her softly; she started and drew back. I waited. Soon she came down to

-      me in the garden. I must have eyed her curiously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve heard?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She held out her hand pleadingly, afraid that I would judge her. &ldquo;They&rsquo;re

-      making me,&rdquo; she cried, &ldquo;and I don&rsquo;t&mdash;don&rsquo;t want to, Dannie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I led her away behind the tool-shed at the bottom of the garden; it was

-      the place where I had discovered Hetty in her one flirtation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not wanted,&rdquo; moaned Ruthita; &ldquo;I cost money. So they&rsquo;re giving me to a

-      man I don&rsquo;t love.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They shan&rsquo;t,&rdquo; I told her, slipping my arm about her. &ldquo;You shall come to

-      me&mdash;I don&rsquo;t suppose I shall ever marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nestled her head against my shoulder, saying, &ldquo;You were always good to

-      me; I don&rsquo;t know why. I&rsquo;m not much use to anybody.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Rubbish!&rdquo; I retorted. &ldquo;None of us could get along without you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to

-      me. She promised.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her beside

-      us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. &ldquo;She&rsquo;s not going to marry Halloway.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. &ldquo;Why not? Why so positive?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because it&rsquo;s an arranged marriage.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Somehow I knew she was not serious.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t want it?&rdquo; I challenged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, I don&rsquo;t want it; but Ruthita&rsquo;s growing older. No one else has asked

-      for her. It would be a shame if she became an old maid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t, if you say so,&rdquo; said the Snow Lady.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a conspiracy

-      against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to his study, where he

-      shut himself up, working morosely. I sought opportunities to tell the Snow

-      Lady what I had come to say, but I could never find an opening to

-      introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were alone together she insisted on

-      discussing Ruthita&rsquo;s future, stating and re-stating the reasons for and

-      against the proposed match. The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the

-      broaching of my own perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make

-      my decision unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I

-      engaged a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be

-      canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended to

-      hesitate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding my

-      eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I went

-      to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because he&rsquo;s coming?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Partly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her eyes were blinded with tears; she sank against the wall in a fit of

-      sobbing. &ldquo;Oh, I wish you could take me&mdash;I wish you could take me!&rdquo;

-       she cried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise to

-      come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. &ldquo;You and I&rsquo;ve

-      always stood together, little sister; you mustn&rsquo;t be afraid,&rdquo; I told her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s this? You&rsquo;re going?&rdquo; Her voice reflected dismay and bewilderment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But not for long! You&rsquo;ll be back shortly?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That depends.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I entered my father&rsquo;s study. He looked up from his writing. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going

-      away.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He held my hand in silence a moment; his throat was working; he would not

-      look me in the eyes. &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you stay?&rdquo; he asked hoarsely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I shook my head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-by,&rdquo; he muttered. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t judge us harshly. Come back again.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita accompanied me to the end of the lane. She did not come further;

-      she was grown up now and ashamed to be seen crying. At the last minute I

-      wanted to tell her. I realized that she would understand&mdash;she was a

-      woman. The knowledge came too late. She said she would write me at Oxford,

-      and I did not correct her. I looked back as I went down the road and

-      waved. I turned a corner; she was lost to sight.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day I sailed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XIV&mdash;I GO TO SHEBA

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> sleepy, contented

-      little town, overshadowed by giant elms, sprawled out along the banks of a

-      winding river, surrounded for miles by undulating woodlands&mdash;that is

-      how I remember Sheba. The houses were for the most part of timber, and

-      nearly all of them were painted white. They sat each in its unfenced

-      garden, comfortably separate from neighbors, with a green lawn flowing

-      from the roadway all about it, and a nosegay of salvias, hollyhocks, and

-      lavender, making cheerfulness beside the piazza. I suppose unkind things

-      happened there, but they have left no mark on my memory. When I think of

-      Sheba there comes to me the sound of bees humming, woodpeckers tapping,

-      frogs croaking, and the sight of blue indolent smoke curling above quiet

-      gables, butterflies sailing over flowers, a nodding team of oxen on a

-      sunlit road hauling fagots into town and, after sunset hour, the indigo

-      silence of dusk beneath orchards where apples are dropping and fireflies

-      blink with the eyes of goblins.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Sheba was one of those old New England towns from which the hurry of life

-      has departed; it cared more for its traditions than for its future, and

-      sat watching the present like a gray spectacled grandmother, pleased to be

-      behind the times, with its worn hands folded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I arrived there with only a small sum of money and the price of my return

-      passage. I had limited my funds purposely, so that I might not be tempted

-      to prolong my visit.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The day after my arrival my calculations were upset; I discovered that the

-      Carpenter house was shut, and that Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter had not yet

-      returned from the coast. This made me careful. I was unwilling to draw on

-      my bank in London lest my whereabouts should be discovered, which would

-      necessitate awkward explanations to my family and the association of Vi&rsquo;s

-      name with doubtful circumstances.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In my search for cheap lodgings I had a strange stroke of luck. Randall

-      Carpenter&rsquo;s house stood in an old-world street, which at this time of the

-      year was a tunnel through foliage. I waited until the gardeners had

-      departed. Evening came; pushing open the gate, I entered the grounds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I passed down a rough path under apple-trees, where fruit kept falling. In

-      stables to the left, horses chafed in their stalls and snorted. To the

-      right in the vegetable garden, birds of brilliant plumage flashed and

-      darted, and fat gray squirrels sat up quivering to watch me. Overhead,

-      near and far, the air vibrated with incessant twittering. The golden haze

-      of sunset was over everything; the whole world seemed enkindled. The path

-      descended to low, flat meadows where haymaking was in progress. Farm

-      implements stood carelessly about, ready for the morrow. In one field the

-      hay was cocked, in another gathered, in a third the cutting had commenced.

-      I told myself I was with her, and shivered at the aching loneliness of

-      reality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Circling the meadows was a narrow stream, which at a little distance

-      joined the main river; on the farther side stood scattered cottages, with

-      gardens straggling down a hill to its banks. In one of these a gray-haired

-      woman was working. She wore a sunbonnet and print-dress of lavender. In my

-      idleness I threw myself down in the grass and observed her. She grew

-      conscious that she was being watched, and cast sly glances across her

-      shoulder. At first I thought she was suspicious of my trespassing; she

-      came lower down the hill and nodded in shy friendly fashion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Good-evening,&rdquo; I called to her over the stream.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew herself erect and eyed me. &ldquo;Guess you&rsquo;re a stranger?&rdquo; she

-      questioned, having found something foreign in my English accent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I told her that I was, and then, for the sake of conversation, asked her

-      if she knew of any rooms to rent. &ldquo;Guess I do,&rdquo; she called back, &ldquo;me and

-      my sisters have one room to spare.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      That was how I came to take lodgings with the three Misses Januaries. I

-      paid them ten dollars weekly and had everything found. My room lay at the

-      back; from my window I could see much of what went on in Randall

-      Carpenter&rsquo;s grounds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From the three Misses Januaries I learnt many things. They were decayed

-      ladies and eked out a livelihood by bringing home piece-work to do for the

-      jewelry factories. Every other day Miss Priscilla, the eldest, went to

-      deliver the finished task and to take further orders. Miss Priscilla was

-      proud, angular, and bent. Miss Julia was round and jolly, but crippled

-      with rheumatism. Miss Lucy, the youngest, had a weak spine and was never

-      dressed; day after day she lay between white sheets dreamily smiling,

-      small as a child, making hardly any mound in the bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At first they hid from me the fact that they worked. Then they pretended

-      that they did it to occupy their leisure. Sewing was so useless, Miss

-      Priscilla said. At last they admitted the truth to the extent of letting

-      me sit with them in Miss Lucy&rsquo;s bedroom, even allowing me to help them

-      with the fastening of the interminable links that went to the making of

-      one chain-bag.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was during these meetings that they gossiped of their neighbors and

-      themselves. By delicate manouvering I would lead the conversation round to

-      Vi. I found that for them Sheba was the one and only town, and Randall

-      Carpenter was its richest citizen. He stood behind all its thriving

-      institutions. He was president of the Sheba National Bank. He had

-      controlling interest in the jewelry factory. He owned the cotton-works. He

-      had been Senator at Washington. Vi was the social leader and the mirror of

-      local fashion. They spoke of her as though she embodied for them all that

-      is meant by romance. They told me the story, which I had already heard, of

-      how Randall Carpenter had saved her father from ruin.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While such matters were being discussed and fresh details added, Miss Lucy

-      would smile up at the ceiling, with her thin arms stretched straight out

-      and her fingers plucking at the coverlet. I discovered later that long

-      years before, Randall Carpenter had kept company with her; then her spine

-      trouble had commenced and their money had gone from them, and it had been

-      ended. As a middle-aged bachelor he had married Vi, and now Miss Lucy

-      re-lived her own girlhood in listening to stories of Vi&rsquo;s reported

-      happiness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Three weeks after my arrival in Sheba Vi returned. The evening before I

-      had seen from my window that lights had sprung up in the house; early next

-      morning I saw Dorrie in the garden, a white, diminutive, butterfly figure

-      fluttering beneath the boughs. After breakfast I saw Vi come out, walking

-      with a portly man. An eighth of a mile separated us&mdash;by listening

-      intently I could hear her voice when she called, &ldquo;Dorrie, Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Twice I came near to her, though she did not know it. One Sunday morning I

-      waited till service had commenced, and followed her to church. I slipped

-      into a seat at the back. There were few people present. From where I sat I

-      could get a clear view of her and her husband across empty pews. Mr.

-      Carpenter was a squarely-built, kindly-looking man&mdash;unimaginative and

-      mildly corpulent. His face was clean-shaven and ruddy. He had an air of

-      benevolent prosperity; his hair was grizzled, the top of his head was bald

-      and polished. When he offered me the plate in taking the collection, I

-      noticed that his fingers were podgy. I remembered Vi&rsquo;s continually

-      reiterated assertion that he was so kind to her. I knew what she had meant&mdash;kind,

-      but lacking subtlety in expressing the affections. I judged that he was

-      the sort of person to whom life had scattered largesse&mdash;he had never

-      been tested, and consequently accepted all good fortune as something

-      merited. His wide shrewd eyes had a steely gleam of justice; the puckered

-      eye-lids promised humor. He was lovable rather than likable&mdash;a big

-      boy, a mixture of naïve self-complacency and masterfulness. Before the

-      benediction was pronounced, I left.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This was the first time I had seen him at close quarters. I had come

-      prepared to find faults in the man; I was surprised at my lack of anger.

-      His comfortable amiability disarmed me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The second time I came near to her was at nightfall. It was November. A

-      touch of frost had nipped the leaves to blood-red; the Indian Summer had

-      commenced. The air was pungent with the walnut fragrance of decaying

-      foliage; violet mist trailed in shreds from thickets, like a woman&rsquo;s scarf

-      torn from her throat in the passage. I had wandered out into the country.

-      An aimless restlessness was on me&mdash;a sense of defiant

-      self-dissatisfaction.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Occupied with my thoughts, I was strolling moodily along with hands in

-      pockets, when I chanced to look up. She was coming down the road towards

-      me. She was alone; her trim, clean-cut figure made a silhouette against

-      the twilight. She was whistling like a boy as she approached; her skirt

-      was short to the ankles; she carried a light cane in her hand. I wanted to

-      stand still till she had come up with me and then to catch her in my arms

-      before she was aware. For a moment I halted irresolute; then I turned into

-      the woods to the left.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not understand how she could be so near to me and not know it. It

-      seemed to me that I would raise clenched hands against the coffin-lid,

-      were she to approach me, though I was buried deep underground.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As the year drew towards a close my uncertainty of mind became a torture.

-      I knew that I ought to return to England; I was breaking the promise I had

-      made to myself. My friends must be getting anxious. By this time Sir

-      Charles must have heard of my disappearance. I was imperiling my future by

-      stopping. Worse still, the longer I lived near Vi, the more difficult was

-      I making it for myself to take up the threads of my old life without her.

-      I continually set dates for my departure, and I continually postponed

-      them. At last I booked my passage some way ahead for the first week in

-      January. In order to prevent myself from altering my decision, I told Miss

-      Priscilla that I was going.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I fought a series of never finished battles with myself. As the time of my

-      respite shortened, I grew frenzied. Was I to go away forever without

-      speaking to her? Was I to give her no sign of my presence? Was I to let

-      her think that I had forgotten her and had ceased to care? I kept myself

-      awake of nights on purpose to make my respite go further; from where I lay

-      on the pillow with my face turned to the snow-covered meadows, I could see

-      the blur which was her house. Sometimes in the darkness, when one loses

-      all standards, I determined to risk everything and go to her. With morning

-      I mastered myself and saw clearly&mdash;to go to her would be basest

-      selfishness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In one of my long tramps I had come upon a pond in a secluded stretch of

-      woodland on the outskirts of Sheba. On the last evening before my

-      departure I remembered it. I was in almost hourly fear of myself&mdash;afraid

-      that I would seek her out. I planned diversions of thought and action for

-      my physical self, so that my will might keep it in subjection. This

-      evening, when I was at a loss what to do, the inclination occurred to go

-      there skating.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I walked along the road, sleighs slid by with bells jingling. The merry

-      golden windows of white houses in white fields brought a sense of

-      peacefulness. The night was blue-black; the sky was starry; the air had

-      that deceptive dryness which hides its coldness. Beneath the woods trees

-      cast intricate sprawling traceries of shadows. Every now and then the

-      frozen silence was shattered by the snapping of some overladen bough; then

-      the whole wood shook and shivered as though it were spun from glassy

-      threads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Picking my way through bushes, I came to the edge of the pond and sat down

-      to adjust my skates. It was perhaps four hundred yards in extent and

-      curved in the middle, so that one could not see from end to end. To the

-      right grew a plantation of firs almost large enough for cutting; on the

-      other three sides lay tangled swamp and brushwood.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had risen to my feet and was on the point of striking out, when I heard

-      a sound which was unmistakable, <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i>&mdash;the sharp ring

-      of skates cutting against ice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From a point above me at the edge of the fir-grove a figure darted out and

-      vanished round the bend. The moon was just rising; behind bars of tall

-      trunks I could see its pale disk shining&mdash;the pond had not yet caught

-      its light.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt foolishly angry and disappointed that I was not to have my last

-      evening to myself. I was jealous that some stranger, to whom it would lack

-      the same intensity, should share this memory. Unreasonable chagrin held me

-      hesitant; I was minded to steal away unnoticed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The intruder had reached the far end of the pond&mdash;there was silence.

-      Then the <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i> commenced again, coming back. I set out to

-      meet it; it was eerie for two people to be within earshot, but out of

-      sight in that still solitude. We swung round the corner together; the moon

-      peered above the tree-tops. For an instant we were face to face, staring

-      into one another&rsquo;s eyes; then our impetus carried us apart into the dusk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I listened, and heard nothing but the brittle shuddering of icicles as

-      boughs strained up to free themselves. Stealing back round the bend, I

-      came upon her standing fixed and silent; as I approached her, she spread

-      her hands before her eyes in a gesture of terror.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi, Vi,&rdquo; I whispered, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She muttered to herself in choking, babbling fashion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I had put my arms about her, she ceased to speak, but her body was

-      shaken with sobbing. She made no sound, but a deep convulsive trembling

-      ran through her. I talked to her soothingly, trying to convince her I was

-      real. Slowly she relaxed against me sighing, and trusted herself to look

-      up at me, letting her fingers wander over my face and hands. I had brought

-      her the bitterness of remembrance. Stooping, I kissed her mouth. &ldquo;Just

-      once,&rdquo; I pleaded, &ldquo;after all these months of loneliness. I&rsquo;m going

-      to-morrow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You must,&rdquo; she said, freeing herself from my embrace and clasping her

-      arms about my neck; &ldquo;oh, it&rsquo;s wrong, but I&rsquo;ve wanted you so badly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I led her to the edge of the pond and removed her skates. The moon had now

-      sailed above the spear-topped firs and the ice was a silver mirror.

-      Walking through the muffled woods I told her of my coming to Sheba, of the

-      window from which I had watched her, and of all that had happened. From

-      her I learnt that she also had been going through the same struggle

-      between duty and desire ever since we parted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sometimes I felt that it was no use,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t fight any

-      longer&mdash;I must write or come to you. Then something would happen; I

-      would read or hear of a woman who had done it, and in the revulsion I felt

-      I realized how other people would feel about myself. And I saw how it

-      would spoil Randall&rsquo;s life, and especially what it would mean to Dorrie.

-      You can&rsquo;t tell your personal excuses to the world; it just judges you

-      wholesale by what you do, and I couldn&rsquo;t bear that. It&rsquo;s so easy to slip

-      into temptation, Dante, especially our kind of temptation; because we love

-      one another, anything we might do seems good. You can only see what sin

-      really is when you picture it in the lives of others.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We were walking apart now; she had withdrawn her arm from mine. &ldquo;I shall

-      always love you,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And I you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall never marry any other woman,&rdquo; I told her; &ldquo;I shall wait for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor boy,&rdquo; she murmured, &ldquo;it isn&rsquo;t even right for you to think of that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Then, because there were things we dared not mention, we fell to talking

-      about Dorrie, how she was growing, how she was losing her lisp, and all

-      the tender little coaxing ways she had of making people happy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came out of the woods on the road which led back to Sheba. The lights

-      twinkling ahead and the occasional travelers passing, robbed us of the

-      danger of being alone together. I think she had been waiting for that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dante,&rdquo; she said, smiling at me bravely, &ldquo;there is only one thing for you

-      to do&mdash;you must marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Marry,&rdquo; I exclaimed, &ldquo;some woman whom I don&rsquo;t love!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not that,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;but many men learn to love a second woman. I&rsquo;ve

-      often thought you should be happy with Ruthita; you love her already.

-      After you had had children, you&rsquo;d soon forget me. You&rsquo;d be able to smile

-      about it. Then it would be easier for me to forget.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My answer was a tortured whisper. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s impossible; I&rsquo;m not made like

-      that. For my own peace of mind I almost wish I were.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of

-      elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one of

-      the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out,

-      watching for her return.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s always like that; he can&rsquo;t bear to be without me. I had one of my

-      moods this evening, when I want to be alone&mdash;he knew it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When you wanted to think of me; that&rsquo;s what you meant&mdash;why didn&rsquo;t

-      you say it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One daren&rsquo;t say these things, when they&rsquo;re saying good-by, perhaps for

-      ever.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She had her hand on the gate, preparing to enter; we neither of us knew

-      what to say at parting. The things that were in my heart I must not utter,

-      and all other things seemed trivial. I looked from her to the burly figure

-      framed in the glowing window. I pitied him with the proud pity of youth

-      for age, a pity which is half cruel. After all, she loved me and we had

-      our years before us. We could afford disappointment, we whose lives were

-      mostly in the future; his life was two-thirds spent, and his years were

-      running out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Looking up the path in his direction, I asked, &ldquo;Shall you tell him?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He has known for a year; it was only fair.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And he was angry? He blamed you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He was sorry. I wish he had blamed me. He blames himself, which is the

-      hardest thing I have to bear.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vi,&rdquo; I said, &ldquo;he&rsquo;s a good man&mdash;better than I am. You must learn to

-      love him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She held out her hand quickly; her voice was muffled. &ldquo;Good-night, my

-      dearest, and good-by.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The gate clanged. As she ran up the path, I saw that her husband had moved

-      from the window. He opened the door to her; in the lighted room I saw him

-      put his arms about her. By the way she looked up at him and he bent over

-      her, I knew she was confessing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then I shambled down the road, feeling very old and tired. I was so tired

-      that I hardly knew how to finish my packing; I was cold, bitterly cold. I

-      dragged myself to bed; in order to catch the boat in Boston, I had to make

-      an early start next morning. My teeth were chattering and my flesh was

-      burning. Several times in the night I caught myself speaking aloud, saying

-      stupid, tangled things about Vi. Then I thought that what I had said had

-      been overheard. I shouted angrily to them to go away, declaring, that I

-      had not meant what I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When my eyes closed, the stars were going out. &ldquo;It will soon be morning,&rdquo;

-       I told myself; &ldquo;I must get up and dress.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I tried to get up, but my head would stick to the pillow and my body

-      refused to work. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s queer,&rdquo; I thought; &ldquo;never mind, I&rsquo;ll try later.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER XV&mdash;THE FLAME OF A SWORD

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne morning, it

-      seemed the one on which I had planned to sail, I awoke in a strange room.

-      I knew it was strange because the sun was pouring in across the bed, and

-      the sun never looked through my window at the Misses Januaries&rsquo; till late

-      in the afternoon. Something wet was on my forehead&mdash;a kind of bandage

-      that came down low across my eyes almost preventing me from seeing

-      anything. This set me wondering in a slow, thick-witted manner.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not much care how I came to be there&mdash;I felt effortless and

-      contented; yet, in a lazy way, my mind became interested. I lay still,

-      piecing together little scraps of happenings as I remembered them. The

-      last thing I could recall that was rational was my attempting to get out

-      of bed. Then came vague haunting shapes, too sweet and too horrible for

-      reality&mdash;things which refused to be embodied and remained mere

-      atmospheres in the brain, terrors and delights of sleep which slowly faded

-      as the mind cleared itself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I pulled my hand from under the sheets and was surprised at the effort it

-      took to raise it to my forehead. I heard the rustle of a starched skirt:

-      it was the kind of sound that Hetty used to make in my childhood, when she

-      came to dress me in the mornings and I pretended that I still slept. I

-      used to think in those days that it was a stern clean sound which

-      threatened me with soap and chilly water. Someone was bending over me; a

-      cool voice said, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t move, Mr. Cardover. I&rsquo;ll do that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The bandage was pushed back and in the sudden rush of light I saw a young

-      woman in a blue print-dress, standing beside my pillow. I tried to speak

-      to her, but my mouth was parched and my voice did not make the proper

-      sound.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t try to speak,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ve been sick, you know. Soon you&rsquo;ll

-      feel better.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I stopped trying to talk and obeyed her, just as I used to obey Hetty. At

-      the back of my mind I smiled to myself that I, a grown man, should obey

-      her; she looked such a girl. After she had put water to my lips and passed

-      a damp cloth over my face and hands, she nodded pleasantly and went back

-      to her seat by the window.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      No&mdash;until now I had never seen this room. The walls were covered in

-      cherry-colored satin, which was patterned in vertical stripes, with

-      bunches of flowers woven in between the lines. All the wood-work was

-      painted a gleaming white. Chippendale chairs and old-fashioned delicate

-      bits of furniture stood about in odd corners. Between the posts of the big

-      Colonial bed I could see a broad bay-window, with a seat going round it.

-      Across the panes leafless boughs cast a net-work of shadows, and through

-      them fell a bar of solid sunlight in which dust-motes were dancing by the

-      thousand. Half-way down each side of the bed screens were standing, so

-      that I could only see straight before me and a part of the room to the

-      left and right beyond where they ended.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through weakness I was powerless to speak or stir, yet my swimming senses

-      were anxiously alert. I saw objects without their perspective, as though I

-      were gazing up through water. In the same way with sounds, I heard them

-      thunderously and waited in suspense for their repetition. Though I lay so

-      still, nothing missed my attention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      By the quietness of the house I gathered that the hour was yet early. Far

-      away cocks crew their rural challenge. On a road near by footsteps passed

-      in a hurry. The whistle of a factory sounded; then I knew they had been

-      footsteps of people going to work. Beneath the window a garden-roller

-      clanged across gravel, and became muffled as it reached the turf. A door

-      banged remotely; a few seconds later someone tapped on the door of my

-      bedroom. The nurse laid aside her knitting and rustled over to the

-      threshold. A question was asked in a low whisper and the nurse&rsquo;s voice

-      answered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A woman entered into the bar of sunlight and stood regarding me from the

-      foot of the bed. With the immense indifference of weakness I gazed back.

-      Her long, fine-spun hair hung loose about her shoulders like a mantle. She

-      wore a blue dressing-gown, which she held together with one hand across

-      her breast. Her eyes were still sleepy; she had come directly she had

-      wakened to inquire after me. She smiled at me, nodding her head. She

-      seemed very distant; I wanted to return her smile, but I had not the

-      energy. I closed my eyes; when I looked again she had vanished.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For the next few days I do not know how many people came and looked at me,

-      whispered a few words and went. There was the old gray-haired doctor, with

-      his military-bearing and his trick of pursing his lips and knitting his

-      brows as he took my temperature. I had one visitor who was regular&mdash;Randall

-      Carpenter. He looked years older. Tiptoeing into the room, he would seat

-      himself in the bay-window; from there he would gaze at me moodily without

-      a word, with his knees spread apart, and his podgy hands clasped together.

-      Sometimes I would doze while he watched me and would awake to find him

-      still there, his position unaltered. One thing I noticed; Vi and he were

-      never in my room together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In these first days, which slipped by uncounted, I realized that I had

-      been very near to death. It seemed to me that my spirit still hovered on

-      the borderland and looked back across the boundary half-regretful. I had

-      the feeling that life was a thing apart from me&mdash;something which I

-      was unanxious to share. All these people came and went, but I could not

-      respond to them. I desired only to be undisturbed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Several times I had heard the shrill piping voice of Dorrie and the long

-      low <i>hush</i> of someone warning her to speak less loudly. She would

-      come to the door many times in the day, inquiring impatiently whether I

-      were better. Sometimes she would leave flowers, which the nurse would put

-      in water and set down by the side of my bed. I would watch them dreamily,

-      saying to myself, &ldquo;Dorrie&rsquo;s flowers.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      One afternoon I heard her voice at the door, asking &ldquo;Nurth, how ith

-      Dante?&rdquo; The nurse had left the room for a moment, so no one answered her

-      question. I heard the door pushed wider, and stealthy feet slipping across

-      the carpet. Round the edge of the screen came the excited face and little

-      shining head. I held out my hand to her and tried to speak. Then I tried

-      again and whispered, &ldquo;Dorrie! Dorrie darling!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my hand in both her small ones, trying to mask the fear which my

-      changed appearance caused her. &ldquo;Dear Dante,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m tho

-      thorry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kiss me, Dorrie,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dear Dante, you&rsquo;ll get better, won&rsquo;t you? For my thake, Dante! Then we&rsquo;ll

-      play together, like we uthed to.&rdquo; Tears trickled down her flushed cheeks

-      as she questioned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As her soft lips brushed me and her silky curls fell about my forehead, I

-      felt for the first time that my grip on life was coming back. Lying there

-      thinking things over confusedly, it had seemed hardly worth while trying

-      to get better. It seemed worth while, now that I was reminded that there

-      was such beautiful innocence as Dorrie&rsquo;s in the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When the nurse came back a few moments later, she shook her head at Dorrie

-      reproachfully and tried to take her away from me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But he wanths me,&rdquo; cried Dorrie in self-defense, and I kept fast hold of

-      her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After that I began to gather strength. I noticed that as I threw off my

-      lethargy, Vi&rsquo;s visits grew less frequent. When she came her manner was

-      restrained; she entered hurriedly and made it appear that her only reason

-      for coming was to confer with the nurse. At first I would follow her about

-      with my eyes; but when I found how much it embarrassed her, I pretended to

-      be dozing when I heard her enter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not understand how I came to be in Randall Carpenter&rsquo;s house. I

-      dared not ask Vi or her husband; my presence implied too much already. I

-      was afraid to ask the nurse; I did not know how much I should be telling

-      by my question. There seemed to be a polite conspiracy of silence against

-      me. I wondered where it would all end.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had grown to like the old doctor. He was a shrewd, wise, serious man. He

-      never spoke a word of religion, yet he made his religion felt by his

-      kindness. As he went about his work, he would become chatty, trying to

-      rouse my interest. He spoke a good deal about himself and told me

-      anecdotes of scenes which he had lived through in the War, when he had

-      been a surgeon in the Northern army. Out of his old tired eyes he would

-      watch me narrowly; I began to feel that he understood.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One day I whispered to him to send away the nurse. He invented an errand

-      for her, saying that he would stay with me till she returned. When she had

-      gone, he closed the door carefully and came and sat down on the side of

-      the bed. &ldquo;Now, what is it, my boy?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What happened, doctor?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He pursed his lips judicially and looked away from me for a full minute,

-      as though he would escape answering; then his eyes came back and I saw

-      that he was going to tell.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I reckoned you&rsquo;d be asking that question,&rdquo; he said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The morning that you figured to sail, you were taken sick at the Misses

-      Januaries&rsquo;. You were mighty bad when they sent for me; you had pneumonia

-      and a touch of brain-fever. It&rsquo;s a close call you&rsquo;ve had. I found you

-      wandering in your head&mdash;and saying things.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Things, doctor? Things that I wouldn&rsquo;t want heard?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He nodded gravely. &ldquo;No one in Sheba knew anything about you. I saw that

-      you were in for a long spell, and that the Misses Januaries&rsquo; was no place

-      for you to get proper nursing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He halted awkwardly. &ldquo;Then I came to Randall and told him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Had I mentioned him in my delirium?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d mentioned her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I could feel the warm flush of color spreading through my body and turned

-      away my head. The old doctor gripped my hand. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s how it happened, I

-      guess.&rdquo; Little by little he told me about Randall Carpenter. During the

-      first days of crisis he had scarcely gone to bed, but had paced the house,

-      always returning to my bedroom door to see if he could be of any service.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, why should he care?&rdquo; I questioned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because she cared, I guess. He&rsquo;s so fond of her that he wants to do more

-      than ever she could ask him. And then, Randall&rsquo;s a mighty just man, and

-      he&rsquo;s always most just when he&rsquo;s most tempted.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He looked down at me sidelong and silence fell between us. It was broken

-      by the footfall of the nurse along the passage. I asked him quickly when I

-      should be well enough to be moved.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re some better now, but we mustn&rsquo;t think of moving you yet, though,

-      of course, you must go at the earliest.&rdquo; Towards midnight the nurse took

-      my temperature. I saw that she was surprised, for she took it a second

-      time. &ldquo;Have you any pain?&rdquo; she asked me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Randall Carpenter came in and they went away together. I lay staring up at

-      the ceiling, my hands clenched and my eyes burning. They all knew; I alone

-      was ignorant of what things I had said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A carriage came bowling up the driveway. I recognized whose it was, for I

-      had become familiar with the horse&rsquo;s step. The doctor came into the room;

-      as he bent over me our eyes met. I clutched his arm and he stooped lower.

