diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/54801-h')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/54801-h.htm | 21658 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/0001.jpg | bin | 160705 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/0002.jpg | bin | 50173 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/0003.jpg | bin | 51765 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/0005.jpg | bin | 210050 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/cover.jpg | bin | 160705 -> 0 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/54801-h/images/enlarge.jpg | bin | 789 -> 0 bytes |
7 files changed, 0 insertions, 21658 deletions
diff --git a/old/54801-h/54801-h.htm b/old/54801-h/54801-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index cf4cbf7..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/54801-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,21658 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title>The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson</title> - <meta content="pg2html (binary v0.17)" /> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } - hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} - .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} - blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} - .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} - .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} - .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} - .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} - .x-small {font-size: 75%;} - .small {font-size: 85%;} - .large {font-size: 115%;} - .x-large {font-size: 130%;} - .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} - .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} - .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} - .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} - .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} - .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} - div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } - div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } - .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> - - -<pre> - -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 - - - - - - -</pre> - - <div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS - </h1> - <h2> - By Coningsby Dawson - </h2> - <h4> - New York: Grosset & Dunlap Publishers - </h4> - <h3> - 1913 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0002.jpg" alt="0002 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0002.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0003.jpg" alt="0003 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0003.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0005.jpg" alt="0005 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0005.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I—THE WALLED-IN GARDEN</b> </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I—MY MOTHER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II—THE MAGIC CARPET </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III—THE SPUFFLER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV—RUTHITA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V—MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI—THE YONDER LAND </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII—THE OPEN WORLD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII—RECAPTURED </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX—THE SNOW LADY </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK II—THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS</b> - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER I—THE RED HOUSE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER II—CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH - COMFORTERS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER III—THE WORLD OF BOYS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER IV—NEW HORIZONS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER V—THE AWAKENING </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER VI—WHAT IS LOVE? </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER VII—THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE - SPUFFLER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER VIII—MONEY AND HAPPINESS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER IX—THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER X—THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XI—STAR-DUST DAYS </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> <b>BOOK III—THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS</b> - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER I—I MEET HER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER II—I MEET HER AGAIN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER III—FATE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IV—THE TRUTH ABOUT HER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER V—LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER VI—MOTHS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER VII—THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER VIII—THE WAY OF ALL FLESH </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IX—THE ELOPEMENT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER X—PUPPETS OF DESIRE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XI—SPRING WEATHER </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XII—THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XIII—THE TURNING POINT </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XIV—I GO TO SHEBA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XV—THE FLAME OF A SWORD </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0039"> <b>BOOK IV—THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN</b> - </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER I—THE HOME-COMING </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER II—DREAM HAVEN </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER III—NARCOTICS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER IV—RUTHITA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER V—LA FIESOLE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER VI—SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER VII—SATURNALIA </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER VIII—LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER IX—THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER X—THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - BOOK I—THE WALLED-IN GARDEN - </h2> - <p> - <i>And God planted a garden and drove out man; and he placed at the east - of Eden angels and the flame of a sword.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—MY MOTHER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t happened about - six in the morning, in a large red room. A bar of sunlight streamed in at - the window, in which dust-motes were dancing by the thousand. A man and - woman were lying in bed; I was standing up in my cot, plucking at the - woman with my podgy fingers. She stirred, turned, rubbed her eyes, smiled, - stretched out her arms, and drew me under the bed-clothes beside her. The - man slept on. - </p> - <p> - This is my earliest recollection. If it be true that the soul is born not - at the same time as the body, but at a later period with the first - glimmering of memory, then this was the morning on which my soul groped - its way into the world. - </p> - <p> - I have sometimes thought that I have never grown wiser than the knowledge - contained in that first recollection. Nothing that I have to record in - this book will carry me much further. The scene is symbolic: a little - child, inarticulate, early awakened in a sunlit room, vainly striving to - make life answer questions. Do we ever get beyond that? The woman is - Nature. The man is God. The room is the world—for me it has always - been filled with sunlight. - </p> - <p> - My mother I remember as very tall and patient, vaguely beautiful and - smiling. I can recall hardly anything she said—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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - All I had known of her had been so shy and gentle that it was a good deal - of a surprise to me to learn years later that, as a girl, she had been - considered rather dashing. She had been called “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. - </p> - <p> - The inequality of the match, as far as social position was concerned, made - life in Ransby impossible. My father was only a reporter on the local - paper at the time of his escapade; the Evrards lived at Woadley Hall and - were reckoned among the big people in the county. It must have been to - this house that my mother took me on that dusty summer’s day. - </p> - <p> - After his marriage my father settled down in London, gaining his living as - a free-lance journalist. I believe he was very poor at the start. He did - not re-visit Ransby until years later. Pride prevented. My mother returned - as often as finances would allow, in the vain hope of a reconciliation - with her family. On these occasions she would stay at the ship-chandler’s, - and was an object of curiosity and commiseration among the neighbors. - </p> - <p> - Most of the facts which lie outside my own recollection were communicated - to me by my grandmother. She never got over her amazement at her son’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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - After my small sister failed to arrive someone must have told me that my - mother had gone to find her. I would sit for hours at the window, watching - for her homecoming. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—THE MAGIC CARPET - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was born in South - London on a crowded street lying off the Old Kent Road. It was here that - my mother died. When I was about six, a false-dawn came in my father’s - prospects, on the promise of which he moved northward to the suburb of - Stoke Newington. - </p> - <p> - At the time of which I write, Stoke Newington still retained a village - atmosphere. The houses, for the most part, were old, bow-windowed, and - quaint. Many of them were occupied by leisured people—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. - </p> - <p> - Our house was situated in Pope Lane, a blind alley overgrown with limes. - It had posts set up at the entrance to prevent wheel-traffic. You could - not see the houses from the lane, so steeply did the walls rise up on - either side. It led nowhere and was a mere tunnel dotted with doors. Did - the doors open by chance as you were passing, you caught glimpses of - kitchen-gardens, shrubberies, and well-kept lawns. We rarely saw our - neighbors. Each door hid a mystery, on which a child could exercise his - fancy. - </p> - <p> - My father was too strenuously engaged in wringing an income out of - reluctant editors to pay much attention to my upbringing. In moving to - Pope Lane, he had made an increase in his expenditure which, as events - proved, his prospects did not warrant. The keeping up of appearances was a - continuous and unrelenting fight. Early in the morning he was at his desk; - the last thing in the evening, when I ventured into his study to bid him - good-night, his pen was still toiling industriously across the page. His - mornings were spent in hack-work, preparing special articles on - contemporary economics for a group of daily papers. His evenings were - given over to the writing of books which he hoped would bring him fame, - many of which are still unpublished. - </p> - <p> - He coveted fame and despised it. He wrote to please himself and expected - praise. He was an unpractical idealist, always planning huge undertakings - for which there was no market. His most important work, which occupied - twenty years of his life, was <i>The History of Human Progress</i>. It was - really a history of human selfishness, written to prove that every act - which has dug man out of the mire, however seemingly sacrificial and - noble, had for its initial motive an enlightened self-interest. He never - managed to get it before the public. It was disillusionizing. We all know - that we are selfish, but we all hope that with luck we could be heroes. - </p> - <p> - The trouble with my father was that he was an emotionalist ashamed of his - emotions. He wanted to be scrupulously just, and feared that his - sentiments would weaken his judgments. Temperamentally he was willing to - believe everything. But he had read Herbert Spencer and admired the - academic mind; consequently he off-set his natural predisposition to faith - by re-acting from everything accepted, and scrawled across the page of - recorded altruism a gigantic note of interrogation. He gave to strangers - and little boys the impression of being cynical and hard, whereas he had - within him the smoldering enthusiasms and compassion which go to the - kindling of martyrs and saints. He was planned for a man of action, but - had turned aside to grope after phantoms in the mazes of the mind. His - career is typical of the nineteenth century and sedentary modes of life. - </p> - <p> - Looking back I often wonder if he would not have been happier as a - ship-chandler, moving among jolly sea-captains, following his father’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. - </p> - <p> - He solved the problem of my immediate existence by locking the door into - the lane, and giving me the freedom of the garden. I can recall it in - every phase. Other and more recent memories have passed away, but, when I - close my eyes and think back, I am there again. Moss-grown walks spread - before me. Peaches on the wall ripen. I catch the fragrance of box, - basking in sunshine. I see my father’s study-window and the ivy blown - across the pane. He is seated at his desk, writing, writing. His face is - turned away. His head is supported on his hand as though weary. I am - wondering why it is that grown people never play, and why it is that they - shut smaller people up always within walls. - </p> - <p> - I saw nothing of the outside world except on Sundays. My father used to - lead me as far as the parish church, and call for me when service was - ended. He never came inside. His intellectual integrity forbade it. He was - an agnostic. My mother, knowing this, had made him promise to take me. He - kept his word exactly. - </p> - <p> - Few friends called on us. My companions were cooks and housemaids. I - borrowed my impressions of life, as most children do, from the lower - orders of society. A servant is a prisoner; so is a child. Both are - subject to tyranny, and both are dependent for their happiness on - omnipotent persons’ 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. - </p> - <p> - It was in Pope Lane that I first began to dream of a garden without walls. - As I grew older I became curious, and fretted at the narrowness of my - restraint. What happened over there in the great beyond? Rumors came to - me; sometimes it was the roar of London to the southward; sometimes it was - the sing-song of a mower traversing a neighbor’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. - </p> - <p> - It was a book which gave the first impulse to this thought; in a sense it - was responsible for the entire trend of my character and life. In recent - years I have tried to procure a copy. All traces of it seem to have - vanished. If I ever knew the name of the author I have forgotten it. I am - even uncertain of the exact title. I believe it was called <i>The Magic - Carpet</i>. - </p> - <p> - Mine was a big red copy. The color came off when your hands got sticky. It - had to be supported on the knees when read, or the arms got tired. It was - a story of children, ordered about by day, who by night went forth - invisible to wander the world, riding on the nursery carpet. Absurd! Yes, - but this carpet happened to be magic. All you had to do was to seat - yourself upon it, hold on tight, and wish where you wanted to be carried. - In a trice you were beyond the reach of adults, flying over roofs and - spires, post-haste to the land of your desire. In that book little boys - ate as much as they liked and never had stomach-ache. They defeated whole - armies of cannibals without a scratch. They rescued fair ladies, as old as - housemaids, but ten times more beautiful, who wanted to marry them. No one - seemed to know that they were little. No one condescended or told them to - run away and wash their faces. Nobody went to school. Everybody was - polite. - </p> - <p> - The pictures which illustrated the adventures still seem in remembrance - the finest in the world. They typify the spirit of romance, the soul of - youth, the revolt against limitations. They appealed to the lawless - element within me, which still yearns to straddle the stallion of the - world and go plunging bare-back through space. - </p> - <p> - I tried every carpet in the house, but none of ours were magic. I lay - awake imagining the lands, I would visit if I had it. I would go to my - mother first, and try to bring her back. I remembered vaguely how - care-free my father had been when we had had her with us. Perhaps, if she - returned, he would be happy. Then an inspiration came; there was one - carpet which I had <i>not</i> tested—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. - </p> - <p> - One night I lay awake, pinching myself to stave off sleep. It was winter. - Outside I could hear the trees cracking beneath the weight of snow upon - their boughs. The servants came to bed. I saw them pass my door, casting - long shadows, screening their candles with their hands lest the light - should strike across my eyes and rouse me. I waited to hear the study-door - open and close. In waiting I began to drowse. I came to myself with a - shudder. What hour it was I could not guess. I got out of bed. Stealing to - the top of the stairs I looked down; all was blackness. Listening, I could - hear the heavy breathing of sleepers. Bare-footed, I crept down into the - hall, clinging to the banisters. The air was bitter. I was frightened. - Each step I took seemed to cause the house to groan and tremble. The door - of the study stood open. By the light of the fire, dying in the grate, I - could just make out the carpet. Darting across the threshold, I knelt upon - it. “Take me to Mama,” I whispered. The minutes ticked by; it did not - stir. I spoke again; nothing happened. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I think he must have seen and overheard everything, for, with a tenderness - which had something hungry and awful about it, he gathered me in his arms. - Without a word of question or explanation, he carried me up to bed. Before - he left, he halted as though he were trying to utter some thought which - refused to get said. Suddenly he bent above the pillow, just as my mother - used to do, and kissed me on the forehead. His cheeks were salty. - </p> - <p> - As my eyes closed, a strange thing happened. The snow lay on the ground - and there were no flowers, but the room was filled with the fragrance of - violets. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—THE SPUFFLER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne day there was a - ring at the door in the lane, followed by a loud and impatient rat-a-tat. - A gentleman, who was a stranger to me, hurled himself across the - threshold. He wore the frown of one who is intensely in earnest, whose - mind is very much occupied. His mustaches were the fiercest and most eager - that I ever saw on any man. They stuck out at right angles from under his - nose like a pair of shaving-brushes. They were of an extraordinary - purplish color, and would have done credit to a pirate. But his dress was - more clerical than sea-faring. It consisted of a black frock coat, bound - with braid at the edges where the cloth was fretted; his vest was low-cut - to display an ocean of white shirt, above which a small tie of black silk - wobbled. Hurrying up the path, tugging at his bushy eye-brows, he - disappeared into the house. The last I saw of him was a red bandana - handkerchief, streaming like a danger-signal from his coat-tail pocket. I - thought he must be one of those hostile publishers my father talked about - or, at the very least, an editor. - </p> - <p> - Hetty, the maid, came into the garden looking worried. She did not stand - on the steps and yell, as was customary, as though daring me to disobey - her. She caught up her skirts with a dignified air and spoke my name - softly, employing the honeyed tones with which she enticed our milkman - every morning. I perceived at once that something momentous had occurred, - and came out from behind the bushes. Then I saw the reason for her sudden - change of manners—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. - </p> - <p> - When we got inside the house she became voluble, but only in whispers. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She scrubbed away at my face till it was scarlet; she let the water from - the flannel trickle down my back. I was too awe-inspired to wriggle; by - some occult power the dreadful personage downstairs might learn about it. - Having been pitched into my Sunday sailor-suit and squeezed into a pair of - new boots and prickly stockings, I was bundled into the august presence. - </p> - <p> - When I entered he was straddling the fire-place carpet—the one which - ought to have been magic—and waggling his coat-tails with his hands. - </p> - <p> - My father rose from his chair. “This is your great-uncle, Obadiah - Spreckles. Come and be introduced, Dante.” - </p> - <p> - Up to now I had never heard of such a relative, but I came timidly forward - and shook hands. - </p> - <p> - “A fine little fellow. A very fine little fellow, and the image of his - mother,” said my great-uncle. - </p> - <p> - My father winced at the mention of my mother. My great-uncle spread his - legs still wider and addressed me in a jerky important manner. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Before I knew what had happened, I had said good-bye to my father and was - standing in the lane alone with my strange uncle. - </p> - <p> - When the door had banged and he knew that no grownup could see him, he - changed his manner. His hurry left him. Placing his hands on my shoulders, - he looked down into my face, laughing. “Now for a good time, old chap.” - </p> - <p> - At the end of the lane, where the posts blocked the passage, stood a - little dog-cart and pony. My bag was stowed under the seat; at a click of - the tongue from my uncle, the little beast started up like the wind. - </p> - <p> - It was a bright June morning. The sky was intensely blue and cloudless. - The air was full of flower-fragrance and dreamy somnolence. I had seen so - little of the world that everything was vivid to me, and touched with the - vagrant poetry of romance. Tram-lines were streaks of silver down the - streets, shops were palaces, cabbies gentlemen who plied their trade - because they loved horses. Postmen going their rounds were - philanthropists. Everyone was free, doing what he liked, and happy. In my - child’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. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Obadiah kept chatting away, telling me that the name of his little - mare was Dollie and how he came to buy her. “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.” - </p> - <p> - All the way along the streets he kept pointing with his whip to things - that he thought were interesting. He engaged me in conversation—a - thing which no one had thought worth doing. He asked me questions which - were not senseless, and seemed to suppose that a child had reasoning - powers. I was flattered, and began to surprise myself by the boldness of - the things I said. - </p> - <p> - We rattled down the City Road, past the Mansion House, over London Bridge - to the Elephant and Castle, and so out toward Dulwich till we came within - sight of the Crystal Palace. - </p> - <p> - He began to slow down and grow pensive, as though working out a problem. - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We had our meal in the tap-room with the wagoners. While they were present - my uncle assumed his pontifical manner, addressing me as “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. - </p> - <p> - While the mare rested, we strolled round. In a hollow of the woods we came - across a gipsy encampment. Three yellow caravans were drawn up together. A - fire was burning in the open, over which an iron pot was suspended from a - bough. A fierce, gaudily clad woman was bent above it stirring. She looked - up at sound of our approach and the big ear-rings which dropped upon her - neck jangled. Recognizing my uncle she nodded, and allowed us to sit down - and watch her. Presently a rough man came out of the woods and threw - himself down beside us. A young woman returned from fortune-telling, with - her baby in a shawl across her shoulders. Bowls were brought out, and we - had a second lunch from the great pot bubbling on the fire. Pipes were - produced; the women smoked as well as the men. My uncle asked them where - they had been and how they had fared since last he saw them. I listened - intently to their answers; it seemed that they must have discovered the - boundless garden of which I had only dreamt. - </p> - <p> - In the dog-cart on the homeward journey, I learnt that my uncle was - acquainted with a number of queer people. “Everybody’s interesting, - Dante,” he said, by way of excuse and explanation; “it’s never safe to - despise anyone.” - </p> - <p> - In course of conversation he informed me that he had always longed to be a - gipsy, but had never dared. When I asked why not, he answered shortly, - “Your Aunt Lavinia—she’s not like us and wouldn’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - “But if there wasn’t any Aunt Lavinia—would you dare then?” - </p> - <p> - “I might have to,” he said, smiling grimly. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - My grandmother Cardover at Ransby, whose sister he had married, had a - habit of nicknaming people with words of her own invention. She called my - great-uncle The Spuffler. Whether the verb <i>to Spuffle</i> is Suffolk - dialect or a word of her own coining, I have never been able to find out—but - in its hostile sense it described him exactly. - </p> - <p> - A spuffler is a gay pretender, who hides his lack of success beneath the - importance of his manners. Time is his one possession, and to him it is - valueless; yet he tries to impress the world with its extreme rarity. A - spuffler is always in a hurry; he talks loudly. He plays a game of - make-believe that he is a person of far-reaching authority; he deceives - others and almost deceives himself. He is usually small in stature and not - infrequently bald-headed. In conversing he makes an imaginary lather with - his hands and points his finger, at you. He may splutter and spit when he - gets excited; but this is accidental and not necessary. The prime - requisite is that he should affect the prosperity of a bank-president and - be dependent on some quite obscure source for his pocket-money. Since I - have lived in America I have become familiar with a word which is very - similar—<i>a bluffer</i>. But a bluffer is a conscious liar and may - be a humorist, whereas a spuffler does all in his power to deceive himself - and is always in dead earnest. - </p> - <p> - It is a curious fact that the men whom I loved best as a child were all - three incompetents in the worldly sense. They were clever, but they lacked - the faculty of marketing their talents. They were boys in men’s bodies. - With children they had the hearts of children and were delightful. With - business men their light-heartedness counted as irresponsibility and was a - drawback. In two out of the three cases named, the disappointments which - resulted from continual defeat produced vices. Only my Uncle Obadiah, clad - in his armor of unpierceable spuffle, rode through the ranks of life - scatheless, with his sweetness unembittered and his integrity untarnished. - But they were all good men. - </p> - <p> - Through the June twilight we returned to the outskirts of London. We - turned in at a ruined gateway, and rode through a tunnel of overhanging - trees where laburnum blazed through the dusk. A long rambling house grew - up before us. At one time it must have been the country estate of some - city-merchant. At sound of our wheels on the gravel, the front-door opened - and a little lady stepped out to greet us. She was neat and speckless as a - hospital nurse. Her body was slim and dainty as a girl’s. There was an air - of decision and restraint about her, which was in direct opposition to my - uncle’s hurried geniality. - </p> - <p> - When we had halted, she lifted me out of the dog-cart and carried me into - the house to a large room at the back, which looked into a shadowy garden - and a paddock beyond. It seemed older and more opulent than any house I - had known as yet. There was so much space about it. - </p> - <p> - My uncle came in from stabling Dollie. “Well, Lavinia, I couldn’t get home - to lunch. Very sorry, but it couldn’t be helped.” - </p> - <p> - He darted a look across at me, wondering how much I had told her. The - secret was established; I knew that I must hold my tongue. I knew - something else—that he was afraid of her. Throughout the meal he - kept up a stream of strenuous pretense, discussing large plans aloud with - himself. What they were I cannot now remember. I suppose my grandmother - would have called them spuffle. Suddenly he rose from the table, saying - that he had a lot of letters to answer and excused himself. But when I - went into his room an hour later to bid him good-night, he was sitting - before his desk, doing nothing in particular, biting the end of his pen. - </p> - <p> - When my aunt and I were left together I felt very lonely at first. She had - sat so silent all through supper. - </p> - <p> - But when the door had closed, she turned to me laughing. I knew at once - that, like most grown-ups when they are together, she had only been - shamming. Now she was-going to be real. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Then, realizing, I suppose, that it was not fair to pump me, she stopped - asking questions and began to speak about myself. She drew up a chair to - the window and sat with me in the dark with her arms about me. She seemed - extraordinarily young, and when her silky gray hair touched my cheek as - she bent above me, I wondered what had made my uncle say that she wasn’t - like us and wouldn’t understand. - </p> - <p> - They each had their secret world of desire: his was the open road, where - liberty was and lack of convention; hers was a home with fire-light and - children. She was childless. Into both these worlds a little boy might - enter. That night as I lay awake in bed I was puzzled. Why was it that - grown people were so funny, and could never be real with one another? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—RUTHITA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was my Uncle - Obadiah who first opened my eyes to the mysteries of the animal world. In - so doing he flung wide a door into happiness which many a wiser man has - neglected. He derived nearly all his pleasures from the cheerful little - things of life. A curious sympathy existed between him and the lower - creation. All the cats and dogs in the district were his friends. He - attributed to them almost human personalities, and gave them special names - of his own choosing. It was a wonderful day for me when he first made me - realize that all-surrounding was a kingdom of beasts and birds of which I, - who had always been ruled, might be ruler. - </p> - <p> - In the paddock which lay between the garden and orchard, he had his own - especial kingdom. His subjects were a cow, a goat, some very domestically - inclined rabbits, about a hundred hens, and innumerable London sparrows. - The latter he had trained to fly down from the trees and settle on his - shoulders when he whistled. - </p> - <p> - Early in the morning we would go there together; the first duty of the day - was to feed the menagerie. How distinctly I can recall those scenes—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. - </p> - <p> - Eggs represented almost his sole contribution to the family income. Among - his many Eldorados was the persistent belief that he could make his - fortune at poultryraising. He would talk to me about it for hours as we - worked in the garden, like a man inspired, making lightning calculations - of the sums he would one day realize. He was continually experimenting and - crossing breeds with a view to producing a more prolific strain of layers. - He had a dream that one day he would produce the finest strain of fowl in - the world. He would call it <i>The Spreckles</i> —his name would be - immortalized. He would be justified in the eyes of Aunt Lavinia; and - success would justify him in the eyes of all men. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile my aunt declared that Obad spent more time and thought on that - blest live-stock than he would ever see back in money. “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. - </p> - <p> - His most important make-believe was that he was a benefactor of humanity. - He held honorary positions of secretary to various philanthropic societies—<i>The - Society for the Housing of Gipsies; The Society for the Assisting of - Decrepit Ladies</i>, etc. The positions were honorary because he could - find no one willing to pay him. He worked for nothing because he was - ashamed of being forever out of employment. He got great credit for his - services among charitable people; the annual votes of thanks which he - received helped to bolster up his self-respect throughout the year. - </p> - <p> - As I grew older and more observant, I used to wonder what had induced my - aunt to marry him. Again it was my Grandmother Cardover who told me, “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. - </p> - <p> - The only Christian feature that I can remember about her establishment was - that my uncle said grace before all meals at which the lodgers were - present. At the midday meal, from which they were absent, it was omitted. - The Christian Boarding House idea caught on with provincial parents whose - sons were moving up to the city for the first time; it seemed to guarantee - home morals. The sons soon perceived how matters stood and buried their - agnostic prejudices beneath good feeding. - </p> - <p> - A general atmosphere of obligation was created by my aunt in her husband’s - favor; she always spoke as though it was very kind of so public a man as - Mr. Spreckles to squander his scanty privacy by letting paying-guests - share his roof. She made such a gallant show with what she earned that - everyone thought her husband had a private fortune, which enabled him to - live in such style and give so much time to charitable works. She would - hint as much in conversing with her friends, and invariably feigned the - greatest pride and contentment in his activities. Thanks to his spuffling - and her courage, there were not five people outside the family who ever - guessed the true circumstances. - </p> - <p> - But when all is said, the real business of my Uncle Obad’s life was not - philanthropy or running a boardinghouse, but poultry-raising. It was he - who gave me the old white hen, without which I might never have met - Ruthita. My money-making instincts were roused by his talk of the profits - to be derived from eggs. I was enthusiastic to follow in his footsteps. To - this end, at the hour of parting, when I was returning to Pope Lane, he - gave me an ancient white Leghorn. He did not tell me she was ancient; he - recommended her to me as belonging to a strain that could never get - broody. - </p> - <p> - On the long drive home across London, my grief at leaving Charity Grove - was partly mitigated by my new possession. It was a tremendous experience - to feel that I had it in my power to make a live thing, even though it - were but a hen, sad or happy. I discussed with Uncle Obad all the care - that was necessary for egg-production. I got him to work out sums for me. - If my hen were to lay an egg every other day throughout the year, how much - money would I make by selling each egg to my father at a penny? I felt - that the foundations of my financial fortunes were secure. The genuineness - of my expectations made my uncle restless and ashamed; he knew that the - hen had passed her first youth, and suggested that pepper in her food - might help matters. - </p> - <p> - It was supper-time when I arrived home. I let the hen loose on the lawn to - stretch her legs. My father was busy as usual, but he delayed a little - longer over the meal in honor of my home-coming. - </p> - <p> - Some of the things I blurted out about my uncle must have revealed to him - the comradeship that lay between us. He had risen from the table, but he - sat down again. “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.” - </p> - <p> - He knew that it was that and so did I. Yet he was hungry for my affection. - He was making an unaccustomed effort to win my confidence and draw me out. - But he spoke to me as though I was a grown man, whereas my uncle to get - near me had become himself a child. If he had only talked to me about my - white hen, I should have chattered. But I was awed by his embarrassment, - and remained silent and unresponsive. - </p> - <p> - He went on to tell me that all the time he was away from me in his study - he was working for my sake. “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.” - </p> - <p> - I understood very little of what he was saying except that money and - success seemed to be the same. That was the way Uncle Obad had talked - about poultry-raising. I had no idea where money came from or how it was - obtained. I must have asked him some question about it, for I recall one - of the phrases he used in replying, “A man succeeds not by what he does, - but by the things at which he has aimed.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - I commenced to search for the white hen and so forgot these economic - complications. Here and there I came across places where she had been - scrabbing, but I could see her nowhere. At last I discovered her roosting - on the branch of an apple-tree which grew close by the wall at the end of - the garden. I spoke to her kindly, but she refused to come down. She was - too high up for me to reach her from the ground. When I scattered grain, - she blinked at me knowingly, as much as to say, “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. - </p> - <p> - Unless the white hen had blazed the trail, I might have remained in the - walled-in garden for years without ever daring to discover a way out. I - was too excited at this crisis to measure my temerity. In my fear of - losing her I did a thing undreamt of and unplanned—I swung myself - from the branch on to the top of the brickwork and dropped on the other - side. A bed of currant bushes broke my fall. I got upon my feet scratched - and dazed. - </p> - <p> - The first thing I saw was a long stretch of grass bordered by flowers. At - the end of it was a small two-storied house, gabled and with verandas - running round it. In one of the upper-story windows a light was burning; - all the rest was in darkness. In the middle of the lawn I could see my - white hen strutting in a very stately manner. I stole up behind her, but - she began clucking. In my fear of discovery, I lost all patience and - commenced to chase her vigorously. I ran her at last into a bed of peas, - where she became entangled. I had her in my arms when I heard a voice, - “Who are you?” - </p> - <p> - Turning suddenly, I found that a little girl was standing close behind me. - </p> - <p> - “My name’s Dante.” - </p> - <p> - “And mine’s Ruthita.” - </p> - <p> - We stared at one another through the dusk. I had never spoken to a little - girl and for some reason, difficult to explain, commenced to tremble. It - was not fear that caused it, but something strong and emotional. - </p> - <p> - “Dante,” she whispered. “How pretty!” Then, “Where do you live?” - </p> - <p> - I jerked my thumb in the direction of the wall. - </p> - <p> - “You climbed over?” - </p> - <p> - I nodded. She laughed softly. “Could you do it again? Oh, do come often, - often. I’m so lonely, and we could play together.” - </p> - <p> - Just then the voice of Hetty began to call in the distance, - </p> - <p> - “Dan-tee, Dan-tee, where are you? Come to bed di-rectly.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice drew nearer. She was searching for me, and passed quite close to - us on the other side of the wall. We could hear the indignant rustle of - her skirt and her heavy breathing with bending down so low to peer under - bushes. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita came near to me so that I had my first glimpse of her eyes in the - dark—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.” - </p> - <p> - I promised. - </p> - <p> - She watched me scrambling for a foot-hold in the wall. When I sat astride - it, just before I vanished, she waved her hand. - </p> - <p> - The white hen had lost her importance in my thoughts; - I bundled her into the tool-house, and then surrendered to Hetty. Hetty - was very cross. She wanted to discover where I had been hiding, but I - wouldn’t tell her. When she left me, I crept out of bed and knelt beside - the window for a long time gazing down into the blackness. - </p> - <p> - Far away a bird was calling. The tall trees waved their arms. The moon - leapt out of clouds, and the branches reached up to touch her with their - fingers. A little beam of light struggled free and ran about the garden. I - tried to tell myself it was Ruthita. - </p> - <p> - The garden seemed less of a prison now—rather a place of magic and - enchantment. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—MARRIAGE ACCORDING TO HETTY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I was - up early. Spiders’ 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. - </p> - <p> - I had covered half the distance to the apple-tree, when I heard a sound of - voices. They came from behind the tool-house. I fisted my hands and - listened. A man and woman were conversing, but in such low tones that I - could hear nothing that was said. I made sure they were thieves who had - heard about my hen, and had come to rob me. I looked back at the windows - of our house. All the blinds were lowered; everyone was sleeping. There - was no sign of life anywhere, save the hopping of early risen blackbirds - between bushes in search of early risen worms. With a quickly beating - heart I crouched beside the wall, advancing under cover of a row of - sunflowers. Looking out from between their stalks, I discovered a man - sitting on a wheelbarrow; a woman was balanced on his knee with her arm - about his neck. The woman was Hetty and the man was our gardener. - </p> - <p> - Hetty was wearing her starched print-dress, ready to begin her morning’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I came from my hiding, thrusting my hands deep in my pockets, as though I - kept my courage there and was frightened of its dropping out. The - gardener’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.” - </p> - <p> - “Bless ’is little ’eart,” cried John; “I thought it were ’is - Pa, I wuz that scared.” - </p> - <p> - Hetty knelt down beside me and rocked me to and fro half-hysterically, - making me promise again and again that I would never tell. - </p> - <p> - “Was you doin’ somethin’ wrong?” I asked. “What was you doin’?” - </p> - <p> - They looked foolishly at one another. - </p> - <p> - All that day they kept me near them on one pretext or another, afraid to - let me get away from them. I had never known them so sensible and - obliging; they did all kinds of things for me that they had never done - before. After breakfast, while Hetty was dusting, John built me a little - fowl-run. In the afternoon, while he was cutting the grass, Hetty sat with - me beneath the apple-tree and told me what life meant. She spoke in - whispers like a conspirator, and all the time that she was talking, I - could hear Ruthita humming just the other side of the wall. - </p> - <p> - As I understood it, this was what she told me. When you first get here, - <i>here</i> being the world, you own nothing; and know nothing. Then, as - you grow up, you know something but still own nothing. That’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. - </p> - <p> - 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’.” - </p> - <p> - “Does it always have to be done before breakfast?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She went on to tell me that sweet-hearting was the first step towards - freedom and money. The second step was a honeymoon, which consisted in - going away with a person of the other sex for a week to some place where - you weren’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I was tremendously interested in the possibilities of sweet-hearting and - promised to help Hetty all I could. In return she declared that, when she - was married, she would persuade my father to let her take me out of the - garden. - </p> - <p> - That evening I crept over the wall and found Ruthita waiting. She was a - slim dainty little figure, clad in a short white dress. She had great gray - eyes, and long black hair and lashes. Her voice was soft and caressing, - like the twittering of a bird in the ivy when one wakens on a summer - morning. I told her in hurried whispers what I had discovered. It was all - news to her. She slipped her hand into mine while I spoke and nestled - closer. - </p> - <p> - “Little boy,” she whispered when I had ended, “you <i>are</i> funny! You - come climbing over the garden-wall and you tell me everything.” - </p> - <p> - An old man came out of the house and began to pace up and down the walks. - His head was bent forward on his chest and he had a big red scar on his - forehead. A cloak hung loosely from his shoulders. He carried a stick in - his hand on which he leant heavily. Ruthita said he was her grandfather. - Soon he began to call for her, and she had to go to him. - </p> - <p> - Little by little I learnt her story. Her grandfather was a French general. - He had fought in the Franco-Prussian War until the Fall of the Empire and - Proclamation of the Republic. Shortly after the flight of the Empress - Eugénie he had come to England in disgust. His son, Ruthita’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Do what?” she questioned. - </p> - <p> - “Get married!” - </p> - <p> - Then I reminded her of the extreme simplicity of marriage as explained by - our housemaid. All we had to do was to slip out of the garden for a few - days, and then come back. We should find a house ready for us. Perhaps I - should have a pony like Uncle Obad, and, instead of dolls, Ruthita would - have real babies. It was the real babies that caught her fancy. Because of - her mother, she needed a little persuading. “What will she do wivout me?” - </p> - <p> - “And what would she do if you’d never been borned?” I said. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita had five shillings in her money-box. I had only a shilling; for - the white hen, in spite of pepper, had failed to lay any eggs. Six - shillings seemed to us a fortune—ample to provide for the honeymoon - of two small children. - </p> - <p> - The gate from Monsieur Favart’s garden was never locked: that was - evidently our easiest way out. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—THE YONDER LAND - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>hat did we hope to - find that autumn morning when we slipped through that narrow door, - forsaking the walls? It was all a guess to us—what lay beyond; but - we knew that it must be something splendid. Of one thing we were quite - certain: that at the end of a few days we should have grown tall; we - should return to Pope Lane a man and woman. The little house would be - there waiting, magically built in our hours of absence. Perhaps work had - been begun already upon the babies that Ruthita wanted. - </p> - <p> - For the first time I had kissed her that morning, awkwardly and shyly, - feeling that somehow it was proper. At any rate, Hetty and our gardener - always kissed when they got the chance and no one was looking. - </p> - <p> - Monsieur Favart’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, “<i>Gon - to git Maried.”</i> - </p> - <p> - When at last we halted for breath, we seemed to have covered many miles of - our journey. We were standing in a long, quaint street. On one side flowed - a river, railed in so we couldn’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. - </p> - <p> - We must have made a queer pair in the mellow autumn sunlight. Ruthita wore - a white dress with a red cloak flung over it. On her head was a yellow - straw poke-bonnet, which made her face look strangely small. She had on - black shoes, fastened by a single strap, and black and white socks which, - when she ran, kept dropping. - </p> - <p> - We had no idea of direction, but just hurried on with a vague idea that we - must keep moving forward. - </p> - <p> - Presently we came across a drover, driving a flock of bewildered, tired - sheep. He was a lame man. He had an inflamed red face and one of his eyes - was out. When he wanted to make his flock move faster, he jabbed viciously - at their tails with a pointed stick and started hopping from side to side, - barking like a dog. He passed right by us, saying nothing, waving a red - flag in his left hand with which he would sometimes mop his forehead. We - followed. We followed him through streets of shops all shuttered; we - followed him up a broad-paved hill; we followed him down a winding lane to - a bridge across a river, beyond which lay marshes. Then he turned and - called to us. - </p> - <p> - “Little master, where be you goin’ and why be you followin’?” - </p> - <p> - To the country, I told him, to find the forest. I wanted to show Ruthita - the unwalled garden through which my uncle had led me. - </p> - <p> - The man screwed up his one eye, and gazed upon us shrewdly. “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.” - </p> - <p> - We made our bargain with him. We would help him with his sheep, if he - would guide us to the forest. We ran beside him across the short, crisp - grass, imitating his cries to prevent the sheep from scattering. He told - us that he had driven them from Epping up to London, but that times were - cruel bad and the farmer who employed him had been unable to sell them. - “It’s cruel ’ard on a man o’ my years,” he kept saying, “cruel ’ard.” - </p> - <p> - When I asked him what was cruel hard, he shook his head as though language - failed to express his wrongs: “The world in gineral.” - </p> - <p> - There was one of the sheep whose leg was broken. It kept lagging behind - the rest, which made the man jab at it furiously. Ruthita’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.” - </p> - <p> - The river wound round about us. Sometimes it would leave us, but always it - came flowing after us, in great circles as though lonely and eager for our - company. On its banks stood occasional taverns, gaily painted, with wooden - tables set before them. The grass about them was trodden bare, showing - that they were often populous; but now they were deserted. Big barges lay - sleepily at anchor, basking in the sun. - </p> - <p> - The drover commenced speaking again. “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——” - </p> - <p> - The name they called him was evidently too dreadful. He sighed heavily. - </p> - <p> - “Poor man,” said Ruthita, slipping her hand into his horny palm. “What do - they call you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - We seated ourselves by the muddy river-bank, while the sheep grazed and - rested. Far in the distance trees broke the level of the sky-line, so I - knew that we were going in the right direction and our guide was to be - trusted. Dot-and-Carry-One produced a loaf of bread from his pocket and, - dividing it into three pieces, shared it with us. - </p> - <p> - Little by little he gave us his confidence, telling us of the world as he - knew it. “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.” - </p> - <p> - He produced from his ragged coat a penny whistle and trilled out a tune - upon it. While he played he looked as merry a fellow as one could hope to - meet in a day’s march. The sheep stopped cropping to gaze at us. We - clapped our hands and asked him to go on. - </p> - <p> - He shook his head and replaced his pipe. “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——” - </p> - <p> - He paused. His eye became moist and his face gentle. “I ’ad a - little nipper and a girl once.” - </p> - <p> - That was all. We wanted to ask him questions about marriage, but he pulled - his hat down over his eyes and lay back, refusing to answer. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita and I guarded the sheep and kept them from straying, while he - slept. We made chains out of flowers, and, taking off our shoes and socks, - paddled in the water. Then Ruthita grew tired and, leaning against my - shoulder, persuaded me to tell her the story of where we were going. - Before the tale was ended, her eyes were closed and her lips were parted. - My arms began to ache terribly; I wondered whether it was with holding her - or because I was growing. I hoped it was because I was growing. - </p> - <p> - Dot-and-Carry-One woke up. He looked at the sun. “Time we wuz h’orf,” he - remarked shortly. - </p> - <p> - We had not gone far along the river-bank when we came to a tavern on our - side of the water. Ruthita said that she was thirsty, so we entered. The - drover spread himself out on a bench and, soliciting my invitation, called - for “a pint of strong.” Good beer, he said, never hurt any man if taken in - moderation. - </p> - <p> - We must have sat for the best part of the morning, watching him toss off - pot after pot while we gritted our feet on the sanded floor. For each pot - he thanked us, taking off his battered hat to Ruthita and blowing away the - froth from the top in our honor. He explained to all and sundry that we - wuz his little nipper and girl wot he had losht. He losht us years ago, so - long he could hardly remember. The tavern-girl entered into a discussion - with him, saying that we could not be more than nine and that he was at - least seventy. He became angry, demanding whether a man of seventy hadn’t - lived long enough to know his own children, and what bloody indifference - it made to her, anyway. - </p> - <p> - It occurred to me that it might be just possible that he really was - Ruthita’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - All through the long and drowsy afternoon we wandered on. - Dot-and-Carry-One seemed in no great hurry to reach his destination. Beer - had had a transfiguring effect upon him. He lurched along jauntily, his - hat cocked sideways on his head, winking with his one good eye at any - girls we met in our path. His cares and sense of injustice were forgotten. - He told us tales of his wars, painting tremendous and bloody scenes of - carnage. He slew whole armies that afternoon, and at the end of each - battle he was left alone, wounded but dauntless, with the dead ’uns - piled high about him. He went into grisly details of the manner of their - dying, and stopped now and then to show us with his stick the different - ways in which you could kill a man with a sword. Cockney lovers on the - river gaped after us, resting on their oars. They saw nothing but an - intoxicated old ruffian in charge of a flock of sheep and two small - children. But we were in hero-land, and Dot-and-Carry-One was our - giant-killer. - </p> - <p> - When Ruthita got tired, he hoisted her on to his shoulders, where she rode - straddling his neck, with her hands clasped about his forehead. The - forest, like a green silent army, with its flags unfurled marched nearer. - The sun sank lower behind us; our long lean shadows ran on before us till - they lay across the backs of the sheep. - </p> - <p> - We left the marshes and entered on a white dusty road. Carriages and - coaches and wagons kept passing, which made the sheep bewildered. They - kept turning this way and that, bleating pitifully. Ruthita had to walk - again, while Dot-and-Carry-One barked and waved his stick to keep the - flock from scattering. The night came on and we were hungry. At last - Ruthita’s legs gave out and she sat down by the roadside crying, saying - that she was frightened and could go no further. Then Dot-and-Carry-One - drove his flock into the forest, and borrowed a shilling from me and left - us, promising to go and buy food with it. - </p> - <p> - The sheep lay down about the roots of the trees, and we pillowed our heads - against their woolly backs. The silence became intense; the last of the - twilight vanished. I was glad when Ruthita put her arms round my neck, for - I too was nervous though I would not own it. We waited for the drover to - return, and in waiting slept. - </p> - <p> - I woke with a start. The moon was shining; long paths of silver had been - hewn between the trees. The fleece of the kneeling sheep was sparkling and - dewy. Far down one of the paths I could see a limping figure approaching. - He was shouting and singing and stabbing at his shadow. As he came nearer - I could distinctly see that he held a bottle in his hand. Something warned - me. I roused Ruthita, telling her to make no sound. We ran till we were - breathless and the shouting could be no more heard. - </p> - <p> - Trees grew wider apart where we had halted. Far away a flare of light - shone up; as we watched we saw that people passed before it. Hand-in-hand - we advanced. Something groaned quite near us. We commenced to run, but, - looking back, saw that it was only a tethered donkey. We came to the - outskirts of the crowd. We wanted company badly. Burrowing under arms and - legs we made our way to the front. A great linen sheet was stretched - between two trees. Set up on iron rings before it was a line of cocoanuts. - On either side flaring naphtha-lamps were burning. About thirty yards away - from the sheet a woman was serving out wooden balls. Between the sheet and - the cocoanuts a man was darting up and down, dodging the balls as they - were thrown and returning them. The man and woman were calling out - together, “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.” - </p> - <p> - Whether a cocoanut went down or stayed up, they continued to assert in a - hoarse, cracked monotone that it had fallen. Their faces were dripping - with perspiration. The man returned the balls and the woman served them - out again mechanically. The throwers took off their coats and hurled - furiously, to the accompaniment of the shrill staccato chatter of the - crowd. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita and I stood blinking in the semi-darkness, our eyes dazzled by the - lamps. Suddenly I called out, and pushing my way between the throwers, - commenced running up the pitch. The man behind the cocoanuts, realizing - that the balls had ceased coming, stopped dodging and looked up to see - what was the matter. Just then an impatient thrower hurled a ball which - went whizzing over me, missed the cocoanuts, and hit the man on the head, - splitting his eyebrow. I was terribly afraid that he would topple over and - lie still, like Dot-and-Carry-One had told me men did in battle. Instead - of that, when I came within reach of him he clutched me angrily by the - shoulder, asking me what the devil I meant. The blood, creeping down his - face in a slow trickle, made him look twice as fierce as when I had first - met him with my Uncle Obad by the gipsy campfire. He drew me near to one - of the lamps, smearing his forehead with the back of his hand. He - recognized me. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, it’s you, you young cuss, is it?” - </p> - <p> - Just then the fortune-telling girl came up, whom I had seen before with - the baby on her back. She was carrying Ruthita. - </p> - <p> - “Here, Lilith,” he said, speaking gruffly, “take ’im to your tent.” - </p> - <p> - Then he commenced again, “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball - ’its a cocoanut. Down she goes,” etc. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—THE OPEN WORLD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>hat night in the - tent I slept soundly, with the fortuneteller’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. - </p> - <p> - Glimmerings of the early autumn sunrise crept in through holes in the - canvas. I raised myself cautiously and gazed at the woman who had cared - for me. I call her a woman, for she seemed to me a woman then; she was - about seventeen—little more than a girl. Her face was gentle and - passionate; her jet black hair streamed down in a torrent across her tawny - throat and breast. She smiled in her sleep and murmured to herself; the - arm which clasped Ruthita kept twitching, as though to draw her nearer. - While I watched, her eyes opened; she said nothing, but lay smiling up at - me. Presently she put her free arm about my neck, and drew me down so my - cheek rested against hers. She turned her head and I saw that, though she - looked happy, there were tears on her long dark lashes. Her lips moved and - I knew what she wanted. Putting my arms about her, I kissed her - good-morning. - </p> - <p> - Rousing Ruthita, she raised the flap of the tent and we slipped out. Mists - were drifting across the woodland, pink and golden where the sunrise - caught them, but lavender in the shadows. It was a quiet fairy world, like - the face of a sleeping woman, which was pale with dew upon the forehead - and copper and bronze with the streaming hair of faded foliage. Outside - the door the grass was blackened in a circle where a gipsy fire had burnt. - The yellow caravan stood near. In and out the bracken rabbits were - hopping, nibbling at the cool green turf. The gipsy’s lurcher watched - them, crouched with his nose between his paws, waiting his opportunity to - steal closer. Lilith set about gathering brushwood for the fire and we - helped her. - </p> - <p> - “Ruthie, am I taller?” - </p> - <p> - She eyed me judicially and shook her curls. “No. But p’raps we shall grow - tall quite suddenly, when the honeymoon is ended.” - </p> - <p> - I was beginning to have my doubts of that, so I changed the subject. - “Lilith has a baby. She carries it on her back.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - But when we ran to Lilith her back was straight and unbulgy. And when we - asked her where she kept the baby, she dropped the bundle of sticks she - was carrying and sank to her knees, with her hands pressed against her - breast. She swayed to and fro, with her eyes closed, muttering in a - strange language. Then she bent forward, kissing the ground and chanting - words which sounded like, “Coroon! Coroon! Oh, dearie, come back. Come - back!” - </p> - <p> - We heard the door of the caravan open. Lilith sprang to her feet and - picked up her sticks as though ashamed of what she had been doing. The - fierce man stood on the caravan steps. He strode across the grass to - Lilith and laid his hand on her shoulder with a rough gesture which was - almost kindly. “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.” - </p> - <p> - He passed on, whistling to his lurcher. The gaudily dressed woman came - out; while he was gone, the fire was kindled and breakfast was prepared. - </p> - <p> - During breakfast a great discussion arose in their strange language. When - it was ended, Lilith took us with her into the tent. She closed the flap - carefully and began to undress us. While she was doing it she explained - matters. She told us that the man was too busy just now with the - cocoanut-shies to spare time to go and fetch my uncle to us. In a few - days he would go, but meanwhile we must stay with them in camp. She said - that they were good gipsies, but no one would believe it if they saw us - with them. They would have to make us like gipsy children so no one would - suspect. So she daubed our bodies all over a light brown color, and she - stained my hair because it was flaxen. Then she gave us ragged clothes, - without shoes or stockings, and dug a hole in the ground and hid ours. She - was curious to know what had brought us to the forest; but we would not - tell. We had the child’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. - </p> - <p> - Those days spent in our first dash for freedom stand out in my memory as - among the happiest. I ate of the forbidden fruit of romance and reaped no - penalties. Ruthita cried at times for her mother; but I had only to - remind her of the babies she would have, and her courage returned. - </p> - <p> - The smell of the camp-fire is in my nostrils as I write; I can feel again - the cool nakedness of unpaved woodlands beneath my feet and open skies - above my head. I see Ruthita unsubdued and bare-legged, plunging - shoulder-high into golden bracken, shouting with natural gladness, - followed by the gipsy boys and girls. We tasted life in its fullness for - the first time, she and I, on that fantastic honeymoon of ours. We felt in - our bones and flesh the simple ecstasy of being alive—the wide, - sweet cleanness of the open world. And remembering, I wonder now, as I - wondered then, why men have toiled to learn everything except to be happy, - and have labored with so much heaviness to build cities when the tent and - the camp-fire might be theirs. - </p> - <p> - Books, schoolmasters, and universities have taught me much since then. - They have spattered the windows of my soul with knowledge to prevent my - looking out. Luckily I discovered what they were doing and stopped the - rascals. But I knew more things that were essentially godlike before they - commenced their work. The major part of what they taught me was a - weariness to the flesh in the learning, and a burden to the brain when - learnt. Of how many days of shouting and sunshine they robbed me with - their mistaken kindness. Of what worth is a Euclid problem at forty, when - compared with the memory of a childhood’s day of flowers, and meadows, and - happiness? - </p> - <p> - For twenty years my father sat prisoner at a desk, unbeautifully and - doggedly driving his pen across countless pages that he might be able to - buy me wisdom. With all his years of sacrifice and my years of laborious - study, he gave me nothing which was half so valuable as that which a boy - of nine stole for himself in his ignorance in the forest. There I learnt - that the sound of wind in trees is the finest music in the world; that the - power to feel in one’s own body the wholesome beauties of nature is more - rewarding than wealth; that to know how to abandon oneself to the simple - kindness of living people is a wiser knowledge than all the elaborate and - codified wisdom of the dead. - </p> - <p> - We roamed the countryside with Lilith by day, listening to her telling - fortunes. By night we slept in her arms in the tent. Only one thing was - forbidden us—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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Naphtha-lamps were extinguished. The crowd of merrymakers had departed. I - was roused by Lilith stirring. Very gently she eased her arm from under - me. I kept my eyes tightly shut and feigned that I was undisturbed. - Cautiously she pulled aside the flap of the tent and stole out. I rose to - my feet when she had gone. Ruthita was sleeping soundly, her small face - cushioned in her hand. Without waking her I followed. - </p> - <p> - Near to the caravan the camp-fire smoldered, making a splash of red like a - pool of blood in the blackness. As I watched, it was momentarily blotted - out by a moving shadow. The lurcher shook himself and growled. Lilith’s - voice reached me, telling him to lie down. A bank of cloud lay across the - moon, but I knew the way she went by the rustle of the fallen leaves, - turning beneath her tread. I followed her down the glades of the forest, - peering after her, glancing behind me at the slightest sound, timid lest I - might lose her, timid lest I might lose myself, stealing on tiptoe into - the unknown with sobbing, stifled breath. The ground began to descend into - a hollow at the bottom of which a pond lay black and sullen. A tall beech - stood at its edge, spreading out its branches and leaning across it as if - to hide it. The leaves beneath her footsteps ceased to stir. - </p> - <p> - When I could no longer hear her, a horrible, choking sense of solitude - took hold of me. What if she had entered into the tree and should never - return? Without her, how should I find my way back? I crept as near the - pond as I dared, and crouched among the dead leaves, trembling. The water - began to splash. “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. - </p> - <p> - The bank of cloud trailed across the sky. The yellow harvest moon dipped, - broad and smiling, into the latticework of boughs which roofed the dell. - </p> - <p> - In the middle of the pond, knee-deep, Lilith stood. She had cast aside her - Romany rags and rose from the water tall and splendid. Her tawny body was - a gold statue glistening beneath the moon. Her night-black hair fell sheer - from her shoulders like a silken shadow. She was bending forward, peering - eagerly beneath the water’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. - </p> - <p> - “Lilith, oh Lilith!” I cried. - </p> - <p> - She started and turned. I feared she was going to be angry. “Show me my - Mama,” I whispered. - </p> - <p> - She put her finger to her lips, and beckoned, and nodded. - </p> - <p> - Hastily I undressed, tossing my rags beside hers. I waded out to where she - was standing. The night air was chilly. She gave me her hand and drew me - to her. Placing me before her, so that I could gaze into the pond like a - mirror, she chanted over and over a low, wild tune. She peered above my - shoulders. At first I could see only my own reflection and hers. Then, as - she sang, the water moved, the inky blackness reddened; I forgot - everything, the cold, Lilith, my terror, and lived only in that which was - coming. - </p> - <p> - In the bottom of the pool, infinitely distant, a picture grew. It came so - near that I thought it would touch me; I became a part of it. I saw my - mother. She was seated by a fire in an unlighted room. A little boy lay in - her lap with his arms about her. She glanced up at me smiling faintly, - gazing into my eyes directly. For a moment I saw her distinctly, and - caught again the fragrance of violets that clung about her. The water - rippled and the vision died away in smoke and cloud. Lilith gathered me to - her cold wet breast and carried me to the shore and dressed me. Without - knowing why, I knew that this was a happening that I must not tell. - </p> - <p> - We returned to camp. Woods were stirring. Shadows were thinning. Dawn was - breaking. The coldness in the air became intense. We threw branches on the - fire and blew the smoldering embers, till sparks began to fly and twigs to - crackle. Lilith sat with me in her arms, and hushed and mothered me. I was - not ashamed; for five years I had wanted just that. I was glad that she - understood. Ruthita could not see me; nobody but the dawn would ever know. - So I fell asleep and went back to the fragrance of violets, the fire, and - the cosy darkened room. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—RECAPTURED - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span> uthita and I were - terribly puzzled about that baby. We couldn’t make out how it had found - its way into the world. We supposed that God had made a mistake in sending - it to Lilith, and that was why He had taken it back. - </p> - <p> - Our difficulty rose from the fact that Lilith did not appear ever to have - been married. The fierce man was not her husband. So far as we could - discover from the gipsy children she had never had a husband. Then she - couldn’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. - </p> - <p> - The days grew shorter and the forest became bare. We could see long - distances now between the tree-trunks; it was as though the branches had - fisted their hands. Holiday-seekers came to the cocoanut-shies less and - less. The fierce man, whom we learnt to call G’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. - </p> - <p> - Every day as Ruthita became more sure that she could have a baby all by - herself, she wanted to go home more badly. One evening the gaudy woman - found her crying. She told G’liath that next morning he must harness in - his little moke and go for Mr. Spreckles. I did not hear her tell him, but - Lilith told me when she came to lie down beside me in the tent. - </p> - <p> - That night she held me closer. I could feel her heart thumping. She roused - me continually in the darkness to ask me needless questions. Whether I - would ever forget her. “No.” Whether I would like to see her again. “Yes.” - Whether I would like to become a gipsy. “Wouldn’t I!” - </p> - <p> - She was silent for so long that I began to drowse. I awoke with the - tightening of her arms about me. When I lifted my face to hers, she - commenced to kiss me passionately. “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - She led me away through the tall stark forest to a glade so secret that no - one could observe us. At first I thought she was escaping with me, - carrying me off to her gipsy-land. But she made me kneel down beside her. - As the sun wheeled above the cold horizon she snatched a little knife from - beneath her dress, and pricked her wrist and mine so that they bled. She - held her hand beneath our wrists, catching the blood in her palm so it - mingled. Then she let it drip through her fingers, making scarlet stains - on the frosted turf. - </p> - <p> - As it fell she spoke to the grass and the trees and the air, telling them - that I was hers and, because our blood was mingled, was one of them. - “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!” - </p> - <p> - And it seemed to me when her voice had ceased that I heard the grass - nodding its head. From the dawn came a breath of wind, sweeping through - the trees, stooping their leafless branches as though they gave assent. - </p> - <p> - That morning for the first time we had breakfast in the caravan. After - breakfast Lilith and I went out together, hand-in-hand. G’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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I thought of the picture I had seen in the pool and knew what she meant. - </p> - <p> - Towards evening we returned to the camp. The melancholy autumn twilight - lay about us; in the heart of it the fire burnt red. We sat round it in - silence, watching the hard white road through the trees and listening for - G’liath coming back. “Ruthita,” I whispered, “do you think we shall find - the little house?” - </p> - <p> - She shook her head doubtfully, as if she scarcely cared. She was thinking - of the lighted room, perhaps, and the long white bed, where her mother was - eagerly awaiting her. - </p> - <p> - Coming up the road we heard a sharp tap-a-tap. Dancing in and out the - tree-trunks we saw the golden eyes of carriage-lamps. The dog-cart and - Dollie came into sight and halted; my Uncle Obad jumped out. He had come - alone to fetch us; I was glad of that. I could explain things to him so - much more easily than to my father, and he was sure to understand. - Catching sight of me by the fire, he ran forward and lifted me up in his - arms. All he could say was, “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly the gaudy woman remembered that we were still clothed in our - gipsy rags. She wanted to take us into the caravan and dress us, but Uncle - Obad wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted on carrying us off to Pope Lane just - as we were. - </p> - <p> - It was night when he said, “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. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita crept closer to me. She may have been cold and she may have been - lonely, but I think she was just feeling how flat things were now our - great adventure was over. She had feared it while it lasted; now, - womanlike, she was wishing that it was not quite ended. Every now and then - she drew her fingers across my face—a little love-trick she had. She - leant her head against my shoulder and was soon sleeping soundly. - </p> - <p> - “Old chap, why did you do it?” - </p> - <p> - I looked up at my uncle; I could not see his face because of the darkness. - His voice was very solemn and kindly. - </p> - <p> - “We couldn’t see anything in the garden,” I said; “we wanted to find where - the pigeons went.” - </p> - <p> - “But why did you take the little girl?” - </p> - <p> - I hesitated about telling. It might spoil what was left of the magic; I - still had a faint hope that by the time we reached Pope Lane I might have - grown into a man. And then, in telling, I might do Hetty a damage. Instead - of answering, I asked him a question. - </p> - <p> - “When you’re married, you get everything you want, don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “That depends on what you call everything, Dante.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, money, and a house, and a pony, and babies.” - </p> - <p> - “Not always.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke softly. Then I knew I oughtn’t to have mentioned babies, because, - like Lilith, he hadn’t any. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - He slowed Dollie down to a walk. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 - <i>imagine</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - I promised. - </p> - <p> - When we got to Pope Lane it must have been very late. I suppose I fell - asleep on the journey, for I remember nothing more until the light flashed - in my eyes and my father was bending over me. Ruthita wasn’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Father, I—I didn’t mean to hurt you.” - </p> - <p> - Then I saw that he was crying. His tears splashed down. His face had lost - that stem look. I was shaken by his sobs as he held me. - </p> - <p> - “Little son. My little son,” he whispered. - </p> - <p> - The room grew fainter. The pictures on the walls became shadowy. My eyes - opened and closed. When I awoke the gray light of morning was stealing in - at the window. The fire had fallen away in ashes. The air was chilly. My - father was sitting in the easy-chair, his head sunk forward—but his - arms were still about me. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—THE SNOW LADY - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y father never - asked me why I had run away or where I had gone. His tongue was ever - stubborn at loving with words. With Hetty it was different. When my father - had wakened and let me out of his arms to go upstairs and dress, she - caught me into her bosom and half-smothered me, scolding and comforting by - turns. Her corsets hurt me and her starched print-dress was harsh; I was - glad when she left off and set me down on the bed. - </p> - <p> - “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———” - </p> - <p> - “They’re not dirty,” I interrupted, “and I shan’t like you if you talk - like that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I’m only tellin’ you the truth; you was always perwerse and ’eadstrong.” - </p> - <p> - “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——” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - Her voice was more soft and emotional than any voice I had ever heard. It - held me, and kept me from noticing anything but her. It seemed as though - all the eagerness of living, which other people spend in motion, was - stored up in that long white throat of hers and delicate scarlet mouth. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She turned me about and there was Ruthita standing behind me. I did what I - was told, shyly and perfunctorily. There was no sense of pleasure in doing - what you were ordered to do just to amuse grown people. The Snow Lady - laughed gaily. “There, take him out into the garden, Ruthita, and teach - him to do it properly.” - </p> - <p> - As I left the room, I saw that my father had taken my place by the couch. - Monsieur Favart was looking out of the window, his hands folded on the - head of his cane and his chin resting on them. - </p> - <p> - We played in the garden together, but much of the charm had gone out of - our playing now that it was allowed. The game we played was gipsies in the - forest. We gathered leaves and made a fire, pretending we were again in - camp. I was G’liath; Ruthita was sometimes the gaudy woman and sometimes - Lilith telling fortunes. But the pretense was tame after the reality. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But we can grow older.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. But it’ll take ages.” - </p> - <p> - She folded her hands in her pinafore nervously. - </p> - <p> - “We can go on loving till then,” she said. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Often I would steal into the tool-house and tell the white hen all about - it. But she also was a source of disillusionment. After long waiting I - found one egg in her nest. I thought she must be as glad about it as I - was, so left it there a little while for her to look at. I thought the - sight of it would spur her on to more ambitious endeavors. But when I came - back her beak was yellowy and the egg had vanished. After this unnatural - act of cannibalism I told her no more secrets; she had proved herself - unworthy. Shortly afterwards she died—perhaps of remorse. I made my - peace with her by placing her in a cardboard shoe-box for a coffin and - giving her a most handsome funeral. - </p> - <p> - One evening, when I had been put to bed, I stole to the window to gaze - into the blackness. I saw a man with a lantern go across our lawn and - disappear by the apple-tree through the door in the wall. After that I - watched. Nearly every night it happened. I was always too sleepy to stay - awake to see at what hour he came back. But I knew that he did come back, - for with the first fall of snow I traced his returning footsteps. They - came from Monsieur Favart’s door and entered in at our study-window. So I - guessed that the man was my father. - </p> - <p> - Madam Favart seemed to be growing stronger; she was able to get up and - walk about. Sometimes I would go into her house for tea, and she would sit - by the firelight and tell Ruthita and myself stories. She used to try and - get me to climb on her knee while she told them. I always refused, because - my mother used to do that. The Snow Lady used to laugh at me and say, - “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. - </p> - <p> - When Christmas came round, the Favarts were invited over to spend it with - us. The Snow Lady brought a bunch of misletoe with her and hung it about - our house. After dinner the General fell asleep in his chair, and we - children played hide and seek together. I wanted to hide so securely that - Ruthita would never catch me. It was getting dark, and I knew that she - wouldn’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.” - </p> - <p> - But a strange rebellious horror possessed me. It seemed as though - something were tearing out my heart. I was angry, fiercely angry because - he had been disloyal to my mother. At that moment I hated him, but hated - Madam Favart much worse. I knew now why she had told me stories, and why - she had wanted me to climb on her knee, and why she had tried to force me - to make love to her. I rushed from the room and down the passage. Ruthita - ran out laughing to catch me, but I pushed her aside roughly and unjustly. - I wanted to get away by myself and fled out into the snow-covered garden. - My father came to the door and called. But Madam Favart was with him; I - could see by the gaslight, which fell behind them, the way she pressed - towards him. I could hear her merry contralto laugh, and refused to - answer. - </p> - <p> - “He’ll come by himself,” she said. - </p> - <p> - When the door closed and they left me, I felt miserably lonely. They had - been wicked and they were not sorry. Hetty said that God was twice as - angry with you for not being sorry as He was with you for doing wrong. - Hetty knew everything about God; she used to hold long conversations with - Him every night in her gray flannel nightdress. Soon the snow began to - melt into my shoes and the frost to nip my fingers. I wished they would - come out again and call me. - </p> - <p> - I became pathetic over the fact that it was Christmas. I pictured to - myself a possible death as a result of exposure. I saw myself dying in a - beautiful calm, forgiving everybody, and with everybody kneeling by my - bedside shaken with sobbing; the sobs of Madam Favart and my father were - to be the loudest. I was to be stretching out long white hands, trying to - quiet them; but their sense of guilt was to have placed them beyond all - bounds of consolation. Every time I tried to comfort them they were to cry - twice as hard. Then I saw my funeral and the big lily wreaths: “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. - </p> - <p> - I began to feel little pangs of hunger, and my pride gave way before them. - Reluctantly I stole nearer the house and peeked into the study. They were - all there seated round the fire, callously enjoying themselves. The secret - was plainly out—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. - </p> - <p> - Within a month the marriage was celebrated, my father being a methodical - man who hated delays and loved shortcuts. It was a vicarious affair; - Ruthita and I had taken the honeymoon, and our parents were married. If - Uncle Obad hadn’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. - </p> - <p> - I grew to admire the Snow Lady immensely. She always called me her little - lover. She never ordered me to do anything or played the mother, but - flirted with me and trusted to my chivalry to recognize her wants. We - played a game of pretending. It had only one disadvantage, that it shut - Ruthita out from our game, for one couldn’t court two ladies at once. I - learnt to kiss Ruthita as a habit and to take her, as boys will their - sisters, for granted. It is only on looking back that I realize how - beautiful and gentle she really was, and what life would have been without - her. - </p> - <p> - General Favart lived in the other house through the door in the wall. He - came to visit us rarely. He leant more heavily on his cane, and his cloak - seemed to have become blacker, his hair whiter, and his scar more - prominent. He could scarcely speak a word of English, so I never knew what - he thought. But it seemed to me he was sorrowing. One day we children were - told that he was dead; after that the door between the two gardens was - taken down and the hole in the wall bricked up. