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diff --git a/old/54801-0.txt b/old/54801-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 8880081..0000000 --- a/old/54801-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,17849 +0,0 @@ -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 - - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS *** - -***** This file should be named 54801-0.txt or 54801-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/4/8/0/54801/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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