-      &ldquo;Stay and talk with me,&rdquo; I whispered. &ldquo;You all look at me and none of you

-      will tell me. I can&rsquo;t bear it&mdash;can&rsquo;t bear it any longer.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What can&rsquo;t you bear?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not knowing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When he had told them that there was no change for the worse and had sent

-      them back to bed, he came and sat down beside me. The lights in the room

-      were extinguished, save for a reading lamp in a far corner where the nurse

-      had been sitting.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I guess something&rsquo;s troubling you. Take your time and tell me slowly.

-      I&rsquo;ll sure help you, if I can.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Doctor, you know about me and Mrs. Carpenter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I reckon you&rsquo;re sort of fond of her&mdash;is that it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I buried my face against the cool pillow. I dared not look at him, but he

-      signaled me courage with the pressure of his hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;More than fond, that&rsquo;s why I came to Sheba. I didn&rsquo;t mean to let her know

-      that I&rsquo;d ever been here; that last evening we met by accident. I was a

-      fool to have come. I&rsquo;ve been unfair to her&mdash;unfair to everybody.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not answer me; he could not deny my assertion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You remember what you said this afternoon&mdash;that I let things out in

-      my delirium. I want to know what they were. I&rsquo;ve been trying to remember;

-      but it all comes wild and confused. Tell me, did I say anything that would

-      make her ashamed of me&mdash;anything that would make her hate me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shook his head. &ldquo;Nothing that would make her hate you. Perhaps, that&rsquo;s

-      the worst of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well then, anything that would damage her reputation? Was I brought here

-      only to prevent strangers from listening to what I said, just as you&rsquo;d

-      shut a mad dog up for safety?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In my feverish suspense, I gained sudden strength and raised myself up on

-      my elbow to face him. He patted me gently on the shoulder, saying, &ldquo;Lie

-      down; it&rsquo;s a sick man&rsquo;s fancy. You&rsquo;re guessing wide of the mark&mdash;it

-      was nothing such as that.&rdquo; He tucked me up and smoothed out the sheets.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now stay still and I&rsquo;ll tell you. You were calling for her when I came to

-      you. At first we didn&rsquo;t know what you meant; then you mentioned Dorrie.

-      Only Miss Priscilla and I heard what you were saying; you can trust Miss

-      Priscilla not to speak about it. I let Randall know and he brought his

-      wife over with him. Directly she touched you, you grew quiet. It was

-      Randall suggested you being brought here; he was sorry for you and it was

-      kindness made him do it. All through your illness till you came to

-      yourself, Mrs. Carpenter sat by you; whenever she left you, you grew

-      restless. She and her husband saved your life, I guess.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what makes them all so strange to me now?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He fidgeted and cleared his throat. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the truth I&rsquo;m wanting,&rdquo; I urged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Randall saw what she meant to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Anything else?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what you meant to her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Against my will a wave of joy throbbed through me. I felt like sobbing

-      from relief and happiness. Then a clear vision of the reality came to me&mdash;the

-      great silent man who stared at me for hours, and the high-spirited woman,

-      so suddenly grown timid, stealing in and out the room with averted eyes in

-      pallid meekness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What ought I to do?&rdquo; My voice choked me as I asked it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He turned his wise, care-wrinkled face towards me gravely. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m

-      wondering,&rdquo; he said. &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one thing to do&mdash;ask God about it.

-      You did wrong in coming&mdash;there&rsquo;s no disguising that. But the good

-      God&rsquo;s spared you. He knows what He means you to do. I&rsquo;m an old fellow, and

-      I&rsquo;ve seen a heap of suffering and trouble. I&rsquo;ve seen men die on the

-      battlefield, and I&rsquo;ve seen &rsquo;em go under when it was least expected.

-      I don&rsquo;t know how I&rsquo;d have come through, if I hadn&rsquo;t believed God knew what

-      He was doing. I guess if He&rsquo;d been lazy, like me and you, He&rsquo;d just have

-      let you slip out, &rsquo;cause it seemed easiest. But He hasn&rsquo;t, and He knows

-      why He hasn&rsquo;t. I&rsquo;d just leave it in His hands.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Long after he had ceased to speak, I lay thinking of his words&mdash;thinking

-      how simple life would be if God were exactly like this old man. Then I

-      began to hope that He might be&mdash;a kind of doctor of sick souls, who

-      would get up out of bed and come driving through the night without

-      complaining, just to bring quiet to sinful people like myself. I closed my

-      eyes, trying to think that God sat beside me. Some time must have elapsed,

-      but when I looked round the doctor was still there. His head was bowed

-      forward from his bent shoulders, nodding.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re tired. I can sleep now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He awoke with a jerk. His last words to me before he left were, &ldquo;Just

-      leave it in His hands.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      From then on there was a changed atmosphere in the house. We had all been

-      afraid of one another and of one another&rsquo;s misunderstandings.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When Dorrie had gone to bed, Vi would sit within the circle of the lamp

-      and read to me while I lay back on my pillows in the shadows, watching how

-      the gold light broke about her face and hands. She was always doing

-      something, either reading or sewing, as though when we were alone she were

-      afraid to trust herself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One evening she said to me, &ldquo;You haven&rsquo;t asked if there are any letters.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t expecting any.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Weren&rsquo;t expecting any! Why not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Because none of my friends know that I&rsquo;ve come to Sheba.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew her face back from the lamp; her sewing fell from her hands. My

-      words had reminded us both of the guilty situation which lay unchanged

-      behind our present attitude.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was she who broke the silence. &ldquo;When you were taken ill I wrote Ruthita

-      and told her&mdash;and told her that you were being nursed in our house.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She brought me my letters and then made an excuse to leave me to myself.

-      My father had written; so had the Snow Lady. After expressing concern for

-      my health, the tone of their letters became constrained and unnatural;

-      they refrained from accusing me, but they had guessed. Ruthita&rsquo;s was an

-      awkward, shamefaced little note&mdash;it puzzled me by omitting to say

-      anything of Halloway.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      More and more after this Vi showed fear of being left alone with me; any

-      moment a slip of the tongue might betray our passion. Frequently during

-      the evening hours Mr. Carpenter would join us. He would steal into the

-      room while Vi was reading and sit down by my bedside. I began to have

-      great sympathy for the man. Vi&rsquo;s actions to him were those of a daughter,

-      and he, when he addressed her, called her &ldquo;My child.&rdquo; Both their attitudes

-      to one another were wrong&mdash;it hurt me to watch them; they made such

-      efforts to create the impression that everything was well. Sitting beside

-      me while she read, he would fasten his eyes on her. If she smiled across

-      at him in turning a page, his heavy face would flood with a quite

-      disproportionate joy. He was too fine a man for the part he was playing;

-      he had strength of character and mastery over men.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Along his own lines he had a wonderful mind. It was always scheming for

-      efficiency, concentration, and bigger projects. If money was the reward of

-      his energy, the desire for power impelled him. But I could quite

-      understand how a woman might yearn for more human interests and more

-      subtle methods of conveying affection than the mere piling of luxury on

-      luxury. He could articulate his deepest emotions only in acts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One evening when Vi had excused herself on the ground that she had a

-      headache, I took the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. He became

-      as confused as if I had discovered him in a lie.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear boy, you mustn&rsquo;t speak to me like that; you don&rsquo;t owe me

-      anything. It is I who owe you everything.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I was staggered by his disclaimer. Under existing circumstances it seemed

-      a superlative extravagance of language. Then he explained, &ldquo;If it hadn&rsquo;t

-      been for you, we shouldn&rsquo;t have Vi.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was the first reference that any of us had made to what had happened at

-      Ransby.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After that Randall Carpenter and I grew to be friends. We didn&rsquo;t do much

-      talking about it, but we each realized how the other felt....

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was almost sufficiently recovered to travel. I broached the subject of

-      my leaving several times&mdash;the first time at breakfast. Randall

-      glanced up sharply from the letter he was opening&mdash;his expression

-      clouded&mdash;instead of looking at me he stared at Vi. &ldquo;Certainly not.

-      Certainly not,&rdquo; he blustered. &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t hear of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Dorrie added her piping protest. Vi alone was silent. Every time I

-      approached the subject it was the same. The truth was our relations were

-      so delicately balanced that the slightest disturbance would precipitate a

-      crisis&mdash;and the crisis we dreaded. We each one knew that the time for

-      frank speaking could scarcely be avoided, but we were eager to postpone

-      it. So we procrastinated, lengthening out our respite.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One afternoon I returned with Randall from a drive to find Vi waiting for

-      us at the gate. Her face was drawn with anxiety.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s happened?&rdquo; asked Randall, and the sharpness of suspense was in his

-      voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Vi handed me a cable. It was my recall&mdash;we all knew that. I ripped

-      the envelope in haste; what I read, strange to say, caused me no elation&mdash;only

-      the bitterness of finality. I raised my eyes; they were both staring at

-      me. &ldquo;My grandfather&rsquo;s dead. His will&rsquo;s in my favor. I must return to

-      England immediately.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      They received the news as though a blow had fallen. Vi crept in and out

-      the rooms with a masked expression of unspoken tragedy. Dorrie caused

-      frequent embarrassment by her coaxing attempts to make me promise to visit

-      them again. Nevertheless, when she had gone to bed and we no longer had

-      her to distract us, we would pass more painful hours in inventing small

-      talk to tide us over dangerous topics.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The night before I sailed, we kept Dorrie up till she fell asleep against

-      me. Her innocence was a barrier between us. When she had been carried to

-      bed, Vi sat down to the piano and sang, while we two men glowered

-      desperately before the fire. I dared not watch her; I could not bear the

-      pain that was in her eyes. As I listened, I knew that her chief difficulty

-      in selections was what to avoid. We were in a mood to read into everything

-      a sentimental interpretation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There were long pauses between her playing, during which no one spoke and

-      the only sound to be heard was the falling of ashes in the grate. The way

-      in which we were grouped seemed symbolic&mdash;she at the piano apart from

-      us, while we were side by side; by loving her, we had pushed her out of

-      both our lives. Randall turned querulously in his chair, &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you go

-      on playing, my child?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Several times she half-commenced an air and broke off. Her voice was a

-      blind thing, tottering down an endless passage. For a horrid minute there

-      was dead silence&mdash;quivering suspense; then the keys crashed

-      discordantly as she gave way to a storm of weeping.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She rose with an appealing gesture, and slipped out. We heard her

-      footsteps trailing up the stairs, her door close, and then stillness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I shuddered as though a window had been flung open behind me and a cold

-      wind blew across my back. The man at my side huddled down into his chair;

-      his fleshy face had lost its firmness; his eyes, like a statue&rsquo;s, seemed

-      without pupils. The moment which we had dreaded and postponed had arrived.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Randall followed her into the hall; he came back, shutting the door

-      carefully behind him. There was slow decision in his voice when he said,

-      &ldquo;After all, we&rsquo;ve got to speak about it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He sank down, his cheeks blotchy and his hands quivering as with palsy.

-      When he spoke, he tried to make his voice steady and matter-of-fact. It

-      was as though he were saying, &ldquo;We&rsquo;ve got to be commonsense, we men of the

-      world. We knew this would happen. There&rsquo;s nothing to be gained by losing

-      our nerves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      This is what he actually said, &ldquo;It isn&rsquo;t her fault. You and I are to

-      blame.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not you,&rdquo; I protested. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s I who&rsquo;ve behaved abominably.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He shifted in his chair; struck a match; raised it part way to his cigar

-      and let it flicker out. Without looking at me he answered, &ldquo;We shan&rsquo;t gain

-      anything by quarreling over who&rsquo;s to blame. We&rsquo;ve got her into a mess

-      between us&mdash;it&rsquo;s up to us to get her out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you didn&rsquo;t&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He flung out his arm in irritation. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t waste words. I married her when

-      she was too young to know what marriage meant; I loved her and supposed

-      that nothing else mattered. That&rsquo;s my share. You made love to my wife and

-      followed her to Sheba. That&rsquo;s yours. We&rsquo;ve got her into a mess between us,

-      and we&rsquo;ve got to get her out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He waited for me to make a suggestion; I was too much taken aback. We

-      couldn&rsquo;t get her out; we could only help her to endure it. We both knew

-      that&mdash;so why discuss it?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning his head and staring hard at me, he continued, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one

-      thing to be considered&mdash;<i>her happiness</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps she&rsquo;ll forget when I&rsquo;m gone,&rdquo; I ventured.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She won&rsquo;t and you know it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He barked the words. His manner was losing its air of tired patience.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;See here, Cardover, you and I have got to get down to facts. We don&rsquo;t

-      help one another by fooling ourselves. You went out of her life for a

-      year; she didn&rsquo;t forget. It&rsquo;s different now; you&rsquo;ve been with her in this

-      house and everything will remind her of you. What are we going to do about

-      it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He repeated his question harshly, as though demanding an instant answer.

-      What could I tell him?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He broke the miserable silence. &ldquo;Ever since you talked of leaving, I&rsquo;ve

-      been studying this thing out. I knew we&rsquo;d have to face it, and yet somehow

-      I hoped&mdash;&mdash; Never mind what I hoped. So you&rsquo;ve nothing to say?

-      You can&rsquo;t guess what I&rsquo;m driving at?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I shook my head.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His face became haggard and stern; only the twitching of the eye-lids

-      betrayed his nervousness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give anything to see Vi happy. So would you&mdash;isn&rsquo;t that

-      correct?&rdquo; He darted a challenging look in my direction. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give all I

-      possess, I say, factories, banks, good name, popularity. She&rsquo;s more to me

-      than anything in the world.&rdquo; Then reluctantly forcing himself to speak the

-      words, &ldquo;There&rsquo;s only one way out&mdash;only one way to make her happy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He leant forward, clutching my knee. &ldquo;You must have her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I drew back from him amazed, startled out of my self-possession. There was

-      something so horribly commonsense about his offer; I could not take him

-      seriously for the moment. He was tempting me, perhaps, in order that he

-      might find out just how far Vi and I had gone together&mdash;he might

-      easily suspect that things had happened during that summer at Ransby which

-      had not been confessed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now as I met his cold gray eyes, I felt his power. His face was

-      inscrutable and set, his mouth relentless. I had often wondered as I had

-      watched him in his home-life what stern qualities his amiability disguised&mdash;qualities

-      which would account for his business success. I knew now: here was a man

-      who could state facts in their nudity and strip problems of their

-      sentiment&mdash;a man who could lay aside feeling and act with the cruelty

-      of logic.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You must have her,&rdquo; he repeated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Randall,&rdquo; I broke out hoarsely, &ldquo;you don&rsquo;t mean that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I do mean it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She wouldn&rsquo;t allow it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;She&rsquo;d have to if I forced her; when I&rsquo;d forced her, she&rsquo;d be glad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s impossible. It isn&rsquo;t honorable.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Honorable! If we&rsquo;d been honorable, you and I, this wouldn&rsquo;t have

-      happened.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But think what people would say?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What people would say doesn&rsquo;t matter. There are some things which go so

-      deep that they concern only ourselves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But Vi&mdash;before ever we decide anything, it would be honest to

-      consult her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You had her decision to-night.&rdquo; He spoke bitterly, with settled finality.

-      &ldquo;You see it&rsquo;s this way: I&rsquo;ve tried to make her happy; because of you I

-      never shall. She wants you; she&rsquo;s a right to have you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The fire had all but gone out; the room had grown chilly. We sat without

-      talking, thinking of her, reviewing the brutal cruelties of life. I had

-      reached the logical goal of my desire&mdash;the impossible had happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I let my fancy run a little way ahead, picturing the first freshness of

-      the days that were coming. Far away, with faery sounds, bugles of the

-      future were blowing. I was recalled to the ominous present by the frozen

-      hopelessness of this just man. We were placing society at defiance; we

-      were settling our problem on grounds of individual expediency. Would we

-      have strength to be happy in spite of condemnation? Would our conception

-      of what was just to Vi prove just in the end?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to waver. I thought I saw what had happened to Randall&mdash;the

-      tension of the last weeks had wrought upon his nerves. He had brooded over

-      the situation till remorse for his own share in it had made him lose his

-      regard for social standards. There was a tinge of insanity about this

-      quixotic determination to sacrifice himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I went over to the fireplace and pulled the smoldering logs together, so

-      that they broke into a feeble flame. I did it leisurely to gain time. With

-      my back towards him I inquired, &ldquo;Have you reckoned the cost of all this?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Probably.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But the cost to yourself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;As far as I can.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t have. You wouldn&rsquo;t propose it if you had. You know what&rsquo;ll be

-      said.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;ll be said?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That you wanted to get rid of her and that that was why you took me into

-      your house.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Leave me out of it. If love means anything, it means sacrifice. I love

-      her; you&rsquo;ve come between us. My love&rsquo;s injuring her now, and I&rsquo;m not going

-      to see you spoil her life by going away without her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But she&rsquo;ll spoil her life if she goes with me. People&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;People! Well, what&rsquo;ll they say about her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Everything defiling that hasn&rsquo;t occurred.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And <i>you</i> think that we ought to keep her miserable just because of

-      that&mdash;out of fear of tittle-tattle? If she stays with me she&rsquo;ll be

-      wretched; I shall have to watch myself torturing her&mdash;paining her

-      even with my affection. If she goes with you&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If she goes with me she&rsquo;ll become a social outcast. She couldn&rsquo;t bear

-      that; she&rsquo;d sink under it. No, Randall, we can&rsquo;t decide this matter as if

-      it concerned only ourselves. It doesn&rsquo;t. There are all kinds of things

-      involved in it. I&rsquo;ve been your guest, and you&rsquo;ve become my friend. We&rsquo;d

-      look low-down in other people&rsquo;s eyes. You want her to be happy&mdash;none

-      of us could ever be that if we did what you suggest. Don&rsquo;t you see that

-      you&rsquo;d be the only one who was playing a decent part? Vi&rsquo;s part and mine

-      would be contemptible. We&rsquo;d appear treacherous even to ourselves. As for

-      other people&mdash;&mdash;!! You take me into your house when I&rsquo;m sick,

-      and I run off with your wife! It can&rsquo;t be done, Randall.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But that&rsquo;s not what I&rsquo;m proposing,&rdquo; he said quietly; &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t want you to

-      run away together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll arrange that she shall divorce me. I&rsquo;ve consulted lawyers. According

-      to the laws of Massachusetts an absolute divorce, which would permit you

-      to marry her within a reasonable time, is only granted on one ground. I&rsquo;ll

-      provide her with fictitious evidence. She can bring the case against me

-      and I&rsquo;ll let it go uncontested. She can win her freedom respectably

-      without your name being mentioned.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My position was elaborately false. I wanted her with every atom of my

-      body, and here was I contending that I would not have her. At Ransby I had

-      been willing to steal her, and now she was offered me; but I had not seen

-      how much she meant to Randall then&mdash;at that time he was a hostile

-      figure in my imagination.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His unselfishness filled me with shame that I had ever thought to wrong

-      him. And yet the thing which he proposed was the inevitable consequence of

-      our actions; his cold reasoning had discerned that. If facts were as he

-      had stated them, what other way was there out?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You agree, then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t. You&rsquo;d save our faces for us, but what d&rsquo;you suppose we&rsquo;d think

-      of ourselves? The thing&rsquo;s not decent. People don&rsquo;t do things like that.

-      Men can run off with other men&rsquo;s wives and still respect themselves; if

-      they did what you suggest&mdash;take the husband&rsquo;s happiness and his good

-      name as well&mdash;they&rsquo;d know what to call themselves, though no one else

-      suspected.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Blackguards.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So in your opinion it&rsquo;s worse to take a wife with her husband&rsquo;s consent

-      than to steal her? Humph!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He leant across the table for a cigar. With great deliberation he cut the

-      end. When it was well alight, he thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat

-      pockets, looking me up and down. When he spoke, he left gaps between his

-      words. There was the rumble of suppressed anger in what he said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I thought you were a strong man, Cardover, or I shouldn&rsquo;t have spoken to

-      you the way I have. You fell in love with my wife without knowing she was

-      married; I don&rsquo;t blame you for that. But after you knew, you followed her&mdash;followed

-      her to her home-town. You&rsquo;ve made an impossible situation. You can&rsquo;t leave

-      it at that; you&rsquo;ve got to help out, and, by God, you shall. I&rsquo;ve got to

-      lose her and stand the disgrace of it. You&rsquo;ve got to lose your

-      self-respect. What d&rsquo;you think life is, anyhow? If you gamble, you incur

-      debts. We&rsquo;re going to play this game to a finish. You talk of decency and

-      honor; you should have thought of them earlier. You came here to rob me of

-      my wife; well, now I&rsquo;m going to give her to you because she can&rsquo;t do

-      without you. And now, out of consideration for me, you want to crawl out

-      at the last minute. Your crawling out may save appearances, but it don&rsquo;t

-      alter facts. You&rsquo;re something worse than a blackguard&mdash;a quitter.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He drew in his breath as if he were about to strike; then he flung out his

-      fist, shaking it at me. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you want her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You know I want her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then what&rsquo;s the matter? Are you afraid of the price?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The price she&rsquo;d have to pay and you&rsquo;d have to pay&mdash;yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He frowned. His face was puckered with suspicion. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it that you&rsquo;re

-      afraid for yourself?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The heat of his anger scorched me. I had watched this interpretation of my

-      conduct taking shape under my repeated refusals.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been accused of counting the cost before to-day,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not

-      counting the cost now. I&rsquo;m thinking of Vi with her clean standards and her

-      sense of duty. If she were the woman to consent to what you&rsquo;re proposing,

-      I wouldn&rsquo;t want to marry her and you wouldn&rsquo;t be willing to sacrifice

-      yourself for her. But she won&rsquo;t consent, and I won&rsquo;t consent.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Lurching heavily to his feet, he stood over me threateningly. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you

-      know I can force you? If I divorced her you&rsquo;d have to marry her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you won&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I would if I thought it was only for my sake you were refusing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only partly for your sake.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why, then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve shared your hospitality.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And because of that you won&rsquo;t take her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I&rsquo;ll make you&mdash;&mdash; For the last time, will you take her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not on those terms.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Our voices had risen. A silence followed. Behind us we heard a sound. The

-      temperature of the room seemed lowered, as though something we had killed

-      had entered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Turning, we saw Vi standing in the doorway. Her hair fell loose about her

-      shoulders. She was thinly clad and had risen hastily from bed. Our quarrel

-      must have reached her through the silent house. Her face was pinched and

-      pitiful. As she watched us her eyes searched Randall&rsquo;s in terror and her

-      hands plucked at her breasts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there? Did she know

-      how we had been degrading her? What had she gathered from my last words?

-      She had found us haggling over her as though she were a chattel, each one

-      trying to force the other to accept her, neither showing any sign that he

-      desired her for himself. In the chilly room we shivered, hanging our

-      heads.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Slowly she crossed the room. Her eyes were fixed on Randall; for all the

-      attention she paid me, I might not have been there.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t mean it. You can&rsquo;t have meant it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He lifted his head weakly, in one last effort to be firm.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I did, Vi. It&rsquo;s for your sake&mdash;for your happiness.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She flung her arms about him, holding him to her though he tried to draw

-      back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you forgot&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I forgot nothing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You did&mdash;there&rsquo;s Dorrie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing her heart out. He eyed me

-      sullenly. He looked an old man. Awkwardly, with a gesture that was afraid

-      of its tenderness, he let his hand wander across her hair. She raised her

-      face to his, clinging against him, and kissed him on the mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      They traversed the room, going from me; their footsteps died out upon the

-      stairs.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Never once had she looked at me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the grayness of the morning, before the servants had begun to stir, I

-      packed my bag and left.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      BOOK IV&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN

-    </h2>

-    <p>

-      <i>Thou hast been in Eden. Thou shalt eat the fruit of thy doings, yea,

-      even the fruit of thy thoughts.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER I&mdash;THE HOME-COMING

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>eaving the hansom

-      at the foot of Pope Lane and carrying my bags, I walked up the avenue of

-      limes. The wantonness of spring was in the air and its melancholy. Above

-      the high walls the golden hurry of the sunset quivered. A breeze tore past

-      me down the passage, twisting and turning like a madcap ballet-dancer.