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - BOOK II—THE PULLING DOWN OF THE WALLS - </h2> - <p> - <i>And man returned to the ground out of which he was taken, and his wife - bare children and he builded walls. But thou shalt think an evil thought - and say, “I will go up to the land of unwalled villages.</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—THE RED HOUSE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>ante, it’s time - you went to school.” - </p> - <p> - For the past three years, since he had married the Snow Lady, my father - had given me lessons in his study for the last hour of every morning - before lunch. It had been the Snow Lady’s idea; she said I was growing up - a perfect ignoramus. - </p> - <p> - My father tilted up his spectacles to his forehead, and gazed across the - table at me thoughtfully. “Yes,” he repeated, “I’ll be sorry to lose you, - my boy; but it’s time you went to school.” - </p> - <p> - He was to lose me; then I was to go away! My heart sank, and leapt, and - sank again with a dreadful joy of expectation. In my childish way I had - always been impatient of the present—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. - </p> - <p> - The school selected was one of the smaller public-schools, lying fifteen - miles distant from Stoke Newington. It was called the Red House and stood - on Eden Hill. It was situated in lovely country, so my father said, and - had for its head-master a man with whom he was slightly acquainted, whose - name was the Reverend Robert Sneard. - </p> - <p> - For the next few weeks I was a semi-hero. Ruthita regarded me with the - kind of pitying awe that a bullock inspires in children, when they meet it - being driven lowing along a road to be slaughtered. Everyone became busy - over preparations for my departure—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. - </p> - <p> - Of a sudden I had become a person of importance. The servants no longer - made a worry of doing things for me. They watched me going about the house - as though it were for the last time, and spoke of me to one another as, - “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. - </p> - <p> - It was arranged that my uncle should drive me to the Red House. Before I - went, I was loaded with good advice. My father sent for me to his study - one night and, with considerable embarrassment, alluded to subjects of - which I had no knowledge, imploring me to listen to no evil companions but - to keep pure. His language was so delicately veiled that I was none the - wiser. I thought he referred to such boyish peccadilloes as jam stealing - and telling lies. Even the Snow Lady, who took delight in being frivolous, - read me a moral story concerning the rapid degeneration, through - cigarettes and beer-drinking, of a boy with the face of an angel. Neither - of these temptations was mine, and I had never regarded myself as - particularly angelic in appearance. They beat about the bush, hunting - ghostly passions with allegories. - </p> - <p> - I noticed that Ruthita would absent herself for an hour or more at a - stretch. When I followed her up to her room the door was locked, and she - would beseech me with tears in her voice not to peek through the key-hole. - The mystery was explained when she presented me with a knitted muffler, - the wool for which she had purchased from her own savings. I came across - it, moth-eaten and faded, in my old school play-box the other day. It was - cold weather when she made it, for a little girl to sit in a bedroom - without a fire. I hope I thanked her sufficiently and did not accept her - surprise as though it were expected. - </p> - <p> - On an afternoon in January I departed. Then I realized for the first time - what going away from home meant. The horror of the unknown, not the - adventure, pressed upon me. We all pretended to be very gay—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. - </p> - <p> - I drew nearer to my uncle, pressing Ruthita’s muffler to my lips and - gazing straight before me. - </p> - <p> - “What—what’ll it be like?” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “Couldn’t say,” he muttered huskily. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We left the Great North Road, striking across country, through frosty - lanes. My uncle ceased speaking; he himself was uninterested in what he - had been saying. We passed groups of children playing before clustered - cottages, and laborers plodding homeward whistling. It seemed strange to - me that they should all be so cheerful and should not realize what was - happening inside me. - </p> - <p> - We came in sight of the Red House. It could be seen at a great distance, - for it stood out gauntly on the crest of Eden Hill, and the sunset lay - behind it. In the lowlands night was falling; lights were springing up, - twinkling cheerfully. But the Red House did not impress me as cheerful—it - had no lights, and struck me with the chill and repression that one feels - in passing by a prison. - </p> - <p> - “Well, old chap, we’re nearly there,” said my uncle with a futile attempt - to be jolly. - </p> - <p> - I darted out my hand and dragged on the reins. “Don’t—don’t drive so - fast. Let Dollie walk.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Despite his optimisms, he did as I requested and let Dollie walk the rest - of the way. While she climbed the hill, we got out and walked beside her. - My uncle put his hand in his pocket, and drew out a half-crown. He - balanced it in his palm; tossed it; put it back into his pocket; drew it - out again. “Here, Dante,” he said at last, “see what I’ve found. You’d - best take it.” - </p> - <p> - As we approached nearer, he was again moved to generosity. He was moved - three times, to be exact; each time he considered the matter carefully, - then rushed the coin at me. He gave me seven shillings in all. I am sure - he could ill afford them. - </p> - <p> - At the top of the hill he beckoned me to jump into the trap. It was - fitting, I suppose, that we should drive up to my place of confinement - grandly. Then a great idea seized me. My box was under the seat behind. I - had all my belongings with me. There were no walls to restrain us now. - </p> - <p> - “Uncle,” I whispered, “I don’t want to go there. You once said you were - tired of houses. Why shouldn’t we run away?” - </p> - <p> - He heard the tremble in my voice. He lifted me in beside him and drove - along the outside of the school-walls, not entering at the gate. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - We drove through the gate to the main entrance. My box was deposited in - the hall. My uncle shook hands with me in formal manner when he said - good-by, for the school-porter was present. He turned round sharply to cut - proceedings short, and disappeared into the night. I listened to his - wheels growing fainter. For the first time I was utterly alone. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—CHILDISH SORROWS AND CHILDISH COMFORTERS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n delicate - schoolboy slang, I was a new-bug—a thing to be poked and despised, - and not to be spoken to for the first few days. There were other new-bugs, - which was some consolation; but we were too shy to get acquainted. We - moped about the playground sullen and solitary, like crows on a plowed - field. Every now and then some privileged person, who was not a new-bug, - would bang our shins with a hockey-stick; after which we would hop about - on one leg for a time, looking more like crows than ever. - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady had packed fifty oranges in my box. I made holes in the tops - of them with my thumb and rammed in lumps of sugar, sucking out the juice. - Not because I was greedy, but because there seemed nothing else to do, I - ate every one of the fifty the first day. The following night I was ill, - which did not help my popularity. One dark-haired person, about my own - age, with a jolly freckled face, took particular offense at my - misdemeanor. His real name was Buzzard, but he was nicknamed the Bantam - because of his size and his temper. He never said a word about the - oranges, but he punished me for having been ill by stamping on my toes. He - did this whenever he passed me, looking in the opposite direction in an - absent-minded fashion. My quietness in putting up with him seemed to - irritate him. - </p> - <p> - The afternoon was frosty; I was hobbling miserably about the playground - with Ruthita’s muffler round my throat. It was a delicate baby-pink, and - the Bantam easily caught sight of it. He came up and jerking it from me, - trod on it. I had never fought in my life, but my wretchedness made me - reckless. I thought of little Ruthita and the long cold hours she had - spent in making it. It seemed that he had insulted her. I hit him savagely - on the nose. - </p> - <p> - Immediately there were cries of, “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. - </p> - <p> - “Now you’ve done it,” the Bantam shouted. - </p> - <p> - He started out, accompanied by the crowd to the bottom of the playground. - I followed. The laboratory, a long black shed, stood there, with a roof of - galvanized iron and rows of bottles arranged in the windows. Behind it we - were out of sight of masters, unless they happened to be carrying on - experiments inside. - </p> - <p> - A ring was formed. The Bantam commenced to take off his coat and collar. I - did likewise. A horrid sickening sense of defenselessness came over me. I - experienced what the early Christians must have felt when they gazed round - the eager amphitheatre, and heard the lions roaring. - </p> - <p> - A big fellow stepped up. “Here, new-bug, d’you know how to fight?” - </p> - <p> - When I shook my head, he grinned at me cheerfully. “Hold your arms well - up, double your fists, and go for him.” - </p> - <p> - The advice was more easy to give than to put into action. The Bantam was - on top of me in a flash. He made for my face at first, but I lowered my - head and kept my arms up, so he was content to pummel me about the body. - He hurt, and hurt badly; I had never been treated so roughly. - </p> - <p> - Something happened. Perhaps it was a fierce realization of the injustice - of everything—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. - </p> - <p> - A man came round the side of the shed. He looked something like - Dot-and-Carry-One, only he was smaller. His hair was the color of a - badger’s, shaggy and unbrushed. His face was stubbly and besmirched with - different colored chalks from his fingers. His clothes were stained and - baggy. He approached sideways, crabwise, in a great hurry, with one hand - stretched out behind and one in front, like flappers. His gestures were - those of a servant in a Chinese etching; they made him absurdly - conspicuous by their self-belittlement. Beyond everything, he was dirty. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The last two sentences were spoken very gently—quite unlike the - rest, which had been angry. “Humph! His sister gave it him!” - </p> - <p> - He took me by the hand and led me into the shed, closing the door behind - him. An iron stove was burning. The outside was red hot; it glowered - through the dusk. Running round the sides of the room were taps and - basins, and above them bottles. Ranged on the table in the middle were - stands, bunsen-burners and retorts. He went silently about his work. He - was melting sulphur in a crucible. - </p> - <p> - Every now and then the sulphur caught and burnt with a violet flame; and - all the while it made a suffocating smell. - </p> - <p> - I felt scared. I didn’t know what he was going to do with me. The boys had - called him The Creature, which sounded very dreadful. He had dragged me - into his den just like the ogres the Snow Lady read about. - </p> - <p> - Presently his experiment ended. He gave me a seat by the stove, and came - and sat beside me. He didn’t look at all fierce now. He struck me as old - and discouraged. - </p> - <p> - “Always fight for your sister,” he said. Then after a pause, “What’s she - called?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He led the way out of the laboratory, turning the key behind him. The bell - in the tower was ringing for supper. The school was all lit up. He climbed - the railing which divided the playground from the football field, telling - me to follow. We passed across the meadows to the village, which lay on - the northward side of Eden Hill; it snuggled among trees. The cottages - were straw-thatched. Frost glistened on the window-panes, behind which - lamps were set. Unmelted snow glimmered here and there in the gardens in - patches among cabbage stumps. We turned in at a gate. The Creature raised - the latch of the door and we entered. - </p> - <p> - How cozy the little house was after the bare stone corridors and cold, - boarded dormitories. All the furnishings of the room into which he led me - were worn and out-of-date; but they had a homelike look about them which - atoned for their shabbiness. The walls bulged. Pictures hung awry upon - them. The springs of the sofa had burst; you sank to an unexpected depth - when you sat upon it. The carpet was threadbare; patch-work rugs covered - the worst places. Yet for all its poverty, you knew that it was a room in - which people had loved and been kind to one another. An atmosphere of - memory hung about it. - </p> - <p> - The Creature appeared to be his own house-keeper. He left me alone while - he went somewhere into the back to get things ready. I could hear him - striking matches and jingling cups against saucers. - </p> - <p> - As I sat looking curiously round at wax-fruit in glass-cases and a stuffed - owl on the mantel-shelf, the door was pushed open gently. An old lady - entered. She trod so lightly, gliding her feet along the floor, that I - should not have heard her save for the turning of the handle. She was - dressed from head to foot in clinging muslin. Her face and hands were so - frail and white that you could almost see through them. Her faded hair - fell disordered and scanty about her shoulders. Her eyes were unnaturally - large and luminous. She showed no surprise at seeing me. She looked at me - so stealthily that she seemed to establish a secret. Crossing her hands on - her breast she courtesied, and then asked me as odd a question as was ever - addressed to a little boy. “Are you my Lord?” - </p> - <p> - “If you please, mam,” I faltered, “I’m Dante Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - Her look of intense eagerness faded, and one of almost childish - disappointment took its place. She moved slowly about the room, from - corner to corner, bowing to people whom I could not see and whispering to - herself. - </p> - <p> - My host came shuffling along the passage. He was carrying a tea-tray. When - he saw the woman, he set it hurriedly down on the table and went quietly - towards her. “Gipie,” he said, “Egypt, we’re not alone; we have a guest. - Tell them to go away.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke to her soothingly, as though she were a child. Her eyes narrowed, - the strained far-away expression left her face. She made a motion with her - hand, dismissing the invisible persons. He led her to me. It was strange - to see a grown woman follow so obediently. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - He introduced us. “This is my sister, Egypt; and this is Dante Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - That night as the Creature walked back with me from his cottage, he told - me to come to him whenever I was lonely. At the Red House he explained my - absence to the house-master. I went upstairs to the dormitory, with its - rows of twelve white beds down either side, feeling that I had parted from - a friend. - </p> - <p> - As I undressed in the darkness the Bantam spoke to me. “Didn’t mean to - fight you, Cardover. Make it up.” - </p> - <p> - So I made it up that night with the boy whose nose I had punched. He was a - decent little chap when off his dignity. We began to make confidences in - whispers; I suppose the darkness helped us. He told me that his father was - in India and that he hadn’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?” - </p> - <p> - “Lady Zion?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. Lady Zion Holy Ghost she calls herself. She’s his sister, and she’s - balmy.” - </p> - <p> - He was going to enter into some interesting details about her, when the - monitor and the elder boys came up. He hid his face in the pillow and - pretended to be sleeping soundly. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Out you come.” - </p> - <p> - One boy held his hands and another his legs, bending his body into a - praying attitude. He fought like a demon, but to no purpose. They yanked - his night-shirt up, while the monitor laid into him with the bristly side - of a hairbrush. He addressed him between each blow. “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Bantam,” I whispered. - </p> - <p> - He snuffled. - </p> - <p> - “Bantam.” - </p> - <p> - I felt his fingers clutch my hand. I crept out and put my arms about him. - Then I got into his bed and curled up beside him, and so we both were - comforted. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—THE WORLD OF BOYS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I - became great friends. He was a brave daredevil little chap, prematurely - hardened by the absence of home influences to make the best of life’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. - </p> - <p> - Yet, when I look back, the making of happiness at the Red House seems to - me to have been very much like manufacturing bricks without straw. I am - amazed at our success. Very slight provision was made for our comfort. Our - daily routine was in no way superior to that of a barrack; the only - difference was that they drilled our heads instead of our arms and legs. - The feminine influence was entirely lacking, and a good deal of brutality - resulted. If the parents could have guessed half the shocking things that - their fresh-faced innocent looking darlings did and said in the three - months of each term that they were away from home, they would have been - broken-hearted. And yet they might have guessed. For here were we, young - animals in every stage of adolescence, herded together in class-rooms and - dormitories, uninformed about ourselves, with only paid people to care for - us. - </p> - <p> - Apart from the masters we governed ourselves by a secret code of honor. - One of the favorite diversions, when things were dull, was to find some - boy who was unpopular, in a breach of schoolboy etiquette. He would then - be led into a class-room, held down over a desk, and thrashed with - hockey-sticks. I have seen a boy receive as many as ninety strokes, laid - on by various young barbarians who took a pride in seeing who could hit - hardest. Usually at the end of it the victim was nearly fainting, and - would be lame for days after. The masters knew all about such proceedings, - but they were too indifferent to interfere. They boasted that they trusted - to the school’s sense of justice. - </p> - <p> - A boy, who was at all sensitive, went about in a state of terror. If you - escaped hockey-sticks by day, there was always the dormitory and - hair-brush to be dreaded. The way to get beyond the dread of such - possibilities was to make yourself popular, and the easiest way to become - popular was to play ingenious pranks on the masters. - </p> - <p> - The glorious hours of liberty that broke up the monotonous round of tasks - stand out in vivid contrast to the discipline. We lived for them and kept - charts of the days, because this seemed to bring them nearer. There were - two half-holidays a week, Wednesdays and Saturdays, on which, if - sufficient excuse were given, we were allowed to go out of the - school-grounds. If the permission were withheld, we broke bounds and took - the risk of discovery and consequent thrashings. These stolen expeditions - had a zest about them that made them the more pleasurable. - </p> - <p> - The Bantam and I did most things together. We had a common fund of money. - His memories of India lent a touch of romance to our friendship. He would - spin long yarns of man-eating tigers and terrible battles with - hill-tribes. He had a lurid imagination and added some fresh detail each - time he told his tales. Not to be behindhand, I narrated my escape to the - forest—leaving out the Ruthita part of it—and how Lilith had - made me a gipsy. - </p> - <p> - These stories became a secret between us which we shared with no one. We - created for ourselves a mirage world which we called IT. In IT we had only - to speak of things and they happened. In IT there were man-eating tigers - to whom we threw our masters when they had been unpleasant to us. We would - drag them by their feet through the jungle, and then let out a low - blood-thirsty wailing sound. Immediately we had done it, we would drop our - victim and climb trees, for we could hear the tigers coming. The victim - was bound so he couldn’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. - </p> - <p> - “Then the tiger seized him by the arm and chawed him,” the Bantam would - say. - </p> - <p> - “And the other tiger seized him by the leg, pulling in an opposite - direction,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “Your little girl will be jolly well glad when you’re dead,” said I. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t have killed him so soon,” I would expostulate discontentedly. - “I’d got something else I wanted to do to him.” - </p> - <p> - “All right,” the Bantam would assent cheerfully; “let’s kill him again.” - </p> - <p> - So real was this land of IT to us, that we would shout with excitement as - we reached the climax of our narrations. The English fields through which - we wandered became swamps, deserts, and forests at will. - </p> - <p> - It became part of our game to pretend that we might meet Lilith any day. - Often we would break bounds, stealing down country lanes and peering - through hedges, hoping that at the next turn we should discover her seated - before her camp-fire. Hope deferred never curbed our eagerness; we always - believed that we should meet her next time. - </p> - <p> - If we did not meet Lilith, we met someone equally strange—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.” - </p> - <p> - When I grew older I learnt the truth about the Creature and his sister. He - became a firm friend of mine before schooldays were ended. He was a man - who possessed a faculty for not getting on in the world which, had it been - of value, would have amounted to genius. Anyone else with his brains and - instinct for daring guess-work in scientific experiment, would have made a - reputation. Instead of which he pottered his life out at the Red House, - defending his sister and allowing himself to be imposed on both by boys - and masters. - </p> - <p> - Popularity was the armor which permitted you to do almost anything with - impunity. A boy would take almost any chance to get it. Very early in my - school experience the Bantam thought out a plan which he invited me to - share—with the dire result that I was brought into intimate contact - with Mr. Sneard. - </p> - <p> - Every night between seven and eight the lower forms assembled to prepare - their next day’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. - </p> - <p> - One night in prep we put our plan to the test. The Creature was seated at - his raised desk, absorbed in some scientific work. The Bantam, judging his - distance carefully, took aim and the chimney cracked. As soon as the - lamp-boy had been sent for and the chimney had been replaced, it was my - turn. I was no less successful. For a week prep was disorganized; every - night the same thing happened. I felt secretly ashamed of myself, for I - knew that I was behaving meanly to a man who had always been kind in his - dealings with me; but I was intoxicated with popularity. The Bantam and I - were the heroes of the hour. Boys who had never condescended to speak to - us, now offered us their next week’s pocket-money to instruct them in an - art in which we excelled. Games were abandoned. All over the play-ground - groups of young ruffians might be seen industriously spitting at some - object by the hour together. - </p> - <p> - I suppose the Creature must have watched us from the laboratory and put - two and two together. One night, when three chimneys had broken in - succession, he caught me in mid-act. I say he caught me, but he did not so - much as look up from the book he was reading. He just said, without - raising his head, “Cardover, you must report yourself to Mr. Sneard - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - To have to report oneself to Mr. Sneard was the worst punishment that an - under-master could measure out. Somehow it had never entered my head that - the Creature would be so severe as that. Why, I might get expelled or - publicly thrashed! My imagination conjured up all sorts of disgraces and - grisly penalties. - </p> - <p> - That night in the dormitory the Bantam told me of a way in which I might - save myself; it was my first lesson in the value of diplomacy in helping - one out of ticklish situations. It appeared that Mr. Sneard was always - lenient with a boy who professed conversion. - </p> - <p> - Next day as I was hesitating outside his private room, screwing up my - courage to tap, the Bantam sidled up behind me. “I’m going too,” he said. - Before I could dissuade him, he had turned the handle. - </p> - <p> - Sneard was a sallow cadaverous person; he affected side-whiskers and had - red hair. He wore clerical attire, the vest of which was very much spotted - through his nearsightedness when he ate at table. He was probably the - least scholarly master in the school, but he owed his position to his - manners. They were unctuous, and had the reputation of going down with the - parents. I suppose that was how he caught my father. He composed hymns, - which he set to music and compelled us to sing on Sundays. They were - mostly of the self-abasement order, in which we spoke of ourselves as - worms and besought the Almighty not to tread on us. For years my mental - picture of God was that of a gigantic school-master in holy orders, very - similar in appearance to Sneard himself. - </p> - <p> - When we entered, he was seated behind his desk writing. He prolonged our - suspense by pretending not to see us for a while. Suddenly he cast aside - his pen and wheeled round in a storm of furious anger. When he spoke, it - sounded like a dog yapping. - </p> - <p> - “You young blackguards, what’s this I hear about you?” - </p> - <p> - He forced us to tell him the stupid details of our offense. He could have - had no sense of humor, for while we were speaking he covered his eyes with - his hand as though staggered with horror at the enormity of our depravity. - Later experience has taught me that what he meant us to believe was that - he was engaged in prayer. - </p> - <p> - When in small throaty whispers we had finished our confession, he looked - up at us. “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?” - </p> - <p> - Then he straightened himself in his chair. “There’s nothing else for it; - Cardover, it’s over there. Will you please fetch it?” - </p> - <p> - He pointed to a cane in the corner, which leant against a book-shelf. It - was at this crisis that the Bantam made use of his stratagem. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - If the truth be told I had been lying awake imagining Sneard being bled to - death very slowly, and very torturingly, by a hill-tribe. But Sneard - caught at the bait. “I am glad to hear it. Cardover, before I cane you, - come here and tell me about your views on hell.” - </p> - <p> - Before we left him, great crocodile tears were streaming from our eyes by - reason of knuckles rubbed in vigorously. We were not punished. The last - sight I had of Sneard he was gazing with holy joy at a great oil-painting - of himself which hung above his desk. - </p> - <p> - Most of the boys in the Red House were converted many times—as often - as they came within reach of the birch. Sneard made much coin out of - referring to these touching spiritual experiences in public gatherings of - parents. I have never been able to decide whether we really did fool him. - I am inclined to believe that his eyes were wide open to our hypocrisy, - but that he found it paid to encourage it. Part of his salary was derived - from percentages on the tuition fees of all boys over a certain number. He - found that the best card to play with parents for the attracting of new - pupils, was a statement of the numerous conversions which were brought - about through his influence. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—NEW HORIZONS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Bantam and I - won immunity from bullying in a quite unexpected manner. - </p> - <p> - Our beds stood next together. Every night the younger boys were sent up to - the dormitory at nine; fifteen minutes later the lights were turned out. - The upper-classmen didn’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. - </p> - <p> - “Young’un, what’s that you’re saying?” he asked sternly. - </p> - <p> - To have told him would have spoilt everything. Only when my night-shirt - had been stripped off and I saw that a grand gala-night of hair-brushing - was being planned, did I venture an explanation. - </p> - <p> - “I was only telling the Bantam a story.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s a lie. Let’s hear it,” said the Cow. - </p> - <p> - “I can’t begin when you’ve got my shirt,” I expostulated. “Let me get back - into bed; then I’ll tell you.” - </p> - <p> - It was arranged that I should be given a respite while the older boys - undressed. Once safe in bed, I set my imagination galloping. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>The Damn</i>.” - </p> - <p> - The name of the vessel fetched them. There was no more talk of - hair-brushing. At half-past ten the light went out and we heard old Sneard - shuffling down the passage, going his final round of inspection. At each - door he halted, lifting his candle above his head and craning out his long - thin neck. Satisfied that all was in order, he shuffled on to his own - quarters and we heard his door slam. That night I must have lain in the - darkness recounting the adventures of the Pirate King till long past - twelve. Every now and then a voice would interrupt me from one of the - narrow white beds, asking a question. I fell asleep in the midst of my - recounting. - </p> - <p> - After that it became a practice that each night a fresh development in the - life of this wonderful man should be unfolded. It was a good deal of a tax - on the imagination, but the Bantam came to my help, and we told the story - turn and turn about. We told how <i>The Damn</i> sailed into Peru and came - back blood-drenched and treasure-laden; how the Pirate King took strange - maidens to his breast in coloring all the way from alabaster to ebony, and - what his wife One-Eye had to say about it; how the Pirate King could never - be defeated and became so strong that he made himself Pope till he got - tired of it. Discrepancies in chronology caused us no more inconvenience - than they usually do historic novelists. In our world Joan of Arc and - Julius Cæsar were contemporaries. They met for the first time as - prisoners, when they were introduced by the Pirate King on board <i>The - Damn</i>. It was owing to the Roman Emperor that the Maid escaped and - survived to be burnt. - </p> - <p> - But the part which found most favor was that which described the sack of - London, and how the boys of the Red House enlisted with the pirates and - took all the masters, except the Creature, out to sea and made them walk - the plank. I refused to allow the Creature to be murdered. - </p> - <p> - When the story became personal, the Bantam and I discovered ourselves the - possessors of unlimited power. We were lords of the other boys’ 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. - </p> - <p> - Out of the darkness would come an angry voice, “I didn’t, you little - beasts. You know quite well, I didn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Our reputation spread beyond the dormitory; the history of the Pirate - King, his wife One-Eye, and the good ship <i>Damn</i>, became a kind of - school epic in which all the latest happenings at the Red House were - chronicled. No one dared to offend us, small as we were. Like Benvenuto - Cellini, sniffing his way through Europe and petulantly turning his back - on kings and cardinals with impunity, we attained the successful genius’s - privilege of being detested for our persons, but treasured for our - accomplishments. So at last we were popular in a fashion. - </p> - <p> - What contrasts of experience we had in those days! - </p> - <p> - The crestfallen returns to the Red House, with play-boxes stuffed with - feeble comfort in the shape of chocolates and cake; the long monotony of - term-time with the dull lessons, the birchings, the flashes of excitement - on half-holidays and the counting of the weeks till vacations came round; - then the wild burst of enthusiasm when trunks were packed and Sneard had - offered up his customary prayer in his accustomed language, and we set off - shouting on the homeward journey. - </p> - <p> - All the discipline and captivity were a small price to pay for the - gladness of those home-comings. Ruthita would be at the end of the Lane - waiting for me, a little shy at first but undeniably happy. The Snow Lady - would be on the door-step, her pretty face all aglow with merriment. My - father would forsake his study for the night and sit down to talk to me - with all the leisure and courtesy that he usually reserved for grown men. - Until they got used to me again I could upset my tea at table, slide down - the banisters, and tramp through the house with muddy boots—no one - rebuked me for fear the welcome should be spoiled. The Snow Lady called me - The Fatted Calf, wilfully misinterpreting the Bible parable. Little by - little Ruthita would lose her shyness; then we would begin to plan all the - things we would do in the seemingly inexhaustible period of freedom that - lay before us. In those days weeks were as long as years are now. - </p> - <p> - There was once a time when I had no secrets from Ruthita. But a change was - creeping over us almost imperceptibly, forming little rifts of reserve - which widened. Walls of a new and more subtle kind were growing up about - us, dividing us for a time from one another and from everybody else. - </p> - <p> - There was one holiday in which I became friendly with a butcher-boy. He - was a guinea-pig fancier; I arranged to buy one from him for a shilling. - My intention was to give it to Ruthita on her birthday. I told no one of - my plan—it was to be a surprise. A little hutch was knocked up in - the tool-shed which the old white hen had tenanted. - </p> - <p> - The night before the birthday the butcher-boy came, and smuggled the - little creature in at the gate. Next morning I wakened early. Ruthita was - standing beside my bed in her long white night-gown, beneath which her - rosy toes peeped out. When I had kissed her, she seemed surprised that I - had no present for her. I became mysterious. “You wait until I’m dressed,” - I said. - </p> - <p> - Slipping into my clothes I ran into the garden to get things ready. To my - unspeakable astonishment when I looked into the hutch, I found three - guinea-pigs, two of them very tiny, where only one had been the night - before. I felt that something shameful and indelicate had happened. - Exactly what I could not say, but something that I could not tell Ruthita. - When she traced me down to the tool-shed, I drove her away almost angrily; - I felt that I was secretly disgraced. - </p> - <p> - That morning when the butcher-boy called for orders, I took him aside. I - sold him back the three guinea-pigs for ninepence, and thought the loss of - threepence a cheap price to pay to rid myself of such embarrassment. The - butcher-boy grinned broadly and winked in a knowing manner. To me it was - all very serious, and with a boy’s pride I did not invite enlightenment. I - took Ruthita out and let her choose her own present up to the value of - ninepence. I lied to her, saying that that was what I had intended. - </p> - <p> - Arguing by analogy from this experience, I gradually came to realize that - all about me was a world of passion, the first boundaries of which I was - just beginning to traverse. - </p> - <p> - The Bantam, having no home to go to, would sometimes return with me to - Pope Lane for the vacation; the Snow Lady was attracted by his freckled - face and impudently upturned nose. In the early years he, Ruthita, and I - would play together. Then, as we grew more boyish, we would play games in - which she could not share. But at last a time came when I found that it - was I who was excluded. - </p> - <p> - I found that Ruthita and the Bantam had a way of going off and hiding - themselves. It was quite evident that they had secrets which they kept - from me. An understanding lay between them in which I could not share. I - became irritable and began to watch. - </p> - <p> - One summer evening after tea I could not find them, The gate into the Lane - was unlatched; I followed. There was a deserted house no great way - distant, standing shuttered in the midst of overgrown grounds. We had - found a bar broken in the railings, and there the Bantam and I played - highwaymen. Naturally I thought of this haunt first. - </p> - <p> - Creeping through the long grass I came upon them. The Bantam had his arm - about Ruthita’s waist. She was tossing back her hair; her face was - radiant. I could only catch a glimpse of her sideways, but it came home to - me that the qualities in her which, in my blindness, I had taken for - granted, were beautiful and rare. As I watched, the Bantam kissed her. She - drew back her head, glad and yet ashamed. I crept away with a strange - sense of forlornness in my heart; they had stumbled across a pleasure of - which I was ignorant. - </p> - <p> - Poor little Ruthita!—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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The world had grown very complicated. Love was either wicked or stupid. - Hetty had acted as though it was wicked when I caught her with John; my - father, when I had caught him, as though it was stupid. Yet he was not - ashamed of love now that he was married. I could not see why Ruthita - should be so scolded for doing what her mother did every day. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—THE AWAKENING - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t a distance I had - been sorry for the Bantam, but at close quarters his hopeless passion for - Ruthita bored me. On my return to the Red House he overwhelmed me with a - flood of maudlin confessions. There was nothing pleased him better than to - get me alone, so that he could outline to me his impossible plans for an - early marriage. He talked of running away to sea and making his fortune in - a distant land. It sounded all very easy. His only fear was that in his - long absence Ruthita might be forced to marry some other fellow. “Dante,” - he would say, “you’re a lucky chap to have been always near her.” - </p> - <p> - This kind of talk irritated me, partly because I was jealous of an ecstasy - which I could not understand, and partly because I had known Ruthita so - many years that I thought I knew her exact value a good deal better than - the Bantam. There was something very absurd, too, in the contrast between - this gawky boy, with his downy face and clumsy hands, and these - exaggerated expressions of sentiment. I began to avoid him; at that time I - did not know why, but now I know it was because of the herd spirit which - shuns abnormality. - </p> - <p> - Nevertheless he had stirred something latent within me. My days became - haunted with alluring conjectures; beneath the cold formality of human - faces and manners I caught glimpses of a boisterous ruffianly passion. - Sometimes it would repel me, making me unspeakably sad; but more often it - swept me away in a torrent of inexplicable riotous happiness. I had come - to an age when, shut him up as you may in the garden of unenlightenment, a - boy must hear from beyond the walls the pagan pipes and the dancing feet - of Pan. - </p> - <p> - Of nights I would lie awake, still and tense, reasoning my way forward and - forward, out of the fairy tales of childhood into reality. Sometimes I - would bury my face in my pillow, half glad and half ashamed of my strange, - new knowledge. Now all the glory of the flesh in the Classics, which - before had slipped by me when encountered as a schoolboy’s task, burned in - my brain with the vehement fire of immemorial romance. - </p> - <p> - Old Sneard had a terrifying sermon, which he was fond of preaching on - Sunday evenings when the chapel was full of shadows. His heated face, - startlingly illumined by the pulpit-lamps, would take on the furious - earnestness of an accusing angel as he leant out towards us describing the - spiritual tortures of the damned. He spoke in symbolic language of the - causes which led up to damnation. Until quite lately I had wondered what - in the world he could be driving at. His text was, “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.... - </p> - <p> - It was summer-time. Those of us who professed an interest in entomology - were permitted during the hour between prep and supper to rove the country - with butterfly-nets. The results of these expeditions were given to the - school natural history museum; most of the boys hunted in pairs. Things - being as they were between myself and the Bantam, I preferred to go by - myself. - </p> - <p> - All day it had been raining. The sky was still damp with heavy clouds and - the evening fell early. I slipped out into the cool wet dusk, eager to be - solitary. Some boys were kicking a ball and called to me to come and play - with them. In my anxiety not to be delayed, I doubled up my fists and ran. - They followed in pursuit, but soon their shouts and laughter grew fainter, - till presently I was alone in a dim, green world. The air was exquisitely - fragrant with earth and flower smells. Far away between the trees of Eden - Hill a watery sunset faded palely. Nearer at hand dog-roses and convolvuli - glimmered in the hedges. - </p> - <p> - I threw myself down in the dripping grass, lying full-length on my back, - so that I could watch the stars struggle out between the edges of clouds. - Oh, the sense of freedom and wideness, and the sheer joy of being at large - in the world! I listened to the stillness of the twilight, which is a - stillness made up of an infinity of tiny sounds—birds settling into - their nests, trees whispering together, and flowers drawing closer their - fragile petals to shut out the cold night air. I told myself that all the - little creatures of the fields and hedgerows were tucking one another safe - in bed. Then, as if to contradict me, the sudden passion of the - nightingale wandered down the stairway of the silence, each note - separately poignant, like glances of a lover who halts and looks back from - every step as he descends. From far away the passion was answered, and - again it was returned. - </p> - <p> - A great White Admiral fluttered over my head. I picked up my net and was - after it. So, in a second, the boy within me proved himself stronger than - the man. But the butterfly refused to let me get near it and would never - settle long enough for me to catch it. - </p> - <p> - I followed from field to field, till at last it came to the cricket-ground - and made a final desperate effort to escape me by flying over the hedge - into the private garden of Sneard’s house. His garden was forbidden - territory, but the twilight made me bold to forget that. Breaking through - the hedge I followed, running tiptoe down a path which ended in a - summer-house. The White Admiral settled on a rosebush; I was in the act of - netting it when I heard someone stirring. Standing in the doorway of the - summerhouse was a girl about as tall as myself. We eyed one another - through the dusk in silence. Her face was indistinct and in shadow. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t know how you frightened me.” - </p> - <p> - Directly she spoke I knew that she was not Beatrice Sneard, as I had - dreaded. Her voice was too friendly; it had in it the lazy caressing - quality of a summer’s afternoon when bees are humming in and out of - flowers. Her way of pronouncing words was halting and slightly foreign. In - after years I came to know just how much power of temptation her voice - possessed. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you’re not allowed in here,” she said; “but you needn’t worry—I - shan’t tell.” - </p> - <p> - The boy in me prompted me to answer, “You can tell if you care to.” - </p> - <p> - She gave a secret little laugh. “But I shan’t.” - </p> - <p> - After all my gallant imaginings of what I would do on a like occasion, I - stood before her awkwardly, tongue-tied and ungracious—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. - </p> - <p> - She rested her hand on my arm—such a small white hand—and drew - me into the seclusion of the summerhouse. - </p> - <p> - “You’re not afraid of girls, are you?” she questioned, and then - inconsequently, “I’m awfully lonely.” - </p> - <p> - There was a note of appeal in her tones, so I found my tongue and asked - why she was lonely. - </p> - <p> - “Because I quarrel with Beatrice—we don’t get on together. Do you - know, she thinks all you boys are simply horrid persons?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps we are,” I said. “Most people think that.” - </p> - <p> - “But I don’t,” she answered promptly. - </p> - <p> - Gradually my constraint left me. She had an easy kindness and assurance in - her manner that I had never found in any other girl. She slipped her hand - into mine; made bold by the darkness of the summer-house, I held it - tightly. - </p> - <p> - “I like you. I like you very much,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “But you’ve never spoken to me before. Why should you like the?” - </p> - <p> - She turned her face to mine, so that our lips were quite near together. “I - suppose because I’m a girl.” - </p> - <p> - The bell for supper began to ring. I pretended not to hear it. Through the - roses across the lawn I saw Sneard stand in his study-window, struggling - into his gown. Then the window became dark and I knew that he had gone to - read evening prayers. - </p> - <p> - “The bell is ringing,” she said at last. “If you don’t go, you’ll get - punished.” - </p> - <p> - “If it’s for your sake, I don’t care.” - </p> - <p> - She pushed me gently from her. “Go away now. If you get into trouble, - you’ll not be able to come back tomorrow.” - </p> - <p> - She ran down the path with me as far as the hedge. The bell was at its - last strokes, swinging slower and slower. At the hedge we halted. I knew - what I wanted to do; my whole body ached to take her in my arms and kiss - her. But something stronger than will—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.” - </p> - <p> - After the monitors had come up and the lights had been put out, I waited - for an hour till all the dormitory was sleeping; then, very stealthily, I - edged myself out of bed. Standing upright, I listened to make sure that I - was undetected. I stole out into the corridor bare-foot. I feared to dress - lest anyone should be aroused. In my long linen night-gown I tiptoed down - the corridor, down the stairs, and entered the fifth-form class-room. - Throwing up the window I climbed out. - </p> - <p> - An English summer’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, <i>Fi-es-sol-le</i>. - </p> - <p> - I trespassed again in the garden. In the quiet of the rose-scented night I - entered the summer-house. - </p> - <p> - Far away the nightingales sang on. There were words to their chanting now - and their song was no, longer melancholy. And these were the words as I - heard them: “<i>Fiesole—Fiesole—Fiesole. Love in the world. - Love in the world. Glad—glad—glad.</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—WHAT IS LOVE? - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>y secret was too - big and beautiful to keep to myself. There was no one I could tell it to - save the Bantam. But the Bantam had grown shy of me; he knew that within - myself I had been laughing at him. He turned away when I tried to catch - his eye, and bent with unaccustomed diligence above his lessons. - </p> - <p> - Not till after lunch did I get a chance to approach him. All the other - boys had changed into flannels and had hurried off to the cricket-nets. I - wandered into the empty playground and there found him seated alone in a - corner. His knees were drawn up so that his chin rested on them; in his - eyes was a far-away sorrowful expression. I halted before him. - </p> - <p> - “Bantam.” - </p> - <p> - He did not look up, but I knew by the twitching of his hands that he had - heard. - </p> - <p> - “Bantam, I’ve got something to tell you.” - </p> - <p> - Slowly he turned his head. He was acting the part of Hamlet and I was - vastly impressed. “Is it about Ruthita?” - </p> - <p> - “Partly. But it’s happened to me too, Bantam.” - </p> - <p> - “Wot?” - </p> - <p> - “A girl.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Pigtails was Beatrice Sneard, and I felt that an insult was being leveled - at me. - </p> - <p> - “If you say that again, I’ll punch your head.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, so it is Pigtails.” He rose to his feet lazily and began to take off - his jacket. “Come on and punch it.” - </p> - <p> - But a fight wasn’t at all what I wanted. So I walked straight up to him - with my hands held down. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - I held out my hand and he took it with surly defiance. I was too eager for - sympathy, however, to be discouraged. - </p> - <p> - “She’s called Fiesole,” I said. “Isn’t that beautiful?” - </p> - <p> - “Ruthita’s better.” - </p> - <p> - “She’s got gold hair with just a little—a little red in it.” - </p> - <p> - “I prefer black.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not talking about Ruthita; I’m telling you about Fiesole.” - </p> - <p> - “I know that,” said the Bantam; “you never do talk about Ruthita now.” - </p> - <p> - I walked away from him angrily in the direction I had taken on the - previous evening. As I approached the nets I saw a little group of - spectators. Then I made out the clerical figure of Sneard and the figure - of Pigtails dressed in gray, and between them a slim white girl. Behind me - I heard the pit-a-pat of running feet on the turf. The Bantam flung his - arm about my shoulders, saying, “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>click</i> of the ball as it glanced off the bat, and the long - cheer which followed as the wicket went down. Fiesole turned, clapping her - hands, and our eyes met. Then she ceased to look at me; her gaze rested on - the Bantam, while a half-smile played about her mouth. A pang of jealousy - shot through me. With the instinctive egotism of the male, I felt that by - the mere fact of loving her I had made her my property. However, Pigtails - came to my rescue, for I saw her jolt Fiesole with her elbow; her shocked - voice reached me, saying, “Cousin Fiesole, whatever are you staring at?” - </p> - <p> - I tugged at the Bantam’s sleeve and we turned away. - </p> - <p> - “My golly, but she is a ripper,” he whispered.... - </p> - <p> - As the distance grew between us and her, he kept glancing across his - shoulder and once halted completely to gaze back. I envied him his - effrontery. My fate from the beginning has been to run away from the women - I love—and then to regret it. - </p> - <p> - We had entered into another field and were passing a laburnum tree, when - the Bantam drew up sharply. He pointed to its blossom all gold and yellow. - “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. - </p> - <p> - “What’s the color of her eyes?” he asked presently. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know; it was dusk when I saw her. I expect it’s the same as - Ruthita’s.” - </p> - <p> - “Who is she?” - </p> - <p> - “Met her in Sneard’s garden—Pigtails called her ‘cousin’ just now.” - </p> - <p> - “She’s called Fiesole! Pretty name. How it suits her.” - </p> - <p> - “Not prettier than Ruthita,” I said. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “But you oughtn’t to love her at all,” I expostulated with a growing sense - of indignant proprietorship. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I took him at his word and told him everything that had happened and all - that I knew about her. Continually he would break in with feverish words - of surprise and flattery, leading me on still further to confess myself. - In the magic world of that summer’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We found that we were not the only persons to be inflamed by the beauty - of Fiesole. All the boys were talking about her. One of our chief fears - was set at rest—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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Next morning fate played me a scurvy trick; I woke with a bad sore throat, - due I suppose to my escapade of the night earlier, and was sent to the - infirmary. On the evening of the day I came out, which was four days - later, I was summoned after prep to report myself to the doctor. This made - me late in getting to the summer-house. - </p> - <p> - The bell for prayers had commenced to ring as I got there. I was climbing - through the hedge when I heard footsteps on the garden path. There were - two children standing hushed amid the roses, the one with face tremulously - uplifted, the other looking down with eager eyes. As I watched their lips - met. It was impossible for me to stir without making my presence known. - One of them came bolting into me, going out by the way I was entering. We - rolled over and I recognized the Bantam. Fiesole, hearing the angry voices - of two boys quarreling, ran. And so I got my first experience of the - lightness of woman’s affection. - </p> - <p> - However, if I was seeking a revenge, I got it. Before the end of the - summer term Pigtails became suspicious, and discovered the Cow in the - summer-house with the fickle Fiesole. The Cow, because he was a monitor, - was expelled and I was appointed in his place—Mordecai and Haman - after a fashion. Fiesole, on account of her kissing propensities, was - regarded as a dangerous person and sent away. I was a grown man when next - I met her. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE SPUFFLER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was during the - last week of the summer term, while I was convalescing from Fiesole’s - sudden exit and was beginning to forgive the Bantam his treachery, that - the magic personality of George Rapson first flashed into my little world. - </p> - <p> - I was sitting listlessly at my desk one sunshiny morning. The window at my - side was open, commanding a view of the school garden, the driveway - leading through it, and beyond that of the sleepy village street. Below - the window grew a bed of lavender whose fragrance, drifting in, made me - forgetful of the book which lay before me and of the master at the - black-board chalking up dull problems in algebra. I was dreaming as usual, - telling myself a story of what I would do if old Sneard should pop his - head inside the door and say, “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I stood up and gazed stupidly at the medley of signs and abbreviated - formulae, hoping to discover some clue of reasoning in their apparent - meaninglessness. “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “If you please, sir, I wasn’t attending.” - </p> - <p> - “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—” - </p> - <p> - But his sentence was never ended. At that moment the head of every boy - turned as one head; yes, and even the head of the master turned. Up the - driveway came the sound of prancing hoofs, the soft crunch of wheels in - the gravel, and cries of, “Whoa, girl! Steady there, steady.” - </p> - <p> - Past the window flashed a high yellow dog-cart, drawn by a tandem of - spirited chestnuts. A tiger in livery and top-hat sat behind with arms - folded, superbly aware of his own magnificence. Between the wheels ran a - Dalmatian, a plum-pudding dog as we used to call them. On the high - front-seat were two men, equally gorgeous. The one who drove wore a large - fawn coat with enormous pearl buttons, distinctly horsey in cut and - fashion. On his head was a tall beaver hat. He was a massively built man - and had the appearance of a sporting aristocrat. To make him more - splendid, he was young, with a bronzed complexion, full red lips, and - finely chiseled features. His companion looked like a Methodist parson, - trying to pass as a racing gent. He was attired in a light tweed suit of a - rather pronounced black and white check. On his head was a gray felt hat, - and in his button-hole blazed a scarlet geranium. They were laughing in - deep full-throated guffaws as they whizzed past, with the sun flashing on - their wheels and harness. The tiger and the Dalmatian were the only solemn - things about them. What was my surprise to have recognized in the second - man a relative? - </p> - <p> - “It’s my uncle!” - </p> - <p> - Even the master, so recently bent on my humiliation, seemed to hold his - breath in regarding the nephew of so resplendent a person. Here was poetic - justice with a vengeance. Most of the boys’ 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! - </p> - <p> - “Cardover, you may sit down.” - </p> - <p> - The master turned again to the black-board, forgetting the threatened - penalty. The boys eyed me above the covers of their books, and awaited - further developments. - </p> - <p> - The door opened and Sneard peered round on us shortsightedly. A pleased - smile played about the corners of his diplomatic mouth. His happiness at - receiving such distinguished callers seemed to have had an effect upon his - hair, turning it to a yet more fiery red. Usually when he spoke he - snapped, but now his tones were as fluty as he could make them with so - little practice. - </p> - <p> - Turning to the master, “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.” - </p> - <p> - I rose from my seat in an ecstasy of bewilderment. What under the sun had - happened that old Sneard should call me Dante, and who was Mr. George - Rapson? As I picked my way through the labyrinth of forms and desks; - getting glimpses of my school-mates’ lengthened faces, I felt that I was - taking the sunlight from the room by my good fortune as I left. - </p> - <p> - I followed Sneard to his study, which I had so often visited on such - different errands. Even now as I crossed its threshold, I could not quite - shake off my accustomed clammy dread. The Spuffler, catching sight of me, - ran forward in his gayest manner. “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.” - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rapson grabbed me by the shoulder with a large white hand and gazed - down on me. There was a jolly-dog air about him combined with a big - healthy strength, which made one both like and fear him from the first. - And there was so much of him to like; he was over six foot in height and - proportionately built in breadth. “Hm! Dante. Glad to meet you. Let’s get - out.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Without waiting for a reply, he nodded to Sneard, heaved his great - shoulders through the doorway, so down the hall and out on to the steps - where the tiger was holding the horses’ heads. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - They took me up in front beside them; the whip cracked and the tiger - sprang away from the leader. Off we sped, down the hill and into the - valley, winding in and out of overgrown lanes where we had to duck our - heads to avoid the boughs; then out again with fields on either side of - us, up hill and down dale never slackening, with the wind on our cheeks - and the sun in our faces. Mr. Rapson’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. - </p> - <p> - Then I glanced at my uncle with his fashionable checks and scarlet - geranium. I remembered that my grandmother called him the Spuffler, and - wondered what she would call him now, could she see him. That nervous air - he had had, of at once asserting and apologizing for himself with a - pitiful display of bluster, had vanished. He carried himself with the - jaunty confidence of a middle-aged gentleman unsubdued by the world—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? - </p> - <p> - Perhaps he guessed some of the inquiries that were running through my - head, for, as I crouched near him in the little space allotted me on our - high up perch, he squeezed my hand, hinting at some great secret, for the - telling of which we must be alone by our two selves. - </p> - <p> - With foam flying from the horses’ mouths we entered Richmond and glittered - down those quaint and narrow streets, which have always seemed to me more - like streets of a seaport than of an inland town. We turned a corner; full - before us drifted up the long and shadowy quiet of the Thames. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rapson refused to be sociable until he had seen to the rubbing down - and stabling of his horses; so we two wandered off together along the - miniature quays, where boatmen with a deep-sea sailor’s swagger pulled - clay pipes from their mouths and wished us a cheerfully mercenary - “Good-mornin’.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - His eyes filled with tears. “My boy, it means success.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I caught his excitement, and begged him to tell me what this wonderful - something was that had so suddenly transformed him from a nobody into a - powerful person. I felt sure he was powerful, apart from anything he said, - for he radiated opulence. He halted in the middle of the tow-path, - gripping me by the shoulders, laughing into my face and bidding me guess. - I guessed everything possible and impossible. Losing patience, “It’s - diamond mines,” he burst out. - </p> - <p> - “But how did you get ’em, Uncle Obad, and where?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We seated ourselves on the bank with legs dangling above the water, and he - told me. It seemed that Mr. George Rapson was the cause of this meteoric - rise to prosperity. In April he had come to stay at Charity Grove as an - ordinary paying-guest. From the first he was extraordinary and had amazed - them with his wealth—his horses, his clothes, his friends, and his lavish - manners. Most of his fellow boarders were struggling young men, who - earned two pounds a week in the City and paid twenty-five shillings for - their keep and lodging. On the start they only knew that he was a South - African, holiday-making in England. Little by little he let out that he - was interested in diamond mines, and later that he owned <i>The Ethiopian</i>, - one of the most promising properties of its kind in the world. The more - communicative he became, the more surprised they were that he should make - his head-quarters at a Christian Boarding House. There seemed no reason - why he should not pay a higher price and enjoy the advantages of a secular - environment. - </p> - <p> - One night he took my uncle into his room, locked the door, and let the cat - out of the bag. It was my uncle and his personality that had attracted - him. He had seen his name as secretary to so many thriving philanthropic - societies that he had been led to appreciate his worth as an organizer. He - wanted his help. He had come to England to unload a number of shares in <i>The - Ethiopian</i> diamond mines, but it had to be done quietly and without - advertisement. He had a number of unscrupulous enemies in the mining world - who wanted to merge his property with theirs. They had tried to crowd him - out in various ways—once by bringing about a law-suit to dispute his - title to his holdings. If they should get wind that shares in <i>The - Ethiopian</i> were to be bought in the open market, they would buy up - every share in sight in an effort to gain control. Therefore it was - necessary that business should be carried on in a private manner, and as - far as possible through channels of personal friendship rather than those - of the City and the Stock Exchange. - </p> - <p> - He had studied my uncle carefully and was convinced that he was just the - man for the work. He proposed giving him a salary of one thousand pounds a - year to act as his English agent, and a five-per-cent commission on all - sales of shares that he was instrumental in effecting. His chief service - was to consist in supplying lists of names and addresses of the moneyed - religious public, and in applying his influence to the attracting of - purchasers. The lists were of course to be culled mainly from the - contributors to the charitable societies of which he was secretary. In - fact, what the proposal amounted to, as I see it now, was that my uncle’s - integrity, well-known among religious circles, was to guarantee the worth - of the shares. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - We sat on, quite forgetful of time, watching the sleepy flowing of the - river, building castles in the air. Last month they had declared their - half-yearly dividend and it had amounted to twenty per cent. Since then - the sale of shares had quickened enormously. Why, there was one morning’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. - </p> - <p> - He could afford to joke now concerning the penury of his lean years before - the great Rapson had put in an appearance. He even made fun of his own <i>spuffing</i>, - and laughed as he told me how much economy those odd shillings and - half-crowns, which he used to give me in such a large manner, had cost - him. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>The White Cross</i>—one which hung over the river. - </p> - <p> - How proud I was to walk beside him as we re-entered Richmond! Everyone - turned to stare after him as he passed, with his long fawn coat open and - flapping, his easy rollicking laugh, his great height and distinguished - presence. And I, Dante Cardover, was by way of being the friend of such a - man! The gates of romance were indeed opening. - </p> - <p> - <i>The White Cross Inn</i> had separate balconies, built out from each of - its second-story windows. In one of these our table was set. The little - tiger helped the maid of the inn to wait upon us. And what a meal we had!—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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The tiger, who had been drawing the cork out of a large green bottle about - half as tall as himself, now poured out a golden foamy liquid. I found one - glass of it had the same care-freeing effect that the holding of Fiesole’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. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rapson seemed highly amused. “You’ll do, young’un,” he said. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - A punt, which had stolen up beneath our balcony, now caught his attention. - A girl in a gown of flowered muslin, with a broad pink sash about her - waist, was standing in the stern. She was alone, and all the river formed - a landscape for her daintiness. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rapson stared hard at her; her back was towards us. “Seem to know her - hair,” he muttered. He half rose. “By George, it’s Kitty!” - </p> - <p> - Leaning far out over the balcony he called to her impulsively, “Kitty! - Kitty!” - </p> - <p> - Very leisurely she lifted up to him a small flushed face, all laughter and - naughtiness, and waved her hand. She was as pretty as love and a summer’s - day could make a woman—but I wasn’t supposed to be old enough to - observe such things as that. - </p> - <p> - She brought her punt in to the bank, while Mr. Rapson went down to help - her out. When he gave her his hand to steady her, she kept it in hers. As - she glanced mischievously up at him I heard her say, “Why, George, you - terror, who’d have thought of meeting you here!” - </p> - <p> - He whispered something to her with a frown; she dropped him a mocking - courtesy. - </p> - <p> - When he brought her up on to the balcony, he introduced her as his cousin - Kitty. She bowed to us with a roguish grace, clinging close to his arm. - “Now, Kitty,” he said, freeing himself, “you’ve got to behave.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - When they had told her how they happened to be there and that it was my - day, and that they had stolen me away from my lessons, she swung round on - me with a kind of rapture. “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Rapson seemed a little nervous, and she appeared to delight in his - fear of her daring. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - She wriggled out of me something of the story of his doings. She eyed him - archly from under her big hat and, when I had ended, leant across the - table so their faces nearly met. “How many lions did my Georgie kill in - Africa?” - </p> - <p> - “Be quiet, you little devil,” he laughed, seizing her by the hands. - </p> - <p> - The employment of that forbidden word set me wondering whether this was - the girl for love of whom he first went wandering. But she looked too - young for that. - </p> - <p> - We went into her punt and drifted down the river with the current. She - played the madcap all the way, speaking to him often in baby language. He - seemed to be amused by it, as a St. Bernard might be amused by the - impertinence of a terrier. When she got too bold he would hold her hands - until she was quiet, overpowering her with his great strength much the - same as he did his horses. Then she would turn her attentions to me for a - time, and I would make believe to myself she was Fiesole. My uncle looked - on like a benevolent Father Christmas, dignified and smiling. - </p> - <p> - Dusk was settling when we started on the return journey. We found that we - had drifted further than we had intended. Mr. Rapson took the pole and did - the punting. Miss Kitty sang to him, she said to encourage him. I think it - must have been then that I first heard <i>Twickenham Ferry</i>. She had to - leave off part way through the last verse I remember. She said that the - mist from the river choked her; but I, lying on the cushions beside her, - somehow gathered the impression that she was nearly crying. When she broke - down, under cover of darkness I got my hand into hers, and then she - slipped her arm about me. After that she was very subdued and silent. My - uncle fell off to sleep, and Mr. Rapson kept his face turned away from us, - busy with his punting. I wondered if, after all, Miss Kitty was happy. - </p> - <p> - It was night when we arrived. She insisted on parting with us at the - landing, saying that her houseboat was just across the river and she could - take the punt home quite well unaccompanied. We had said good-by and were - walking along the quay, when Rapson left us and ran back. I saw him come - close and bend over her. They seemed to be whispering together. Then she - pushed out into the river; the lights of the town held her for a time; - darkness closed in behind her and she vanished. - </p> - <p> - On the drive back to the Red House I grew drowsy. - </p> - <p> - I tried to keep my eyes open, but even the soft moonlight seemed dazzling. - The meadows and tall trees stealing by, ceased to stand out separate, but - became a blur. The sharp <i>trit-trot, trit-trot</i> of the horses’ hoofs - on the hard macadam road lulled me by their monotonous regularity. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Daresay she is,” Rapson answered, dryly; “you’ve led such a sheltered - life. Of course she isn’t my cousin.” - </p> - <p> - “Who is she, then?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, a nymph.” - </p> - <p> - “A nymph! You have the better of me there. That’s a classical allusion, no - doubt. I don’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind, papa,” Mr. Rapson said cheerfully; “I didn’t think you would - understand. It’s just as well.” - </p> - <p> - Then he commenced speaking to his horses. “So, girl! Steady there! - Steady!” - </p> - <p> - I rubbed my eyes, and saw that we were ascending Eden Hill. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—MONEY AND HAPPINESS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">D</span>eep down in their - secret hearts all the Spuffler’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. - </p> - <p> - At first none of his relatives would believe in his mushroom prosperity. - Perhaps, they did not want to believe in it; it would entail the sacrifice - of life-long prejudices. They pooh-poohed it as the most extravagant - example of his fantastic spuffling. On my return home for the summer - holidays I very soon became aware of an atmosphere of half-humorous - contempt whenever his name was mentioned. Once when I took up the cudgels - for him, declaring that he was really a great man, the Snow Lady patted my - hand gently, calling me “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. - </p> - <p> - On a visit to Charity Grove I was grieved to find that even Aunt Lavinia - was skeptical. Despite the jingling of money in my uncle’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. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Obad might go to fashionable tailors; she clothed herself in black, - because it wore longest and could be turned. She listened to his latest - optimisms a little wearily with a sadly smiling countenance, as a mother - might listen to the plans for walking of a child hopelessly crippled. She - had heard him speak bravely so many, many times, and had been - disappointed, that she had permanently made up her mind that she would - have to go on earning the living for both of them all her life. - </p> - <p> - Yet she loved him as well as a woman could a man for whom she was only - sorry; she was constantly on the watch to defend him from the - disapprobation of the world. But she refused ever again to be beguiled - into believing that he would take his place with other men. So, when he - told her that they didn’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - One evening in the garden he tore the bandage of doubt from her eyes. I - was there when it happened. We were down in the paddock, the home of the - fowls, where so many of our dreams had taken place. The gaunt London - houses to the right of us were doing their best to shut out the sunset. - Aunt Lavinia began to wonder how much the little hay-crop would fetch this - year. She was disappointed because it had grown so thin, and there seemed - no promise of rain. - </p> - <p> - “It doesn’t matter, my dear,” said my uncle cheerfully. - </p> - <p> - “Obad, how can you say that!” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “But it is true, my dearest.” - </p> - <p> - I stole away, and did not see them again till an hour later when they - wandered by me arm-in-arm through the wistful twilight. Within a week I - knew that she had accepted his prosperity as a fact, for he gave her a - blue silk dress and she wore it. But he had harder work in getting her to - give up the boarding-house. His great argument was that Rapson advised it—it - would advance their social standing. She fenced and hesitated, but finally - promised on the condition that he was still succeeding in November. - </p> - <p> - I think it must have been the news of her surrender that sapped the last - foundation of my father’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. - </p> - <p> - Later my father told me the subject of their discussion. By dint of hard - saving he had put by two thousand pounds for planting me out in the world, - part of which was to pay for my Oxford education. Having heard of that - half-yearly twenty-per-cent dividend which the <i>Ethiopian</i> shares had - paid and that they were still being issued privately, at par value, he was - inclined to entrust his money to my uncle, if he could prove the - investment sound. If the mines were as good as they appeared to be, he - would get four hundred pounds a year in interest—which would make - all the difference to our ease of life. There was another consultation; - the next thing I knew the important step had been taken. - </p> - <p> - All our power of dreaming now broke loose. It became our favorite pastime - to sit together and plan how we would spend the four hundred pounds. - </p> - <p> - “Why, it’s an income in itself,” my father would exclaim; “I shall be - freed forever from the drudgery of hack-work.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - And Ruthita would sidle up to him in her half-shy way, and rub her cheek - against his face, saying nothing. - </p> - <p> - A wonderful kindliness nowadays entered into all our domestic relations. - My father’s weary industry, which had sent us all tiptoeing about the - house, began to relax. Even for him work lost something of its sacredness - now that money was in sight. He no longer frowned and refused to look up - if anyone trespassed into his study. On the contrary, he seemed glad of - the excuse for laying aside his pen and discussing what place in the whole - wide world we should choose, when we were free to live where we liked. - </p> - <p> - It should be somewhere in Italy—Florence, perhaps. For years it had - been his unattainable dream to live among olive-groves of the Arno valley. - We read up guide-books and histories about it. Soon we were quite familiar - with the Pitti Palace, the Ponte Vecchio, and the view from the Viale dei - Colli at sundown. These and many places with beautiful and large-sounding - names, became the stock-in-trade of our conversation. And the brave, - looked-down-on Spuffler was the faery-godmother who had made these dreams - realities. - </p> - <p> - A tangible proof of the promised change in our financial status was - experienced by myself on my return to school in a more liberal allowance - of pocket-money. As yet it was only a promised change, for the half-yearly - dividend would not be declared until January, and would not be paid till a - month later. - </p> - <p> - What one might call “a reflected proof” came when we went over to spend - Christmas with Uncle Obad at Chelsea. - </p> - <p> - Yes, Aunt Lavinia had succumbed to her good fortune. The Christian - Boarding House had been abandoned and a fine old house had been rented, - standing nearly at the corner of Cheyne Row, looking out across the river - to Battersea. - </p> - <p> - On Christmas Eve my uncle’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. - </p> - <p> - A slight fall of snow was on the ground; across London we drove, the - merriest little family in all that shopping crowd. We had scarcely pulled - up against the pavement and had our first peep of the fine big house, when - the front-door flew open, letting out a flood of light which rippled to - the carriage like a golden carpet unrolled across white satin. - </p> - <p> - There stood Uncle Obad, frock-coated and glorious, with Aunt Lavinia - beside him, dressed all in lavender—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?” - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady kissed her gaily on both cheeks, saying, “True enough, my - dear. At any rate, Obad’s carriage was very real.” - </p> - <p> - How changed we were from the solemn polite personages who had considered - it a point in our favor that we knew how to bottle our emotions. We - laughed and rollicked, and made quite poor jokes seem brilliant by the - sparkle with which we told or received them. And all this was done by - money; in our case, merely by the promise of money! When a boy remembered - what we all had been, it was a transformation which called for reflection. - </p> - <p> - My uncle with his jolly rich-relative manner was the focus-point of our - attentions. Aunt Lavinia and, in fact, we all felt flat whenever he went - out of the room. She followed after him like a little dog, with dumb - admiring eyes, waiting to be petted. She told the Snow Lady that she - couldn’t blame herself enough and could never make it up to him, for - having lived with him in the same house all those years without having - discovered his goodness. Then, as ladies will, they kissed for the - twentieth time and did a little glad crying together. - </p> - <p> - So the stern grayness, which comes of a too frequent pondering on a - diminishing bank-account, had vanished from the faces of our elders. - Ruthita and I looked on and wondered. A great house had something to do - with it, and heavy carpets, and wide fire-places, and fine shiny - furniture, but underlying it all was money. - </p> - <p> - Christmas Eve I was awakened by the playing of waits outside my window. I - looked out at the broad black river, with the ropes of stars, which were - the lights of bridges, flung across it. And I looked at the untrodden - snow, stretching far down the Embankment, gleaming and shadowy, making - London seem a far-away, forgotten country. Then fumbling in the darkness, - I looked in my stocking and drew out a slip of paper. By the light of a - match, I discovered it to be a check from my aunt and uncle for fifty - pounds. Comparing notes in my night-gown with Ruthita next morning, I - found that she had another for the same amount. - </p> - <p> - Ah, but that was something like a Christmas! Never a twenty-fifth of - December comes round but I remember it. My father summed it all up when he - said, “Well, Obad, now you’ve struck it lucky, you certainly know how to - be generous.” - </p> - <p> - He certainly did, and proved amply that only poverty had prevented him in - former days from being the best loved man in the family. Only one person - roused more admiration than my uncle, and that was Mr. Rapson. My father - had never met him, so he had been invited to the Christmas dinner. At the - last moment he had excused himself, saying that he had an unavoidable - engagement with a lady. However, he turned up late in the evening with - Miss Kitty on his arm and a fur-coat on his back. Somehow they both seemed - articles of clothing; he wore them with such perfect assurance, as though - they were so much a part of himself. In the hall he took off his fur-coat, - and then he had only Miss Kitty to wear. - </p> - <p> - It was awe-inspiring to see the deference that was paid him and the ease - with which he accepted every attention. My father, with the sincerest - simplicity, almost thanked him to his face for selling him <i>The - Ethiopian</i> shares. - </p> - <p> - Of course he had to tell his lion-stories and how he went hunting ivory in - Africa. My uncle trotted him about as though he were a horse, reminding - him of all his paces. Mr. Rapson was <i>his</i> discovery—<i>his</i> - property. We all sat round and hero-worshiped. Miss Kitty seemed - overwhelmed by the greatness of the house and the general luxury. - </p> - <p> - She appeared particularly shy of the ladies. After she had gone they - declared her to be a dumb, doll-like little creature, with her quiet eyes - and honey-colored hair. I sniggered, and they said, “What’s the matter - with the boy? Why are you gurgling, Dante?” - </p> - <p> - I was thinking of another occasion, when she was neither dumb nor - doll-like. - </p> - <p> - Now, quite contrary to her behavior at Richmond, she remained almost - motionless on the chair in which Mr. Rapson had placed her, looking like a - beautiful obedient piece of jewelry, waiting till her owner got ready to - claim her. Only at parting did she show me any sign of recollection and - then, while all eyes were occupied with Mr. Rapson, she whispered, “You - were good to me at Richmond. I don’t forget.