-      Overhead in the young greenness of the trees a host of sparrows fluttered,

-      impudently publishing their love-making.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At Plymouth on landing I had been met by letters from my lawyers and from

-      Uncle Obad. They were addressed to Sir Dante Cardover. It was rather

-      pleasant to be addressed as Sir Dante; until then I had not realized my

-      luck. The memory of that last night at Sheba had numbed my faculties and

-      taken my future from me. But now, with the thought of Woadley, life began

-      to weave itself into a new pattern.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the run up to London, as the quiet of English landscapes and the

-      greenness of English meadows drifted by, I lost my bitter sense of

-      isolation: I belonged to this; it was part of me. At the same time, the

-      impassive wholesomeness of English faces awoke me in a strange way to the

-      enormity of what I had done. It was odd how far I had wandered from old

-      traditions and old landmarks in the delirium of the past two years. Even I

-      was a little scandalized by some of my recollections.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day I purposed to go down to Woadley; to-night I would spend with my

-      father at Pope Lane. There were explanations to be made; explanations

-      where my father was concerned, were never comfortable. I walked with a

-      pebble in my shoe till I had got them over. I had sure proof that he was

-      annoyed, for none of my letters, written to him since my recovery, had

-      been answered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Thrusting my hand into the creeper, I found the knob. Far away at the back

-      of the house the bell tinkled; after an interval footsteps shuffled down

-      the path. The door opened cautiously; in the slit it made I saw the face

-      of Hetty. There was something in its expression that warned me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Father at home?&rdquo; I asked cheerfully, pushing forward.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Master Dante, or Sir Dante as I should say, don&rsquo;t you go for to see &rsquo;im.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;&rsquo;E&rsquo;s bitter against you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What nonsense! Here, take one of these bags. Why should he be bitter

-      against me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She crumpled her apron nervously. &ldquo;&rsquo;Cause of &rsquo;er&mdash;the woman in

-      Ameriky. I don&rsquo;t know the rights of it, but &rsquo;e&rsquo;s &rsquo;ardly

-      spoke your name since.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I&rsquo;ve come to see him. I&rsquo;ve only just landed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stared at me gloomily, barring the entrance. Across her shoulder I

-      could see the path winding round the house and down to the garden where

-      everything was familiar. Once I had longed to leave it! How much I would

-      now give to get back! The leaves shivered, making patches of sunlight move

-      like gold checkers, pushed forward and backward on the lawn. My mind

-      keenly visualized all the details that lay out of sight. I knew just how

-      my father must look sitting writing at his study-window. I ought to have

-      told him; he might have understood. But the barrier of reticence had

-      always divided us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If I was you, Sir Dante, I&rsquo;d go away and write &rsquo;im. I&rsquo;ll see that

-      &rsquo;e reads it this time. Yes I will, if I loses my plaice.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;<i>This time?</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her cheeks went crimson. &ldquo;&rsquo;E didn&rsquo;t read the letters you sent after

-      &rsquo;ers. &rsquo;E tossed &rsquo;em aside.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But the Snow Lady and Ruthie, they&rsquo;ll see me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked furtively over her shoulder at the house, then she slipped out

-      into the lane beside me, almost closing the door.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There ain&rsquo;t no Miss Ruthie now,&rdquo; she said sadly. Then, in a voice which

-      betrayed pride, &ldquo;She&rsquo;s Lady Halloway. &rsquo;Is Lordship, &rsquo;e were

-      a wery &rsquo;ot lover, &rsquo;e were&mdash;wouldn&rsquo;t take no for an

-      answer and suchlike. After you&rsquo;d gone away angry and no one knew where

-      you&rsquo;d gone, Miss Ruthie felt kind o&rsquo; flat; but she kept on sayin&rsquo; no to

-      &rsquo;is Lordship, though she was always cryin&rsquo;. Then that letter came from

-      Americky. It kind o&rsquo; took us by surprise; Miss Ruthie especially. We felt&mdash;well,

-      you know, sir&mdash;disrespectable. So she gave way like, and now she&rsquo;s

-      Lady Halloway. And there you are. We&rsquo;ve &rsquo;ad a &rsquo;eap of

-      trouble.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Little Ruthie the wife of that man! I had made them unrespectable, so she

-      had rectified my mistake by marrying the father of Lottie&rsquo;s child!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d better write.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She had edged herself into the garden and held the door at closing-point.

-      I could see the house no longer. Her head looked out through the slit as

-      though it had no body. I was sick and angry&mdash;angry because of

-      Ruthita. Anger restored my determination. They should not condemn me

-      without a hearing; their morality was stucco-fronted&mdash;a cheap

-      imitation of righteousness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I pushed roughly past Hetty like an insolent peddler, and left her

-      bleating protests behind. In the hall I dropped my bags and entered my

-      father&rsquo;s study unannounced.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He glanced up from under the hand with which his eyes were shaded. His

-      mouth straightened. He went on with his writing, feigning that he had not

-      heard me enter. I remembered the trick well&mdash;as a boy it had made

-      punishment the more impressive. It was done for that purpose now; he had

-      never accustomed himself to think of me as a grown man.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I watched him. How lean, and threadbare, and overworked he looked! How he

-      tyrannized over himself! The hair had grown thin about the temples; his

-      eyes were weak, his forehead lined. He had disciplined joy out of his

-      life. But there was something big about him&mdash;a stern forcefulness of

-      character which came of long years of iron purpose. He had failed, but he

-      would not acknowledge his failure. All these years his daily routine of

-      drudgery had remained unchanged. Outside the spring was stirring, just as

-      it had stirred in his children&rsquo;s lives. But his windows were shut against

-      the spring because he had to earn his daily bread. The anger I had felt

-      turned to pity. He was so lonely in his strength. Had he been weaker, he

-      would have been happier.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You did not want to see me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He blotted his page carefully and laid aside his pen. &ldquo;I had good reason.&rdquo;

-       His voice was cold and tired.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t judge of that; you haven&rsquo;t heard.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can conjecture.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I have at least the right to explain. You can&rsquo;t conjecture the

-      details that led up to it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;These things are usually led up to by the same details. All I know is

-      that any meeting between us now can only cause pain, and I cannot afford

-      to be upset. You have your standards of honor; I have mine. Evidently they

-      are divergent. You didn&rsquo;t give me your confidence before you sailed; I

-      don&rsquo;t invite it now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He had allowed me to remain standing, making me feel my intrusion on his

-      privacy. I had always felt that in talking to him I was keeping him from

-      his work. My mind went back to the fear with which I had entered his study

-      in the old days. And this was the end of it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can never have cared much for me,&rdquo; I threw out bitterly, &ldquo;if you can

-      break with me so lightly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His pale face flushed; his distant manner broke down. &ldquo;How should you know

-      how much I cared?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How should I know! All my life you&rsquo;ve been silent and there were times&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He interrupted. &ldquo;It is because I cared so much. I was so anxious for you

-      and wanted you to do so well. I&rsquo;m not demonstrative. I always hoped that

-      we might be friends. But you never came to me with your troubles from a

-      little chap, anyone was better than your father&mdash;servants, your

-      Uncle Spreckles, Ruthita, anybody. With me you were dumb.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You never encouraged my confidence and now you condemn me unheard.

-      Silence between us has become a habit.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. His emotions were stirred; he

-      was afraid he might betray them. So he spoke hurriedly. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s too late to

-      cover old ground. We&rsquo;ve drifted apart, that&rsquo;s certain&mdash;and now this

-      has happened... this disgrace... this adultery of thoughts... this lust

-      for a married woman.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I walked across to the window and drummed upon the panes. Across the

-      garden a soft gray dusk was falling. Along those paths Ruthita and I had

-      played; the garden was empty and very lonely. Scene after scene came back,

-      made kindly by distance. I turned. &ldquo;Father, I&rsquo;m not going to let you turn

-      me out until you know all about it. For the first time you&rsquo;ve told me

-      frankly that you wanted me. I was always frightened as a little chap.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Instead of taking me up angrily as I expected, he spoke gently. &ldquo;Why

-      shouldn&rsquo;t I want you? I thought you&rsquo;d understand by the way I worked. Sit

-      down, boy; why are you standing? How... how did it happen?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The Snow Lady rapped on the door and almost entered. My father signed to

-      her to go away, saying that we would come to her later. Then I told him.

-      And while I told him I kept thinking how strange it was that until now,

-      when we had quarreled, we should never have found one another, but, like

-      two people eager to meet, had walked always at the same pace, in the same

-      direction, out of sight, round and round on opposite sides of the same

-      house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was dark when I finished. He leant out and laid his hand on my arm.

-      &ldquo;And now that it&rsquo;s all ended, we can make a new start together.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It may not be all ended.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it is. You&rsquo;re not going to tell me that you&rsquo;re still hankering after

-      a married woman?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I am.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The kindness went from his voice. He rang the bell, waited in silence till

-      Hetty brought the lamp, and took it from her at the door to prevent her

-      entering.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You say it isn&rsquo;t ended, this criminal folly. I can&rsquo;t conceive what you

-      mean by it. One of these days you&rsquo;ll drag my name through the dirt. There

-      are other people to consider besides yourself. There&rsquo;s Ruthita&mdash;her

-      husband&rsquo;s sensitive already. In fact, he doesn&rsquo;t want to meet you, and he

-      doesn&rsquo;t want you to meet her. What it comes to is this: we can&rsquo;t be

-      friends unless you give this woman up absolutely.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not possible. Randall threatened to divorce her. If he does, it will

-      be that I may marry her. I shall have to marry her, and I shall be jolly

-      glad to marry her. What has happened since I left I can&rsquo;t tell. Until I

-      know, I hold myself prepared. So I can&rsquo;t promise anything.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The choice is between her and your family.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I choose her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then until you&rsquo;ve come to your senses, there can be no communication

-      between us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He sat down noisily at his desk. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll excuse me; there&rsquo;s nothing more

-      to be said.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I still waited, he took up his pen. &ldquo;I have an article here that I

-      must get finished.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I walked slowly down the lane. The door swung to behind me. I felt that I

-      was seeing this for the last time. All the old, trivial, sweet

-      associations came thronging back: the dying affections, the lost innocence

-      which had seemed so permanent, stretched out hands to restrain me. Even

-      Hetty had condemned; it was written in her face. Long ago Hetty and I had

-      viewed the world from the same angle, we had criticised and schemed

-      against our tyrants together. The chapter of home life was ended. Whatever

-      happened as regards Vi, there could be no going back.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER II&mdash;DREAM HAVEN

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> did not go to

-      Woadley as I had planned. My position was too uncertain at present for me

-      to venture where further explanations would be required. My father had

-      made me aware of that. I was unwilling to cover the same ground of

-      argument with Grandmother Cardover, so I had my lawyers visit me in

-      London.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Until something had been definitely settled, I did not care to return to

-      Oxford or to seek out any of my friends; I should at once be called upon

-      to account for my erratic departure and prolonged absence. So I made

-      myself inconspicuous in the crowds of London, waiting for some final word

-      from Sheba. It was quite likely that none would ever come&mdash;and that

-      would be an answer in itself. Yet, now that I had done what had seemed to

-      me right and had thrust her from me, I hoped against hope that, somehow,

-      she might come back. I felt that though I might have to wait for years, I

-      would resolutely wait for her. No other woman could ever take her place.

-      And none of this could I tell her. She might think that I had counted the

-      cost and considered it too expensive. She might put the worst construction

-      on the words she had overheard on that last night; yet unless she

-      approached me first, I was irrevocably pledged to silence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Too late for my peace of mind I recognized my weakness: if I had wanted

-      her, I should have taken her strongly in the early days and faced the

-      consequences; now, through making truces with my conscience and

-      conventions, I had lived so long in thoughts of her that I should always

-      desire her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I would like to have gone to Ruthita, but that was forbidden. Lord

-      Halloway riding the high horse of morality was exceedingly comic, but I

-      knew exactly how men of his stamp argued: to introduce a questionable

-      relation into the family was anathema. I wondered continually what secret

-      causes lay behind Ruthita&rsquo;s marriage. I felt sure that she had consented

-      on the impulse, and that love had had nothing to do with it. The suspicion

-      that I was somehow responsible left me worried.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Spring had reached the point of perfection where it merges into summer.

-      The tides of life flowed strongly through the dazzling streets of London;

-      I was too young not to respond to their energy. Everywhere the persistent

-      hope of spring planted banners of green and set them waving. Ragged shrubs

-      in decrepit squares bubbled into blossom. Window-boxes lent a touch of

-      braveness. Water-carts passed up and down parched streets, settling the

-      dust. In the kind of suburb that walks always with a hole in its stocking,

-      slatternly maids pressed their bosoms against area-railings chaffing with

-      butcher-boy or policeman&mdash;their idea of love. Where a street-organ

-      struck up, little children gathered, dancing in the gutter. Even the

-      sullen Thames, the gray hair of London, was dyed to gold between the

-      bridges by the splendid sun. The spirit of youth had invaded the city;

-      flower-girls, shouting raucously above the traffic, shaking their posies

-      in the face of every comer, seemed heralds of a new cheerfulness, shaming

-      Despair of his defiance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This severing of oneself from friendship was dull. Leisurely crowds

-      laughing along sunlit pavements, made me ache for companionship. I was in

-      this frame of mind when I chanced to think of Uncle Obad&rsquo;s letter. It had

-      met me at Plymouth on my arrival, and bore the characteristically

-      flamboyant address of <i>Dream Haven, Dorking.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He must have chosen Dorking as a place of residence because it had given

-      its name to a famous breed of fowls. Perhaps he thought such a

-      neighborhood would be propitious to his own experiments. His letter was

-      brief and to the point: if I could spare the time, he and Aunt Lavinia

-      would feel honored to entertain me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Uncle Obad was stilted in his written use of language; he felt <i>honored</i>

-      when he meant to say <i>jolly well glad</i>. There was always an obedient

-      servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he had

-      undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for familiar

-      letter-writing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My good

-      fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose, served

-      to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since the Christian

-      Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The thought of him

-      had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind&mdash;which made it all the

-      kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had heard before writing

-      of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch

-      first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple

-      whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky

-      white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the calves

-      of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering importance,

-      but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however,

-      was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel

-      he wore a scarlet geranium.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. &ldquo;Very good of you to come,

-      I&rsquo;m sure&mdash;kind and very thoughtful.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      It was his pretense manner&mdash;the one he adopted with grown-ups. I

-      wanted to remind him that with me he could take off his armor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Still go in for breeding hens?&rdquo; I asked him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      His face brightened. &ldquo;I should say so. Our little place is quite a

-      menagerie. We&rsquo;ve cats, and dogs, and rabbits, and a parrot. And hens!

-      Well, I should say so.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;<i>And hens</i>,&rdquo; I laughed. &ldquo;Remember the old white hen you gave me? It

-      laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Should have given it gravel or oyster-shells.&rdquo; Poultryraising was a

-      subject he never treated lightly. He fussed along beside me, explaining

-      with his old enthusiasm the mysterious ways of fowls.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald

-      pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and

-      squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you know what this reminds me of?&mdash;That first day we spent

-      together. You remember&mdash;when you drove me away from Pope Lane behind

-      Dollie?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He pulled out his handkerchief and trumpeted. His eyes became dreamy

-      beneath his bushy brows. &ldquo;A long time ago! They were good days, but not as

-      good as these, old chap.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything

-      came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always been,

-      and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his armor of

-      pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that first day

-      when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we talked of the

-      Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A warm wind

-      fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly, dropping

-      his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to satisfy

-      himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That <i>Sir</i> don&rsquo;t seem to have spoiled you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched

-      before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a

-      wooded ridge, somnolent with pines; to the right lay a village-common

-      across which geese waddled in solemn procession.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins. &ldquo;This won&rsquo;t buy a pair of

-      shoes for the baby. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s waiting for us; she&rsquo;s just as keen as I

-      was to see whether you&rsquo;ve altered.&rdquo; Then to the pony, &ldquo;Gee-up, Toby.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We turned off into the pine-wood by a narrow roadway. The fragrance of

-      balsam made me long to close my eyes. At the edge of the road, on either

-      side, ran a ditch through which water tinkled over gravel. On its banks

-      grew fern and foxglove. The silent aisles of the wood were carpeted with

-      the tan of fallen needles. Sunlight, drifting between branches, slashed

-      golden rags in the olive-tinted shadows. My mind became a blank through

-      pure enjoyment as I listened to the monologue of gay chatter that was

-      going on beside me. He was doing for me now just what he had done for me

-      so often as a child, throwing down the walls of conventional tyrannies and

-      showing me the road of escape to nature.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Suddenly out of the basking stillness rose a farmyard clamor&mdash;cocks

-      crowing, ducks quacking, and the boastful clucking of hens. We had reached

-      the top of the ridge and were bowling along the level. Toby pricked up his

-      ears and quickened his trotting. Round a bend we swung into sight of a

-      low-thatched house, standing in a clearing. Its windows were leaded and

-      opened outwards. In front grew a garden, sun-saturated, riotous with

-      flowers, and partly hidden by a high hawthorn hedge. In the hedge was a

-      white swing-gate, from which a red-brick path ran up to the threshold.

-      Across the gate one had a glimpse of beehives standing a-row; the air was

-      heavy with mingled scents of pine, wild thyme, and honey. The impression

-      that fastened on my imagination was one of exquisite cleanliness: the sky,

-      the gleaming chalk road, the white-painted woodwork of the cottage,

-      everything was dazzlingly spotless.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Our wheels had hardly halted before the gate, when I saw Aunt Lavinia in

-      the doorway unfastening her apron. Neat and methodical as ever, she folded

-      it carefully, and laid it on a chair before coming out to us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lavinia, Lavinia! We&rsquo;re here,&rdquo; shouted Uncle Obad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She came down the path, prim and unhurried, determined not to let herself

-      go. &ldquo;Repose is refinement&rdquo; she used to tell me. Nothing in her manner was

-      ruffled. She still carried herself with a certain grave air of sweet

-      authority. The rustle of her starched print-dress gave her an atmosphere

-      of nurse-like austerity. She had not changed, save that the look of worry

-      had gone from her face, and her eyes were untired.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s glad I am to see you.&rdquo; She spoke quietly and, when she kissed me,

-      was careful not to crumple her dress.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dignified and graceful&mdash;that&rsquo;s her,&rdquo; said Uncle Obad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had plenty to talk about while we were getting over our first

-      strangeness. I had to see the house and all its arrangements. My room was

-      at the back, looking out from the ridge over smoking tree-tops far away

-      across undulating downs.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Windows and doors were always open, so the passages were blowy with the

-      dreamy, drowsy smell of green things growing. Creepers tumbled across

-      sills; leaves tapped whenever the breeze stirred them; pigeons flew into

-      the dining-room at meal-times and perched on Uncle Obad&rsquo;s shoulder.

-      Usually everything within a house is man-made. At Dream Haven Nature was

-      encouraged to tiptoe across the threshold; so bees entered humming, and

-      blackbirds came for grain to the windows, and all day long the wild things

-      were sending their ambassadors. Beating wings of birds and cooing of doves

-      filled one&rsquo;s ears with the peace and adventure of contentment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      These were the recreations of Dream Haven, but its stern business, as one

-      might suppose, was the raising of fowls. At the back of the cottage on a

-      southern slope were arranged coops, and pens, and houses, gleaming white

-      against the golden gravel like a miniature military encampment. Each pen

-      had its trumpeter, who strode forth at intervals to raise his challenge;

-      whereupon every male in camp tried to outdo him, from the youngest

-      stripling, whose shrill falsetto broke like a boy&rsquo;s voice in the middle,

-      to the deep, rich tones of the oldest campaigner. Falsetto, tenor, bass,

-      baritone shook the stillness like an army on the march, with rattle of

-      accoutrements, and brass-bands playing, <i>cock-a-doodle-doo,

-      cock-a-doodle-doo</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the hush that followed from far away, as from scattered detachments

-      replying, came the counter-sign. Below the ridge in the village on the

-      downs every rooster felt his reputation endangered. In farmhouses out of

-      sight the challenge was caught up and the boast flung back. To one

-      listening intently, the clamor could be heard spreading across the

-      countryside till it spent itself at last in the hazy distance. Then the

-      ladies of the camp commenced their flatteries, <i>tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck,

-      our men did best, our men did best</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Uncle Obad took childish delight in the comedy; he knew the voice of each

-      male bird in his yard and the sequence of precedence in which they should

-      aspire. If they got out of order, he would recognize at once which

-      cockerel was trying to oust his senior. If the ambitious fellow was one of

-      his experiments in crossing strains, he was vastly tickled. To him they

-      all had their personalities; he used to say that a poultry-yard could

-      teach you a whole lot about humans.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you men go out for a walk?&rdquo; said Aunt Lavinia; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sure Dante

-      would like to look about.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She knew that we had always had our secrets. It was seven o&rsquo;clock; there

-      were still some hours of daylight. We set off through the poultry-runs

-      down the hillside till we came to the edge of the clearing; Uncle Obad

-      looked round furtively to make sure that we were unobserved, then he

-      beckoned and slipped behind a shed. There he sat down with his back

-      against the warm wooden wall and we lit our pipes. &ldquo;She makes me take

-      exercise now,&rdquo; he grunted between puffs; &ldquo;thinks I&rsquo;m getting fat.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps she&rsquo;s right. Aunt Lavinia&rsquo;s always been right ever since I can

-      remember.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I should say so. She doesn&rsquo;t look it, but she&rsquo;s always worn the trousers,

-      and small blame to her. But she was wrong once.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When was that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He narrowed his eyes and watched the smoke curl up into the velvet air.

-      When it had drifted a few yards away, one could imagine that it was a

-      galleon cloud sailing slowly through infinity. I got to thinking how much

-      more picturesque the world becomes when we lose our standards of

-      perspective. Uncle Obad had won his happiness by making small things

-      important to himself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He did not answer my question. I was too lazy to trouble him again. The

-      rich spicy fragrance of woodlands lulled my senses. I watched through a

-      gap in the trees how the sun&rsquo;s rays shortened across the downs. All the

-      out-door world was bathed in tepid light. The fierceness had gone out of

-      the day.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Spuffler always made me philosophize; he was a failure, but he had

-      found a secret. He had known how to discover nooks and crannies in the

-      persistent present where he could be content. I had lost that fine faculty

-      for carelessness since I had grown older.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He knocked out his pipe and commenced to refill it. &ldquo;But she wasn&rsquo;t always

-      right,&rdquo; he chuckled. &ldquo;I may be only an old knacker, but once I was righter

-      than her.&mdash;What d&rsquo;you think of all this?&rdquo; He jerked his thumb across

-      his shoulder.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the last word... just what we always dreamt.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I called it Dream Haven. Not so bad for a man of my years

-      after keeping a Christian Boarding House!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Make it pay?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not yet. Don&rsquo;t need to, by Golly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t need to! How&rsquo;s that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Business knowledge. Sound judgment. Backing my opinion when the odds were

-      against me. I doubled up my fists and stood square against the world.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A kind of brave Horatius?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who&rsquo;s he?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kept the bridge or something. Was a friend of Macaulay.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never heard of him. Did he keep poultry?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;May have done; he was the kind of man who&rsquo;d keep anything he laid his

-      hands on. But how the dickens d&rsquo;you hang on to this place if it isn&rsquo;t

-      paying?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Got money. Got money to burn. Got enough to last me to my journey&rsquo;s end

-      without earning a penny.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He was a small boy boasting. What a lot of fun he&rsquo;d have extracted from

-      being Squire of Woadley. I wished I might learn how to spuffle; it so

-      multiplied one&rsquo;s opportunities for pleasure. But I couldn&rsquo;t get as excited

-      as he expected; I had heard him talk this way before on a certain day at

-      Richmond.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did you make it out of the boarding-house?&rdquo; I inquired incredulously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      He laughed deep down in his throat. &ldquo;Not exactly. I received an envelope

-      one morning; inside was a slip of paper on which was written &lsquo;<i>Compensation

-      for a damaged character</i>&rsquo; There was no address.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But there must have been more than that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You bet. There was a banker&rsquo;s draft. How much for? Guess.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t guess.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Five thousand pounds.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Whoof! One of your charitable bigwigs sent it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not half. Came from Rapson. That&rsquo;s what comes of sticking to your

-      friends. That&rsquo;s why I say that your Aunt wasn&rsquo;t always wiser than the poor

-      old knacker.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Mines?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So he said. He&rsquo;s been to see me since then. The way your Aunt Lavinia

-      treated him was as funny as a cock without feathers.&mdash;I always

-      believed in Rapson.&mdash;He had a bad streak though.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Which one?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He passed over my slur. &ldquo;Women.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Kitty?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I meant. He&rsquo;s sorry now; wishes he&rsquo;d married her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph! If you don&rsquo;t make your place pay, what are you doing?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His face took on an expression of intense earnestness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Breeding the Spreckles. Remember them, don&rsquo;t you? I had terrible work at

-      first; couldn&rsquo;t make the strain permanent; in the third and fourth

-      generations it was always going back to the original crossings. Well, now

-      I&rsquo;ve done it. Come and look at &rsquo;em.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The old bond was established. His enthusiasm and my response to it swept

-      aside the misunderstandings of years. I seemed a little boy, following him

-      into a retreat of impossible glamour. He showed me a pen of magnificent

-      slate-blue fowls; they had the extra toe of the Dorking, the drooping comb

-      of the Leghorn, yellow legs of the Game, and full plump body of the

-      Plymouth Rock. He enumerated their merits, insisted that I should guess

-      what mixings of blood had gone to their making, and was delighted when he

-      found I had not forgotten the old knowledge he had taught me. He was going

-      to enter them at the shows this year, but he was worried over one point&mdash;what

-      name should he call them?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you&rsquo;ve given them their name.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know, I know, old chap; but my conscience troubles me. Yer see, I

-      shouldn&rsquo;t have been able to do it if it hadn&rsquo;t been for Rapson. I think I

-      ought to call &rsquo;em the <i>Rapsons</i>.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If you feel like that, why don&rsquo;t you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He won&rsquo;t let me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Share the glory then. Call &rsquo;em <i>Spreckles</i> in public, and <i>Rapsons</i>

-      among ourselves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      His simple old face lit up. &ldquo;Believe you&rsquo;ve solved it.&rdquo; We returned to our

-      place by the shed, from which we could watch the haze of evening drifting

-      across the billowy uplands. In the village at our feet, cattle were being

-      driven home lowing to the milking. On the common boys were playing

-      cricket; their laughter came to us softened by distance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What made you ask me?&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ask you? Ask you what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;To come and visit you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know. But I&rsquo;m not popular at Pope Lane at present; I believe you

-      know the reason. Grandmother Cardover must have told Aunt Lavinia that

-      this was going to happen. That was why you sent that letter to the ship to

-      meet me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He looked shy and awkward, and drew his hat down over his brows; I knew

-      that he was making up his mind not to answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;When I was a boy,&rdquo; I continued, &ldquo;I always felt that I could come to you

-      frankly. You, somehow, understood before anything had been said. I

-      thought, perhaps, you might have understood this time, and that that was

-      why you asked me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He threw his arm across my shoulder. &ldquo;I did, old chap. But you&rsquo;ve grown

-      older and, since you&rsquo;ve got all this book-learning and all these grand

-      friends, I kind o&rsquo; felt I was a stranger&mdash;thought you didn&rsquo;t need me

-      like you used to.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My grand friends and book-learning won&rsquo;t help me this turn,&rdquo; I grumbled

-      slowly. &ldquo;I may need you pretty badly&mdash;perhaps, more than ever I did.

-      You&rsquo;ve heard?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Umph!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What d&rsquo;you think about it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t much matter what an old knacker thinks about anything.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Why on earth d&rsquo;you keep calling yourself an old knacker?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dunno. It&rsquo;s amusin&rsquo;. It&rsquo;s a kind o&rsquo; luxury after spuffling all my life to

-      be able at last to depreciate one&rsquo;s self. Everything&rsquo;s amusin&rsquo;. I know you

-      are; I suppose I am; there&rsquo;s no doubt about your father. Nothing&rsquo;s

-      overserious in this gay old world. Mustn&rsquo;t take things to heart, old chap.

-      Look at me, what I&rsquo;ve come through. Here I am and not much the worse for

-      wear&mdash;battered, but useful, yours truly Obadiah Spreckles, successful

-      breeder of an entirely new strain of perpetually laying hens.&rdquo; He gave

-      himself a resounding whack upon the chest and cocked his eye at me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What do I think about you and the lady in America? Speaking as the

-      ex-proprietor of a Christian Boarding House, I think it&rsquo;s shocking.

-      Speaking as a man of leisure, I think it&rsquo;s confoundedly human. Speaking as

-      a shipwrecked cabin-boy who&rsquo;s suddenly been promoted to captain, I should

-      say that it&rsquo;s one of life&rsquo;s ups and downs. There&rsquo;s no accounting for how

-      love takes a man; it&rsquo;s as fluky as settings of eggs&mdash;all cocks one

-      day, all hens tomorrow, and the day after that nothing. Dash my boots, I

-      sometimes think that nobody&rsquo;s to blame for anything. Love&rsquo;s shocking or

-      interesting, according to your fancy. Take Lavinia and myself. I haven&rsquo;t

-      made her a good husband. I&rsquo;ve been a failure and a slacker. I&rsquo;ve made her

-      happy now only by an accident. People look at us and wonder what we find

-      in one another. They don&rsquo;t know&mdash;can&rsquo;t see beneath the surface. We

-      never had any children. It&rsquo;s been hard fighting. But I swear she&rsquo;s never

-      regretted.&mdash;Aye, it&rsquo;s wonderful the pains God takes to bring a man

-      and a woman together. These things ain&rsquo;t accidents. If you&rsquo;re meant to

-      have her, you may have to wait, but nothing can stop you&mdash;just like

-      me and my fowls. Life&rsquo;s a <i>leading</i>. &lsquo;He leadeth me beside the still

-      waters,&rsquo; eh, what! But it&rsquo;s often rough treading till you get there.&mdash;That&rsquo;s

-      all I have to say about it, old chap.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;The door of Pope Lane&rsquo;s shut against me,&rdquo; I told him. &ldquo;Ruthie&rsquo;s married

-      the fellow I detested. They&rsquo;re none of them talking to me now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The old fellow turned on me snorting like a stallion. &ldquo;That don&rsquo;t matter,

-      lad. You&rsquo;re your own world. Do without &rsquo;em. Everything comes right

-      in the end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>Dream Haven!</i> How cool the name sounds! What memories of sunshiny

-      mornings it brings back. Day after day I watched and waited for the letter

-      from America. There were times when I made sure that I could feel it

-      approaching. &ldquo;It will be here to-morrow,&rdquo; I said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I tortured myself by picturing how different life would have been had I

-      taken Randall at his word. It was the kind of torture that became a

-      luxury. I should have brought her to Dream Haven, perhaps. I played with

-      my fancy, pretending that we were here together; so actual were my

-      imaginings that I was incredulous when, on coming to myself, I found her

-      absent. The dreams were more real than the reality.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Wakened in the morning by the twittering of birds, I would raise myself on

-      my elbow and marvel at the sweet flushed face beside me on the pillow and

-      the glorious, yellow streaming hair. Slowly it would fade and vanish.

-      There were walks which we took through the lonely woodlands when all the

-      delayed intimacies of love filled life with unashamed passion. There were

-      wild days on the downs, when rain and wind, driving our bodies together,

-      stung me to a new protecting ecstasy. There were quiet evenings in the

-      gloaming&mdash;Sunday evenings were the best&mdash;when Vi sat at the

-      piano playing and singing, while Dorrie knelt beside her, fingering her

-      dress. All these ghost-scenes stand clear in my memory as though they had

-      happened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I must have cultivated this unreal life to the point of danger in my

-      effort to escape the ache of the present. Had I lived by myself I might

-      have crossed the border-line, but the comedy of Uncle Obad was always

-      drawing me back. He kept watch over me like a kind old spaniel.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the morning from where I sat in the garden, I could see him farther

-      down the slope through the orchard, trotting in and out his pens with his

-      disreputable dust-coat flapping. Just as once, when he had no money, the

-      appearance of affluence had been his hobby, so now, when he could afford

-      to dress respectably, he delighted in looking shabby. He left his clothes

-      unfastened in the most unexpected places; Aunt Lavinia was continually

-      making grabs at him and buttoning him up. In the afternoon she sent us off

-      for long walks together to prevent his getting fat. On these occasions he

-      would explain his loose philosophy, which consisted of a large-minded,

-      stalwart carelessness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Keep your end up; it&rsquo;s in each one of us to be happy. Don&rsquo;t do too much

-      remembering; live your day as it comes. Your Grandmother calls me the

-      Spuffler&mdash;so I am. Where&rsquo;d I be now, I ask you, if I hadn&rsquo;t

-      spuffled?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So the summer fled by, and the woods grew browner, and the air had a

-      sharper tang. The letter from Sheba had not come. I could mark time no

-      longer; at last I left for Woadley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER III&mdash;NARCOTICS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was twenty-six

-      when I entered into possession of Woadley. By my grandfather&rsquo;s will I

-      inherited an annual income of seven thousand pounds. I was at an age when,

-      for most men, everything of importance lies in the future and that which

-      lies behind is of no consequence&mdash;in the nature of an experiment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not regard my past in that light. It was vital. Until the woman I

-      loved should share my fortunes I felt the future to be an indefinite

-      postponement. How she could come into my life again I dared not surmise;

-      that she would come, I never doubted. I knew now that the letter which I

-      had both hoped for and dreaded, would never arrive. For Dorrie&rsquo;s sake they

-      had decided to remain together. In my wiser moments I was glad of it; I

-      knew that, had she chosen otherwise, our love would have been degraded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Strong influences were brought to bear to press me into public life. My

-      situation and training entitled me to take up a position of some local

-      importance. I might have stood for Parliament, but I shrank from

-      publicity. All I asked was to be left alone to follow up my own interests

-      in quiet. I had come so suddenly into a sphere of power which I had done

-      nothing to merit, that ambitions which had still other ambitions for their

-      goal, ceased to allure me. My temperament was natively bookish; by nature

-      I was a Fellow of Lazarus and by compulsion a conscientious country

-      squire. When I was not at Oxford, dreaming in libraries, I was at Woadley,

-      superintending the practical management of my estate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The joy of sex and its fulfilment in a home, which apply the spur to most

-      men&rsquo;s activities, to me were denied; it was unthinkable that I should

-      marry any woman other than Vi. The energies which should have found a

-      domestic expression with me became the mental stimulus of an absorbing

-      scholarly pursuit.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Through my Oxford lectures and fugitive contributions to periodicals, I

-      began to be known as an authority on the intellectual revolt of the

-      Renaissance; by slow degrees I set about writing the life of that strange

-      contradiction, half-libertine, half-saint, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Engaged in these employments, I grew to love the smooth gray days of

-      Woadley which stole by ghost-like and unnumbered. And I came to love the

-      Woadley country with a passion which was as much due to its associations

-      as to its beauty. When I had grown tired of researches into things

-      ancient, one of my greatest joys was to plod to Ransby through rutted

-      lanes deep in hedges, and so out to the north beach where the sea strummed

-      against the land, and the wind raged, and the blackened hull of the wreck

-      crouched beneath the weight of sky.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Grandmother Cardover&rsquo;s shop saw me often. There in the keeping-room, with

-      its dull red walls and leisurely loud ticking clock, we would talk

-      together of bygone times and of those which were, maybe, coming. At first

-      she urged me to marry, and to take up the position in the county which

-      should be mine. But soon, with the easy fatalism of old age, she accepted

-      me for what I was, and ceased to worry.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With my father I held no communication&mdash;the breach had become final;

-      so of Ruthita I heard next to nothing. But as regards Lord Halloway, quite

-      inadvertently I increased my knowledge.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One squally night I was returning from Ransby, driving up the sodden road

-      to the Hall, when my attention was attracted by a camp-fire. I halted out

-      of curiosity, and struck across the turf to the light. Between me and the

-      fire was a wind-break of young firs, a diminutive plantation behind which,

-      as behind bars, figures prowled. As the flames shot up, the figures

-      yearned toward the clouds; as the flames died down, the figures seemed to

-      creep into the ground. On reaching the wind-break a lurcher growled, and I

-      heard a man&rsquo;s voice telling the beast to lie quiet. I was about to declare

-      myself, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I leapt aside, peering into

-      the darkness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All right, brother,&rdquo; a voice said huskily. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m meaning you no hurt.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A woman&rsquo;s face pushed itself out of the blackness; by the light of the

-      fire I saw that it was Lilith&rsquo;s.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Now you&rsquo;re here, brother, we&rsquo;ve come back to Woadley.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke as though our meeting had been pre-arranged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Gazing through the trees I saw the old yellow caravan: and G&rsquo;liath; the

-      gaudy woman was there, and the hag who had tried to tell Vi&rsquo;s fortune on

-      the marshes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The huddled gipsy tents became an accustomed sight and the center of a new

-      interest in my landscape. The proud lawlessness of the gipsies appealed to

-      my own suppressed wildness. They opened a door of escape from commonplace

-      environment. Their unannounced comings and goings had an atmosphere of

-      mystery and stealth which filled me with excitement. Of a night I would

-      look out from my bedroom windows and see the red glow of their camp across

-      the park-land; in the morning nothing would remain but blackened turf and

-      silence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I went on many tramping expeditions with Lilith. She had become curiously

-      elflike and wilful since those early days. She seemed to live wholly in

-      the moods and sensations of the present; of the past she would speak only

-      in snatches. Sometimes, when she softened, she would mention Ruthita; but

-      it was long before I discovered her secret and the reason why for so many

-      years the gipsies had refused to camp at Woadley.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All one day in the height of summer we had wandered, across meadows and by

-      unfrequented by-roads, too content to pay heed to where we were going;

-      when evening overtook us we were miles from home. It was too late to turn

-      back, unless we walked on to the nearest village and hired a trap and

-      drove. Lilith scouted the proposal with scornful eyes as too utterly

-      conventional. We would make a camp for the night and return to-morrow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There, alone in the open, with great clouds thumbing the western sky, and

-      birds sinking into tree-tops singing, &ldquo;Home, home, home,&rdquo; life liberated

-      itself and rose in the throat as though it had never been bound and

-      civilized. We spoke only in monosyllables; even words were a form of

-      captivity. Collecting brushwood, we built our fire and ate our meal

-      between the walls of bushes. Slowly the silver trumpet of the moon rose

-      above leafy spires.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We made a strange pair, Lilith and I&mdash;she the untamed savage,

-      gloriously responsive, and I, for all my attitudes of mind, outwardly the

-      sluggish product of reserve and education. Through the gray smoke I

-      watched her, with her red shawl falling from her splendid shoulders, her

-      glittering ear-rings and her large soft eyes. I told myself stories about

-      her quite in the old childish vein. I recalled how the Bantam and I had

-      always been hoping to find her. What fun it would be to vanish for a time,

-      leaving responsibilities behind, and to take to the road together! White

-      mists, rising from the meadows, erected a tent about us which towered to

-      the sky. Here in the open was privacy from the impertinent knocking of

-      destiny.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But she was not thinking of me. Her eyes gazed far away. Her arm was

-      hollowed and her head bowed, as though a little one pressed against her.

-      With her right hand she fumbled at her breast, loosening her bodice. Her

-      body swayed slowly to and fro in a soothing, rocking motion. I had seen

-      her like this before when she thought no one was looking.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Leaning forward I plucked a twig from the fire to light my pipe. She threw

-      herself back from me startled and sprang to her feet. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t touch me.&rdquo; Her

-      voice was hoarse and choking.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Looking up from where I sat, I saw that her bosom panted and that her

-      nostrils were quivering with animal fright. But it was her eyes that told

-      me; they were wide and fixed like those of one who has been roused from

-      sleep, and is not yet fully awake.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wasn&rsquo;t trying to touch you, Lil. I&rsquo;m your pal, girl, Dante Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I spoke she came to herself and recognized me. Her fear vanished and

-      her arms fell limp to her side. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m goin&rsquo;.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But what&rsquo;s the trouble? I thought we were to camp here to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dun know.&rdquo; She swept back the hair from her forehead and drew her shawl

-      tighter. &ldquo;I dun this before, just the two of us&mdash;and it didn&rsquo;t end

-      happy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But not with me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Afore ever I knew you, silly. When I was little more&rsquo;n a child&mdash;long

-      time ago.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We stamped out the fire before we left, and stole silently across the

-      moonlit meadows. She walked ahead at first in defiance; presently, ashamed

-      of the distrust she had shown, she fell back and we traveled side by side.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lil, I watched you; you were dreaming that you had your little baby

-      back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She placed her hand in mine, but she gave me no answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who was he&mdash;the man who did this to you long ago, when you camped

-      alone together?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned her face away; her voice shook with passion. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t have to

-      tell you; you know &rsquo;im.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The people were few with whom we were both acquainted. I ran over the

-      names in my mind; the truth flashed out on me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Was it because of that you wouldn&rsquo;t camp at Woadley?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She bent her head, but the cloud of hatred in her face would have told me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      After learning this new fact about Halloway, he was never long absent from

-      my mind; for Lilith, though we never referred to him and she had at no

-      time mentioned him by name, was a continual reminder. I became familiar

-      with his doings through the papers. He was making a mark for himself in

-      politics; there was even a talk that he might find a seat in the cabinet.

-      I read of Lady Halloway&rsquo;s seconding of her husband&rsquo;s ambitions. From time

-      to time her portrait was printed among those of society hostesses. But

-      this Ruthita was unreal to me; she had nothing to do with the shy

-      girl-friend whom I had known. Of the true Ruthita I learnt nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I often wondered what was the condition of affairs between herself and

-      Halloway. Was she happy? Was he kind? Was it possible that she should have

-      outlived her first judgment of him? Perhaps all this outward display of

-      success had its hidden emptiness. Behind Halloway lay a host of ruined

-      lives, Lilith&rsquo;s among them, the waste of which he could not justify.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had been five years at Woadley, when my work made it necessary that I

-      should spend some weeks in London in order to be near libraries. It was

-      just after Christmas that I came to town. With my usual clinging to old

-      associations, I took rooms at Chelsea, almost within sight of the mansion

-      which had witnessed my uncle&rsquo;s brief reign of splendor. From my windows I

-      could see the turgid river sweeping down to Westminster, and the

-      nurse-girls with perambulators and scarlet dots of soldiers loitering

-      beneath bare trees of the Embankment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On rising one morning, I found that the subdued grays and browns had

-      vanished&mdash;that London was glistening with snow. My spirits rose to an

-      unaccustomed pitch of buoyancy; I tossed aside my writing and went out

-      into the streets. Coming to the Spuffler&rsquo;s old house I halted; the memory

-      of the Christmas I had spent there leapt into my mind with every detail

-      sharpened. Things which I had not thought of for years came back

-      luminously&mdash;scraps of conversation, gestures, childish excitements.

-      This wintry morning was reminiscent of a snow-lit, sun-dazzled morning of

-      long ago. I recalled how Ruthita had bounced into my room to let me see

-      her presents; how she had balanced herself on the edge of my bed in her

-      long white night-gown, with her legs curled under her and her small feet

-      showing; how she had laughed at my care of her when I wrapped the

-      counterpane about her shoulders to prevent her from catching cold. Every

-      memory was somehow connected with Ruthita. And here I stood, a man of

-      thirty, looking up at the windows from which we had once gazed out

-      together&mdash;and I had not seen her to speak to for five years.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not get her out of mind. I did not want to. I kept tracing

-      resemblances to her in the girls whom I passed in the streets. Some of

-      them were carrying their skates, with flying hair and flushed faces.

-      Others, whom I met after lunch in the theatre districts, were going to

-      matinées with school-boy brothers. I wanted to be back again in the old

-      intimacy, walking beside her. Since that was impossible, I set myself

-      deliberately to remember.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the afternoon I strolled into the Green Park. Constitution Hill was

-      scattered with spectators all agape to see the quality drive by. Every now

-      and then a soldier or statesman would be recognized; the word would pass

-      from mouth to mouth with a flutter of excitement. The trees enameled in

-      white, the grass in its sparkling blanket, the sky banked with soft

-      clouds, the flushed faces&mdash;everything added its hint of animated and

-      companionable kindness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Of a sudden in the throng of flashing carriages, my attention was caught

-      by an intense white face approaching, half-hidden in a mass of night-black

-      hair&mdash;the face was smaller than ever, and even more pathetically

-      patient. By her side sat the man whom I now almost hated, looking handsome

-      and important; the years had dealt well with him, and had heightened his

-      air of dignity and aristocratic assurance. He was speaking to her lazily

-      while she paid him listless attention, never meeting his glance. It was

-      plain to see that, whatever he had or had not been to other women, his

-      passion for her was unabated. She looked a snow-drop set beside an exotic

-      orchid; the demure simplicity of her beauty was accentuated by the

-      contrast. Her wandering gaze fell in my direction; for an instant my gaze

-      absorbed her. She started forward from the cushions; her features became

-      nipped with eagerness. Those wonderful eyes of hers, which had always had

-      power to move me, seemed to speak of years of longing. A smile parted her

-      lips; her listlessness was gone. She leant out of the carriage, as though

-      she would call to me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Lord Halloway&rsquo;s hand had gone to his hat, as he turned with a gracious

-      expression, searching the crowd to discover the cause of his wife&rsquo;s

-      excitement. His eyes met mine. His face hardened. Seizing Ruthita&rsquo;s arm,

-      he dragged her down beside him. The carriage swept by and was lost in the

-      stream of passing traffic. All was over in less time than it has taken to

-      narrate.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night at Chelsea I could not sleep for thinking. Across the ceiling I

-      watched the lights of the police-boats flash in passing. I listened to the

-      river grumbling between its granite walls. Late taxis purred by; I took to

-      counting them. Big Ben lifted up his solemn voice, speaking to the stars

-      of change and time. I thought, imagined, remembered. What had happened to

-      us all that we were so gravely altered? What had happened to her? What had

-      he done to quench her? Then came the old, forgotten question: had I had

-      anything to do with it?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next day I set myself to conquer my restlessness, but my accustomed

-      interests had lost their fascination. Neither that day, nor in those that

-      followed, could I recover my grip on my habitual methods of life. What

-      were the temptations, disappointments of a dead past compared with those

-      that were now in the acting? My scholarship, my love of books, my

-      undertakings at Woadley had only been in the nature of narcotics; I had

-      drugged myself into partial forgetfulness. Now the old affections, like

-      old wounds, ached and irked me. One glimpse of Ruthita&rsquo;s white intensity

-      had stabbed me into keenest remembrance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I <i>had</i> to see her again; the hunger to hear her speak was on me&mdash;to

-      listen to the sound of her voice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Several times I saw her driving in the Park, sometimes alone, sometimes

-      with Halloway. She never looked at me, but I was certain she was aware of

-      me by the way her cheek grew pale. Only a few years ago I had been half

-      her life, free to hold her, to come and go with her, to disregard her; now

-      she passed me unnoticed. I haunted all places where I might expect to find

-      her; whether I met or missed her my pain was the same. At the back of my

-      mind was the constant dread that her husband would hurry her away to where

-      I could not follow.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was a blustering afternoon in early March, on a day of laughing and

-      crying&mdash;one of those raw spring days, before spring really commences,

-      capricious as a young girl nearing womanhood, without reason gay and

-      without reason serious. In the sunshine one could believe that it was

-      almost summer, but winter lurked in the shadows. A flush of young green

-      spread through the tree-tops; in open spaces crocuses shivered near

-      together. The streets were boisterous with gusty puffs of wind which sent

-      dust and papers circling. In stiff ranks, like soldiers, the houses stood,

-      erect, straining their heads into the sky, as if trying to appear taller.

-      Clouds hurried and fumed along overhead travel-routes, and rent gashes in

-      their sides as if with knives, letting through the sudden turquoise.

-      Presently slow drops began to patter. Umbrellas shot up. Bus-drivers

-      unstrapped their capes. In the Circus flower-girls picked up their baskets

-      and ran for shelter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On arriving in the Mall I found people standing along the open pavement in

-      a lean, straggling line, despite the threatened deluge, I learnt that

-      royalty were expected. Soon I heard a faint and far-off cheering. A

-      policeman raised his arm; traffic drew up beside the curb. Just as I had

-      caught the flash of Life Guards and the clatter of their accoutrements, a

-      closed brougham reined in across my line of vision. With an exclamation of

-      annoyance I was moving farther down the pavement, when a small gloved hand

-      stretched out from the carriage-window and touched me. I turned sharply,

-      and found myself gazing into Ruthita&rsquo;s eyes. She signed to me to open the

-      door. Before the coachman could notice who had entered, I was beside her.

-      Clutching my arm, she leant out and ordered, &ldquo;Drive to Pope Lane.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IV&mdash;RUTHITA

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e lay back against

-      the cushions. We acted like conspirators&mdash;it was difficult to tell

-      why. The surprise of meeting her thus suddenly had deprived me of words.

-      It must have been the same with her; we clasped hands in silence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I had to see you&mdash;had to speak to you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was panting&mdash;almost crying.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Of course. Why not? It was foolish to go on the way we were going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes, foolish and heartbreaking. It wasn&rsquo;t as though we were wanting to do

-      anything wicked&mdash;only to meet one another, as we used to.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her voice trailed off into a little shivering sob; she flickered her

-      eye-lids to prevent the tears from gathering.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, you mustn&rsquo;t carry on so.&rdquo; Then, &ldquo;What has he done to you?&rdquo; I

-      asked fiercely. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re afraid.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s guessed.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Guessed what?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What you never knew.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I can&rsquo;t tell you. If you&rsquo;d guessed, it might have made all the

-      difference.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not dare to speak&mdash;her whisper was so ashamed. Her hand was hot

-      in mine. She withdrew it. When I leant over her she shuddered, just as the

-      trees had done when they knew the rain was coming, as though I were a

-      thing to her both sweet and dreadful. She took my face between her hands,

-      and yet shrank back from me. She delighted in and feared the thing she was

-      doing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The rain volleyed against the carriage, shutting us in as with a tightly

-      drawn curtain; yet, did I look up, through the gray mist the tepid gold of

-      the sun was shining.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, it seems almost too good to be true that we&rsquo;re alone at last

-      together&mdash;to have you all to myself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Did you ever want me, Dannie?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;<i>Did I ever want you!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But as much as you wanted her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Differently, yes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You poor boy. And you didn&rsquo;t get either of us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Couldn&rsquo;t be helped, Ruthie. That&rsquo;s life&mdash;to be always wanting and

-      never getting. But I have you now and, perhaps, one day&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But how can you? She&rsquo;s married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One can&rsquo;t tell. Things come unexpectedly. I didn&rsquo;t expect half-an-hour

-      ago that I&rsquo;d be with you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She fell to asking me little stabbing questions. When I only answered her

-      vaguely, &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s start with secrets,&rdquo; she implored me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s five years&mdash;there&rsquo;s so much to explain.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Yes&mdash;on both sides.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You seemed&mdash;seemed to dislike him,&rdquo; I said. &ldquo;I never understood&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took me up quickly. &ldquo;Nor did I. Don&rsquo;t let&rsquo;s talk about it&mdash;not

-      yet, Dante.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So I told her about my doings, the book I was writing and the little daily

-      round at Woadley; and then I told her of why I had quarreled with my

-      father.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But he let me marry Halloway, and you&rsquo;ve never&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I laughed.

-      &ldquo;Ah, but no matter what Halloway did as a bachelor, he was discreet when

-      it came to marriage.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew me forward to the light; doubt was in her eyes. &ldquo;But you&mdash;you&rsquo;re

-      unhappy too.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve gained everything I played for; I played to lose.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Everything?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t deserve Vi. And I didn&rsquo;t deserve you; if I had, I shouldn&rsquo;t have

-      lost you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Not until I had replied did she realize how much she had told me. She was

-      not happy! I wanted to ask her questions, so many questions&mdash;questions

-      which I had no right to ask, nor she to answer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you&mdash;you have no children?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She hesitated. &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm

-      was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children going

-      home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been myself

-      and Ruthie of years ago.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They won&rsquo;t see me,&rdquo; I warned her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Folks at Pope Lane.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They&rsquo;re not there. Only Hetty&rsquo;s left to take care of the house. They&rsquo;ve

-      gone away for a few days.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then I can see it all again. We can walk in the garden together and

-      pretend that things are exactly as they were.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, Dannie!&rdquo; she cried. &ldquo;I <i>can</i> call you Dannie, can&rsquo;t I?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Time slipped away. She was my little sister now&mdash;no longer Lady

-      Halloway. At the posts before the passage we alighted&mdash;that was the

-      first news the coachman had of whom he had been driving. We went slowly up

-      the lane, where the shadows of the limes groped like tentacles fingering

-      the sunshine. When I felt beneath the creepers and the bell jangled

-      faintly, Ruthita clutched my arm, attempting to appear bold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty stared at us. &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll be blowed!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We pushed by her smiling, assuring her that we had no objection. Not until

-      we had rounded the house, did I hear the rattle of the door closing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Nothing ever changed in that walled-in garden. Flowers grew in the same

-      places&mdash;crocuses, daffodils, and hyacinths. Peaches on the wall would

-      soon ripen. Presently sunflowers, like sentinels in gold helmets, would

-      stand in stately line. Pigeons strutted on the slates of houses opposite

-      or wheeled against the sky. There was the window of Ruthita&rsquo;s bedroom, up

-      to which I had so often called.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The hole, which had been bricked up between the Favarts&rsquo; garden, was still

-      discernible. Everything retained its record; only we had changed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Truants again, stealing an hour together, I listened expectant to hear

-      Hetty call, &ldquo;Dant-ee. Dant-ee. Bedtime.&rdquo; The old excitement clutched my

-      heart. Her starched skirt would rustle down the path, and we would run

-      into the gooseberry bushes to hide. I glanced at the study-window. Surely

-      I should see my father seated there, leaning across the desk with his head

-      propped by his arm. Surely that hand of Ruthita&rsquo;s in my own was growing

-      smaller. I should turn to find a child in a short print-frock, with

-      clusters of ringlets on her shoulders. A shutter in my mind had opened;

-      the past had become present. Ah, but I was no longer anxious to escape.

-      The walled-in garden was all I wanted. I was tired of liberty. I was ready

-      to be commanded. I was willing that others should order my life.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That the illusion might not slip from me, I half shut my eyes. Drip, drip,

-      drip, from eaves and branches! The earth was stirring in the gentle quiet.

-      Through drenched bushes and on the vivid stretch of lawn blackbirds were

-      hopping, delving with their yellow bills. Perhaps I was dwindling into a

-      small boy, just as I had once hoped in the forest that I might suddenly

-      shoot up into manhood. How absurd to believe that I was thirty, and had

-      seen so much of disillusionment! That was all a dream out of which I was

-      waking&mdash;I had been here all the time in the narrow confines of the

-      walled-in garden. The old enchantment of familiar sensations stole upon me&mdash;I

-      was Dannie Cardover of the Red House; playing tricks with his imagination.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      How did it happen? Was it I or was it Ruthie? Her lips were pressing mine.

-      A step came down the path behind us. We sprang apart, laughing softly with

-      reckless joy at our impropriety. Which of us would have thought ten years

-      ago that there would be anything improper in being caught kissing?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Hetty pretended not to have seen us, but her flustered face told its

-      story.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you remember, Hetty, how I once found you doing that to John?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She writhed her hands under her apron, trying to appear shocked and not to

-      smile. &ldquo;I remember, Sir Dante; &rsquo;t&rsquo;aint likely I&rsquo;d forget.&rdquo; Then,

-      disregarding me for Ruthita, &ldquo;I was about to h&rsquo;arsk your ladyship, whether

-      I should get tea ready.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Ruthita took her by the hand. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t talk to me that way once, Hetty.

-      I&rsquo;m just Ruthie to you always, and Sir Dante is plain Dannie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She looked up and met the laughing reproach in our eyes. Her apron went to

-      her face and her bodice commenced to quiver. &ldquo;Little did I think when I

-      washed and dressed yer little bodies that I should ever see this day,&rdquo; she

-      sobbed. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s breakin&rsquo; me &rsquo;eart, that&rsquo;s what it is, all this quarrelin&rsquo;.