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “If we ar’n’t in Florence,” my father replied gaily. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - This term two events happened, intimately related to one another in their - effect upon my career, though at the time no one could have suspected any - connection between them. - </p> - <p> - Lady Zion, the Creature’s sister, had certainly got more crazy in the - years that had elapsed since I first met her. The winter was a heavy one - and the snow fell far into February; yet nothing could restrain her, short - of an asylum, from wandering about in the bleakest weather all over the - countryside. Sometimes she would stay out far into the night, and on - several occasions the Creature and I had to go out and search for her. I - have seen her pass me five miles from home, riding on her little ass, - talking to herself, all unaware of anything around her. - </p> - <p> - She was a temptation to the village-boys, and they would frequently - torment her. The antagonism between the Red House and the village ran - high. In a sense she was school property; we would make a chance of - rescuing her an excuse for a free-fight. This meant that when the enemy - found her alone, they took the opportunity of displaying their spite. - </p> - <p> - On the fourteenth of February she had been out all day. No one had seen - her; by nightfall she had not returned. The Creature got permission to - have me go out with him to hunt for her. It was necessary that someone - should go with him because he was short-sighted. We investigated all her - favorite haunts, but found not a trace of her. We inquired of farmers and - travelers on the road, but heard nothing satisfactory. If she had gone by - field-routes this was not remarkable, for all the country was covered with - snow. Her white draped figure against the white landscape made it easy for - her to escape observation. - </p> - <p> - The poor old Creature was getting worried; we had been three hours - searching and hadn’t got a clue. I did my best to cheer him, and at last - proposed that we should return to his cottage as sometimes the donkey had - brought her back of himself. - </p> - <p> - From the point where we then stood our shortest route lay cross-country - through a wood, skirting a little dell. Under the trees it was very dark - although the moon was shining, for the trees grew close together. We were - passing by the dell when I happened to look aside. The moonlight, falling - across it, showed me something standing there. I asked the Creature to - wait while I went and examined it. As I got nearer, I saw it was alive; - then I recognized Lady Zion’s donkey. It had halted over what appeared to - be a drift of snow. On coming closer I saw that it was Lady Zion herself. - Something warned me not to call her brother. - </p> - <p> - Bending down, I turned her over and drew the straggling hair from off her - face. There was a red gash in her forehead and red upon the snow. By the - fear that seized me when I touched her, I knew. - </p> - <p> - Coming back to the Creature I told him it was nothing—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. - </p> - <p> - One by one windows in the village-street were thrown open; frowsy heads - stuck out; lights began to grope across the panes; the sleeping houses - woke and a promiscuous crowd of half-clad people gathered. Above the - intermittent babel of questions and answers was the constant sound of the - Creature’s sobbing. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At the school various rumors went the round. The one which found most - favor, though we all knew it to be untrue, was that Sneard had done it. - His supposed motive was his well-known annoyance at Lady Zion’s irritating - obsession that he had once loved her. - </p> - <p> - In the midst of this excitement, while the London detectives were still - hunting, I received a telegram from my father, unexplained and peremptory, - “<i>Return immediately. Bring all belongings.</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—THE DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES - </h2> - <p> - Of course the telegram was connected in some way with the payment of the - first half-yearly dividend. Perhaps my father had decided on an instant - removal to Italy. So my schoolmates thought as they stood enviously - watching me pack. - </p> - <p> - Towards evening I stepped into the village’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. - </p> - <p> - 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’.” - </p> - <p> - I noticed that the stairway was unlighted, that the gas in the hall was on - the jet, and that Hetty herself was partly prepared for bed. I was - beginning to explain to her about the telegram, speaking below my breath - the way one does when death is in the house. Just then my father came out - from his study. His pen was behind his ear and his shoulders looked - stoopy. His face had the worn expression of the old days, which came from - overwork. - </p> - <p> - “Father, why did you send for me?” - </p> - <p> - He led me into the study, closing the door behind him. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve got to be brave.” - </p> - <p> - At his words my heart sank. My eyes retreated from his face. I wanted to - lengthen out the minutes until I should know the worst. - </p> - <p> - “My boy, your Uncle Obad’s gone to smash. We’ve lost everything.” - </p> - <p> - He seated himself at the table, his head supported on his hand. He had - tried to speak in a matter-of-fact manner, as much as to say, “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. - </p> - <p> - He took his pen from behind his ear and commenced aimlessly stabbing the - blotting-pad. - </p> - <p> - He spoke again, looking away from me. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Shan’t we get anything back?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I tried to tell him that he needn’t worry for my sake—I could work. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - His fear of heroics and sentiment made him rise quickly and turn out the - lamp. - </p> - <p> - “Best go to bed.” - </p> - <p> - I groped my way upstairs through the darkened house. There was something - unnatural about its darkness. Its silence was not the silence of a house - in which people were sleeping, but one in which they lay without rest - staring into the shadows. In my bedroom I felt it indecent to light the - gas. I sat by the window, looking out across gardens to our neighbors’ - illumined windows. Someone was playing a piano; it seemed disgustingly bad - taste on their part to do that when we had lost two thousand pounds. - </p> - <p> - My thought veered round. What after all were two thousand pounds to be so - miserable about! I began to feel annoyed with my father that he should - have made such a fuss about it. I was sure that neither the Snow Lady nor - Ruthita had wanted to go to bed so early. Probably he didn’t really want - to himself. He just got the idea into his head, and had forced it on the - family. In our house, until Mr. Rapson came along, it had always been like - that: he punished us, instead of the people who had hurt him, by the moods - that resulted from his disappointments. Why, if it was simply a matter of - my going to work, I rather liked the prospect. Anyhow, it was for the most - part my concern. And then I remembered how sad he had looked, and was - sorry that such thoughts had come into my head. - </p> - <p> - A tap at my door made me jump up conscience-stricken. “It’s only Ruthita,” - a low voice said. - </p> - <p> - She crept in noiselessly as a shadow. Her warm arms went about my neck, - drawing my face down to hers. “Oh, Dannie, I’m so, so sorry,” she - whispered. - </p> - <p> - “What about?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She stood gazing up at me, her face looking frailer and purer than ever in - the darkness. She had slipped on a long blue dressing-gown to come and see - me, and her long black hair hung loose about her. Just below the edge of - her gown her small pale feet showed out. Then I realized for the first - time that she had changed as I had changed; we were no longer children. - Perhaps the same wistful imaginings, exquisite and alluring, had come to - her. For her also the walls of childhood, which had shut out the far - horizon, were crumbling. Then, with an overwhelming reverence, I became - aware of the strange fascination of her appealing beauty. - </p> - <p> - She snuggled herself beside me in the window. We spoke beneath our breath - in the hushed voices of conspirators, lest we should be heard by my - father. - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t sleep,” she said apologetically. “I was lonely, so I came to - you. Everything and everybody seem so sad.” - </p> - <p> - “It was your thoughts that were sad, Ruthie. What were you thinking - about?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I shan’t,” I denied stoutly. - </p> - <p> - To which she replied, “But people do.” - </p> - <p> - “Do what?” - </p> - <p> - “Forget. And then I’m not your sister really—only by pretense.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - She said that that would be grand; she would be a little mother to me. But - she wanted to know what made me so sure that I would always be a bachelor. - With the sincere absurdity of youth, the more absurd because of its - sincerity, I confided my passion for Fiesole. “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.” - </p> - <p> - Ruthita was silent. Then I remembered that her hair was black and saw that - I had been clumsy in my sentiment, so I added, “But, Ruthie, in a sister I - think black hair is the prettiest color in the world.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Next day my father called me to him. “You had fifty pounds given you last - Christmas. I want you to let me have it.” - </p> - <p> - I supposed that he wanted me to lend it to him, so I gave him my book and - we went together to the savings bank and drew it out. I noticed that he - drew out Ruthita’s fifty pounds as well. We climbed on to the top of an - omnibus; nothing was said about where we were going. - </p> - <p> - He had bought a paper and I read it across his arm as we journeyed. As he - turned over from the first page my eye caught a column headed - DISAPPEARANCE OF GEORGE RAPSON. Underneath was a complete account of the - whole affair. - </p> - <p> - My uncle had been interviewed by a reporter and had given a generously - indiscreet history of the catastrophe from beginning to end. He tried to - defend Rapson, and by his own innocent disclosures pilloried himself as a - sanguine, gullible old ass. He insisted on believing in Rapson’s - integrity. Things looked queer of course, but sooner or later there would - be an explanation, satisfactory to everybody. What the nature of that - explanation was likely to be he could not tell, but he hoped for the best. - He was reported as having said that Mr. Rapson had repeatedly referred to - secret enemies in the financial world. This was the reason he had given to - Mr. Spreckles for not disposing of his shares through the ordinary - channels. - </p> - <p> - Mr. Spreckles stated in his interview that, on the evening of the third of - January, Rapson had called at his house. He seemed excited and said that - certain plots were culminating against his interests which made an instant - and secret visit to South Africa essential. He had not hinted at anything - definitely serious, but, on the contrary, had given orders for the - declaration of the half-yearly dividend, payment of which would not fall - due till February. That evening he had disappeared; since then nothing had - been heard of him. When four weeks later Mr. Spreckles drew checks on - Rapson’s bank-account for payment of the dividends, they were all returned - to him dishonored. A month previously, on the morning of January the - third, Rapson had withdrawn every penny. - </p> - <p> - All the names of the people who had lost money in the adventure were - appended. For the most part they were wealthy widows and spinsters, heavy - contributors to various philanthropies, just the kind of people who would - lack the business judgment which would have prevented them from entering - into such a gamble. My father’s name was the exception, and was given - special attention, being headed <i>A Hard Case</i>. “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 <i>The Ethiopian Diamond Mines</i> as proof of his - own honest belief in the value of the shares. The boy will probably now - have to be withdrawn from the Red House, where he is being educated. Was - it likely, Mr. Spreckles asked, that he would have been a party to the - ruin of those whom he loved best, if he had for a moment suspected that - the investment was not all that it was represented?” - </p> - <p> - I had proceeded so far with my reading, when my father crushed the paper - viciously into a ball and tossed it over the side of the bus. For the - first time within my remembrance I heard him swear. He was so overcome - with irritation that he had to alight and walk it off. He kept throwing - out jerky odds and ends of exclamations, speaking partly to me, partly to - himself. - </p> - <p> - “The bungling ass!” - </p> - <p> - “Why did he need to drag our names into it?” - </p> - <p> - “A regular windbag!” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The door was opened to us on the chain. A slatternly kitchen-maid peered - out through the crack. She commenced to address us at once in a voice of - high-pitched, impudent defiance. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “My good girl,” he said, “you mustn’t talk to me like that. I’m Mr. - Cardover, who was staying here last Christmas.” - </p> - <p> - Her manner changed audibly, literally audibly, at his tone of implied - sympathy. She boo-hooed unrestrainedly as she slipped back the chain, - permitting us to enter. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - As she was closing the door behind her, my father called after her, “Mrs. - Spreckles left! That’s astounding. Why has she done that?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - How different the room looked from when we were last in it! The cushions - on the sofa were awry. The windows winked at you wickedly, one blind - lowered and the other up. It had the bewildered, disheveled swaggerness of - a last night’s reveler betrayed by the sunrise. - </p> - <p> - Since Caroline had spoken my mind out for me, I felt awkward alone with my - father. I was afraid of what he might say presently. - </p> - <p> - I picked up a small, handsomely bound volume from the table while we were - waiting. I began turning the pages, and found that it was a collected - edition of tracts, written by my uncle and ostensibly addressed to young - men. They had been a kind of stealthy advertisement of The Christian - Boarding-House, calculated to make maiden aunts, into whose hands they - fell, sit up and feel immediately that the author was the very person for - influencing the morals of their giddy nephews. Through the persuasive - saintliness expressed in these tracts Uncle Obad had procured many of his - paying-guests. My eye was arrested by the title of one of them, THE - DECEITFULNESS OF RICHES. I read, “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The front door slammed. I heard the chain being put up. The handle of the - drawing-room door turned hesitatingly and my uncle entered. He still wore - the clothes of affluence, and yet the impression he made was one of - shabbiness. He seemed to have shrunk. His jolly John Bull confidence had - vanished and had been replaced by the hurried, appeasing manner of a - solicitor of charity. He avoided our eyes and commenced talking at once, - presumably to prevent my father from talking. He did not offer to shake - hands. “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 <i>are</i> our friends. When the little storm has blown over I shall - know who to drop from my acquaintance. This sudden departure of Rapson has - had a very unfortunate effect—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.” - </p> - <p> - He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and sank down on the sofa - with the air of one who, being among pleasant companions, brushes aside - unpleasant topics. “Well, how’s Dante?” he asked, turning to me, “and - how’s the Red House?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - My uncle had sat with his body crouched forward, his knees apart, his - hands knitted together, and his eyes fixed on the carpet while my father - had been talking. Now that there was silence he did not stir. I watched - the bald spot on his head, how the yellow skin crinkled and went tight - again as he bunched up and relaxed his brows. He looked so kindly and yet - so ineffectual. My father had flayed him naked with his words. He had - accused him of not being a man; but that was why I loved him. It was his - unworldliness that had made it possible for him to penetrate so far into a - child’s world. Caroline snuffled on the other side of the keyhole. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “But what is this you’ve given me?” - </p> - <p> - “The hundred pounds you gave to Dante and Ruthita at Christmas.” - </p> - <p> - He flushed crimson; then the blood drained away from his hands and face, - leaving them ashy gray. His lip trembled, so that I feared terribly he was - going to cry with the bitterness of his humiliation. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - My father beckoned to me and turned. I stretched out my hand and touched - my uncle. He took no notice. The sunlight streamed in on the creased bald - head, the dust, and the forfeited splendor. Reluctantly I tiptoed out and - was met in the hall by the hot indignant eyes of Caroline, accusing me of - treachery across the banisters. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—THE LAST OF THE RED HOUSE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>n after years it - became a habit with my father to say grimly that Uncle Obad’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. - </p> - <p> - A week after our visit to Chelsea, my father received a letter. It was - from a firm of lawyers and stated that a friend, who had read of our loss, - was anxious to provide the money for my education; the only condition made - was that he should be allowed to remain anonymous. - </p> - <p> - At first my father flatly refused to put himself under such an obligation - to an unknown person. “One would think that we were paupers,” he said; - “such an offer may be kindly meant, but it’s insulting.” - </p> - <p> - He was so sensitive on the subject that we none of us dared to argue the - matter. We considered the affair as closed, and began to consider what - walk of business I should enter. Then we discovered that my father had - gone off on the quiet and interviewed the lawyers; as a consequence, a - second and more pressing letter arrived, stating that the anonymous - benefactor would be gravely disappointed if we did not accept. He was - childless and had often wished to do something for me. My father’s - misfortune was his opportunity. - </p> - <p> - Our curiosity was piqued. Who of our friends or acquaintance was - childless? We ran over the names of all possible benefactors—a task - not difficult, for we had few friends. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Out of this guess Ruthita wove for me a romantic future, opening to my - astonished imagination a career more congenial than any I had dreamt in my - boldest moments. Up to this time, save for whispered hints from my - grandmother Cardover, no mention had been made of my mother’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. - </p> - <p> - Now that the subject had to be discussed he became obstinately silent to - the point of sullenness. The Snow Lady came to the rescue. “Leave him to - me,” she said; “I know how to manage him, my dear.” - </p> - <p> - She laid it tactfully before him that he had no right to let his personal - likes or dislikes prevent me from climbing back into my mother’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. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover was communicated with and instructed to report on the - lie of the country. She replied that folks said that old Sir Charles was - wonderfully softened. She also informed us that Lord Halloway, the next of - kin to myself, had been up to some more of his devilry and was in disgrace - with his uncle. This time it was to do with a Ransby bathing-machine man’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. - </p> - <p> - I was packed off to my grandmother, ostensibly for a week’s holiday at - Ransby—in reality to put our hazard to the test. - </p> - <p> - Ransby to-day is a little sleepy seaside town. The trade has gone away - from it. Every summer thousands of holiday-makers from London invade it - with foreign, feverish gaiety; when they are gone it relapses into its - contented old-world quiet. In my boyhood, however, it was a place of - provincial bustle and importance. The sailing vessels from the Baltic - crowded its harbor, lying shoulder to shoulder against its quays, - unloading their cargoes of tallow and timber and hemp. Now all that - remains is the herring fishery and the manufacture of nets. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover’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. - </p> - <p> - Behind the counter was a door, with windows draped with red curtains. It - led into what was called the keeping-room, a cozy parlor in which we took - our meals, while through the window in the door we could watch the - customers enter. The keeping-room had its own peculiar smell, comfortable - and homelike. I scarcely know how to describe it; it was a mixture of - ozone, coffee, and baking bread. Out of the keeping-room lay the kitchen, - with its floor of red bricks and its burnished pots and pans hung in rows - along the walls. It was my grandmother’s boast that the floor was so - speckless that you could eat a meal off it. Across the courtyard at the - back lay the bakehouse, with its great hollow ovens and troughs in which - men with naked feet trod out the dough. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother had never been out of Ransby save to visit us at Pope Lane, - and this rarely. Even then, after a fortnight she was glad to get back. - She said that Ransby was better than London; you weren’t crowded and knew - everyone you met. The streets of London were filled with stranger-windows - and stranger-faces, whereas in Ransby every house was familiar and had its - story. - </p> - <p> - She carried, strung from a belt about her waist, all the keys of her bins - and cupboards. You knew when she was coming by the way they jangled. She - was a widow, and perfectly happy. On Sundays she attended the Methodist - Chapel in the High Street, with its grave black pulpit and high-backed - pews. On week-days she marshaled her sea-captains, handsome bearded men, - and entertained them at her table. In spite of younger rivals, who tried - to win their patronage from her by cuts in prices, she held their custom - by her honest personality. I believe many of them made her offers of - marriage, for she was still comely to look at; she refused them as lovers - and kept them as friends. She usually dressed in black, with a gold locket - containing the hair of her husband, many years dead, hung about her neck. - Her hair was arranged in two rows of corkscrew curls, which reached down - to her shoulders from under a prim white cap. She had a trick of making - them waggle when she wished to be emphatic. She was a good deal of a - gossip, was by instinct an antiquary, and had a lively sense of wit which - was kept in check by a genuine piety—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. - </p> - <p> - That week at Ransby was a kind of tiptoe glory. My Grannie took me very - seriously; she had under her roof a boy who would surely be a baronet, - perhaps a lord, and maybe an earl. What had only been an expectation with - us was for her a certainty. The floodgate of her reminiscence was opened - wide; she swept me far out into the romantic past with her accounts of my - mother’s ancestry. The Evrards were no upstart nobility; they had their - roots in history. She could tell me how they returned from exile with King - Charles, or how they sailed out with Raleigh to destroy the Armada. But I - liked to hear best about my mother, how she rode into Ransby under her - scarlet plumes, on her great gray horse, with her flower face; and how my - father caught sight of her and loved her. - </p> - <p> - I began to understand my father in a new way, entirely sympathetic. He was - a man who had tasted the best of life at the first. There was something - epic about his sorrow. - </p> - <p> - These conversations usually took place in the keeping-room at night. The - shutters of the shop had been put up. The gas was unlighted. The flames of - the fire, dancing in the grate, split the darkness into shadows which - groped across the walls. Everything was hushed and cozy. My Grannie, - seated opposite to me, on the other side of the fireplace, would bend - forward in her chair as she talked; when she came to exciting passages her - little gray curls would bob, or to passages of sentiment she would remove - her shiny spectacles to wipe her eyes. If she stopped at a loss for the - next topic, all I had to say was, “And how did Sir Charles Evrard look, - Grannie, when he came to you that first morning after they had run away?” - </p> - <p> - “He looked, as he has always looked, my dear, an aristocrat.” - </p> - <p> - “But how did he treat you? Wasn’t he angry?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “‘A fine day, Sir Charles, but inclined to blow up squally,’ says I. - </p> - <p> - “Then he turns his face away and inquires, ‘If it’s not troubling you, can - I see your son this morning?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘He went to London early,’ says I. - </p> - <p> - “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?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘That, Sir Charles, is more than I can say.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Quite right. Quite right.’ And he speaks so quickly that he startles me. - </p> - <p> - “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.’ - </p> - <p> - “And with that he leaves me, raising his hat, and rides away.” - </p> - <p> - “And you knew all the time?” I ask. - </p> - <p> - “We both knew all the time,” she replies. - </p> - <p> - During the daytime we went through the flat wind-swept country on - excursions to Woadley Hall. Our hope was that we might meet Sir Charles, - and that he would recognize me. Unfortunately, on the afternoon of my - arrival he had a hunting accident, and kept the house during all the - period of my stay. My nearest approach to seeing him was one evening, when - the winter dusk had gathered early; I hid in the shrubbery outside the - library and saw his shadow fall across the blind. He seemed to stand near - the window listening. We were not more than two yards separated. I wonder, - did some instinct, subtler than the five senses, let him know of the - starved yearning that was calling to him out there in the dark? How those - long watches in Woadley Park stirred up memories, and made my mother live - again! - </p> - <p> - When the week had expired, I returned to Pope Lane. The offer was - re-debated and at last accepted. I went back to the Red House and there - learnt the fickleness of popularity. My uncle’s downfall had caused me to - become a far less exalted person. My influence was gone; a period of - persecution threatened. The Bantam alone stood by me; even in his eyes I - was a Samson shorn of his glory. The renewed, half-shy interest taken in - me by the Creature was a doubtful asset. Our friendship was a coalition of - two weaknesses, and resulted in nothing profitable in the way of social - strength. He did his best to make things up to me. He was almost womanly - in his kindness. Now that Lady Zion was gone he felt a great emptiness in - life; he borrowed me that, in some measure, I might fill her place. He - told Sneard that he wished to coach me that I might sit for a scholarship - at Oxford. Permission was granted, so we both got off prep. - </p> - <p> - Evening after evening I would spend at his cottage, the lamp lighted and - the books spread out on the table. He decided that I was not much good at - natural science, and declared that I must specialize in history. He was a - genius in his way, and had amazing stores of information. When he overcame - his hesitating shyness, he showed himself a scholar of erudite knowledge - and intrepid imagination. He had a passion for antiquity that amounted to - idolatry, and a faculty which was almost uncanny for making the dead world - live again. While he spoke I would forget his shabbiness, his - chalk-stained hands, uncouth gestures, and revolting untidiness. He was a - magician who unlocked the doors of the storied past; he owned the - right-of-way through all men’s minds, from Homer to Herbert Spencer. When - he spoke of soldiers, his air was bullying and defiant. But it was when he - spoke of women that he spoke with his heart. Then, all unaware of what he - was doing, he pulled aside the curtains and let me gaze in upon the empty - rooms of his life. It was he who pointed out to me that, with rare - exceptions, it is not the virtuous but only the beautiful women that the - world remembers. - </p> - <p> - It was odd to think what images of loveliness went to and fro behind that - soiled mask of outward personality, in the hidden temples of his brain. - The Creature was a man you had to love or dislike, to know altogether or - not to know at all. In that last year and a half at the Red House, when he - tapped me on the shoulder and led me away by the revelation of his curious - secret charm, I got both to know and to love him. - </p> - <p> - And yet there was always fear in my friendship. He was queer like his - sister before him. Her death seemed to have unbalanced his reason; it was - a weakness that grew upon him. He seemed to have lost his power of - distinguishing between the present and the imaginary or the past. Often in - the cottage he would forget that his sister was not still alive and, - rising from the table, would look beyond me as if he saw her, or would go - out into the passage and call to her. Nothing in the cottage had been - changed since her departure. Her belongings lay untouched, just where she - had left them, as though her return was hourly expected. - </p> - <p> - He fell into the way of imitating her gestures, and humming snatches of - her crazy songs. He would tumble over the precipice into the abyss of - insanity without warning, in the middle of being rational; and would - clamber back just as suddenly, apparently without knowledge of where he - had gone. Of one of her songs he was extremely fond. I had often heard - Lady Zion sing it as she rode between the hedges, and had been made aware - of her approach long before I caught sight of her:— - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “All the chimneys in our town - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Wake from death when the cold comes down; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Through the summer against the sky - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Tall, and silent, and stark they lie— - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - But every chimney in our town - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Starts to breathe when the cold comes down.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - Some safe-guarding astuteness prevented him from showing his weakness at - the Red House; and I was too fond of him to tell. To the rest of the boys - he was only the grubby, somewhat eccentric little “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. - </p> - <p> - Still, eighty pounds would not carry me to Oxford. It became a worrying - problem to my family exactly what my grandfather, if he were my - benefactor, had meant by “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. - </p> - <p> - Since the interview at Chelsea there had been no intercourse between my - father and Uncle Obad. I had once contrived to see my uncle by stealth, - but the first question he had asked me was, did I come with my father’s - knowledge. When I could not give him that assurance, he had sorrowfully - refused to have anything to do with me. At the time I shrank from - mentioning the matter to my father; so for a year and a half my uncle and - his doings had dropped completely out of my life. - </p> - <p> - But my treatment of him weighed on my conscience. My last term at school - had ended. It was August, and in October I expected to go up to Oxford. - With my scholarship and the money the lawyers sent me I should soon be a - self-supporting person. Already I thought myself a man. I felt that on the - whole my father’s quarrel with my uncle was reasonable, but I could not - see why I should be made to share it. So one day as I got up from - breakfast, I mentioned casually that I was going to run over to Charity - Grove. - </p> - <p> - It was just such another golden morning as the one of ten years earlier, - when I had driven for the first time across London behind Dollie. What a - big important person the Spuffler had seemed to me then! How wonderful - that he, a grown-up, should take so much trouble to be friendly to a - little chap! Then my mind wandered back over all his repeated kindness—all - that he had stood for in the past as a harbor of refuge from the stormy - misunderstandings of childhood. He and the Creature, both failures and - generally despised, were two of the best men that I had ever met. Whatever - his faults, he still was splendid. - </p> - <p> - I came to the Christian Boarding House, and passed up the driveway shut in - with heavy evergreens. Caroline, tousled of hair, all loose ends, girt - about her middle with a sackcloth apron, was on her knees bricking the - steps. She did not recognize me. The Mistress was out shopping, she said, - but the Master was in the paddock. “Ah, yes,” I thought, “feeding the - fowls.” - </p> - <p> - I passed through the decayed old rooms, with their heavy shabby furniture, - so evidently picked up cheap at auctions; then I passed out through the - French windows into the cool garden, where sunshine dappled the lawn, - struggling with difficulty through the crowded branches. At the gate into - the paddock I halted. There he was with a can of water in his hand, - fussing, in and out his coops and hutches, so extremely busy, as though - the future of the world depended on his efforts. I suppose he was still - evolving that strain of perpetually laying hens, The Spreckles, which was - to bring him fame and fortune. - </p> - <p> - I called to him, “Uncle Obad.” - </p> - <p> - When he had recovered from his emotion, I soon found that the old fellow - had long ago emerged from all personal sense of disgrace with his usual - corklike irrepressibility. He chatted with me cheerily, calling me, “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.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke as if the abdication of his brief period of affluence had been - voluntary. I scented here one of his spuffling explanations to his - neighbors for his precipitate return to the boarding-house. - </p> - <p> - On inquiry I found that all his philanthropic societies had forgiven and - taken him back. After sulking a while and flirting with various paid - secretaries, they had agreed for economy’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. - </p> - <p> - “And what about Rapson?” I asked. “Do you still believe in him?” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head dolefully. “I begin to lose faith, Dante; I begin to - doubt.” - </p> - <p> - “But have you heard from him since he went away?” - </p> - <p> - “Never a word.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “No, unfortunately.” - </p> - <p> - “In love?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “Married?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “My father—at Chelsea—the Christmas present?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I couldn’t keep it. I gave it to her.” - </p> - <p> - “You always have to be giving something,” I said. - </p> - <p> - We were sitting on an upturned barrow in the paddock when this - conversation took place. I thought how characteristic of Uncle Obad that - was—to be helping others at a time when he himself was most in need - of help. But his kindness knew no seasons. Then I began, as a very young - man will, to think of Kitty, and, because of her frailty, to picture her - through a haze of romance. - </p> - <p> - “Where’s Kitty now?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—STAR-DUST DAYS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he walls of the - garden had fallen. Childhood was ended and with it all those absurd, - aching fears lest I should never be a man and lest time might be a - stationary, unescapable present, with no trap-doors giving access to the - future. The experiment of life had begun in earnest, and the adventure. - </p> - <p> - That first October night of my residence at Oxford is forever memorable. - Before leaving Pope Lane I had been led aside by my father. He had taken - it for granted that I was now capable of a man’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! - </p> - <p> - I did not understand one-tenth part of all that he hinted at. But his - presumption that I did understand seemed to me a form of compliment. To - ask for an explanation was a heroism of which I was not capable. So I left - home clad in the armor of ignorance to do battle with the world. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita wanted to accompany me to the station. I would not let her. She - was weepy in private; I knew that in public she would be worse. I had - inherited my father’s dread of sentiment and his fear lest other people - should construe it as weakness. - </p> - <p> - At Paddington I met the Bantam; we were entering the same college and - traveled up together. We chose our places in a “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. - </p> - <p> - As we neared Iffley, the domes and spires of the Mecca of dreamers swam - up. The sky was pearl-colored without a cloud. Strewn throughout its great - emptiness was the luminous dust of stars. All the tinsel ambitions which - had lately stirred me were forgotten as the home of lost causes claimed - me. I grew large within myself as, in watching its advance behind the - river above the tree-tops, I merged my personality in this vision of - architectural romance. Leaning against the horizon, stretching up and up, - out of the murk of dusk and the blood-red decay of foliage, it symbolized - for me all the yearning after perfection and the passionate desire for - freedom that had always lain hidden in my heart. I wanted to be like that—the - thing that gray pyramided stone seen at twilight can alone express—wise, - unimpassioned, lovely, immutable. - </p> - <p> - We came to a standstill in the shabby station, which of all stations is - probably the best beloved. - </p> - <p> - “Thank the Lord, we’re here at last.” - </p> - <p> - In a hansom, with a sporting cabby for our driver, we rattled through the - ancient lamp-lit town where the ghosts of the dead summer rustled and - reddened against the walls. Past the Castle we sped, through Carfax, down - the High, past Oriel and Christ Church till we drew up with a jerk at - Lazarus. Whatever we had suffered in the train in the way of lowered - opinion of self was now made up to us; the servility of the College porter - and scouts was eloquent of respect. We were undoubtedly persons of - importance. If we wanted further proof of it, this awaited us in the pile - of communications from Oxford tradesmen, notified beforehand of our - coming, humbly soliciting our patronage. - </p> - <p> - The Bantam’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. - </p> - <p> - Just as we had commenced unpacking, the bell began to toll. We slipped on - our gowns and followed the throng into a vaulted, dimly-lighted hall, - where we dined at long tables off ancient silver, and had beer set before - us. Surely we were men! - </p> - <p> - That night the Bantam and I sat far into the small, cold hours of the - morning; there was no one to worry us to go to bed. When the Bantam had - left, I lay awake in a state of bewildered ecstasy. I had become aware in - the last ten hours of my unchartered personality. I realized that my life - was my own to command, to make or mar. As the bells above the sleeping - city rang out time’s progress, all the pageant of the lads of other ages, - who had come up to Oxford star-eyed, as I had come, passed before me. When - the withered leaves tapped against the walls, I could fancy that it was - their footfall. They had come with a chance equal to mine; at the end of a - few years they had departed. Some had succeeded and some had failed. Of - all that great army which now stretched bivouacked throughout eternity, - only the latest recruits were in sight. The scholar-monks, the - soldier-saints, the ruffian-students of early centuries, the cavaliers, - the philosophers, and the statesmen, together with the roisterers of the - rank and file, were all equally and completely gone. - </p> - <p> - In the silence of my narrow room, with the flickering fire dying in the - hearth, there brooded over me the shadowy darkness of the ages. What - religion does for some men, for me the gray poetry of this poignant city - accomplished. I had become aware that from henceforth the ultimate - responsibility for my actions must rest forever with myself. I was - strangely unafraid of this knowledge. - </p> - <p> - They were dim dawn-days that followed, when the air was filled with - star-dust—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. - </p> - <p> - Gradually, out of the wilderness of strange faces, some became more - familiar than others; little groups of friends began to form. The - instinctive principle on which my set came together was enthusiastic - rebellion against convention and eager curiosity concerning existence. One - by one, without appointing any place of meeting, we would drift into some - man’s room. This usually occurred about eight in the evening, after dinner - in hall. The lamp would be left unlighted; the couch would be drawn near - the fire; then we would commence a conversation which was half jesting and - half confessional. - </p> - <p> - Under the cloak of laughing cynicism we hid a desperate purpose. We wanted - to know about life. We sought in each new face to discover if it could - tell us. We had nothing to guide us but the carefully prepared disclosures - which had been vouchsafed us in our homes. We had risen at a bound into a - man’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? - </p> - <p> - The problems we argued predated the Decalogue, yet to us they were - eternally original and personal. We attacked them with youthful insolence. - The authority of no social institution was safe from our irreverence. We - accepted nothing, neither religion, nor marriage; we had to go back to the - beginning and re-mint truth for ourselves. Our real object in coming - together was that we might pool our scraps of actual experience, and out - of these materials fashion our conjectures. - </p> - <p> - There was one topic of inexhaustible interest. It permeated all our - inquiry—<i>woman</i>. We knew so little about her; but we knew that - she held the key opening the door to all romance. What gay cavaliers we - could be in discussing her, and how sheepish in the presence of one - concrete specimen of her sex—especially if she were beautiful, and - not a relative! - </p> - <p> - All the adventures we had ever heard of seemed now within our grasp. Woman - was the great unknown to us. We knew next to nothing of the penalties—only - the romance. - </p> - <p> - Little by little the boldest among us, recognizing that talk led nowhere, - began to put matters to the test. The same shy restraint that had made me - afraid of Fiesole when she had tempted me to kiss her, made me an onlooker - now. A saving common sense prompted me to await the proof of events. I - acted on instinct, not on principle. The difference between myself and - some of my friends was a difference of temperament. Perhaps it was a - difference between daring and cowardice. There are times when our - weaknesses appear to be virtues, preserving us from shipwreck. I was - capable of tempestuous thoughts; while they remained thoughts I could - clothe them with idealism and glamor. But I was incapable of impassioned - acts; their atmosphere would be beyond my control—the atmosphere of - inevitable vulgarity which results from contemporary reality. My - observation of unrestraint taught me that unrestraint was ugly. In short, - I had a pagan imagination at war with a puritan conscience. - </p> - <p> - In my day, there was no right or wrong in undergraduate Oxford—no - moral or immoral. Every conventional principle of conduct which we had - learnt, we flung into the crucible of new experience to be melted down - and, out of the ordeal, minted afresh. - </p> - <p> - We divided ourselves into two classes: those who experimented and those - who watched. There was only one sin in our calendar—not to be a - gentleman. To be a gentleman, in our sense of the word, was to be a - sportsman and to have good manners. - </p> - <p> - In our private methods of thought we were uninterfered with by those in - authority. The University’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - My cousin, Lord Halloway, had been a Lazarus man. Oxford still treasured - the memory of his amorous exploits. - </p> - <p> - He had been a good deal of a dare-devil and was regarded as something of a - hero; he inspired us with awe, for, despite his recklessness, he had - played the game gaily and escaped detection. The impression that this kind - of thing created was that indiscretions were only indiscreet when they - were bungled. Punishment seemed the penalty for discovery—not for - the sin itself. Naturally it was the foolish and less flagrant sinners who - got caught. For instance, there was the Bantam. - </p> - <p> - The first term the Bantam watched and listened. There were occasions when - he was a little shocked. When Christmas came round, having no home to go - to, he kept on his rooms in college, and spent the vacation in residence. - I returned to Pope Lane, and found that the womanliness of Ruthita and the - Snow Lady had a sanitary effect. The wholesome sweetness of their - affection, after the hot-house discussions of a group of boyish men, came - like a breath of pure air. I fell back into the old trustfulness. I - recognized that society had secret restraints and delicacies, a disclosure - of the motives for which was not yet allowable; at the proper season life - would explain itself. - </p> - <p> - When college re-assembled I noticed a change in the Bantam. He was soulful - and sentimental—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.” - </p> - <p> - He twisted his pipe in his mouth pensively. “She’s the sweetest little - girl in the world.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I pointed out that there were ten thousand ways of flirting with girls, - and that this was the most dangerous. His white knighthood was affronted - by that word <i>flirting</i>. He became indignant and said I was no - gentleman. - </p> - <p> - As time went on, acquaintance after acquaintance would drop in to see me, - and would hint gravely at a deep and romantic passion which the Bantam had - imparted to them alone. When I informed them that I also was in his - confidence, they would repeat to me the same vague story of persecuted - loveliness, but always with embellishments. By and by, the embellishments - varied so irreconcilably that I began to suspect that they referred to - more than one girl. - </p> - <p> - Most of us were in love with love in those days; we were all quite certain - that an incandescent purifying passion lay ahead of us. It might knock at - our door any hour—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. - </p> - <p> - Ah, but the Bantam, he was all for doing! If he could not find the love he - wanted, he would seize the next best. Yet he would never admit that he was - in love. He deceived himself into believing that he acted on the most - altruistic motives. If others misunderstood him, it was because they were - of grosser fiber. Other men, doing the things he did, laughingly - acknowledged their rakishness; he, however, considered himself a - self-appointed knight-errant to ladies in distress. He became involved in - endless entanglements. It was by appealing to his higher nature with some - pitiful story, that his transient attractions caught him. - </p> - <p> - I never knew a man so unfortunate in his genius for discovering lonely - maidens in need of his protection. He always meant to be noble and - virtuous, but his temperament was not sufficiently frigid to carry him - safely through such ticklish adventures. He never learnt when to leave - off; his fatal and theatric conception of chivalry continually led him on - to situations more powerfully tempting. It would be easy to explain him by - saying that he was a sentimental ass. But so were we all. The Bantam came - to his ruin because he was lonely, because he had no social means of - meeting women who were his equals, and because he was too kind-hearted; - but mainly because he attributed to all women indiscriminately a virtue - which unfortunately they do not all possess. - </p> - <p> - He sinned accidentally and therefore carelessly—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. - </p> - <p> - In the Easter Vacation of our first year at Oxford, the Bantam stayed at - Putney. In the same house was an actress, very beautiful and more sorely - used by the world than even the first girl. In the summer-time there was a - widow at Torquay. In the beginning of our second year of residence there - was a bar-maid at Henley. After that they followed in rapid succession. - Wherever he went he found some woman starving for his sympathy. They were - all ladies and phenomena of beauty, to judge from his accounts. - </p> - <p> - When he came to make confession to me, it was a little difficult to follow - which particular lady he was talking about. He never mentioned them by - name, and seemed to try to give the impression that they were one - composite person. - </p> - <p> - One evening I got him with his back to the wall. “Bantam, who is this - Oxford girl—the first one you got to know about?” - </p> - <p> - Then he admitted that she was a shop-girl. I knew what that meant: some of - the Oxford tradesmen engaged girls for the prettiness of their faces, that - they might attract custom by flirting with the undergrads. Little by - little I narrowed him down in his general statements till I had guessed - the shop in which she worked. - </p> - <p> - “Is she a good girl?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - Instead of taking offense, he answered, “Dante, the thought of her - goodness often makes me ashamed of myself.” - </p> - <p> - It was evident, though he would not admit it, that this affair at least - was serious. - </p> - <p> - “Then why does she stay there?” - </p> - <p> - “She can’t help herself.” - </p> - <p> - “Why can’t she help herself?” - </p> - <p> - “She’s an orphan and has a living to earn. She’s afraid to get out of a - situation.” - </p> - <p> - “But what good are you doing her?” - </p> - <p> - “Helping her to keep up her courage by letting her know that one man - respects her.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you think she may get to expect more than that?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly not. Why should she?” - </p> - <p> - “Just because girls do,” I said. “Do you write her letters?” - </p> - <p> - “Sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you write about?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Kitty, of all people in the world! I didn’t expect to find you - here.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Because of what happened.” - </p> - <p> - “Rapson?” - </p> - <p> - She flushed and hung her head. I wondered if she meant what I thought she - meant. - </p> - <p> - I hated to see her sad; she looked so young and pretty. I began to ask her - what she was doing. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But are they all like that?” - </p> - <p> - She smiled, and I knew she loved him. When she spoke her voice trembled. - “There’s one of them is different.” - </p> - <p> - “Kitty, he’s the one I came to talk about.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “What do we care about the world?” she said. “The world’s a coward.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - She stared into my eyes across the counter with frightened fascination. I - knew that I was acting like a brute and I despised myself. I had hardly - meant to ask her the last question—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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t care about marriage,” she whispered desperately. - </p> - <p> - “Even then, you ought to tell him.” - </p> - <p> - A customer came into the shop. We tumbled from our height of emotion. It - was another example of how reality makes all things prosaic. She had to - compose herself, and go and serve him. He had come to admire her and - showed a tendency to dawdle. His purchase was the excuse for his presence. - I had an opportunity to watch her—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. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - The Bantam was rowing in the college crew that summer. What with training, - going to bed early, and keeping up with his work, I saw little of him. The - night before the races he came into my room. He looked brilliantly healthy—lean - and tanned. - </p> - <p> - “Are you alone?” - </p> - <p> - “You can see I am. What’s the trouble?” - </p> - <p> - He sank into a chair and grinned at me. “It’s all up. I’ve been an awful - ass.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And they’ve sent them back with bitter complaints against your - infidelity. Poor old Bantam!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I whistled. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you going to do about it?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The Bantam ruffled his hair. He spoke with genuine feeling; this was quite - different from any of his former confessions. He moistened his lips - nervously, and turned away his eyes from me. “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.” - </p> - <p> - I leant forward and took his hand. I felt proud of him. “I’ll stand by - you, old chap. How can I help?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - As he was going out of the room I called him back. “What’s the name of the - girl you’re going to marry?” - </p> - <p> - “Kitty,” he whispered below his breath, as though it were a word too - sacred to mention. - </p> - <p> - The widow from Torquay arrived next morning; so did the actress from - Putney. I let each one suppose that the other was my near relative, and - never left them for a moment together, lest they should discover their - error. I gave them separately to understand that their troubles would be - satisfactorily settled. I made much of the rigors of training, which - compelled the Bantam to absent himself. They didn’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - All through the service he gave himself such important airs that the - clergyman took it for granted that the bride was his daughter. - </p> - <p> - We jumped into a couple of hansoms and drove down to Verrey’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. - </p> - <p> - We went to the Parks and took a boat on the Serpentine. It was there that - the Bantam let his bomb burst: he was sailing on the <i>Celtic</i>, via - New York, for Canada. He felt sure his father would disown him for having - spoilt his Oxford opportunities, so he was going to start life afresh in a - land where no one would remember. - </p> - <p> - In the autumn, when I returned to Lazarus, I had an opportunity to judge - how the world treats breakers of convention. No one had a good word to say - for the Bantam. Everybody was eager to disclaim him as his friend—he - had married a shop-girl. Yet Halloway, who sinned cavalierly without - twinge of conscience or attempt at reparation, was spoken of, even by - persons who had never known him, with a kind of tolerant, admiring - affection. So much for what this taught me of social morality. Playing - safe, and not ethical right or wrong, was the standard of conventional - righteousness. - </p> - <p> - Star-dust days were drawing to an end. The grim, inevitable facts of life - were looming larger and nearer. Romance was slowly giving way before - reality. It was the last year at Oxford for most of the men in my set. - Conversations began to take a practical turn, as to how a living might be - earned. For myself, I listened with a languid interest. These discussions - did not concern my future. I expected that my grandfather would continue - my allowance. I should not be forced to sell myself by doing uncongenial, - remunerative kinds of work. I should have time to mature. I wanted to make - a study of the Renaissance. About twenty years hence I should publish a - book; then I should be famous. Meanwhile I should collect my facts, and - probably enter Parliament as member for Ransby. - </p> - <p> - It was wonderful how bravely confident we were. We gazed into the future - without fear or tremor. We all knew that we were sure of success. Already - we were picking out the winners—the naturally great men, who would - arrive at the top of the tree with the first effort. It was a belief among - us that genius was nothing more than concentrated will-power. Then - something happened which startled me into a novel display of energy. - </p> - <p> - Ever since leaving the Red House, the Creature had written me once a week, - usually on a Sunday, with clockwork regularity. One Monday I went to the - porter’s lodge for my mail and missed his letter. The following morning, - glancing down the paper, my eye was attracted by a headline which read, - TRAGIC DEATH OF A SCHOOLMASTER. The news-item announced the death of Mr. - Murdoch, science master of the Red House. It appeared that the boys had - gone down to the laboratory to attend the experimental chemistry class. On - opening the door they had been driven back by a powerful smell of gas, but - not before they had caught a glimpse of Mr. Murdoch fallen in a heap upon - the floor. When the room was entered it was quite evident that the death - was not accidental. Every burner in the room was full on, and the - ventilators were stopped with rags. - </p> - <p> - Some days later I received a legal letter informing me that the Creature - had left a will in my favor. His total estate amounted to three hundred - pounds. I was requested to call at the lawyer’s office. I got leave of - absence from my college and went to London. There I learnt that at the - time that the will had been made, a little over five years ago, the value - of the estate had been a thousand pounds. Of this I had already received - over seven hundred, remitted to me by his lawyers from time to time - according to his instructions. He had originally saved the money in order - that he might provide for his sister in the event of his dying first. On - her death, he had executed the present will, making me his heir. - </p> - <p> - So Sir Charles Evrard was not the author of my prosperity! The - disappointment of the discovery robbed me for an instant of all sense of - gratitude. I felt almost angry with the Creature for having been the - innocent cause of all this building of air-castles. This was the second - time that fortune had led me on to expect, only to trick me when the - future seemed secure. The uncertainty of everything unnerved me. Life - seemed to pucker its brows and stare down at me with a frown. All the - money that had been spent on my education had taught me nothing - immediately useful—and now I had a living to earn. - </p> - <p> - Luckily, just about this time, it was suggested to me that, after I had - taken my Finals, I should enter for some of the history fellowships in the - autumn. It was expected that I would gain an easy First; if I did that, I - had a fair chance of winning a fellowship at my own college. - </p> - <p> - Now that my fool’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. - </p> - <p> - I reproached myself for the shortness of my letters to him. I saw now, in - the light of after events, how I might have been a strength to him. He had - given me everything; I had given him nothing. His fineness of feeling had - led him to prevent my gratitude. Never by the slightest hint had he left - me room to guess that I was beholden to him. And now he was beyond reach - of thanks. - </p> - <p> - I recalled how I had teased him as a youngster, and had courted popularity - at his expense. When I was most angry against myself, I would drift back - into the class-room where the boys were baiting him, and would hear him - making his peace-offering, “Penthil, Cardover? Penthil, Buzzard? Want a - penthil?” And then, in spite of indignation, I had to laugh. - </p> - <p> - When Finals came on I won my First and in the autumn gained a history - fellowship at Lazarus. It was worth two hundred pounds a year. It allowed - me ample time to travel and was tenable for seven years, on the condition - that I did not marry. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - BOOK III—THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS - </h2> - <p> - <i>And behind them a flame burneth: and the land is as the garden of Eden - before them, and behind them a desolate wilderness.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—I MEET HER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was June and - wind was in the tree-tops. All the world was rustling and birds were - calling. - </p> - <p> - For the past seven months, since the winning of my fellowship, I had been - over-working and making myself brain-sick with thought. I was - twenty-three, and had arrived at “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. - </p> - <p> - So, when I heard the June wind laughing in the trees, I tossed my books - aside. I left my doubts all disorderly upon the shelves to grow dusty, and - ran away. I would seek for the garden without walls. Having failed to find - it in libraries, I would search for it through the open country. I had - only two certainties to guide me—that I was young, and that the - world was growing lovelier every day. - </p> - <p> - I came down to quaint little Ransby, perched high and red above the old - sea-wall. Life was taken so much for granted there. No one inquired into - its why or wherefore. Everything that happened was accepted with a quiet - stoicism, as “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. - </p> - <p> - I traveled down from London by an afternoon train. Shortly after six we - struck the Broads, or inland waterways, which now narrow into rivers, now - widen into lakes, flowing sluggishly through fat marshes to the sea. On - the left hand as we flashed by, one caught glimpses of the spread arms of - windmills slowly turning, pumping meadows dry, or jutting above gray - sedges the ochre-colored sails of wherries plodding like cart-horses from - Ransby up to Norwich. Startled by the clamor of our passage, a lonely - heron would spring up and float indignantly away into the distant quiet. - Now we would come to a field of wheat faintly yellowing in the summer - sunshine. Between green-gold stalks would flash the scarlet of the Suffolk - poppy. Across the desecrated silence we hurled the grime and commotion of - cities, leaving an ugly blur of gradually thinning smoke behind. - </p> - <p> - The evening glow was beginning. Picked out in gold, windows of thatched - cottages and steeples of sleeping hamlets burnt for an instant splendid in - the landscape. A child, warned of our approach, clambered on a stile, and - waved; laborers, plodding homeward with scythes across their shoulders, - halted to watch us go by. We burst as a disturbing element into the midst - of these rustic lives; in our sullen hurry, they had hardly noticed us - before we had vanished. - </p> - <p> - With the country fragrance of newly-mown hay there began to mingle the tar - and salt of a seaport. We swayed across the tresseled bridge, where the - Broads met the harbor. Ozone, smell of fish and sea-weed assailed our - nostrils. Houses grew up about us. Blunt red chimneys, like misshapen - thumbs, jabbed the blue of the horizon; above them tall masts of ships - speared the sky. With rush and roar we invaded the ancient town, defiling - its Dutch appearance of neatness, and affronting with our gadabout swagger - its peaceful sense of home-abiding. We came to a standstill in the - station; all was clatter and excitement. - </p> - <p> - The visitors’ 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. - </p> - <p> - As I got out, my eye was attracted to a little girl who was climbing down - from a neighboring compartment. She was unlike any English child—she - lacked the sturdy robustness. My attention was caught by the dainty - faeriness of her appearance. She wore a foamy white muslin dress, cut very - short, with spreading flounces of lace about it. It was caught up here and - there with pink baby-bows of ribbon. Her delicate arms were bare from the - elbow. She was small-boned and slender. Her skirt scarcely reached to her - knees, so that nearly half her tiny height seemed to consist of legs. She - had the slightness and moved with the grace of a child-dancer escaped from - a ballet. But what completed her baby perfection was the profusion of - flaxen curls, which streamed down from her shoulders to her waist. She saw - me looking at her and laughed up with roguish frankness. - </p> - <p> - Having secured my luggage, I was pushing my way out of the station through - the long line of visitors and porters, when I saw the child standing - bewildered by herself. In the crowd she had become separated from whoever - was taking care of her. I spoke to her, but she was crying too bitterly to - answer. Setting down my bags, I tried to comfort her, saying that I would - stay with her till she was found. Suddenly her face lit up and she darted - from my side. I had a hurried vision of a lady pushing her way towards - her. While she was stooping to take the little girl in her arms, I made - off as quickly as I was able. Like my father, I detested a scene, and had - a morbid horror of being thanked. - </p> - <p> - How good it was to smell the salt of the sea again. I passed up the harbor - where the fishing-fleet lay moored against the quay-side, and sailormen, - with hands deep in trouser-flaps, leant against whatever came handiest, - pulling meditatively at short clay pipes. The business of the day was - over. Folk were tenacious of their leisure in Ransby; they had a knack, - peculiarly their own, of filling the evening with an undercurrent sense of - gaiety. Though townsmen, they were villagers at heart. When work was done, - they polished themselves up and sat outside their houses or came into the - streets to exchange the news of the day. I turned from the harbor and - passed down the snug quiet street in which stood the house with CARDOVER - painted above the doorway. - </p> - <p> - As I approached, the bake-house boy was putting the last shutter into - place against the window. I entered the darkened shop on tiptoe, picking - my way through anchors, sacks of ships’ biscuit, and coils of rope, till I - could peer through the glass-panel of the door into the keeping-room. I - loved to surprise the little old lady with the gray corkscrew curls and - rosy cheeks, so that for once she might appear undignified. But, as I - peered through, I met her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Why, Dante, my boy,” she cried, reaching up to put her arms round me, - “how you have grown!” - </p> - <p> - I was always a boy to her; she would never let herself think that I had - ceased to grow, for then I should have ceased to be a child. - </p> - <p> - We sat down to a typically Ransby meal, which they call high-tea. There - were Ransby shrimps and Ransby bloaters on the table; everything was of - local flavor, and most of it was home-made. “You can’t get things like - them in Lun’non,” Grandmother Cardover said, falling back into her Suffolk - dialect. - </p> - <p> - That night we talked of Sir Charles Evrard. Rumor proclaimed that Lord - Halloway had finally ruined his chances in that direction by his latest - escapade. It concerned a pretty housemaid at Woadley Hall, and the affair - had actually been carried on under Sir Charles’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. - </p> - <p> - So we rambled on, and the underlying hint of it all was that I had come to - Ransby in the nick of time to make hay while the sun was shining. - </p> - <p> - “Grannie, you’ll never get me worked up over that again,” I told her. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I was trying to think otherwise. I had banished this expectation from my - mind and wasn’t anxious to court another disappointment. - </p> - <p> - “If it happens that way, it will happen that way,” said I. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Lawks-a-daisy me,” she exclaimed, “there’s that clock crocking for - twelve! How you do get your poor old Grannie on talking!” - </p> - <p> - We lit our candles and climbed the narrow stairs to bed. Outside my - bedroom-door she halted. I wondered what else she had to tell me. Holding - her candle high, so that its light fell down upon her laughing face, she - made me a mocking courtesy, saying, “Good-night, Sir Dante Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - Next morning I was up early. As I dressed I could smell the bread being - carried steaming out of the bakehouse. Looking out of my window into the - red-brick courtyard I could see men’s figures, white with flour-dust, - going to and fro. The morning was clear and sparkling, as though washed - clean by rain. The sun was dazzling and the wind was blowing. From the - harbor came the creaking of sails being hoisted, and the cheery bustle of - vessels getting under way. Of all places this was home. My spirits rose. I - laughed, remembering the cobwebs of theories which had tangled up my - brain. Nothing seemed to matter here, save the wholesome fact of being - alive. - </p> - <p> - After breakfast I stepped out into the street and wandered up toward the - harbor. The townsmen knew me and greeted me as I went by. I caught them - looking after me with a new curiosity in their gaze. I began to wonder - whether I had made some absurd mistake in my dressing. I grew - uncomfortable and had an insane desire to see what kind of a spectacle my - back presented. I tried to use shop-windows as mirrors, twisting my neck - to catch glimpses of myself. Then there occurred to me what my grandmother - had said to me on the previous night. So it <i>was</i> true, and all the - town was talking about me! - </p> - <p> - As I approached the chemist shop at the top of the road, Fenwick, the - chemist, was sunning himself in the doorway. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - I nodded. - </p> - <p> - “It’s lucky to be you,” he added knowingly. “But, there, I always did tell - your Grannie that luck would turn your way.” - </p> - <p> - I passed on through the sunshine in a wild elation. What if it were true - this time? I asked myself. What if it were really true? - </p> - <p> - Ransby is built like a bent arm, jutting out into the sea, following the - line of the coast. At the extreme point of the elbow, where I was now - standing, is the wooden pier, on which the visitors parade. Running from - the elbow to the shoulder is the sheltered south beach and the esplanade, - given up to visitors and boarding-houses. These terminate in the distance - in a steep headland, on which stands the little village of Pakewold. On - the other side of the pier is the harbor, entering or departing out of - which fishing vessels and merchantmen may be seen almost any hour of the - day. From the elbow to the finger tips, running northward, is the bleak - north beach, gnawed at by the sea and bullied by every wind that blows. - Here it is that most of the wrecks take place. The older portion of the - town, climbing northward from the harbor, overhangs it, scarred and - weather-beaten. Where the town ends, seven miles of crumbling gorse-grown - cliff continue the barricade. - </p> - <p> - Separating the town from the north beach, stretch the denes—a broad - strip of grassy sand, on which fishing-nets are dried. Parallel with the - denes is the gray sea-wall; and beyond the wall a shingle beach, low-lying - and defended at intervals by breakwaters. Here the waves are continually - attacking: on the calmest day there is anger in their moan. From far away - one can hear the scream of pebbles dragged down as the waves recede, the - long sigh which follows the weariness of defeat, and the loud thunder as - the water hurls itself in a renewed attack along the coast. On the denes - stands a lighthouse, warning vessels not to come too close; for, when the - east wind lashes itself into a fury, the sea leaps the wall and pours - across the denes to the foot of the town, like an invading host. A vessel - caught in the tide-race at such a time, is flung far inland and left there - stranded when the waves have gone back to their place. Facing the denes, - lying several miles out in the German Ocean, are a line of sand-banks; - between them and the shore is a channel, known as the Ransby Roads, which - affords safe anchorage to vessels. Beyond the Roads and out of sight, lies - the coast of Holland. - </p> - <p> - I turned my steps to the northward, passing through the harbor where - groups of ear-ringed fisher-folk were unloading smacks, encouraging one - another with hoarse, barbaric cries. I stopped now and then to listen to - the musical sing-song conversation of East Anglia, so neighborly and so - kindly. Here and there mounds of silver herring gleamed in the morning - sunshine. The constant sound of ropes tip-tapping as the breeze stirred - them, sails flapping and water washing against wooden piles, filled the - air with the energy and adventure of sturdy life. - </p> - <p> - The exultation of living whipped the wildness in my veins. As I left the - harbor, striking out across the denes, I caught the sound of breakers—the - long, low rumble of revolt. Girls were at work, their hair tumbled, their - skirts blown about, catching up nets spread out on the grass beneath their - feet and mending the holes. Some of them were singing, some of them were - laughing, some of them were silent, dreaming, perhaps, of sailor-lovers - who were far away. - </p> - <p> - As I advanced, I left all human sounds behind. The red town, piled high on - the cliff, grew dwarfed in the distance. I entered into a world of nature - and loneliness. Larks sprang from under my feet and rose into the air - caroling. Overhead the besom of the wind was busy, sweeping the sky. From - cliffs came the shy, old-fashioned fragrance of wall-flowers nestling in - crannies. Yellow furze ran like a flame through the bracken. Far out from - shore waves leapt and flashed, clapping their hands in the maddening - sunshine. My cheeks were damp and my lips were salt with in-blown spray. - It was one of those mornings of exultation which come to us rarely and - only in youth, when the joy of the flesh is roused within us, we know not - why, and every nerve is set tingling with health—and the world, as - seen through our eyes, clothes itself afresh to symbolize the gay abandon - of our mood. - </p> - <p> - The fluttering of something white, low down by the water’s edge, caught my - attention. Out of sheer idleness I became curious. It was about a quarter - of a mile distant when I first had sight of it. Just behind it lay the - battered hull of an old wreck, masts shorn away and leaning over on its - side. A sea-gull wheeled above the prow, flew out to sea and returned - again, showing that it had been disturbed and was distressed. - </p> - <p> - As I approached, I discovered the white thing to be the stooping figure of - a child; by her hair I recognized her. Her skirts were kilted up about her - tiny waist and she was bare-legged. I could see no one with her, so I - waited till she should look up, lest I should frighten her. Then, “Hulloa, - little ’un,” I shouted. “Going to let me come and play with you?” - </p> - <p> - She spread apart her small legs, like an infant Napoleon, and brushed back - the curls from her eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with exertion. She looked - even prettier and more faery than she had on the previous night. - </p> - <p> - “Why, you ith the man what found me!” she cried. - </p> - <p> - She made such speed as she could across the pebbles to greet me. It was - hard going for her bare little feet. When she came opposite to me, she - halted with a solemn childish air of dignity. “I want to fank you,” she - said, “and tho doth Vi.” - </p> - <p> - She stood gazing at me shyly. When I bent down to take her hand in mine, - she pursed her mouth, showing me what was expected. - </p> - <p> - I asked her what she was playing. She shook her curls, at a loss for - words. “Jest thomething,” she said, and invited me to come and join. - </p> - <p> - I took her in my arms to save her the rough return journey. She showed no - fear of me. Soon we were chatting on the lonely beach, firm friends, quite - gaily together. She showed me the channel she had scooped out, leading - into the miniature harbor. Every time the surf ran up the shore the harbor - filled with water. In the basin was a piece of wood, which floated when - the surf ran in, and stranded when it receded. - </p> - <p> - “What’s that?” I asked her. - </p> - <p> - “That’s our thip.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s the name of our ship?” - </p> - <p> - “I fordet—it’s the big thip in what we came over.” - </p> - <p> - “Who’s we?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, me and Vi.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Yeth, I’m all right,” piped the little girl. - </p> - <p> - Then she explained to me, “That wath Vi.” - </p> - <p> - “And who are you?” I asked her. - </p> - <p> - “I’m Dorrie.” - </p> - <p> - For me the zest had gone out of the game. I kept turning my head, trying - to catch a glimpse of the owner of the voice. It had sounded so lazy and - pleasant that I was anxious to see what Vi looked like; but then I was not - sure that my company would prove so welcome to a grownup as it had to - Dorrie. To run away would have looked foolish—as though there were - something of which to be ashamed; and then there was nowhere to run to in - that wide open space. Yet my intrusion was so unconventional that I did - not feel comfortable in staying. - </p> - <p> - A slim figure in a white sailor dress came out from the wreck. She had - been bathing, for she wore neither shoes nor stockings, and her hair was - hanging loose about her shoulders to dry. She started at sight of me, and - seemed, for a moment, to hesitate as to whether she should retire. I rose - from my knees, holding Dorrie’s hand, and stood waiting. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Her air of baby imperiousness made us smile. That broke the ice. - </p> - <p> - She placed her arm about Dorrie, hugging her against her side. As I came - up to the wreck, she held out her hand frankly. “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.” - </p> - <p> - It seemed quite natural to sit down beside this stranger. Usually in the - presence of women I was tongue-tied and had to rack my brains to think - what to say. When the opportunity to escape came, I always took it, and - spent the next hour in kicking myself for having behaved like a frightened - boy. On this occasion it was quite otherwise. Sprawled out in the shadow - of the wreck, gazing up into her girlish face while she cuddled Dorrie to - her, I found myself talking with a fearlessness and freedom which I was - not aware of at the time. - </p> - <p> - “You were bathing?” - </p> - <p> - She shook out her hair. “Looks like it?” - </p> - <p> - “But you shouldn’t bathe here, you know. It’s dangerous. The south beach - is the proper place.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m rather a good swimmer. I’m not afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “That doesn’t matter. You oughtn’t to do it. You might get drowned. I’m - awfully serious. I wish you wouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “You won’t,” said Dorrie; “don’t be thtupid.” - </p> - <p> - We talked about a good many things that morning as the wind blew, and the - waves broke, and the sun climbed higher. I wanted to find out who she was, - so that I might make certain of meeting her again. - </p> - <p> - “Do you live in Ransby?