-      Why shouldn&rsquo;t I speak to &rsquo;im if I wants ter? Why shouldn&rsquo;t &rsquo;e

-      kiss &rsquo;is own sister if he likes? Wot&rsquo;s it matter if all the

-      neighbors was lookin&rsquo;? There&rsquo;s too little lovin&rsquo; and too little kissin&rsquo;;

-      that&rsquo;s wot I say. &rsquo;Tain&rsquo;t right ter be ashamed o&rsquo; bein&rsquo; nateral. If it

-      &rsquo;adn&rsquo;t &rsquo;a&rsquo; been for bein&rsquo; afraid and ashamed, I might &rsquo;a&rsquo;

-      married John. The nus-girl next door got &rsquo;im. There&rsquo;s allaws been

-      someone a-lookin&rsquo; when I was courtin&rsquo;&mdash;there&rsquo;s been too little

-      kissin&rsquo; in my life, and it&rsquo;s yer Pa&rsquo;s fault, if I do say it, wi&rsquo; &rsquo;is

-      everlastin&rsquo; look of &lsquo;Don&rsquo;t yer do it.&rsquo;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s as bad as all that, Hetty, I&rsquo;m sure you won&rsquo;t mind if I&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-       She made an emotional armful, but between struggling and giggling she

-      allowed me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We had tea together in the formal dining-room, with its heavy furniture

-      and snug red walls. We made Hetty sit beside us; she protested and was

-      scandalized, but we wouldn&rsquo;t let her wait. As we talked, the old freedom

-      of happiness came back to Ruthita&rsquo;s laughter. The mask of enforced

-      prejudices lifted from Hetty&rsquo;s face. All our conversation was of the past&mdash;our

-      adventures, childish mutinies, and punishments. We told Hetty what a

-      tyrant she had been to us. We asked her whether her nightgowns were still

-      of gray flannel. I accused her of being the start of all my naughtiness in

-      the explanation she had given me of how marriages were concocted. It was

-      like putting a wilted flower into water to see the way she picked up and

-      freshened. When she had nothing else to reply, she wagged her head at us,

-      exclaiming, &ldquo;Oh, my h&rsquo;eye&mdash;what goin&rsquo;s on! It&rsquo;s a good thing walls

-      ain&rsquo;t got ears. What would your poor Pa say?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We left her and wandered through the rooms together. We only opened the

-      study-door; we did not enter. It had always, even when we had been

-      invited, seemed to have been closed against us. Books lay on the desk,

-      dust-covered. It was allowed to be tidied only in my father&rsquo;s presence. We

-      both felt that he must know of our trespassing, even though we could not

-      see him. I had the uncanny feeling that he was still there at the table

-      writing; any moment he might glance up, having completed his sentence, and

-      I should hear his voice. Not until we had climbed the stairs did we rid

-      ourselves of the shadow of his disapproval. In the old days when we were

-      romping, we had been accustomed to hear his dreaded door open and his

-      stern voice calling, &ldquo;Children! Children! What d&rsquo;you think you&rsquo;re doing?

-      Not so much noise.&rdquo; It was something of this kind we were now expecting

-      and with the same sensations of trembling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The house was memory-haunted. Following our footsteps, yet so discreetly

-      that we never caught them, were a witch-faced girl and a sturdy boy. Where

-      pools of sunlight lay upon the floor we lost them; when we turned into

-      dark passages, again they followed. On entering rooms, we half expected to

-      find them occupied with their playing; when the budding creeper stirred

-      against the walls, it was as though they whispered. They were always

-      somewhere where we were not&mdash;either in the room we had just left, or

-      the room to which we were going.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We entered what had been my bedroom. The sun was westering, playing

-      hide-and-seek behind crooked chimneypots. Below us the garden lay in

-      shadow, cool and cloistered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Kneeling beside the window, with our elbows on the sill, not watching one

-      another&rsquo;s eyes, we whispered by fits and starts, leaving our sentences

-      unended. Most of what we said commenced with &ldquo;Do you remember?&rdquo; and

-      drifted off into silence as the picture formed. It was like flinging

-      pebbles into a pond and watching the circles spreading. One after another

-      memories came and departed&mdash;all that we had done together and been to

-      one another in that conspiracy of childhood. There was the pink muffler

-      she had made me, the guinea-pig about which I had lied to her, the tragic

-      departures and wild homecomings of schooldays, and the week when the

-      Bantam had declared his love for her. And there were memories which

-      preceded her knowledge&mdash;my quest for the magic carpet. How I wished I

-      might yet find it; I would fly by night to her window and carry her off,

-      re-visiting old happinesses while Lord Halloway lay snoring.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I don&rsquo;t know how we came to it&mdash;I suppose we must have been speaking

-      about Vi. Presently Ruthita said, &ldquo;You could only love golden hair, could

-      you, Dannie?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I didn&rsquo;t know what she was driving at; her voice shook and her face was

-      flushing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dark-haired girls never had any chance with you, did they? You told me

-      that long ago, after Fiesole. I remembered because&mdash;because&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was a boy then, and was clumsy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But you spoke the truth, though you did say that for sisters black hair

-      was the prettiest in the world. It hurt because at that time I fancied&mdash;you

-      can guess what.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You never showed it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You never looked for it&mdash;never asked for it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I knew to what she referred. It was on the night of my sudden return from

-      the Red House because the Spuffler had lost our money. I was sitting at

-      this window as I was now sitting. A tap at the door had startled me; then

-      a timid voice had said, &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only Ruthita.&rdquo; She had crept in noiselessly

-      as a shadow. Her dear arms went about my neck, drawing down my face. &ldquo;Oh,

-      Dannie, I&rsquo;m so sorry,&rdquo; she had whispered; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve never missed welcoming you

-      home ever since you went to school.&rdquo; She had nestled against me in the

-      dark, her face looking frailer and purer than ever. She had slipped on a

-      long blue dressing-gown, I remember, and her black hair hung about her

-      shoulders like a cloud. Just below the edge of the gown her pale feet

-      twinkled. I noticed that a physical change had come over her. Then I had

-      realized for the first time that she was different as I was different&mdash;we

-      were no longer children. I had fallen to wondering whether the same

-      wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring, had come to her. With an

-      overwhelming reverence, I had become aware of the strange fascination of

-      her appealing beauty. In the confessing that followed I had told her of my

-      jilting by Fiesole, and had spoken those stupid words about loving only

-      golden hair. How wounding I had been in my boyish egotism! And that was

-      not the last time I had wounded her in my blindness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Scene after scene came back to me&mdash;into each I read a new meaning in

-      the light of what she had told me: the Snow Lady&rsquo;s hints before I sailed

-      for America; Ruthita&rsquo;s appeal for my protection against Halloway, and her

-      sudden acceptance of him directly she heard that I was with Vi at Sheba.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ruthie, all this was very long ago; so many things have happened since

-      then, there can be no harm in talking about it. You wanted me right up to

-      the last&mdash;and I was too selfish to know it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Right up to the last,&rdquo; she whispered, and I knew she meant right up to

-      now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And this&mdash;and this is what your husband has guessed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my hands in both her own, speaking with quiet dignity. &ldquo;I had to

-      tell you. Perhaps I too have been selfish, but I couldn&rsquo;t let you

-      misunderstand me any longer. I&rsquo;ve seen you watching for me, and I&rsquo;ve had

-      to go by you without looking. We never had any secrets, you and I; you

-      must have wondered why I let my husband make me cut you&mdash;I&rsquo;ve been

-      wicked&mdash;I couldn&rsquo;t trust myself. When I heard that you&rsquo;d gone to

-      Sheba, I didn&rsquo;t care what happened. I&rsquo;d always hoped and hoped that you

-      might come to love me. But it seemed I wasn&rsquo;t wanted, so I just took&mdash;&mdash;

-      He&rsquo;s been good to me, but it isn&rsquo;t like living with the person you love

-      best, is it? You mustn&rsquo;t hate him any more; to love a woman who can&rsquo;t love

-      you back again makes even success empty&mdash;and he&rsquo;s been used to take

-      love without asking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We sat very still. We saw Hetty come out into the garden and walk down the

-      path as though she were looking for us. We waited to hear her call, but

-      she re-entered the house, leaving the silence unruffled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve made a pretty fair mess of things, haven&rsquo;t I? There was Vi first,

-      and now there&rsquo;s you. I&rsquo;m a pretty fair blighter.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She pressed herself against me to stop me. &ldquo;Oh, you mustn&rsquo;t say that. It

-      hurts. You mustn&rsquo;t say it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I am. Even your husband knows it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Some day you&rsquo;ll marry and everything&rsquo;ll come right.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;For Vi, if we have the luck to come together. But what about you? What

-      about even Halloway?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She avoided answering my self-accusations by attracting attention to

-      herself. &ldquo;From the first he didn&rsquo;t want me to know you; he gave excuses,

-      and I understood. Because I couldn&rsquo;t give him love, I gave him everything

-      else that he wanted. But now&mdash;now that I&rsquo;m going to be a mother, I

-      had to tell you. I want it to be a boy, Dannie. Waiting for him, I&rsquo;ve

-      thought so much of old days. I felt that if you didn&rsquo;t know, somehow,

-      things wouldn&rsquo;t go right&mdash;because when he comes I want him to be like

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She had risen, letting go my hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I had always thought of you as my sister,&rdquo; I faltered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I know&mdash;and

-      you were a dear brother. It was just my foolishness to want you to be

-      something else.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      For a moment she clung to me, hiding her face against my shoulder. Then we

-      passed down the stairs, afraid to be alone any longer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Goin&rsquo;?&rdquo; Hetty inquired. &ldquo;You won&rsquo;t tell the master, will yer?&rdquo; She

-      glanced toward the study-door as though he were behind it and might have

-      overheard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the end of the lane the carriage was standing. In the presence of the

-      coachman Ruthita&rsquo;s tones were conventional. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re going westwards? Where

-      can I drop you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In the carriage I asked her whether her husband would know of what we had

-      done.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shall tell him.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think he might be willing to let us be friends?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll ask him,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      At Hyde Park Corner the carriage pulled up and I alighted. I watched her

-      eager face looking back at me, growing smaller and smaller.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Wandering aimlessly through the parks, I sat for a time by the Serpentine.

-      The nerves of all that had happened in the past five years were cut. If I

-      had married Ruthita, would she have been happy? The thought of marrying

-      her was just as impossible to me now as it had been when Grandmother

-      Cardover had mentioned it at Ransby. And yet, at a time when I had been

-      most sensitive of injustice, I had been unjust to her&mdash;&mdash; And

-      now she was going to be a mother&mdash;little Ruthita, who seemed to me

-      herself so much a child!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I came into Whitehall, the pale twilight of spring still hovered

-      above house-tops; from streets the flare of London steamed up. The opal of

-      the sky reflected the marigold-yellow of illumined windows; arc-lights,

-      like ox-eye daisies, stared above the grass of the dusk.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I made my way to my club and sank into a chair, aimlessly skimming the

-      papers, reading scarcely a line. Few people were about; the room was empty

-      save for one other loiterer. Spring in the streets was calling.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The man strolled up to me, holding an illustrated weekly in his hand. I

-      knew him slightly and nodded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Writing a book on the Renaissance, ar&rsquo;n&rsquo;t you? Here&rsquo;s something a bit in

-      your line. Funny how Paris&rsquo;ll go mad over a thing like that!&rdquo; He smacked

-      the page. &ldquo;Girl comes from nowhere. Her lover writes a play&mdash;that&rsquo;s

-      the story. There&rsquo;s a mystery. The play&rsquo;s difficult to understand, so it

-      must be brainy. Now I like a thing that don&rsquo;t need no explanation: Marie

-      Lloyd, the Empire, musical comedy&mdash;that&rsquo;s my cut.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He tossed me the weekly and turned on his heel to walk out. Annoyed at

-      being disturbed, I glanced down irritably.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From a full-page illustration the face of Fiesole smiled up.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER V&mdash;LA FIESOLE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was ridiculous

-      this curiosity, but I knew how to explain it&mdash;it grew out of my

-      life&rsquo;s great emptiness since I had listened to Ruthita&rsquo;s confession. She

-      had made me realize as never before how I had muddled my chances of

-      happiness. I had heard nothing from Vi in all these years and now I had

-      learnt that, without knowing it, I might have had Ruthita. My interests

-      had lost their charm; I wanted an excuse to leave my work. This matter of

-      Fiesole had cropped up, so here I was on my way to Paris, more for the

-      sake of something to do than anything else.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had not the remotest intention of renewing her acquaintance. Unseen by

-      her, I would watch her from some corner of the theatre, and then slip back

-      to London. There would be piquancy in the thought that I had gone to see

-      her for old time&rsquo;s sake, and that she would never know about it. As for

-      speaking to her, that would be an insult after what had happened at

-      Venice. Probably she hated me. She ought to, if she did not.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Though I smiled at myself, truth to tell, I was rather pleased to find I

-      could still be so impulsive; romance in me was not dead after all these

-      years of uneventful waiting. This journey was the folly of a sentimental

-      boy&mdash;not the cynical act of a man of the world.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> Since she had stared out at me from the

-      printed page I was continually coming across her. Everyone was discussing

-      her; she had sprung out of nowhere into notoriety. Greater than Bernhardt,

-      men said of her: a spontaneous emotional actress of the first rank&mdash;the

-      sensation of the moment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      France took her seriously; England quoted French eulogies in italics.

-      Fantastic legends were woven about her name, made plausible by an

-      occasional touch of accuracy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Antoine Georges had written the play&mdash;it was based on the <i>amours</i>

-      of Lucrezia Borgia. It was said that he was La Fiesole&rsquo;s lover, that she

-      had given him the plot&mdash;that she had even helped him write it; some

-      went so far as to say that it was founded on an incident in her own past

-      life, transposed into a fifteenth century setting. Antoine Georges denied

-      that he was her lover; but the world smiled skeptically&mdash;it liked to

-      believe he was. One story asserted that she had been a <i>fille de joie</i>

-      when he came across her; another, with that French instinct for the

-      theatric, that he had reclaimed her from a low café in Cherbourg in which

-      she danced. Nothing was too incredible in the face of her incredible

-      success. One fact alone was undisputed&mdash;that she was the daughter of

-      the famous Italian actor, many years dead, Signore Cortona.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This confirmed what I already knew about her. I remembered how she had

-      told me in Oxford of her early stage career, which she had abandoned to go

-      traveling. I recalled how she had said, &ldquo;I&rsquo;m an amateur at living&mdash;always

-      chopping and changing. I&rsquo;ll find what I want some day.&rdquo;&mdash;&mdash; So

-      she had found it!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the English press she was made a peg on which to hang a whole wardrobe

-      of side-issue and prejudice. The decency of the French stage was

-      discussed. The question was introduced as to whether such a play would be

-      allowed to be performed in London. The superiority of English morals was

-      the topic of some articles; of others, the brutal prudery by which British

-      art was stifled. A fine opportunity was afforded and welcomed for slinging

-      mud at the censor. The discussion was given academic sanction when Andrew

-      Lang patted it on the head in an ingeniously discursive monologue on the

-      anachronisms of playwrights, in which he made clear that Monsieur

-      Georges&rsquo;s tragedy was riddled with historic falsity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was nearing five when we steamed into the Gare du Nord. My first

-      journey to Paris had been prompted by Fiesole. Then I was escaping from

-      her; now I was going to her. For old time&rsquo;s sake I made my headquarters at

-      the hotel at which I had then stayed in the Rue St. Honoré. After <i>diner</i>

-      I set out through thronged streets to book a seat at the theatre. Upon

-      making my request at the office, the man shrugged his shoulders and turned

-      away with the inimitable insolence of French manners. It was as though he

-      had said, &ldquo;You must be mad, or extremely bourgeois.&rdquo; I had affronted him

-      personally, the theatre-management, La Fiesole and last, but not least,

-      the infallible intelligence of Paris. Did Monsieur not know that La

-      Fiesole was the rage, the fashion? Every seat was taken&mdash;taken weeks

-      ahead.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My second request was apologetic and explanatory: I honored La Fiesole so

-      much that I had journeyed from London on purpose to see her. What was the

-      earliest date at which he could make it possible? He directed me to an

-      agency which had bought up all the best seats in the house; here I secured

-      a box at an extortionate price for five nights later.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the intervening days I was frequently tempted to abandon my project and

-      return. It seemed the height of foolishness to squander five days in order

-      that I might court disappointment. She must have altered&mdash;might have

-      deteriorated. It was just possible there was a grain of truth in the wild

-      stories that circulated about her. And yet&mdash;&mdash; There were

-      memories that came to me full of nobility and gentleness: windswept days

-      at Oxford; a night at Ferrara; days and nights on the lapping lagoons of

-      Venice. I wanted to see her again&mdash;and I did not. I blew hot and

-      cold. And while I hesitated, spring raced through the streets of Paris

-      with tossing arms and reckless laughter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I entered the theatre it was already packed. The audience seemed

-      conscious that it had assembled for a great occasion; it had dressed for

-      its share in the undertaking. Gowns of marvelous cut and audacity were in

-      evidence. The atmosphere was heavy with the perfume of exotic femininity

-      and flowers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My box was on the right-hand side, just above and next to the stage. Below

-      me was a nodding sea of plumed head-dresses, naked shoulders, and gleaming

-      bosoms; rising tier on tier to the gold-domed roof, was a wall of eyes and

-      fluttering white faces. Everything was provocative of expectancy. Gods and

-      goddesses, carved on the columns and painted on the curtain, alone were

-      immobile.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A quick succession of taps sounded, followed by three long raps. The

-      theatre was plunged in shadow. As though a crowd drew away into the

-      distance, the last murmur spent itself. The curtain quivered, then rose

-      reluctantly on the illusion which had brought the unrelated lives of so

-      vast an audience together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We saw an Italian garden, basking in sunlight and languorous with summer.

-      Beneath the black shade of cypress-trees stretched marble terraces,

-      mounting up a hillside, up and up, till they hung gleaming like white

-      birds halfhidden in the velvet foliage. In the foreground a fountain

-      splashed. A little way distant the Pope Alexander lolled, toying with his

-      mistress, Giulia. Up and down pathways lined with statues, groups of

-      courtiers wandered: youths in parti-colored hose and slashed doublets;

-      girls, vividly attired, exquisitely young, engaged in the game of love.

-      Guitars tinkled and masses of bloom flared stridently in the sun. Sitting

-      by the fountain was the Madonna Lucrezia and the young Lord of Pesaro.

-      Her face was turned from us; we could only see her vase-like figure and

-      the way she shook her head in answer to all he offered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The envoy from Naples enters and with him the Duke of Biseglia; he urges

-      the Pope for a last time to make an alliance with his country by

-      betrothing the Madonna Lucrezia to the Duke. But the Pope does not want

-      the alliance; he is joining with Ludovico of Milan against Naples and war

-      will result. While the Pope is refusing, for the first time Lucrezia

-      looks up and her face is turned towards us&mdash;the face I had known in

-      my boyhood, innocently girlish, fresh as a flower, so ardent and beautiful

-      with longing that the theatre caught its breath at sight of it and a

-      muffled &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; swept through the audience.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As though attracted by a power which is outside herself, she rises,

-      hesitating between shyness and daring, and steals to where the young Duke

-      is sullenly standing. She takes his hand and presses it against her

-      breast. He snatches it from her. She commences to speak, at first

-      haltingly, but with gathering passion. Her voice is hoarse and sultry,

-      like that of a Jewess; it is a voice shaken with emotion, which now

-      caresses and now tears at the heart. The drone of merriment in the garden

-      and the tinkling of the guitars is hushed. Listless lovers come out from

-      the shadows and gather about her, amused by her earnestness. She pleads

-      with the Pope, her father, to give her the Duke&mdash;not to send him away

-      from her. Biseglia interrupts haughtily, asserting that he only desired

-      her for State reasons and that since the Pope refuses Naples&rsquo; friendship,

-      he would not marry the Madonna Lucrezia though her father were to allow

-      it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Alexander laughs boisterously at this quarrel of children and like a huge

-      Silenus wanders off into the garden, leaning on his mistress, Giulia,

-      followed by his train of minstrels and dilettantes. Their singing grows

-      more faint as they mount the terraces towards the palace.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Lucrezia watches them depart with a face frozen with despair. As Biseglia

-      turns to go, she darts after him and drags him back, fawning on him,

-      abasing herself, offering herself to him, telling him that whatever comes

-      of it she cannot live without him. He regards her in silence; then falls

-      to smiling and flings her from him, reminding her that she is the Pope&rsquo;s

-      bastard. At that the boy Lord of Pesaro, who has watched everything from

-      the fountain, runs with drawn sword to her defense. But she springs

-      between them, saying that when the time comes to kill Biseglia, she will

-      take revenge in her own way like a Borgia. The great Pope, looking back,

-      has seen her awakened savagery and laughs uproariously. The scene ends

-      with the garden empty and Lucrezia stretched out on the ground, kissing

-      the spot which Biseglia&rsquo;s feet have touched and weeping in a frenzy of

-      abandon, while the Lord of Pesaro looks on impotent and broken-hearted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Between the first act and the second the French have invaded Italy, so the

-      Pope and the King of Naples have found a common enemy and a common need

-      for alliance. The Duke of Biseglia has again been sent to Rome to sue for

-      the hand of Lucrezia. But in the meanwhile she has been betrothed to the

-      Lord of Pesaro, and, to prevent him from joining with the French when

-      Lucrezia is taken from him, his removal has been planned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The curtain goes up on a night of bacchanalian riot in the Papal gardens.

-      Beneath trees a costly table has been spread, at which sit men and women

-      attired in every kind of extravagance, as animals, pagan deities, and

-      mythological monstrosities. In the branches overhead are set sconces and

-      blazing torches. Distantly over white terraces and pathways the moon is

-      rising. In the foreground are mummers and tumblers. The servitors who pass

-      up and down the company are humpbacks, dwarfs, Ethiopians, and

-      dancing-girls.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the center of the table sits the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and

-      next to her Biseglia. Opposite to Biseglia is seated the Lord of Pesaro,

-      and next to him a woman in a mask. With the heat of the wine and the

-      lateness of the hour the women lie back in their lovers&rsquo; arms&mdash;all

-      except the masked woman and the Madonna Lucrezia. Lucrezia sits erect like

-      a frightened child, the one pure thing in the freedom that surrounds her.

-      Biseglia pays her no attention, and from across the table the Lord of

-      Pesaro watches.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The Pope twits Biseglia on his coldness, saying, &ldquo;Think you that my

-      daughter hath a deformity?&rdquo; And Biseglia gives the irritable answer, &ldquo;Can

-      a man love a woman while that young spit-fire glowers green envy at him

-      opposite?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Pesaro leaps to his feet, but the Pope, as though to pacify him, pledges

-      him and hands the goblet to the masked woman to offer to him. Still

-      standing uncertain, Pesaro receives it from her. Raising it slowly, his

-      lips touch the brim; he clutches at his throat, upsetting the cup so that

-      the red stain flows towards Lucrezia. He leans out, gazes in her eyes, and

-      crashes across the table, twisting as he falls, still looking up at her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The silence that follows is broken by a low rippling laugh. The company

-      gaze in astonishment; it is Lucrezia who is laughing. The child in her

-      face is dead; her expression is inscrutable, wicked and sirenish. She

-      sways towards Biseglia, bending back her head and twining her arms about

-      him. &ldquo;Hath the Pope&rsquo;s daughter a deformity that thou canst not love her?

-      Behold, thou shalt judge. She will dance and dance, till she dances thee

-      into rapture and thy soul is poured out upon her.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      From the hand of a servitor she snatches a torch and steps into the open.

-      She commences to dance and, as she dances, unbuckles her girdle so that

-      her gown slips from her. As the beat of the music grows more furious she

-      unbinds her hair, so that it writhes like snakes about her firm white arms

-      and bust. Dwarfs clamber into trees and slide out along their branches,

-      raining rose-leaves on her as she passes. The strangely attired company

-      forget their jaded decadence and sprawl across the table, digging their

-      elbows into its scattered magnificence, following the gleam of her young,

-      white body as it twists and turns beneath the whirling torch.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But her gaze is bent always on Biseglia; her eyes are aslant and

-      beckoning. Her bosom rises and falls more fiercely with the wrenching

-      in-take of the breath. Will he never go to her?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She flings back her hair from her shoulders; her body flashes like an

-      unsheathed sword. Nearer and nearer to him she dances. His eyes rest on

-      her moodily, half-closed. Does he make a movement, quickly she withdraws.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She has flung away her torch and is spinning madly with her hands clasped

-      behind her head. The grass is hidden with rose-leaves; she floats&mdash;her

-      feet scarcely stir them. Suddenly she stops; stands erect for an ecstatic

-      moment; sways dizzily; her strength is gone. Her hands, small and pitiful,

-      fly up to cover her eyes. She shakes her hair free to hide her. Her body

-      crumples. She is broken with her shame and futility. Biseglia leaps the

-      table and has her in his arms as she falls, pressing his hot lips against

-      hers. With clenched fists she smites him from her, slips from his embrace,

-      and runs shimmering like a white doe through the forest of blackness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With a shout the revelers shatter the banquet and pour in pursuit of her.

-      Biseglia leads them, darting ahead into the shadows. Dancing and singing,

-      the disheveled bacchanalians stagger across the dark, trouping along dusky

-      terraces with twining arms, following the fleeing dryad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Torches are burnt out and smolder in their sockets. Night is tattered by

-      the dawn. Amid the havoc of trampled chalices and glass sprawls the

-      wine-stained figure of the dead Lord of Pesaro&mdash;the man who, could

-      she have loved him, would have given her all.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> We rose as one man as the curtain dropped.

-      We did not care to think whether this was wrong&mdash;it was lovely. She

-      had danced our souls out of their prejudices, out of their walls of

-      restraint into chaos. The rapture of her beauty ran through our veins like

-      wine. Our imaginations pursued her along pale terraces. The fragrance of

-      crushed rose-leaves was in our nostrils and the coolness of night. Our

-      breath came short, as though we had been running. Our senses were reeling

-      and our eyes dazzled. We stood up in our places clutching at the air,

-      calling and calling, hungry for the sight of her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      For myself, I was smitten with blindness. My eyes saw the striving throng

-      through a mist and probed into the beyond, where she ran on and on palely,

-      forever from me. I shouted to her, but she grew more distant; never once

-      did she look back or stay her footsteps.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was aware of a deep stillness&mdash;a hoarse peal of laughter: thousands

-      of eyes glared up at me and down on me, and mouths gaped mockery. The mist

-      cleared; Fiesole was standing before the curtain. The audience had grown

-      hushed at sight of her while I had continued calling. From the stage,

-      twenty feet away, she was smiling at me, insolent and charming, her body

-      still shuddering with exertion beneath the velvet cloak which lay across

-      her shoulders. What did I care, though to-morrow the whole of Paris should

-      laugh? She had danced my soul into ecstasy. I placed my hands on the edge

-      of the box and leant out drunkenly, shouting her name, &ldquo;<i>Fiesole!