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve never been out of England in my life,” I said; “I’d like to break - loose some time.” - </p> - <p> - “Where would you go?” - </p> - <p> - When we began to talk of foreign countries, she amazed me with her - knowledge. She seemed to have been in every country of Europe except - Russia. Last winter, she told me, she had spent in Rome and the spring in - Paris. She always spoke as if she had been unaccompanied, except for - Dorrie. It struck me as strange that so young and beautiful a woman should - have traveled so widely without an escort or chaperon of any kind. I was - striving to place her. She spoke excellent English, and yet I was certain - she was not an Englishwoman. For one thing, her manner in conversation - with a man was too spontaneous and free from embarrassment. She had none - of that fear of talking about herself which hampers the women of our - nation; nor did she seek to flatter me and to hold my attention by an - insincere interest in my own past history. She had an air of - self-possession and self-poise which permitted her to make herself - accessible. I longed to ask her to tell me more about herself, but I did - not dare. We skimmed the surface of things, evading one another’s - inquisitiveness with veiled allusions. - </p> - <p> - The child looked up. “Dorrie’s hungry,” she said plaintively. . - </p> - <p> - Pulling out my watch I discovered that it was long past twelve. Making the - greatest haste, I could not get back to my grandmother’s till lunch was - over. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Dorrie wriggled her toes and clambered over me, insisting that I accept - the invitation. And so I stayed. - </p> - <p> - They disappeared for ten minutes inside the wreck; when they came out they - had completed their dressing. Vi had piled her hair into a gold wreath - about her head. She was still hatless, but her feet were decorously - stockinged and shod in a shiny pair of high-heeled slippers. - </p> - <p> - When the meal was ended, I had told myself, I ought to take my departure; - but Dorrie gave me an excuse for stopping. She curled herself up in my - arms, saying she was “tho thleepy.” I could not rise without waking her. - </p> - <p> - When the child no longer kept guard between us, we began to grow - self-conscious. In the silences which broke up our whispered conversation, - we took slow glances at one another and, when we caught one another’s - eyes, looked away sharply. I thought of the miracle of what had happened, - and wondered if the same thought occupied her mind. Here were she and I, - who that morning had been nothing to one another; by this afternoon every - other interest had become dwarfed beside her. I knew nothing of her. Most - of the words which we had interchanged had been quite ordinary. Yet she - had revealed to me a new horizon; she had made me aware of an unsuspected - intensity of manhood, which gave to the whole of life a richer tone and - more poignant value. - </p> - <p> - She took her eyes from the sea and looked down at Dorrie. “You hold her - very tenderly. You are fond of children.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose I am; but I didn’t know it until I met your little sister.” - </p> - <p> - A warm tide of color spread over her pale face and throat. She leant over - me and kissed Dorrie. When the child opened her eyes she said, “Come, - darling, it’s nearly time for tea. We must be going.” - </p> - <p> - I helped her to gather up her things, taking all the time I could in the - hope that she would ask me to accompany her. - </p> - <p> - She offered me her hand, saying, “Perhaps we shall meet again.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I hope so. Ransby is such a little place.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, but our movements are so uncertain. I don’t know how long we may be - staying.” - </p> - <p> - “At any rate we’ve had a good time to-day.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. You have been very kind. I’m sure Dorrie will remember you. - Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - I watched them grow smaller across the sands, till they entered into the - shadow of the cliff. I had a mad impulse to pursue them—to follow - them at a distance and find out where they lived. How did I know that they - had not vanished forever out of my life? I called myself a fool for not - having seized my opportunities, however precipitately, while they were - mine. - </p> - <p> - The wreck looked desolate now; all the romance had departed from it. The - long emptiness of the shore filled me with loneliness. As I walked - homeward, I strove to memorize her every tone and gesture. Their memory - might be all that I should ever have of her. I was mortally afraid that we - should never meet again. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—I MEET HER AGAIN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">N</span>ext morning I - walked along the north beach in the hope that I might catch sight of her. - I was sure that she had shared my quickening of passion; it was because - she had felt it and been frightened by it, that she had wakened Dorrie and - hurried so abruptly away. I was sufficiently vain to assure myself that - only the timidity of love could account for the sudden scurry of her - flight. - </p> - <p> - With incredible short-sightedness, I had allowed them to leave me without - ascertaining their surname. My only clue, whereby I might trace them, was - the abbreviated forms of their Christian names. Dorrie probably stood for - Dorothy or Dorothea; Vi for Vivian or Violet. Directly after breakfast I - had studied the visitors’ list in <i>The Ransby Chronicle</i>, hoping to - come across these two Christian names in combination with the same - surname. My search had been unrewarded, for only the initials of Christian - names were printed and the V’s and the D’s were bewilderingly plentiful. - </p> - <p> - On approaching the wreck I became oppressed with a nervous sense of the - proprieties. I was ashamed of intruding myself again. If she were there, - how should I excuse my coming? That attraction to her was my only motive - would be all too plain. I had at my disposal none of the social cloaks of - common interests and common acquaintance, which serve as a rule to - disguise the primitive fact of a man’s liking for a woman. The hypocrisy - of pretending that a second meeting in the same place was accidental would - be evident. - </p> - <p> - When I got there my fears proved groundless; nervousness was followed by - disappointment. The shore was deserted. I called Dorrie’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. - </p> - <p> - Turning back to Ransby, I determined to spend the rest of the day in - searching. Surely she must be conscious of my yearning—sooner or - later, even against her inclination, it would draw her to me. Even now, - somewhere in the pyramided streets and alleys of the red-roofed - fishing-town, her steps were moving slower and her face was looking back; - presently she would turn and come towards me. - </p> - <p> - All that morning I wandered up and down the narrow streets, agitated by - unreasonable hopes and fears. Ransby has one main thoroughfare: from - Pakewold to the harbor it is known as the London Road; from the harbor to - the upper lighthouse on the cliff it is known as the High Street. Leading - off from the High Street precipitously to the denes are winding lanes of - many steps, which are paved with flints; they are rarely more than five - feet wide and run down steeply between gardens of houses. They make Ransby - an easy place in which to hide. As I zigzagged to and fro between the - denes and the High Street by these narrow passages, I was tormented with - the thought that she might be crossing my path, time and again, without my - knowing. - </p> - <p> - At lunch my grandmother inquired whether I had been to Woadley Hall. She - had noticed how preoccupied I had been since my arrival, and attributed it - to over-anxiety concerning my prospects with Sir Charles. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Falling in love is like committing crime; it tends to make you secretive. - You will practise unusual deceptions and put yourself to all kinds of - ridiculous inconvenience to keep the sweet and shameful fact, that a woman - has attracted you, from becoming known. My grandmother had set her heart - on my going to Woadley. There was no apparent reason why I shouldn’t go. - It would be much easier to make the journey, than to have to concoct some - silly excuse for not having gone. So, with great reluctance, I set out, - having determined to get there and back with every haste, so that I might - have time to resume my search for Vi before nightfall. - </p> - <p> - I had been walking upwards of an hour and was descending a curving country - lane, when I heard the smart trotting of a horse behind. The banks rose - steeply on either side. The road was narrow and dusty. I clambered up the - bank to the right among wild flowers to let the conveyance go by. It - proved to be a two-wheeled governess-car, such as ply for hire by the - Ransby Esplanade. In it were sitting Dorrie and Vi. Vi had her back - towards me but, as they were passing, Dorrie caught sight of me. She - commenced to shout and wave, crying, “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. - </p> - <p> - As I came up with the conveyance, Dorrie reached out her arms impulsively - and hugged me. She was all excitement. Before anything could be said, she - began to scold me. “Naughty man. I wanted you to play thips with me thith - morning, like you did yetherday.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You won’t go away again,” coaxed Dorrie, patting my face. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you walking?” asked Vi. - </p> - <p> - “To Woadley.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s where we’re going, so if you don’t mind the squeeze, you’d better - get in and ride.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The driver thought he knew me, but was still a little doubtful in his - mind. With honest, Suffolk downrightness, he immediately commenced to ask - questions. - </p> - <p> - “You bain’t a Ransby man, be you, sir?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m a half-and-half.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m Ransby all through on my parents’ side, but I’ve lived away.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, you bain’t Mr. Cardover, be you—gran’son to old Sir Charles?” - </p> - <p> - “You’ve guessed right.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - As we bowled along through the leafy country, all shadows and sunshine, he - fell to telling me about my mother, and I was glad to listen to what he - had to say. The story had been told often before. By his inside knowledge - of the elopement, he had acquired that kind of local importance which - money cannot buy. It had provided him with the one gleam of lawless - romance that had kindled up the whole of his otherwise dull life. - According to his account, the marriage would never have come off, unless - he had connived at the courting. My mother, he said, took him into her - confidence, and he was the messenger between her and my father. He would - let my father know in which direction they intended to ride. When they - came to the place of trysting, he would drop behind and my mother would go - on alone. He pointed with his whip to some of the meeting-places with an - air of pride. He was godfather, as you might say, to the elopement. After - it had taken place, Sir Charles had discovered his share in it, and had - dismissed him. The word had gone the round among the county gentry—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.” - </p> - <p> - Vi laughed at me out of the corners of her eyes. She had listened - intently. I felt, without her telling me, that this little glimpse into my - private history had roused her kindness. And the affair had its comic side—that - this mountain of flesh sitting opposite should be my first ambassador to - her, bearing my credentials of respectability. - </p> - <p> - “Ha’ ye heerd about Lord Halloway?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - I nodded curtly. Encouraged by my former sympathetic attention, he failed - to take the intended warning. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - But there were stranger things than that, to my way of thinking: and the - strangest of all was my own condition of mind. A golden, somnolent content - had come over me, as though my life had broken off short, and commenced - afresh on a higher plane. Every motive I had ever had for good was - strengthened. The old grinding problems were either solved or seemed - negligible. I saw existence in its largeness of opportunity, and I saw its - opportunity in a woman’s eyes. It was as though I had been colorblind, and - had been suddenly gifted with sight so penetrating that it enabled me to - look into exquisite distances and there discern all the subtle and - marvelous disintegrations of light. - </p> - <p> - As the car swung round corners or rattled over rough places, our bodies - were thrown into closer contact as we sat together, Vi and I. Now her - shoulder would lurch against mine; now she would throw out her hand to - steady herself, and I would wonder at its smallness. I watched the demure - sweetness of her profile, and how the sun and shadows played tricks with - her face and throat. The fragrance of her hair came to me. I followed the - designed daintiness of the little gold curls that clustered with such - apparent carelessness against the whiteness of her forehead. I noticed the - flicker of the long lashes which hid and revealed her eyes. How perishable - she was, like a white hyacinth, or a summer’s morning—and how - remotely divine. - </p> - <p> - And the tantalizing fascination of it all was that I must be restrained. - She might escape me any day. - </p> - <p> - In a hollow of the country from between the hedges, Woadley crept into - sight. First we saw the gray Norman tower of the church, smothered in ivy; - then the thatched roofs of the outlying cottages; then the sun-flecked - whiteness of the village-walls, with tall sunflowers and hollyhocks - peeping over them. - </p> - <p> - As we passed the churchyard the driver slowed down. “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.” - </p> - <p> - I told him I would alight there. He was closing the door, on the point of - driving on, when I said to Vi, “Wouldn’t you like to get out as well? The - church is worth a visit.” - </p> - <p> - She gave me her hand and I helped her down. The governess-car went forward - to the village inn. - </p> - <p> - They had been scything the grass in the churchyard and the air was full of - its cool fragrance. Dorrie ran off to gather daisies in a corner where it - still stood rank and high. - </p> - <p> - We walked up the path together to the porch and tried the door. It was - locked. We turned away into the sunlight, where dog-roses climbed over - neglected graves and black-birds fluttered from headstones to bushes, from - bushes to the moss-covered surrounding walls. - </p> - <p> - It was Vi who broke the pleasant silence. “I hope you didn’t mind the man - talking.” - </p> - <p> - “Not at all. I expect I should have told you myself by and by.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - I told her. I told her much more than I realized at the time. So few - people had ever cared to hear me talk about her, and for all of them she - was something past—dead and gone. My grandmother talked of her as a - lottery-ticket; so did the Spuffler; at home we never mentioned her at - all. Yet always she had been a real presence in my life. I felt jealous - for her; it seemed to me that she must be glad when we, whom she had - loved, remembered her with kindness. - </p> - <p> - Dorrie came back to us with her lap full of flowers. Seeing that we were - talking seriously, she seated herself quietly beside us and commenced to - weave the flowers into a chain. - </p> - <p> - The gate creaked. Footsteps came up the path. They paused; seemed to - hesitate; came forward again. Behind us they halted. Turning my head, I - saw an erect old man, white-haired, standing hat in hand, his back toward - us, regarding a weather-beaten grave. - </p> - <p> - We rose, instinctively feeling our presence irreverent. My eye caught the - name on the headstone of the grave: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <h3> - MARY FRANCES EVRARD - </h3> - <h3> - BELOVED WIFE OF SIR CHARLES EVRARD - </h3> - <h3> - OF WOADLEY HALL - </h3> - <p> - The old gentleman put on his hat, preparing to move away. Recognizing our - intention to give him privacy, he turned and bowed with stiff, - old-fashioned courtesy. - </p> - <p> - I gazed on him fascinated. It was the first time I had seen my - grandfather. His eyes fell full on my face. - </p> - <p> - His was one of the most remarkable faces I have ever gazed on. He was - clean shaven; his skin was ashy. His features were ascetic, boldly - chiseled and yet sensitively fine. They seemed to remodel themselves with - startling rapidity to express the thought that was passing in his mind. - The forehead was bony, high, and wrinkled. The nose was large-nostriled - and aquiline. The eye-brows were shaggy; beneath them burnt sparks of - fire, steady and almost cruel in their scorching penetration. From the - nostrils to the corners of the mouth two heavy lines cut deep into the - flesh, creating an expression of haughty contemplation and aloof sadness. - The mouth was prominent, fulllipped, and almost sensual, had it not been - so delicately shaped. The chin was long, pointed, and sank into the - breast. It was an actor’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. - </p> - <p> - He stared at me in troubled amazement. Yearning, despairing tenderness - fought its way into his eyes; for an instant, his whole expression relaxed - and softened. He had recognized my mother in me and was remembering. He - made a step towards me. Then his face went rigid again. The skin drew - tight over the cheek-bones. Setting his hat firmly on his head, he turned - upon his heel. At the gate he looked back once, against his will. Then he - passed out resolutely and vanished down the road. - </p> - <p> - Twilight was gathering as we drove back to Ransby. Rays of the sun crept - away from us westward through the meadows, like golden snakes. Vi and I - were silent—the presence of the driver put a constraint upon us. - </p> - <p> - He had a good deal to say, for he had warned all the village of my - arrival, and all the village, furtively from behind curtained windows, had - watched Sir Charles’s journey to and from the churchyard. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At the time we had been abashed by her conversation, and had drunk our tea - in flustered fashion with our eyes in our cups. We had hated this big - complacent person for her clumsy, interfering kindness. But now, as the - little carriage threaded its way through dusky lanes, her errors gave rise - to a pleasant train of imaginings. I saw Vi as my wife—as Lady - Cardover, mistress of Woadley Hall. I planned the doings of our days, from - the horse-back ride in the early morning to the quiet evenings together by - the cozy fire. And why could it not be possible? - </p> - <p> - Country lovers, unashamed, with arms encircling one another, drew aside to - let us pass, as our lamps flashed down the road. Night birds were calling. - Meadowsweet and wild thyme spread their fragrance abroad. As the wind blew - inland, between great silences, it carried to our ears the moan of the - sea. While twilight hovered in the open spaces Dorrie, since no one talked - to her, kept up an undercurrent song: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “How far is it to Babylon? - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - <i>Three score miles and ten</i>. - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - Can I get there by candlelight? - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - <i>Ah yes,—and back again.</i>” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - As night crept on, the piping little voice grew indistinct and murmurous, - like a bee humming; the fair little head nodded and sank against the arm - of the bulky driver. Vi leant forward to lift her into her lap; but I took - Dorrie from her. With the child in my arms, for the first time the desire - to be a father came over me. In thinking of what love might mean, I had - never thought of that. - </p> - <p> - We entered Ransby at the top of the High Street and drew up outside an old - black flint house. Vi got out first and rang the bell. When the door - opened, I put Dorrie into her arms. I bent over and kissed the sleeping - child. Vi drew back her head sharply; my lips had passed so near to hers. - We faced one another on the threshold. The light from the hall, falling on - her face, showed me that her lips were parted as though she had something - that she was trying to get said. Then, “Good-night.” she whispered, and - the door closed behind her. - </p> - <p> - I crossed the street and wandered to and fro, watching the house. All the - front was in darkness; her rooms must be at the back. I was greedy for her - presence; if I could only see her shadow pass before a window I would be - content. With the closing of the door, she seemed to have shut me out of - her life. There was so much to say, and nothing had been said. - </p> - <p> - I turned out of the High Street down a long dark score, toward the beach. - Walls rose tall on either side. The salt wind, hurrying up the narrow - passage, struck me in the face and caused the gas-lamps to quiver. Far - down the tunnel at the end of the steps lay a belt of blackness, and - beyond that the tossing lights of ships at sea. - </p> - <p> - Reaching the Beach Road, I passed over the denes. The town stretched tall - across the sky, like a shadowy curtain through which peered golden eyes. - The revolving light of the lighthouse on the denes pointed a long white - finger inland, till its tip rested on the back of Vi’s house. I fancied I - saw her figure at the window. The finger swept on in a circle out to sea, - leaving the town in darkness. The upper-light on the cliff replied, - pointing to the place where I was standing, making it bright as day. If - she were still at the window, she would be able to see me as I had seen - her. Next time her window was illumined she had vanished. I watched and - waited; she did not return. - </p> - <p> - I roamed along the shore towards the harbor, purposeless with desire. The - sea, like a blind old man, kept whimpering to itself, trying to drag - itself up the beach, clutching at the sand with exhausted fingers. - </p> - <p> - Wearied out with wandering, I turned my steps homeward. The shop looked so - dark that I was ashamed to ring the bell lest they had all retired. I - tapped on the shutters, and heard a shuffling inside; my grandmother - opened the door to me. She was in her dressing-gown and a turkey-red - petticoat. The servant had been in bed some hours. - </p> - <p> - In the keeping-room I found a supper spread. Instead of being annoyed, she - was bubbling over with excitement. She could not sit down, but stood over - my chair while I ate; she was sure something wonderful had happened. - </p> - <p> - “So you saw Sir Charles, my boy, and he recognized you! Tell me - everything, chapter and verse, with all the frills and furbelows.” - </p> - <p> - I had not much that I could tell, but I spread it out to satisfy her. - </p> - <p> - “And what did you think of ’im?” she asked. “Isn’t he every inch - the aristocrat?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. But why is he so dark? There are times when he looks almost Jewish.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—FATE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> could not - understand Vi. It would seem that she was trying to avoid me. If I met her - in the street she was usually driving and, while she bowed and smiled, - never halted. I took many strolls by her house, hoping to catch her going - in or out. I think she must have watched me. Once only, when she thought - the coast was clear, I came upon her just as she was leaving the house. - She saw me and flushed gloriously; then pretended that she had not seen me - and re-entered, closing the door hurriedly behind her. - </p> - <p> - After that I gave up my pursuit of her. It seemed not straightforward—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. - </p> - <p> - 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: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “No riches I covet, no glory I want, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - H’ambition is nothing to me; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - The one thing I beg of kind ’eaven to grant - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Is a mind independent and free.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - As my whole energies had formerly been bent on encountering Vi, so now - they were directed towards avoiding her. For hours I would lounge in the - bake-house or sit in the shop while Grandmother Cardover did her knitting, - served customers, or gossiped with her neighbors. Then, against my better - judgment, curiosity and longing for one more glimpse of her would drag me - out into the streets. Yet, once in the streets, my chief object was to - flee from her. - </p> - <p> - Now when I should have refrained from pestering her, some obstinate fate - was always bringing us face to face. I was sorriest for the effect that - our attitude was having on Dorrie. At first she would rush forward in a - gale of high spirits to greet me, until restrained by Vi. Next time, with - a child’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. - </p> - <p> - For five days I had not met them. A desperate suspicion that they had left - town grew upon me. I became reckless in my desire for certainty. I could - not bear the suspense. I was half-minded to call at the house where she - had been staying, but that did not seem fair to her. I called myself a - fool for not having stopped her in the street while I had the chance, when - an explanation and an apology might have set everything on a proper - footing. - </p> - <p> - On the sixth morning of her absence I rose early and went out before - breakfast. The skies were gray and squally. A slow drizzle had been - falling all night and, though it now had ceased, the pavements were wet. - The wind came in gusts, whistling round corners of streets and houses, - whirling scraps of paper high in the air. When I came to the harbor, I saw - that the sea was choppy and studded with white horses. Against the piles - of the pier waves were dashing and shattering into spray. From up channel, - all along the horizon, drove long lines of leaden clouds. - </p> - <p> - I struck out across the denes between the sea-wall and the Beach Road. No - one was about. I braced myself against the wind, enjoying its stinging - coldness. The tormented loneliness of the scene was in accord with my - mood. The old town, hanging red along the cliff, no longer seemed to watch - me; it frowned out on the desolate waste of water in impersonal defiance. - </p> - <p> - My thoughts were full of that first morning when I had met her. I gave my - imagination over without restraint to reconstructing its sensuous beauty. - I saw the fire of the furze again, and scented the far-blown fragrance of - wall-flowers, hiding in their crannies. But I saw as the center of it all - the slim white girl with the mantle of golden hair, the deep inscrutable - eyes of violet, and the slow sweet smile of <i>La Gioconda</i> playing - round the edges of her mouth: gold and ivory, with poppies for her lips - and sunshine for a background. - </p> - <p> - The hot blood in me was up—the gipsy blood. A stream of impassioned - fancies passed before me. Ah, if I were to meet her now, I would have done - with fine-spun theories of what was gentlemanly. On the lonely beach I - would throw my arms about her, however she struggled, and hold her fast - till she lay with her dear face looking up, crushed and submissive in my - breast. After that she might leave me, but she would at least have learnt - that I was a man and that I loved her. - </p> - <p> - Ahead lay the sullen wreck. I had been there only once since our first - meeting. Motives of delicacy, which I now regretted, had held me back. Now - I could go there. On such a morning, though she were still in Ransby, - there would be no fear of surprising her. - </p> - <p> - On entering the hull through the hole in the prow, the wind ceased, though - it whistled overhead. I leant against the walls of the stranded ship, - recovering my breath. I drew out my pipe, intending to take a smoke while - I rested. As I turned to strike a match, an open umbrella lying in a - corner on the sand, caught my attention. I went over and looked behind it; - there lay a pair of woman’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. - </p> - <p> - My first thought was shame of what she might think of me, were she to find - me. My second was of angry fear because she had been so foolhardy as to - bathe from such a shore on such a morning. - </p> - <p> - Hurrying out of the wreck, I strode across the beach to where the surf - rushed boiling up the pebbles. The waves ran high, white, and foam-capped, - hammering against the land. Gazing out from shore, I could see nothing but - leaden water, rising and falling, rising and falling. The height of the - waves might hide a swimmer from one standing at the water’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. - </p> - <p> - I commenced to sweep the sea with my eyes in ever widening circles. Two - hundred yards down the shore to the left and about fifty out, I sighted - something. It was white and seemed only foam at first. The crest of a wave - tossed it high for a second, then shut it out; when the next wave rose it - was still there. - </p> - <p> - I shouted, but my voice would not carry against the wind. The next time - the white thing rose on the crest I was sure that it was the face of a - woman. I saw her arm thrown out above the surface; she was swimming the - overarm stroke in an effort to make headway toward the land. I knew that - she could never do it, for the current along the north beach runs seawards - and the tide was going out. I gazed round in panic. The shore was forlorn - and deserted. Behind me to the northward stretched the gaunt, bare cliffs. - To the southward, a mile distant across the denes, stood the outskirts of - the sleepy town. Before ever I could bring help, she would have been - carried exhausted far out to sea, or else drowned. There was no boat on - the shore between myself and the harbor. There was nothing between her and - death but myself. And to go to her rescue meant death. - </p> - <p> - I scarcely know what happened. I became furious with unreasonable anger. I - was angry with her for her folly, and angry with the world because it took - no notice and did not care. I was determined that, before it was too late, - I would go to her, so that she might understand. Yet, despite my passion, - I acted with calculation and cunning. All my attention was focused on that - speck of white, bobbing in the waste of churned up blackness. As I ran - along the beach I kept my eyes fixed on that. When I came opposite, I - waved to it. It took no notice. I hurried on a hundred yards further; the - current would bear her down towards me northwards. I stripped almost - naked, tearing off everything that would weigh me down. I waded knee-deep - into the surf, up to where the beach shelved suddenly. I waited till a - roller was on the point of breaking; diving through it, I struck out. - </p> - <p> - It was difficult to see her. Only when the waves threw us high at the same - moment, did I catch a glimpse of her and get my direction. The shock of - the icy coldness of the water steadied my nerves and concentrated my - purpose. I was governed by a single determination—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. - </p> - <p> - Lying on my right side, keeping low in the water, I dug my way forward - with an over-arm left-stroke. As my first wind went from me and I waited - for my second, I settled down into the long plugging stroke of a mile - race. The tide was with me, but the roughness of the water prevented rapid - progress. I had to get far enough out to be at the point below her in the - current to which she was being swept down. - </p> - <p> - I started counting from one to ten to keep myself from slackening, just as - the cox of a racing-eight does when he forces his crew to swing out. I - regarded my body impersonally, without sympathy, as though we were - separate. When it suffered and the muscles ached, I lashed it forward with - my will, silently deriding it with brutal profanities. The wind poured - over the sea; the spray dashed up and nearly choked me. It was difficult - to keep her in sight. When I saw her again, I smiled grimly at her courage - and hit up a quicker pace. Who would have thought that her fragile body, - so flower-like and dainty, had the strength and nerve to fight like that? - </p> - <p> - I was far enough out now to catch her. I halted, treading water; but the - inaction gave my imagination time to get to work, and, when that happened, - I felt myself weakening. I started up against the current, going parallel - with the beach, to meet her. The one obsessing thought in my mind was to - get to her. It was not so much a thought as an animal instinct. I was - reduced to the primitive man, brutally battling his way towards his mate - at a time of danger. While I acted instinctively, the flesh responded; - directly I paused to think, my body began to shirk and my strength to ebb. - Somewhere in that raging waste of water I must find and touch her. I did - not care to hear her voice—simply to hold her. - </p> - <p> - Thirty feet away a gray riot of stampeding water rose against the horizon; - in it I saw her face. With the swift trudging stroke of a polo-player I - made towards her. In the foam and spray I saw what looked like golden - seaweed. She was drifting past me; I caught her by the hair. Out of the - mist of driven chaos we gazed in one another’s eyes. Her lips moved. - “You!” she said. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I remembered, how on that first morning, when I had warned her against - bathing from the north beach, she had told me she was a good swimmer. In - my all-embracing ignorance of her, I had no means of estimating how much - or how little that meant. For myself, barring accidents, I judged I could - keep going for two hours. - </p> - <p> - Vi was weakening. With her free left hand she was still swimming pluckily, - but her right hand kept slipping off my shoulder; I had to watch her - sharply and lift it back. Her weight became heavier. Her lips were blue - and chattering. I noticed that her fingers were spread apart; she had - cramp in the palms of her hands. Her body dragged beside me; she was - losing control of it. She was no longer kicking out. - </p> - <p> - To talk, save in monosyllables, was impossible, and then one had to shout. - Our ears were stopped up with water; the clash of the wind against the - waves was deafening. My one fear for her was that the cramp would spread. - If that happened, we would go down together. - </p> - <p> - I felt her cold lips pressed against my shoulder. As I looked round, she - let go of me. “I’m done,” she said. - </p> - <p> - She went under. I slipped my arm about her and turned over on my back, so - that my body floated under her, and she lay across my breast. “You shan’t - go,” I panted furiously. - </p> - <p> - “Let me,” she pleaded. - </p> - <p> - But I held her. “You shan’t go,” I said. - </p> - <p> - My anger roused her. I turned over again, swimming the breast-stroke. She - placed her arm round my neck. Her long hair washed about me. - </p> - <p> - Sometimes her eyes were closed and I thought she had fainted. Her lips had - ceased to chatter. Her face lay against my shoulder, pinched and quiet as - though she were dead. My own motions were becoming mechanical. It was - sheer lust of life that kept me going. I had lost sensation in my feet and - hands. The shore had dwindled behind us; it seemed very small and blurred, - though it was probably only half-a-mile distant. The water was less - turbulent now; it rose and fell, rose and fell, with a rocking - restfulness. I felt that I would soon be sleeping soundly. But in the - midst of drowsing, my mind would spring up alert and I would drag her arm - closer about my neck. - </p> - <p> - Above the clamor of the waves I heard a shout. At first I thought that I - had given it myself. I heard it again; it was unmistakable. - </p> - <p> - Looking up out of the trough of a wave, I saw a patched sail hanging over - us. My sight was misty; the sail was indistinct and yet near me. As I rose - on the crest, a hand grabbed me and I felt myself lifted out on to a pile - of nets. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—THE TRUTH ABOUT HER - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>har, lad, lie - still. Yow’ll be ’ome direc’ly.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I wondered vaguely how he knew my name. Then, as my brain cleared, I - remembered him as one of the fishermen who called in at my grandmother’s - shop for an occasional chat, seated on a barrel. - </p> - <p> - I raised myself on my elbow. We were rounding the pier-head, running into - the harbor. I was in a little shrimping-boat. The nets hung out over the - stern. The old man at the tiller was in oilskins and a younger man was - shortening sail. - </p> - <p> - I felt sick, and giddy, and stiff. A tarpaulin was thrown over me. I tried - to recollect how I came there. Then I saw Vi lying near me in the bows. A - sailor’s coat was wrapped about her. Her hair lay piled in a golden heap - over her white throat and breast. Her eyes were closed. The blueness of - the veins about her temples enhanced her pallor. I made an effort to crawl - towards her; but the motion of the boat and my own weakness sent me - sprawling. - </p> - <p> - People from the pier-head had seen us. As we stole up the harbor, - questions were shouted to the man at the tiller and answers shouted back. - When we drew in at the quayside an excited crowd had gathered. To every - newcomer the account was given of how Joe Tuttle, as ’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. - </p> - <p> - Coats were torn off and folded round us. Someone was sent ahead to warn - neighbor Cardover of what she must expect. Vi was tenderly lifted out and - carried down the road in the arms of Joe Tuttle. I was hoisted like a sack - across the shoulders of our younger rescuer. Accompanying us was a - shouting, jabbering, eager crowd, anxious to tell everyone we passed what - had happened. My most distinct recollection is the shame I felt of the - bareness of my dangling legs. - </p> - <p> - The tramp of heavy feet invaded the shop. I heard the capable voice of - Grandmother Cardover getting rid of sightseers. “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. - </p> - <p> - Hot blankets, brought from the bake-house oven, were soon about me and I - was tucked safe in bed. I have a faint recollection of the doctor coming - and of hot spirits being forced down my throat. Then they left me alone - and I fell into the deep sleep of utter weariness. - </p> - <p> - When I awoke, the room was in darkness and a fire was burning. I felt lazy - and comfortable. I turned on my side and found that I was alone. I began - to think back. The thought that filled my mind seemed a continuation of - what I had been dreaming. I was in the trough of a wave, the sea was - washing over me, Vi’s arm was heavy about my neck, and her lips were - kissing my shoulder. I looked round; her eyes shone into mine, and her - hair swayed loose about her like the hair of a mermaiden. I listened. - There were footsteps on the stair. The door opened and my grandmother - tiptoed to the bed. - </p> - <p> - I raised myself up. The torpor cleared from my brain. Before the question - could frame itself, my grandmother had answered it. “She’s all right, - Dante; she’s in the spare bedroom and sleeping soundly.” - </p> - <p> - She seated herself beside me and slipped her wrinkled old hand into mine - beneath the bed-clothes. She sat in silence for some minutes. The light - from the street-lamp shining in at the window, fell upon her. I could see - her gray curls wabbling, the way they always did when she was agitated. At - last she spoke. “How did it ’appen, Dante?” - </p> - <p> - I told her. - </p> - <p> - “Then you knowed ’er before?” - </p> - <p> - Little by little I gave her all the story. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know.” - </p> - <p> - “He doesn’t know!” She laughed till the tears ran down her face. “And I - suppose you think you’re goin’ to marry ’er?” - </p> - <p> - “I know I am.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - While I ate my supper, my grandmother kept referring to what I had told - her. She was very proud and happy. Her eyes twinkled behind her - spectacles. I had added an entirely original chapter to the history of our - family’s romance. “I keep wishin’,” she said, “that your dear ma ’ad been - alive. It would just ’a’ suited her.” - </p> - <p> - The morning broke bright and sunny. I insisted on getting up to breakfast. - I was a trifle stiff, but apart from that none the worse for my - experience. It was odd to think that Vi was sleeping in the same house—Vi, - who had passed me in the streets without seeing me, Vi from whom I had - hidden myself, Vi who at this time yesterday morning had seemed so utterly - unattainable. The sense of her nearness filled me with wild enthusiasm. I - hummed and whistled while I dressed. I wondered how long she would make me - wait before we were married. She was mine already. Why should we wait? I - was impatient to go to her, I could feel the close embrace of her long - white arm about my neck. I was quite incurious as to who she was or where - she came from. Life for me began when I met her. - </p> - <p> - As I passed her door I halted, listening. I could hear my grandmother - talking inside, but in such a low voice that I could catch nothing of what - was said. She was bustling about, beating up the pillows and, as I judged, - making Vi tidy. Hearing her coming towards the door, I hurried down the - stairs. The stairs entered into the keeping-room. When she came down, she - carried an empty breakfast-tray in her hand. I noticed that she had on her - Sunday best: a black satin dress, a white lace apron trimmed with black - ribbon, and her finest lace cap spangled with jet. - </p> - <p> - “She’s been askin’ for you.” - </p> - <p> - I jumped up from my chair. - </p> - <p> - “But she won’t see you until you’ve breakfasted.” - </p> - <p> - While I hastened through the meal, my grandmother chattered gaily. She - quite approved my choice of a wife and had drawn from Vi one fact, of - which I was unaware—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. - </p> - <p> - She went up to see that all was ready; then she came to the top of the - stairs and beckoned. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - The blood was surging in my brain. I felt weak from too much happiness. - Opening the door slowly, I entered. - </p> - <p> - I scarcely dared look up at first. The room swam before me. The - old-fashioned green and red flowers in the carpet ran together. I raised - my eyes to the large four-poster mahogany bed—it seemed too large to - hold such a little person. I could see the outline of her figure, but the - heavy crimson curtains, hanging from the tester, hid her face from me. - </p> - <p> - “Vi, darling!” - </p> - <p> - She sat up, with her hands pressed against her throat. The sunlight, - shining in at the window, poured down upon her, burnishing her two long - plaited ropes of hair. She turned towards me; her eyes were misty, her - bosom swelling. She seemed to be calling me to her, and yet pushing me - back. I felt my knees breaking under me, and the sob beginning in my - throat. I ran towards her and knelt down at the bedside, placing my arms - about her and drawing her to me. For an instant she resisted, then her - body relaxed. I looked up at her, pouring out broken sentences. I felt - that the tears were coming through excess of gladness and bowed my head. - </p> - <p> - She was bending over me, so near she stooped that her breath was in my - hair. The sweet warmth of her was all about me. Her lips touched my - forehead. I held her more closely, but I would not meet her eyes. I dared - not till my question was answered. The silence between us stretched into - an eternity. Her hands wandered over me caressingly; it seemed a child - comforting a man. “Poor boy,” she whispered over and over, “God knows, - neither of us meant it.” - </p> - <p> - When I lifted my face to hers, the tenderness in her expression was wiped - out by a look of wild despair. She tore my hands from about her body and - tumbled her head back into the pillows with her face turned from me, - shaken by a storm of sobbing. Muttered exclamations rose to her lips—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.” - </p> - <p> - With her loss of self-control my strength returned. I sat beside her on - the bed, stroking her hand and trying to console her—trying to tell - myself that this was quite natural and that everything was well. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She paused to see what I would say or do. When I said nothing, but clasped - her hand more firmly, she turned her face towards me, gazing up at me from - the pillow. “I thought you would have left me after that,” she said. “It’s - all my fault; I saw how things were going.” - </p> - <p> - “Dearest, you did your best.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “You can’t have me.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She sat up, letting go my hand. I propped the pillows under her. She - signed to me to seat myself further away from her. - </p> - <p> - “She is mine. She is mine,” I kept thinking to myself. “We belong to one - another whatever she says.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall be better soon,” she said; “then I can go away. You must try to - forget that you ever knew me.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated. “I was thinking of <i>you</i> when I said it. For me it - would be easier; I have Dorrie to live for. It would be more difficult for - you—you are a man.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t you trust me, Vi? You told me that he trusted you just now.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice was thin and tired. “Could we ever be only friends?” - </p> - <p> - “We must try—we can pretend.” - </p> - <p> - “But such trials all have one ending.” - </p> - <p> - “Ours won’t.” - </p> - <p> - Her will was broken and her desire urged it. She held out her hand. “Then - let’s be friends.” - </p> - <p> - I took it in mine and kissed it. Even then, I believe, we doubted our - strength. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—LUCK TURNS IN MY FAVOR - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he <i>Ransby - Chronicle</i> had a full account of the averted bathing fatality. In a - small world of town gossip it was a sensation almost as important as a - local murder. Columns were filled up with what Vi’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. - </p> - <p> - Knowing what my intentions had been toward Vi, my grandmother was terribly - flustered at the discovery that Vi was a married woman. She was hurt in - her pride; she wanted to blame somebody. Her sense of the proprieties was - offended, and she felt that her reputation was secretly tarnished. An - immoral situation was existing under her roof—at least, that was - what she felt. She wanted to get rid of Vi directly, but the doctor - forbade her to be moved. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - Her horror seemed to center in the fact that it should have happened in - the spare bedroom of all places, where all her dead had been laid out. - </p> - <p> - She took it for granted that Vi and I would part forever, as soon as she - was well enough to travel. “By all showings, it’s ’igh time she - went back to ’er ’usband,” she said. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - But in a timid way, in her heart of hearts, she was proud of the - complication. It intrigued her. It made us all interesting persons. She - wore the indignant face of a Mother Grundy because she knew that society - would expect it of her; in many little sympathetic ways she revealed her - truer self. She would take her knitting up to Vi’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——! - </p> - <p> - On the second morning that Vi had been in the house I returned from a - desultory walk to find my grandmother in close conference with a stranger. - He was a dapper, perky little man, white-haired, bald-headed, whiskered, - with darting birdlike manners and a dignified air of precision about him. - He had the well-dressed appearance of a city gentleman rather than of a - Ransbyite. He wore a frock-coat, top-hat, gray trousers, shiny boots, and - white spats. I judged that he belonged to a profession. - </p> - <p> - Apologizing for my intrusion, I crossed the keeping-room, and was on the - point of mounting the stairs when the little man rose, all smiles. - </p> - <p> - “Your grandson, Mrs. Cardover, I presume? He’s more of an Evrard than a - Cardover—all except his mouth.” - </p> - <p> - He was introduced to me as Mr. Seagirt, the lawyer. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - We all sat down. There was a strange constrained atmosphere of excitement - and embarrassment about both Mr. Seagirt and my grandmother. They balanced - on the edge of their chairs, flickering their eyelids and twiddling their - thumbs. Lawyer Seagirt kept up a hurried flow of procrastinating - conversation, continually limiting or overemphasizing his statements. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - All the time he had been talking he and my grandmother had been signaling - to one another with their eyes, as though one were saying, “You tell him,” - and the other, “No, you tell him.” - </p> - <p> - When they did make up their minds to take me into their secret, they did - it both together. - </p> - <p> - “Your grandfather—Sir Charles Evrard,” they began, and there they - stuck. - </p> - <p> - At last it came out that my grandfather had expressed a wish to see me, - and had sent Lawyer Seagirt to make the necessary inquiries about me. This - action on his part could have but one meaning. - </p> - <p> - Two days later I was invited over to Woadley Hall to spend a week there. - Before I went, I had an interview with Vi, in my grandmother’s presence. - She promised me that she would not leave Ransby until after I returned. My - fear had been that some spasm of caution might make her seize this - opportunity to return to America. - </p> - <p> - I drove out to Woadley Hall late in the afternoon, planning to get there - in time for dinner. I felt considerably nervous. I had been brought up in - dread of Sir Charles since childhood. I did not know what kind of conduct - was expected from me or what kind of reception I might expect. - </p> - <p> - As we swung in through the iron gates and passed up the long avenue of - chestnuts and elms which led through the parkland to the house, my - nervousness increased into childish consternation. The pride of ancestry - and the comfortable signs of wealth filled me with distress. I belonged to - this, and was on my way to be examined to see whether I could prove - worthy. I was not ashamed of my father’s family, but I was prepared to be - angry if anyone else should show shame of them. - </p> - <p> - Far away, on the edge of the green grassland, just where the woods began - to cast their shadow, I could see dappled fallow-deer grazing. Colts, - hearing us approaching, lifted up their heads and stared, then whisking - their tails galloped off to watch us from behind their dams. Turrets and - broken gables of the old Jacobean Hall rose out of the trees before us. - Rooks were coming home to their nests in the tall elms, cawing. The - home-farm lay over to our left; the herd was coming out from the milking, - jingling their bells. A streak of orange lay across the blue of the west—the - beginning of the sunset. - </p> - <p> - Immediately on my arrival, I was shown to my bedroom to dress. I began to - have the sense of “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. - </p> - <p> - When the servant had left me, I commenced to dress leisurely. After that I - sat down, waiting for the gong to sound. I wondered if this was the room - where my mother had slept. How much my father’s love must have meant to - her that she should have sacrificed so much prosperous certainty to share - his insecure fortunes. Yet, as I looked back, it was a smiling face that I - remembered, with no marks of misgiving or regret upon it. - </p> - <p> - I did not meet my grandfather until the meal was about to be served. I - think he had planned our first encounter carefully, so that our conduct - might be restrained by the presence of servants. His greeting was that of - any host to any guest. Our conversation at dinner was on impersonal, - intellectual topics—the kind that is carried on between well-bred - persons who are thrown together for the moment and are compelled to be - polite to one another. The only way in which he betrayed nervousness was - by crumbling his bread with his left hand while he was conversing. - </p> - <p> - Finding that I was not anxious to force matters, he became more at his - ease. He addressed me as Mr. Cardover, with stiff and kindly courtesy. We - took our cigars out on to the terrace to watch the last of the sunset. He - was talking of Oxford, and the changes which had taken place in the - University since he was an undergraduate. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you are a Fellow of Lazarus, Mr. Cardover?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Only by hearsay. He was before my time.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Shortly afterwards he excused himself, saying that he was an old man and - retired early to bed. - </p> - <p> - For six days we maintained our polite and measured interchange of - courtesies. I was left free most of the time to entertain myself. He was a - perfect host, and knew exactly how far to share my company without - appearing niggardly of his companionship or, on the other hand, intruding - it on me to such an extent that we wore out our common fund of interests. - For myself, I wished that I might see more of him. Never by any direct - statement did he own that there was any relationship between us. Yet - gradually he began to imply his intention in having me to visit him. - </p> - <p> - I would have been completely happy, had it not been that Vi was absent. I - reckoned up the hours until I should return. All day my imagination was - following her movements. I refused to look ahead to the certainty of - approaching separation—it was enough for me that I could be near - her in the present. - </p> - <p> - It was strange how poignant the world had become, how subtly, swiftly - suggestive, since I had discovered her presence in it. All my sensations, - even those outwardly unrelated to her, grouped themselves into a memory of - her sweetness. It was a blind and pagan love she had aroused—one - which recognized no standards, but craved only fulfilment. - </p> - <p> - There were times when I stood back appalled, as a man who comes suddenly - to the edge of a precipice, when I realized where this love was leading. - Then my awakened conscience would remind me of my promise—that we - would be only friends. - </p> - <p> - These were the thoughts which now made me glad, now sorrowful, as I rode - through the leafy lanes round Woadley at the side of my proud old - grandfather. I would steal guilty glances at him, marveling that no rumor - of what I was thinking had come to him by some secret process of - telepathy. He looked so cold and unimpassioned, I wondered if he had ever - loved a woman. - </p> - <p> - I began to love the Woadley country with the love which only comes from - ownership. The white Jacobean Hall, with the chestnuts and elm-trees - grouped about it and the doves fluttering above its gables, became the - starting point for all the future chapters of my romance. I began to see - life in its prosperous, substantial aspect. The stately dignity of my - environment had its subconscious effect upon my lawless turbulence. In the - morning I would wake with the rooks cawing and, going to the window, would - look out on the sunken garden, the peaches ripening against the walls, the - dew sparkling on the trim box-hedges, and the leaves beating the air like - wings of anchored butterflies as the wind from the sea stirred them. - Everywhere the discipline of history was apparent—the accumulated, - ordered effort of generations of men and women dead and gone. I had been - accustomed to regard myself as an isolated unit, responsible to myself - alone for my actions. - </p> - <p> - The last evening on entering my bedroom, I noticed that there had been a - change in the ornaments on my dressing-table. A gold-framed miniature had - been placed in the middle of the table, face up, before the mirror. It was - a delicate, costly piece of work done on ivory. I held it to the light to - examine it, wondering how it had come there. - </p> - <p> - It must have been taken in the heyday of my mother’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. - . - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - He cleared his throat and rose from his chair, as if afraid that I might - lay hold of him. He walked up and down the library, with his head bowed - and his right hand held palm out towards me in a gesture that asked for - silence. He halted by the big French window, on the blind before which - years ago I had watched his shadow fall. He stood with his back towards - me, looking down the avenue. Then he turned again to me. The momentary - emotion which had interrupted him had vanished. His voice was more cold - and polite than ever. Only the twitching of the muscles about his eyes - betrayed the storm of feeling that stirred him. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - While we had been speaking I had heard the trot of a horse approaching. - Just as he finished Mr. Seagirt entered. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - He took my hand in his and for one small moment let his left hand rest - lightly on my shoulder. We gazed frankly into one another’s eyes without - pretense or disguise. Then the shame of revealing his true feelings - returned. - </p> - <p> - “We shall see. We shall see,” he muttered hastily; “I am an old man.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—MOTHS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> week had worked - wonders with Grandmother Cardover. She had fallen a victim to Vi’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - They were sitting down to lunch in the keeping-room when I entered. - </p> - <p> - “Why, if it isn’t Dante!” - </p> - <p> - The greeting I received was in welcome contrast to the cold, guarded - reserve of the past seven days. A place was made for me at table between - my grandmother and Ruthita. It was a gay little party that waited, - watching me curiously across the dishes and plates, to hear my news. Just - then I preferred the cosiness of my grandmother’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. - </p> - <p> - I told a sorrowful tale at first, which seemed to foreshadow a sorrowful - ending. I spoke of the stiff formality of my reception, the garnished - gentility which had marked my intercourse with Sir Charles, the withheld - confidence—the fact that my mother’s name was scarcely mentioned. - Ruthita’s hand sought mine beneath the table; I could feel the fingers - tremble. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover was hysterical with joy. She wanted to run out into - the streets and tell everybody. She began with the maid in the kitchen, - and would have gone on to the men in the bake-house if I hadn’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. - </p> - <p> - Discretion was thrown to the wind. When Vi gathered Dorrie to her and - began to excuse herself, she was told that she must stay and make one of - the family. Then the story was told again with the new perspective. - </p> - <p> - With shame and self-reproach I look back and perceive how carelessly I - accepted all Ruthita’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. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon and evening she sat beside me holding my hand with frank - affection, making me feel that in loving Vi I was stealing something that - belonged to her. More than that, I was feeling for this woman, who had - been nothing to me a few weeks ago, a quality of kindness and - consideration that I had always withheld from the child-friend who had - tiptoed her way up to womanhood beside me. - </p> - <p> - After tea we mounted to the drawing-room, which was over the shop and - faced the street. It was usually occupied only on Sundays and feast-days, - or when a visiting Methodist minister had been apportioned to my - grandmother for entertainment. Faded engravings of sacred subjects and - simpering females elaborately framed, hung upon the walls. On the - mantelshelf stood some quaint specimens of Ransby china—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. - </p> - <p> - Here, as we sat together talking, the light began to fade. Heavy footsteps - of sailors in their sea-boots, passing down the street from the harbor to - the cottages, only emphasized the quiet. We watched the sky grow pink - behind the masts of shipping, then green, then gray. Cordage and rigging - were etched distinctly against the gloom of the oncoming night. At the top - of the street a light sprang up, then another, then another. The - lamp-lighter with his long pole and ladder passed by. Now with the heavy - tread of men’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I would give all the world to be you, Mrs. Carpenter,” Ruthita whispered. - </p> - <p> - “To be me! Why? I sometimes get very tired of it.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “She picked that up from her father. I never corrected her because—well, - because somehow I like it. It makes me seem younger.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t need to <i>seem</i> young,” I interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “How old do you think I am?” - </p> - <p> - “About the same age as myself and Ruthita.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed. “That couldn’t be; Dorrie is eight.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I give up guessing.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m twenty-seven. I was little more than a child, you see, when I - married.” - </p> - <p> - “Mother married early,” said Ruthita, “and my papa was only twenty at the - time. She says that early marriages turn out happiest.” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - She leant forward. The light from the street-lamp kindled her face and - smoldered in her hair. She had the wistful, rapt expression of a young - girl, ignorant as yet of the bitter-sweet of love, who dreams of an ideal - lover. I felt then that her soul was virgin; it had never been a man’s - possession. It was almost mine. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - She caught my eye resting on her. Conscious that her qualification had - divulged a secret, she hurried into an implied defense of her husband. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She had been speaking so eagerly and hurriedly that she had not heard the - creaking of the stairs. Through the darkness I could see my grandmother - standing in the doorway. Vi turned to Ruthita with a pretense of gaiety, - “No wonder you English don’t understand us. Don’t you think that American - husbands are very patient?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I do,” said Ruthita. “What makes them so different from English - husbands?” - </p> - <p> - “They love their wives.” - </p> - <p> - It was impossible to tell from the bantering tone in Vi’s voice, whether - she spoke the last words in cynicism or sincerity. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover took her literally. Her national pride was touched. - She believed that an aspersion had been cast on the affection of all - married Englishmen. She advanced into the room with suspicions aroused, - bristling with morality. “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.” - </p> - <p> - The darkness about her seemed to quiver with indignation. I could see her - gray curls bobbing, and hear the keys hanging from her waist jangle, as - she trembled. Ruthita cowered close to me, shocked and frightened. Dorrie - woke and began to whimper to be taken to bed. We all waited for a natural - expression of anger from Vi. - </p> - <p> - She set Dorrie on to her feet very gently, whispering to her mothering - words, telling her not to cry. Drawing herself up, she faced into the - darkness. When she spoke there was a sweet, low pleading in her voice. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>you</i> - always to believe well of me. I have never had such kindness from any - woman as you have given me.” - </p> - <p> - I heard my Grannie sniffle. Vi must have heard her. She left Dorrie and, - running across the room, put her arms about her. I heard them blaming - themselves, and taking everything back, the way women do when they ask - forgiveness. I lifted Dorrie into my arms, and Ruthita and I tiptoed from - the room. - </p> - <p> - Presently they came down to us. Grandmother Cardover was smiling - comically, as though she was rather pleased at what had happened. Vi said - that she must be going. Ruthita and I volunteered to accompany her back to - her lodgings. So the storm in the tea-cup ended, leaving me with new - materials for conjecture and reflection. - </p> - <p> - On the way up the High Street we chatted volubly, trying to overlay what - had occurred with a new impression. We talked against time and without - sincerity. When we had reached the black flint house and the door had - shut, Ruthita snuggled close to me with a relieved little sigh. Ever since - my return from Woadley she had been waiting for this moment of privacy. - With a sweet sisterly air of proprietorship she slipped her arm through - mine. We turned down a score and struck out across the denes to the north - beach, where we could be quiet. A wet wind from the sea pattered about our - faces, giving Ruthita an excuse to cling yet more closely. - </p> - <p> - You would not have called Ruthita beautiful in those days. She lacked the - fire that goes with beauty. She was too humble in her self-esteem, too - self-effacing. But one who had looked closely would have discerned - something more lasting than mere physical beauty—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. - </p> - <p> - Her features were small, but perfect. Her figure slight, and buoyant in - its carriage. Her complexion white, but ready to suffuse with color at the - least sign of appreciation. Her glory was in her hair, which was black and - abundant as night. From a child I had always thought that her feet and - hands were most beautiful in their fragile tininess. I never told her any - of these flattering observations, which would have meant so much if put - into words. Brothers don’t—and I was as good as her brother. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And Dorrie doesn’t speak of him either.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I’ve noticed that.” - </p> - <p> - Then Ruthita surprised me. “Do you know, Dante, I think to marry the wrong - man must be purgatory.” - </p> - <p> - I was amused at the note of seriousness in her voice. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I have.” - </p> - <p> - “What’ll he have to be like?” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - I halted, swinging her round so she had to look up in my face. She wore a - hunted look of cornered perplexity. - </p> - <p> - “I’ve never spoken of these things even to mother,” she said. “They all - treat me as though I were still a child.” - </p> - <p> - I wondered what was her trouble. The searchlight swept her. I saw the - eagerness for confession on her trembling mouth. - </p> - <p> - The fire which her beauty had always lacked leapt up. I was amazed at the - transformation. She looked reckless. The mask of maidenly tranquillity had - slipped aside; I saw all the longing of her unnoticed womanhood focused - for an instant in her eyes. The search-light traveled out to sea again. I - repeated, “What must he be like?” - </p> - <p> - She reached up to me, so that her lips almost touched mine. “I think he - must be like you,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - Of all answers that was the last I had expected. I had thought myself on - the brink of some great discovery—that she, too, had some secret - lover. I slipped my arm about her and we strolled on through the darkness - in silence. Ahead the harbor-lights, reflected across the water, drew - nearer. We climbed the beach and the sea-wall, and made our way across the - denes to the town. - </p> - <p> - “You’re all wrong,” I said. “Some day, when you do fall in love, you’ll - get a better standard.” - </p> - <p> - We entered the lamp-lit town. For the rest of the evening we did not say - much. I was thinking how easy it is for two people to live always together - and yet never to understand each other. Who would have guessed that little - Ruthita had this hunger to be loved? - </p> - <p> - While we were seated at breakfast next morning, someone walked across the - shop and tapped on the door of the keeping-room. Before any of us could - spring up, Lawyer Seagirt entered. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - With his back to the empty fireplace, he straddled the hearthrug, bowing - first to my grandmother, then to Ruthita. Then he settled his gaze on me, - with the beaming benevolence of a bachelor uncle. He cleared his throat. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Like three mandarins we nodded. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Again he halted. Grandmother Cardover, losing patience, forgot her - manners. “God bless my soul,” she exclaimed, “how the man maunders! How - much?” - </p> - <p> - “Madam,” said Lawyer Seagirt, “the amount is four hundred pounds per - annum.” - </p> - <p> - The good man had never found himself so popular. He was made to sit down - to table with us, despite his protests that he had breakfasted already. - The money might have been coming out of his own pocket for all the fuss we - made of him. Every now and then the fact of my prosperity would strike - Grandmother Cardover afresh. Throwing up her hands she would exclaim, - “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!” - </p> - <p> - That morning I took Ruthita to Norwich. She was puzzled when I told her to - get ready to come. All the way over in the train she kept trying to guess - my purpose. The truth was I had contrasted her with Vi. Vi was not only - exquisite in herself, but as expensively exquisite as fine clothes could - make her. Ruthita, on the other hand, had the appearance of making the - most genteel impression at the minimum expenditure of money. My father’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. - </p> - <p> - When the gowns came home, even Ruthita was surprised at the prettiness - that filmy muslins and French laces accentuated in her. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - She pouted and made a face at me like a child. “I don’t want lovers,” she - laughed. “I only want my big brother.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “What are you driving at?” I asked bluntly. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Stuff and nonsense,” I replied. “At heart she’s only a child.” - </p> - <p> - “All I can say is you’re going the right way to work to make her a woman,” - my grandmother said shortly. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon I persuaded Ruthita to put on all her finery and come for a - walk on the esplanade. I wanted her to lose her timidity and to discover - for herself that she was as good as anybody. I felt a boyish pride in - walking beside her; she was my creation—I had dressed her. - </p> - <p> - We had passed the pier and entered the long trim walk, lined with - sculptured Neptunes, which runs along the seafront from Ransby to - Pakewold, when a figure which had a morbid interest for me came in sight. - It was that of a buxom broad-hipped woman, handsome in her own bold - fashion, leading by the hand an over-dressed, half-witted child. As she - drew nearer, the rouge on her face became discernible. She strolled with a - swagger through the fashionable crowd, eyeing the men with sly effrontery. - She was known in Ransby by the nickname of “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I picked up Ruthita’s parasol and handed it back to her, whispering that - she should go on. The woman heard me. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She stepped in front of us with her plump arms held up in fighting - attitude, blocking our path. - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - For a moment she was cowed. But as he dragged her away to the - bathing-machines, she tore one hand free and shook her fist at me. “’E’s - comin’ down to-morrer,” she shouted. “I’ve writ and told ’ im wot - you’ve been a-doin’ at Woadley.” - </p> - <p> - Ruthita was trembling all over with disgust and excitement. I took her - back to the shop. When I was alone with my grandmother I asked her what - kind of a woman Lottie was. - </p> - <p> - “As nice and kind a little girl as there was in Ransby,” she answered, - “until that rascal, Lord Halloway, ruined her.” - </p> - <p> - Next day I had a chance of judging for myself the worth of Lord Halloway. - In the afternoon, just as I was going out, I was told that he was waiting - to see me in the shop. I went to meet him prepared for trouble. I found a - tall, aristocratic man of about thirty-five, filling up the doorway, - looking out into the street with his legs wide apart. He was swinging his - cane and whistling softly. The impression one got from his back-view was - that he was extremely athletic. When he turned round I saw that he was - magnificently proportioned, handsome, high complexioned, and graceful to - the point of affectation. When he smiled and held out his hand, his manner - was so winning that every prejudice was for the moment swamped. He had the - instinctive art of charm. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He had removed his hat, and was leaning against the door-jamb, with his - legs crossed. I watched him narrowly while he was talking. I had expected - to see a cultured degenerate—the worst type of bounder. Instead of - being exhausted and nervous with a spurious energy, he was almost military - in his upright carriage. He had a daredevil air of careless command, which - was so much a part of his breeding that it was impossible to resent it. A - man would have summed up his vices and virtues leniently by saying that he - was a gay dog. A good woman might well have fallen in love with him, and - excused the attraction that his wickedness had for her by saying that she - was trying to convert him. The only sign of weakness I could detect was a - light inconsequent laugh, strangely out of keeping with the virility of - his height and breadth; it was like the vain and meaningless giggle of a - silly woman. - </p> - <p> - I asked him if he would not come inside. He shook his head, saying that - this was not a social visit, but that he had come to apologize. Then he - faced me with an openness of countenance which impressed me as manly, but - which might have been due to shamelessness. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He stopped suddenly, gazing toward the keeping-room door. Ruthita came out - and crossed the shop. She had on one of her new dresses and was on her way - to tea with Vi. - </p> - <p> - He followed her with his eyes till she was gone. There was nothing - insulting in the gallantry with which he admired her; he seemed rather - surprised—that was all. For a minute he continued conversing with me - in an absent-minded manner, then he wished me good-by, hoping that we - might meet again in Oxford. I walked out on to the pavement and watched - him down the street. Then I hurriedly fetched my hat and followed. - </p> - <p> - It might have been accidental and I may have been over-suspicious, but his - path lay in the same direction as Ruthita’s; he never walked so quickly as - to overtake her or so slowly as not to keep her well in sight. When she - entered the old flint house, he hesitated, as though the purpose of his - errand was gone; then, seeing me out of the tail of his eye, he turned - leisurely to the left down a score. Next day I heard that he had departed - from Ransby. - </p> - <p> - I could not rid myself for many days of the impression this incident had - created. Like a Hogarth canvas, it typified for me the ugly nemesis of - illicit passion in all its grotesque nakedness. There was horror in - connecting such a man as Halloway with such a woman as Lottie. The horror - was emphasized by the child. Yet Lottie had once been “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. - </p> - <p> - This thought made me go with a tightened rein. When impulse tempted me to - give way, the memory of that woman with her half-witted child, brazening - out her shame before a crowd of pleasure-seekers on the sunlit esplanade, - sprang into my mind and turned me back like the flame of a sword. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—THE GARDEN OF TEMPTATION - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was the late - afternoon of a September day. We had had tea early at the black flint - house, Vi, Ruthita, Dorrie, and I. After tea a walk had been proposed; but - Dorrie had said she was “tho tired” and Ruthita had volunteered to stay - with her. - </p> - <p> - For two months Vi and I had never allowed ourselves the chance of being - alone together; yet every day we had met. To her I was “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. - </p> - <p> - If our tongues were silent, there were other ways of communicating. Did I - take her hand to help her over a stile, it trembled. Did I lift her wraps - and lean over her in placing them about her shoulders, I could see the - faint rise of her color. Her eyes spoke, mocked, laughed, dared, and - pleaded, when no other eyes were watching. - </p> - <p> - Since the one occasion that has been related, Vi had not mentioned her - husband. Whether he was still urging her to return, or had extended her - respite, or was on his way to fetch her, I had no means of guessing. I - lived in a secret delirium of exalted happiness and torturing foreboding. - Each day as it ended was tragic with farewell. The hour was coming when I - must return to Oxford and when she must return to America. Soon we should - have nothing but memories. However well we might disguise our motives for - dawdling in Ransby, it could not be long before their hollowness would be - detected. Already Sir Charles had ceased to serve me as an excuse; I had - not seen him since my departure from Woadley. - </p> - <p> - The very suavity of our interchanged courtesies and unsatisfying pretense - of frank friendship gave edge to my yearning. - </p> - <p> - I had come at last to the breaking-point. I did not know it. I still told - myself that we were both too honorable to step aside: that we had too much - to lose by it; that I loved her too dearly to let her be anything to me - unless she could be my wife. The casuistry of this attitude was patent. - </p> - <p> - As my hunger increased I grew more daring. No thoughts that were not of - her could find room in my mind. I had lost my interest in books—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. - </p> - <p> - The face of Lottie, encountered daily in the gray streets of Ransby, which - had at first restrained me by reminding me of sin’s ultimate ugliness, - ceased to warn me. - </p> - <p> - When Ruthita made the suggestion that we should go for our walk alone - together, I had expected a prompt refusal from Vi. She rose from the - disordered tea-table and walked over to the window, turning her back on - us. I could see by the poise of her head that she was gazing down the - gardens, across the denes to the wreck, where everything important had - taken place. I could guess the memories that were in her mind. - </p> - <p> - From where I sat I could see her head, framed in the window against the - slate-colored expanse of water, the curved edge of the horizon, and the - orange-tinted sky. - </p> - <p> - Creeping across the panes under full sail came a fleet of fishing smacks, - losing themselves one by one as they advanced into the tangled amber of - her hair. I counted them, telling myself that she would speak when the - foremost had re-appeared on the other side. Then it occurred to me that - she was waiting for me to urge her. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Without moving her body, she commenced to drum with her fingers on the - panes. - </p> - <p> - “That would take time,” she procrastinated. “We couldn’t get back before - eight. Who’d put Dorrie Darling to bed?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Yeth, do go,” lisped Dorrie. “I want Ruthita all to mythelf.” - </p> - <p> - These two who had stood between us, for whose sakes we had striven to do - right, were pushing wide the door that led into the freedom of temptation. - </p> - <p> - A shiver ran through her. She turned. The battle against desire in her - face was ended. - </p> - <p> - “I will come,” she said slowly. - </p> - <p> - Left in the room by myself while they went upstairs to dress, I did not - think; I abandoned myself to sensations. I could hear their footsteps go - back and forth above my head. The running ones were Dorrie’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: - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent30"> - “As if one should - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Slip slowly down some path worn smooth and even, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Down to a cool sea on a summer day; - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Yet still in slipping there was some small leaven - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Of stretched hands catching small stones by the way - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Until one surely reached the sea at last, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - And felt strange new joy as the worn head lay - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Back, with the hair like sea-weed; yea, all past - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Sweat of the forehead, dryness of the lips - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Washed utterly out by the dear waves o’ercast, - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - In a lone sea, far off from any ships!” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We hastened up the High Street like fugitives. Windows of the stern red - houses were eyes. They knew all about us. They had watched my mother - before me; by experience they had become wise. At the top of the town we - turned to the left, going inland towards the hill on which the tower of - St. Margaret’s rose gray against the sky, beyond which lay the open - country. We did not walk near together, but with a foot between us. Now we - slackened our pace and I observed her out of the corners of my eyes. She - was dressed in white, all billowy and blowy, with a wrap of white lace - thrown over her shoulders, and a broad white hat from which drooped a blue - ostrich feather. Whatever had been her intention, she looked bridal. The - slim slope of her shoulders was unmatronly. Her long neck curved forward, - giving her an attitude of listening demureness. Her mass of hair and large - hat scarcely permitted me to see her face. - </p> - <p> - We came to St. Margaret’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. - </p> - <p> - The golden glow of evening was in the tree-tops. The first breath of - autumn had scorched their leaves to scarlet and russet. Behind their - branches long scarves of cloud hung pink and green and blood-red. Far - away, on either side, the yellow standing wheat rustled. Nearer, where it - had been cut, the soil showed brown beneath the close-cropped stubble. - Honeysuckle, climbing through the hedges, threw out its fragrance. Evening - birds were calling. Distantly we could hear the swish of scythes and the - cries of harvesters to their horses. Hidden from the field-workers, we - stole between the hedges with the radiant peace of the sunset-on our - faces. As yet we had said nothing. - </p> - <p> - She drew her hand free from mine and halted. Scrambling up the bank, she - pulled down a spray of black-berries. I held the branch while she plucked - them. We dawdled up the dusty lane, eating them from her hand. - </p> - <p> - “Vi,” I said softly, “we have tried to be only friends. What next?” - </p> - <p> - I was smiling. She knew that I did not hint at parting. She smiled back - into my eyes; then looked away sharply. I put my arm about her and drew - her to me. Without a struggle, she lifted up to me her mouth, all stained - with blackberries like any school-girl’s. I kissed her; a long contented - sigh escaped her. “We have fought against it,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, dearest, we have fought against it.” - </p> - <p> - A rabbit popped out into the road; seeing us, it doubled and scuttled back - into the hedge. The smoke of a cottage drifted up in spirals. We - approached it, walking sedate and separate. A young mother, seated on the - threshold, was suckling her child. A man, who talked to her while he - worked, was trimming a rose-bed. They glanced up at us with a friendly - understanding smile, as much as to say, “We were as you are now last - September.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Lose by it?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. I know so little of your life. What is he like?” - </p> - <p> - “My husband?” - </p> - <p> - She flushed as she named him. I nodded. - </p> - <p> - “He is kind.” - </p> - <p> - “You always say that.” - </p> - <p> - “I say it because it is all that there is to say. He is a good man, but——” - </p> - <p> - “And in spite of that <i>but</i> you married him.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And you never loved him? Say you never loved him!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Her nostrils quivered, betraying her suppressed emotion. She had spoken - with effort. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you leave him? Did you intend to go back to him?” - </p> - <p> - She became painfully confused. - </p> - <p> - “Why do you put so many questions?” she cried. “Don’t you trust me?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why do you question me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I want to be more sure that he has no moral right to you.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She hid her face against me. It was burning. - </p> - <p> - “He thinks you are coming back again?” - </p> - <p> - “He thinks so in every letter he writes. I thought so too when I went - away.” - </p> - <p> - “Vi, you never wear a wedding ring. Why is that if you meant to return to - him?” - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to be young just for a little while. They made me a woman when I - was only a child.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Gradually she nestled closer in my embrace. It was not me that she had - feared, but consequences. We became sparing in our words; words stated - things too boldly. - </p> - <p> - Coming to the end of the lane, we sauntered out on to a broad white road. - It wound across long flat marshes where the wind from the sea is never - quiet. The marshes are intersected with dikes and ditches, dotted with - windbreaks for the cattle, and bridged here and there with planks. One can - see for miles. There is nothing to break the distance save square Norman - towers of embowered churches in solitary hamlets and oddly barrel-shaped - windmills with sails turning, for all the world like stout giants, - gesticulating and pummeling the sky. Here the orchestra of nature is - always practising; its strings, except when a storm is brewing, are muted. - From afar comes the constant bass of the sea, striking the land in deep - arpeggios. Drawing nearer is the soprano humming of the wind or the - staccato cry of some startled bird. Then comes a multitude of intermittent - soloists,—frogs croaking, reeds rustling, cattle lowing, the - rumbling wheels of a wagon. They clamor in subdued ecstasy, now singly and - now together. Through all their song runs the murmuring accompaniment of - water lapping. - </p> - <p> - In gleaming curves across this green wilderness flow fresh-water lagoons - and rivers which are known as the Broads. Dotted with water-lilies, - barriered with bulrushes, they reflect the sky’s vast emptiness. Brimming - their channels they slip over into the meadows, flashing like quicksilver - through ashen sedges. - </p> - <p> - The sun had vanished. The lip of the horizon was scarlet. The dust of - twilight was drifting down. In this primitive spaciousness and freedom - one’s thoughts expanded. - </p> - <p> - “Vi,” I whispered, “we’re two sensible persons. Of what have we to be - afraid? Only ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “There’s the future.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And afterwards?” - </p> - <p> - “Afterwards I’ll wait for you. Afterwards can take care of itself.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The theory brought re-assurance. It excused us. We were not responsible. - Then my mind fled back to my mother. She and my father had had these same - thoughts as they had wandered side by side through these same fields and - hedges. Why had I been brought back to the country of their courting to - pass through their ordeal? - </p> - <p> - Night was coming down, covering up landmarks. Darkness lent our actions - modesty; they lost something of their sharpened meaning because we could - not see ourselves acting. We lived unforgettable moments. Passing over - narrow plank-bridges from meadow to meadow, we seemed to be traveling out - of harsh reality into a world which was dream-created. - </p> - <p> - She carried her hat in her hand. A soft wind played in her hair and - loosened it in places. Her filmy white dress was all a-flutter. Mists - began to rise from the marshlands, making us vague to one another. - Traveling out of the east swam the harvest moon, nearing its fullness. - </p> - <p> - “Vi,” I whispered, taking both her hands in mine, “you don’t know yourself—you’re - splendid.” - </p> - <p> - She laughed up into my eyes with elfin daring and abandon. - </p> - <p> - “You’re the kind of woman for whom a man would willingly die.” - </p> - <p> - “I ought to know that,” she mocked me, “for one tried.” - </p> - <p> - “If this were five hundred years ago, do you know what I’d do to-night?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t five hundred years ago—that makes all the difference. But, - if it were, what would you do?” - </p> - <p> - “I’d ride off with you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, you wouldn’t.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you wouldn’t,” she insisted; “you wouldn’t ride off with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Shouldn’t I? And why?” - </p> - <p> - She freed her hands from mine and placed her arms about my neck. The - laughter had gone from her face. - </p> - <p> - “Dear Dante, you wouldn’t do it, because <i>you</i> are <i>you</i>.” The - burning thoughts I had had died down. We wandered on in silence. - </p> - <p> - Ahead of us a flickering light sprang up. Out of curiosity we went towards - it. We found ourselves treading a rutted field-path which led back in the - direction of the main road. Out of the mist grew up a clump of - marsh-poplars. The light became taller and redder. We saw that it was the - beginning of a camp-fire. Over the flames hung a stooping figure. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening, mother. Good luck to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Nowt o’ luck th’ day, lad,” she grumbled. “All the folks is in the fields - at th’ ’arvest.” - </p> - <p> - We seated ourselves at the blaze. She went back into the darkness. We - heard the snapping of branches. She returned out of the clump of poplars - with a companion; each of them was carrying a bundle of dead wood for - fuel. Her companion was a younger woman of about thirty. She nodded to us - with a proud air of gipsy defiance and sat herself down on the far side of - the fire, holding her face away from the light of the flames. The one - glimpse I had had of her had shown me that she was handsome. - </p> - <p> - “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’.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you tell fortunes?” asked Vi. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And what do you tell them?” asked Vi. - </p> - <p> - “I tell ’em wot’s preparin’ for or agen ’em. I read th’ - stars and I warn ’em.” - </p> - <p> - “Can they escape by taking your advice?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Could you read the stars for me?” asked Vi. - </p> - <p> - Her voice was so thin and eager that it pierced me like a knife. I - quivered with fearful anticipation. All our future might depend on what - this hag by the roadside might say. I did not want to hear her. She might - release terror from the ghost-chamber of conscience. However much we - scoffed at her words, they would influence our actions and haunt our - minds. Who could say, perhaps Joe Moyer would never have murdered his - sweetheart and would not have been hanged at Norwich, if she hadn’t - suggested his crime. - </p> - <p> - “Vi,” I said sternly, “you don’t believe in fortune-telling. We must be - going; it’s getting late.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Vi crossed her palm with a shilling. The gipsy flung fresh twigs on the - fire, that she might study the lines in Vi’s hands more clearly. As the - flames shot up, they illumined the other woman. Her features were strongly - Romany, dark and fierce and shy. Somewhere I had seen them; their memory - was pleasant. She regarded me fixedly, as though in a trance, across the - fire. She too was trying to remember. Then, rising noiselessly, she stole - like a panther into the poplars away from the circle of light. From out - there in the darkness I felt that her eyes were still watching. - </p> - <p> - The old fortune-teller had flung back her shawl from her head. Her - grizzled hair broke loose about her shoulders. She was peering over Vi’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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She turned her head, blinking across the blaze to where her companion had - been sitting. - </p> - <p> - “Lil, Lil,” she cried hoarsely, “come ’ere. I can’t see plain. - Young eyes is better.” - </p> - <p> - Lil emerged out of the shadows, treading as softly as retribution - following temptation. She bent over the hand, unraveling the lines to - which the fortune-teller pointed with her pipe-stem. - </p> - <p> - Lil! Lil! Where had I heard that name before? The wind rustled the leaves - of the poplars and caused the ash of the fire to scatter. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you want to know the future?” she asked, peering into Vi’s face - gravely. - </p> - <p> - Vi hesitated. “Is it so terrible?” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - “Not terrible as we gipsies reckon it; but sweet and dangerous and - reckless, and it ends in——” - </p> - <p> - “Lilith.” - </p> - <p> - I caught her by the wrist. She shot upright and faced me. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you know me? I’m Dante—Dante Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - Vi had sunk upon her knees and stared up at us, steadying herself with her - hands. The old hag gazed angrily from behind Lilith, stretching out her - long thin neck. - </p> - <p> - “I remember you, brother,” said Lilith. “You are one of us. I knew that - one day you would hear us calling.” - </p> - <p> - “Wot did ’ee see in the lady’s ’and?” - </p> - <p> - The fortune-teller laid a skinny claw on Lilith’s shoulder; her voice - quavered with eagerness. - </p> - <p> - “I will not tell,” said Lilith. - </p> - <p> - “Did ’ee see——?” - </p> - <p> - Lilith clapped her hand over the woman’s mouth. “You shan’t tell, - grannie,” she said; “it’s not good to tell.” - </p> - <p> - Down the field-track came the creaking sound of wheels. I looked up and - saw through the poplars the swinging lanterns of a caravan. - </p> - <p> - Vi touched me on the arm. She was unnerved and trembling. “Take me home, - Dante.” - </p> - <p> - I turned to Lilith. “Who is that?” - </p> - <p> - “G’liath.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’ll you be camping to-morrow? At Woadley Ham?” - </p> - <p> - A cloud passed over her face. “We never camp there, now.” - </p> - <p> - The crone broke in with a spiteful titter: “But we used ter, until she - wouldn’t let us.” - </p> - <p> - Lilith spoke hastily. “We’re going to Yarminster Fair. We get there - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I’ll see you there,” I told her. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - A sleepy irritable landlady opened the door to Vi. By the time I had - walked down the High Street to the shop, it was nearly midnight. Ruthita - was sitting up for me; my grandmother had been in bed two hours. She eyed - me curiously. “You had a long walk,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, longer than we expected.” I spoke brusquely. I was afraid she would - question me. - </p> - <p> - At the top of the stairs, just as I was entering my room, she stole near - to me. - </p> - <p> - “Dante, ar’n’t you going to kiss me good-night?” - </p> - <p> - I was bending perfunctorily over her lifted face, when I saw by the light - of the candle in my hand that her eyes were red. - </p> - <p> - “Ruthie, you little goose, you’ve been crying. What’ve you been crying - about?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - In the stillness of the house I could hear her sobbing. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—THE WAY OF ALL FLESH - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">F</span>or 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “So you stayed out with Mrs. Carpenter till nearly twelve?” - </p> - <p> - My grandmother never used dialect when she wished to be impressive. Her - tones were icily refined and haughty— - </p> - <p> - I recognized them as belonging to her company manners. She could be - crushingly aloof and dignified when her sense of the moralities was - offended. She had practised her talent for “settin’ folks down and makin’ - ’em feel like three penn’orth o’ happence” to some purpose on - grizzled sea-captains. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed! And you walked back from the Broads about midnight with a married - woman.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It must ha’ done,” said my grandmother sarcastically. - </p> - <p> - “It did. Some day we must try it all together.” - </p> - <p> - “And who were your interesting friends? Respectable people, no doubt, to - be camping on the marshlands.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Curiosity and love of romance melted my grandmother’s reserve. - </p> - <p> - “G’liath! Why, that’s the gipsy family to which Sir Charles’s mother - belonged. They must be kind o’ relatives o’ yours.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Just then the errand boy, who was minding the shop, tapped at the - keeping-room door and handed in a note for me. I saw that it was unstamped - and addressed in a handwriting that I did not recognize. - </p> - <p> - “Where did this come from?” - </p> - <p> - “It war left jist nar acrost the counter by a sarvant-gal.” - </p> - <p> - “All right.” - </p> - <p> - Ruthita was telling my grandmother all that she could remember of Lilith. - I ripped open the envelope and read: - </p> - <p> - <i>Something has happened. Must see you at once. Come as soon as you can. - Vi.</i> - </p> - <p> - “Who’s your letter from?” - </p> - <p> - “From Mrs. Carpenter.” - </p> - <p> - “Mrs. Carpenter again! What does she want? It’s not more’n nine hours - since you saw her.” - </p> - <p> - “She wants my advice on—on a business matter.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph! I ’ope she may profit by it.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know yet. I’ll tell you later.” - </p> - <p> - Until I reached the top of the street I strolled jauntily; I was sure I - was being watched. I had left an atmosphere of jealous annoyance and - baffled suspicion behind. It was absurd to be nursed and guarded by - affectionate relatives in the way I was. - </p> - <p> - I was puzzled by Vi’s note. I worked out all kinds of conjectures as I - jostled my way through fisher-girls and sailors up the High Street. - </p> - <p> - I was shown into the room at the back of the black flint house, which - overlooked the sea. The windows were open wide; wind fluttered the - curtains. Breakfast things were only partially cleared from the table. - Upstairs I could hear Dorrie’s piping voice and, now and then, could catch - a phrase of what she was saying. - </p> - <p> - “Let me thee him too, Vi. Oh, pleath. No, I don’t want to play wiv Annie. - I want to play wiv Dante.” - </p> - <p> - Then I heard the thump, thump, thump of Dorrie stumping from stair to - stair by way of protest, and the heavy step of Annie taking her forcibly - to the kitchen. - </p> - <p> - Vi descended a moment later. She entered without eagerness, shutting the - door carefully behind her. There was never anything of hurry or neglect in - her appearance; she always looked fresh and trimly attired. The high color - in her usually pale cheeks was the only sign of perturbation. - </p> - <p> - She crossed the room towards me with a slow, swaying motion, and halted a - foot away, holding out her hand. I took it in mine, pressing it gently. - Her mouth was quivering. She was making an effort to be formally polite - and was not succeeding. The soft rustling of her skirts, the slow rise and - fall of her bosom, her delicate fragrance and timid beauty—everything - about her was bewilderingly feminine. What arguments, I wondered, what - campaigns of caution, what capitulations of wild desires to duty were - going on behind that smooth white forehead? My grip on her hand tightened; - I drew her to me. Her cold remoteness added to my yearning. - </p> - <p> - “What is it? Why did you send for me? You’ve changed since last night.” - </p> - <p> - She drew her hand free from mine. I saw that, for the first time since I - had known her, she was wearing a band of gold upon her wedding-finger. - </p> - <p> - “It’s all over, Dante.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - For answer she handed me a letter. It bore a United States stamp and was - addressed to her in a bold, emphatic, perpendicular hand which revealed - the writer’s vigorous determination of character. - </p> - <p> - “From my husband. Read it.” - </p> - <p> - Standing a little apart from her at the window, I drew out a carefully - folded letter. It was dated from Sheba, Massachusetts, nine days previous - to its arrival. While I read it, I watched her stealthily, how she stood - charmingly irresolute, twisting the gold-band off and on her finger. - </p> - <p> - <i>My dearest Vi:</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>I have written you many times, asking you to fix definitely the day of - your return. You’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> - </p> - <p> - <i>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.</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Your affectionate husband,</i> - </p> - <p> - <i>Randall.</i> - </p> - <p> - I re-folded it methodically and returned it to the envelope. I tried to - picture this man who had sent it. He was manifestly elderly. Probably he - was portly, a trifle pompous and genially paternal in his manners. What - volumes his trick of calling her “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. <i>Hers and mine</i>. How the words beat - upon my brain! They were like the fists of little children, battering - against the closed doors of existence. It was monstrous that the justice - of this husband’s claim to her should be based on his injustice in having - married her. - </p> - <p> - Again I formed my mental picture of him, formed it with the cruel sarcasm - of youth. His body was deteriorated; his skin puckered and yellow; the - fine lines of suppleness and straightness gone; the muscles flabby and - jaded. Then I looked at her: gold and ivory, with poppies for a mouth. - Sweet and nobly chaste. A woman to set a man on fire—to drive him to - the extremes of sorrow or gladness. A woman to sin for. - </p> - <p> - I turned from the window and took one step towards her. I could feel her - body throbbing against mine. The fierce sweet ecstasy of my delight hurt - her. I saw nothing but her eyes. All else in the world was darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Let me go,” she panted. - </p> - <p> - “Do you want to go?” I whispered. - </p> - <p> - She sank her head on my shoulder. Her arms were about my neck. I could - only see her golden hair. Her answer came to me broken and muffled. “No, - no, no.” - </p> - <p> - I carried her to the sofa and knelt beside her. - </p> - <p> - “You won’t ever despise me, will you?” - </p> - <p> - How absurd her question sounded. - </p> - <p> - Without any reference to our ultimate purpose, we set about making our - plans. We must get away from Ransby. We must not be seen together any more - that day. We would meet at the station that evening, and travel up to - London together by the train leaving Ransby at six-thirty-eight. Our plans - went no further. - </p> - <p> - Now that all had been arranged, a new embarrassment arose between us—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. - </p> - <p> - A scurry of little feet in the passage. The sound of heavier ones - pursuing. We sprang apart. Dorrie entered, running with her arms stretched - out towards me. “Catch me, Dante. Don’t let her get me.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re juth horwid,” cried Dorrie. “Go ’way. I want to thpeak to - Dante.” - </p> - <p> - She scrambled on my knee, clutching tightly to my coat till Annie had - vanished. Then she tossed her curls out of her eyes, and told me all that - she and Ruthita had done together on the previous evening. While she was - talking, I watched Vi, trying to realize the seemingly impossible truth - that she had promised herself to me, and would soon be mine. A host of - bewildering images rushed through my mind as I gazed into the future. I - was amazed at myself that I should feel no fear of the step which we - contemplated. - </p> - <p> - “Old thtupid,” cried Dorrie in an aggrieved voice, “you weren’t - lithening.” - </p> - <p> - She smoothed her baby fingers up and down my face, coaxing me to give her - my attention. - </p> - <p> - “Sorry, little lady, but I must be going. You must tell me all about it - some other time.” - </p> - <p> - “All wite,” she acquiesced contentedly; “it’s a pwomith.” - </p> - <p> - Vi accompanied me to the door. - </p> - <p> - “To-night.” - </p> - <p> - “To-night.” - </p> - <p> - “What wath you thaying?” asked Dorrie. - </p> - <p> - “Nothing, my darling.” - </p> - <p> - My grandmother was sitting behind her counter, knitting, when I entered. - She sank her chin and looked at me humorously over her spectacles. “Well, - my man of business, did she take your advice?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Why shouldn’t she? She’s seen my grannie, and knows how she’s - profited by it.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Partly.” - </p> - <p> - She beckoned me nearer to her. I leant over the counter. She glanced - meaningly towards the door of the keeping-room. I stooped lower till our - heads nearly touched. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “At what?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish,” I exclaimed and went out into the street to fetch round a - dog-cart from the livery-stables. - </p> - <p> - “Aye, rubbish is well enough,” was my grandmother’s final retort; “but - broken eggs can’t be mended. No more can broken hearts.” - </p> - <p> - There was just room enough on the front-seat to take the two of us. As I - drove down the street I saw Ruthita come out of the shop and stand waiting - on the pavement. She looked modest and pretty as a sprig of lavender. - There was always something quaintly virginal about her, as though she had - stepped out of an old English love-song. Her eyes were unusually bright - this morning with the pleasure of anticipation. With subtle flattery, she - had put on one of the gowns I had bought her. It was her way of saying, - “This day is to be mine and yours.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t I do you proud?” she laughed, using one of Vi’s Americanisms. - </p> - <p> - “No, you don’t,” I said, with pretended harshness, “I can’t think where - you got such a dunducketty old dress from.” - </p> - <p> - “A man gave it me. Didn’t he show bad taste?” - </p> - <p> - “He showed himself a perfect ass. Now, if I were to buy you a dress, - Ruthie, which of course I shan’t——” - </p> - <p> - “Here, get off with you, you rascals. What’re you a-doin’, blockin’ up my - pavement?” - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover stood in the doorway, her hands folded beneath her - black satin apron, her keys jangling. The gray cork-screw curls from under - her cap were wobbling; her plump little body was shaking with enjoyment. - All her crossness and caution on Vi’s account were gone at seeing Ruthita - and myself together. We started up at a smart trot. As we turned the - corner into the High Street, we looked back. She was still there, gazing - after us. - </p> - <p> - By the road which follows the coast, Yarminster is eight miles from - Ransby. I turned inland by a roundabout route; I wanted to pass through - Woadley. - </p> - <p> - My spirits ran high with the thought of what was to happen shortly. I was - in a mood to be gay. Clouds were flying high. The country lay windswept - and golden in the sunshine. The air had the sharp tang of autumn—the - acrid fragrance which foretells the decay of foliage. A pleasant - melancholy lurked in the reds and yellows of woods and hedges. Tops of - trees were already growing thin of leaves where the gales had harried - them. Pasturing in harvested fields, flocks of sheep lent a touch of - grayness to the landscape. Here and there overhead gulls hovered, or slid - down the sky on poised wings, as though brooding on the summer that was - gone. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita and I spoke of Lilith, recalling childhood’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. - </p> - <p> - “Dante,” she cried, “why did they leave us to find out everything?” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded, casting down her eyes. “I’ve never got over it. It’s made me - awkward with men—self-conscious and afraid of...” - </p> - <p> - “And yet they were kind to us, Ruthie.” - </p> - <p> - “But they never treated us honestly,” she said sadly. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - We passed a man on the road. He shouted after us. - </p> - <p> - At first I thought he was chaffing. He kept on shouting. - </p> - <p> - “Why don’t you stop?” said Ruthita. “We may have dropped something.” - </p> - <p> - We had turned a bend. I looked back, but could not see him. I halted until - he should come up. A big-framed man in a shooting-jacket, gaiters, and - knickerbockers came swinging round the corner. I was surprised to - recognize in him Lord Halloway. - </p> - <p> - “Halloa,” he shouted, “you’re going in my direction. Would you mind giving - me a lift as far as Woadley?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - His manner was friendly. He had gained a high color with his walking. He - looked brilliantly handsome and manly, with just that touch of indolence - about him that gave him his charm. Without being warned, no one would have - guessed that he was a rake. In his presence even I disbelieved half the - wild tales of dissipation I had heard narrated of him. Yet, when my - distrust of him was almost at rest, he would arouse it with his inane, - high-pitched laugh. - </p> - <p> - When he had clambered in and we had started, I began to tell him, for the - sake of conversation, where we were traveling. At the mention of Lilith, - he interrupted. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “She must be the same.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He tailed off into his giggling girlish laugh. - </p> - <p> - Little by little he commenced to address his remarks exclusively to - Ruthita. This was natural, for I could not turn round to converse with him - because of attending to the horse. I observed him out of the corner of my - eye, and began to understand the secret of his power over women. For one - thing he talked entirely to a woman, bestowing on her an intensity of - attention which many would consider flattering. Then again he put a woman - at her ease, drawing her out and speaking of things which were within her - depth. Most of the topics which he drifted into were personal. When he - mentioned himself, he lowered his voice as if he were confessing. When he - mentioned her, his tones became earnest. - </p> - <p> - I was surprised to see how Ruthita, usually so reticent, lowered her guard - to his attack. She twisted round on her seat, that she might watch him. - Her face grew merry and her eyes twinkled with fun and laughter. She was - being, what she had declared she never was—natural with a man. - </p> - <p> - Out of the corner of my eye I saw one thing which displeased me immensely. - With apparent unconsciousness, Halloway’s arm was slipping farther and - farther along the back of the seat against which Ruthita rested. A little - more, and it would have encircled her. But before that was accomplished, - he stopped short, leaving nothing to complain of. He was simply steadying - himself in a jolting dog-cart. - </p> - <p> - We entered Woadley and passed the tall gates of the Park. I had a glimpse - of the Hall through the trees, and the peacocks strutting where the - gardens began and the meadowland left off. I smiled to myself as I - wondered what would happen if Sir Charles should meet Halloway and myself - together. Two miles out of Woadley Ruthita and my cousin were still - industriously chatting. I had my suspicions as to the urgency of his - errand. Then the arm slid an inch further along the back-rail of the seat. - That inch made his attitude barely pardonable. I reined in. - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t you say you were going to Woadley?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, yes,” he laughed. “I have to get out at the next cross-road and - walk. The farms are over in that direction.” - </p> - <p> - He swept a belt of woodland vaguely. He lied consummately. His face told - me nothing. - </p> - <p> - “Well, here’s the next cross-road.” - </p> - <p> - My manner was churlish. He refused to acknowledge anything hostile in my - tones. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - At last Ruthita spoke. “I don’t think I like him.” - </p> - <p> - “You didn’t let him know it.” - </p> - <p> - “He made me forget. He made me remember I was a woman. No man’s ever - spoken to me as he spoke.” - </p> - <p> - “He’s a clever fellow to make you forget the esplanade and Lottie.” - </p> - <p> - “Now you’re angry,” she laughed, and snuggled closer. - </p> - <p> - We entered the old marketplace of Yarminster where the Fair was being - held. Leaving our horse at <i>The Anchor</i> to be baited, we threaded our - way between booths and whirligo-rounds. Presently I heard a familiar cry, - “Two shies a penny. Two shies a penny. Every ball ’its a cocoanut. - Down she goes. Walk up. Walk up. Two shies a penny.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Here’s Ruthita,” I said. “You remember the little girl in the Forest?” - </p> - <p> - She went on catching the wooden balls which G’liath returned to her. Trade - was busy. Between reiterating his call, she conversed with us. - </p> - <p> - “I remember. (Two shies a penny). It doesn’t seem long ago. (Every ball ’its - a cocoanut. Walk up). How long is it?” - </p> - <p> - “The best part of fourteen years.” - </p> - <p> - It was difficult to carry on a conversation under the circumstances. - </p> - <p> - “I wanted to ask you about last night,” I whispered. “When’ll you be - free?” - </p> - <p> - “Not until midnight.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Her handsome face darkened. “A man?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “My cousin, Lord Halloway.” - </p> - <p> - She halted and looked round on me in proud astonishment. “Oh!” she gasped, - and renewed her calling. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita broke in to tell her of my good fortune. She did not pay much - attention at first. Then it seemed to dawn on her. “So he’s out of it, and - you’ll be master at Woadley Hall?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” I lowered my voice. “And then you must come back to Woadley Ham. - You were good to me once, Lilith.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The crowd pressed about us, curious to overhear, surprised at seeing - gentlefolks so chatty with a gipsy hussy. She signed to us to go. We drew - off a few paces, looking on, recalling that night at Epping, when we fled - from Dot-and-Carry-One and came to G’liath’s encampment. - </p> - <p> - Shortly after that the clock of St. Nicholas boomed three, and we - departed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—THE ELOPEMENT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">R</span>uthita was anxious - to accompany me to the station. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t want you,” I told her. “Women always make a fuss over partings.” - </p> - <p> - “But not sensible women,” she protested, smiling. “Let me come. There’s a - dear.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No, really, Ruthie, I’d much rather say good-by to you here in the shop.” - </p> - <p> - “If you’re going to catch the six-thirty-eight, you’ll have to run,” said - my grandmother. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita looked hurt. She could not understand me. She felt that something - was wrong. I picked up my bag. They hurriedly embraced and followed me out - on to the pavement to watch me down the road. I looked back. - </p> - <p> - There they stood waving and crying after me, “Good-by. God bless you. - Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - On entering the station I saw that the London train was ready to depart. - The guard had the flag in his hand and the whistle to his lips, about to - give the signal. The porters were banging the doors of the carriages. I - had yet to buy my ticket. Rushing to the office, I pushed my money - through. “’Fraid you won’t get the six-thirty-eight,” said the - clerk. - </p> - <p> - I reached the barrier, where the collector was standing, just as the guard - blew his whistle. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “There’s a lady and a little girl on board,” I panted; “they’re expecting - me.” - </p> - <p> - “Sorry,” said the man; “should ’ave got ’ere sooner.” - </p> - <p> - Just then the train began to move and I recognized the uselessness of - further argument. As the tail of it vanished out of the station, the - collector slid back the gate. Now that there was no danger of my - disobeying him, he could afford to be human. “It’s h’orders, yer know, - sir, else I wouldn’t ha’ done it.” - </p> - <p> - Friends who had been seeing their travelers off came laughing and chatting - toward the barrier. As the crowd thinned, half way down the platform I - caught sight of Vi. She was standing apart, with her hand-baggage - scattered beside her in disorder. Dorrie was hanging to her skirts, - looking up into her face, asking questions. Neither of them saw me. - </p> - <p> - “Hulloa!” - </p> - <p> - 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——” - </p> - <p> - “Vi dearest! Was that likely?” - </p> - <p> - Her fingers closed about my arm warningly as I called her dearest. She - cast a scared look at Dorrie. “Not before her,” she whispered. - </p> - <p> - I shrugged my shoulders. The position was queer. For a man and a woman in - our situation there was no readymade standard of conduct. I began to feel - lost in the freedom we were making for ourselves. There were no landmarks. - Even now we were beyond the conventional walls of right and wrong which - divide society from the outcast. We were running away to seek our - happiness—and we were taking Dorrie! - </p> - <p> - I began to explain hurriedly how I happened to miss the train. - </p> - <p> - “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...” - </p> - <p> - “It doesn’t matter,” she said generously. “How long before the next train - starts?” - </p> - <p> - “About half-an-hour.” - </p> - <p> - “That’ll do nearly as well. My boxes have gone on, but I can claim them in - London.” - </p> - <p> - “We don’t want to stand in this stuffy station,” I said. “Let’s go for a - walk.” - </p> - <p> - She began to speak, and then stopped. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Shan’t—shan’t we be recognized?” - </p> - <p> - “Not if we go round the harbor. We shan’t be likely to meet anyone there - who knows us.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “No one ever thpeaks to me.” Dorrie was reproachfully calling our - attention to her presence. - </p> - <p> - “We’ll both thpeak to you now,” I said. “Give me your hand, Dorrie.” - </p> - <p> - Leaving our baggage with a porter, we went out of the station to the - harbor, which lay just across the station-yard. Vi manouvered herself to - the other side of me, so that the child walked between us. - </p> - <p> - The heavy autumn dusk was falling. Lanterns were being run up the masts. - The town shone hospitably with street-lamps. Groping their way round the - pier-head came a part of the Scotch herring fleet. We could see how their - prows danced and nodded by the way the light from their lamps lengthened - and shortened across the water. Soon the ripple against the piles near to - where we were standing quickened with the disturbance caused by their - advance. Then we heard the creaking of ropes against blocks as sails were - lowered. - </p> - <p> - Leaning against the wall of the quay we watched them, casting furtive - glances now and then at the illumined face of the station-clock. - </p> - <p> - Dorrie asked questions, to which we returned indifferent answers. It had - begun to dawn on her that I was going up to London with them. She - construed our secretiveness to mean that our plot was for her special - benefit; people only acted like that with her when they were concealing - something pleasant. Her innocent curiosity embarrassed us. - </p> - <p> - Why were we going to London? she asked us. We had not dared to answer that - question even to one another. For my part I tried not to hear her; she - roused doubts—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? - </p> - <p> - Behind us, as we bent above the water, rose the shuffling clamor of - numberless feet. Up and down the harbor groups of fisher-girls were - sauntering abreast, in rows of three and four. Now and then we caught - phrases in broad Scotch dialect.. They had been brought down from their - homes in the north, many hundreds of them, for the kippering. They paraded - bareheaded, with rough woolen shawls across their shoulders, knitting as - they walked. I was thankful for them; they distracted attention from - ourselves. Vi and I said nothing to one another; our hearts were too full - for small-talk. The child was a barrier between us. - </p> - <p> - A man halted near us. He had a heavy box on his back, covered with - American-cloth. He set it down and became busy. In a short time he had - lighted a lantern and hung it on a pole. He mounted a stool, from which he - could command the crowd, raising the lamp aloft. Fisher-girls, still - knitting, stopped in their sauntering and gathered round him. Several - smacksmen and sailors, with pipes in their mouths, and hands deep in - pockets, loitered up. - </p> - <p> - The man began to talk, at first at random, like a cheap-jack, trying to - catch his hearers’ attention with a laugh. Then, when his audience was - sufficiently interested, he unrolled a sheet upon which the words of a - hymn were printed. He held it before him like a bill-board, so that all - could see and the light fell on it. He sang the first verse himself in a - strong, gusty baritone. One by one the crowd caught the air and joined in - with him. - </p> - <p> - They sang four verses, each verse followed by a chorus. The man allowed - the sheet to drop, and handed the pole with the lantern to a bystander. - </p> - <p> - His brows puckered. His eyes concentrated. His somewhat brutal jaw squared - itself. His face had become impassioned and earnest all of a sudden. It - had been coarse and rather stupid before; now a certain eagerness of - purpose gave it sharpness. He began to talk with vehemence, making crude, - forceful gestures, thrashing the air with his arms, bringing down his - clenched right-fist into the open palm of his left-hand when a remark - called for emphasis. His thick throat swelled above the red knotted - handkerchief which took the place of a collar. He spoke with a kind of - savage anger. He mauled his audience with brutal eloquence. His way of - talking was ignorant. He was displeasing, yet compelling. There were - fifteen minutes until the train started. I watched him with cynicism as a - diversion from my thoughts. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - “Blessed be ’is name!” - </p> - <p> - “Glory!” etc. - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - He hissed the words, speaking slower and slower. His voice died away in an - awestruck whisper. In the pause that followed, the quiet was broken by a - shrill laugh. All heads turned. On the outskirts of the crowd stood “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!” - </p> - <p> - I signed to Vi. Going first, carrying Dorrie in my arms, I commenced to - force a passage. We had become wedged against the wall. Our going caused a - ripple of disturbance. Attention was distracted from “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.” - </p> - <p> - I pushed by her roughly. She would have followed, but some of the crowd - restrained her. She made a grab at Vi. I could hear Vi’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?” - </p> - <p> - She said a lot more, but her voice was drowned in a protesting clamor. I - turned my head as I crossed the station-yard. Beneath the evangelist’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.” - </p> - <p> - We found that the porter, with whom we had left our luggage, had secured - three seats for us. Two of them were corners. I took mine with my back to - the engine, so that Vi and I sat facing one another. Dorrie sat beside Vi - for a few minutes, uncomfortably, with her legs dangling. Then she slipped - to the floor and climbing up my knees, snuggled herself down in my arms. - </p> - <p> - “We’ll have fine timeth in London together, won’t we?” she questioned. - “I’m tho glad you’s toming.” - </p> - <p> - It was strange how difficult I found it to speak to Vi. I wanted to say so - much. I knew I ought to say something. Yet all I could think to mention - was some reference to what had happened beside the harbor—and that - was so contaminating that I wanted to forget it. Luckily, just then, an - old countrywoman bundled in with a basket on her arm. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - The train began to move. The lights of Ransby flashed by, twinkling and - growing smaller. We thundered across the bridge which separates the Broads - from the harbor. - </p> - <p> - Vi and the countrywoman were talking, or rather the countrywoman was - talking and Vi was paying feigned attention. Dorrie, her flaxen curls - falling across my shoulder, began to nod. Of the other passengers, one was - drowsing and the other, a fierce be-whiskered little man, was reading a - paper, leaning forward to catch the glimmering light which fell from the - lamp in the center of the carriage. I was left alone with my thoughts. - </p> - <p> - They were not pleasant. The religious commonsense of the man by the harbor - disturbed me. The face of “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: “<i>The wages of sin is death; the wages of sin is - death; the wages of sin is death</i>.” A man whose intellect I despised, - to whose opinions I should ordinarily pay no attention, had spoken truth—and - I had heard it. - </p> - <p> - At Beccles the train stopped. The countrywoman alighted. The drowsy man - woke up and followed her. The fierce little man curled himself up in his - corner and spread his paper over his face to shut out the light. There - were four hours more until we reached London. The train resumed its - journey through the dark. - </p> - <p> - I dared not stir for fear of waking Dorrie. - </p> - <p> - “Comfortable, Vi?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I looked up from Dorrie, and found Vi gazing at me. - </p> - <p> - I had thought her sleeping. - </p> - <p> - “Just wakened?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve been awake all the time. I’ve been thinking.” - </p> - <p> - “Of what?” - </p> - <p> - “Last night. How different it was! We didn’t have to hide. No one was - looking.” - </p> - <p> - “Then we’ll go again to where no one is looking.” - </p> - <p> - “We can’t always do that. But I was thinking of something else.” - </p> - <p> - “What was it this time?” - </p> - <p> - She pressed her cheek against the glass of the window, gazing out into the - night. Then she leant over to me, clasping her hands. “How cruel it was, - what he said to us!” - </p> - <p> - “Who?” - </p> - <p> - “The man there in Ransby.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “He was speaking to me,” she said, “though he didn’t know it.” - </p> - <p> - “Vi, you’re not growing nervous?” - </p> - <p> - “That isn’t the word. I’m looking forward and thinking how horrid it would - be to have to hide always.” - </p> - <p> - “We shan’t.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at Dorrie, making no reply. - </p> - <p> - Presently she spoke again. “Dante, have you ever thought of it? I’m four - years older than you are.” - </p> - <p> - “No, I’ve never thought of it.” - </p> - <p> - “You ought to.” - </p> - <p> - “Why?” - </p> - <p> - “Because four years makes a lot of difference in a woman. You’ll look - still young when I’m turning forty.” - </p> - <p> - “Pooh!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The idea of Vi leading me astray was so supremely ridiculous that I - laughed outright. Dorrie stirred, and gazed up in my face. “Dear Dante!” - she muttered, and sank back again. - </p> - <p> - “Her father will be waiting for the cable,” said Vi. - </p> - <p> - I wondered if this was the kind of conversation my father and mother had - carried on all those years ago when they ran away. I felt that if my arms - were only free to place about her, all would be well. - </p> - <p> - “We shall have to tell him, Vi,” I whispered. - </p> - <p> - She pretended not to hear me. Her eyes were closed. One hand shaded them - from the light. She was again playing hide-and-seek with the purpose of - our errand. - </p> - <p> - The rumble of the wheels droned on. I planned for what I would do when the - train reached London and the moment of decision should arrive. - </p> - <p> - Perhaps two hours passed in silence. The glare of London was growing in - the distance. Towns and houses became more frequent. One had glimpses of - illumined windows and silhouettes against the blinds. Each house meant a - problem as large to someone as mine was to me. The fact that life was so - teeming and various robbed my crisis of its isolated augustness. Locals - met us with a crash like thunder. As we flashed by, I could glance into - their carriages and see men and women, all of whom, at some time in their - existence, would decide just such problems of love and self-fulfilment—to - each one of them the decision would seem vital to the universe, and in - each case it would be relatively trivial. How easy to do what one liked - unnoticed in such a crowded world! How preposterous that theory of the man - by the harbor! As if any God could have time to follow the individual - doings of such a host of cheese-mites! - </p> - <p> - Our fellow-traveler in the corner woke and removed the paper from before - his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “Wife tired?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, it’s a tedious journey.” - </p> - <p> - It was too much trouble to correct him as to our exact relations. - </p> - <p> - He cleared the misty panes and looked out at a vanishing station. - “Stratford. We’ll be there in a quarter of an hour. Live in London?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes. At least, sometimes.” - </p> - <p> - He commenced to get his baggage together, keeping up his desultory volley - of questions. - </p> - <p> - We entered the last tunnel. I touched Vi’s hand. - </p> - <p> - “We’re pulling into Liverpool Street. Do you want to claim your boxes - to-night or to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow’ll do,” she said. - </p> - <p> - A porter jumped on the step of our carriage. Our fellow-traveler alighted, - refusing his assistance. The man climbed in and, shouldering our luggage, - inquired whether we wanted a cab. - </p> - <p> - “Where to?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I turned to Vi. “Where’ll we stay?” - </p> - <p> - She slipped her arm through mine and drew me aside. The porter went - forward to engage the cabby. - </p> - <p> - “Give me one more night alone with Dorrie,” she whispered. “Everything has - been so—so hurried. You understand, dearest, don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - I helped her into the four-wheeler and lifted Dorrie after her. Having - told the man to drive to the <i>Cecil</i>, I was about to enter. She - checked me. “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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Not to-night, darling,” said Vi. - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow,” I promised her. Then to Vi, “I’ll be round at the <i>Cecil</i> - shortly after ten. Will that do?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. I watched them drive away, after which I jumped into a hansom - and set off to pay Pope Lane a surprise visit. - </p> - <p> - I could not sleep that night; was making plans. The haste with which this - step had been approached and taken had terrified Vi. I had been unwise. - Her sensitiveness had been shocked by the raw way in which a desire takes - shape in action. And the man by the harbor had upset her. I must get her - away to a cottage in the country, where we could be alone, and where she - would have time to grow accustomed to our altered relations. - </p> - <p> - Next morning, full of these arrangements, I sought her at the <i>Hotel - Cecil</i>. - </p> - <p> - She was not there; the office had no record of her. I remembered that her - boxes had been left at Liverpool Street overnight. When I got there and - made inquiries of the clerk, I found that the lady I described had been to - the baggage-room an hour before me and had claimed them. After much - difficulty I hunted out the cabman who had driven her. He showed me - alcoholic sympathy, at once divining the irregularity of our relations, - and told me that the lady had countermanded my orders and instructed him - to drive her to the <i>Hotel Thackeray</i>. I arrived at the <i>Hotel - Thackeray</i> in time to be informed that she had already left. - </p> - <p> - Four days later I received a letter which had been sent on from Ransby. It - was from Vi, despatched with the pilot from the ship on which she was - sailing to America. - </p> - <p> - She had not dared to see me again, she said. She was running away from the - temptation to be selfish. She had reckoned up the price which her husband, - Dorrie, and myself would have to pay that she might gain her happiness; - she had no right to exact it. As far as her husband and Dorrie were - concerned, if we had done what we had contemplated, we should have - shattered something for them which we could never replace. She was going - back to do her duty. That the task might not be made too difficult, she - begged me not to write. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—PUPPETS OF DESIRE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> returned to - Oxford. My rooms at Lazarus were in Fellows’ 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. - </p> - <p> - The ceiling of my living-room was low; the walls were paneled in white - from bottom to top. The furniture was covered in warm red. The hearth was - deep and the fender of polished steel, which reflected the glow of the - coals when the day drew near its close. It was a room in which to sit - quietly, to think, and to grow drowsy. - </p> - <p> - It was October when I returned. Meadows were turning from green to - ash-color. Virginia-creeper flared like scarlet flame against pale walls. - The contented melancholy of the austere city was healing. It cured - feverishness by turning one’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Defaced hopes of the ages encountered one at every corner. Of all the men - who had wrought here, nothing but the best of what they had thought stood - fast; their personalities, the fashion of their daily lives were lost - beneath the dust of decades. No place could have been found better in - which to doctor a wounded heart. - </p> - <p> - Through the winter that followed Vi’s departure, the new conception I had - of her nobility upheld me. I could not sink beneath her standard of honor. - When the temptation to write to her came over me, I shamed myself into - setting it aside. - </p> - <p> - I recognized now what would have been the inevitable penalty, had we - followed our inclination that night. Only the madness of the moment could - have blinded me to its result. We should have become persons cast off by - society—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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Black moments came when I gazed ahead into the vacant future. I must go - through life without her. Unless some circumstance unforeseen should - arise, we would never meet again. Then I felt that, to possess her, no - price of disgrace would be too high to pay. - </p> - <p> - I trained myself like an athlete to defeat the despair which such thoughts - occasioned. I tried to banish her from my mind. In my conscious moments I - succeeded by keeping myself occupied. But in sleep she came to me in all - manner of intimate and forbidden ways. - </p> - <p> - I crowded my hours with work that I might keep true to my purpose. And yet - this method of fighting, when analyzed, consisted chiefly in running away. - I took up tutorial duties at my college. I commenced to make studies for a - biography of that typical genius of the Renaissance, half libertine, half - mystic, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini, known to history in his old age as Pope - Pius II. I tried to fill up my leisure with new friendships. In none of - these things could I become truly interested. My thoughts were crossing - the ocean. When I was deepest in study I would start, hearing her voice, - sharp and poignant. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon I was sitting with my chair drawn up to the hearth, my feet - on the fender, a board across my knees, trying to write. A tap fell on the - door. Lord Halloway entered. - </p> - <p> - He took a seat on the other side of the fireplace. “I’ve been wanting to - speak to you for some time,” he said, “wanting to explain.” - </p> - <p> - “Wanting to explain what?” - </p> - <p> - “Myself in general. You don’t like me; I think you’re mistaken. I’m not - the man I was.” - </p> - <p> - “But why should you explain to me?” - </p> - <p> - “Because I like you.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t see why you should. Woadley’s probably coming to me—which you - once thought was to be yours.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Want to know the truth?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s because of the woman they call ‘Lady Halloway’ and all the other - girls you’ve ruined.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And what of the girls they’ve ruined?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “These things are your own affairs,” I said shortly; “but I’ve always felt——” - </p> - <p> - “Felt what?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He spoke reasonably, trying to lift what had started as a personal attack, - on to the impartial plane of a sociological discussion. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose so.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I held out my hand, saying, “I’ve been censorious. I’m sorry.” - </p> - <p> - After this he dropped in often to see me. He was coaching the Lazarus - toggers that autumn; his usual time for calling was between four and five, - on his way up from the river. I got to know him well and to look for him. - His big robustness and high color filled the student atmosphere of my room - with an air of outdoor vitality. He was always cheerful. And yet I could - not get away from the idea that he was making use of me for some - undisclosed purpose. - </p> - <p> - He was an egoist at heart—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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - It was difficult to regard Lord Halloway as tarnished when you looked at - his splendid body. His healthy physical handsomeness seemed an excuse for - his transgressions. He upset all your ideas of the degrading influences of - immorality. - </p> - <p> - After Christmas I had Ruthita down to stay at Oxford. We were walking - along the tow-path towards Iffley on the afternoon of her arrival, when - the Lazarus Eight went by. Halloway was mounted, riding along the bank, - shouting orders to the cox. As he passed us, he recognized Ruthita. I saw - her color flame up. She halted abruptly, following him with her eyes round - the bend of the river. - </p> - <p> - “Shall we meet them again if we go on?” - </p> - <p> - I told her we should be certain to meet them, as they would turn at Iffley - Lock. - </p> - <p> - “But I don’t want to meet them.” Then, in a whisper, “I’m afraid of him, - Dante.” - </p> - <p> - We retraced our steps to Folly Bridge and walked out to Hinksey to avoid - him. - </p> - <p> - “You’re an odd little creature, Ruthie. Why on earth should you be afraid - of him? He can’t do you any harm.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But the woman at Ransby hasn’t,” she retorted bitterly. “He didn’t leave - her a chance.” - </p> - <p> - It was pleasant having Ruthita with me. I liked to hear the swish of her - skirts as she walked, and to feel the light pressure of her hand upon my - arm. She spoke with her face tilted up to mine. It was such a tiny face, - so emotional and innocent. The frost in the air had brought a color to her - cheeks and a luster to her hair. She loved to make me feel that she was my - possession for the moment; I knew that I pleased her when I used her as - though she were all mine. We treated one another with frank affection. - </p> - <p> - “D’you ever hear from Vi?” she asked. - </p> - <p> - “Never.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I turned the subject by saying, “What’s this about Uncle Obad? Is he - giving up the boarding-house?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, he’s going down into Surrey to raise fowls. He’s already got his - farm. Aunt Lavinia’s wild about it.” - </p> - <p> - “But where does he get his money?” - </p> - <p> - “Nobody knows, and he refuses to tell. Papa says that he must have found - another Rapson.” - </p> - <p> - “But he isn’t selling shares again, is he?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh dear no. He’s become wonderfully independent, and says he doesn’t need - to make his poultry pay. It’s just a hobby.” - </p> - <p> - “Dear old chap! I hope he doesn’t come another cropper.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe it. What makes you think that?” - </p> - <p> - “Because Papa’s stopped talking against him, and because I caught him - looking up those guide-books to Italy again.” - </p> - <p> - We turned off from the Abingdon Road and curved round to the left through - the sheep-farms of Hinksey. Hedges bristled bare on either side. Uplands - rose bleak against the steely sky. Rutted lanes were brittle beneath our - feet, crusted over here and there with ice. On thatched roofs of cottages - sparrows squatted with ruffled feathers. Icicles hung down from spouts. - The lambing season was just commencing. As we drew near farms the warm - smell of sheep packed close together assailed our nostrils. From far and - wide a constant, distressful bleating went up. Quickly and silently, - rising out of the ground, dropping down from the sky, darkness closed in - about us. In the cup of the valley, with the river sweeping round it, lay - Oxford with its glistening towers and church spires. Little pin-points of - fire sprang up, shining hard and frosty through the winter’s shadows. They - raced through the city, as though a hundred lamp-lighters had wakened at - once and were making up for lost time. Soon the somber mass was a blazing - jewel, flinging up a golden blur into the night. - </p> - <p> - Ruthita hugged my arm. “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.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke like a child, groping after words, feeling far more than she - could ever utter. But I knew what she meant. The woman in her was - striving. Just as her flowerlike womanhood, unfolding itself to me - secretly, made me hungry for Vi, so my masculinity stung her into wistful - eagerness for a man’s affection. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If you hated him, I shouldn’t marry him. Besides, I don’t believe I shall - ever marry.” - </p> - <p> - We trudged back to Oxford in a gay mood, carrying on a bantering - conversation. When we had entered Lazarus, I left her at the lodge, - telling her to go to Fellows’ Quad while I ordered tea at the pantry. As I - approached my rooms, I heard the sound of voices. Opening the door, I saw - the lamp had not been lit. By the flare of the fire, I made out the - profile of Ruthita as she leant back in the arm-chair, resting her feet on - the fender. Standing up, looking down on her, with his arm against the - mantelshelf was Lord Halloway. - </p> - <p> - He glanced towards me in his careless fashion. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “My sister’s name is not Cardover,” I corrected him. - </p> - <p> - He drew himself to his full height languidly. “I must apologize for having - misnamed you, Miss—Miss——” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Favart,” put in Ruthita. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t it strange,” he asked, “that a brother and sister should be named - differently?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The tea-boy came and set crumpets and muffins down by the hearth. I lit - the lamp. Still they went on talking, referring to me occasionally, but - paying little heed to my presence. - </p> - <p> - The bell began to toll for Hall. - </p> - <p> - Halloway rose. “How long are you going to be in Oxford, Miss Favart?” - </p> - <p> - “That depends on Dante, and how long he will have me. - </p> - <p> - “Then you’re staying a little while?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That depends on Dante.” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll talk it over to-morrow,” I said brusquely. - </p> - <p> - For the next few days, wherever we went we were unaccountably coming - across Halloway. He always expressed surprise at meeting us, and always - made himself delightful after we had met. If we walked out to Cumnor, or - Sandford or Godstow, it made no difference in which direction, we were - sure to hear the sharp trit-trotting of his tandem, and to see his high - red dog-cart gaining on us above the hedges. Then he would rein up, with a - display of amazed pleasure at these repeated accidents, and insist on our - mounting beside him. Ruthita told me that she was annoyed at the way he - broke up our privacy; but her annoyance was saved entirely for his - absence. In his company she allowed him to absorb her. - </p> - <p> - I had accompanied Ruthita back to the <i>Mitre</i>, where she was staying. - It was her last night. On returning to my rooms, I found Halloway waiting. - I was surprised, for the hour was late. I noticed that his manner was - unusually serious and pre-occupied for such an habitual trifler. When I - had mixed him a whiskey and soda, I sat down and watched him. He tapped - his teeth with his thumbnail. - </p> - <p> - I grew restless. “What is it?” I asked. “Something on your mind?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know how to express it. You’ve made it difficult for me.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “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——” - </p> - <p> - “Worthy of her! I don’t understand.” I leant forward in my chair, - frowning. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Intend!” I repeated. - </p> - <p> - He rose to his feet, as though willing to show me his fine body, and began - to pace the room with the stealthy tread of a panther. He kept his eyes on - mine. When he spoke there was a purring determination in his voice. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He paused above me, looking down with an amused smile. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>is</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I rose to see him take his departure. He had passed out and gone a few - steps down the passage, when I heard him returning. The door just opened - wide enough for him to look in on me. “My dear Cardover,” he said, “I came - back to remind you of another of those evasive realities. You know, she - isn’t your sister.” - </p> - <p> - A week later I received an indignant letter from Ruthita, saying that Lord - Halloway had been to Pope Lane to see my father, and had asked for her - hand in marriage. She had refused even to see him. By the same mail came a - letter from the Snow Lady, couched in milder terms and asking for - information. She wanted to know whether Halloway was as black as he was - painted. I referred her to Ruthita, telling her to ask her to describe - what happened on the esplanade. As a result I received a final letter, - agreeing with me that the matter was impossible, but at the same time - enlarging on the wealth and prestige of the Lovegrove earldom. - </p> - <p> - For a fortnight I refused to have anything to do with my cousin, but his - imperturbable good-humor made rancor impossible. In the cabined intimacies - of college life a quarrel was awkward. To the aristocratic much is - forgiven; moreover he was a splendid all-round athlete and one of the - hardest riders to hounds that the ’Varsity had ever had. So he was popular - with dons and undergraduates alike. One morning when he stopped me in - Merton Street, offering me his hand, I took it, agreeing to renew his - acquaintance. My commonsense told me that the defeated party had most - cause for grievance. His sporting lack of bitterness sent him up in my - estimation. - </p> - <p> - Spring broke late on the world that year in a foam of flowers. Like a - swollen tide it swept through our valley in wanton riot and stormed across - the walls of our gray old town. It surged into shadowy cloisters and - dashed up in spray of may-blossom and lilac. Every tree was crested with - the flying foam of its hurry. The Broad Walk, leading down to the barges, - was white with blown bloom of chestnuts. - </p> - <p> - Quadrangles became gay with geraniums. Through open windows music and - men’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. - </p> - <p> - All live things were mating. The instinct for love was in the air. My - longing for Vi was quickened. The sight of girls’ faces filled me with - poignancy. Every beauty of sound, or sight, or fragrance became - commemorative of her. By day I traced her resemblance in the features of - strangers. Inflamed desire wove tapestries of passion on the canvas of the - night. Roaming through lanes of the countryside, I would meet young lovers - in secluded places, and flee from them in a tempest of envy. Had she sent - me one little sign that she still cared, I would have abandoned everything - and have gone to claim her. My mind was burning. I poured out my heart to - her in letters which, instead of sending, I destroyed. I became afraid. - </p> - <p> - Halloway was in the same plight. He never mentioned Ruthita; but he would - come to my room, and pause before her photograph and fall silent. However, - he knew how to shuffle his fortune to convenience his environment. He had - his comforters. Gorgeous young females fluttered in and out of his - apartments, like painted butterflies. His only discretion was in the - numbers of his choice. They might have been the daughters of dukes by - their appearance, but you knew they were chorus-girls from London. One day - when I questioned him, he threw me a cynical smile, saying, “I’m trying - the expulsive power of a new affection.” - </p> - <p> - The phrase took root. If I was to do the honorable thing by Vi, I also - must employ my heart in a new direction. The thing was easy to say, but it - seemed impossible that I should ever be attracted by another woman. - </p> - <p> - It had become my habit to spend much of my time sitting by the open window - of my room, gazing out into the college garden. Hyacinths, tulips, - crocuses bubbled up from beneath the turf. Every day brought a change. In - the spring breeze the garden tossed and nodded, applauding its own - endeavor. Songsters had returned to their last year’s nests. From morn to - dusk they caroled in the shrubberies. Twittering their love-songs or - trailing straws, they flashed across gulfs which separated the chestnuts. - Over Bagley Wood, as I sat at work, I could hear the cuckoo calling. From - the unseen river came the shouting of coaches to their crews, and the long - and regular roll of oars as they turned in their rowlocks. - </p> - <p> - I glanced up from my books one evening. The glow of sunset, hovered along - the city-wall. Leaning over its edge, looking down into the meadows, a - tall girl was standing. Her back was towards me. She was dressed in the - palest green. Her hair was auburn. She held her skirt daringly high, - disclosing the daintiest of ankles. Her open-work stockings were also of - green to match the rest of her attire. Her companion was Brookins, the - assistant chaplain, an effeminate little man, who was known among the - undergraduates as the doe-priest. He seemed ill at ease; she was - manifestly flirting with him. In the stillness of the garden the - penetrating cadence of her gay voice reached me. It was friendly, and had - the lazy caressing quality of a summer’s afternoon when bees are humming - in and out of flowers. I was tantalized by a haunting memory. She turned - her face part way towards me. I caught her mocking profile. The way the - red-gold curls fell across her forehead was familiar; and yet I could not - remember. She came along the terrace, walking in long, slow, undulating - strides. The west shone full upon her. She was brilliant and gracious, and - carried herself with an air of challenging pride. Her tall, slim figure - broke into exquisite lines as she walked, revealing its shapely frailty. - Her narrow face, with its arch expression of innocence, promised a - personality full of secrets and disguises. - </p> - <p> - I stepped across the sill of my window into the garden. They were near - enough now for me to catch an occasional word of their conversation. I - approached across the lawn towards them. She glanced in my direction - casually; then she steadied her gaze. I saw that her eyes were green, - specked with gold about the iris. She stooped her head, still gazing at - me, and asked a question of the doe-priest in a lowered voice. I heard him - speak my name. A bubbling laugh sprang from her lips. She came tripping - towards me with her hand extended. - </p> - <p> - “You’re not going to pretend you don’t know me?” - </p> - <p> - “I do know you, and yet I can’t recall where we have met or what is your - name.” - </p> - <p> - “Were you ever in Sneard’s garden at the Red House?” - </p> - <p> - “You’re———” - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole Cortona, and you’re Dante.” - </p> - <p> - We stood there holding one another’s hands, searching one another’s faces - and laughing gladly. - </p> - <p> - “Well I never!” I kept repeating. “Fancy meeting you after all these - years!” - </p> - <p> - “Am I much changed?” she questioned. - </p> - <p> - “You’re more beautiful,” I said boldly. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Poor Mr. Brookins, are you hungry? Must you be going?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t like to be late at high table, Miss Cortona,” he replied stiffly. - “The Warden is very particular about punctuality.” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind, Brookins,” I said, “I’ll look after Miss Cortona. You cut - along.” - </p> - <p> - Brookins made his farewells with more alacrity than politeness. Fiesole - gazed after his departing figure with mischievous merriment in her eyes. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I rather like it. Besides, I know a way out—over there, through my - window.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I picked him up at Aix-les-Bains. He was sowing his wild oats - imaginatively and eyeing the ladies in <i>La Villa des Fleurs</i>. He was - trying to find out what it felt like to be truly devilish.” - </p> - <p> - “That doesn’t sound like Brookins. I suppose he was gathering experience, - so that he might be able to deal understanding with erring undergrads.” - </p> - <p> - “You’re charitable. At any rate, when I met him he was playing the truant - from morality. I was in the Casino.” - </p> - <p> - “What doing? Gambling?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Not you, Dante.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke my name coaxingly, veiling her eyes with her long lashes. - </p> - <p> - “But you did once.” - </p> - <p> - “Did I? So you still remember?” - </p> - <p> - I was unwilling to be sentimental. “What did you do next to poor - Brookins?” - </p> - <p> - 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!’” - </p> - <p> - “And then?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She broke into low musical laughter, shaking her shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “That would be the Warden.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I helped her to step across the sill of my window. She gazed round my - room, taking in the pipes and tobacco-ash and clothes strewn about. “I - love it,” she said. “It’s so cosy and mannish.” - </p> - <p> - She perched herself on the arm of a chair, so that the golden, after-glow - fell athwart her. I watched her, thinking how little she had changed from - the old Fiesole. She was still tantalizing, as mischievous as a - school-girl; once she had fiddled with boys’ heartstrings, now she took - her pastime in breaking men’s. - </p> - <p> - She was a creature of vivid mysteries, alternately wooing and repelling. - She could beckon you on with passionate white arms and thrust you from her - with hands of ice. She came out of nowhere like a wild thing from a wood. - You looked up and saw her—she vanished. She courted capture and - invited pursuit; but you knew that, though you caught her, you would never - tame her. - </p> - <p> - She had plucked a deep-cupped daffodil from a vase on the table. She was - bending over it with a tender air of contemplation. She held the long slim - stalk low down in her dainty, long, slim fingers. The golden dust of the - petals seemed the reflection of the golden glint that was in her hair. The - stalk was the color of her eyes. Her tempestuous loveliness—made to - lure and torture men, to fill them with cravings which she could not - satisfy—was resting now. - </p> - <p> - She looked up at me with calculated suddenness. She read admiration in my - eyes. - </p> - <p> - “You find me pretty nice, don’t you, Dante?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m not disguising it, am I?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, aren’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “With some people, but not with you. I only played with the Bantam to draw - you out of your shell.” - </p> - <p> - “Really?” - </p> - <p> - “Really.” - </p> - <p> - Then the absurdity of being serious over an affair of childhood struck us - and we went off into gales of laughter. - </p> - <p> - “Let’s be sensible,” I said. “What are you doing? Staying at Oxford with - friends?” - </p> - <p> - “No. I’m traveling alone with my maid.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you any engagement for this evening?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why shouldn’t we spend it together?” - </p> - <p> - “No reason in the world.” - </p> - <p> - “Where’ll we spend it?” - </p> - <p> - “Here, if you like.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Anywhere.” - </p> - <p> - “What do you say to punting down to Sandford and dinner at the inn there?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m game.” - </p> - <p> - As we passed through the quads, men were coming out of Hall from dinner. - Some of them went thundering up wooden-stairs to their rooms, tearing off - their gowns. Others strolled arm-in-arm joking and conversing, smoking - cigarettes. At sight of Fiesole, they hauled up sharply. She was a man’s - woman, and they were struck by her beauty. With one accord they turned - unobstrusively and hurried their steps towards the lodge, to catch one - more glimpse of her face as she passed out. She betrayed no sign that she - was aware of the sensation she was creating. She advanced beside me with - eyes modestly lowered, enhancing her allurement with a serene air of - innocence. Out in the street her manner changed. - </p> - <p> - “The men do that always,” she said, “and, do you know, I rather like them - for it.” - </p> - <p> - “What do they do?” - </p> - <p> - “Stare after me.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t wonder Brookins was shocked by you, Fiesole. You’re a very shocking - person. You say the most alarming things.” - </p> - <p> - She laid her hand on my arm for a second. “But I say them charmingly. - Don’t I?” - </p> - <p> - On our way through the meadows to the barges, I asked her what she had - been doing all these years. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Not married?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Hardly.” - </p> - <p> - She shot me a penetrating glance. “Engaged?” - </p> - <p> - “Not that I’m aware of.” - </p> - <p> - We came to the Lazarus barge. I piled cushions in a punt for her. She lay - with her back to the prow, so that she faced me. I took the pole and - pushed off into midstream. - </p> - <p> - We had the river to ourselves; its restful loneliness caused us to fall - silent. We left the barges quickly; then we drifted slowly. Fields were - growing white and vaporous. The air was damp, and cool, and earthy. Behind - us the spires of Oxford shone like a clump of spears against the - embattled, orange-tinted sky. Before us, swimming in blue haze, was Iffley - Mill. Everything was becoming ill-defined—receding into nothingness. - Far away across meadows to the right we caught sounds of gritting hoofs - and the grinding of a wagon. Sometimes a bird uttered one long fluty cry. - Sometimes a swallow swooped near us. - </p> - <p> - “Dante, all the others have passed on, and there’s only you and I. What’s - happened to the Bantam?” - </p> - <p> - “Married in Canada. He’s farming.” - </p> - <p> - “I believe you thought you loved me in the old days.” - </p> - <p> - “I could tell you some things to prove it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And that was what I was wanting most to do all the time. D’you know what - sent me to the infirmary?” - </p> - <p> - Then I told her how I had crept out of bed and out of doors in the middle - of the night to visit the summer-house. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - By the time we got to Sandford it was night. Lamps in the inn were - lighted, shining through the trees across the river. We had dinner in the - room next to the bar, in an atmosphere of beer and sawdust and tobacco. - The windows were open; the singing of water across the weir was - accompaniment to our conversation. - </p> - <p> - She told me the beginning of many things about herself with a strange - mixture of frankness and restraint. She spoke of the early days in Italy - before her parents died, and of the ordered quiet of her convent life at - Tours. After her expulsion from the Red House she had returned to France, - and fallen in with the artistic set that had been her father’s in Paris. - Her guardian, an old actor, had persuaded her to train for the stage. For - a time she had succeeded, but had dropped her profession to go traveling. - </p> - <p> - “I’m an amateur at living,” she told me; “I’m always chopping and - changing. I’ll find what I want some day.” - </p> - <p> - Her restlessness had carried her into many strange places. Northern Africa - was known to her; she had been through India and Persia. Speaking in her - lazy voice, with the faintest trace of a foreign accent, she painted - pictures of sun-baked deserts with caravans of nodding camels; of decayed, - oriental cities sprawled out like bleached bones in palm-groves beside - some ancient river-bank; of strange fierce rituals in musty temples, - demanding the blood-sacrifice. She made me feel while she spoke how - narrowly I had lived my life. Like a fly on a window-pane I had crawled - back and forth, back and forth, viewing the adventure of the great - outside, rebellious at restraint, but never taking any rational measures - for escape. - </p> - <p> - The river droned across the weir. In the bar-room next door glasses - clinked; yokels’ voices rose and fell hoarsely in argument. Fiesole came - to a halt and leant back in her chair, gazing searchingly into my face - across the table. - </p> - <p> - “You look queer, Dante. What’s the matter?” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “I had a horror of growing stodgy. I was born to be a South Sea Islander - and to run about naked in the sunshine.” - </p> - <p> - “How long are you to be in Oxford?” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t know. I’ve made no plans. I hadn’t expected to spend more than one - night. But now——” - </p> - <p> - She did not finish the sentence. We rose from the table. In the porch we - loitered, breathing in the deep, cool stillness. - </p> - <p> - “You’ll stay a little while, won’t you, Fiesole?” - </p> - <p> - She took my arm and smiled. “Of course—if you want me.” - </p> - <p> - Going down through the arbors, we stepped into the punt. The river was - a-silver with moonlight. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XI—SPRING WEATHER - </h2> - <p> - I drugged myself with Fiesole to avoid thinking of Vi. Fiesole was so - vivid in her personality that, while she was present, she absorbed my - whole attention and shut out memory. - </p> - <p> - She was a continual source of pleasure and surprise, for her mood was - forever changing. She could be as naughty as a French novel and as solemn - as the Church of England Prayer Book. When she tried to be both together - she was at her drollest; it was like Handel played on a mouth-organ. - </p> - <p> - She would never let me take her seriously. There lay the safety of our - comradeship. At the first hint of sentiment, she flew like a hare before a - greyhound; the way she showed her alarm was by converting what should have - been pathos into absurdity. - </p> - <p> - Day after day of memorable beauty I spent with her in that blowy Cotswold - country. We would usually appoint our place of meeting somewhere on the - outskirts of Oxford. It was not necessary to let everyone know just how - much of our time was lived together. This care for public opinion lent our - actions the zest of indiscretion. - </p> - <p> - As I set out to meet her, I would pass crowds of undergrads, capped and - gowned, sauntering off to their morning lectures. I was playing truant, - and that gave an added spice to adventure. Each college doorway frowned on - my frivolity, calling me back to a sense of duty. But the young foliage - glittered and the spring wind romped down the street, and the shadows - quivered and jumped aside as the sunlight splashed them. The lure of the - feminine beckoned. Where the houses grew wider apart I would find her, and - we would commence our climb out of the valley. Now we would come to a - farm-house, standing gray and mediaeval in a sea of tossing green. Now we - would pass by flowery orchards, smoking with scattered bloom. Brooks - tinkled; birds sang; across the hedge a plowman called to his horses and - started them up a new furrow. And through all this commotion of new-found - life and clamorous hearts we two wandered, glad in one another. - </p> - <p> - Only the atmosphere of what we talked about remains with me. There were - moments when we skirted the seashore of affection, and perhaps pushed out - from land a little way, speculating on love’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. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole never admitted that she had prolonged her stay in Oxford for my - sake. She kept me in constant attendance by the threat that this might be - my last chance of being with her. The supposition that her visit was - shortly to end gave us the excuse we needed for being always together. We - lived the hours which we shared intensely, as friends do who must soon go - their separate ways. - </p> - <p> - But beneath her veneer of wit and frivolity I began to discover a truer - and kinder Fiesole. These flashes of self-revelation came when she was off - her guard. They were betrayed by a tremor in her tone or a hesitancy in - her gaiety. After a day of exquisite sensations, her independence would - break down and the fear of loneliness would look out from her eyes. She - would prolong her departure, again postponing it beyond the date - appointed. I began to suspect that her dashing recklessness was a barrier - of habit, which she had erected to defend her shyness from curious - observers. Insincerity was a cloak for her sincerity. Hidden behind her - tantalizing lightness lay the deep and urgent feminine desire for a man - and little children. I had roused in her the mating instinct. I was not - the man; she had yet to find him. With myself the same thing was true. I - took delight in her partly for herself, but mainly as Vi’s proxy. Fiesole - and I had come together in a moment of crisis. We saw in each other the - shadow of what we desired. - </p> - <p> - When a month had gone by I began to debate with myself how far our conduct - was safe and justifiable. I went so far as to ask myself the question, did - I want to marry her. But that consideration was impossible in my state of - mind. Besides, as Fiesole herself had said, she was the type of woman that - a man may love and yet fear to marry. She had no sense of moral - responsibility. She would demand too much of herself and her lover. Her - passion, once aroused, would burn too ardently. It would be - self-consuming. She was a wild thing of the wood, swift and beautiful, and - un-moral. - </p> - <p> - May had slipped by. June was nearly ended. Still she delayed. A chance - remark of Brookins brought me to my senses and forced me to face the - impression we had created. Fiesole, when she visited me in college, - invariably brought her maid; we would shut her up in my bedroom while we - sat in my study. In this way, we supposed, appearances had been saved. But - Brookins’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. - </p> - <p> - “I’m not moving out of Lazarus. What made you think that?” - </p> - <p> - “You’ll have to when you’re married.” - </p> - <p> - “But what makes you think that I’m going to be married?” - </p> - <p> - “We don’t have to think,” he tittered. “We only have to use our eyes.” - </p> - <p> - That decided me. In common fairness we must separate. Since I could not - make the suggestion to her, I determined to leave Oxford myself. The term - was nearly ended. My work on the Renaissance furnished an excuse for a - visit to Italy. I had never been out of England as yet; at Pope Lane we - had had all we could do to keep up a plausible appearance of stay-at-home - respectability. But Fiesole with her talk of travel, had led me to peep - out of the back-door of the world. I made up my mind to start immediately. - </p> - <p> - It was a golden summer’s evening. How well I remember it! I had not seen - her for two days. I was finishing my packing. A trunk stood in the middle - of the floor partly filled. Over the backs of chairs clothes hung - disorderly. Piles of books lay muddled about the carpet, among socks and - shirts and underwear. Through the open window from the garden drifted in - the rumor of voices and the perfume of roses. - </p> - <p> - The door opened without warning. I was kneeling beside the trunk. Glancing - over my shoulder I saw her. She slipped into the room like a ray of - sunlight, and stood behind me. She wore a golden dress, gathered in at the - waist with a girdle of silver. Her arms, bare from the elbow, hung looped - before her with the fingers knotted. - </p> - <p> - I glanced at her a moment. Her face was pale with reproach. Her - rebelliousness had departed. Her lips trembled. She looked like a - sensitive child, trying not to cry when her feelings had been wounded. - This was the true Fiesole I had long suspected, but had never before - discovered. We had no use for polite explanations; in the past two months - we had lived too near together. She knew what it all meant—the - half-filled trunk, the scattered clothing, the piles of books. Feeling - ashamed, with a hurried greeting I turned back to my packing. - </p> - <p> - “You’re going.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke in a low voice, with a tremble in it. It filled me with panic - desire to be kind to her; yet I dared not trust myself. I did not love - her. I kept telling myself that I did not love her. My whole mind and - being were pledged to another woman. And yet pity is so near to love that - I could not allow myself to touch her. I was mad from the restraint I had - suffered. To touch her might result in irreparable folly. Kneeling lower - over my trunk, I shifted articles hither and thither, pressed them closer, - moved them back to their original places, doing nothing useful, simply - trying to keep my hands busy. - </p> - <p> - She watched me. I could not see her, but I felt that behind my back the - slow, sweet, lazy smile was curling up the corners of her mouth. I knew - just how she was looking—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. - </p> - <p> - “You were going away without telling me.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice broke. I listened for the sob, but it did not follow. Outside in - the garden a thrush awoke; his notes fell like flashing silver, gleaming - dimmer and dimmer as they sank into the silence. - </p> - <p> - “You were going away because of me. I would have gone if you had spoken.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Said about me?” - </p> - <p> - “About us.” - </p> - <p> - “What was it?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t like to tell you.” - </p> - <p> - “I can guess. They said you were in love with me. Was that it?” - </p> - <p> - I tried to rise, but she held me down with her hands upon my shoulders. - Each time I bent back my head to answer, she stooped lower above me. Her - breath was in my hair. The gold flashed up in the depths of her eyes. Her - voice broke into slow laughter. With her lips touching my forehead she - whispered, “And what if they did say it?” - </p> - <p> - For a moment we gazed at one another. I hoped and I dreaded. By one slight - action of assent, the quiver of an eye-lid or the raising of a hand, I - would thrust Vi from me forever. A marriage with Fiesole would at least be - correct—approved by society; but I should have to sin against Vi to - get it—to sin against a love which was half-sinful. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole straightened. The tension relaxed. She placed her hand on my head, - ruffling my hair. As though imitating the thrush, a peal of silver - laughter fell from her lips. “Oh, Dante, Dante! You are just as you were. - You’re still afraid of girls.” - </p> - <p> - I rose to my feet. She was again a coquette, rash, luring attack, but - always on the defensive. I gained control of myself as my pity ebbed. I - had been mistaken in thinking I had hurt her. I should have known she was - play-acting. And yet I doubted. - </p> - <p> - We walked over to the lounge by the window. I seated myself beside her, - confident now of my power to restrain myself. “I was afraid for you—not - of you.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - She threw herself back against the cushions, seizing both my hands in - hers. She gazed at me unflinchingly, daringly, mockingly. She drew me to - her and thrust me from her with quick sharp jerks. She treated the - situation so lightheartedly, so theatrically, that I could have kissed her - with impunity. But it would have been like kissing the statue of a woman. - She would have remained unmoved, unresponsive. There would have been no - adventure of conquest. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, and about seventy.” - </p> - <p> - “About seventy-five I should say—I’ve known some pretty lively men - of seventy.” - </p> - <p> - “All right. About seventy-five. I’m imagining.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Then why didn’t you do it?” - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole, you’re not playing the game,” I said sternly. “Please go on - imagining.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m imagining.” - </p> - <p> - “As I was saying, you’re extremely fascinating. Everything’s in your favor - for making a happy and successful marriage, except one thing.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Who says I don’t intend to marry him?” - </p> - <p> - She took me by the shoulders and drew me to her. The afterglow had faded - from the garden. I could not see her face distinctly, but it seemed to me - that that old expression of hungry wistfulness was coming back. I heard - men enter the room overhead. A bar of light, like a golden streamer, - fluttered and fell across the lawn. A piano struck up, playing <i>Mr. - Dooley</i>. The dusk was humanized and robbed of its austerity. Her hands - trembled on my shoulders. For a second time I doubted the genuineness of - her playacting. I hurried on. - </p> - <p> - “But if you did want to marry him it would make no difference. He’s - pledged to another woman.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Neither am I, nor likely to be.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “She’s married.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I rose from the sofa and lit the lamp. Kneeling by my trunk, I - blunderingly recommenced my packing. From the window came a muffled, - choking sound. Perhaps she was trying not to sob. I had never seen her so - gentle as just now. My mind ran back over the long road we had traveled. - The Fiesole I had seen was a wild, mad girl, provoking, charming, - inconsiderate as a child and frolicsome as the mad spring weather—but - rarely tender. I wondered what other secrets of kindness lay hidden in her - personality. She was the sort of woman a man might live with for twenty - years and still be discovering. She kept one restless by the very richness - of her character. It was true what she had said: many men might love her; - few would desire to marry her. - </p> - <p> - She rose from the lounge. Standing between me and the lamp, her long - shadow fell across me. I looked up and saw that her lashes glistened. - Against the background of the white-paneled room she looked supremely - lovely—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.” - </p> - <p> - Her swift white hands plied back and forth, re-arranging, smoothing out - with deft touches, reaching out for socks to fill the hollows, rectifying - my awkwardness. The thought flashed on me that this sensation I had was - one of the sacred things of marriage—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. - </p> - <p> - 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, - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - “Mr. Dooley! Oh, Mr. Dooley! - </p> - <p class="indent15"> - Mr. Dooley——ooley——ooley——oo.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - “It’s done,” she said. Then, “Where are you going?” - </p> - <p> - “To Italy.” - </p> - <p> - “My country. When?” - </p> - <p> - “To-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “You’ll write me sometimes? I shall be lonely, you know, at first.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, certainly.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I wrote her out the list of towns and dates, telling her to address me <i>poste - restante</i>. - </p> - <p> - I accompanied her across the quad to the lodge. I had had no idea it was - so late. Big Tom had ceased ringing for an hour. It was past ten. The - porter, when I called him out to unlock the gate, eyed us disapprovingly. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll see you home,” I told her. - </p> - <p> - She hesitated, urged that she could get home quite safely by herself, it - was such a short way to go—but at last she surrendered. - </p> - <p> - Through the mysterious, moon-washed streets we walked; but not near - together as formerly. We had nothing to say to one another. Or was it that - we had too much, and they were things that we were ashamed to utter? The - echo of our footfall followed behind us like a presence. At the turnings - we lost it. Then it seemed to hurry till it had made up the distance; - again it followed. The cobble-stones beneath us made our steps uneven. - Sometimes we just brushed shoulders, and started apart with a guilty sense - of contact. Sometimes we passed a window that was lighted by a student’s - lamp. We could see him through the curtains poring over outspread books, - holding his head between his hands. As we turned to look in on him, our - faces were illumined. Her face was troubled; coming out of the night - suddenly it looked blanched and distressful. - </p> - <p> - The air became heavy with the perfume of laburnums. It occurred to me that - the laburnum was the flower with which she was best compared. It burned, - and blazed, and fell unwithered. In crossing Magdalene Bridge we caught - the sighing of willows along the banks of the Cherwell. I had often - thought how restful was the sound. To-night I marveled at myself; it - seemed poignant with anguish, like a fretful heart stirring. Under the - bridge as we crossed, a punt slipped ghostlike down stream; the subdued - laughter of a girl and the muffled pleading of a man’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.” - </p> - <p> - I fell to wondering, as I caught the moon shining through the lace-work - parapet of Magdalene tower, how many such love-affairs of lightness it had - seen commenced. - </p> - <p> - At the door of the house in which she lodged we halted abruptly. - </p> - <p> - “So this is the end,” she said. Then, feigning cheerfulness, she ran up - the steps, crying, “Good luck to you on your journey.” - </p> - <p> - From the pavement I called to her, “I’m afraid, I’ve kept you out late, I——” - </p> - <p> - The door banged. - </p> - <p> - I had had much to say to her. Now that she was gone the thoughts and words - bayed in my brain like bloodhounds. There were apologies, excuses, - explanations—kind, meaningless phrases, which would have held a - meaning of comfort for her. It was too late now. For a moment her shadow - fell across the blind; then her arm was raised and the light went out. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XII—THE BACK-DOOR OF THE WORLD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he Englishman is - brought up to live his life independently of woman. He considers his - masculine solitariness a sign of strength. To be seen in the streets with - his wife or sisters is to acknowledge that they are necessary. He feels - awkward at being observed publicly in their company. He shows them no - gallantries. He walks a little way apart. His conversation with them lacks - spontaneity. He is not enjoying himself. He is wanting to be kind and - natural, but he dreads lest he should be thought effeminate. His national - conception of manliness demands that he should be complete in himself. How - he ever so forgets his shyness as to make a woman his wife is one of the - unsolved mysteries. Some primeval instinct, deeper than his national - training of reserve, goads him to it. On recovering from his madness, he - is among the first to marvel. - </p> - <p> - When Christian had climbed to the top of the hill his sack of sins fell - from his back. When an Englishman lands in France, he drops his bundle of - moral scruples in the harbor as he passes down the gang-plank. For - morality is a matter of temperament, and for the time being his - temperament shall be French. Just as a soul newly departed, may look back - with pitying resentment on the chill chaotic body that once confined it, - so he looks back across the English Channel at the uncharming rectitude of - his former self. Being an Englishman has bored him. - </p> - <p> - I shall never forget the first wild rapture with which I viewed the tall - white cliffs of Dieppe. It was about three in the afternoon. The sky was - intensely blue, dotted here and there with fleecy islands of cloud. The - sun smote down so hotly on the deck that one’s feet felt swollen. Far away - the gleaming quaintness of the French fishing-town grew up and stole - nearer. It seemed to me that as the wind swept towards us from the land, I - caught the merry frou-frou of ten thousand skirts. Fields and woodlands - which topped the cliffs, hid laughing eyes and emotional white arms - eagerly extended. The staccato chatter of happiness lay before me. I had - escaped from the Eveless Paradise of my own countrymen. I had slipped out - by the back-door of the world. I was free to act as I liked. I was - unobserved. Discretion had lost its most obvious purpose. It excited me to - pretend to myself that I was almost willing to be tempted. - </p> - <p> - That night I sat by the quays at Rouen, observing the groups of men and - women, always together, passing up and down. I saw how they drew frankly - near to one another. I listened to their scraps of quiet conversation. The - lazy laughter, now the hoarse brass of men’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. - </p> - <p> - I arrived in Paris on the evening of the following day. Hastily depositing - my baggage at my hotel in the Rue St. Honoré, I set out to stroll the - boulevards. Until three in the morning I wandered from café to café. I - searched the faces of passers-by for signs of the gracious abandon to - happiness of which I had so often heard. My mind teemed with vivid images - of pleasure such as crowd the pages of novels concerning Paris. Flitting - moth-like up and down garish tunnels of light I saw a painted death. It - simpered at me from under shadows of austere churches. It flirted with me, - ogling me with slanted eyes, as I passed beneath the glare of lamps. I - crossed the Pont St. Michel going southward, and found it in the guise of - girls masquerading in male attire. I went across the bridges again and - found it in the Rue de Rivoli, hunting with jaded feverish expression for - men. Wherever I went I encountered the same fixed mercenary smile, saw the - same lavish display of ankles beneath foamy skirts, and heard the same - weary tip-tapping of feet which carried bodies which should be sold to - whoever would purchase. - </p> - <p> - Where was the joy and adventure of which I had heard? The purpose of - happiness should be life, not death. Several times that night women turned - aside and seated themselves at a table beside me. They roused my pity; - pity was quickly changed to disgust by their hot-foot avarice. All around - me was a painted death. - </p> - <p> - Overhead the breeze ruffled the tree-tops. I looked up through the leaves. - Stars were going out. I caught between roofs of tired houses a glimpse of - the Eternal looking down. Surely the God who kept the wind going and - replenished the sky with clouds, meant man to be happy in some better - fashion. I went back to my hotel and, gathering together my baggage, fled. - </p> - <p> - At Florence the problem of right and wrong presented itself to me in - another aspect. Restraint seemed attended with sadness; license with - ugliness and regret. From above dim shrines disfigured Christs bespoke the - anguish of crucified passions. On the other hand, Filippino’s tattered <i>Magdalene</i> - symbolized the hideous rewards of abandonment. Both restraint and - unrestraint brought sorrow, and I wanted to be supremely glad. Life should - be an affair of singing. I was fascinated by the thought of woman. With - one woman I was in love; in another I was interested. Both of them I must - forget. I would not love Fiesole because I could not marry Vi. Yet within - me was this capacity for passion, smoldering, leaping, expanding, fighting - for an outlet. Surely in a rightly governed world it should find some fine - expression! Through the by-ways of every city that I entered the lean - hound of vice hunted after nightfall, and behind him stalked the painted - death. The cleanness of the country called me. Like a captive stag, I - longed to feel the cool touch of leaves against my shoulders. - </p> - <p> - In the Accademia at Florence I discovered my own dilemma portrayed. It - stated my problem, but it offered no solution. However, it gave me a sense - of comradeship to find that Botticelli, so many years ago, had peered down - over the same precipice. In <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i> one sees a - flowered wood; from leafy trees hangs golden fruit; between their trunks - drifts in the flaming light that never was on sea or land. Here a band of - maidens have met with a solitary youth to celebrate the renewal of spring. - In the center of the landscape, a little back from the group, stands a - sad-faced Venus, who might equally well be a madonna listening for the - dreadful beat of Gabriel’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. - </p> - <p> - The Renaissance made even its sadness exquisite by using it as the vehicle - for poetry; but we, having lost our sense of magic, explain our melancholy - in mediaeval terms. Magic was still in the world; I was determined to find - it. - </p> - <p> - I was continually drawn back to the picture. I would sit before it for - hours. It explained nothing. If offered no suggestions. It simply told me - what I already knew about myself. But in watching it I found rest. - Rebellion against social facts which turn love into lust left me. I came - to see that a love which is unlawful is only lovely in its unfulfilment. - The young girl in the woodland, did she rouse the frenzy in her lover, - would lose the purity which was irrecoverable; by evening she would weep - among the broken flowers. Perhaps, did I win her, it might be so with Vi. - </p> - <p> - I tried to find satisfaction by losing myself in memories of the past. The - past is always kindlier than the present because, as Carlyle once said, - the fear has gone out of it. The heavy actuality of the sorrows of Romeos - makes them pleasurable romance only to latter-day observers. In their own - day they were scandals. So I wandered through sun-scorched Italian towns, - red and white and saffron, and I hung above ancient bridges, looking down - on rushing mountain torrents, and I dreamt myself back to the glory of the - loves that had once been self-consuming beneath that forgetful hard blue - sky. - </p> - <p> - When I came to Ferrara my mind was stormy with thoughts of Lucrezia Borgia—Lucrezia - of the amber hair. It was here that she came in her pageantry of shame to - seek her third husband in the unwilling Alphonso. Ferrara had not changed - since that day. She had seen it as I saw it. I entered the town at sunset. - The golden light smote against the red-brick walls of the Castello. I - imagined that I saw her sweet wronged face, half-saint, half-siren, gazing - out from the narrow barred windows across the green-scummed moat. - </p> - <p> - I hired rooms in the primitive <i>Pellegrino e Gaiana</i>. They looked out - on the dusty tree-shadowed Piazza Torquato Tasso, where tables with white - cloths were spread, on which stood tall bottles of rough country wine. I - promised myself that from there, as I sat, I could just discern the - Castello. I had my dinner beneath the trees. On the further side of the - square was a wine tavern. Men and girls were singing there. Sometimes the - door would push open, letting out a rush of light. I tried to think that - they were the men-at-arms of long ago. A cool breeze stirred the dust at - my feet. The moon was rising. I got up and sauntered through gaunt paved - streets, past empty palaces, past Ariosto’s house and out toward the - country, where vines hung heavy with grapes, festooning the olive-trees. - Italy lay languorous and scented in the night, like a fair deep-bosomed - courtesan. The sensuous delight of the present mingled with my thoughts of - the past. I had been hardly surprised had Lucrezia stolen out from the - dusk towards me, with the breeze whipping about her the golden snakes of - her hair. - </p> - <p> - Slowly I turned back to the town. At the Castello I halted, peering across - the moat at the sullen darkness of the walls on the other side. As I stood - smoking my cigar, I saw an English girl coming towards me across the - Piazza Savonarola. Her nationality was unmistakable; she walked with a - healthy air of self-reliance which you do not find in Latin women. I was - surprised to see her. July is not the month for tourists. So far, save for - a few Americans, I had had Italy to myself. And I was surprised for - another reason—she was unaccompanied. - </p> - <p> - As she drew nearer, I turned my back so that she should not be offended by - my staring. I heard her step coming closer. It halted at my side. I looked - round, supposing she had lost her direction and was about to question me. - </p> - <p> - “You—you here!” I exclaimed and remained staring. - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t think you’d expect me,” she laughed shyly. - </p> - <p> - “Of course I didn’t. How should I? What brought you?” - </p> - <p> - “I was on my way to Venice; but remembering you were here, I stayed over - for the night. You don’t mind?” - </p> - <p> - “Mind! I should say not. Where are you staying?” - </p> - <p> - “At the <i>Albergo Europa</i>. I was just on my way over to the <i>Pellegrino - e Gaiana</i> to inquire if you were there. I’ve asked at all the other - hotels.” - </p> - <p> - While we had been speaking I had been watching her closely. What was it - that was changed in her? Was it the voluptuousness of the Italian night - that made her more splendidly feminine? She had lost her laughing tone of - laziness. Her beauty was strong wine and fire. Something had become - earnest in her. Then I asked myself why had she come—was she really - on her way to Venice? - </p> - <p> - “I’m jolly glad you came,” I said impetuously; “I’ve been missing you ever - since I left.” - </p> - <p> - “And I you.” - </p> - <p> - She took my arm, giving it a friendly hug, just as Ruthita did when she - was glad. We walked over to the Piazza Torquato Tasso. Seating ourselves - at a table beneath the trees, we called for wine. The light from the - trattoria fell softly on her face. The air was dreamy with fragrance of - limes. At tables nearby other men and women were sitting. Across the way - in the tavern my men-at-arms were still singing and carousing. - </p> - <p> - “What are you thinking?” she asked, leaning across towards me. - </p> - <p> - “I was thinking that I now begin to understand you.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “How?” - </p> - <p> - “You’re mediaeval. The fire has melted the ice.” - </p> - <p> - She took my hand gratefully and drew me nearer. “Do you like me better?” - </p> - <p> - “Much better. I keep thinking how like you are to Simonetta in The <i>Kingdom - of Venus</i>. I spent hours sitting before it at the Accademia in - Florence. I couldn’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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s safer,” I smiled. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s true.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t you believe,” she whispered, “that anything that makes two people - happy must be right and best?” - </p> - <p> - “I wish I could.” - </p> - <p> - “And that anything that makes them sad must be wicked?” - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole,” I said, “have you been sad?” - </p> - <p> - She would not answer, but drew herself back into the shadow so I could not - see her expression. We sat silent, fingering our glasses, giving ourselves - over to the languor of the summer’s night. Through the rapturous stillness - we heard the breeze from the mountains rustling across the Emilian plain - like a woman in silk attire. At a neighboring table a man and a girl, - thinking themselves unobserved, swayed slowly towards one another and - kissed, as though constrained by some power stronger than themselves. - Through the golden windows of the tavern across the way, one could see the - silhouettes of men and women trail stealthily across the white-washed - walls. The spirit of Lucrezia and her lover-poets seemed to haunt Ferrara - that night. - </p> - <p> - “You’re going to Venice,” I said abruptly. “So am I. Perhaps we shall meet - there.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps.” - </p> - <p> - “We might travel there together.” - </p> - <p> - “I should be glad.” - </p> - <p> - We rose from the table. It was late. The piazza was growing empty. The - apple-green shutters before the windows of the houses were closed. Behind - some of them were lights which threw gold bars on the pavement. The - streets were silent. - </p> - <p> - “How did you know that I would be here?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “You forget—you left me your addresses.” - </p> - <p> - “So I did. But you didn’t write. Why didn’t you write?” - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - What she meant by that I could only guess. Perhaps she hardly knew - herself. My blood was rushing wildly through my veins. I was breathing the - atmosphere of passion. I did not look ahead; I was absorbed in the - present. I had been hungry for Vi—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. - </p> - <p> - The saffron moon looked down, pillowed on a bank of silver cloud. As we - passed the Castello, a fish leapt in the moat, and fell back with a - splash. I halted, leaning against the parapet. - </p> - <p> - “And it was here we met.” - </p> - <p> - She pressed against me. I could feel the wild beating of her heart; it - tapped against my side, calling to my heart for entrance. Her voice shook - with emotion; it whispered above the surge of conflicting thoughts like - the solemn tolling of a sunken bell. “Since then everything has become - golden, somehow.” - </p> - <p> - I dared not trust myself to respond to her tenderness. I was shaken and - awed by her intensity. With her lips just a little way from mine, so that - my cheeks were fanned by her breath, her face looked into mine, the chin - tilted and the long white throat stretched back. I gazed on her - motionless, with my arms strained down against my side. - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole,” I whispered, “how many girls and boys have stood here and said - that!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - We plunged into the cool deep shadows of the colonnade. We turned into the - Corso della Giovecca. Down the long dim street all the houses stood in - darkness, save for a faint patch of light which carpeted the pavement in - front of her hotel. - </p> - <p> - “Your maid will be wondering what has happened.” - </p> - <p> - She looked at me curiously. “She won’t. I didn’t bring her.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night until to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-night.” - </p> - <p> - She looked back once from the doorway and smiled. She entered. The sleepy - porter came out and swung to the gates. - </p> - <p> - I was amazed at her bewitching indiscretion. For myself it did not matter. - But what of her, if we should be seen together? A man can afford such - accidents; but a woman—— I tried to deceive myself. Our - meeting was, as she had said, haphazard. We were both alone in Italy. Our - routes lay in the same direction. What more natural than that we should - travel together? But I knew that this was not the case. I determined to - open her eyes to the risks she was taking. - </p> - <p> - Next morning when I woke, I wondered vaguely what was the cause of this - strange elation. Then memory came back. I jumped out of bed and flung the - shutters wide. Out in the piazza some earlier risers were already seated - at the tables. A man was watering the pavement, singing gaily to himself. - Beneath the trees a parrot and a cockatoo screeched, hurling insults at - one another from their perches. A soldier showed his teeth and laughed, - talking to a broad-hipped peasant girl. At the top of the piazza a slim - white figure waited. - </p> - <p> - I made haste with my dressing. I was extremely happy. I tried to analyze - the situation, but lost patience with myself. - </p> - <p> - Picking up my hat and running down the stairs, I came across her standing - outside the Cathedral, in the full glare of the sun. Before I had spoken - she turned, darting like a pigeon, instinctively aware of my approach. - “I’ve beaten you by nearly two hours,” she called gaily. - </p> - <p> - We passed into the fruit-market. I bought a basket of ripe figs; sitting - down on a bench we ate them together. All round us was stir and bustle. - Farmers in their broad straw-hats were unyoking oxen while women spread - the wares. - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole, there’s just one thing I want to say to you, after which I’ll - never mention it.” - </p> - <p> - “I know what it is. I’ve thought it all out.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Reckoning the cost again!” she laughed, helping herself to another fig. - </p> - <p> - “I’ll pay gladly. It’s you I’m considering,” I said seriously. - </p> - <p> - She rested her hand on mine. It was cool, and long, and delicate. I was - startled at the thrill it gave me. “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - That morning we visited the Corpus Domini where Lucrezia Borgia lies - buried. We were admitted to a little chapel where all was lonely and - silent. Presently a door opened and two nuns dressed in black entered. - Their faces were covered from sight by long black veils. All that was - human we were permitted to see of them was their eyes, which looked out - from two black holes like stars in a dreary night. They had been beautiful - perhaps, but because Christ was crucified they had crucified themselves. - And these women, who had never tasted life, whose flesh had never throbbed - with the sweet torture which was their right, whose bodies were the - unremembered sepulchres of little children whose lips had never pressed - the breast—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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - It was towards evening that we sighted Venice, floating between sea and - sky in a tepid light. Where we parted from the mainland, thin trees ran - down to the water’s edge, shivering and gleaming, like naked boys. As the - train thundered across the trestled bridge which spans the lagoon, Fiesole - and I crowded against the window, tingling with excitement. The salt wind - smote upon our faces and loosened a strand of her red-brown hair. - Laughing, I fastened it into place. She snatched up my hand and kissed the - fingers separately. We were children, so thrilled with happiness that we - could speak only by signs and exclamations. A gondola drifted by, rowed by - a poppe in a scarlet sash. Though we both saw it, we cried to one another - that it was a gondola, and waved. Then the gold sun fell splashing through - the clouds; Venice was stained to orange, and the lagoon to the purple of - wine. - </p> - <p> - Not until the train had halted in the station did it occur to me that we - had made no plans. - </p> - <p> - Hotel porters were already fighting to get possession of our baggage. - </p> - <p> - “Where are you going to stay?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Wherever you like,” she said. “A good place is the <i>Hotel D’Angleterre</i> - on the Riva degli Schiavoni.” - </p> - <p> - So she took it for granted that we should put up at the same hotel! We - went aboard the steamer and traveled down the Grand Canal in prosaic - fashion, with the nodding black swans of gondolas all about us. - </p> - <p> - The <i>Hotel D’Angleterre</i> stands facing the Canale di San Marco, - looking across to San Maria della Salute. The angle is that from which so - many of Canaletto’s Venetian masterpieces were painted. - </p> - <p> - The proprietor came out to greet us suave and smiling. “A room for - Monsieur and Madame?” - </p> - <p> - “Two rooms,” I said shortly. - </p> - <p> - When we went upstairs to look at them, we found that they were next door - to one another. Fiesole made no objection. - </p> - <p> - They were both front rooms and faced the Canal. One could hardly find - fault with them on the ground that they were too near together. - </p> - <p> - By the time dinner was over the silver dusk was falling. A hundred yards - out two barche, a little distance separated, drifted with swinging - lanterns. The tinkling of guitars sounded and the impassioned singing of a - girl. Above embattled roofs of palaces to the westward fiery panthers of - the sunset crouched. The beauty of it all was stinging—it seemed the - misty fabric of a dream which must instantly shatter and fade into a pale - and torturing remembrance. - </p> - <p> - We stepped into a gondola. - </p> - <p> - She spoke a few hasty words in Italian, then we stole out from the quay - across the velvet blackness. - </p> - <p> - “Where are we going?” I asked her. - </p> - <p> - “Round the old canals of the Rialto.” - </p> - <p> - Soon every sound, even the faint sounds of Venice, grew fainter and - vanished. Only the dip of the oar was heard, the water lapping, and the - weird plaintive cry of the poppe as we approached a corner, “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. - </p> - <p> - When we returned to the hotel it was past midnight. The sharp tang of - morning was in the air. Lights which had blazed across the lagoon, now - smoldered like torches burnt to the socket. Venice floated, a fair Ophelia - with eyes drowned and hair disordered; one saw her mistily as through - water. - </p> - <p> - Our gondola creaked against the landing, banged by the little waves. A - poppe in a nearby barca groaned in his sleep and stirred. We were cramped - with our long sitting. I gave Fiesole my arm; she shrank against me. At - the door of her room I paused. - </p> - <p> - “We’ve had one brilliant day to remember. You’re happy now?” - </p> - <p> - “Very happy, dear Dante.” - </p> - <p> - I entered my room and sat down in the dark on the side of the bed. - </p> - <p> - I did not love her. I blundered my way over all the old arguments. I told - myself that, since I could not marry Vi, I could not do better than marry - Fiesole. But at the thought my soul rebelled—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. - </p> - <p> - In the next room all sounds of stirring had ceased. I looked up; greyhound - clouds, long and lean, coursed in pursuit of stars across the moon. I - tiptoed to the window. As I leant out, I heard a faint sighing. I caught - the glint of copper-gold hair poured across the sill of the neighboring - window. Fearing she might see me, I drew back. Why was it, I asked myself, - that Fiesole was not my woman? What was the reason for this fantastic - loyalty to Vi, who could never be mine? Was it instinct that held me back - from Fiesole or mere cold-heartedness? - </p> - <p> - For the next three days we wandered Venice, doing the usual round of - churches and palaces. I was feverishly careful to live my life with - Fiesole in public. I feared for her sake to be left alone with her. There - was protection in spectators. She understood and accepted the situation, - though we had not discussed it together. She played the part of a daring - boy, carrying herself with merry independence. At times I almost forgot - she was a girl. She disarmed my watchfulness, and seemed bent on showing - me that it was unnecessary. - </p> - <p> - On the morning of the fourth day, we returned to déjeuner parched and - footsore from exploring the stifling alleys which lie back of the Rialto. - The air was heavy and sultry. The water seemed to boil in the canals. - Every stone flung back the steady glare. Blue lagoons, polished as - reflectors, mirrored the blue of the cloudless sky. - </p> - <p> - From where we sat at table, we could see crowded steamers draw in at the - pier and crawl like flies across the bay to Lido. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole made a queer little face at me. “Stupid old sober-sides!” - </p> - <p> - “What’s the matter?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - A warm breeze caught us on the steamer. What ripe lips Fiesole had, and - what inscrutable eyes! Since that first night of our arrival, she had - prevented me from treating her with any of the privileges of her sex. She - had walked when and where she liked. She had insisted on paying her share - of everything down to the last centesimi. Now she changed her mood and - slipped her arm through mine. We had both grown tired of pretending she - was a man. “You needn’t be afraid to be nice to me,” she said. - </p> - <p> - There were lovers all about us: girls from the glass-factories in white - dresses, bareheaded, with tasseled black shawls; sailors from the Arsenal - with keen bronzed faces and silky mustaches. Venice was taking a day off - and giving us a lesson in happiness. The self-consciousness of the - Anglo-Saxon, which makes the expression of pleasure bad taste and - distressing, was absent. Each was occupied with him or herself, sublimely - unconscious of spectators. - </p> - <p> - “Haven’t I been nice?” - </p> - <p> - She patted my hand, entirely the woman now. “You’ve been trying to be - correct. Why can’t you be your own dear self?” - </p> - <p> - Taking the tram across the island, we came to the Stabilimento dei Bagni. - We walked through the arcade and down on to the terrace. The sea rolled in - flashing, green and silver, in a long slow swell. Leaning over the side, - we watched the bathers. Men, with costumes unfastened at the shoulders, - sifted golden sand through their fingers on to their naked chests. Women - lay beside them, buried in the sand, laughing and chatting. - </p> - <p> - I noticed a blond young giant standing at the water’s edge. His face - kindled. I followed the direction in which he was looking. A dark-eyed - girl had come out of her cabin. She wore a single-piece, tight-fitting - suit of stockingette, which displayed her figure in all its splendid - curves. Her face was roguish and vivid as that of Carmen. On her head she - wore a scarlet turban. Her costume was sky blue. - </p> - <p> - The men who had been lying on their backs, turned over and regarded her - with lazy admiration of her physical loveliness. Seemingly unaware of the - interest she aroused, she came tripping daintily to the water’s edge, her - white limbs flashing. The man held out his hand. With little birdlike - exclamations she ran to him; then drew back and shivered as the first wave - rippled about her feet. He encouraged her with tender, quickly spoken - words. Her timidity was all a pretty pretense and they both knew it; but - it gave them a chance to be charming to one another. He seized her hand - again; she hung back from him laughing. Then they waded out together, - hand-in-hand, splashing up diamonds as they went. They seemed to see no - one but each other; they eyed one another innocently, unabashed. When they - came to the deeper water, she clasped her arms about his neck; he swam out - toward the horizon with her riding on his back. He was like a young - sea-god capturing a land-maiden. - </p> - <p> - A stab of envy shot through me. I felt indignant with my inherited - puritanism. It would not permit me simply to enjoy myself. I must be - forever analyzing motives, and lifting the lid off the future to search - for consequences. - </p> - <p> - I looked at Fiesole. Her eyes were starry. They seemed to mock me and - plead with me saying, “Oh, Dannie, why can’t we be like that?” - </p> - <p> - I glanced down at the beach. The bathers were rising up and shaking off - the sand. I noticed that only the women who had no beauty hid themselves - behind bathing-skirts. The Italian standard of modesty!—you only - need be modest when you have something to be ashamed of. I accepted the - standard. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole broke the silence, clapping her hands, crying “Wasn’t she - perfect!” Then she took hold of my face in childish excitement and turned - my head. “Oh, look there!” - </p> - <p> - An English girl had come out. Her bathing-suit was drab-colored and baggy. - Sagging about her knees hung an ugly skirt. In her clothes she might have - been pretty; but now she was awkward and embarrassed. Her manner called - attention to the fact that she was more sparsely clad than usual. She wore - tight round her forehead a wretched waterproof cap. - </p> - <p> - “There’s Miss England,” laughed Fiesole. - </p> - <p> - “When we bathe, you be Miss Italy,” I laughed back. - </p> - <p> - And she was. - </p> - <p> - When I look back to that sunny July afternoon with the blue and silver - Adriatic singing against the lips of the land, the warm wind blowing - toward the shore from Egypt’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. - </p> - <p> - That afternoon I learnt the absurd delirium that may overtake a man who is - owned in public by a pretty woman. She was the prettiest woman in Italy - that day from her small pink feet to her golden crown. And she knew it. - She treated me as though I was hers and, forgetting everything, I was glad - of it. I can still thrill with the boyish pride I felt when I fastened her - dress, with all the beach watching. Whatever she asked me to do was a - delightful form of flattery. It pleased me to know that others were - suffering the same pangs of envy that I had felt. They were saying to - themselves, “How charming she is! What a lucky fellow! That’s what youth - can do for you. I wonder whether they’re married.” - </p> - <p> - Tucking her arm under mine with a delicious sense of proprietorship, we - set out with the crowd through the tropic growth of flowers to the pier - from where the steamer started. A little way ahead I saw the blond giant - with his gay little sweetheart. He was all care of her. She fluttered - about him like a blue butterfly about a tall sunflower. She looked up into - his face, making impertinent grimaces. He nodded his head and laughed - down. - </p> - <p> - Was it only the spirit of imitation that caused us to copy them? They gave - us a glimpse into the tender lovers’ world, which we both were sick with - longing to enter. If Fiesole was playing a part she played it well. Her - cheeks flushed and her eyes were brilliant. She made me feel the same - bewilderment of gladness I had felt all those years ago, as a boy at the - Red House. How much it would have meant to me then if she had treated me - as she did now! - </p> - <p> - We crossed the bay towards the hour of sunset. Venice swooned in a golden - haze. Clouds struck sparks from the burning disk, like hammers falling on - a glowing anvil. The lagoon stared at the sky without a quiver. We - traveled a pathway of molten fire. - </p> - <p> - “We must live this day out,” I said as we landed. “Let’s go to the - Bauer-Grunwald to-night.” - </p> - <p> - We hurried upstairs and changed into evening-dress. I tapped at her door, - asking, “Are you ready?” - </p> - <p> - “All except some hooks and eyes. Come in,” she replied. - </p> - <p> - She was seated before the looking-glass, with her arms curved upward, - tucking a bow of black ribbon in her hair. It was her reflection that - looked into my face and smiled. - </p> - <p> - “You do me proud, Fiesole,” I said, remembering one of Vi’s phrases. - </p> - <p> - She looked as simple as a sixteen year old girl. Her dress was of pale - green satin, cut high in the waist in Empire fashion, hanging without - fullness to just above her ankles. The sleeves left off at the elbows. Her - wonderful russet hair was gathered into a loose knot and lay coiled along - her neck. She was the Fiesole of my school-days. Had she intended to - remind me? - </p> - <p> - I sat down on the edge of the bed while she finished her dressing, - following with my eyes the feminine nick-nacks which were strewn about. - But always my eyes came back to her, with the mellow glory from the window - transfiguring her face and neck. There was a nipping sweetness in being so - near to a woman whom I could not hope to possess. I knew that without - marrying her I could not keep her. Platonic friendships are only safe - between men and women whose youth is withered. I was wise enough to know - that. We were chance-met travelers in Lovers’ 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - She rose, shaking down her skirt and courting my admiration. - </p> - <p> - “You may get to work on the hooks and eyes, old boy.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice was jerky with excitement. My fingers were awkward with - trembling. As I leant over her, she patted my cheek, flashing a caress - with her eyes. “Do you know, you’re handsome, Dante?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “It’s done. Come, bambino, it’s getting late.” - </p> - <p> - She followed me down the stairs. My senses were reeling with the maddening - fragrance of her presence. We walked through the Piazzetta and Piazza di - San Marco, through the narrow streets and across the bridges till we - arrived at the garden beside the canal. Arbors were illumined with - faery-lamps. It seemed a scene staged for a theatre rather than a living - actuality. Gondolas stole past the garden through the dusk. Mysterious - people alighted. Guitars tinkled. In tall mediaeval houses rising - opposite, lamps flashed and women looked down. As specters in a dream, - people leant above the bridge, gazed into the water, and vanished. Venice - walked with slippered feet and finger to lips that night. - </p> - <p> - The silence shivered; a clear peal of laughter rippled on the air. We - turned. The girl with the young sea-god was entering the garden. They - seated themselves at a table near us—so near that we could watch - their expressions and overhear much that was said. It seemed they were - fated to goad us on and make us ambitious of attaining their happiness. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole stretched out her hands. I smiled and took them, holding them - palms up. “They’re like petals of pink roses,” I said. - </p> - <p> - Her face was laughing. “Do you think I’m pretty?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve always thought that, and you know it—ever since you wouldn’t - kiss me in Sneard’s garden.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Her hands quivered; her lips became piteous. All the wild commotion of her - heart seemed to travel through them to myself. My throat became suddenly - parched. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - I looked away from her to the street of water. I had nothing with which to - answer. She tried to drag her hands from me, but still I held them. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And have I been unkind?” - </p> - <p> - She turned from my question. “You can never marry her,” she said. “You - know that.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She drew her hands free. “And yet you’re wounding me now.” - </p> - <p> - She was always different from other women, doing the unexpected. Instead - of sitting melancholy through dinner, she broke into a burst of high - spirits. She told me about her father, who had marched with Garibaldi. She - rallied me on the awkward little boy I had been when first we met—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. - </p> - <p> - It was nearing midnight when we rose. Going down the little garden, we - halted on the steps by the canal. A dozen shadowy figures leapt up with - hoarse cries. We beckoned to a poppe; the gondola stole up and we entered. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t go back yet,” Fiesole pleaded. - </p> - <p> - We crept through ancient waterways, all solitary and silent; past churches - blanched in the moonlight, and empty piazzas; under bridges from which - some solitary figure leant to observe us. Now a swiftly moving barca would - overtake us; as it fled by we had a glimpse through the curtains of a man - and a woman sitting close together. Now the door of a tavern would - suddenly open, flinging across the water a bar of garish light; cloaked - figures would emerge and the door would close as suddenly as it had - opened. Overhead in balconies we sometimes detected the stir of life where - we had thought there was emptiness, and would catch the rustle of a - woman’s dress or see the red flare of a cigarette. We had the haunted - sensation one has in a wood in May-time: though he discerns but little - with the eye, he is conscious that behind green leaves an anonymous, - teeming world is mating and providing for its momentous cares. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole pressed against me; the darkness seemed to fling out hands, - thrusting us together. She slipped off her hood and pushed back her cloak, - displaying her arms and throat and hair. The seduction of her beauty - enthralled and held me spellbound. The air pulsated with illicit - influences. The dreaming city, vague and labyrinthine, was the outward - symbol of my state of mind. I had lost my standards; my will-power was too - inert to rouse itself for their recovery. I was entranced by a sensuous - inner vision of loveliness which exhausted my faculties of resistance. I - apprehended some fresh allurement of femininity through each portal of - sense. Fiesole’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. - </p> - <p> - “You know what you said about Simonetta,” she whispered; “how you thought - I was like her and you spent hours before <i>The Kingdom of Venus</i>. You - were wrong, all wrong, Dante, in your thoughts about her. The young man in - the picture was Giuliano dei Medici and Simonetta was dear to him for many - years. So the flowers weren’t broken, Dannie. Instead of broken flowers, - they made poetry for Botticelli to paint.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole, if I don’t marry her, I will marry you some day. I promise.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - We floated under the Bridge of Sighs and drew up at the landing. She leant - heavily on my arm. We walked along the quay in silence. Few people were - about. I saw mistily; my eyes were burning as if they had gazed too long - into a glowing furnace. She drooped against me like a crushed flower. - </p> - <p> - “You’re breaking my heart, Fiesole. I’d give you anything, but the thing - that would hurt you. Let me have time to consider.” - </p> - <p> - 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>I want you now—now—now.</i>” With her voice - she made no reply. - </p> - <p> - We entered the hotel and stole past the office; the porter was sleeping - with his head bowed across his arms. On the dimly lit stairs she dragged - on my arm, so that I halted. Suddenly she freed herself and broke from me, - running on ahead. - </p> - <p> - Standing still, almost hiding from her, I listened for her door to open - and shut. Nothing stirred. I crept along the naked passage and found her - leaning against the wall outside our rooms. Her head was thrown back in - weariness, not in defiance; her arms were spread out helplessly; her - hands, with palms inward, wandered blindly over the wall’s surface. She - was panting like a hunted fawn. Her knees shook under her. Her attitude - was horribly that of one who had been crucified. - </p> - <p> - Made reckless by remorse, I bent over her and kissed her. Because I did - not put my arms about her, she made no response. - </p> - <p> - Something happened, wholly inexplicable, as though we had been joined by a - third presence. Not a stair creaked. Everyone was in bed. The air was - flooded with the slow, sweet smell of violets. I became aware of a - palpitating sense of moral danger. - </p> - <p> - I drew back from Fiesole. Her physical fascination faded from me; yet I - had never felt more tender towards her. - </p> - <p> - “I’m sorry, dear,” I said. - </p> - <p> - She met my gaze with a frozen, focusless expression of despair. Her hands - ceased their wandering. - </p> - <p> - I entered my room and, closing the door, stood pressed against the panel, - listening. After what seemed an interminable silence, her door opened and - shut. I looked out into the passage; it was empty. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - I spent a sleepless night and rose with my mind made up; since she wanted - it I would marry her. - </p> - <p> - Going downstairs, I found she had not breakfasted. As a rule she was an - earlier riser than myself; usually I found her waiting for me. I went for - a stroll on the Piazzetta to give her time. On my return she had not - appeared. I was beginning to grow nervous; then it occurred to me that she - was postponing the first awkwardness of meeting me by breakfasting in bed. - </p> - <p> - Taking my place at our table in the window, I told the waiter to carry - Fiesole’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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIII—THE TURNING POINT - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>efore my - experience at Venice the world had consisted for me of Vi, myself, and - other people; now it was only myself and Vi. I spent my days in shadowy - unreality; just as a child, waking from a bad dream, sees one face he can - trust gazing over the brink of his horror, so out of the blurred confusion - of my present I saw the face of Vi. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole had not shown me love in its purity, but she certainly had taught - me something of its courage and selfishness. She had disabused my mind - forever of the thought that it was a polite, intensified form of liking. A - blazing ship, she had met me in mid-ocean and had set my rigging aflame. I - had turned from her, but not in time to get off scatheless. Her wild - unrestraint had accustomed my imagination to phases of desire which had - before seemed abnormal and foreign to my nature. - </p> - <p> - When I missed her at Milan, I abandoned my pursuit of her. Now that the - temptation was over, I realized how near we had come to wrecking each - other’s lives. Physical lassitude overtook me. Because I had withstood - Fiesole, I thought myself safe in indulging my fancy with more intimate - thoughts of Vi. I excused myself for so doing, by telling myself that it - was her memory that had made me strong to escape. It was like saying that - because water had rescued me from fire it could no longer drown me. - </p> - <p> - I traveled northwards into the mountains to Raveno. Each morning I rowed - across Maggiore to the island of Isola Madre. Lying beneath the camphor - trees, watching the turquoise of the lake filling in the spaces between - the yellowing bamboo canes, I gave rein to my longing. Shadowy foliage - dripped from shadowy trees, curtaining the glaring light; down spy-hole - vistas of overgrown pathways I watched the lazy world drift by. I numbed - my cravings with the opiate of voluptuous beauty. - </p> - <p> - I had been there a fortnight when a letter from home arrived. With its - confident domestic chatter, it brought a message of trust. It took from me - my sense of isolation. One of them would understand. - </p> - <p> - Slowly the thought had taken shape within me that I must go to Vi. If I - saw her only once again, I believed that I would be satisfied. It would - not be necessary to speak to her—that would be unsportsmanlike if - she had managed to forget me. All I asked was to be allowed just once to - look upon her face. She should not know that I was near her; I would look - at her and go away. With that strange sophistry that we practise on - ourselves, I tried to be persuaded that, were I to see her in her own - surroundings with her husband and Dorrie, it would be a lesson to me of - how little share I had in her life. Perhaps I had even idealized her - memory; seeing her might cure me. So I reasoned, but I was conscious that - my own judgment on the wisdom of such a step was not to be trusted. - Ruthita was too young to tell. My father, though I admired him, was not - the man to whom a son would willingly betray a weakness. I would speak to - the Snow Lady. - </p> - <p> - As I drove from the station through London, old scenes and memories woke - to life. The city had spread out towards Stoke Newington, so that it had - lost much of its quaintness; but it retained enough of its old-world quiet - to put me in touch with my childhood. - </p> - <p> - I alighted at the foot of Pope Lane. The wooden posts still stood there to - shut out traffic. I walked quickly up the avenue of fragrant limes with - the eager expectancy of one who had been years absent instead of days. In - the distance I heard the rumble of London. The golden August evening lay - in pools upon the pathway. Sensations of the happy past came back. Dead - memories stirred, plucking at my heartstrings. I thought of how Ruthita - and I had bowled hoops and played marbles on that same gray pavement, - making the air ring with our childish voices. I thought of those rare - occasions when the Spuffler had carried me away with him into a boy’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. - </p> - <p> - Passing between the steeply-rising red-brick walls, dotted with gates, I - came to the door through which I had been so eager to escape when it had - been locked against me. I reflected that I had not gained much from the - new things which I had dragged into my life. The narrowness which I had - once detested as imprisoned dullness I now coveted as peaceful security. - </p> - <p> - I found the bell beneath the Virginia creeper. The door was opened by - Hetty. Hetty had grown buxom and middle-aged. Her sweetheart had never - come for her. The tradesmen no longer made love to her; they left their - goods perfunctorily and went out in search of younger faces. Her hips had - broadened. The curve between her bust and her waist had vanished. The - dream of love was all that she had gained from life. I wondered whether - she still told herself impossible stories of the deliverance wrought by - marriage. If she did, no signs of her romantic tendencies revealed - themselves in her face. Her expression had grown vacantly kind and stolid. - To me she was respectful nowadays, and seemed even distressed by the - immodesty of the memory that I had once been the little boy whom she had - spanked, spoilt, bathed, and dried. - </p> - <p> - She gave a quick cry at catching sight of me, for I had warned no one of - my coming. - </p> - <p> - “Sh! where are they?” I asked her. - </p> - <p> - She told me that the master was at work in his study, and that Miss - Ruthita and her ma were in the garden. - </p> - <p> - I walked round the house slowly, lasting out the pleasure of their - surprise. Nothing seemed to have changed except we people. Sunflowers kept - guard in just the same places, like ranks of lean soldiers wearing golden - helmets. Along the borders scarlet geraniums flared among the blue of - lobelia and the white of featherfew, just as they had when I was a boy. - Pigeons, descendants of those whose freedom I had envied, perched on the - housetops opposite, or wheeled against the encrimsoned sky. - </p> - <p> - I stole across the lawn to where two stooping figures sat with their backs - towards me. Halfway across I halted, gazing over my shoulder. Through the - study-window, with ivy aslant the pane, I saw my father. His hair was - white. In the stoop of his shoulders was the sign of creeping age. He did - not look up to notice me; he had never had time. As the years went by I - grew proudly sorry for him. I saw him now, as I had seen him so many times - when I paused to glance up from my play. He was cramped above his desk, - writing, writing. His face was turned away. His head was supported on his - hand as though weary. <i>He</i> was the prisoner now; it was I who held - the key of escape. How oddly life had changed! - </p> - <p> - Ruthita saw me. Her sewing fell from her lap. In a trice she was racing - towards me. - </p> - <p> - “You! You!” she cried. - </p> - <p> - Her thin arms went round me. Suddenly I felt miles distant from her - because I was unworthy. - </p> - <p> - “Why did you come back?” she asked me. There was a note of anxiety in her - voice. She searched my bronzed face. - </p> - <p> - “To see you, chickabiddy.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady touched me on the elbow. Her eyes were excited and full of - questioning. She gazed quickly from me to Ruthita. With a - self-consciousness which was foreign to both of us, we dropped our eyes - under her gaze and separated. Ruthita excused herself, saying that she - would go and tell my father. - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady offered me her cheek; it was soft and velvety. Slipping her - arm through mine, she led me away to the apple-tree under which they had - been sitting. She was still the frail little Madam Favart, half-frivolous, - half-saintly; my father’s intense reticence had subdued, but not quite - silenced her gaiety. Her silver hair was as abundant as ever and her - figure as girlish; but her face had tired lines, especially about the - eyes. I sat myself on the grass at her feet. - </p> - <p> - “How is he?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “Your father?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Much the same. He doesn’t change.” - </p> - <p> - “Is he still at the same old grind?” - </p> - <p> - She nodded. “But, Dante,” she said, “you look thinner and older.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s the heat and the rapid traveling. A day or two’s rest’ll put me - right.” - </p> - <p> - She dropped her sewing into her lap and, pressing her cool hand against my - forehead, drew me back against her. It was a mothering love-trick of hers - that had lasted over from my childhood. - </p> - <p> - “What brought you home so suddenly, laddie?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Have I shown it so plainly?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - From where we sat we could watch the house. While we had been talking, I - had seen through the study-window how Ruthita stole to my father’s chair. - He looked up irritably at being disturbed. Her attitude was all meekness - and apology as she explained her intrusion. He seemed to sigh at having to - leave his work. She withdrew while he completed his sentence. He laid his - pen carefully aside, glanced out into the garden shortsightedly, rose, and - melted into the shadows at the back of his cave. The door at the top of - the steps opened. He descended slowly and gravely, as though his brain was - still tangled in the web of thought it had been weaving. - </p> - <p> - We sat together beneath the apple-tree while the light faded. Little ovals - of gold, falling flaky through leaves on the turf, paled imperceptibly - into the twilight grayness. My father’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.” - </p> - <p> - It was noticeable that Ruthita and the Snow Lady suppressed themselves in - his presence; if they ventured anything, it was only to keep him - interested or to lead his thoughts in happier directions. Presently he - told them that they would be tired if they sat up later. Taking the hint - as a command, they bade us good-night. - </p> - <p> - Darkness had gathered when they left us; to the southward London waved a - torch against the clouds. We watched the lights spring up in the bedrooms, - and saw Ruthita and then the Snow Lady step to their windows and draw down - their blinds. Presently the lights went out. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Then I spoke. “Depends how far you carry his acquaintance.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - His argument took me by surprise. “Is Ruthita anxious for it? What does - she say?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - His voice was high-strung and challenging. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe it,” I said quietly. “She doesn’t love him—she’d be - selling herself for safety.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - He rose to his feet suddenly. “You think I’m acting shabbily. Good-night.” - </p> - <p> - He walked away, a gaunt shadow moving through the silver night. The awe I - had of him kept me from following. I sat there and tried to puzzle out how - this thing might be avoided. I could help financially; but my help would - be refused because it was Sir Charles’s money. - </p> - <p> - Next morning I woke at six and dressed. Dew was on the turf; it sparkled - in the gossamer veils of spider-webs caught among the bushes. Blackbirds - and thrushes in trees were calling. A cock crew, and a cock in the - distance echoed. The childish thought came back to me—how much - grown-ups miss of pleasure in their anxiety for the morrow. There is so - much to be enjoyed for nothing! - </p> - <p> - A window-sash was raised sharply. Looking up I saw Ruthita in her white - night-gown, with her hair tumbled like a cloud about her breast. I watched - her, thinking her lovely—so timid and small and delicate. I called - to her softly; she started and drew back. I waited. Soon she came down to - me in the garden. I must have eyed her curiously. - </p> - <p> - “You’ve heard?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - I led her away behind the tool-shed at the bottom of the garden; it was - the place where I had discovered Hetty in her one flirtation. - </p> - <p> - “I’m not wanted,” moaned Ruthita; “I cost money. So they’re giving me to a - man I don’t love.” - </p> - <p> - “They shan’t,” I told her, slipping my arm about her. “You shall come to - me—I don’t suppose I shall ever marry.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Rubbish!” I retorted. “None of us could get along without you.” - </p> - <p> - Then I told her that if the pressure became unbearable she must come to - me. She promised. - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady found us sitting there together; we made room for her beside - us. Shortly after her coming Ruthita made an excuse to vanish. - </p> - <p> - I turned to the Snow Lady abruptly. “She’s not going to marry Halloway.” - </p> - <p> - She raised her brows, laughing with her eyes. “Why not? Why so positive?” - </p> - <p> - “Because it’s an arranged marriage.” - </p> - <p> - “Mine with her father was arranged; it was very happy.” - </p> - <p> - Somehow I knew she was not serious. - </p> - <p> - “You don’t want it?” I challenged. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “She won’t.” - </p> - <p> - “She won’t, if you say so,” said the Snow Lady. - </p> - <p> - During breakfast my father was silent. He seemed conscious of a conspiracy - against him. When the meal was ended, he retired to his study, where he - shut himself up, working morosely. I sought opportunities to tell the Snow - Lady what I had come to say, but I could never find an opening to - introduce the name of Vi. Whenever we were alone together she insisted on - discussing Ruthita’s future, stating and re-stating the reasons for and - against the proposed match. The atmosphere was never sympathetic for the - broaching of my own perplexities. Gradually I came to see that I must make - my decision unaided; then I knew that I should decide in only one way. I - engaged a passage to Boston provisionally, telling myself that it could be - canceled. That I think was the turning-point, though I still pretended to - hesitate. - </p> - <p> - The day before the boat sailed, my father announced at table, avoiding my - eyes, that Lord Halloway had written that he would call next day. I went - to my bedroom and commenced to pack. Ruthita followed. - </p> - <p> - “You’re going?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes.” - </p> - <p> - “Because he’s coming?” - </p> - <p> - “Partly.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I comforted her, telling her to be brave, reminding her of her promise to - come to me if they used pressure. She dabbed her eyes. “You and I’ve - always stood together, little sister; you mustn’t be afraid,” I told her. - </p> - <p> - I carried my bags downstairs into the hall. The Snow Lady met me. - </p> - <p> - “What’s this? You’re going?” Her voice reflected dismay and bewilderment. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, going.” - </p> - <p> - “But not for long! You’ll be back shortly?” - </p> - <p> - “That depends.” - </p> - <p> - I entered my father’s study. He looked up from his writing. “I’m going - away.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I shook my head. - </p> - <p> - “Good-by,” he muttered. “Don’t judge us harshly. Come back again.” - </p> - <p> - Ruthita accompanied me to the end of the lane. She did not come further; - she was grown up now and ashamed to be seen crying. At the last minute I - wanted to tell her. I realized that she would understand—she was a - woman. The knowledge came too late. She said she would write me at Oxford, - and I did not correct her. I looked back as I went down the road and - waved. I turned a corner; she was lost to sight. - </p> - <p> - Next day I sailed. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XIV—I GO TO SHEBA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span> sleepy, contented - little town, overshadowed by giant elms, sprawled out along the banks of a - winding river, surrounded for miles by undulating woodlands—that is - how I remember Sheba. The houses were for the most part of timber, and - nearly all of them were painted white. They sat each in its unfenced - garden, comfortably separate from neighbors, with a green lawn flowing - from the roadway all about it, and a nosegay of salvias, hollyhocks, and - lavender, making cheerfulness beside the piazza. I suppose unkind things - happened there, but they have left no mark on my memory. When I think of - Sheba there comes to me the sound of bees humming, woodpeckers tapping, - frogs croaking, and the sight of blue indolent smoke curling above quiet - gables, butterflies sailing over flowers, a nodding team of oxen on a - sunlit road hauling fagots into town and, after sunset hour, the indigo - silence of dusk beneath orchards where apples are dropping and fireflies - blink with the eyes of goblins. - </p> - <p> - Sheba was one of those old New England towns from which the hurry of life - has departed; it cared more for its traditions than for its future, and - sat watching the present like a gray spectacled grandmother, pleased to be - behind the times, with its worn hands folded. - </p> - <p> - I arrived there with only a small sum of money and the price of my return - passage. I had limited my funds purposely, so that I might not be tempted - to prolong my visit. - </p> - <p> - The day after my arrival my calculations were upset; I discovered that the - Carpenter house was shut, and that Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter had not yet - returned from the coast. This made me careful. I was unwilling to draw on - my bank in London lest my whereabouts should be discovered, which would - necessitate awkward explanations to my family and the association of Vi’s - name with doubtful circumstances. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I passed down a rough path under apple-trees, where fruit kept falling. In - stables to the left, horses chafed in their stalls and snorted. To the - right in the vegetable garden, birds of brilliant plumage flashed and - darted, and fat gray squirrels sat up quivering to watch me. Overhead, - near and far, the air vibrated with incessant twittering. The golden haze - of sunset was over everything; the whole world seemed enkindled. The path - descended to low, flat meadows where haymaking was in progress. Farm - implements stood carelessly about, ready for the morrow. In one field the - hay was cocked, in another gathered, in a third the cutting had commenced. - I told myself I was with her, and shivered at the aching loneliness of - reality. - </p> - <p> - Circling the meadows was a narrow stream, which at a little distance - joined the main river; on the farther side stood scattered cottages, with - gardens straggling down a hill to its banks. In one of these a gray-haired - woman was working. She wore a sunbonnet and print-dress of lavender. In my - idleness I threw myself down in the grass and observed her. She grew - conscious that she was being watched, and cast sly glances across her - shoulder. At first I thought she was suspicious of my trespassing; she - came lower down the hill and nodded in shy friendly fashion. - </p> - <p> - “Good-evening,” I called to her over the stream. - </p> - <p> - She drew herself erect and eyed me. “Guess you’re a stranger?” she - questioned, having found something foreign in my English accent. - </p> - <p> - I told her that I was, and then, for the sake of conversation, asked her - if she knew of any rooms to rent. “Guess I do,” she called back, “me and - my sisters have one room to spare.” - </p> - <p> - That was how I came to take lodgings with the three Misses Januaries. I - paid them ten dollars weekly and had everything found. My room lay at the - back; from my window I could see much of what went on in Randall - Carpenter’s grounds. - </p> - <p> - From the three Misses Januaries I learnt many things. They were decayed - ladies and eked out a livelihood by bringing home piece-work to do for the - jewelry factories. Every other day Miss Priscilla, the eldest, went to - deliver the finished task and to take further orders. Miss Priscilla was - proud, angular, and bent. Miss Julia was round and jolly, but crippled - with rheumatism. Miss Lucy, the youngest, had a weak spine and was never - dressed; day after day she lay between white sheets dreamily smiling, - small as a child, making hardly any mound in the bed. - </p> - <p> - At first they hid from me the fact that they worked. Then they pretended - that they did it to occupy their leisure. Sewing was so useless, Miss - Priscilla said. At last they admitted the truth to the extent of letting - me sit with them in Miss Lucy’s bedroom, even allowing me to help them - with the fastening of the interminable links that went to the making of - one chain-bag. - </p> - <p> - It was during these meetings that they gossiped of their neighbors and - themselves. By delicate manouvering I would lead the conversation round to - Vi. I found that for them Sheba was the one and only town, and Randall - Carpenter was its richest citizen. He stood behind all its thriving - institutions. He was president of the Sheba National Bank. He had - controlling interest in the jewelry factory. He owned the cotton-works. He - had been Senator at Washington. Vi was the social leader and the mirror of - local fashion. They spoke of her as though she embodied for them all that - is meant by romance. They told me the story, which I had already heard, of - how Randall Carpenter had saved her father from ruin. - </p> - <p> - While such matters were being discussed and fresh details added, Miss Lucy - would smile up at the ceiling, with her thin arms stretched straight out - and her fingers plucking at the coverlet. I discovered later that long - years before, Randall Carpenter had kept company with her; then her spine - trouble had commenced and their money had gone from them, and it had been - ended. As a middle-aged bachelor he had married Vi, and now Miss Lucy - re-lived her own girlhood in listening to stories of Vi’s reported - happiness. - </p> - <p> - Three weeks after my arrival in Sheba Vi returned. The evening before I - had seen from my window that lights had sprung up in the house; early next - morning I saw Dorrie in the garden, a white, diminutive, butterfly figure - fluttering beneath the boughs. After breakfast I saw Vi come out, walking - with a portly man. An eighth of a mile separated us—by listening - intently I could hear her voice when she called, “Dorrie, Dorrie.” - </p> - <p> - Twice I came near to her, though she did not know it. One Sunday morning I - waited till service had commenced, and followed her to church. I slipped - into a seat at the back. There were few people present. From where I sat I - could get a clear view of her and her husband across empty pews. Mr. - Carpenter was a squarely-built, kindly-looking man—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. - </p> - <p> - This was the first time I had seen him at close quarters. I had come - prepared to find faults in the man; I was surprised at my lack of anger. - His comfortable amiability disarmed me. - </p> - <p> - The second time I came near to her was at nightfall. It was November. A - touch of frost had nipped the leaves to blood-red; the Indian Summer had - commenced. The air was pungent with the walnut fragrance of decaying - foliage; violet mist trailed in shreds from thickets, like a woman’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. - </p> - <p> - Occupied with my thoughts, I was strolling moodily along with hands in - pockets, when I chanced to look up. She was coming down the road towards - me. She was alone; her trim, clean-cut figure made a silhouette against - the twilight. She was whistling like a boy as she approached; her skirt - was short to the ankles; she carried a light cane in her hand. I wanted to - stand still till she had come up with me and then to catch her in my arms - before she was aware. For a moment I halted irresolute; then I turned into - the woods to the left. - </p> - <p> - I could not understand how she could be so near to me and not know it. It - seemed to me that I would raise clenched hands against the coffin-lid, - were she to approach me, though I was buried deep underground. - </p> - <p> - As the year drew towards a close my uncertainty of mind became a torture. - I knew that I ought to return to England; I was breaking the promise I had - made to myself. My friends must be getting anxious. By this time Sir - Charles must have heard of my disappearance. I was imperiling my future by - stopping. Worse still, the longer I lived near Vi, the more difficult was - I making it for myself to take up the threads of my old life without her. - I continually set dates for my departure, and I continually postponed - them. At last I booked my passage some way ahead for the first week in - January. In order to prevent myself from altering my decision, I told Miss - Priscilla that I was going. - </p> - <p> - I fought a series of never finished battles with myself. As the time of my - respite shortened, I grew frenzied. Was I to go away forever without - speaking to her? Was I to give her no sign of my presence? Was I to let - her think that I had forgotten her and had ceased to care? I kept myself - awake of nights on purpose to make my respite go further; from where I lay - on the pillow with my face turned to the snow-covered meadows, I could see - the blur which was her house. Sometimes in the darkness, when one loses - all standards, I determined to risk everything and go to her. With morning - I mastered myself and saw clearly—to go to her would be basest - selfishness. - </p> - <p> - In one of my long tramps I had come upon a pond in a secluded stretch of - woodland on the outskirts of Sheba. On the last evening before my - departure I remembered it. I was in almost hourly fear of myself—afraid - that I would seek her out. I planned diversions of thought and action for - my physical self, so that my will might keep it in subjection. This - evening, when I was at a loss what to do, the inclination occurred to go - there skating. - </p> - <p> - As I walked along the road, sleighs slid by with bells jingling. The merry - golden windows of white houses in white fields brought a sense of - peacefulness. The night was blue-black; the sky was starry; the air had - that deceptive dryness which hides its coldness. Beneath the woods trees - cast intricate sprawling traceries of shadows. Every now and then the - frozen silence was shattered by the snapping of some overladen bough; then - the whole wood shook and shivered as though it were spun from glassy - threads. - </p> - <p> - Picking my way through bushes, I came to the edge of the pond and sat down - to adjust my skates. It was perhaps four hundred yards in extent and - curved in the middle, so that one could not see from end to end. To the - right grew a plantation of firs almost large enough for cutting; on the - other three sides lay tangled swamp and brushwood. - </p> - <p> - I had risen to my feet and was on the point of striking out, when I heard - a sound which was unmistakable, <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i>—the sharp ring - of skates cutting against ice. - </p> - <p> - From a point above me at the edge of the fir-grove a figure darted out and - vanished round the bend. The moon was just rising; behind bars of tall - trunks I could see its pale disk shining—the pond had not yet caught - its light. - </p> - <p> - I felt foolishly angry and disappointed that I was not to have my last - evening to myself. I was jealous that some stranger, to whom it would lack - the same intensity, should share this memory. Unreasonable chagrin held me - hesitant; I was minded to steal away unnoticed. - </p> - <p> - The intruder had reached the far end of the pond—there was silence. - Then the <i>rrh! rrh! rrh!</i> commenced again, coming back. I set out to - meet it; it was eerie for two people to be within earshot, but out of - sight in that still solitude. We swung round the corner together; the moon - peered above the tree-tops. For an instant we were face to face, staring - into one another’s eyes; then our impetus carried us apart into the dusk. - </p> - <p> - I listened, and heard nothing but the brittle shuddering of icicles as - boughs strained up to free themselves. Stealing back round the bend, I - came upon her standing fixed and silent; as I approached her, she spread - her hands before her eyes in a gesture of terror. - </p> - <p> - “Vi, Vi,” I whispered, “it’s Dante.” - </p> - <p> - She muttered to herself in choking, babbling fashion. - </p> - <p> - When I had put my arms about her, she ceased to speak, but her body was - shaken with sobbing. She made no sound, but a deep convulsive trembling - ran through her. I talked to her soothingly, trying to convince her I was - real. Slowly she relaxed against me sighing, and trusted herself to look - up at me, letting her fingers wander over my face and hands. I had brought - her the bitterness of remembrance. Stooping, I kissed her mouth. “Just - once,” I pleaded, “after all these months of loneliness. I’m going - to-morrow.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I led her to the edge of the pond and removed her skates. The moon had now - sailed above the spear-topped firs and the ice was a silver mirror. - Walking through the muffled woods I told her of my coming to Sheba, of the - window from which I had watched her, and of all that had happened. From - her I learnt that she also had been going through the same struggle - between duty and desire ever since we parted. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - We were walking apart now; she had withdrawn her arm from mine. “I shall - always love you,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “And I you.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall never marry any other woman,” I told her; “I shall wait for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor boy,” she murmured, “it isn’t even right for you to think of that.” - </p> - <p> - Then, because there were things we dared not mention, we fell to talking - about Dorrie, how she was growing, how she was losing her lisp, and all - the tender little coaxing ways she had of making people happy. - </p> - <p> - We came out of the woods on the road which led back to Sheba. The lights - twinkling ahead and the occasional travelers passing, robbed us of the - danger of being alone together. I think she had been waiting for that. - </p> - <p> - “Dante,” she said, smiling at me bravely, “there is only one thing for you - to do—you must marry.” - </p> - <p> - “Marry,” I exclaimed, “some woman whom I don’t love!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - We came to the gate of her house. Across the snow, beneath the gloom of - elms lighted windows smote the darkness with bars of gold. Within one of - the rooms a man was stirring; he came to the panes and looked out, - watching for her return. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “When you wanted to think of me; that’s what you meant—why didn’t - you say it?” - </p> - <p> - “One daren’t say these things, when they’re saying good-by, perhaps for - ever.” - </p> - <p> - She had her hand on the gate, preparing to enter; we neither of us knew - what to say at parting. The things that were in my heart I must not utter, - and all other things seemed trivial. I looked from her to the burly figure - framed in the glowing window. I pitied him with the proud pity of youth - for age, a pity which is half cruel. After all, she loved me and we had - our years before us. We could afford disappointment, we whose lives were - mostly in the future; his life was two-thirds spent, and his years were - running out. - </p> - <p> - Looking up the path in his direction, I asked, “Shall you tell him?” - </p> - <p> - “He has known for a year; it was only fair.” - </p> - <p> - “And he was angry? He blamed you?” - </p> - <p> - “He was sorry. I wish he had blamed me. He blames himself, which is the - hardest thing I have to bear.” - </p> - <p> - “Vi,” I said, “he’s a good man—better than I am. You must learn to - love him.” - </p> - <p> - She held out her hand quickly; her voice was muffled. “Good-night, my - dearest, and good-by.” - </p> - <p> - The gate clanged. As she ran up the path, I saw that her husband had moved - from the window. He opened the door to her; in the lighted room I saw him - put his arms about her. By the way she looked up at him and he bent over - her, I knew she was confessing. - </p> - <p> - Then I shambled down the road, feeling very old and tired. I was so tired - that I hardly knew how to finish my packing; I was cold, bitterly cold. I - dragged myself to bed; in order to catch the boat in Boston, I had to make - an early start next morning. My teeth were chattering and my flesh was - burning. Several times in the night I caught myself speaking aloud, saying - stupid, tangled things about Vi. Then I thought that what I had said had - been overheard. I shouted angrily to them to go away, declaring, that I - had not meant what I said. - </p> - <p> - When my eyes closed, the stars were going out. “It will soon be morning,” - I told myself; “I must get up and dress.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER XV—THE FLAME OF A SWORD - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>ne morning, it - seemed the one on which I had planned to sail, I awoke in a strange room. - I knew it was strange because the sun was pouring in across the bed, and - the sun never looked through my window at the Misses Januaries’ 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I pulled my hand from under the sheets and was surprised at the effort it - took to raise it to my forehead. I heard the rustle of a starched skirt: - it was the kind of sound that Hetty used to make in my childhood, when she - came to dress me in the mornings and I pretended that I still slept. I - used to think in those days that it was a stern clean sound which - threatened me with soap and chilly water. Someone was bending over me; a - cool voice said, “Don’t move, Mr. Cardover. I’ll do that.” - </p> - <p> - The bandage was pushed back and in the sudden rush of light I saw a young - woman in a blue print-dress, standing beside my pillow. I tried to speak - to her, but my mouth was parched and my voice did not make the proper - sound. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t try to speak,” she said; “you’ve been sick, you know. Soon you’ll - feel better.” - </p> - <p> - I stopped trying to talk and obeyed her, just as I used to obey Hetty. At - the back of my mind I smiled to myself that I, a grown man, should obey - her; she looked such a girl. After she had put water to my lips and passed - a damp cloth over my face and hands, she nodded pleasantly and went back - to her seat by the window. - </p> - <p> - No—until now I had never seen this room. The walls were covered in - cherry-colored satin, which was patterned in vertical stripes, with - bunches of flowers woven in between the lines. All the wood-work was - painted a gleaming white. Chippendale chairs and old-fashioned delicate - bits of furniture stood about in odd corners. Between the posts of the big - Colonial bed I could see a broad bay-window, with a seat going round it. - Across the panes leafless boughs cast a net-work of shadows, and through - them fell a bar of solid sunlight in which dust-motes were dancing by the - thousand. Half-way down each side of the bed screens were standing, so - that I could only see straight before me and a part of the room to the - left and right beyond where they ended. - </p> - <p> - Through weakness I was powerless to speak or stir, yet my swimming senses - were anxiously alert. I saw objects without their perspective, as though I - were gazing up through water. In the same way with sounds, I heard them - thunderously and waited in suspense for their repetition. Though I lay so - still, nothing missed my attention. - </p> - <p> - By the quietness of the house I gathered that the hour was yet early. Far - away cocks crew their rural challenge. On a road near by footsteps passed - in a hurry. The whistle of a factory sounded; then I knew they had been - footsteps of people going to work. Beneath the window a garden-roller - clanged across gravel, and became muffled as it reached the turf. A door - banged remotely; a few seconds later someone tapped on the door of my - bedroom. The nurse laid aside her knitting and rustled over to the - threshold. A question was asked in a low whisper and the nurse’s voice - answered. - </p> - <p> - A woman entered into the bar of sunlight and stood regarding me from the - foot of the bed. With the immense indifference of weakness I gazed back. - Her long, fine-spun hair hung loose about her shoulders like a mantle. She - wore a blue dressing-gown, which she held together with one hand across - her breast. Her eyes were still sleepy; she had come directly she had - wakened to inquire after me. She smiled at me, nodding her head. She - seemed very distant; I wanted to return her smile, but I had not the - energy. I closed my eyes; when I looked again she had vanished. - </p> - <p> - For the next few days I do not know how many people came and looked at me, - whispered a few words and went. There was the old gray-haired doctor, with - his military-bearing and his trick of pursing his lips and knitting his - brows as he took my temperature. I had one visitor who was regular—Randall - Carpenter. He looked years older. Tiptoeing into the room, he would seat - himself in the bay-window; from there he would gaze at me moodily without - a word, with his knees spread apart, and his podgy hands clasped together. - Sometimes I would doze while he watched me and would awake to find him - still there, his position unaltered. One thing I noticed; Vi and he were - never in my room together. - </p> - <p> - In these first days, which slipped by uncounted, I realized that I had - been very near to death. It seemed to me that my spirit still hovered on - the borderland and looked back across the boundary half-regretful. I had - the feeling that life was a thing apart from me—something which I - was unanxious to share. All these people came and went, but I could not - respond to them. I desired only to be undisturbed. - </p> - <p> - Several times I had heard the shrill piping voice of Dorrie and the long - low <i>hush</i> of someone warning her to speak less loudly. She would - come to the door many times in the day, inquiring impatiently whether I - were better. Sometimes she would leave flowers, which the nurse would put - in water and set down by the side of my bed. I would watch them dreamily, - saying to myself, “Dorrie’s flowers.” - </p> - <p> - 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!” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Kiss me, Dorrie,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - As her soft lips brushed me and her silky curls fell about my forehead, I - felt for the first time that my grip on life was coming back. Lying there - thinking things over confusedly, it had seemed hardly worth while trying - to get better. It seemed worth while, now that I was reminded that there - was such beautiful innocence as Dorrie’s in the world. - </p> - <p> - When the nurse came back a few moments later, she shook her head at Dorrie - reproachfully and tried to take her away from me. - </p> - <p> - “But he wanths me,” cried Dorrie in self-defense, and I kept fast hold of - her. - </p> - <p> - After that I began to gather strength. I noticed that as I threw off my - lethargy, Vi’s visits grew less frequent. When she came her manner was - restrained; she entered hurriedly and made it appear that her only reason - for coming was to confer with the nurse. At first I would follow her about - with my eyes; but when I found how much it embarrassed her, I pretended to - be dozing when I heard her enter. - </p> - <p> - I could not understand how I came to be in Randall Carpenter’s house. I - dared not ask Vi or her husband; my presence implied too much already. I - was afraid to ask the nurse; I did not know how much I should be telling - by my question. There seemed to be a polite conspiracy of silence against - me. I wondered where it would all end. - </p> - <p> - I had grown to like the old doctor. He was a shrewd, wise, serious man. He - never spoke a word of religion, yet he made his religion felt by his - kindness. As he went about his work, he would become chatty, trying to - rouse my interest. He spoke a good deal about himself and told me - anecdotes of scenes which he had lived through in the War, when he had - been a surgeon in the Northern army. Out of his old tired eyes he would - watch me narrowly; I began to feel that he understood. - </p> - <p> - One day I whispered to him to send away the nurse. He invented an errand - for her, saying that he would stay with me till she returned. When she had - gone, he closed the door carefully and came and sat down on the side of - the bed. “Now, what is it, my boy?” - </p> - <p> - “What happened, doctor?” - </p> - <p> - He pursed his lips judicially and looked away from me for a full minute, - as though he would escape answering; then his eyes came back and I saw - that he was going to tell. - </p> - <p> - “I reckoned you’d be asking that question,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Things, doctor? Things that I wouldn’t want heard?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - He halted awkwardly. “Then I came to Randall and told him.” - </p> - <p> - “Had I mentioned him in my delirium?” - </p> - <p> - “You’d mentioned her.” - </p> - <p> - I could feel the warm flush of color spreading through my body and turned - away my head. The old doctor gripped my hand. “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. - </p> - <p> - “But, why should he care?” I questioned. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He looked down at me sidelong and silence fell between us. It was broken - by the footfall of the nurse along the passage. I asked him quickly when I - should be well enough to be moved. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Randall Carpenter came in and they went away together. I lay staring up at - the ceiling, my hands clenched and my eyes burning. They all knew; I alone - was ignorant of what things I had said. - </p> - <p> - A carriage came bowling up the driveway. I recognized whose it was, for I - had become familiar with the horse’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.” - </p> - <p> - “What can’t you bear?” - </p> - <p> - “Not knowing.” - </p> - <p> - When he had told them that there was no change for the worse and had sent - them back to bed, he came and sat down beside me. The lights in the room - were extinguished, save for a reading lamp in a far corner where the nurse - had been sitting. - </p> - <p> - “I guess something’s troubling you. Take your time and tell me slowly. - I’ll sure help you, if I can.” - </p> - <p> - “Doctor, you know about me and Mrs. Carpenter?” - </p> - <p> - “I reckon you’re sort of fond of her—is that it?” - </p> - <p> - I buried my face against the cool pillow. I dared not look at him, but he - signaled me courage with the pressure of his hand. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He did not answer me; he could not deny my assertion. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - He shook his head. “Nothing that would make her hate you. Perhaps, that’s - the worst of it.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - In my feverish suspense, I gained sudden strength and raised myself up on - my elbow to face him. He patted me gently on the shoulder, saying, “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But what makes them all so strange to me now?” - </p> - <p> - He fidgeted and cleared his throat. “It’s the truth I’m wanting,” I urged. - </p> - <p> - “Randall saw what she meant to you.” - </p> - <p> - “Anything else?” - </p> - <p> - “And what you meant to her.” - </p> - <p> - Against my will a wave of joy throbbed through me. I felt like sobbing - from relief and happiness. Then a clear vision of the reality came to me—the - great silent man who stared at me for hours, and the high-spirited woman, - so suddenly grown timid, stealing in and out the room with averted eyes in - pallid meekness. - </p> - <p> - “What ought I to do?” My voice choked me as I asked it. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “You’re tired. I can sleep now.” - </p> - <p> - He awoke with a jerk. His last words to me before he left were, “Just - leave it in His hands.” - </p> - <p> - From then on there was a changed atmosphere in the house. We had all been - afraid of one another and of one another’s misunderstandings. - </p> - <p> - When Dorrie had gone to bed, Vi would sit within the circle of the lamp - and read to me while I lay back on my pillows in the shadows, watching how - the gold light broke about her face and hands. She was always doing - something, either reading or sewing, as though when we were alone she were - afraid to trust herself. - </p> - <p> - One evening she said to me, “You haven’t asked if there are any letters.” - </p> - <p> - “I wasn’t expecting any.” - </p> - <p> - “Weren’t expecting any! Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Because none of my friends know that I’ve come to Sheba.” - </p> - <p> - She drew her face back from the lamp; her sewing fell from her hands. My - words had reminded us both of the guilty situation which lay unchanged - behind our present attitude. - </p> - <p> - It was she who broke the silence. “When you were taken ill I wrote Ruthita - and told her—and told her that you were being nursed in our house.” - </p> - <p> - She brought me my letters and then made an excuse to leave me to myself. - My father had written; so had the Snow Lady. After expressing concern for - my health, the tone of their letters became constrained and unnatural; - they refrained from accusing me, but they had guessed. Ruthita’s was an - awkward, shamefaced little note—it puzzled me by omitting to say - anything of Halloway. - </p> - <p> - More and more after this Vi showed fear of being left alone with me; any - moment a slip of the tongue might betray our passion. Frequently during - the evening hours Mr. Carpenter would join us. He would steal into the - room while Vi was reading and sit down by my bedside. I began to have - great sympathy for the man. Vi’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. - </p> - <p> - Along his own lines he had a wonderful mind. It was always scheming for - efficiency, concentration, and bigger projects. If money was the reward of - his energy, the desire for power impelled him. But I could quite - understand how a woman might yearn for more human interests and more - subtle methods of conveying affection than the mere piling of luxury on - luxury. He could articulate his deepest emotions only in acts. - </p> - <p> - One evening when Vi had excused herself on the ground that she had a - headache, I took the opportunity to thank him for his kindness. He became - as confused as if I had discovered him in a lie. - </p> - <p> - “My dear boy, you mustn’t speak to me like that; you don’t owe me - anything. It is I who owe you everything.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - It was the first reference that any of us had made to what had happened at - Ransby. - </p> - <p> - After that Randall Carpenter and I grew to be friends. We didn’t do much - talking about it, but we each realized how the other felt.... - </p> - <p> - I was almost sufficiently recovered to travel. I broached the subject of - my leaving several times—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.” - </p> - <p> - Dorrie added her piping protest. Vi alone was silent. Every time I - approached the subject it was the same. The truth was our relations were - so delicately balanced that the slightest disturbance would precipitate a - crisis—and the crisis we dreaded. We each one knew that the time for - frank speaking could scarcely be avoided, but we were eager to postpone - it. So we procrastinated, lengthening out our respite. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon I returned with Randall from a drive to find Vi waiting for - us at the gate. Her face was drawn with anxiety. - </p> - <p> - “What’s happened?” asked Randall, and the sharpness of suspense was in his - voice. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - They received the news as though a blow had fallen. Vi crept in and out - the rooms with a masked expression of unspoken tragedy. Dorrie caused - frequent embarrassment by her coaxing attempts to make me promise to visit - them again. Nevertheless, when she had gone to bed and we no longer had - her to distract us, we would pass more painful hours in inventing small - talk to tide us over dangerous topics. - </p> - <p> - The night before I sailed, we kept Dorrie up till she fell asleep against - me. Her innocence was a barrier between us. When she had been carried to - bed, Vi sat down to the piano and sang, while we two men glowered - desperately before the fire. I dared not watch her; I could not bear the - pain that was in her eyes. As I listened, I knew that her chief difficulty - in selections was what to avoid. We were in a mood to read into everything - a sentimental interpretation. - </p> - <p> - There were long pauses between her playing, during which no one spoke and - the only sound to be heard was the falling of ashes in the grate. The way - in which we were grouped seemed symbolic—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?” - </p> - <p> - Several times she half-commenced an air and broke off. Her voice was a - blind thing, tottering down an endless passage. For a horrid minute there - was dead silence—quivering suspense; then the keys crashed - discordantly as she gave way to a storm of weeping. - </p> - <p> - She rose with an appealing gesture, and slipped out. We heard her - footsteps trailing up the stairs, her door close, and then stillness. - </p> - <p> - I shuddered as though a window had been flung open behind me and a cold - wind blew across my back. The man at my side huddled down into his chair; - his fleshy face had lost its firmness; his eyes, like a statue’s, seemed - without pupils. The moment which we had dreaded and postponed had arrived. - </p> - <p> - Randall followed her into the hall; he came back, shutting the door - carefully behind him. There was slow decision in his voice when he said, - “After all, we’ve got to speak about it.” - </p> - <p> - He sank down, his cheeks blotchy and his hands quivering as with palsy. - When he spoke, he tried to make his voice steady and matter-of-fact. It - was as though he were saying, “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.” - </p> - <p> - This is what he actually said, “It isn’t her fault. You and I are to - blame.” - </p> - <p> - “Not you,” I protested. “It’s I who’ve behaved abominably.” - </p> - <p> - He shifted in his chair; struck a match; raised it part way to his cigar - and let it flicker out. Without looking at me he answered, “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you didn’t——” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - Turning his head and staring hard at me, he continued, “There’s only one - thing to be considered—<i>her happiness</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps she’ll forget when I’m gone,” I ventured. - </p> - <p> - “She won’t and you know it.” - </p> - <p> - He barked the words. His manner was losing its air of tired patience. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - He repeated his question harshly, as though demanding an instant answer. - What could I tell him? - </p> - <p> - He broke the miserable silence. “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?” - </p> - <p> - I shook my head. - </p> - <p> - His face became haggard and stern; only the twitching of the eye-lids - betrayed his nervousness. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He leant forward, clutching my knee. “You must have her.” - </p> - <p> - I drew back from him amazed, startled out of my self-possession. There was - something so horribly commonsense about his offer; I could not take him - seriously for the moment. He was tempting me, perhaps, in order that he - might find out just how far Vi and I had gone together—he might - easily suspect that things had happened during that summer at Ransby which - had not been confessed. - </p> - <p> - Now as I met his cold gray eyes, I felt his power. His face was - inscrutable and set, his mouth relentless. I had often wondered as I had - watched him in his home-life what stern qualities his amiability disguised—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. - </p> - <p> - “You must have her,” he repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Randall,” I broke out hoarsely, “you don’t mean that.” - </p> - <p> - “I do mean it.” - </p> - <p> - “She wouldn’t allow it.” - </p> - <p> - “She’d have to if I forced her; when I’d forced her, she’d be glad.” - </p> - <p> - “But it’s impossible. It isn’t honorable.” - </p> - <p> - “Honorable! If we’d been honorable, you and I, this wouldn’t have - happened.” - </p> - <p> - “But think what people would say?” - </p> - <p> - “What people would say doesn’t matter. There are some things which go so - deep that they concern only ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - “But Vi—before ever we decide anything, it would be honest to - consult her.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The fire had all but gone out; the room had grown chilly. We sat without - talking, thinking of her, reviewing the brutal cruelties of life. I had - reached the logical goal of my desire—the impossible had happened. - </p> - <p> - I let my fancy run a little way ahead, picturing the first freshness of - the days that were coming. Far away, with faery sounds, bugles of the - future were blowing. I was recalled to the ominous present by the frozen - hopelessness of this just man. We were placing society at defiance; we - were settling our problem on grounds of individual expediency. Would we - have strength to be happy in spite of condemnation? Would our conception - of what was just to Vi prove just in the end? - </p> - <p> - I began to waver. I thought I saw what had happened to Randall—the - tension of the last weeks had wrought upon his nerves. He had brooded over - the situation till remorse for his own share in it had made him lose his - regard for social standards. There was a tinge of insanity about this - quixotic determination to sacrifice himself. - </p> - <p> - I went over to the fireplace and pulled the smoldering logs together, so - that they broke into a feeble flame. I did it leisurely to gain time. With - my back towards him I inquired, “Have you reckoned the cost of all this?” - </p> - <p> - “Probably.” - </p> - <p> - “But the cost to yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “As far as I can.” - </p> - <p> - “You can’t have. You wouldn’t propose it if you had. You know what’ll be - said.” - </p> - <p> - “What’ll be said?” - </p> - <p> - “That you wanted to get rid of her and that that was why you took me into - your house.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But she’ll spoil her life if she goes with me. People——” - </p> - <p> - “People! Well, what’ll they say about her?” - </p> - <p> - “Everything defiling that hasn’t occurred.” - </p> - <p> - “And <i>you</i> 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——” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But that’s not what I’m proposing,” he said quietly; “I don’t want you to - run away together.” - </p> - <p> - “What then?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - My position was elaborately false. I wanted her with every atom of my - body, and here was I contending that I would not have her. At Ransby I had - been willing to steal her, and now she was offered me; but I had not seen - how much she meant to Randall then—at that time he was a hostile - figure in my imagination. - </p> - <p> - His unselfishness filled me with shame that I had ever thought to wrong - him. And yet the thing which he proposed was the inevitable consequence of - our actions; his cold reasoning had discerned that. If facts were as he - had stated them, what other way was there out? - </p> - <p> - “You agree, then?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “Blackguards.” - </p> - <p> - “So in your opinion it’s worse to take a wife with her husband’s consent - than to steal her? Humph!” - </p> - <p> - He leant across the table for a cigar. With great deliberation he cut the - end. When it was well alight, he thrust his thumbs into his waistcoat - pockets, looking me up and down. When he spoke, he left gaps between his - words. There was the rumble of suppressed anger in what he said. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “You know I want her.” - </p> - <p> - “Then what’s the matter? Are you afraid of the price?” - </p> - <p> - “The price she’d have to pay and you’d have to pay—yes.” - </p> - <p> - He frowned. His face was puckered with suspicion. “Isn’t it that you’re - afraid for yourself?” - </p> - <p> - The heat of his anger scorched me. I had watched this interpretation of my - conduct taking shape under my repeated refusals. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But you won’t.” - </p> - <p> - “But I would if I thought it was only for my sake you were refusing.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s only partly for your sake.” - </p> - <p> - “Why, then?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve shared your hospitality.” - </p> - <p> - “And because of that you won’t take her?” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I’ll make you—— For the last time, will you take her?” - </p> - <p> - “Not on those terms.” - </p> - <p> - Our voices had risen. A silence followed. Behind us we heard a sound. The - temperature of the room seemed lowered, as though something we had killed - had entered. - </p> - <p> - Turning, we saw Vi standing in the doorway. Her hair fell loose about her - shoulders. She was thinly clad and had risen hastily from bed. Our quarrel - must have reached her through the silent house. Her face was pinched and - pitiful. As she watched us her eyes searched Randall’s in terror and her - hands plucked at her breasts. - </p> - <p> - How much had she heard? How long had she been standing there? Did she know - how we had been degrading her? What had she gathered from my last words? - She had found us haggling over her as though she were a chattel, each one - trying to force the other to accept her, neither showing any sign that he - desired her for himself. In the chilly room we shivered, hanging our - heads. - </p> - <p> - Slowly she crossed the room. Her eyes were fixed on Randall; for all the - attention she paid me, I might not have been there. - </p> - <p> - “You didn’t mean it. You can’t have meant it.” - </p> - <p> - He lifted his head weakly, in one last effort to be firm. - </p> - <p> - “But I did, Vi. It’s for your sake—for your happiness.” - </p> - <p> - She flung her arms about him, holding him to her though he tried to draw - back. - </p> - <p> - “But you forgot——” - </p> - <p> - “I forgot nothing.” - </p> - <p> - “You did—there’s Dorrie.” - </p> - <p> - She buried her head on his shoulder, sobbing her heart out. He eyed me - sullenly. He looked an old man. Awkwardly, with a gesture that was afraid - of its tenderness, he let his hand wander across her hair. She raised her - face to his, clinging against him, and kissed him on the mouth. - </p> - <p> - They traversed the room, going from me; their footsteps died out upon the - stairs. - </p> - <p> - Never once had she looked at me. - </p> - <p> - In the grayness of the morning, before the servants had begun to stir, I - packed my bag and left. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0039" id="link2H_4_0039"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - BOOK IV—THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN - </h2> - <p> - <i>Thou hast been in Eden. Thou shalt eat the fruit of thy doings, yea, - even the fruit of thy thoughts.</i> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER I—THE HOME-COMING - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>eaving the hansom - at the foot of Pope Lane and carrying my bags, I walked up the avenue of - limes. The wantonness of spring was in the air and its melancholy. Above - the high walls the golden hurry of the sunset quivered. A breeze tore past - me down the passage, twisting and turning like a madcap ballet-dancer. - Overhead in the young greenness of the trees a host of sparrows fluttered, - impudently publishing their love-making. - </p> - <p> - At Plymouth on landing I had been met by letters from my lawyers and from - Uncle Obad. They were addressed to Sir Dante Cardover. It was rather - pleasant to be addressed as Sir Dante; until then I had not realized my - luck. The memory of that last night at Sheba had numbed my faculties and - taken my future from me. But now, with the thought of Woadley, life began - to weave itself into a new pattern. - </p> - <p> - On the run up to London, as the quiet of English landscapes and the - greenness of English meadows drifted by, I lost my bitter sense of - isolation: I belonged to this; it was part of me. At the same time, the - impassive wholesomeness of English faces awoke me in a strange way to the - enormity of what I had done. It was odd how far I had wandered from old - traditions and old landmarks in the delirium of the past two years. Even I - was a little scandalized by some of my recollections. - </p> - <p> - Next day I purposed to go down to Woadley; to-night I would spend with my - father at Pope Lane. There were explanations to be made; explanations - where my father was concerned, were never comfortable. I walked with a - pebble in my shoe till I had got them over. I had sure proof that he was - annoyed, for none of my letters, written to him since my recovery, had - been answered. - </p> - <p> - Thrusting my hand into the creeper, I found the knob. Far away at the back - of the house the bell tinkled; after an interval footsteps shuffled down - the path. The door opened cautiously; in the slit it made I saw the face - of Hetty. There was something in its expression that warned me. - </p> - <p> - “Father at home?” I asked cheerfully, pushing forward. - </p> - <p> - “Master Dante, or Sir Dante as I should say, don’t you go for to see ’im.” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “’E’s bitter against you.” - </p> - <p> - “What nonsense! Here, take one of these bags. Why should he be bitter - against me?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “But I’ve come to see him. I’ve only just landed.” - </p> - <p> - She stared at me gloomily, barring the entrance. Across her shoulder I - could see the path winding round the house and down to the garden where - everything was familiar. Once I had longed to leave it! How much I would - now give to get back! The leaves shivered, making patches of sunlight move - like gold checkers, pushed forward and backward on the lawn. My mind - keenly visualized all the details that lay out of sight. I knew just how - my father must look sitting writing at his study-window. I ought to have - told him; he might have understood. But the barrier of reticence had - always divided us. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>This time?</i>” - </p> - <p> - Her cheeks went crimson. “’E didn’t read the letters you sent after - ’ers. ’E tossed ’em aside.” - </p> - <p> - “But the Snow Lady and Ruthie, they’ll see me.” - </p> - <p> - She looked furtively over her shoulder at the house, then she slipped out - into the lane beside me, almost closing the door. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Little Ruthie the wife of that man! I had made them unrespectable, so she - had rectified my mistake by marrying the father of Lottie’s child! - </p> - <p> - “You’d better write.” - </p> - <p> - She had edged herself into the garden and held the door at closing-point. - I could see the house no longer. Her head looked out through the slit as - though it had no body. I was sick and angry—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. - </p> - <p> - I pushed roughly past Hetty like an insolent peddler, and left her - bleating protests behind. In the hall I dropped my bags and entered my - father’s study unannounced. - </p> - <p> - He glanced up from under the hand with which his eyes were shaded. His - mouth straightened. He went on with his writing, feigning that he had not - heard me enter. I remembered the trick well—as a boy it had made - punishment the more impressive. It was done for that purpose now; he had - never accustomed himself to think of me as a grown man. - </p> - <p> - I watched him. How lean, and threadbare, and overworked he looked! How he - tyrannized over himself! The hair had grown thin about the temples; his - eyes were weak, his forehead lined. He had disciplined joy out of his - life. But there was something big about him—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. - </p> - <p> - “You did not want to see me?” - </p> - <p> - He blotted his page carefully and laid aside his pen. “I had good reason.” - His voice was cold and tired. - </p> - <p> - “You can’t judge of that; you haven’t heard.” - </p> - <p> - “I can conjecture.” - </p> - <p> - “But I have at least the right to explain. You can’t conjecture the - details that led up to it.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He had allowed me to remain standing, making me feel my intrusion on his - privacy. I had always felt that in talking to him I was keeping him from - his work. My mind went back to the fear with which I had entered his study - in the old days. And this was the end of it. - </p> - <p> - “You can never have cared much for me,” I threw out bitterly, “if you can - break with me so lightly.” - </p> - <p> - His pale face flushed; his distant manner broke down. “How should you know - how much I cared?” - </p> - <p> - “How should I know! All my life you’ve been silent and there were times——” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “You never encouraged my confidence and now you condemn me unheard. - Silence between us has become a habit.” - </p> - <p> - He stabbed the blotting-paper with his pen. His emotions were stirred; he - was afraid he might betray them. So he spoke hurriedly. “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.” - </p> - <p> - I walked across to the window and drummed upon the panes. Across the - garden a soft gray dusk was falling. Along those paths Ruthita and I had - played; the garden was empty and very lonely. Scene after scene came back, - made kindly by distance. I turned. “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - The Snow Lady rapped on the door and almost entered. My father signed to - her to go away, saying that we would come to her later. Then I told him. - And while I told him I kept thinking how strange it was that until now, - when we had quarreled, we should never have found one another, but, like - two people eager to meet, had walked always at the same pace, in the same - direction, out of sight, round and round on opposite sides of the same - house. - </p> - <p> - It was dark when I finished. He leant out and laid his hand on my arm. - “And now that it’s all ended, we can make a new start together.” - </p> - <p> - “It may not be all ended.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is. You’re not going to tell me that you’re still hankering after - a married woman?” - </p> - <p> - “I am.” - </p> - <p> - The kindness went from his voice. He rang the bell, waited in silence till - Hetty brought the lamp, and took it from her at the door to prevent her - entering. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “The choice is between her and your family.” - </p> - <p> - “I choose her.” - </p> - <p> - “Then until you’ve come to your senses, there can be no communication - between us.” - </p> - <p> - He sat down noisily at his desk. “You’ll excuse me; there’s nothing more - to be said.” - </p> - <p> - When I still waited, he took up his pen. “I have an article here that I - must get finished.” - </p> - <p> - I walked slowly down the lane. The door swung to behind me. I felt that I - was seeing this for the last time. All the old, trivial, sweet - associations came thronging back: the dying affections, the lost innocence - which had seemed so permanent, stretched out hands to restrain me. Even - Hetty had condemned; it was written in her face. Long ago Hetty and I had - viewed the world from the same angle, we had criticised and schemed - against our tyrants together. The chapter of home life was ended. Whatever - happened as regards Vi, there could be no going back. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER II—DREAM HAVEN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> did not go to - Woadley as I had planned. My position was too uncertain at present for me - to venture where further explanations would be required. My father had - made me aware of that. I was unwilling to cover the same ground of - argument with Grandmother Cardover, so I had my lawyers visit me in - London. - </p> - <p> - Until something had been definitely settled, I did not care to return to - Oxford or to seek out any of my friends; I should at once be called upon - to account for my erratic departure and prolonged absence. So I made - myself inconspicuous in the crowds of London, waiting for some final word - from Sheba. It was quite likely that none would ever come—and that - would be an answer in itself. Yet, now that I had done what had seemed to - me right and had thrust her from me, I hoped against hope that, somehow, - she might come back. I felt that though I might have to wait for years, I - would resolutely wait for her. No other woman could ever take her place. - And none of this could I tell her. She might think that I had counted the - cost and considered it too expensive. She might put the worst construction - on the words she had overheard on that last night; yet unless she - approached me first, I was irrevocably pledged to silence. - </p> - <p> - Too late for my peace of mind I recognized my weakness: if I had wanted - her, I should have taken her strongly in the early days and faced the - consequences; now, through making truces with my conscience and - conventions, I had lived so long in thoughts of her that I should always - desire her. - </p> - <p> - I would like to have gone to Ruthita, but that was forbidden. Lord - Halloway riding the high horse of morality was exceedingly comic, but I - knew exactly how men of his stamp argued: to introduce a questionable - relation into the family was anathema. I wondered continually what secret - causes lay behind Ruthita’s marriage. I felt sure that she had consented - on the impulse, and that love had had nothing to do with it. The suspicion - that I was somehow responsible left me worried. - </p> - <p> - Spring had reached the point of perfection where it merges into summer. - The tides of life flowed strongly through the dazzling streets of London; - I was too young not to respond to their energy. Everywhere the persistent - hope of spring planted banners of green and set them waving. Ragged shrubs - in decrepit squares bubbled into blossom. Window-boxes lent a touch of - braveness. Water-carts passed up and down parched streets, settling the - dust. In the kind of suburb that walks always with a hole in its stocking, - slatternly maids pressed their bosoms against area-railings chaffing with - butcher-boy or policeman—their idea of love. Where a street-organ - struck up, little children gathered, dancing in the gutter. Even the - sullen Thames, the gray hair of London, was dyed to gold between the - bridges by the splendid sun. The spirit of youth had invaded the city; - flower-girls, shouting raucously above the traffic, shaking their posies - in the face of every comer, seemed heralds of a new cheerfulness, shaming - Despair of his defiance. - </p> - <p> - This severing of oneself from friendship was dull. Leisurely crowds - laughing along sunlit pavements, made me ache for companionship. I was in - this frame of mind when I chanced to think of Uncle Obad’s letter. It had - met me at Plymouth on my arrival, and bore the characteristically - flamboyant address of <i>Dream Haven, Dorking.</i> - </p> - <p> - He must have chosen Dorking as a place of residence because it had given - its name to a famous breed of fowls. Perhaps he thought such a - neighborhood would be propitious to his own experiments. His letter was - brief and to the point: if I could spare the time, he and Aunt Lavinia - would feel honored to entertain me. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Obad was stilted in his written use of language; he felt <i>honored</i> - when he meant to say <i>jolly well glad</i>. There was always an obedient - servant ring about the way in which he signed himself. The training he had - undergone as secretary to charitable societies had spoilt him for familiar - letter-writing. - </p> - <p> - Since the Rapson incident, things had never been quite the same. My good - fortune made him uneasy; it placed a gap between us and, I suppose, served - to emphasize his non-success. Of his new mode of life since the Christian - Boarding House had been abandoned, I had only heard. The thought of him - had lain a dusty memory at the back of my mind—which made it all the - kinder that he should now remember me. Perhaps he had heard before writing - of how Pope Lane had planned to receive me. - </p> - <p> - As I steamed into the station I hung my head out of the window to catch - first sight of him. Yes, there he was. He had grown stouter; his purple - whiskers which still bristled like shaving-brushes, had faded to a milky - white. He was wearing a long fawn dust-coat which flapped about the calves - of his legs. He carried the old exaggerated air of blustering importance, - but was a trifle more careless in his dress. His carelessness, however, - was now the prosperous untidiness of one who could afford it. In his lapel - he wore a scarlet geranium. - </p> - <p> - As I stepped out, he came fussily towards me. “Very good of you to come, - I’m sure—kind and very thoughtful.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Still go in for breeding hens?” I asked him. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>And hens</i>,” I laughed. “Remember the old white hen you gave me? It - laid one egg and then ate it; after that it died.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - Outside the station a dog-cart was standing, with a fat little piebald - pony between the shafts. We stuffed the baggage under the back-seat, and - squeezed into the front together. The pony started off at a smart trot. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - We fell to remembering. The pony slowed down to a walk. How everything - came back as we talked! And how ripping the old Spuffler had always been, - and how ripping it was to be near him now! He had put aside his armor of - pretense and was talking naturally. We talked together of that first day - when we had met the gipsies in the Surrey woodland, and we talked of the - Red House, and of all the times that we had been happy. A warm wind - fluttered about us. I caught Uncle Obad looking at me fixedly, dropping - his eyes and then looking up again, as though he were trying to satisfy - himself. - </p> - <p> - “That <i>Sir</i> don’t seem to have spoiled you.” - </p> - <p> - The red walls of Dorking were left behind. A white chalky road stretched - before us, climbing upward to the skyey downs; over to the left rose a - wooded ridge, somnolent with pines; to the right lay a village-common - across which geese waddled in solemn procession. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Obad roused himself and shook the reins. “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.” - </p> - <p> - We turned off into the pine-wood by a narrow roadway. The fragrance of - balsam made me long to close my eyes. At the edge of the road, on either - side, ran a ditch through which water tinkled over gravel. On its banks - grew fern and foxglove. The silent aisles of the wood were carpeted with - the tan of fallen needles. Sunlight, drifting between branches, slashed - golden rags in the olive-tinted shadows. My mind became a blank through - pure enjoyment as I listened to the monologue of gay chatter that was - going on beside me. He was doing for me now just what he had done for me - so often as a child, throwing down the walls of conventional tyrannies and - showing me the road of escape to nature. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly out of the basking stillness rose a farmyard clamor—cocks - crowing, ducks quacking, and the boastful clucking of hens. We had reached - the top of the ridge and were bowling along the level. Toby pricked up his - ears and quickened his trotting. Round a bend we swung into sight of a - low-thatched house, standing in a clearing. Its windows were leaded and - opened outwards. In front grew a garden, sun-saturated, riotous with - flowers, and partly hidden by a high hawthorn hedge. In the hedge was a - white swing-gate, from which a red-brick path ran up to the threshold. - Across the gate one had a glimpse of beehives standing a-row; the air was - heavy with mingled scents of pine, wild thyme, and honey. The impression - that fastened on my imagination was one of exquisite cleanliness: the sky, - the gleaming chalk road, the white-painted woodwork of the cottage, - everything was dazzlingly spotless. - </p> - <p> - Our wheels had hardly halted before the gate, when I saw Aunt Lavinia in - the doorway unfastening her apron. Neat and methodical as ever, she folded - it carefully, and laid it on a chair before coming out to us. - </p> - <p> - “Lavinia, Lavinia! We’re here,” shouted Uncle Obad. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “It’s glad I am to see you.” She spoke quietly and, when she kissed me, - was careful not to crumple her dress. - </p> - <p> - “Dignified and graceful—that’s her,” said Uncle Obad. - </p> - <p> - We had plenty to talk about while we were getting over our first - strangeness. I had to see the house and all its arrangements. My room was - at the back, looking out from the ridge over smoking tree-tops far away - across undulating downs. - </p> - <p> - Windows and doors were always open, so the passages were blowy with the - dreamy, drowsy smell of green things growing. Creepers tumbled across - sills; leaves tapped whenever the breeze stirred them; pigeons flew into - the dining-room at meal-times and perched on Uncle Obad’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. - </p> - <p> - These were the recreations of Dream Haven, but its stern business, as one - might suppose, was the raising of fowls. At the back of the cottage on a - southern slope were arranged coops, and pens, and houses, gleaming white - against the golden gravel like a miniature military encampment. Each pen - had its trumpeter, who strode forth at intervals to raise his challenge; - whereupon every male in camp tried to outdo him, from the youngest - stripling, whose shrill falsetto broke like a boy’s voice in the middle, - to the deep, rich tones of the oldest campaigner. Falsetto, tenor, bass, - baritone shook the stillness like an army on the march, with rattle of - accoutrements, and brass-bands playing, <i>cock-a-doodle-doo, - cock-a-doodle-doo</i>. - </p> - <p> - In the hush that followed from far away, as from scattered detachments - replying, came the counter-sign. Below the ridge in the village on the - downs every rooster felt his reputation endangered. In farmhouses out of - sight the challenge was caught up and the boast flung back. To one - listening intently, the clamor could be heard spreading across the - countryside till it spent itself at last in the hazy distance. Then the - ladies of the camp commenced their flatteries, <i>tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck-tuck, - our men did best, our men did best</i>. - </p> - <p> - Uncle Obad took childish delight in the comedy; he knew the voice of each - male bird in his yard and the sequence of precedence in which they should - aspire. If they got out of order, he would recognize at once which - cockerel was trying to oust his senior. If the ambitious fellow was one of - his experiments in crossing strains, he was vastly tickled. To him they - all had their personalities; he used to say that a poultry-yard could - teach you a whole lot about humans. - </p> - <p> - “Why don’t you men go out for a walk?” said Aunt Lavinia; “I’m sure Dante - would like to look about.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps she’s right. Aunt Lavinia’s always been right ever since I can - remember.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “When was that?” - </p> - <p> - He narrowed his eyes and watched the smoke curl up into the velvet air. - When it had drifted a few yards away, one could imagine that it was a - galleon cloud sailing slowly through infinity. I got to thinking how much - more picturesque the world becomes when we lose our standards of - perspective. Uncle Obad had won his happiness by making small things - important to himself. - </p> - <p> - He did not answer my question. I was too lazy to trouble him again. The - rich spicy fragrance of woodlands lulled my senses. I watched through a - gap in the trees how the sun’s rays shortened across the downs. All the - out-door world was bathed in tepid light. The fierceness had gone out of - the day. - </p> - <p> - The Spuffler always made me philosophize; he was a failure, but he had - found a secret. He had known how to discover nooks and crannies in the - persistent present where he could be content. I had lost that fine faculty - for carelessness since I had grown older. - </p> - <p> - He knocked out his pipe and commenced to refill it. “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. - </p> - <p> - “It’s the last word... just what we always dreamt.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s why I called it Dream Haven. Not so bad for a man of my years - after keeping a Christian Boarding House!” - </p> - <p> - “Make it pay?” - </p> - <p> - “Not yet. Don’t need to, by Golly.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t need to! How’s that?” - </p> - <p> - “Business knowledge. Sound judgment. Backing my opinion when the odds were - against me. I doubled up my fists and stood square against the world.” - </p> - <p> - “A kind of brave Horatius?” - </p> - <p> - “Who’s he?” - </p> - <p> - “Kept the bridge or something. Was a friend of Macaulay.” - </p> - <p> - “Never heard of him. Did he keep poultry?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Got money. Got money to burn. Got enough to last me to my journey’s end - without earning a penny.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Did you make it out of the boarding-house?” I inquired incredulously. - </p> - <p> - 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 ‘<i>Compensation - for a damaged character</i>’ There was no address.” - </p> - <p> - “But there must have been more than that.” - </p> - <p> - “You bet. There was a banker’s draft. How much for? Guess.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t guess.” - </p> - <p> - “Five thousand pounds.” - </p> - <p> - “Whoof! One of your charitable bigwigs sent it?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Mines?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Which one?” - </p> - <p> - He passed over my slur. “Women.” - </p> - <p> - “Kitty?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s what I meant. He’s sorry now; wishes he’d married her.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph! If you don’t make your place pay, what are you doing?” - </p> - <p> - His face took on an expression of intense earnestness. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The old bond was established. His enthusiasm and my response to it swept - aside the misunderstandings of years. I seemed a little boy, following him - into a retreat of impossible glamour. He showed me a pen of magnificent - slate-blue fowls; they had the extra toe of the Dorking, the drooping comb - of the Leghorn, yellow legs of the Game, and full plump body of the - Plymouth Rock. He enumerated their merits, insisted that I should guess - what mixings of blood had gone to their making, and was delighted when he - found I had not forgotten the old knowledge he had taught me. He was going - to enter them at the shows this year, but he was worried over one point—what - name should he call them? - </p> - <p> - “But you’ve given them their name.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>Rapsons</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “If you feel like that, why don’t you?” - </p> - <p> - “He won’t let me.” - </p> - <p> - “Share the glory then. Call ’em <i>Spreckles</i> in public, and <i>Rapsons</i> - among ourselves.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What made you ask me?” I said. - </p> - <p> - “Ask you? Ask you what?” - </p> - <p> - “To come and visit you.” - </p> - <p> - “Why shouldn’t I?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He looked shy and awkward, and drew his hat down over his brows; I knew - that he was making up his mind not to answer. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Umph!” - </p> - <p> - “What d’you think about it?” - </p> - <p> - “It doesn’t much matter what an old knacker thinks about anything.” - </p> - <p> - “Why on earth d’you keep calling yourself an old knacker?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>leading</i>. ‘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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - <i>Dream Haven!</i> How cool the name sounds! What memories of sunshiny - mornings it brings back. Day after day I watched and waited for the letter - from America. There were times when I made sure that I could feel it - approaching. “It will be here to-morrow,” I said. - </p> - <p> - I tortured myself by picturing how different life would have been had I - taken Randall at his word. It was the kind of torture that became a - luxury. I should have brought her to Dream Haven, perhaps. I played with - my fancy, pretending that we were here together; so actual were my - imaginings that I was incredulous when, on coming to myself, I found her - absent. The dreams were more real than the reality. - </p> - <p> - Wakened in the morning by the twittering of birds, I would raise myself on - my elbow and marvel at the sweet flushed face beside me on the pillow and - the glorious, yellow streaming hair. Slowly it would fade and vanish. - There were walks which we took through the lonely woodlands when all the - delayed intimacies of love filled life with unashamed passion. There were - wild days on the downs, when rain and wind, driving our bodies together, - stung me to a new protecting ecstasy. There were quiet evenings in the - gloaming—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. - </p> - <p> - I must have cultivated this unreal life to the point of danger in my - effort to escape the ache of the present. Had I lived by myself I might - have crossed the border-line, but the comedy of Uncle Obad was always - drawing me back. He kept watch over me like a kind old spaniel. - </p> - <p> - In the morning from where I sat in the garden, I could see him farther - down the slope through the orchard, trotting in and out his pens with his - disreputable dust-coat flapping. Just as once, when he had no money, the - appearance of affluence had been his hobby, so now, when he could afford - to dress respectably, he delighted in looking shabby. He left his clothes - unfastened in the most unexpected places; Aunt Lavinia was continually - making grabs at him and buttoning him up. In the afternoon she sent us off - for long walks together to prevent his getting fat. On these occasions he - would explain his loose philosophy, which consisted of a large-minded, - stalwart carelessness. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - So the summer fled by, and the woods grew browner, and the air had a - sharper tang. The letter from Sheba had not come. I could mark time no - longer; at last I left for Woadley. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER III—NARCOTICS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was twenty-six - when I entered into possession of Woadley. By my grandfather’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. - </p> - <p> - I did not regard my past in that light. It was vital. Until the woman I - loved should share my fortunes I felt the future to be an indefinite - postponement. How she could come into my life again I dared not surmise; - that she would come, I never doubted. I knew now that the letter which I - had both hoped for and dreaded, would never arrive. For Dorrie’s sake they - had decided to remain together. In my wiser moments I was glad of it; I - knew that, had she chosen otherwise, our love would have been degraded. - </p> - <p> - Strong influences were brought to bear to press me into public life. My - situation and training entitled me to take up a position of some local - importance. I might have stood for Parliament, but I shrank from - publicity. All I asked was to be left alone to follow up my own interests - in quiet. I had come so suddenly into a sphere of power which I had done - nothing to merit, that ambitions which had still other ambitions for their - goal, ceased to allure me. My temperament was natively bookish; by nature - I was a Fellow of Lazarus and by compulsion a conscientious country - squire. When I was not at Oxford, dreaming in libraries, I was at Woadley, - superintending the practical management of my estate. - </p> - <p> - The joy of sex and its fulfilment in a home, which apply the spur to most - men’s activities, to me were denied; it was unthinkable that I should - marry any woman other than Vi. The energies which should have found a - domestic expression with me became the mental stimulus of an absorbing - scholarly pursuit. - </p> - <p> - Through my Oxford lectures and fugitive contributions to periodicals, I - began to be known as an authority on the intellectual revolt of the - Renaissance; by slow degrees I set about writing the life of that strange - contradiction, half-libertine, half-saint, Æneas Sylvius Piccolomini. - </p> - <p> - Engaged in these employments, I grew to love the smooth gray days of - Woadley which stole by ghost-like and unnumbered. And I came to love the - Woadley country with a passion which was as much due to its associations - as to its beauty. When I had grown tired of researches into things - ancient, one of my greatest joys was to plod to Ransby through rutted - lanes deep in hedges, and so out to the north beach where the sea strummed - against the land, and the wind raged, and the blackened hull of the wreck - crouched beneath the weight of sky. - </p> - <p> - Grandmother Cardover’s shop saw me often. There in the keeping-room, with - its dull red walls and leisurely loud ticking clock, we would talk - together of bygone times and of those which were, maybe, coming. At first - she urged me to marry, and to take up the position in the county which - should be mine. But soon, with the easy fatalism of old age, she accepted - me for what I was, and ceased to worry. - </p> - <p> - With my father I held no communication—the breach had become final; - so of Ruthita I heard next to nothing. But as regards Lord Halloway, quite - inadvertently I increased my knowledge. - </p> - <p> - One squally night I was returning from Ransby, driving up the sodden road - to the Hall, when my attention was attracted by a camp-fire. I halted out - of curiosity, and struck across the turf to the light. Between me and the - fire was a wind-break of young firs, a diminutive plantation behind which, - as behind bars, figures prowled. As the flames shot up, the figures - yearned toward the clouds; as the flames died down, the figures seemed to - creep into the ground. On reaching the wind-break a lurcher growled, and I - heard a man’s voice telling the beast to lie quiet. I was about to declare - myself, when a hand was laid on my shoulder. I leapt aside, peering into - the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “All right, brother,” a voice said huskily. “I’m meaning you no hurt.” - </p> - <p> - A woman’s face pushed itself out of the blackness; by the light of the - fire I saw that it was Lilith’s. - </p> - <p> - “Now you’re here, brother, we’ve come back to Woadley.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke as though our meeting had been pre-arranged. - </p> - <p> - Gazing through the trees I saw the old yellow caravan: and G’liath; the - gaudy woman was there, and the hag who had tried to tell Vi’s fortune on - the marshes. - </p> - <p> - The huddled gipsy tents became an accustomed sight and the center of a new - interest in my landscape. The proud lawlessness of the gipsies appealed to - my own suppressed wildness. They opened a door of escape from commonplace - environment. Their unannounced comings and goings had an atmosphere of - mystery and stealth which filled me with excitement. Of a night I would - look out from my bedroom windows and see the red glow of their camp across - the park-land; in the morning nothing would remain but blackened turf and - silence. - </p> - <p> - I went on many tramping expeditions with Lilith. She had become curiously - elflike and wilful since those early days. She seemed to live wholly in - the moods and sensations of the present; of the past she would speak only - in snatches. Sometimes, when she softened, she would mention Ruthita; but - it was long before I discovered her secret and the reason why for so many - years the gipsies had refused to camp at Woadley. - </p> - <p> - All one day in the height of summer we had wandered, across meadows and by - unfrequented by-roads, too content to pay heed to where we were going; - when evening overtook us we were miles from home. It was too late to turn - back, unless we walked on to the nearest village and hired a trap and - drove. Lilith scouted the proposal with scornful eyes as too utterly - conventional. We would make a camp for the night and return to-morrow. - </p> - <p> - There, alone in the open, with great clouds thumbing the western sky, and - birds sinking into tree-tops singing, “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - But she was not thinking of me. Her eyes gazed far away. Her arm was - hollowed and her head bowed, as though a little one pressed against her. - With her right hand she fumbled at her breast, loosening her bodice. Her - body swayed slowly to and fro in a soothing, rocking motion. I had seen - her like this before when she thought no one was looking. - </p> - <p> - Leaning forward I plucked a twig from the fire to light my pipe. She threw - herself back from me startled and sprang to her feet. “Don’t touch me.” Her - voice was hoarse and choking. - </p> - <p> - Looking up from where I sat, I saw that her bosom panted and that her - nostrils were quivering with animal fright. But it was her eyes that told - me; they were wide and fixed like those of one who has been roused from - sleep, and is not yet fully awake. - </p> - <p> - “I wasn’t trying to touch you, Lil. I’m your pal, girl, Dante Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - When I spoke she came to herself and recognized me. Her fear vanished and - her arms fell limp to her side. “I’m goin’.” - </p> - <p> - “But what’s the trouble? I thought we were to camp here to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But not with me.” - </p> - <p> - “Afore ever I knew you, silly. When I was little more’n a child—long - time ago.” - </p> - <p> - We stamped out the fire before we left, and stole silently across the - moonlit meadows. She walked ahead at first in defiance; presently, ashamed - of the distrust she had shown, she fell back and we traveled side by side. - </p> - <p> - “Lil, I watched you; you were dreaming that you had your little baby - back.” - </p> - <p> - She placed her hand in mine, but she gave me no answer. - </p> - <p> - “Who was he—the man who did this to you long ago, when you camped - alone together?” - </p> - <p> - She turned her face away; her voice shook with passion. “I don’t have to - tell you; you know ’im.” - </p> - <p> - The people were few with whom we were both acquainted. I ran over the - names in my mind; the truth flashed out on me. - </p> - <p> - “Was it because of that you wouldn’t camp at Woadley?” - </p> - <p> - She bent her head, but the cloud of hatred in her face would have told me. - </p> - <p> - After learning this new fact about Halloway, he was never long absent from - my mind; for Lilith, though we never referred to him and she had at no - time mentioned him by name, was a continual reminder. I became familiar - with his doings through the papers. He was making a mark for himself in - politics; there was even a talk that he might find a seat in the cabinet. - I read of Lady Halloway’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. - </p> - <p> - I often wondered what was the condition of affairs between herself and - Halloway. Was she happy? Was he kind? Was it possible that she should have - outlived her first judgment of him? Perhaps all this outward display of - success had its hidden emptiness. Behind Halloway lay a host of ruined - lives, Lilith’s among them, the waste of which he could not justify. - </p> - <p> - I had been five years at Woadley, when my work made it necessary that I - should spend some weeks in London in order to be near libraries. It was - just after Christmas that I came to town. With my usual clinging to old - associations, I took rooms at Chelsea, almost within sight of the mansion - which had witnessed my uncle’s brief reign of splendor. From my windows I - could see the turgid river sweeping down to Westminster, and the - nurse-girls with perambulators and scarlet dots of soldiers loitering - beneath bare trees of the Embankment. - </p> - <p> - On rising one morning, I found that the subdued grays and browns had - vanished—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. - </p> - <p> - I could not get her out of mind. I did not want to. I kept tracing - resemblances to her in the girls whom I passed in the streets. Some of - them were carrying their skates, with flying hair and flushed faces. - Others, whom I met after lunch in the theatre districts, were going to - matinées with school-boy brothers. I wanted to be back again in the old - intimacy, walking beside her. Since that was impossible, I set myself - deliberately to remember. - </p> - <p> - In the afternoon I strolled into the Green Park. Constitution Hill was - scattered with spectators all agape to see the quality drive by. Every now - and then a soldier or statesman would be recognized; the word would pass - from mouth to mouth with a flutter of excitement. The trees enameled in - white, the grass in its sparkling blanket, the sky banked with soft - clouds, the flushed faces—everything added its hint of animated and - companionable kindness. - </p> - <p> - Of a sudden in the throng of flashing carriages, my attention was caught - by an intense white face approaching, half-hidden in a mass of night-black - hair—the face was smaller than ever, and even more pathetically - patient. By her side sat the man whom I now almost hated, looking handsome - and important; the years had dealt well with him, and had heightened his - air of dignity and aristocratic assurance. He was speaking to her lazily - while she paid him listless attention, never meeting his glance. It was - plain to see that, whatever he had or had not been to other women, his - passion for her was unabated. She looked a snow-drop set beside an exotic - orchid; the demure simplicity of her beauty was accentuated by the - contrast. Her wandering gaze fell in my direction; for an instant my gaze - absorbed her. She started forward from the cushions; her features became - nipped with eagerness. Those wonderful eyes of hers, which had always had - power to move me, seemed to speak of years of longing. A smile parted her - lips; her listlessness was gone. She leant out of the carriage, as though - she would call to me. - </p> - <p> - Lord Halloway’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. - </p> - <p> - That night at Chelsea I could not sleep for thinking. Across the ceiling I - watched the lights of the police-boats flash in passing. I listened to the - river grumbling between its granite walls. Late taxis purred by; I took to - counting them. Big Ben lifted up his solemn voice, speaking to the stars - of change and time. I thought, imagined, remembered. What had happened to - us all that we were so gravely altered? What had happened to her? What had - he done to quench her? Then came the old, forgotten question: had I had - anything to do with it? - </p> - <p> - Next day I set myself to conquer my restlessness, but my accustomed - interests had lost their fascination. Neither that day, nor in those that - followed, could I recover my grip on my habitual methods of life. What - were the temptations, disappointments of a dead past compared with those - that were now in the acting? My scholarship, my love of books, my - undertakings at Woadley had only been in the nature of narcotics; I had - drugged myself into partial forgetfulness. Now the old affections, like - old wounds, ached and irked me. One glimpse of Ruthita’s white intensity - had stabbed me into keenest remembrance. - </p> - <p> - I <i>had</i> to see her again; the hunger to hear her speak was on me—to - listen to the sound of her voice. - </p> - <p> - Several times I saw her driving in the Park, sometimes alone, sometimes - with Halloway. She never looked at me, but I was certain she was aware of - me by the way her cheek grew pale. Only a few years ago I had been half - her life, free to hold her, to come and go with her, to disregard her; now - she passed me unnoticed. I haunted all places where I might expect to find - her; whether I met or missed her my pain was the same. At the back of my - mind was the constant dread that her husband would hurry her away to where - I could not follow. - </p> - <p> - It was a blustering afternoon in early March, on a day of laughing and - crying—one of those raw spring days, before spring really commences, - capricious as a young girl nearing womanhood, without reason gay and - without reason serious. In the sunshine one could believe that it was - almost summer, but winter lurked in the shadows. A flush of young green - spread through the tree-tops; in open spaces crocuses shivered near - together. The streets were boisterous with gusty puffs of wind which sent - dust and papers circling. In stiff ranks, like soldiers, the houses stood, - erect, straining their heads into the sky, as if trying to appear taller. - Clouds hurried and fumed along overhead travel-routes, and rent gashes in - their sides as if with knives, letting through the sudden turquoise. - Presently slow drops began to patter. Umbrellas shot up. Bus-drivers - unstrapped their capes. In the Circus flower-girls picked up their baskets - and ran for shelter. - </p> - <p> - On arriving in the Mall I found people standing along the open pavement in - a lean, straggling line, despite the threatened deluge, I learnt that - royalty were expected. Soon I heard a faint and far-off cheering. A - policeman raised his arm; traffic drew up beside the curb. Just as I had - caught the flash of Life Guards and the clatter of their accoutrements, a - closed brougham reined in across my line of vision. With an exclamation of - annoyance I was moving farther down the pavement, when a small gloved hand - stretched out from the carriage-window and touched me. I turned sharply, - and found myself gazing into Ruthita’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.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IV—RUTHITA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">W</span>e lay back against - the cushions. We acted like conspirators—it was difficult to tell - why. The surprise of meeting her thus suddenly had deprived me of words. - It must have been the same with her; we clasped hands in silence. - </p> - <p> - “I had to see you—had to speak to you.” - </p> - <p> - She was panting—almost crying. - </p> - <p> - “Of course. Why not? It was foolish to go on the way we were going.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Her voice trailed off into a little shivering sob; she flickered her - eye-lids to prevent the tears from gathering. - </p> - <p> - “Ruthie, you mustn’t carry on so.” Then, “What has he done to you?” I - asked fiercely. “You’re afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “He’s guessed.” - </p> - <p> - “Guessed what?” - </p> - <p> - “What you never knew.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t tell you. If you’d guessed, it might have made all the - difference.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - The rain volleyed against the carriage, shutting us in as with a tightly - drawn curtain; yet, did I look up, through the gray mist the tepid gold of - the sun was shining. - </p> - <p> - “Ruthie, it seems almost too good to be true that we’re alone at last - together—to have you all to myself.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you ever want me, Dannie?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Did I ever want you!</i>” - </p> - <p> - “But as much as you wanted her?” - </p> - <p> - “Differently, yes.” - </p> - <p> - “You poor boy. And you didn’t get either of us.” - </p> - <p> - “Couldn’t be helped, Ruthie. That’s life—to be always wanting and - never getting. But I have you now and, perhaps, one day——” - </p> - <p> - “But how can you? She’s married.” - </p> - <p> - “One can’t tell. Things come unexpectedly. I didn’t expect half-an-hour - ago that I’d be with you.” - </p> - <p> - She fell to asking me little stabbing questions. When I only answered her - vaguely, “Don’t let’s start with secrets,” she implored me. - </p> - <p> - “But it’s five years—there’s so much to explain.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes—on both sides.” - </p> - <p> - “You seemed—seemed to dislike him,” I said. “I never understood——” - </p> - <p> - She took me up quickly. “Nor did I. Don’t let’s talk about it—not - yet, Dante.” - </p> - <p> - So I told her about my doings, the book I was writing and the little daily - round at Woadley; and then I told her of why I had quarreled with my - father. - </p> - <p> - “But he let me marry Halloway, and you’ve never——” - </p> - <p> - I laughed. - “Ah, but no matter what Halloway did as a bachelor, he was discreet when - it came to marriage.” - </p> - <p> - She drew me forward to the light; doubt was in her eyes. “But you—you’re - unhappy too.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve gained everything I played for; I played to lose.” - </p> - <p> - “Everything?” - </p> - <p> - “I didn’t deserve Vi. And I didn’t deserve you; if I had, I shouldn’t have - lost you.” - </p> - <p> - Not until I had replied did she realize how much she had told me. She was - not happy! I wanted to ask her questions, so many questions—questions - which I had no right to ask, nor she to answer. - </p> - <p> - “And you—you have no children?” - </p> - <p> - She hesitated. “No.” - </p> - <p> - I rubbed the damp from the panes. We were in Stoke Newington. The storm - was over; streets and roof-tops shone as with liquid fire. Children going - home from school, were laughing and playing. They might have been myself - and Ruthie of years ago. - </p> - <p> - “They won’t see me,” I warned her. - </p> - <p> - “Who?” - </p> - <p> - “Folks at Pope Lane.” - </p> - <p> - “They’re not there. Only Hetty’s left to take care of the house. They’ve - gone away for a few days.” - </p> - <p> - “Then I can see it all again. We can walk in the garden together and - pretend that things are exactly as they were.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, Dannie!” she cried. “I <i>can</i> call you Dannie, can’t I?