-      Fiesole!</i>&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She kissed her hand at me derisively, bowed to the audience, and was gone.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I sank in my place, a sickening nostalgia for her upon me. I did not

-      reason; I only knew I wanted her&mdash;wanted her as she had once wanted

-      me, with her hands and eyes and body. In a dim way I felt angry with

-      myself for having lost her. She had made me disgusted with my coldness at

-      Venice as I had watched my counterpart, the Duke of Biseglia. From the

-      theatric torture in her face I had learnt something of how brutal a man

-      may be when he fancies that he is righteously moral. She, whom I saw now

-      so remotely, might have been mine; through these chilly years La Fiesole

-      might have been my companion, had I had the faith to take what was

-      offered. I had sought the things that were impossible. I had made a god of

-      my scruples. I had sinned weakly, following Vi who did not belong to me. I

-      had sat down to wait for her, and all the while Life was tapping at the

-      door. I tasted Life to-night&mdash;&mdash; And who knows? Perhaps I had

-      broken this woman&rsquo;s heart. I would no longer be niggardly. I would go to

-      her; accuse myself to her; beat down her hatred of me; carry her off.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While these thoughts trooped across my mind, the crooked sphinx-like smile

-      of Paris wandered over me, examined me, hinted at tragedy with laughter,

-      and widened its painted lips at my absurdity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The curtain rustled. The warning raps sounded. Lights sank, and heads bent

-      forward.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In a dim-lit room, chilly to the point of austerity, sat Lucrezia. Tall

-      candles shone upon her face&mdash;a face purged of emotion, nunlike and

-      wooden with an expression of distant contemplation. Behind her head was an

-      open window through which floated in the sound of music. She heeded it not

-      at all. In the far corner stood a bed with the curtains drawn back. At an

-      altar a lamp burnt before a shining crucifix. Her women were unrobing her

-      for the bridal night. They spoke to her, but she did not answer. They

-      blamed her for her indifference to Biseglia: she had never kissed him,

-      never caressed him since the night when she had won him. Did she not know

-      that he hungered for her kindness?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She gave them no answer. They lifted her this way and that as though she

-      were a doll; she seemed to have forgotten her body. She might have been in

-      a trance, leading a life separate, dreaming of things innocent and holy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One by one the candles were extinguished; only the lamp burnt before the

-      altar. When her women were gone; she slipped from the bed and knelt with

-      her head bowed before the cross.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The music dies; silence falls. Along the passage comes a creeping

-      footstep. The door opens; Biseglia enters, blinking his eyes at the room&rsquo;s

-      dimness. He whispers her name. At last she hears him and rises, standing

-      before the altar. He crosses the room reverently. He halts, gazing at her.

-      He rushes forward, masters her, crushes her to him, and cries that she

-      torments him&mdash;starves him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she makes no response, but lies pulseless in his arms, he carries her

-      to the bed, incoherently claiming as his right the fondness she does not

-      give him. Then he grows gentle and kneels before her, kissing her feet and

-      calling her his god.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She speaks. Her voice is small. &ldquo;Biseglia, thou didst love me only when I

-      had made myself worthless that I might win thy fondness.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      He yearns up to her with his arms, disowning his former coldness,

-      protesting that he adores her. She leans over him sadly; he raises his

-      lips to hers. As she kisses him, her expression kindles to triumph. She

-      withdraws her hand from her breast; the Borgian dagger sinks into his

-      heart.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She gazes stonily on the man who had once refused her. The lamp before the

-      altar flickers and goes out. The room is plunged in darkness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VI&mdash;SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ong after the

-      curtain had fallen I sat on. I had seen Antoine Georges step before the

-      footlights leading Fiesole. I had seen him alternately bend above her hand

-      and bow his acknowledgments to the applause. I did not like him, this fat

-      little Frenchman, with his thin beard and spindly legs. The polite

-      proprietorship of his bearing towards her had impressed me as offensive. I

-      felt sure that he was smacking his lips and saying, &ldquo;They shall believe

-      that it&rsquo;s all true, this that they say about us.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      From the wings had come lackeys carrying garlands. They had built up a

-      garden about her. The people had gone mad, standing up in their places and

-      thunderously shouting. From all parts of the theatre flowers had rained on

-      her. They had stormed her with flowers. Women had torn bouquets from their

-      dresses and wreaths from their hair. It might have been a carnival; the

-      air was dense with falling blossoms. And she had faced them with the smile

-      of a pleased child, while Monsieur Georges bent double before her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was all over. Men were busy with brooms, sweeping up the litter of her

-      triumph. This happened every night: they got used to it. Already in the <i>fauteuils

-      d&rsquo;orchestre</i> perfunctory faded women were adjusting linen coverings.

-      The last stragglers of the audience were reluctantly going through the

-      doors.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A man entered my box and tapped me on the shoulder. I stared up at him;

-      his expression made me laugh. He evidently mistook me for a crank who was

-      likely to give trouble. I reached for my hat and coat wearily; I felt that

-      I had been beaten all over. As I folded my scarf about my neck I made bold

-      to ask him where I could find Fiesole. He shrugged his shoulders, darting

-      out his hands, palms upwards, as one who said, &ldquo;Ah, it is beyond me! Who

-      can tell?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But it was important that I should see her, I urged; I was an old friend.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      An old friend! These days La Fiesole had many old friends. Were it

-      permitted to her old friends to see her, all the messieurs would cross the

-      footlights. He eyed me with impatience, anxious to see the last of me, his

-      waxlike face wickedly ironic.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I produced a fifty-franc note. Would it not be possible for him to deliver

-      her a message?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      If Monsieur would write out his message he would make certain that La

-      Fiesole got it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      So I scribbled my address on the back of a card, asking her to allow me to

-      speak with her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I folded the fifty-franc note about it and handed it to my tyrant. From

-      the lack of surprise with which he accepted I gathered that he had

-      pocketed greater amounts for a like service.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the street I paused irresolute. From my feet, could I follow it, a path

-      led through crowded boulevards directly to her. I could not be very

-      distant from her; a lucky choice of direction, the chance turning of a

-      corner might bring us face to face. That I was in her mind was probable.

-      She was remembering, as I was remembering, that day at Lido and that night

-      at Venice. Was she satisfied with her revenge? She had always been

-      generous. Somewhere in this passionate white night of Paris her car sped

-      on through illumined gulleys; she lay back on cushions, her eyes

-      half-shut, her mouth faintly smiling, picturing the past at my expense. I

-      liked to think that she hated me; it was in keeping with her character; I

-      respected her for it. The women who had loved me had made things too easy;

-      it had always been I who had done the refusing. My blood was eager for the

-      danger of pursuing. I longed for resistance that I might overcome her. I

-      loved her with my body, I told myself, as I had never loved a woman; my

-      cold, calculating intellectuality was in abeyance. That she should make my

-      path of return difficult added a novel zest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The human tide was drifting towards Montmartre; I fell in and followed. On

-      the pavement before cafés at little round tables <i>boulevardiers</i> were

-      seated, sipping their absinthe, their eyes questing for the first hint of

-      adventure. Taxis flashed by, soaring up &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; like comets, giving

-      me glimpses as they passed of faces drawn near together, ravishing in

-      their transient tenderness. How was it? What had happened? For the first

-      time in my remembrance I had ceased to analyze; I had ceased to sadden my

-      present with foreknowledge.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Far away the Place Pigalle beckoned. Up tortuous streets, between ancient

-      houses, the traffic streamed like a fire-fly army on the march. As I

-      neared the top I entered the pale-gold haze of its unreality. Electric

-      signs of L&rsquo;Abbaye, the Bal Tabarin, and the Rat Mort glittered on the

-      night like paste jewels on the robe of a courtesan. Women trooped by me

-      like blown petals, peering into my face and smiling invitation. I marked

-      down their types in my mind by the names of flowers&mdash;jasmine, rose,

-      poppy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was curiously transformed from that evening of long ago when I had

-      watched these sights with horror, and had fled from Paris in the dawn to

-      Florence. I felt no anger, no revulsion&mdash;only tolerance. I had

-      finished with peeping beneath the surface. Fiesole had taught me to

-      despise all that. <i>Fiesole! Fiesole!</i> I saw her always dancing on

-      before me, mocking my sobriety. Yes, I told myself, she had made me

-      kinder.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A couplet from <i>Sir Galahad in Montmartre</i> dinned in my brain and

-      summed up my estimate of my former self

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      &ldquo;He sees not the need in their faces;

-    </p>

-    <p class="indent20">

-      &rsquo;Tis the sin and the lust that he traces.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br />

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had never looked for the need in any woman&rsquo;s face. I had been absorbed

-      in contemplation of my own chastity&mdash;had hurried through life with

-      hands in pockets, fearful lest I might be robbed. Vi&rsquo;s need, which I had

-      recognized, I had made ten times more poignant. I had waited for her. What

-      good had I done by it? I might go on waiting. Meanwhile there were Fiesole

-      and Life knocking at my door. My constancy to Vi had become a luxury.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      A girl slipped her arm in mine. &ldquo;&rsquo;Allo! You zink I am pretty?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was a <i>cocotte</i>, little more than a child, so delicate and

-      slight. Her hair was flaxen and blowy; her complexion a transparent

-      china-white; her dress décolleté and cut in a deep V between the breasts.

-      She pushed her small face up to mine with the red lips parted, clinging to

-      me with the innocent familiarity of one who had asked no more than a

-      roguish question.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re pretty, but&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Zen we go togezer!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m afraid not.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Pourquoi non?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m hoping to meet someone.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She released me at once with a good-natured smile. &ldquo;La! La! I hopes you

-      find &rsquo;er.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She tripped away, turning before she was lost in the crowd to wave her

-      hand. I told myself that her flower was the jonquil.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It was one o&rsquo;clock when, after wandering about, I found myself back at the

-      same place. I could not sleep; my brain was too active with excitement.

-      Instead of being sad because of Fiesole, I was unreasonably elated. I took

-      a seat at a table on the pavement and ordered coffee and cognac. Every man

-      and woman within sight was a lover, and I sat solitary. As the hour grew

-      later men and women grew more frank in their embraces, and all with that

-      naïve assumption of privacy which makes the Frenchman, even in his vices,

-      seem so much a child. The sex-instinct beat about &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo;&mdash;the

-      air quivered and pulsated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Girls rustled in the shadows. Lovers, chance-met, danced home together.

-      Strange to say, I found nothing sinful in it&mdash;only romance. I had

-      ceased to look beyond the immediate sensation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor boy! You not find &rsquo;er?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked up; my lady of the jonquils was leaning over my shoulder.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, <i>hein!</i> If not, zere are

-      ozers.&rdquo; She waved her small gloved hands in a circle, bringing them back

-      to include herself. She looked a good little soul, standing there so

-      bravely disguising her weariness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tired?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It ees nozing.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t you join me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which had

-      no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin on her

-      knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise eyes. She

-      was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Zere are ozers,&rdquo; she repeated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Not for me,&rdquo; I said; &ldquo;not to-night.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?&rdquo; The waiter hovered

-      nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Croûte au pot?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Filet aux truffes.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Salade romaine.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Vouvray.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bien, Monsieur.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I turned to her. She had corn-flower eyes like Kitty&mdash;I had been

-      wondering of whom I was reminded. I passed her my cigarette-case. She

-      chose one fastidiously and tilted it between her lips with the smile of a

-      <i>gamine</i>.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      While we ate neither of us said much&mdash;she was hungry; but, as we

-      sipped our coffee and the pile of cigarette ends grew, I found myself

-      telling her&mdash;asking her if a man had refused her once, whether she

-      could ever again love him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If he haf a great heart, oui. If he haf not&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo; She threw her

-      cigarette away. &ldquo;C&rsquo;est la vie! Quoi?&rdquo; She snapped her fingers and leant

-      over and took my hand, this gay little Montmartroise. &ldquo;But you haf; zo

-      courage, my friend.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I did not want to be left alone; she knew it. A <i>fiacre</i>, with a

-      battered race-horse propped between the shafts, had drawn up against the

-      curb. On the box a red-faced <i>cocher</i> nodded. We climbed in and she

-      nestled beside me. The <i>cocher</i> looked across his shoulder, asking

-      where to drive. &ldquo;Straight on,&rdquo; I told him.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We crawled away down &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo;; as we went, she sang contentedly just

-      above her breath. When we reached the Madeleine the <i>cocher</i> halted,

-      inquiring gruffly whither he should drive. &ldquo;Tout droit. Tout droit&rdquo;; we

-      both cried impatiently. So again we moved slowly forward. There was no

-      doubt in the man&rsquo;s mind that we were mad.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She drew closer to me and cuddled into my coat; the foolish prettiness of

-      her dress was no protection against the chill night air. We lay back, her

-      head resting on my shoulder, gazing up at the star-scattered sky. The

-      asphalt surface of the boulevard, polished by petrol and rubber-tires to

-      the dull brightness of steel, glimmered in a long line before us

-      reflecting the arc-lamps like a smooth waterway&mdash;like a slow canal in

-      ancient Venice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Where we went I do not know; I did not care to notice. The creaking <i>fiacre</i>

-      had become a gondola and it was Fiesole who leant against me. Sometimes

-      the <i>cocher</i> drew up to light a cigarette and to glance suspiciously

-      down upon us. Then I was brought back to reality. We circled the Bastille

-      and prowled through the <i>Quartier Latin</i>, where the night was not so

-      late. We crossed the river once more and crept along the <i>Quai des

-      Tuileries</i>; then again we climbed &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; and plunged into the

-      grimy purlieus of <i>Les Halles</i>. Market-carts were already creaking,

-      in from the country with swinging lamps. Wagons piled high with

-      vegetables, loomed mountainous under eaves of houses. From the market came

-      grumbling voices of men unloading, and the occasional squealing of a

-      stallion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The <i>cocher</i> wriggled on his box and confronted me fretfully. Before

-      he could ask his question, &ldquo;Sacré nom d&rsquo;un chien!&rdquo; I shouted fiercely,

-      &ldquo;Allez. Allez.&rdquo; Meekly he jerked at the reins, sinking his head between

-      his obedient shoulders.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I looked down at the tiny face beside me&mdash;the face of a white flower

-      whose petals are folding. She had ceased her singing an hour ago. Feeling

-      me stir, she struggled to open her eyes and slipped her small hand into

-      mine. When I drew my arm tighter about her she sighed happily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Above the tottering roofs of Paris the night grew haggard. One by one

-      stars were snuffed out. Wisps of clouds drove across the moon like witches

-      riding homeward. It was the hour when even Paris grows quiet. Ragpickers

-      were slinking through the shadows, raking over barrels set out on the

-      curb. Women, shuddering in bedraggled finery&mdash;queens of Montmartre

-      once, perhaps, whose only weariness had been too many lovers&mdash;dragged

-      themselves to some sheltered doorway, thankful for a bed in the gutter, if

-      it were undisturbed. In boulevards for lengthy pauses ours was the only

-      sound of traffic.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My head jerked nearer hers. Her breath was on my cheek; I could feel the

-      twitching of her supple body. Poor little lady of the jonquils&mdash;of

-      what was she dreaming? What had she expected from me? She would tell often

-      of this eccentric night and no one would credit her story.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I awoke she was still sleeping. A spring breeze ruffled the trees;

-      sparrows were chirping; a golden morning sparkled across the waters of the

-      Seine. The sun, still ruddy from his rising, stood magnificently young

-      among the chimney-pots, trailing his gleaming mantle beneath the bridges.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The battered race-horse had stumbled with us just beyond the Louvre and

-      stood with his head sagging between his knees, his body lurching forward.

-      The reins had fallen from the <i>cocher&rsquo;s</i> hands; his thick neck was

-      deep in his collar; and his face looked strangled. From across the road a

-      waiter scattered sand between his newly set out tables and watched us with

-      amused curiosity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My body was cramped. As I attempted to uncrook my legs, my companion

-      opened her eyes and stared at me in amazed confusion. She yawned and sat

-      up laughing, patting her mouth. &ldquo;Oh, <i>la, la</i>&mdash;&mdash;. Bonjour, toi!&rdquo;\

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We examined ourselves&mdash;I in my crumpled evening-dress, and she in her

-      flimsy gown and decorative high-heeled shoes. I had a glimpse of my face

-      in imagination&mdash;pale and donnish; the very last face for such a

-      situation. How ill-assorted! Then I laughed too; the <i>cocher</i>

-      lumbered round on his box and burst into a hoarse guffaw at sight of us.

-      We all laughed together, and the waiter ceased sanding his floor to laugh

-      with us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We left the racer to his well-earned rest and all three went across to the

-      café. As we soaked bread in our bowls of coffee and plied our spoons, we

-      chatted merrily like good comrades. Then we parted with the <i>cocher</i>,

-      leaving him agreeably surprised, and sauntered down the Quai where workmen

-      in blue blouses, hurrying from across the bridges, found time to nudge one

-      another knowingly and to smile into our eyes with a glad intimacy which

-      was not at all offensive.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In a narrow street where &ldquo;the mountain&rdquo; commenced, she halted and placed

-      both her hands on my shoulders, tiptoeing against me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;One &rsquo;as to go &rsquo;ome sometime, mon ami.&rdquo; She was determined

-      to be a sportsman to the end. &ldquo;But remember, mon petit, if you do not find

-      &rsquo;er, zere are ozers.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I put my hand into my pocket. She examined what I gave her. &ldquo;Mais, non!&rdquo;

-       she exclaimed, flushing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But yes&mdash;for remembrance.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She tilted up her face and her happy eyes clouded; the tired cheeks turned

-      whiter and the painted lips quivered. &ldquo;Little one, keess me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      So I parted from this chance-met waif with her brave and generous heart&mdash;&mdash;

-      And this was what my madness and Fiesole had taught me. For the time the

-      memory of Vi was entirely banished from my thoughts.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VII&mdash;SATURNALIA

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t my hotel I found

-      no message. But it was still early; she might not have received my card

-      and, as yet, did not know my address. The intoxication of the previous

-      night still flicked my spirit into optimism&mdash;perhaps she would answer

-      me in person.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Then came the reaction&mdash;the truer judgment. If she had desired to see

-      me, she could have sent round word to my box at the theatre. After all,

-      why should she desire to see me? She was famous and had made her world

-      without me. When we parted, I had left her with a memory so humiliating

-      that it must scorch her even now. These were things which a woman finds it

-      difficult to forgive&mdash;impossible to forget. Still, there was

-      curiosity&mdash;a woman&rsquo;s curiosity! She might resist it for a time,

-      tantalizing both me and herself; but she would have to see me presently,

-      if only to wound me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I scarcely stirred from my hotel, afraid lest I should miss her. By the

-      time evening fell, I had come to a new conclusion&mdash;that the ironical

-      scoundrel, who had so coolly pocketed my money, had destroyed my card. To

-      make sure of reaching her, I wrote a letter to the theatre, saying many

-      true things foolishly. Then, in sheer restlessness, I hurried to the

-      boulevard in which her theatre was situated, hoping to get a glimpse of

-      her either coming or going.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I could not bring myself to enter&mdash;it was too horrible and beautiful&mdash;she

-      was dancing away her womanhood in there. Shockingly fascinated as I had

-      been by the spectacle, I felt a lover&rsquo;s jealousy that strangers should

-      watch it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I hated the gay crowds seething in to find enjoyment in my shame and her

-      tragedy. They were jesters at something sacred.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I paced the boulevard with clenched hands and snapping nerves; I could not

-      go far away from her, and I could not go to her. Within my brain she was

-      always dancing, dancing, and the jaded eyes of Paris grew young with greed

-      of her sensational perfection. I longed to go to her, to protect her, to

-      save her from herself. She needed me, though she would scorn the idea if I

-      told her. If she would but allow it, I would carry her away from these

-      hectic nights and this subtle, soul-destroying sensualism. Her shame was

-      my doing; I would give all my life to make amends to her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      But she gave me no sign that she had either seen or heard from me. What

-      else could I expect? How could I explain my infatuation even to myself,

-      let alone to her, as more than physical attraction? And was it more?...

-      Once she had offered me far more than I now begged; I had churlishly

-      refused it. How could I account to her for my altered valuation of her

-      worth? She would not answer&mdash;I knew that now. I should have to compel

-      her attention.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Next morning in reading the papers I came across her name frequently. She

-      was the madcap darling of Paris; every edition contained some anecdote of

-      <i>La Fiesole</i> and her erratic doings. One item captured my interest

-      especially: there was a certain café in the Champs Elysées to which she

-      went often after theatre hours. For the time being she had made it the

-      most fashionable midnight resort in Paris.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      That night, having bribed heavily for the privilege, I was seated at a

-      table near the entrance. If she came, she could scarcely pass without

-      seeing me. The place was an <i>al fresco</i> restaurant, gorgeously

-      theatric. It stood in a garden, brilliantly romantic and insincere as a

-      stage-setting. Overlooking the garden were white verandahs,

-      creeper-covered and garish with hothouse flowers; throughout it were

-      scattered kiosks and bowers in which the more secret of the diners sat.

-      The plumed trees were knit together with ropes of lights, like

-      pearl-necklaces which had been tossed into their branches casually. In

-      bushes and hidden among blossoms, glow-worm illuminations twinkled, like

-      faeries kindling and extinguishing their lamps. Everything was subdued and

-      sensuous. Fountains played and splashed. Statues glimmered. A gipsy

-      orchestra, fierce-looking and red-coated, clashed frenzied music, which

-      sobbed away into dreamy waltzes and elusive snatches of melody. The effect

-      was bizarre&mdash;artistically unreal and emotionally tropic.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Here one might experience a great passion which consumed by its panting

-      brevity; everyone seemed present for the express purpose of realizing such

-      a passion.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At tables seated in couples were extraordinary people, dressed to play

-      their part in a dare-devil romance. Here were men who looked like Russian

-      Archdukes, bearded, bloodless, and insolently languid. Sitting opposite

-      them were voluptuous women, tragically exotic, dangerously coaxing, with

-      the melodramatic appearance of scheming nihilists. They were reckless,

-      these costly, slant-eyed odalisques&mdash;exiles from commonplace

-      kindliness, born gamblers for the happiness they had thrown away and would

-      never re-capture. There was the atmosphere of intrigue, of indiscreet

-      liaison about almost every couple. They acted as though for one ecstatic

-      moment the world was theirs. Their behavior was everything that is

-      exaggerated, fond, undomestic, and arrogantly well-bred.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      There was something lacking. As each new arrival entered, the slanted eyes

-      of the women and the heavy eyes of the men were raised droopingly with an

-      expression of furtive expectancy. They were a chorus assembled, waiting

-      for the leading actor till the play should commence.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Low rippling laughter, spontaneously joyous, sounded. From the trellised

-      entrance she emerged and halted, looking mock-bashful, taking in the

-      effect she had created, spurning the gravel with her golden slipper. Her

-      gown was of dull green satin, cut audaciously low in the back and neck,

-      and slashed from the hem to expose her slim ankle and golden stocking. She

-      wore no jewels, but between her breasts was a yellow rose, which drifted

-      nodding on the whiteness of her bosom as she drew her breath. Her reddish

-      gold hair was wrapped <i>en bandeaux</i> about her small pale ears and

-      broad pale forehead. It shone metallic; its brightness dulled and

-      quickened as she swayed her splendid body.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At her first appearance a muttering had arisen, gathering in volume. As

-      she lifted her head and her green eyes flashed through her long, bronze

-      lashes, we grew silent. It was as though a tamer had entered a cage of

-      panthers and stood cowing them with her consciousness of power. Yes, she

-      knew what they thought of her, and guessed what they admired in her. She

-      surveyed us with quiet contempt. I felt that behind whatever she did or

-      said there lay hidden a timid girlishness. She was still the old Fiesole,

-      the happy companion who could tramp through rainstorms like a man. Her

-      brave pagan purity these half-way decadents had not tarnished; by them it

-      was unsuspected. I watched her tall, lithe figure; the neck so small that

-      one could span it with a hand; the firm, high bosom, proud and virginal;

-      the straight, frank brows, and the mouth so red and sweetly drooping.

-      Other women looked decorative and tinsel beside her natural perfection.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My throat was parched. My eyes felt scalded. I was unnerved and a-tremble.

-      Her beauty daunted as much as it challenged. What bond still existed

-      between us that would draw her to me? She looked so remote, so hemmed in

-      by the new personality she had developed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her green eyes swept the garden, probing its secret shadows. For whom was

-      she looking? They rested on mine, absorbed me&mdash;then fell away without

-      recognition. I had risen in my place, with head bent forward, ready to go

-      to her at the least sign of friendship. I remained standing and staring.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned to one of her companions and whispered something, at which they

-      both laughed. He was a tall poetic-looking man, slight of hip, blue-eyed,

-      and handsome. His hair was wavy and yellow, his face bearded, and his skin

-      pale with excess. There were other men with her, Monsieur Georges among

-      others; but on the poet alone she lavished her attention. She gave him her

-      arm and came towards me with the undulating stride that I knew so well.

-      For a second I believed she was going to acknowledge me; she went by so

-      closely that her gown trailed across my feet and brushed my hands. It was

-      cruelly intended. The play had opened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The table that had been reserved for her was next to mine, partly hidden

-      from the public gaze by bushes; as I watched, I caught glimpses of her

-      profile, and could always hear the lazy murmur of her voice and

-      occasionally fragments of what was said. I followed her foreign gestures,

-      her tricks of personality&mdash;all of them adorably familiar: the way she

-      shifted her eyebrows in listening, sunk her chin between her breasts when

-      she was serious, and clapped her hands in excitement. She was as simple as

-      a child&mdash;in her heart she had not altered. Even the way in which she

-      made me suffer what she had suffered was childish. This pretending not to

-      know me was so transparent. There were other and more subtle methods by

-      which she could have taken her revenge.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was not the only man who attempted to spy on her; there might have been

-      no other woman present. Languid faces scattered throughout the garden took

-      on a new sharpness. They turned and looked down from balconies on La

-      Fiesole, eager to catch glimpses of her. To their women-companions men

-      listened with a bored pretense of attention. Perhaps it was because of

-      this, in an effort to focus interest on themselves, that the women, as by

-      a concerted plan, became more animated.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Suddenly a girl in scarlet leapt upon a table and commenced to dance with

-      flashing eyes and whirling skirts. I heard someone say that she was a

-      gipsy and that her brother was first-violinist in the orchestra. The music

-      mounted up, wild and unrestrained; the small feet beat faster; the actions

-      became more frenzied. She turned away from her comrade and bent back

-      double, peering into his eyes; she flung herself from him, chaffing him

-      with grim endearments; she feigned to become furious; then she threw

-      herself across his knees exhausted, writhing her arms about his neck. Men

-      eyed her with studied carelessness. She had done it before and they had

-      applauded. They could see her any night. They could not always feast their

-      eyes on La Fiesole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Saturnalia broke loose. Girl after girl rose upon chair or table, or went

-      swaying through the magic garden like a frail leaf harried by a storm.

-      They danced singly, they danced together, going through grotesque

-      contortions, beckoning lovers with their eyes and gestures.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And I watched Fiesole through the bushes. She was not so indifferent to me

-      as she pretended. She was playacting to rouse my jealousy; she was

-      purposely scourging me into madness. I alone of the public was

-      sufficiently near to see clearly what she was doing. She was luring her

-      poet to recklessness, taking no notice of what was in process about her.

-      Did I catch her eye, she looked past me without recognition. But him she

-      enticed by her gentleness. The man was drunk with her favor and beauty. He

-      trembled to put the thoughts of a lover into action; she challenged him

-      with her eyes, warning him from her and beckoning him to her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Stooping over her, so low that his lips were in her hair, he whispered;

-      but she shook her head. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, as

-      though to steady him and to soften the unkindness of her refusal. Quickly

-      he caught it in his own and bent over it, running his lips along her

-      fingers and up her arm&rsquo;s smooth curves. She looked down on him unmoved,

-      disdainful at his breach of manners, yet superbly amorous. Clutching her

-      hotly to him, he kissed her on the throat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Blind anger shook me&mdash;lust for violence such as I had never felt.

-      Breaking into the toy arbor where they sat, I remember standing over him,

-      dragging him backward by the collar, so that his face glared up at mine

-      empurpled. His friends rushed forward, beating me about the head and

-      shoulders, tearing at my hands, trying to make me release my hold.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole had risen like a fury. The table went down with a crash. Her face

-      was deadly pale and her green eyes blazed with indignation. Her hands were

-      clenched as if she also were about to strike me. And I was pouring out a

-      torrent of words, telling her swiftly how I loved her and all that she had

-      made me suffer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her rage died away as she listened and her expression became inscrutable.

-      Quickly she darted back her head, laughing without happiness, mockingly.

-      &ldquo;You are very English, my friend. If you make so much noise, these

-      messieurs will think we are married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I caught her by the wrists, so that she backed away from me. &ldquo;I wish to

-      God we were.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, la, la, la!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She went off into a peal of merriment, pointing her finger at me. The

-      crowd gathered round us uncertain, asking in half-a-dozen languages what

-      had been the provocation and what we were saying.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her look changed. It was as though a mask had fallen. The temptress and

-      witch were gone. I seemed to see in her melancholy eyes all the longing

-      for tenderness and loyalty that I thought had been killed years ago in

-      Venice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She advanced her face to mine and stared at me timidly, as though fearful

-      she had been mistaken.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Take me out of this,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her companions tried to intercept us, gesticulating and protesting. She

-      brushed them aside, explaining that I was not myself and did not know what

-      I was doing. For her sake they let me go without further molestation.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We passed out, leaving them gaping after us. I helped her into her furs

-      and took my place beside her in the coupé. Before we were out of earshot,

-      the gipsy orchestra had swung into a new frenzy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Once Vi had kept me from Fiesole; now Fiesole was taking me from Vi. And

-      these two women who, through me, had influenced one another&rsquo;s destinies,

-      had never met. They were hostile types.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER VIII&mdash;LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was at a loss

-      what to say to her. Words could not bridge the gulf of more than five

-      years that separated us. Now that anger had subsided, my genius for

-      self-ridicule was at work. What a fool I had made of myself; how supremely

-      silly I must appear in her eyes! It would be in all the papers to-morrow.

-      How would she like that? Where was she taking me and why? Had she come

-      with me simply to get me out of a public place before I committed worse

-      violence?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I pieced together phrases of apology and explanation, but remained

-      tongue-tied. To express the emotions that stormed in my mind all words

-      seemed insincere and inadequate. I was not sufficiently certain of her to

-      venture either speech or action. I was fearful lest her mood might change

-      to one of amusement. My nerves were on edge&mdash;I dared not risk that.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Noiseless as a ghost in a dream-world, the electric coupé drifted up the

-      dully gleaming boulevard. I leant against the padded back and watched her.

-      She sat erect, splendidly self-possessed, her profile framed in the

-      carriage-window with the stealthy lights of Paris slipping by for

-      background. Now she was no more than a blurred outline; now the

-      acetylene-lamps of a swiftly moving car flashed on her like a

-      search-light; now the twinkling incandescence of an illumined café flung

-      jewels in her hair; now her face rested like sculptured ivory on the

-      velvet blackness of the night. She was immobile; even the slender fingers

-      clasped together in her lap never stirred. Our silence had lasted so long

-      that it had ceased to be fragile; it rose between us, a wall of ice.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We drew up against the curb. I had but a vague idea of where we were&mdash;near

-      the Bois, I conjectured. Tall houses stood in shuttered dumbness along one

-      side; on the other, trees shrank beneath the primrose dusk of arc-lights.

-      She stepped out, ignoring my proffered assistance. She crossed the

-      pavement and tapped; as the door swung back I followed her under an

-      archway into a dim courtyard. Having mounted several flights of stairs,

-      she tapped again. To the sleepy maid who opened she whispered hurriedly.

-      The maid discreetly fell behind.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We passed into a room delicately furnished. The floor was heavily carpeted

-      in red. The walls, hung with etchings and landscapes, were paneled in

-      white. Flowers stood about in bowls and slender vases; shaded lamps gave

-      to the room a secret aspect. In the grate a fire of coals was burning and

-      two deep chairs stood one on either side. The atmosphere was intensely and

-      perishably feminine; it gave me the feeling of preparedness&mdash;as

-      though I had been expected. Through tall windows the curious night stared

-      in upon us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole crossed, making no sound save the silken rustle of her dress, and

-      drew the curtains close together. She turned, looking back at me

-      side-long, at once amused and languid. Her coldness and aloofness had

-      vanished. The sparkle of mischief fetched the gold from the depths of her

-      green eyes. Her body became expressive and vibrant. Then I heard her sweet

-      hoarse voice, with its quaintly foreign intonation. It reached me

-      tauntingly, lazy with indifference, holding me at arm&rsquo;s length. &ldquo;Dear man,

-      take a chair by the fire and behave yourself. Mon Dieu, but you were

-      amusing to-night!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laughed softly at remembering and shook her cloak from her white

-      shoulders. A strand of hair broke loose and fell coiling across her

-      breast. She stepped to a mirror, turning her back on me; having twisted it

-      into place, she remained smiling at her reflection, whistling beneath her

-      breath.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her gaiety cut like a lash across my mouth. I was painfully in earnest.

-      She was treating the situation as an incident&mdash;a jest. To me it was a

-      supreme moment&mdash;a turning-point: on what we should say to one another

-      would depend the entire direction of both our lives. I was sorry for her

-      beyond the power of words to express. The success and luxury of her way of

-      living did not blind me to its hollowness and danger. Her frivolity left

-      me affronted and fascinated. She roused in me all the unrestraint of the

-      flesh; and yet I desired to worship her with my mind. I longed to carry

-      her away from the fever and glare of streets to a place of quiet, where

-      the world was blowy&mdash;where she might become what she had once been

-      when I might have had her, genuine and fine. While these thoughts raced

-      through my mind, the insistent question kept repeating itself, why had she

-      brought me here to be alone with her at this late hour of the night?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her eyes flashed out at me maddeningly from the mirror. They prompted to

-      irretrievable folly. They called me to go to her, and to be unworthy of

-      both her and myself. And I knew why: she wished me to say and do the

-      things that were unforgivable that she might have excuse to scorn me, to

-      fling me from her. Once it had been my Puritanism that had thrust us

-      apart; it should not now be my sensualism. I would not let her make a

-      hypocrite of me in my own eyes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The seconds ticked out the silence. Her dress whispered. Her voluptuous

-      white arms, uplifted and curved above her neck as she patted her hair,

-      enhanced the perfect vase-like effect of her body. I would not go to her,

-      I told myself; I would not go to her. I held myself rigid, distraught, and

-      tense. The blood swelled out my throat and beat in my temples. She

-      withdrew her hands. Wickedly, like a shower of largesse, the clustered

-      glory of her hair rained from her head, catching her in a net of

-      smoldering brightness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She glanced with half-closed eyes across her shoulder and feigned

-      astonishment at observing that I had remained standing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Still the same old idjut! Wanting something you&rsquo;re afraid to have, and

-      looking tragic.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Fiesole, girl, don&rsquo;t you understand? It&rsquo;s not that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      My voice sounded odd and strangled. I had spoken scarcely above a whisper.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She swung about and surveyed me leisurely. There was a pout on her mouth

-      like that of a naughty child. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re no longer amusing,&rdquo; she faltered;

-      &ldquo;you grow tiresome. Why can&rsquo;t you be sensible, and sit down? I want to

-      hear all this that you&rsquo;ve got to tell me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You don&rsquo;t make it easy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shrugged her gleaming shoulders. &ldquo;Why should I? You made a horrid row

-      about something that was none of your concern. You nearly choked a friend

-      of mine to death. You don&rsquo;t expect me to say thank you, surely? I ought to

-      punish you; instead, I bring you here. I wanted to have a look at you. Ah!

-      but you were funny&mdash;so righteous and English! You made me laugh....

-      I can forgive anyone who does that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I did not answer, she regarded me puzzled. Slowly her brilliant

-      deviltry and merriment faded. The laughter sank to a whisper and ceased

-      abruptly, frightened at itself. The red lips drooped and parted. Something

-      of my own pinched earnestness was reflected in her expression&mdash;it was

-      as though her soul unveiled itself. She stole across to me wonderingly,

-      her beautiful arms stretched out. She rested the tips of her fingers

-      tremulously on my shoulders.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, that&rsquo;s not true. You were splendid&mdash;so different from the rest.

-      I&rsquo;m a beast. You made me ashamed of myself. That&rsquo;s why I was angry;

-      because you, who made me what I am, should accuse me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Accuse you! God forbid!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I made a movement to gather her to me, but she slipped past me and sank

-      into a chair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Between us not that.&rdquo; She caught her breath. &ldquo;I hate you. I want to hate

-      you. What else did you expect? But I can&rsquo;t. I cannot. You won&rsquo;t let me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You ought to hate me. Call me what you like; it won&rsquo;t be worse than I

-      deserve. I was cruel and selfish. I see it now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shook back her hair from her forehead and bent forward gazing into the

-      fire, her elbows on her knees, her face cushioned in her hands. A sudden

-      gravity and wistfulness had fallen on her. She was thinking, remembering,

-      weighing me in the balance. I must not touch her&mdash;must not speak to

-      her. If I showed any sign of passion, she would mistake it for pity either

-      of her or of myself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I wanted to forget&mdash;to live you out of my life; but you&rsquo;ve brought

-      it all back&mdash;the old bitterness and heartache. You didn&rsquo;t know what

-      you did to me, Dante. You spared my body; you killed everything&mdash;everything

-      else that was best. Look at me now.&rdquo; She glanced down at the exotic daring

-      of her appearance:&mdash;the golden stocking that was revealed from ankle

-      to knee by the narrow slash in the skirt; the splendid extravagant display

-      of arms, throat, and breast that swelled up riotously, uninterrupted,

-      snowy and amorous from the sheathlike dress&mdash;a flashing blade

-      half-withdrawn from its scabbard.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a devil. You made me that, you virgin man. No, don&rsquo;t speak&mdash;&mdash;

-      I thought I should have died of shame after I left you. I could have

-      killed you. You don&rsquo;t know how a woman feels when she&rsquo;s wanted a man with

-      her whole soul and body, and she knows that she&rsquo;s beautiful; and he&rsquo;s

-      flung her from him when she&rsquo;s offered herself, as though she were

-      worthless. &lsquo;He didn&rsquo;t care,&rsquo; I said, &lsquo;so nobody&rsquo;ll ever care.&rsquo;&mdash;&mdash;

-      And then I met Antoine Georges, who had known my father. And I did what

-      you&rsquo;ve seen and I&rsquo;ve won success. When I saw you the other night I wanted

-      to make you suffer. I&rsquo;ve often pictured how I would torture you if ever

-      you should come back&mdash;how I&rsquo;d destroy you&mdash;how I&rsquo;d make you go

-      through the same hell. And now you&rsquo;ve come, and I can&rsquo;t do it.&mdash;&mdash;

-      I may change my mind presently. You&rsquo;d better go while I let you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m never going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She turned her head, scrutinizing my face stealthily from between her

-      hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be a fool. What about her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s no one else. There never will be.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She gasped. &ldquo;You didn&rsquo;t marry her?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The strained look in her face relaxed. She laughed softly to herself; why

-      she laughed I could not guess. It was not the laughter which follows

-      suspense, but the laughter of one who courts danger. It was as though she

-      parted her hair into sheaves and glanced out crying, &ldquo;I am Eve, the long

-      desired.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Reaching over to the table she picked out a cigarette. When it was alight,

-      she snuggled down into the chair, kicking off her little gold shoes and

-      resting her feet on the fender. She eyed me dreamily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you made me suffer all that for nothing? You good men can be cruel.&mdash;&mdash;

-      Tell me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Briefly I told her of my useless visit to Sheba; and why I left; and why I

-      was still unmarried. I kept nothing back in my self-scorn and desire to be

-      honest.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She slipped her feet up and down the gleaming rail as she listened, lying

-      deep in cushions, her cigarette tilted in her mouth, her hands clasped

-      behind her head. When I ended, she frowned at me whimsically from beneath

-      her drawn brows.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, you impracticable person, you might have foreseen all that. You

-      didn&rsquo;t need to cross the Atlantic to discover that a husband doesn&rsquo;t let

-      his wife be taken from him without making trouble.&mdash;&mdash; So you

-      wouldn&rsquo;t pay the price to get her! You&rsquo;re a rotten reckoner, old boy, for

-      a man who counts the cost of everything ahead.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her eye-lids flickered as her deep voice droned the words out.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You should put all that in the past tense, Fiesole. I&rsquo;m not counting

-      anything to-night, penalties or pleasures. I&rsquo;m just a man who&rsquo;s wakened. I

-      want something madly. Whatever it costs me or anybody else, I intend to

-      get it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You always wanted what you couldn&rsquo;t have.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke lazily, blowing smoke-rings into the air, following them with

-      her eyes and watching how they broke before they reached the ceiling. She

-      appeared untouched by my emotion, as though nothing had been said that

-      intimately concerned herself. She let her gaze wander, extending her lithe

-      sweet length luxuriously, as though she had nothing to fear from my

-      passion. I was crazed with desire, for all that I kept my tones quiet and

-      steady. She maddened me with her indifference. It was all pretense&mdash;I

-      knew it. She was playing a part with me, courting the inevitable, tempting

-      me to reveal my hidden self. I watched her with clenched hands&mdash;suffering,

-      yet finding fierce joy in the wonderful pride of her body. I would not

-      have had her otherwise; the colder she appeared, the more I coveted her. I

-      could have had her once for my wife, I reflected, had I chosen. I had

-      tormented her; it was just that I should suffer.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The reticence of years fell away from me. I was kneeling at her side,

-      kissing her unshod feet, her hands, her hair. Words tumbled from my lips,

-      broken and unconsidered. I called her by foolish names such as are only

-      used between lovers. I poured my heart out, speaking of the past and the

-      future. I cursed myself, all the time repeating how I worshiped her&mdash;how

-      I had loved her from a boy, but had come to know it only now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And she gave no sign of response: neither forbidding, nor assenting;

-      letting me have my way with her without acknowledging my presence; a quiet

-      smile playing round her lips; as completely mistress of herself as is a

-      statue.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I trembled into silence. She drooped forward, bending over me, just as she

-      had done years ago in her uncle&rsquo;s summer-house.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My dear, there are things that are offered only once. Five years ago I

-      asked you for all that you are now asking. You were afraid of the price,

-      as you were with the other woman. You refused me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it&rsquo;s marriage I&rsquo;m asking.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah! Then I asked for less.&mdash;&mdash; I&rsquo;m sorry. You ought to have

-      gone when I told you. I felt that I should have to wound you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her gentle dignity stung me into strength. My turbulence died down. As I

-      knelt, I flung my arms around her body and drew her to me. She struggled

-      to draw back, but I held her so closely that my lips were almost on her

-      mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Listen, Fiesole, I&rsquo;m unfair and I mean to be unfair. I was a brute to you

-      once when I meant only to be honorable. To-night I&rsquo;m not caring what I am.

-      You despise me&mdash;you can go on despising me, but I&rsquo;ll wear you out.

-      I&rsquo;ll make you come to love me even against your will. You&rsquo;ll need me some

-      day; I shall wait for that. I want to spend all my life for you; it&rsquo;s the

-      only thing I ask of life now. Wherever you go I shall follow you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I stopped, panting for breath. She had ceased to struggle. Her eyes were

-      wide; her face hovered pale above me; she stared down at me powerless, yet

-      with reckless challenge, breathing upon my mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a rotter to come back like this,&rdquo; she said hotly, &ldquo;just when I was

-      beginning to be happy. When you speak of marriage, you don&rsquo;t know what

-      you&rsquo;re saying. You spoilt all that for me years ago at Venice. D&rsquo;you think

-      I&rsquo;ll ever believe again in the honor and goodness of a man? You&rsquo;ve come

-      too late. Five years changes people. I&rsquo;m a different woman now&mdash;not

-      at all what you imagine.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You can be any kind of woman you choose, but you&rsquo;re the woman I&rsquo;m going

-      to marry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you haven&rsquo;t heard what people say about me?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And I don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;They say I&rsquo;ve had lovers.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t believe them.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What if I should tell you that I have?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shouldn&rsquo;t believe you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;d prefer to think that I&rsquo;d lied to you rather than that I&rsquo;d told you

-      the truth?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It would make no difference. You&rsquo;ve always loved me. You love me now. I

-      know that you are pure.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you would never doubt it? Never doubt it of a woman who dances every

-      night, as I do, before the eyes of Paris?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Never.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She gazed at me curiously, with tenderness and intentness. Her bosom

-      shuddered; I saw the sob rising in her throat. When she spoke, the words

-      came slowly; her eyes were misted over; she trembled as I clasped her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you know, I believe you&rsquo;re the only living man who&rsquo;d be fool enough to

-      say that?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I was always a fool, Fiesole.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I thought she would have kissed me, her lips came so near to mine. &ldquo;But a

-      dear fool, sometimes,&rdquo; she whispered hoarsely; &ldquo;a fool who always comes

-      too late or too early&mdash;but a fool to the end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stood up and my arms slipped down to her knees as I held her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She laughed brokenly. &ldquo;You nearly made me serious. It won&rsquo;t do to be

-      serious at three o&rsquo;clock in the morning.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I won&rsquo;t go till you&rsquo;ve promised. Promise,&rdquo; I urged.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She yawned. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sleepy. You&rsquo;ve worn me out.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But answer me before I go.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She smiled down at me mockingly, ruffling my hair. &ldquo;What a hurry he&rsquo;s in

-      after all these years. Don&rsquo;t you ever go to bed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Tell me to-night. I must know. I can&rsquo;t bear the suspense.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I put up with it for five years.&mdash;&mdash; Well, if you won&rsquo;t go home

-      like a good boy, you won&rsquo;t. There&rsquo;s a couch over there.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She broke from me, leaving me kneeling with my arms empty. As the door

-      opened into the room beyond I had a glimpse of the curtained bed.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I drew my chair closer to the dying fire. Behind the wall I could hear her

-      steps moving up and down as she undressed. Now and then they paused; she

-      was listening for the sound of my departure, uncertain, perhaps, whether I

-      was still there. Some time had elapsed when the door opened gently. I

-      twisted round. Her room was in darkness. She was standing on the

-      threshold. Her feet were bare; she was clad in a white night-robe; across

-      each shoulder, almost to her knees, hung down the red-gold ropes of her

-      braided hair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I meant what I said. I&rsquo;m not going till you tell me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her green eyes met mine roguishly. &ldquo;A persistent fool to-night,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As the door was closing I threw after her, &ldquo;That morning in Venice.... I

-      was going to have asked you to marry me; you were gone....&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Left alone with the last flame flickering in the grate, I watched the

-      little gold shoes.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER IX&mdash;THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he sun was

-      streaming in across my shoulder. Someone had pulled back the curtains. I

-      was stiff and stupid from my cramped position. Despite the morning, the

-      electric-lights were still burning in the room; I blinked down at myself

-      and was astonished to find that I was in evening-dress. As I eased myself

-      up, something dropped to the floor&mdash;the gold shoes of Fiesole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From behind two warm arms fastened themselves about my neck, making me

-      prisoner.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re up early, Dante C. You&rsquo;re a great, stupid juggins to sit up all

-      night and spoil your temper, just when I want you to be more than

-      ordinarily pleasant.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;My temper&rsquo;s not spoilt. Don&rsquo;t worry.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I take your word for it. I&rsquo;ve got a secret to tell you. I&rsquo;m going on the

-      spree to-day&mdash;going to be immensely happy. I want you to help. If

-      you&rsquo;ve any of your tiresome scruples left over, you&rsquo;d best chuck &rsquo;em;

-      or I&rsquo;ll find someone else.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Bit early, isn&rsquo;t it, to tackle a chap? I&rsquo;m too stupid to know what you

-      mean. But I&rsquo;m game. How long&rsquo;s this spree to last?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Till it ends.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then it&rsquo;ll last forever, so long as it&rsquo;s just you and me.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She dug the point of her chin into my shoulder. Glancing sideways, I

-      caught the impish sparkle of her eyes and the glow of her cheeks, flushed

-      with health and excitement.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps you&rsquo;d like to kiss me,&rdquo; she whispered, bringing her demure red

-      lips on a level with my mouth.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And now, perhaps you&rsquo;d like to kiss me,&rdquo; I suggested.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When I attempted to rise, she restrained me. &ldquo;Not till I&rsquo;ve made my

-      bargain and you&rsquo;ve agreed to my terms. I haven&rsquo;t made up my mind about

-      you, so you needn&rsquo;t start talking marriage. Don&rsquo;t know what I&rsquo;m going to

-      do with you, Dannie. So you&rsquo;re to come with me wherever I choose till I&rsquo;m

-      tired&mdash;and you&rsquo;re to ask no questions. Understand?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You never will be tired. I&rsquo;m coming with you always.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And you&rsquo;ll ask no questions?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No more than I can help.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled shirt-front; I was so

-      obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion. She went off into peals

-      of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth, and

-      clapping her hands. &ldquo;What have I done to you? You&rsquo;re a bottle of

-      champagne; I&rsquo;ve pulled the cork out. I&rsquo;ll never get you all back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I took her hands in mine, folding them together, and drew her to me.

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll never get any of me back. You&rsquo;ve made me love you. That&rsquo;s what

-      you&rsquo;ve done, you adorable witch-woman.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Oh, la, la! Don&rsquo;t talk like that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t help it. Don&rsquo;t want to help it. You&rsquo;ve made me mad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Poor old Dannie! Horrid of me, wasn&rsquo;t it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      A tap at the door; the maid entered, bringing in rolls and coffee. I

-      started away from Fiesole, but she held me. &ldquo;You can&rsquo;t shock Marie; she&rsquo;s

-      hardened; she&rsquo;s heard all about you, and some pretty bad things she&rsquo;s

-      heard.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Over her coffee she grew thoughtful.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the matter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You are.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Already?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the

-      morning?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How d&rsquo;you want me dressed?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Got &rsquo;em all at my hotel. I&rsquo;ll slip back.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She slanted her eyes at me. &ldquo;Slip back to London, perhaps! No, Dannie, I

-      don&rsquo;t trust you yet. I don&rsquo;t intend to lose you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed.

-      Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered

-      conversation reached me, scraps of nervously spoken French, and the

-      opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy

-      velvet, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish figure.

-      The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur.

-      The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match.

-      Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted

-      in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty of a coquette. She

-      looked oddly young and distinguished on this rare spring morning. There

-      never was such a woman for arranging her temperament to suit her dress.

-      Her hectic manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy as

-      she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the

-      effect.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So I meet with your approval?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Passing down the stairs, she hugged my arm impulsively&mdash;a trick which

-      brought memories of Ruthita. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s awfully jolly to be loved&mdash;don&rsquo;t

-      you think so?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing. The chauffeur

-      stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the

-      boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze

-      back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry at one another as

-      to the identity of her strangely attired companion. We drew up at my hotel

-      in the Rue St. Honoré.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I give you fifteen minutes. Is that sufficient? Make yourself gay. Don&rsquo;t

-      forget, a tweed suit, brown shoes, a gray felt hat&mdash;oh, and a red tie

-      if you&rsquo;ve got one. I couldn&rsquo;t endure anything black.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I found her with her eager face turned towards the doorway, watching

-      impatiently for me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A good beginning&mdash;ready to the second. Jump in. We&rsquo;re off to

-      somewhere where no one&rsquo;ll know anything about us. Let&rsquo;s see if we can&rsquo;t

-      lose ourselves.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She swung the car round and away we snorted, through the Place de la

-      Concorde blanched in sunlight, up the Champs Elysées where sunlight

-      spattered against blossoming trees and lay in pools on the turf. The

-      streets were animated with little children, women in bright dresses,

-      dashing cars and carriages. Paris gleamed white and green and golden.

-      Overhead the sky foamed and bubbled, yawning into blue and primrose

-      gulleys, trampled by stampeding clouds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the Place de l&rsquo;Etoile the car drew up sharply and skidded; circled like

-      a hound picking up the scent; then darted swiftly away to the Bois, where

-      fashionables already loitered and acacias trembled murmurously.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole was radiant with impatience. A goddess of speed, she bent above

-      the wheel, casting her eyes along the road ahead. Did a gap occur in the

-      traffic, she flung the car forward, driving recklessly, yet always with

-      calculated precision. I marveled at her nerve and the silent power that

-      lay hidden in her thin, fine hands.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As we shot the bridge at St. Cloud the pace quickened. It was as though

-      she shook Paris from her skirts and ran panting to meet wider stretches of

-      wind-bleached country. I had one vivid glimpse of the ribbon of blue

-      river, boat-dotted, winding through young green of woodlands; then cities

-      and sophistication, and all things save Fiesole, myself, and the future

-      were at an end.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Soon the white road curved uninterrupted before us, a streak between

-      pollarded trees and blown meadows. Over the horizon came bounding hills

-      and church-spires, villages and rivers; as they came near to us they

-      halted, like shy deer, for a second; when we drew level, they fled. It was

-      as though we were stationary and the world was rushing past us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The wind of our going brought color to her cheeks and fluttered out her

-      hair. Her eyes were starry, fixed on the distance as she skirted the rim

-      of eternity in her daring. Should an axle break or a tire burst, all this

-      fire of youth would be extinguished forever. I glanced at the speedometer;

-      it quivered from seventy to eighty, to eighty-five kilometers, and there

-      it hovered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The throb of the engine seemed the throb of my passion. We were traveling

-      too fast for talking. She did not want to talk; she was escaping from

-      something, memories, perhaps&mdash;hers and mine. In her modern way she

-      was expressing what I had always felt: the tedium of captivity, sameness,

-      and disappointment&mdash;the need for the unwalled garden, where barriers

-      of obedience and duty are broken down.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At Evreux we halted for petrol. I proposed déjeuner, she shook her head

-      naughtily.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where are we going?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Over there, to the West.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Any particular spot in the West?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll see presently.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How about the theatre?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Time enough,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She spoke breathlessly, remaining at the wheel while the man was filling

-      the tank. Somehow it seemed to me that the town had come between us; we

-      understood one another better when the garden of the world was flying past

-      us.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Before the man was paid, she had turned on the power. As we lunged

-      forward, he jumped aside and I flung the money out. Our wild ride towards

-      the Eden of the forbidden future recommenced.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently, without turning her head, she broke the silence. &ldquo;Slip your arm

-      round me, old boy; my back grows tired.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I placed my arm about the slender, upright figure and slid my shoulder

-      behind her, so she leant against me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the idea, Fiesole? Paolo and Francesca?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And Adam and Eve, if you like; and Dan Leno and Herbert Campbell; and

-      Joseph Parker and Jane Cake-bread. Anything, so long as we keep going.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When I attempted to speak again, she turned on more power and threw me a

-      smile which was a threat.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I clasped her closer. &ldquo;Little devil! I&rsquo;ll keep quiet. You needn&rsquo;t do

-      that.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      But though I kept quiet my heart beat madly. The panorama of change

-      sweeping by, with her face the one thing constant, quickened and

-      emphasized my need of her more than any spoken tenderness. Our thoughts

-      merged and interchanged with a subtlety that speech could never have

-      accomplished. The pressure of her body, the tantalizing joy of her

-      nearness and forbiddenness, the imminence of death, the law of silence&mdash;these

-      summed up in a moment&rsquo;s experience the entire philosophy of love, and of

-      life itself.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I began to understand her meaning, her language; she was temporizing as I

-      had temporized at Venice; but instead of going away from me, she was

-      fleeing with me from circumstance. She was telling me of her woman&rsquo;s pride&mdash;her

-      difficulty to make herself attainable after what had happened. She loved

-      me and she hated me. She drew me to her and she thrust me from her. She

-      could not forget and she dreaded to remember. And she said all this when,

-      in escaping, she took me with her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Now I saw nothing of the hurrying landscape; I watched her. I wrote all

-      her beauty on the tablets of my mind&mdash;nothing should be unremembered:

-      the way her curls crept from under her cap and fluttered about her

-      temples; the clear pallor of her forehead; the firm, broad brows; the

-      quiet challenge of her deep-lashed eyes; how her red mouth pouted and her

-      head leant forward from her frail white neck, like a flower from its

-      stalk, in a kind of listening expectancy. And I observed the tender

-      swelling of her breasts, high and proud, yet humble for maternity; and the

-      pliant strength of her supple body; and her long clean limbs; and the

-      delicately modeled feet and ankles, which shot out from beneath her

-      fur-trimmed skirt&mdash;the feet of a dancer, graceful and fragile as

-      violins.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was mad. I wanted her. No matter how she came to me, I wanted her. I

-      could not bear the thought that we should ever be separated. She was so

-      intensely mine at this present; and yet, though she was mine, I was

-      insanely jealous to preserve her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      With the long fascination of watching her I bent slowly forward. The

-      action was instinctive, uncalculated. How long I took in approaching her,

-      I cannot tell. I was anxious to last out the joy of anticipation; I was

-      not conscious of motion. My lips touched hers. Her hold on the wheel

-      relaxed. Her eyes met mine. The car swerved, hung upon the edge of the

-      road, ran along it balancing; then bounded back into the straight white

-      line.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I was so frenzied that I did not care. She had thought to hold me prisoner

-      by her speed; I would overcome her with defiance. I kissed her again,

-      holding her to me. She kept her eyes on the distance now, but her mouth

-      smiled tenderly.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That was foolish,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I raised my voice to reach her above the moaning of the engine. &ldquo;The whole

-      thing&rsquo;s foolish.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She broke into wild laughter. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s why I like it, like you, like

-      myself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We hovered on the brim of a valley; then commenced to sink as though the

-      earth had given way beneath us. Far below, as far as eye could reach, were

-      orchards smoking with white blossom. Through the heart of the valley a

-      river ran; standing on its puny banks was a gray old town, blinking in the

-      wind and sun like a spectacled grandmother who had nodded to sleep, and

-      wakened bewildered to find spring rioting round her.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where is it?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Lisieux, unless I&rsquo;m mistaken.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Then you know where we&rsquo;re going?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;More or less.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We pulled up in a drowsy, sun-drenched market-place outside a sleepy café.

-      At tables on the pavement, with hands in their blouses and legs sprawled

-      out, sat a few artisans, eyeing their absinthe. Houses tottered and sagged

-      from extreme old age. Across the way a cathedral, scarred by time and

-      chapped by weather, raised its crumbling sculptured towers against the

-      clouds.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She took my hand as she stepped out. &ldquo;You nearly did for us just now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who cares?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She shrugged her shoulders. &ldquo;All Paris cares. I&rsquo;m not anxious to be dead;

-      when I am, I&rsquo;d like to look pretty.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced

-      tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing

-      to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I

-      ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. &ldquo;You

-      know, I <i>am</i> pretty.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become

-      alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the

-      square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves

-      close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a Frenchman

-      always pays to feminine beauty.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. &ldquo;This

-      can&rsquo;t go on.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She laughed with her eyes. &ldquo;It can go on as long as there&rsquo;s any petrol

-      left, and as long as you don&rsquo;t try to kiss me when I&rsquo;m speeding.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not what I meant; you know it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What then? The same old thing&mdash;marriage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I ignored her flippancy. &ldquo;You&rsquo;ll be turning back directly, and when you

-      get to Paris, you won&rsquo;t be like you are now. You&rsquo;ll be <i>La Fiesole</i>

-      and to-night you&rsquo;ll be dancing with them all watching. I can&rsquo;t bear it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I shan&rsquo;t.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re not going back? You&rsquo;ve given up the theatre?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She held me in suspense, letting her eyes wander as though she had not

-      heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting smile of hers. &ldquo;Damn

-      the theatre,&rdquo; she said quietly; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going on with you to the end.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And the end&rsquo;s marriage?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Who can tell? Now don&rsquo;t be a rotter. You&rsquo;re spoiling everything. Let&rsquo;s

-      talk of something else.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When we climbed into the car, &ldquo;You drive,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But to where?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s my secret. Straight on. I&rsquo;ll tell you when to turn.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head

-      was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her.

-      From time to time I looked down at the white slant of her throat, the

-      shadows beneath her lashes, and the almost childish droop of her mouth.

-      How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a

-      Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at hand&mdash;and

-      both were certain. What different versions she gave me of herself! Once a

-      sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to a halt, and

-      listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the agony of loss

-      that must some time accompany the actuality. One day, sooner or later, I

-      told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur. How much time was left

-      to us to find life beautiful between then and now?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      On the bare Normandy uplands, between tilled fields and driving clouds, I

-      waited for her to waken. The air was growing chill; I drew my coat round

-      her. I felt again, in a new and better way, that sense of nearness and

-      forbiddenness which had exhilarated me to the point of delirium on the

-      madcap journey down from Paris. I looked ahead into the pale distance,

-      where the notched horizon bound the earth with a silver band... and I

-      wondered where she was taking me, and what lay at the end. She might fight

-      against it&mdash;she would fight against it; but the end should be

-      marriage. I would watch over her always as I was watching now.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment with

-      undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She pulled

-      herself together, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes and yawning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Gee up, old hoss. This ain&rsquo;t a bloomin&rsquo; cab-stand. You&rsquo;re not home yet.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, I shan&rsquo;t pay you,&rdquo; she laughed; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s not fair. Pray what did you

-      think you were doing?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Enjoying myself.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s the difference; you like to crawl, I like to hurtle. You&rsquo;re a

-      tortoise; I&rsquo;m a razzle-dazzle. We&rsquo;re an ill-matched pair. Living in Pope

-      Lane has made you pontifical. Oh, Dannie, in ten years your tummy&rsquo;ll be

-      bulgy and your head&rsquo;ll be bald. Pope Lane&rsquo;ll have done it. I know what

-      I&rsquo;ve always missed about you now.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Something horrid? Let&rsquo;s have it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A cowl. You ought to have been a monk in Florence, painting naked angels

-      in impossible meadows.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;So kind of you. Religion mixed with impropriety! If there was someone to

-      relieve me of my conscience, it wouldn&rsquo;t be half bad. But I don&rsquo;t live at

-      Pope Lane any longer. You have the honor of sitting beside Sir Dante

-      Cardover of Woadley Hall, Ransby, of which, you little wretch, you are

-      soon to be mistress.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;That so? Sorry I spoke. Jump out and crank up the engine. It&rsquo;s coming on

-      again&mdash;you&rsquo;re going to have the sentimentals, and you&rsquo;re going to

-      have &rsquo;em bad.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve known you sentimental, Fiesole.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Her lips trembled, and her body stiffened. &ldquo;And you punished me for it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You have a woman&rsquo;s memory.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Odd, seeing I&rsquo;m a woman. Who&rsquo;s going to crank that engine? Am I, or are

-      you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We swung on through the bare bleak country with masked faces. She sat a

-      little apart from me, her knees crossed and her hands clasped about them.

-      Did I glance at her, she turned petulantly in the opposite direction. I

-      cursed myself. I was almost angry with her. What was her plan? Had she

-      given me the privileges of dearness to her simply that she might thwart

-      and taunt me? How could I teach her to forget? How could I teach myself to

-      forget? At the back of my mind I loved her the more because of her

-      perversity.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came to a cross-road. She touched me on the arm; we swerved into it.

-      Far down the white stretch I saw a speck, which resolved itself into a man

-      and woman, traveling away from us with their backs towards us. The man

-      wore the blue blouse and wide, baggy trousers of a peasant; his feet were

-      shod in sabots. The woman was clad in a coarse, loose dress, like a sack

-      drawn over her and tied about the middle; it was neutral in tone, being

-      aged by weather. Her figure was shapeless&mdash;almost animal in its

-      ponderous patience and breadth. Her hair was flaxen from exposure. They

-      plodded through the bleak expanse with heads bowed, bodies huddled, and

-      arms encircling. Every few paces they halted; we saw the gleam of their

-      faces as they clung lip to lip in hasty ecstasy.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The wind was blowing from them towards us; they were unaware of us. I had

-      my hand on the horn, when Fiesole clutched me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t. They&rsquo;ve nothing in the world but this moment. God knows what lies

-      before them!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We followed them at a distance. The symbolism of their silent figures awed

-      us: overhead, the soundless battle of high-flying clouds; beneath, the

-      gray vacancy with springtime stirring; around, the dun, unheeding earth;

-      through the bareness the white road sweeping on unhurrying toward the land

-      of sunsets; traveling along it a man and woman, for the time forgetful of

-      their poverty, the focus-point of responsive passion. They had nothing but

-      this moment.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And what have we?&rdquo; I questioned.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She crouched beside me; her soft arm stole about my neck. &ldquo;Dearest,

-      forgive me,&rdquo; she murmured.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Her eyes were blinded; my lips against her cheek were salt. She clung to

-      me desperately, as though a hand pressed on her shoulder to jerk her from

-      me&mdash;Vi&rsquo;s hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Where a rutted lane sloped down to a wooded hollow, the lovers turned.

-      Among pollarded trees we lost them. They would never know that we had

-      watched them. So they vanished out of our lives, walking hand-in-hand

-      toward child-bearing and the inevitable separation of death that lurked

-      for them at some hidden cross-road. We, equally unknowing, to what place

-      of parting were we faring?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I tilted up her face. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve been a selfish fool. I&rsquo;ll never speak another

-      word about marriage or anything that will pain you. Oh, Fiesole, if you

-      could only love me&mdash;love me as I love you&mdash;as though there was

-      nothing else left!&rdquo; She took my hands in her small ones, pressing them to

-      her breast, quoting in a low sing-song, &ldquo;Laugh, for the time is brief, a

-      thread the length of a span. Laugh and be proud to belong to the old proud

-      pageant of man.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I like that&mdash;&lsquo;the old proud pageant of man.&rsquo; I wonder where you got

-      it. But is there to be nothing deeper between us than laughter?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If we do the laughing,&rdquo; she said, &ldquo;life&rsquo;s ready to do the rest. But

-      you&rsquo;re a puritan at heart: you suspect that gladness is somehow unholy.

-      Don&rsquo;t you know, Mr. Bunyan, that laughter is the language they speak in

-      heaven?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t; neither do you. But when you say so laughing, I can almost

-      believe it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      When we had once again started, she became more frank. It was because my

-      hands were occupied, perhaps. Laying her cheek against my shoulder,

-      &ldquo;Dante, I&rsquo;m not a flirt,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I just can&rsquo;t make up my mind about

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Maybe, I&rsquo;ll make it up for you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Maybe. But I want you to understand why I did what I did this morning&mdash;speeding

-      like that and behaving as though I was cracked. I was afraid you were

-      going to make love to me every moment&mdash;and I didn&rsquo;t want it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;D&rsquo;you want it now?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo; She dragged the words out wide-apart. &ldquo;And yet I do know;

-      but I&rsquo;ve no right to allow it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You silly child, why on earth not?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m inconstant; I&rsquo;m like that now. I should make you happy first and

-      sorry afterwards.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll risk it. I made you sorry first and now I&rsquo;m going to make you

-      happy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do you think you are?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Sure of it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The road began to descend, at first gradually. The bare, tilled uplands

-      where winter lingered, were left behind and we ran through a sheltered

-      land of orchards. The air pulsated with the baaing of lambs and the sweet

-      yearning of fecundity. Under blown spray of fruit-trees the little

-      creatures gamboled, halting by fits and starts, calling to their mothers,

-      or kneeling beneath them, their thirsty throats stretched up and their

-      long tails flapping. Surrounded by lean trees, lopped of their lower

-      branches, gray farmhouses rose up, watching like aged shepherds.

-      Slowfooted cattle, heavy-uddered, wandered between the hedges with their

-      great bags swinging. Women with brass jars on their shoulders, which

-      narrowed at the neck like funeral urns, walked through the meadows to the

-      milking.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Do we turn or go on?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Go on.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;How much farther?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A little farther.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s getting older and older isn&rsquo;t it, Fiesole?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;No, younger and younger, stupid. Look at all the lambs.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Before us the land piled up into a hillock, breaking the level sweep of

-      sky-line and hiding what lay beyond. The road curved about it in a slow

-      descent.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole leant past me, shutting off the power. &ldquo;Let her coast,&rdquo; she said.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      At the bend in the road I jammed on the brakes, halting the car. She

-      slipped her hand into mine; we filled our eyes with the sight, saying

-      nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Sheer against the sky rose a jagged rock and perched on its summit, so

-      much a part of it that it seemed to have been carved, stood a ruined

-      castle. Its windows were vacant; its roof had long since fallen; its walls

-      had been bruised and broken by cannon. It tottered above the valley like a

-      Samson blinded, groping on the edge of the precipice, its power shorn.

-      Round the embattled rock, like children who trusted the old protector,

-      gathered mediaeval houses. Some of them, centuries ago, had wandered off

-      into the snowy orchards and stood tiptoe, as though listening, ready to

-      run back should they hear the tramp of an invading army. Through the

-      valley and into the town a narrow stream darted, flashing like an arrow.

-      Behind town and castle, across the horizon, towered a saffron wall of

-      cloud, tipped along the edge with fire and notched in the center where the

-      molten ball of the setting sun rested. From quaint gray streets came up a

-      multitude of small sounds, like the lazy humming of women spinning. And

-      over all, across orchards and roofs of houses, the grim warden on the rock

-      threw his shadow. It was a valley forgotten by the centuries&mdash;a

-      garden without barriers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Where are we?&rdquo; I whispered.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Falaise, my darling. I always promised myself that if ever I should love

-      a man, I would bring him to Falaise to love him. Can&rsquo;t you feel it&mdash;the

-      slow quiet, the sense of the ages watching?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She was aflame in the light of the sunset. Her face was ivory, intense and

-      ardent with glory. Her waywardness and fondness for disguise were gone;

-      her true self, steady and unafraid, gazed out on me. The havoc of passion

-      was replaced by the contentment of a desire all but satisfied.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s go to the castle first,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;You remember its story?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      I remembered: how Robert the Devil, Duke of the Normans, had found

-      Arlotta, the tanner&rsquo;s daughter, washing linen in that same little beck;

-      and had loved her at sight and had carried her off to his castle on the

-      rock, where was born William the Bastard, conqueror of England and

-      greatest of all the Normans.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Leaving the car in the village street, we climbed the rock and gained

-      admittance. As we gazed down from the splintered battlements into the

-      winding streets, Fiesole drew me to her, throwing her arm carelessly about

-      my neck as though we were boy and girl.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Look,&rdquo; she whispered, pointing sheer down to the foot of the precipice,

-      &ldquo;there&rsquo;s the tannery still standing and the beck running past it. And see,

-      there are girls washing linen; one of them might be Arlotta. In nine

-      hundred years nothing has altered.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We stole across the threshold of the stone-paved room in which the

-      Conqueror was born. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m going to shock you,&rdquo; she said. &ldquo;I always think of

-      Falaise as another Bethlehem&mdash;the Bethlehem of war. The Bethlehem of

-      peace has crumbled, shattered by war; but here&rsquo;s Falaise unchanged since

-      the day when Robert the Devil seized Arlotta and galloped up the rock, and

-      bolted his castle door. It sets one thinking&mdash;&mdash;&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Thinking something dangerous, I&rsquo;ll warrant.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She brushed the rebellious curls from her forehead and leant back against

-      the wall laughing. &ldquo;Thinking all kinds of thoughts: that it pays best in

-      this world to steal what you want.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps&mdash;if you steal strongly.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But I have stolen strongly; see how I&rsquo;ve carried you off.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by a

-      garden and opened out beyond into a misty orchard. At sound of our

-      entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office,

-      holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole

-      detained me. &ldquo;You&rsquo;re my prisoner,&rdquo; she said; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m responsible. You stay

-      here and I&rsquo;ll tell her what we want.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent

-      indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard,

-      where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the

-      sabots clap along the causeways.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that little

-      was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to think: for

-      me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not what memories.

-      We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of live hands was

-      the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen when we wandered

-      out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling directionless under broken

-      archways, past ancient churches&mdash;bribes to God for forgiveness for

-      wrongs still more ancient.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We peeped into crouching cottages as we passed. We were glad of their

-      company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult of feeling that ran

-      riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set out

-      to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing panes of

-      kindly peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made furnishings.

-      Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were passed, the

-      family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary candle in the

-      center; looming out of the shadows on the wall was the cross. Sometimes

-      the man was still at work, carving sabots or weaving, while the woman held

-      a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on the stone-paved floor.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      One by one the lights were quenched and the doors fastened.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head

-      upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor of

-      her body and hear the fluttering intake of her breath. The wind,

-      whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant in our

-      nostrils. For intervals there was no sound save the rustle of falling

-      blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale

-      dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between

-      steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon

-      plunged onward, scattering the clouds before it.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      We came again to the hostel; when we entered, we walked apart. Quickly, as

-      though seized with sudden misgiving, Fiesole left me. I heard her footstep

-      mounting the stairs and saw the light spring up in her window. Every other

-      window was in darkness. From where I sat in the courtyard I could see the

-      shadow of her figure groping, and her arms uplifted as she unbound her

-      hair. The light went out. I wondered if she watched me. I listened to hear

-      her stirring; I could hear nothing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the dim quiet, shut out from the excitement of her presence, I had

-      leisure to reflect on whither I was going. I drew apart from myself and

-      eyed my doings impartially. It was a whim of curiosity that had brought me

-      to Paris&mdash;one of those instinctive decisions which construct a

-      destiny. The sight of her as Lucrezia had stabbed me to remorse, and then

-      to folly. That she had hated me up to last night and that the desire of

-      her wild heart had been to torture me, I did not doubt; but I thought that

-      there were moments in this day when she had loved me with the old

-      uncalculating kindness. What was her intention now?

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Unaccountably out of the past, Fiesole had returned&mdash;Fiesole, the

-      girl-woman I had loved as a boy before Vi. I felt like a broken gamester

-      who has discovered an overlooked coin in his pocket after having believed

-      himself penniless. So strange was this happening that it could not be

-      fortuitous&mdash;we had met because we had been piloted.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      All seeming failure of the past would take on an aspect of design and

-      would appear a straight road leading to this moment, were our journeyings

-      to end in marriage. And, though she would not own it, she needed the

-      protection of a man who loved her to guard her against her success and

-      self-reliance.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My thoughts ran on, picturing the home and little children we would have.

-      Children would be walls about our love, making it secure. For these I was

-      hungry&mdash;desperately afraid lest the hope of them should be withdrawn.

-      In imagination they seemed already mine, I would speak my heart out: she

-      should understand before it was too late that my need was also hers.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I entered the hostel. In the office the old woman nodded above her

-      knitting. I roused her and asked for my candle.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ah, Monsieur,&rdquo; she said in apology, &ldquo;I had not thought. For a room so

-      small I supposed that one would be sufficient. I have given Madame the

-      candle. If Monsieur will wait, I will fetch another.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      In my surprise I told her that it did not matter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I felt my way up the unlit stairs. At the bedroom-door I knocked.

-      Fiesole&rsquo;s voice just reached me, whispering to me to enter. On the

-      threshold I paused, peering into the darkness. The floor was bare; there

-      was little furniture. In the shadows against the wall, a canopied,

-      high-mattressed bed loomed mountainous. Through the window, reaching

-      almost to my feet, a ray of moonlight slanted; in it, gleaming white,

-      stood Fiesole.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as

-      the silence lengthened, the space between us seemed impassable.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      She held out her arms; her hoarse voice spoke, yearning towards me with

-      its lazy sweetness. &ldquo;Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      <br /><br />

-    </p>

-    <hr />

-    <p>

-      <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a>

-    </p>

-    <div style="height: 4em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-    <h2>

-      CHAPTER X&mdash;THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN

-    </h2>

-    <p class="pfirst">

-      <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had been for a

-      saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found

-      Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a

-      paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my

-      footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me

-      beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish

-      eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning.

-      &ldquo;Shall I order déjeuner out here?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She nodded. &ldquo;Where else, but in the sunshine?&rdquo; When I came back from

-      giving the order, her red-gold head was bent again above the paper.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Something interesting?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Rather.&rdquo; She raised her green eyes mischievously. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s all up. We&rsquo;ll be

-      collared within the hour.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s all up? Who&rsquo;s got the right to collar us?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Paris thinks it has, the whole of France thinks it has, but most

-      particularly Monsieur Georges thinks he has, and so does the

-      theatre-management.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Let &rsquo;em try. We don&rsquo;t care.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But, old boy, I do care a little. You see, I shouldn&rsquo;t have been here now

-      if it hadn&rsquo;t been for Monsieur Georges, Paris, and the rest of them. They

-      gave me my chance; going off like this has left them in the lurch. It

-      isn&rsquo;t playing the game, as I understand it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s damages for a broken contract they&rsquo;re after, I&rsquo;ll settle that for

-      you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me

-      extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected

-      her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for

-      half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the

-      crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an

-      under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their

-      places stamping and threatening, shouting for <i>La Fiesole</i>. The

-      curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping

-      and wringing his hands, saying that <i>La Fiesole</i> had been kidnaped by

-      an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time

-      was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the

-      audience out, and the money refunded.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The journalist&rsquo;s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few

-      nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had

-      grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had

-      created a scene between himself and <i>La Fiesole</i> at a café in the

-      Champs Elysées&mdash;a scene which had terminated by them going away

-      together.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Make you out quite a desperate character, don&rsquo;t they, old darling?&rdquo; she

-      drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so much

-      publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder. &ldquo;Come,

-      drink up your coffee, little woman; it&rsquo;s getting cold. Why waste time over

-      all this nonsense? You&rsquo;re out of it. It&rsquo;s all ended.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t. Paris won&rsquo;t let it be ended. They&rsquo;re making more row about

-      me than they did about La Gioconda. They&rsquo;ve offered a reward of five

-      thousand francs for my recovery.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And if they did find us, they couldn&rsquo;t do anything. Discovery won&rsquo;t be

-      easy.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Won&rsquo;t it? We were seen yesterday going together towards St. Cloud;

-      they&rsquo;ve got the number of my car and particulars of my dress from Marie.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But didn&rsquo;t you warn Marie?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Silly fellow, how should I? Didn&rsquo;t know myself what I was going to do

-      when we started&mdash;at least I didn&rsquo;t know positively.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Humph!&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Ripping, isn&rsquo;t it, for a chap like you as &rsquo;as allaws lived decent and

-      &rsquo;oped to die respected? Dannie, Dannie, you&rsquo;re a regular Robert the Devil&mdash;only

-      I stole you, and nobody&rsquo;ll ever believe it.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter what they say about me; it&rsquo;s your good name that

-      matters.&mdash;I promised yesterday never to speak another word about

-      marriage. May I break my promise?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve done it. Go on, John Bunyan.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Well, here&rsquo;s my plan: that we motor through to Cherbourg and skip over to

-      Southampton.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;And then?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Get a special license in the shortest time possible. When we&rsquo;re

-      discovered, you&rsquo;ll be Lady Cardover.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But it isn&rsquo;t necessary that I should be Lady Cardover. I&rsquo;m not ashamed of

-      anything. Are you?&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;Perhaps not; but there&rsquo;s nothing to be gained by dodging the conventions.

-      I ought to know; I&rsquo;ve been dodging &rsquo;em ever since I can remember.

-      I&rsquo;ve come to see that there&rsquo;s something grand about conventions; they&rsquo;re a

-      sort of wall to protect someone you love dearly from attack. We&rsquo;re man and

-      wife already by everything that&rsquo;s sacred; but we shall never be securely

-      happy unless we&rsquo;re married.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Our meal was finished. We wandered off into the orchard at the back. When

-      we were safe from watching eyes, Fiesole gave me her hand. We came to a

-      place where trees grew closer together; here we rested. She leant against

-      me, her face wistful and troubled; the sun through the branches scattered

-      gold and the blossoms snowflakes in her hair.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Presently she disentangled herself from my arms, and jumped to her feet,

-      smiling gently. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve a surprise for you, my virgin man. I want you to

-      stop here for half an hour and promise not to follow.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;A long time to be without you.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;But promise.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      &ldquo;All right. Very well.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      She stooped over me quietly before she went. I watched her pass swaying

-      across the dappled turf, under the dancing shadows and rain of petals.

-      Just before she entered the courtyard, she turned and waved her hand.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Something in Fiesole&rsquo;s distant aspect, something of seeming maidenly

-      daintiness, brought to mind another woman&mdash;gold and ivory, with

-      poppies for her lips, were the words which had described her. While I had

-      walked Falaise that morning I had striven to banish her from my thoughts.

-      And now Fiesole, from whom I had hoped to obtain forgetfulness, Fiesole

-      herself had unconsciously reminded me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      In the stillness I confronted myself: I was being faithless to the loyalty

-      of years&mdash;I had done and was about to do a thing which was traitorous

-      to all my past. Vi&rsquo;s memory, though in itself sinful, had demanded

-      chastity from me.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Yet my present conduct was not incompatible with my past: it was the

-      result of it. Puppy passions of thought had grown into hounds of action&mdash;that

-      was all.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      From the first my pagan imagination, at war with my puritan conscience,

-      had lured me on. All my life I had been breaking bounds imaginatively:

-      innocently for Ruthita in my childhood; in appearance for Fiesole at

-      Venice; dangerously for Vi; and at last in fact for Fiesole. Narrower

-      affections I had passed by, not perceiving that their narrowness made for

-      safety and kindness. The unwalled garden of masterless desire had proved a

-      wilderness; its fruit was loneliness.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Last night, sitting in the courtyard, I had told myself that in remaining

-      constant to Vi, I had gambled for the impossible. Was it true? In any

-      case, to have followed up the risk strongly was my only excuse for having

-      gambled at all. By turning back I abandoned the prize, and made the sin of

-      loving a forbidden woman paltry.&mdash;Might she not have been waiting for

-      me all these years, as I had been waiting! What an irony if now, when I

-      was destroying both the hope and reward of our sacrifice, she were free

-      and preparing to come to me!

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      And Fiesole! I had used her to drug my unsatisfied longing. Should I not

-      do her more grievous wrong in marrying her while I loved another woman?&mdash;I

-      had been mad. I was appalled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Could I ever be at peace with her&mdash;ever make her happy? Fiesole was

-      so flippant, so casual of all that makes for wifehood. And she was almost

-      right in saying that I had made her what she was&mdash;first by my virtue,

-      now by my lack of it. All we could give one another would be passion,

-      swift and self-consuming. Soon would come satiety, the fruit of my doings;

-      after that regret, the fruit of my thoughts. And if we did not marry, I

-      should eat the same fruit, made more bitter by self-scorn.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong

-      lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of

-      domestic affection, giving shelter and security.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door

-      should be closed on the past&mdash;&mdash;

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging

-      of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the

-      inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I

-      felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear

-      it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me.

-      It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and

-      fainter.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran

-      across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up

-      the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the

-      direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. &ldquo;For

-      Monsieur from Madame.&rdquo;

-     </p>

-    <p>

-      Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers.

-      The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist

-      its words into another meaning.

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      The note ran:

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      <i>My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman&rsquo;s memory; you&rsquo;ll

-      remember Potiphar&rsquo;s wife and Joseph. I have tried to hate you intensely.

-      You see, I&rsquo;m what you made me: Lucrezia&mdash;your handiwork. For years I

-      have promised myself that, if ever I had the chance, I would punish you.

-      It was with this intention that I left Paris yesterday&mdash;you know the

-      rest. So now, without me in the years that are to come, you will suffer

-      all that you once made me suffer. And I&rsquo;m almost sorry; for here, at

-      Falaise, you nearly made me.... It can&rsquo;t be done.</i>

-    </p>

-    <p>

-      Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris.

-      The cloud of dust had vanished.

-    </p>

-    <h3>

-      THE END

-    </h3>

-    <div style="height: 6em;">

-      <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />

-    </div>

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-<pre>

-

-

-

-

-

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