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Hetty stared at us. “Well, I’ll be blowed!” - </p> - <p> - We pushed by her smiling, assuring her that we had no objection. Not until - we had rounded the house, did I hear the rattle of the door closing. - </p> - <p> - Nothing ever changed in that walled-in garden. Flowers grew in the same - places—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. - </p> - <p> - The hole, which had been bricked up between the Favarts’ garden, was still - discernible. Everything retained its record; only we had changed. - </p> - <p> - Truants again, stealing an hour together, I listened expectant to hear - Hetty call, “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. - </p> - <p> - That the illusion might not slip from me, I half shut my eyes. Drip, drip, - drip, from eaves and branches! The earth was stirring in the gentle quiet. - Through drenched bushes and on the vivid stretch of lawn blackbirds were - hopping, delving with their yellow bills. Perhaps I was dwindling into a - small boy, just as I had once hoped in the forest that I might suddenly - shoot up into manhood. How absurd to believe that I was thirty, and had - seen so much of disillusionment! That was all a dream out of which I was - waking—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. - </p> - <p> - How did it happen? Was it I or was it Ruthie? Her lips were pressing mine. - A step came down the path behind us. We sprang apart, laughing softly with - reckless joy at our impropriety. Which of us would have thought ten years - ago that there would be anything improper in being caught kissing? - </p> - <p> - Hetty pretended not to have seen us, but her flustered face told its - story. - </p> - <p> - “D’you remember, Hetty, how I once found you doing that to John?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She looked up and met the laughing reproach in our eyes. Her apron went to - her face and her bodice commenced to quiver. “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.’” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - We had tea together in the formal dining-room, with its heavy furniture - and snug red walls. We made Hetty sit beside us; she protested and was - scandalized, but we wouldn’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?” - </p> - <p> - We left her and wandered through the rooms together. We only opened the - study-door; we did not enter. It had always, even when we had been - invited, seemed to have been closed against us. Books lay on the desk, - dust-covered. It was allowed to be tidied only in my father’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. - </p> - <p> - The house was memory-haunted. Following our footsteps, yet so discreetly - that we never caught them, were a witch-faced girl and a sturdy boy. Where - pools of sunlight lay upon the floor we lost them; when we turned into - dark passages, again they followed. On entering rooms, we half expected to - find them occupied with their playing; when the budding creeper stirred - against the walls, it was as though they whispered. They were always - somewhere where we were not—either in the room we had just left, or - the room to which we were going. - </p> - <p> - We entered what had been my bedroom. The sun was westering, playing - hide-and-seek behind crooked chimneypots. Below us the garden lay in - shadow, cool and cloistered. - </p> - <p> - Kneeling beside the window, with our elbows on the sill, not watching one - another’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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - I didn’t know what she was driving at; her voice shook and her face was - flushing. - </p> - <p> - “Dark-haired girls never had any chance with you, did they? You told me - that long ago, after Fiesole. I remembered because—because——” - </p> - <p> - “I was a boy then, and was clumsy.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You never showed it.” - </p> - <p> - “You never looked for it—never asked for it.” - </p> - <p> - I knew to what she referred. It was on the night of my sudden return from - the Red House because the Spuffler had lost our money. I was sitting at - this window as I was now sitting. A tap at the door had startled me; then - a timid voice had said, “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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Right up to the last,” she whispered, and I knew she meant right up to - now. - </p> - <p> - “And this—and this is what your husband has guessed?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - We sat very still. We saw Hetty come out into the garden and walk down the - path as though she were looking for us. We waited to hear her call, but - she re-entered the house, leaving the silence unruffled. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She pressed herself against me to stop me. “Oh, you mustn’t say that. It - hurts. You mustn’t say it.” - </p> - <p> - “But I am. Even your husband knows it.” - </p> - <p> - “Some day you’ll marry and everything’ll come right.” - </p> - <p> - “For Vi, if we have the luck to come together. But what about you? What - about even Halloway?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She had risen, letting go my hand. - </p> - <p> - “I had always thought of you as my sister,” I faltered. - </p> - <p> - “I know—and - you were a dear brother. It was just my foolishness to want you to be - something else.” - </p> - <p> - For a moment she clung to me, hiding her face against my shoulder. Then we - passed down the stairs, afraid to be alone any longer. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - In the carriage I asked her whether her husband would know of what we had - done. - </p> - <p> - “I shall tell him.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you think he might be willing to let us be friends?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll ask him,” she said, “but——” - </p> - <p> - At Hyde Park Corner the carriage pulled up and I alighted. I watched her - eager face looking back at me, growing smaller and smaller. - </p> - <p> - Wandering aimlessly through the parks, I sat for a time by the Serpentine. - The nerves of all that had happened in the past five years were cut. If I - had married Ruthita, would she have been happy? The thought of marrying - her was just as impossible to me now as it had been when Grandmother - Cardover had mentioned it at Ransby. And yet, at a time when I had been - most sensitive of injustice, I had been unjust to her—— And - now she was going to be a mother—little Ruthita, who seemed to me - herself so much a child! - </p> - <p> - When I came into Whitehall, the pale twilight of spring still hovered - above house-tops; from streets the flare of London steamed up. The opal of - the sky reflected the marigold-yellow of illumined windows; arc-lights, - like ox-eye daisies, stared above the grass of the dusk. - </p> - <p> - I made my way to my club and sank into a chair, aimlessly skimming the - papers, reading scarcely a line. Few people were about; the room was empty - save for one other loiterer. Spring in the streets was calling. - </p> - <p> - The man strolled up to me, holding an illustrated weekly in his hand. I - knew him slightly and nodded. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - He tossed me the weekly and turned on his heel to walk out. Annoyed at - being disturbed, I glanced down irritably. - </p> - <p> - From a full-page illustration the face of Fiesole smiled up. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER V—LA FIESOLE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span>t was ridiculous - this curiosity, but I knew how to explain it—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. - </p> - <p> - I had not the remotest intention of renewing her acquaintance. Unseen by - her, I would watch her from some corner of the theatre, and then slip back - to London. There would be piquancy in the thought that I had gone to see - her for old time’s sake, and that she would never know about it. As for - speaking to her, that would be an insult after what had happened at - Venice. Probably she hated me. She ought to, if she did not. - </p> - <p> - Though I smiled at myself, truth to tell, I was rather pleased to find I - could still be so impulsive; romance in me was not dead after all these - years of uneventful waiting. This journey was the folly of a sentimental - boy—not the cynical act of a man of the world. - </p> - <p> - <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> Since she had stared out at me from the - printed page I was continually coming across her. Everyone was discussing - her; she had sprung out of nowhere into notoriety. Greater than Bernhardt, - men said of her: a spontaneous emotional actress of the first rank—the - sensation of the moment. - </p> - <p> - France took her seriously; England quoted French eulogies in italics. - Fantastic legends were woven about her name, made plausible by an - occasional touch of accuracy. - </p> - <p> - Antoine Georges had written the play—it was based on the <i>amours</i> - 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 <i>fille de joie</i> - when he came across her; another, with that French instinct for the - theatric, that he had reclaimed her from a low café in Cherbourg in which - she danced. Nothing was too incredible in the face of her incredible - success. One fact alone was undisputed—that she was the daughter of - the famous Italian actor, many years dead, Signore Cortona. - </p> - <p> - This confirmed what I already knew about her. I remembered how she had - told me in Oxford of her early stage career, which she had abandoned to go - traveling. I recalled how she had said, “I’m an amateur at living—always - chopping and changing. I’ll find what I want some day.”—— So - she had found it! - </p> - <p> - In the English press she was made a peg on which to hang a whole wardrobe - of side-issue and prejudice. The decency of the French stage was - discussed. The question was introduced as to whether such a play would be - allowed to be performed in London. The superiority of English morals was - the topic of some articles; of others, the brutal prudery by which British - art was stifled. A fine opportunity was afforded and welcomed for slinging - mud at the censor. The discussion was given academic sanction when Andrew - Lang patted it on the head in an ingeniously discursive monologue on the - anachronisms of playwrights, in which he made clear that Monsieur - Georges’s tragedy was riddled with historic falsity. - </p> - <p> - It was nearing five when we steamed into the Gare du Nord. My first - journey to Paris had been prompted by Fiesole. Then I was escaping from - her; now I was going to her. For old time’s sake I made my headquarters at - the hotel at which I had then stayed in the Rue St. Honoré. After <i>diner</i> - I set out through thronged streets to book a seat at the theatre. Upon - making my request at the office, the man shrugged his shoulders and turned - away with the inimitable insolence of French manners. It was as though he - had said, “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. - </p> - <p> - My second request was apologetic and explanatory: I honored La Fiesole so - much that I had journeyed from London on purpose to see her. What was the - earliest date at which he could make it possible? He directed me to an - agency which had bought up all the best seats in the house; here I secured - a box at an extortionate price for five nights later. - </p> - <p> - In the intervening days I was frequently tempted to abandon my project and - return. It seemed the height of foolishness to squander five days in order - that I might court disappointment. She must have altered—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. - </p> - <p> - When I entered the theatre it was already packed. The audience seemed - conscious that it had assembled for a great occasion; it had dressed for - its share in the undertaking. Gowns of marvelous cut and audacity were in - evidence. The atmosphere was heavy with the perfume of exotic femininity - and flowers. - </p> - <p> - My box was on the right-hand side, just above and next to the stage. Below - me was a nodding sea of plumed head-dresses, naked shoulders, and gleaming - bosoms; rising tier on tier to the gold-domed roof, was a wall of eyes and - fluttering white faces. Everything was provocative of expectancy. Gods and - goddesses, carved on the columns and painted on the curtain, alone were - immobile. - </p> - <p> - A quick succession of taps sounded, followed by three long raps. The - theatre was plunged in shadow. As though a crowd drew away into the - distance, the last murmur spent itself. The curtain quivered, then rose - reluctantly on the illusion which had brought the unrelated lives of so - vast an audience together. - </p> - <p> - We saw an Italian garden, basking in sunlight and languorous with summer. - Beneath the black shade of cypress-trees stretched marble terraces, - mounting up a hillside, up and up, till they hung gleaming like white - birds halfhidden in the velvet foliage. In the foreground a fountain - splashed. A little way distant the Pope Alexander lolled, toying with his - mistress, Giulia. Up and down pathways lined with statues, groups of - courtiers wandered: youths in parti-colored hose and slashed doublets; - girls, vividly attired, exquisitely young, engaged in the game of love. - Guitars tinkled and masses of bloom flared stridently in the sun. Sitting - by the fountain was the Madonna Lucrezia and the young Lord of Pesaro. - Her face was turned from us; we could only see her vase-like figure and - the way she shook her head in answer to all he offered. - </p> - <p> - The envoy from Naples enters and with him the Duke of Biseglia; he urges - the Pope for a last time to make an alliance with his country by - betrothing the Madonna Lucrezia to the Duke. But the Pope does not want - the alliance; he is joining with Ludovico of Milan against Naples and war - will result. While the Pope is refusing, for the first time Lucrezia - looks up and her face is turned towards us—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. - </p> - <p> - As though attracted by a power which is outside herself, she rises, - hesitating between shyness and daring, and steals to where the young Duke - is sullenly standing. She takes his hand and presses it against her - breast. He snatches it from her. She commences to speak, at first - haltingly, but with gathering passion. Her voice is hoarse and sultry, - like that of a Jewess; it is a voice shaken with emotion, which now - caresses and now tears at the heart. The drone of merriment in the garden - and the tinkling of the guitars is hushed. Listless lovers come out from - the shadows and gather about her, amused by her earnestness. She pleads - with the Pope, her father, to give her the Duke—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. - </p> - <p> - Alexander laughs boisterously at this quarrel of children and like a huge - Silenus wanders off into the garden, leaning on his mistress, Giulia, - followed by his train of minstrels and dilettantes. Their singing grows - more faint as they mount the terraces towards the palace. - </p> - <p> - Lucrezia watches them depart with a face frozen with despair. As Biseglia - turns to go, she darts after him and drags him back, fawning on him, - abasing herself, offering herself to him, telling him that whatever comes - of it she cannot live without him. He regards her in silence; then falls - to smiling and flings her from him, reminding her that she is the Pope’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. - </p> - <p> - Between the first act and the second the French have invaded Italy, so the - Pope and the King of Naples have found a common enemy and a common need - for alliance. The Duke of Biseglia has again been sent to Rome to sue for - the hand of Lucrezia. But in the meanwhile she has been betrothed to the - Lord of Pesaro, and, to prevent him from joining with the French when - Lucrezia is taken from him, his removal has been planned. - </p> - <p> - The curtain goes up on a night of bacchanalian riot in the Papal gardens. - Beneath trees a costly table has been spread, at which sit men and women - attired in every kind of extravagance, as animals, pagan deities, and - mythological monstrosities. In the branches overhead are set sconces and - blazing torches. Distantly over white terraces and pathways the moon is - rising. In the foreground are mummers and tumblers. The servitors who pass - up and down the company are humpbacks, dwarfs, Ethiopians, and - dancing-girls. - </p> - <p> - In the center of the table sits the Pope, and next to him Lucrezia, and - next to her Biseglia. Opposite to Biseglia is seated the Lord of Pesaro, - and next to him a woman in a mask. With the heat of the wine and the - lateness of the hour the women lie back in their lovers’ 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. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - Pesaro leaps to his feet, but the Pope, as though to pacify him, pledges - him and hands the goblet to the masked woman to offer to him. Still - standing uncertain, Pesaro receives it from her. Raising it slowly, his - lips touch the brim; he clutches at his throat, upsetting the cup so that - the red stain flows towards Lucrezia. He leans out, gazes in her eyes, and - crashes across the table, twisting as he falls, still looking up at her. - </p> - <p> - The silence that follows is broken by a low rippling laugh. The company - gaze in astonishment; it is Lucrezia who is laughing. The child in her - face is dead; her expression is inscrutable, wicked and sirenish. She - sways towards Biseglia, bending back her head and twining her arms about - him. “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.” - </p> - <p> - From the hand of a servitor she snatches a torch and steps into the open. - She commences to dance and, as she dances, unbuckles her girdle so that - her gown slips from her. As the beat of the music grows more furious she - unbinds her hair, so that it writhes like snakes about her firm white arms - and bust. Dwarfs clamber into trees and slide out along their branches, - raining rose-leaves on her as she passes. The strangely attired company - forget their jaded decadence and sprawl across the table, digging their - elbows into its scattered magnificence, following the gleam of her young, - white body as it twists and turns beneath the whirling torch. - </p> - <p> - But her gaze is bent always on Biseglia; her eyes are aslant and - beckoning. Her bosom rises and falls more fiercely with the wrenching - in-take of the breath. Will he never go to her? - </p> - <p> - She flings back her hair from her shoulders; her body flashes like an - unsheathed sword. Nearer and nearer to him she dances. His eyes rest on - her moodily, half-closed. Does he make a movement, quickly she withdraws. - </p> - <p> - She has flung away her torch and is spinning madly with her hands clasped - behind her head. The grass is hidden with rose-leaves; she floats—her - feet scarcely stir them. Suddenly she stops; stands erect for an ecstatic - moment; sways dizzily; her strength is gone. Her hands, small and pitiful, - fly up to cover her eyes. She shakes her hair free to hide her. Her body - crumples. She is broken with her shame and futility. Biseglia leaps the - table and has her in his arms as she falls, pressing his hot lips against - hers. With clenched fists she smites him from her, slips from his embrace, - and runs shimmering like a white doe through the forest of blackness. - </p> - <p> - With a shout the revelers shatter the banquet and pour in pursuit of her. - Biseglia leads them, darting ahead into the shadows. Dancing and singing, - the disheveled bacchanalians stagger across the dark, trouping along dusky - terraces with twining arms, following the fleeing dryad. - </p> - <p> - Torches are burnt out and smolder in their sockets. Night is tattered by - the dawn. Amid the havoc of trampled chalices and glass sprawls the - wine-stained figure of the dead Lord of Pesaro—the man who, could - she have loved him, would have given her all. - </p> - <p> - <i>La Fiesole! La Fiesole!</i> We rose as one man as the curtain dropped. - We did not care to think whether this was wrong—it was lovely. She - had danced our souls out of their prejudices, out of their walls of - restraint into chaos. The rapture of her beauty ran through our veins like - wine. Our imaginations pursued her along pale terraces. The fragrance of - crushed rose-leaves was in our nostrils and the coolness of night. Our - breath came short, as though we had been running. Our senses were reeling - and our eyes dazzled. We stood up in our places clutching at the air, - calling and calling, hungry for the sight of her. - </p> - <p> - For myself, I was smitten with blindness. My eyes saw the striving throng - through a mist and probed into the beyond, where she ran on and on palely, - forever from me. I shouted to her, but she grew more distant; never once - did she look back or stay her footsteps. - </p> - <p> - I was aware of a deep stillness—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, “<i>Fiesole! - Fiesole!</i>” - </p> - <p> - She kissed her hand at me derisively, bowed to the audience, and was gone. - </p> - <p> - I sank in my place, a sickening nostalgia for her upon me. I did not - reason; I only knew I wanted her—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. - </p> - <p> - While these thoughts trooped across my mind, the crooked sphinx-like smile - of Paris wandered over me, examined me, hinted at tragedy with laughter, - and widened its painted lips at my absurdity. - </p> - <p> - The curtain rustled. The warning raps sounded. Lights sank, and heads bent - forward. - </p> - <p> - In a dim-lit room, chilly to the point of austerity, sat Lucrezia. Tall - candles shone upon her face—a face purged of emotion, nunlike and - wooden with an expression of distant contemplation. Behind her head was an - open window through which floated in the sound of music. She heeded it not - at all. In the far corner stood a bed with the curtains drawn back. At an - altar a lamp burnt before a shining crucifix. Her women were unrobing her - for the bridal night. They spoke to her, but she did not answer. They - blamed her for her indifference to Biseglia: she had never kissed him, - never caressed him since the night when she had won him. Did she not know - that he hungered for her kindness? - </p> - <p> - She gave them no answer. They lifted her this way and that as though she - were a doll; she seemed to have forgotten her body. She might have been in - a trance, leading a life separate, dreaming of things innocent and holy. - </p> - <p> - One by one the candles were extinguished; only the lamp burnt before the - altar. When her women were gone; she slipped from the bed and knelt with - her head bowed before the cross. - </p> - <p> - The music dies; silence falls. Along the passage comes a creeping - footstep. The door opens; Biseglia enters, blinking his eyes at the room’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. - </p> - <p> - When she makes no response, but lies pulseless in his arms, he carries her - to the bed, incoherently claiming as his right the fondness she does not - give him. Then he grows gentle and kneels before her, kissing her feet and - calling her his god. - </p> - <p> - She speaks. Her voice is small. “Biseglia, thou didst love me only when I - had made myself worthless that I might win thy fondness.” - </p> - <p> - He yearns up to her with his arms, disowning his former coldness, - protesting that he adores her. She leans over him sadly; he raises his - lips to hers. As she kisses him, her expression kindles to triumph. She - withdraws her hand from her breast; the Borgian dagger sinks into his - heart. - </p> - <p> - She gazes stonily on the man who had once refused her. The lamp before the - altar flickers and goes out. The room is plunged in darkness. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VI—SIR GALAHAD IN MONTMARTRE - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">L</span>ong after the - curtain had fallen I sat on. I had seen Antoine Georges step before the - footlights leading Fiesole. I had seen him alternately bend above her hand - and bow his acknowledgments to the applause. I did not like him, this fat - little Frenchman, with his thin beard and spindly legs. The polite - proprietorship of his bearing towards her had impressed me as offensive. I - felt sure that he was smacking his lips and saying, “They shall believe - that it’s all true, this that they say about us.” - </p> - <p> - From the wings had come lackeys carrying garlands. They had built up a - garden about her. The people had gone mad, standing up in their places and - thunderously shouting. From all parts of the theatre flowers had rained on - her. They had stormed her with flowers. Women had torn bouquets from their - dresses and wreaths from their hair. It might have been a carnival; the - air was dense with falling blossoms. And she had faced them with the smile - of a pleased child, while Monsieur Georges bent double before her. - </p> - <p> - It was all over. Men were busy with brooms, sweeping up the litter of her - triumph. This happened every night: they got used to it. Already in the <i>fauteuils - d’orchestre</i> perfunctory faded women were adjusting linen coverings. - The last stragglers of the audience were reluctantly going through the - doors. - </p> - <p> - A man entered my box and tapped me on the shoulder. I stared up at him; - his expression made me laugh. He evidently mistook me for a crank who was - likely to give trouble. I reached for my hat and coat wearily; I felt that - I had been beaten all over. As I folded my scarf about my neck I made bold - to ask him where I could find Fiesole. He shrugged his shoulders, darting - out his hands, palms upwards, as one who said, “Ah, it is beyond me! Who - can tell?” - </p> - <p> - But it was important that I should see her, I urged; I was an old friend. - </p> - <p> - An old friend! These days La Fiesole had many old friends. Were it - permitted to her old friends to see her, all the messieurs would cross the - footlights. He eyed me with impatience, anxious to see the last of me, his - waxlike face wickedly ironic. - </p> - <p> - I produced a fifty-franc note. Would it not be possible for him to deliver - her a message? - </p> - <p> - If Monsieur would write out his message he would make certain that La - Fiesole got it. - </p> - <p> - So I scribbled my address on the back of a card, asking her to allow me to - speak with her. - </p> - <p> - I folded the fifty-franc note about it and handed it to my tyrant. From - the lack of surprise with which he accepted I gathered that he had - pocketed greater amounts for a like service. - </p> - <p> - In the street I paused irresolute. From my feet, could I follow it, a path - led through crowded boulevards directly to her. I could not be very - distant from her; a lucky choice of direction, the chance turning of a - corner might bring us face to face. That I was in her mind was probable. - She was remembering, as I was remembering, that day at Lido and that night - at Venice. Was she satisfied with her revenge? She had always been - generous. Somewhere in this passionate white night of Paris her car sped - on through illumined gulleys; she lay back on cushions, her eyes - half-shut, her mouth faintly smiling, picturing the past at my expense. I - liked to think that she hated me; it was in keeping with her character; I - respected her for it. The women who had loved me had made things too easy; - it had always been I who had done the refusing. My blood was eager for the - danger of pursuing. I longed for resistance that I might overcome her. I - loved her with my body, I told myself, as I had never loved a woman; my - cold, calculating intellectuality was in abeyance. That she should make my - path of return difficult added a novel zest. - </p> - <p> - The human tide was drifting towards Montmartre; I fell in and followed. On - the pavement before cafés at little round tables <i>boulevardiers</i> were - seated, sipping their absinthe, their eyes questing for the first hint of - adventure. Taxis flashed by, soaring up “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. - </p> - <p> - Far away the Place Pigalle beckoned. Up tortuous streets, between ancient - houses, the traffic streamed like a fire-fly army on the march. As I - neared the top I entered the pale-gold haze of its unreality. Electric - signs of L’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. - </p> - <p> - I was curiously transformed from that evening of long ago when I had - watched these sights with horror, and had fled from Paris in the dawn to - Florence. I felt no anger, no revulsion—only tolerance. I had - finished with peeping beneath the surface. Fiesole had taught me to - despise all that. <i>Fiesole! Fiesole!</i> I saw her always dancing on - before me, mocking my sobriety. Yes, I told myself, she had made me - kinder. - </p> - <p> - A couplet from <i>Sir Galahad in Montmartre</i> dinned in my brain and - summed up my estimate of my former self - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - “He sees not the need in their faces; - </p> - <p class="indent20"> - ’Tis the sin and the lust that he traces.” - </p> - <p> - <br /> - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - A girl slipped her arm in mine. “’Allo! You zink I am pretty?” - </p> - <p> - She was a <i>cocotte</i>, little more than a child, so delicate and - slight. Her hair was flaxen and blowy; her complexion a transparent - china-white; her dress décolleté and cut in a deep V between the breasts. - She pushed her small face up to mine with the red lips parted, clinging to - me with the innocent familiarity of one who had asked no more than a - roguish question. - </p> - <p> - “You’re pretty, but——” - </p> - <p> - “Zen we go togezer!” - </p> - <p> - “I’m afraid not.” - </p> - <p> - “Pourquoi non?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m hoping to meet someone.” - </p> - <p> - She released me at once with a good-natured smile. “La! La! I hopes you - find ’er.” - </p> - <p> - She tripped away, turning before she was lost in the crowd to wave her - hand. I told myself that her flower was the jonquil. - </p> - <p> - It was one o’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Poor boy! You not find ’er?” - </p> - <p> - I looked up; my lady of the jonquils was leaning over my shoulder. - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “Eh bien, peut-être, you find her to-morrow, <i>hein!</i> 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. - </p> - <p> - “Tired?” - </p> - <p> - “It ees nozing.” - </p> - <p> - “Won’t you join me?” - </p> - <p> - Immediately we were in sympathy. She owned me with a playfulness which had - no hint of indelicacy. Drawing off her gloves, she rested her chin on her - knitted fingers and regarded me laughingly with her world-wise eyes. She - was scarcely more than half my years, I suppose. - </p> - <p> - “Zere are ozers,” she repeated. - </p> - <p> - “Not for me,” I said; “not to-night.” - </p> - <p> - “Dieu! You are funny, my friend. You lofe like zat?” The waiter hovered - nearer, flirting his napkin across the marble-tables. - </p> - <p> - I beckoned; he dashed up like a hen to which I had scattered grain. - </p> - <p> - “Croûte au pot?” - </p> - <p> - “Bien, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Filet aux truffes.” - </p> - <p> - “Bien, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Salade romaine.” - </p> - <p> - “Bien, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - “Vouvray.” - </p> - <p> - “Bien, Monsieur.” - </p> - <p> - 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 - <i>gamine</i>. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I did not want to be left alone; she knew it. A <i>fiacre</i>, with a - battered race-horse propped between the shafts, had drawn up against the - curb. On the box a red-faced <i>cocher</i> nodded. We climbed in and she - nestled beside me. The <i>cocher</i> looked across his shoulder, asking - where to drive. “Straight on,” I told him. - </p> - <p> - We crawled away down “the mountain”; as we went, she sang contentedly just - above her breath. When we reached the Madeleine the <i>cocher</i> halted, - inquiring gruffly whither he should drive. “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. - </p> - <p> - She drew closer to me and cuddled into my coat; the foolish prettiness of - her dress was no protection against the chill night air. We lay back, her - head resting on my shoulder, gazing up at the star-scattered sky. The - asphalt surface of the boulevard, polished by petrol and rubber-tires to - the dull brightness of steel, glimmered in a long line before us - reflecting the arc-lamps like a smooth waterway—like a slow canal in - ancient Venice. - </p> - <p> - Where we went I do not know; I did not care to notice. The creaking <i>fiacre</i> - had become a gondola and it was Fiesole who leant against me. Sometimes - the <i>cocher</i> drew up to light a cigarette and to glance suspiciously - down upon us. Then I was brought back to reality. We circled the Bastille - and prowled through the <i>Quartier Latin</i>, where the night was not so - late. We crossed the river once more and crept along the <i>Quai des - Tuileries</i>; then again we climbed “the mountain” and plunged into the - grimy purlieus of <i>Les Halles</i>. Market-carts were already creaking, - in from the country with swinging lamps. Wagons piled high with - vegetables, loomed mountainous under eaves of houses. From the market came - grumbling voices of men unloading, and the occasional squealing of a - stallion. - </p> - <p> - The <i>cocher</i> wriggled on his box and confronted me fretfully. Before - he could ask his question, “Sacré nom d’un chien!” I shouted fiercely, - “Allez. Allez.” Meekly he jerked at the reins, sinking his head between - his obedient shoulders. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Above the tottering roofs of Paris the night grew haggard. One by one - stars were snuffed out. Wisps of clouds drove across the moon like witches - riding homeward. It was the hour when even Paris grows quiet. Ragpickers - were slinking through the shadows, raking over barrels set out on the - curb. Women, shuddering in bedraggled finery—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. - </p> - <p> - My head jerked nearer hers. Her breath was on my cheek; I could feel the - twitching of her supple body. Poor little lady of the jonquils—of - what was she dreaming? What had she expected from me? She would tell often - of this eccentric night and no one would credit her story. - </p> - <p> - When I awoke she was still sleeping. A spring breeze ruffled the trees; - sparrows were chirping; a golden morning sparkled across the waters of the - Seine. The sun, still ruddy from his rising, stood magnificently young - among the chimney-pots, trailing his gleaming mantle beneath the bridges. - </p> - <p> - The battered race-horse had stumbled with us just beyond the Louvre and - stood with his head sagging between his knees, his body lurching forward. - The reins had fallen from the <i>cocher’s</i> hands; his thick neck was - deep in his collar; and his face looked strangled. From across the road a - waiter scattered sand between his newly set out tables and watched us with - amused curiosity. - </p> - <p> - My body was cramped. As I attempted to uncrook my legs, my companion - opened her eyes and stared at me in amazed confusion. She yawned and sat - up laughing, patting her mouth. “Oh, <i>la, la</i>——. Bonjour, toi!”\ - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>cocher</i> - lumbered round on his box and burst into a hoarse guffaw at sight of us. - We all laughed together, and the waiter ceased sanding his floor to laugh - with us. - </p> - <p> - We left the racer to his well-earned rest and all three went across to the - café. As we soaked bread in our bowls of coffee and plied our spoons, we - chatted merrily like good comrades. Then we parted with the <i>cocher</i>, - leaving him agreeably surprised, and sauntered down the Quai where workmen - in blue blouses, hurrying from across the bridges, found time to nudge one - another knowingly and to smile into our eyes with a glad intimacy which - was not at all offensive. - </p> - <p> - In a narrow street where “the mountain” commenced, she halted and placed - both her hands on my shoulders, tiptoeing against me. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I put my hand into my pocket. She examined what I gave her. “Mais, non!” - she exclaimed, flushing. - </p> - <p> - “But yes—for remembrance.” - </p> - <p> - She tilted up her face and her happy eyes clouded; the tired cheeks turned - whiter and the painted lips quivered. “Little one, keess me.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VII—SATURNALIA - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>t my hotel I found - no message. But it was still early; she might not have received my card - and, as yet, did not know my address. The intoxication of the previous - night still flicked my spirit into optimism—perhaps she would answer - me in person. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I scarcely stirred from my hotel, afraid lest I should miss her. By the - time evening fell, I had come to a new conclusion—that the ironical - scoundrel, who had so coolly pocketed my money, had destroyed my card. To - make sure of reaching her, I wrote a letter to the theatre, saying many - true things foolishly. Then, in sheer restlessness, I hurried to the - boulevard in which her theatre was situated, hoping to get a glimpse of - her either coming or going. - </p> - <p> - I could not bring myself to enter—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. - </p> - <p> - I hated the gay crowds seething in to find enjoyment in my shame and her - tragedy. They were jesters at something sacred. - </p> - <p> - I paced the boulevard with clenched hands and snapping nerves; I could not - go far away from her, and I could not go to her. Within my brain she was - always dancing, dancing, and the jaded eyes of Paris grew young with greed - of her sensational perfection. I longed to go to her, to protect her, to - save her from herself. She needed me, though she would scorn the idea if I - told her. If she would but allow it, I would carry her away from these - hectic nights and this subtle, soul-destroying sensualism. Her shame was - my doing; I would give all my life to make amends to her. - </p> - <p> - But she gave me no sign that she had either seen or heard from me. What - else could I expect? How could I explain my infatuation even to myself, - let alone to her, as more than physical attraction? And was it more?... - Once she had offered me far more than I now begged; I had churlishly - refused it. How could I account to her for my altered valuation of her - worth? She would not answer—I knew that now. I should have to compel - her attention. - </p> - <p> - Next morning in reading the papers I came across her name frequently. She - was the madcap darling of Paris; every edition contained some anecdote of - <i>La Fiesole</i> and her erratic doings. One item captured my interest - especially: there was a certain café in the Champs Elysées to which she - went often after theatre hours. For the time being she had made it the - most fashionable midnight resort in Paris. - </p> - <p> - That night, having bribed heavily for the privilege, I was seated at a - table near the entrance. If she came, she could scarcely pass without - seeing me. The place was an <i>al fresco</i> restaurant, gorgeously - theatric. It stood in a garden, brilliantly romantic and insincere as a - stage-setting. Overlooking the garden were white verandahs, - creeper-covered and garish with hothouse flowers; throughout it were - scattered kiosks and bowers in which the more secret of the diners sat. - The plumed trees were knit together with ropes of lights, like - pearl-necklaces which had been tossed into their branches casually. In - bushes and hidden among blossoms, glow-worm illuminations twinkled, like - faeries kindling and extinguishing their lamps. Everything was subdued and - sensuous. Fountains played and splashed. Statues glimmered. A gipsy - orchestra, fierce-looking and red-coated, clashed frenzied music, which - sobbed away into dreamy waltzes and elusive snatches of melody. The effect - was bizarre—artistically unreal and emotionally tropic. - </p> - <p> - Here one might experience a great passion which consumed by its panting - brevity; everyone seemed present for the express purpose of realizing such - a passion. - </p> - <p> - At tables seated in couples were extraordinary people, dressed to play - their part in a dare-devil romance. Here were men who looked like Russian - Archdukes, bearded, bloodless, and insolently languid. Sitting opposite - them were voluptuous women, tragically exotic, dangerously coaxing, with - the melodramatic appearance of scheming nihilists. They were reckless, - these costly, slant-eyed odalisques—exiles from commonplace - kindliness, born gamblers for the happiness they had thrown away and would - never re-capture. There was the atmosphere of intrigue, of indiscreet - liaison about almost every couple. They acted as though for one ecstatic - moment the world was theirs. Their behavior was everything that is - exaggerated, fond, undomestic, and arrogantly well-bred. - </p> - <p> - There was something lacking. As each new arrival entered, the slanted eyes - of the women and the heavy eyes of the men were raised droopingly with an - expression of furtive expectancy. They were a chorus assembled, waiting - for the leading actor till the play should commence. - </p> - <p> - Low rippling laughter, spontaneously joyous, sounded. From the trellised - entrance she emerged and halted, looking mock-bashful, taking in the - effect she had created, spurning the gravel with her golden slipper. Her - gown was of dull green satin, cut audaciously low in the back and neck, - and slashed from the hem to expose her slim ankle and golden stocking. She - wore no jewels, but between her breasts was a yellow rose, which drifted - nodding on the whiteness of her bosom as she drew her breath. Her reddish - gold hair was wrapped <i>en bandeaux</i> about her small pale ears and - broad pale forehead. It shone metallic; its brightness dulled and - quickened as she swayed her splendid body. - </p> - <p> - At her first appearance a muttering had arisen, gathering in volume. As - she lifted her head and her green eyes flashed through her long, bronze - lashes, we grew silent. It was as though a tamer had entered a cage of - panthers and stood cowing them with her consciousness of power. Yes, she - knew what they thought of her, and guessed what they admired in her. She - surveyed us with quiet contempt. I felt that behind whatever she did or - said there lay hidden a timid girlishness. She was still the old Fiesole, - the happy companion who could tramp through rainstorms like a man. Her - brave pagan purity these half-way decadents had not tarnished; by them it - was unsuspected. I watched her tall, lithe figure; the neck so small that - one could span it with a hand; the firm, high bosom, proud and virginal; - the straight, frank brows, and the mouth so red and sweetly drooping. - Other women looked decorative and tinsel beside her natural perfection. - </p> - <p> - My throat was parched. My eyes felt scalded. I was unnerved and a-tremble. - Her beauty daunted as much as it challenged. What bond still existed - between us that would draw her to me? She looked so remote, so hemmed in - by the new personality she had developed. - </p> - <p> - Her green eyes swept the garden, probing its secret shadows. For whom was - she looking? They rested on mine, absorbed me—then fell away without - recognition. I had risen in my place, with head bent forward, ready to go - to her at the least sign of friendship. I remained standing and staring. - </p> - <p> - She turned to one of her companions and whispered something, at which they - both laughed. He was a tall poetic-looking man, slight of hip, blue-eyed, - and handsome. His hair was wavy and yellow, his face bearded, and his skin - pale with excess. There were other men with her, Monsieur Georges among - others; but on the poet alone she lavished her attention. She gave him her - arm and came towards me with the undulating stride that I knew so well. - For a second I believed she was going to acknowledge me; she went by so - closely that her gown trailed across my feet and brushed my hands. It was - cruelly intended. The play had opened. - </p> - <p> - The table that had been reserved for her was next to mine, partly hidden - from the public gaze by bushes; as I watched, I caught glimpses of her - profile, and could always hear the lazy murmur of her voice and - occasionally fragments of what was said. I followed her foreign gestures, - her tricks of personality—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. - </p> - <p> - I was not the only man who attempted to spy on her; there might have been - no other woman present. Languid faces scattered throughout the garden took - on a new sharpness. They turned and looked down from balconies on La - Fiesole, eager to catch glimpses of her. To their women-companions men - listened with a bored pretense of attention. Perhaps it was because of - this, in an effort to focus interest on themselves, that the women, as by - a concerted plan, became more animated. - </p> - <p> - Suddenly a girl in scarlet leapt upon a table and commenced to dance with - flashing eyes and whirling skirts. I heard someone say that she was a - gipsy and that her brother was first-violinist in the orchestra. The music - mounted up, wild and unrestrained; the small feet beat faster; the actions - became more frenzied. She turned away from her comrade and bent back - double, peering into his eyes; she flung herself from him, chaffing him - with grim endearments; she feigned to become furious; then she threw - herself across his knees exhausted, writhing her arms about his neck. Men - eyed her with studied carelessness. She had done it before and they had - applauded. They could see her any night. They could not always feast their - eyes on La Fiesole. - </p> - <p> - Saturnalia broke loose. Girl after girl rose upon chair or table, or went - swaying through the magic garden like a frail leaf harried by a storm. - They danced singly, they danced together, going through grotesque - contortions, beckoning lovers with their eyes and gestures. - </p> - <p> - And I watched Fiesole through the bushes. She was not so indifferent to me - as she pretended. She was playacting to rouse my jealousy; she was - purposely scourging me into madness. I alone of the public was - sufficiently near to see clearly what she was doing. She was luring her - poet to recklessness, taking no notice of what was in process about her. - Did I catch her eye, she looked past me without recognition. But him she - enticed by her gentleness. The man was drunk with her favor and beauty. He - trembled to put the thoughts of a lover into action; she challenged him - with her eyes, warning him from her and beckoning him to her. - </p> - <p> - Stooping over her, so low that his lips were in her hair, he whispered; - but she shook her head. She rested her hand lightly on his shoulder, as - though to steady him and to soften the unkindness of her refusal. Quickly - he caught it in his own and bent over it, running his lips along her - fingers and up her arm’s smooth curves. She looked down on him unmoved, - disdainful at his breach of manners, yet superbly amorous. Clutching her - hotly to him, he kissed her on the throat. - </p> - <p> - Blind anger shook me—lust for violence such as I had never felt. - Breaking into the toy arbor where they sat, I remember standing over him, - dragging him backward by the collar, so that his face glared up at mine - empurpled. His friends rushed forward, beating me about the head and - shoulders, tearing at my hands, trying to make me release my hold. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole had risen like a fury. The table went down with a crash. Her face - was deadly pale and her green eyes blazed with indignation. Her hands were - clenched as if she also were about to strike me. And I was pouring out a - torrent of words, telling her swiftly how I loved her and all that she had - made me suffer. - </p> - <p> - Her rage died away as she listened and her expression became inscrutable. - Quickly she darted back her head, laughing without happiness, mockingly. - “You are very English, my friend. If you make so much noise, these - messieurs will think we are married.” - </p> - <p> - I caught her by the wrists, so that she backed away from me. “I wish to - God we were.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, la, la, la!” - </p> - <p> - She went off into a peal of merriment, pointing her finger at me. The - crowd gathered round us uncertain, asking in half-a-dozen languages what - had been the provocation and what we were saying. - </p> - <p> - Her look changed. It was as though a mask had fallen. The temptress and - witch were gone. I seemed to see in her melancholy eyes all the longing - for tenderness and loyalty that I thought had been killed years ago in - Venice. - </p> - <p> - She advanced her face to mine and stared at me timidly, as though fearful - she had been mistaken. - </p> - <p> - “Take me out of this,” she whispered hoarsely. - </p> - <p> - Her companions tried to intercept us, gesticulating and protesting. She - brushed them aside, explaining that I was not myself and did not know what - I was doing. For her sake they let me go without further molestation. - </p> - <p> - We passed out, leaving them gaping after us. I helped her into her furs - and took my place beside her in the coupé. Before we were out of earshot, - the gipsy orchestra had swung into a new frenzy. - </p> - <p> - Once Vi had kept me from Fiesole; now Fiesole was taking me from Vi. And - these two women who, through me, had influenced one another’s destinies, - had never met. They were hostile types. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER VIII—LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> was at a loss - what to say to her. Words could not bridge the gulf of more than five - years that separated us. Now that anger had subsided, my genius for - self-ridicule was at work. What a fool I had made of myself; how supremely - silly I must appear in her eyes! It would be in all the papers to-morrow. - How would she like that? Where was she taking me and why? Had she come - with me simply to get me out of a public place before I committed worse - violence? - </p> - <p> - I pieced together phrases of apology and explanation, but remained - tongue-tied. To express the emotions that stormed in my mind all words - seemed insincere and inadequate. I was not sufficiently certain of her to - venture either speech or action. I was fearful lest her mood might change - to one of amusement. My nerves were on edge—I dared not risk that. - </p> - <p> - Noiseless as a ghost in a dream-world, the electric coupé drifted up the - dully gleaming boulevard. I leant against the padded back and watched her. - She sat erect, splendidly self-possessed, her profile framed in the - carriage-window with the stealthy lights of Paris slipping by for - background. Now she was no more than a blurred outline; now the - acetylene-lamps of a swiftly moving car flashed on her like a - search-light; now the twinkling incandescence of an illumined café flung - jewels in her hair; now her face rested like sculptured ivory on the - velvet blackness of the night. She was immobile; even the slender fingers - clasped together in her lap never stirred. Our silence had lasted so long - that it had ceased to be fragile; it rose between us, a wall of ice. - </p> - <p> - We drew up against the curb. I had but a vague idea of where we were—near - the Bois, I conjectured. Tall houses stood in shuttered dumbness along one - side; on the other, trees shrank beneath the primrose dusk of arc-lights. - She stepped out, ignoring my proffered assistance. She crossed the - pavement and tapped; as the door swung back I followed her under an - archway into a dim courtyard. Having mounted several flights of stairs, - she tapped again. To the sleepy maid who opened she whispered hurriedly. - The maid discreetly fell behind. - </p> - <p> - We passed into a room delicately furnished. The floor was heavily carpeted - in red. The walls, hung with etchings and landscapes, were paneled in - white. Flowers stood about in bowls and slender vases; shaded lamps gave - to the room a secret aspect. In the grate a fire of coals was burning and - two deep chairs stood one on either side. The atmosphere was intensely and - perishably feminine; it gave me the feeling of preparedness—as - though I had been expected. Through tall windows the curious night stared - in upon us. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole crossed, making no sound save the silken rustle of her dress, and - drew the curtains close together. She turned, looking back at me - side-long, at once amused and languid. Her coldness and aloofness had - vanished. The sparkle of mischief fetched the gold from the depths of her - green eyes. Her body became expressive and vibrant. Then I heard her sweet - hoarse voice, with its quaintly foreign intonation. It reached me - tauntingly, lazy with indifference, holding me at arm’s length. “Dear man, - take a chair by the fire and behave yourself. Mon Dieu, but you were - amusing to-night!” - </p> - <p> - She laughed softly at remembering and shook her cloak from her white - shoulders. A strand of hair broke loose and fell coiling across her - breast. She stepped to a mirror, turning her back on me; having twisted it - into place, she remained smiling at her reflection, whistling beneath her - breath. - </p> - <p> - Her gaiety cut like a lash across my mouth. I was painfully in earnest. - She was treating the situation as an incident—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? - </p> - <p> - Her eyes flashed out at me maddeningly from the mirror. They prompted to - irretrievable folly. They called me to go to her, and to be unworthy of - both her and myself. And I knew why: she wished me to say and do the - things that were unforgivable that she might have excuse to scorn me, to - fling me from her. Once it had been my Puritanism that had thrust us - apart; it should not now be my sensualism. I would not let her make a - hypocrite of me in my own eyes. - </p> - <p> - The seconds ticked out the silence. Her dress whispered. Her voluptuous - white arms, uplifted and curved above her neck as she patted her hair, - enhanced the perfect vase-like effect of her body. I would not go to her, - I told myself; I would not go to her. I held myself rigid, distraught, and - tense. The blood swelled out my throat and beat in my temples. She - withdrew her hands. Wickedly, like a shower of largesse, the clustered - glory of her hair rained from her head, catching her in a net of - smoldering brightness. - </p> - <p> - She glanced with half-closed eyes across her shoulder and feigned - astonishment at observing that I had remained standing. - </p> - <p> - “Still the same old idjut! Wanting something you’re afraid to have, and - looking tragic.” - </p> - <p> - “Fiesole, girl, don’t you understand? It’s not that.” - </p> - <p> - My voice sounded odd and strangled. I had spoken scarcely above a whisper. - </p> - <p> - She swung about and surveyed me leisurely. There was a pout on her mouth - like that of a naughty child. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t make it easy.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - When I did not answer, she regarded me puzzled. Slowly her brilliant - deviltry and merriment faded. The laughter sank to a whisper and ceased - abruptly, frightened at itself. The red lips drooped and parted. Something - of my own pinched earnestness was reflected in her expression—it was - as though her soul unveiled itself. She stole across to me wonderingly, - her beautiful arms stretched out. She rested the tips of her fingers - tremulously on my shoulders. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Accuse you! God forbid!” - </p> - <p> - I made a movement to gather her to me, but she slipped past me and sank - into a chair. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She shook back her hair from her forehead and bent forward gazing into the - fire, her elbows on her knees, her face cushioned in her hands. A sudden - gravity and wistfulness had fallen on her. She was thinking, remembering, - weighing me in the balance. I must not touch her—must not speak to - her. If I showed any sign of passion, she would mistake it for pity either - of her or of myself. - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m never going.” - </p> - <p> - She turned her head, scrutinizing my face stealthily from between her - hands. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be a fool. What about her?” - </p> - <p> - “There’s no one else. There never will be.” - </p> - <p> - She gasped. “You didn’t marry her?” - </p> - <p> - The strained look in her face relaxed. She laughed softly to herself; why - she laughed I could not guess. It was not the laughter which follows - suspense, but the laughter of one who courts danger. It was as though she - parted her hair into sheaves and glanced out crying, “I am Eve, the long - desired.” - </p> - <p> - Reaching over to the table she picked out a cigarette. When it was alight, - she snuggled down into the chair, kicking off her little gold shoes and - resting her feet on the fender. She eyed me dreamily. - </p> - <p> - “Then you made me suffer all that for nothing? You good men can be cruel.—— - Tell me.” - </p> - <p> - Briefly I told her of my useless visit to Sheba; and why I left; and why I - was still unmarried. I kept nothing back in my self-scorn and desire to be - honest. - </p> - <p> - She slipped her feet up and down the gleaming rail as she listened, lying - deep in cushions, her cigarette tilted in her mouth, her hands clasped - behind her head. When I ended, she frowned at me whimsically from beneath - her drawn brows. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Her eye-lids flickered as her deep voice droned the words out. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You always wanted what you couldn’t have.” - </p> - <p> - She spoke lazily, blowing smoke-rings into the air, following them with - her eyes and watching how they broke before they reached the ceiling. She - appeared untouched by my emotion, as though nothing had been said that - intimately concerned herself. She let her gaze wander, extending her lithe - sweet length luxuriously, as though she had nothing to fear from my - passion. I was crazed with desire, for all that I kept my tones quiet and - steady. She maddened me with her indifference. It was all pretense—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. - </p> - <p> - The reticence of years fell away from me. I was kneeling at her side, - kissing her unshod feet, her hands, her hair. Words tumbled from my lips, - broken and unconsidered. I called her by foolish names such as are only - used between lovers. I poured my heart out, speaking of the past and the - future. I cursed myself, all the time repeating how I worshiped her—how - I had loved her from a boy, but had come to know it only now. - </p> - <p> - And she gave no sign of response: neither forbidding, nor assenting; - letting me have my way with her without acknowledging my presence; a quiet - smile playing round her lips; as completely mistress of herself as is a - statue. - </p> - <p> - I trembled into silence. She drooped forward, bending over me, just as she - had done years ago in her uncle’s summer-house. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But it’s marriage I’m asking.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Her gentle dignity stung me into strength. My turbulence died down. As I - knelt, I flung my arms around her body and drew her to me. She struggled - to draw back, but I held her so closely that my lips were almost on her - mouth. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I stopped, panting for breath. She had ceased to struggle. Her eyes were - wide; her face hovered pale above me; she stared down at me powerless, yet - with reckless challenge, breathing upon my mouth. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “You can be any kind of woman you choose, but you’re the woman I’m going - to marry.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you haven’t heard what people say about me?” - </p> - <p> - “And I don’t care.” - </p> - <p> - “They say I’ve had lovers.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t believe them.” - </p> - <p> - “What if I should tell you that I have?” - </p> - <p> - “I shouldn’t believe you.” - </p> - <p> - “You’d prefer to think that I’d lied to you rather than that I’d told you - the truth?” - </p> - <p> - “It would make no difference. You’ve always loved me. You love me now. I - know that you are pure.” - </p> - <p> - “And you would never doubt it? Never doubt it of a woman who dances every - night, as I do, before the eyes of Paris?” - </p> - <p> - “Never.” - </p> - <p> - She gazed at me curiously, with tenderness and intentness. Her bosom - shuddered; I saw the sob rising in her throat. When she spoke, the words - came slowly; her eyes were misted over; she trembled as I clasped her. - </p> - <p> - “D’you know, I believe you’re the only living man who’d be fool enough to - say that?” - </p> - <p> - “I was always a fool, Fiesole.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She stood up and my arms slipped down to her knees as I held her. - </p> - <p> - She laughed brokenly. “You nearly made me serious. It won’t do to be - serious at three o’clock in the morning.” - </p> - <p> - “I won’t go till you’ve promised. Promise,” I urged. - </p> - <p> - She yawned. “I’m sleepy. You’ve worn me out.” - </p> - <p> - “But answer me before I go.” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “Tell me to-night. I must know. I can’t bear the suspense.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She broke from me, leaving me kneeling with my arms empty. As the door - opened into the room beyond I had a glimpse of the curtained bed. - </p> - <p> - I drew my chair closer to the dying fire. Behind the wall I could hear her - steps moving up and down as she undressed. Now and then they paused; she - was listening for the sound of my departure, uncertain, perhaps, whether I - was still there. Some time had elapsed when the door opened gently. I - twisted round. Her room was in darkness. She was standing on the - threshold. Her feet were bare; she was clad in a white night-robe; across - each shoulder, almost to her knees, hung down the red-gold ropes of her - braided hair. - </p> - <p> - “I meant what I said. I’m not going till you tell me.” - </p> - <p> - Her green eyes met mine roguishly. “A persistent fool to-night,” she said. - </p> - <p> - 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....” - </p> - <p> - Left alone with the last flame flickering in the grate, I watched the - little gold shoes. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER IX—THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>he sun was - streaming in across my shoulder. Someone had pulled back the curtains. I - was stiff and stupid from my cramped position. Despite the morning, the - electric-lights were still burning in the room; I blinked down at myself - and was astonished to find that I was in evening-dress. As I eased myself - up, something dropped to the floor—the gold shoes of Fiesole. - </p> - <p> - From behind two warm arms fastened themselves about my neck, making me - prisoner. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “My temper’s not spoilt. Don’t worry.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Till it ends.” - </p> - <p> - “Then it’ll last forever, so long as it’s just you and me.” - </p> - <p> - She dug the point of her chin into my shoulder. Glancing sideways, I - caught the impish sparkle of her eyes and the glow of her cheeks, flushed - with health and excitement. - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” she whispered, bringing her demure red - lips on a level with my mouth. - </p> - <p> - “And now, perhaps you’d like to kiss me,” I suggested. - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - “You never will be tired. I’m coming with you always.” - </p> - <p> - “And you’ll ask no questions?” - </p> - <p> - “No more than I can help.” - </p> - <p> - She released me. I stood up and surveyed my crumpled shirt-front; I was so - obviously a reveler who had outstayed discretion. She went off into peals - of laughter, laughing all over, showing her small white teeth, and - clapping her hands. “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, la, la! Don’t talk like that.” - </p> - <p> - “Can’t help it. Don’t want to help it. You’ve made me mad.” - </p> - <p> - “Poor old Dannie! Horrid of me, wasn’t it?” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Over her coffee she grew thoughtful. - </p> - <p> - “What’s the matter?” - </p> - <p> - “You are.” - </p> - <p> - “Already?” - </p> - <p> - “How can I walk through Paris with a man in evening dress at ten in the - morning?” - </p> - <p> - “How d’you want me dressed?” - </p> - <p> - “In something gay. Light tweeds, brown shoes, and a gray felt hat.” - </p> - <p> - “Got ’em all at my hotel. I’ll slip back.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - She rose from the table and vanished into her bedroom. Marie followed. - Through the partly closed door the excited titter of their whispered - conversation reached me, scraps of nervously spoken French, and the - opening and shutting of drawers and cupboards. - </p> - <p> - When she re-appeared she was clad in a mole-colored suit of corduroy - velvet, gathered in at the waist and close-fitting to her modish figure. - The tube-skirt hung short to her ankles and was trimmed about with fur. - The suède shoes, open-work stockings, and large muff were to match. - Nestling close to her auburn hair was a huzzar cap of ermine. She halted - in the sunlight, eyeing me with the naughty modesty of a coquette. She - looked oddly young and distinguished on this rare spring morning. There - never was such a woman for arranging her temperament to suit her dress. - Her hectic manner of high spirits was abandoned; she seemed almost shy as - she raised her muff to her lips and watched me, while I took in the - effect. - </p> - <p> - “So I meet with your approval?” - </p> - <p> - 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?” - </p> - <p> - Before the door a powerful two-seated car was standing. The chauffeur - stepped out; Fiesole took his place at the wheel. As we drove down the - boulevards she was recognized; people on the pavements paused to gaze - back; men raised their hats and threw glances of inquiry at one another as - to the identity of her strangely attired companion. We drew up at my hotel - in the Rue St. Honoré. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I found her with her eager face turned towards the doorway, watching - impatiently for me. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - She swung the car round and away we snorted, through the Place de la - Concorde blanched in sunlight, up the Champs Elysées where sunlight - spattered against blossoming trees and lay in pools on the turf. The - streets were animated with little children, women in bright dresses, - dashing cars and carriages. Paris gleamed white and green and golden. - Overhead the sky foamed and bubbled, yawning into blue and primrose - gulleys, trampled by stampeding clouds. - </p> - <p> - At the Place de l’Etoile the car drew up sharply and skidded; circled like - a hound picking up the scent; then darted swiftly away to the Bois, where - fashionables already loitered and acacias trembled murmurously. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole was radiant with impatience. A goddess of speed, she bent above - the wheel, casting her eyes along the road ahead. Did a gap occur in the - traffic, she flung the car forward, driving recklessly, yet always with - calculated precision. I marveled at her nerve and the silent power that - lay hidden in her thin, fine hands. - </p> - <p> - As we shot the bridge at St. Cloud the pace quickened. It was as though - she shook Paris from her skirts and ran panting to meet wider stretches of - wind-bleached country. I had one vivid glimpse of the ribbon of blue - river, boat-dotted, winding through young green of woodlands; then cities - and sophistication, and all things save Fiesole, myself, and the future - were at an end. - </p> - <p> - Soon the white road curved uninterrupted before us, a streak between - pollarded trees and blown meadows. Over the horizon came bounding hills - and church-spires, villages and rivers; as they came near to us they - halted, like shy deer, for a second; when we drew level, they fled. It was - as though we were stationary and the world was rushing past us. - </p> - <p> - The wind of our going brought color to her cheeks and fluttered out her - hair. Her eyes were starry, fixed on the distance as she skirted the rim - of eternity in her daring. Should an axle break or a tire burst, all this - fire of youth would be extinguished forever. I glanced at the speedometer; - it quivered from seventy to eighty, to eighty-five kilometers, and there - it hovered. - </p> - <p> - The throb of the engine seemed the throb of my passion. We were traveling - too fast for talking. She did not want to talk; she was escaping from - something, memories, perhaps—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. - </p> - <p> - At Evreux we halted for petrol. I proposed déjeuner, she shook her head - naughtily. - </p> - <p> - “Where are we going?” - </p> - <p> - “Over there, to the West.” - </p> - <p> - “Any particular spot in the West?” - </p> - <p> - “You’ll see presently.” - </p> - <p> - “How about the theatre?” - </p> - <p> - “Time enough,” she said. - </p> - <p> - She spoke breathlessly, remaining at the wheel while the man was filling - the tank. Somehow it seemed to me that the town had come between us; we - understood one another better when the garden of the world was flying past - us. - </p> - <p> - Before the man was paid, she had turned on the power. As we lunged - forward, he jumped aside and I flung the money out. Our wild ride towards - the Eden of the forbidden future recommenced. - </p> - <p> - Presently, without turning her head, she broke the silence. “Slip your arm - round me, old boy; my back grows tired.” - </p> - <p> - I placed my arm about the slender, upright figure and slid my shoulder - behind her, so she leant against me. - </p> - <p> - “What’s the idea, Fiesole? Paolo and Francesca?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - When I attempted to speak again, she turned on more power and threw me a - smile which was a threat. - </p> - <p> - I clasped her closer. “Little devil! I’ll keep quiet. You needn’t do - that.” - </p> - <p> - But though I kept quiet my heart beat madly. The panorama of change - sweeping by, with her face the one thing constant, quickened and - emphasized my need of her more than any spoken tenderness. Our thoughts - merged and interchanged with a subtlety that speech could never have - accomplished. The pressure of her body, the tantalizing joy of her - nearness and forbiddenness, the imminence of death, the law of silence—these - summed up in a moment’s experience the entire philosophy of love, and of - life itself. - </p> - <p> - I began to understand her meaning, her language; she was temporizing as I - had temporized at Venice; but instead of going away from me, she was - fleeing with me from circumstance. She was telling me of her woman’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - I was mad. I wanted her. No matter how she came to me, I wanted her. I - could not bear the thought that we should ever be separated. She was so - intensely mine at this present; and yet, though she was mine, I was - insanely jealous to preserve her. - </p> - <p> - With the long fascination of watching her I bent slowly forward. The - action was instinctive, uncalculated. How long I took in approaching her, - I cannot tell. I was anxious to last out the joy of anticipation; I was - not conscious of motion. My lips touched hers. Her hold on the wheel - relaxed. Her eyes met mine. The car swerved, hung upon the edge of the - road, ran along it balancing; then bounded back into the straight white - line. - </p> - <p> - I was so frenzied that I did not care. She had thought to hold me prisoner - by her speed; I would overcome her with defiance. I kissed her again, - holding her to me. She kept her eyes on the distance now, but her mouth - smiled tenderly. - </p> - <p> - “That was foolish,” she said. - </p> - <p> - I raised my voice to reach her above the moaning of the engine. “The whole - thing’s foolish.” - </p> - <p> - She broke into wild laughter. “That’s why I like it, like you, like - myself.” - </p> - <p> - We hovered on the brim of a valley; then commenced to sink as though the - earth had given way beneath us. Far below, as far as eye could reach, were - orchards smoking with white blossom. Through the heart of the valley a - river ran; standing on its puny banks was a gray old town, blinking in the - wind and sun like a spectacled grandmother who had nodded to sleep, and - wakened bewildered to find spring rioting round her. - </p> - <p> - “Where is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Lisieux, unless I’m mistaken.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you know where we’re going?” - </p> - <p> - “More or less.” - </p> - <p> - We pulled up in a drowsy, sun-drenched market-place outside a sleepy café. - At tables on the pavement, with hands in their blouses and legs sprawled - out, sat a few artisans, eyeing their absinthe. Houses tottered and sagged - from extreme old age. Across the way a cathedral, scarred by time and - chapped by weather, raised its crumbling sculptured towers against the - clouds. - </p> - <p> - She took my hand as she stepped out. “You nearly did for us just now.” - </p> - <p> - “Who cares?” - </p> - <p> - She shrugged her shoulders. “All Paris cares. I’m not anxious to be dead; - when I am, I’d like to look pretty.” - </p> - <p> - When we had seated ourselves, she took out her mirror and commenced - tidying her hair and brushing the dust from her brows. There was nothing - to be had, the waiter informed us, but pot au feu; déjeuner was over. So I - ordered pot au feu, red wine and an omelet. - </p> - <p> - As she replaced her mirror in her muff, she looked up brilliantly. “You - know, I <i>am</i> pretty.” - </p> - <p> - She was being watched. The dull eyes of the absinthe-drinkers had become - alert. Tradesmen had come out of their shops and stared at her across the - square. Some of the bolder strolled into the café and seated themselves - close to her. They were paying the unabashed homage that a Frenchman - always pays to feminine beauty. - </p> - <p> - I lowered my voice to a whisper; my throat was parched with dust. “This - can’t go on.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s not what I meant; you know it.” - </p> - <p> - “What then? The same old thing—marriage?” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>La Fiesole</i> - and to-night you’ll be dancing with them all watching. I can’t bear it.” - </p> - <p> - “I shan’t.” - </p> - <p> - I leant eagerly forward, but she drew away from me. - </p> - <p> - “You’re not going back? You’ve given up the theatre?” - </p> - <p> - She held me in suspense, letting her eyes wander as though she had not - heard. Slowly she turned, with that lazy, taunting smile of hers. “Damn - the theatre,” she said quietly; “I’m going on with you to the end.” - </p> - <p> - “And the end’s marriage?” - </p> - <p> - “Who can tell? Now don’t be a rotter. You’re spoiling everything. Let’s - talk of something else.” - </p> - <p> - When we climbed into the car, “You drive,” she said. - </p> - <p> - “But to where?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s my secret. Straight on. I’ll tell you when to turn.” - </p> - <p> - We were hardly out of the valley before her eyes had closed and her head - was nodding against my shoulder. I drove gently, fearing to disturb her. - From time to time I looked down at the white slant of her throat, the - shadows beneath her lashes, and the almost childish droop of her mouth. - How the self she kept hidden revealed itself! Her face was that of a - Madonna, for whom the cross was yet remote and the happiness near at hand—and - both were certain. What different versions she gave me of herself! Once a - sickening fear shook me like a leaf. I slowed the car to a halt, and - listened for her breath. In that moment I suffered all the agony of loss - that must some time accompany the actuality. One day, sooner or later, I - told myself, this thing I had dreaded would occur. How much time was left - to us to find life beautiful between then and now? - </p> - <p> - On the bare Normandy uplands, between tilled fields and driving clouds, I - waited for her to waken. The air was growing chill; I drew my coat round - her. I felt again, in a new and better way, that sense of nearness and - forbiddenness which had exhilarated me to the point of delirium on the - madcap journey down from Paris. I looked ahead into the pale distance, - where the notched horizon bound the earth with a silver band... and I - wondered where she was taking me, and what lay at the end. She might fight - against it—she would fight against it; but the end should be - marriage. I would watch over her always as I was watching now. - </p> - <p> - She stirred; her eye-lids fluttered. She stared up at me for a moment with - undisguised affection; then the fear of tenderness returned. She pulled - herself together, rubbing her knuckles in her eyes and yawning. - </p> - <p> - “Gee up, old hoss. This ain’t a bloomin’ cab-stand. You’re not home yet.” - </p> - <p> - “You fell asleep, my dear, so I waited for you.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I shan’t pay you,” she laughed; “it’s not fair. Pray what did you - think you were doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Enjoying myself.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Something horrid? Let’s have it.” - </p> - <p> - “A cowl. You ought to have been a monk in Florence, painting naked angels - in impossible meadows.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ve known you sentimental, Fiesole.” - </p> - <p> - Her lips trembled, and her body stiffened. “And you punished me for it.” - </p> - <p> - “You have a woman’s memory.” - </p> - <p> - “Odd, seeing I’m a woman. Who’s going to crank that engine? Am I, or are - you?” - </p> - <p> - We swung on through the bare bleak country with masked faces. She sat a - little apart from me, her knees crossed and her hands clasped about them. - Did I glance at her, she turned petulantly in the opposite direction. I - cursed myself. I was almost angry with her. What was her plan? Had she - given me the privileges of dearness to her simply that she might thwart - and taunt me? How could I teach her to forget? How could I teach myself to - forget? At the back of my mind I loved her the more because of her - perversity. - </p> - <p> - We came to a cross-road. She touched me on the arm; we swerved into it. - Far down the white stretch I saw a speck, which resolved itself into a man - and woman, traveling away from us with their backs towards us. The man - wore the blue blouse and wide, baggy trousers of a peasant; his feet were - shod in sabots. The woman was clad in a coarse, loose dress, like a sack - drawn over her and tied about the middle; it was neutral in tone, being - aged by weather. Her figure was shapeless—almost animal in its - ponderous patience and breadth. Her hair was flaxen from exposure. They - plodded through the bleak expanse with heads bowed, bodies huddled, and - arms encircling. Every few paces they halted; we saw the gleam of their - faces as they clung lip to lip in hasty ecstasy. - </p> - <p> - The wind was blowing from them towards us; they were unaware of us. I had - my hand on the horn, when Fiesole clutched me. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t. They’ve nothing in the world but this moment. God knows what lies - before them!” - </p> - <p> - We followed them at a distance. The symbolism of their silent figures awed - us: overhead, the soundless battle of high-flying clouds; beneath, the - gray vacancy with springtime stirring; around, the dun, unheeding earth; - through the bareness the white road sweeping on unhurrying toward the land - of sunsets; traveling along it a man and woman, for the time forgetful of - their poverty, the focus-point of responsive passion. They had nothing but - this moment. - </p> - <p> - “And what have we?” I questioned. - </p> - <p> - She crouched beside me; her soft arm stole about my neck. “Dearest, - forgive me,” she murmured. - </p> - <p> - Her eyes were blinded; my lips against her cheek were salt. She clung to - me desperately, as though a hand pressed on her shoulder to jerk her from - me—Vi’s hand. - </p> - <p> - Where a rutted lane sloped down to a wooded hollow, the lovers turned. - Among pollarded trees we lost them. They would never know that we had - watched them. So they vanished out of our lives, walking hand-in-hand - toward child-bearing and the inevitable separation of death that lurked - for them at some hidden cross-road. We, equally unknowing, to what place - of parting were we faring? - </p> - <p> - I tilted up her face. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t; neither do you. But when you say so laughing, I can almost - believe it.” - </p> - <p> - When we had once again started, she became more frank. It was because my - hands were occupied, perhaps. Laying her cheek against my shoulder, - “Dante, I’m not a flirt,” she said. “I just can’t make up my mind about - you.” - </p> - <p> - “Maybe, I’ll make it up for you.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “D’you want it now?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know.” She dragged the words out wide-apart. “And yet I do know; - but I’ve no right to allow it.” - </p> - <p> - “You silly child, why on earth not?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m inconstant; I’m like that now. I should make you happy first and - sorry afterwards.” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll risk it. I made you sorry first and now I’m going to make you - happy.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you think you are?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure of it.” - </p> - <p> - The road began to descend, at first gradually. The bare, tilled uplands - where winter lingered, were left behind and we ran through a sheltered - land of orchards. The air pulsated with the baaing of lambs and the sweet - yearning of fecundity. Under blown spray of fruit-trees the little - creatures gamboled, halting by fits and starts, calling to their mothers, - or kneeling beneath them, their thirsty throats stretched up and their - long tails flapping. Surrounded by lean trees, lopped of their lower - branches, gray farmhouses rose up, watching like aged shepherds. - Slowfooted cattle, heavy-uddered, wandered between the hedges with their - great bags swinging. Women with brass jars on their shoulders, which - narrowed at the neck like funeral urns, walked through the meadows to the - milking. - </p> - <p> - “Do we turn or go on?” - </p> - <p> - “Go on.” - </p> - <p> - “How much farther?” - </p> - <p> - “A little farther.” - </p> - <p> - “It’s getting older and older isn’t it, Fiesole?” - </p> - <p> - “No, younger and younger, stupid. Look at all the lambs.” - </p> - <p> - Before us the land piled up into a hillock, breaking the level sweep of - sky-line and hiding what lay beyond. The road curved about it in a slow - descent. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole leant past me, shutting off the power. “Let her coast,” she said. - </p> - <p> - At the bend in the road I jammed on the brakes, halting the car. She - slipped her hand into mine; we filled our eyes with the sight, saying - nothing. - </p> - <p> - Sheer against the sky rose a jagged rock and perched on its summit, so - much a part of it that it seemed to have been carved, stood a ruined - castle. Its windows were vacant; its roof had long since fallen; its walls - had been bruised and broken by cannon. It tottered above the valley like a - Samson blinded, groping on the edge of the precipice, its power shorn. - Round the embattled rock, like children who trusted the old protector, - gathered mediaeval houses. Some of them, centuries ago, had wandered off - into the snowy orchards and stood tiptoe, as though listening, ready to - run back should they hear the tramp of an invading army. Through the - valley and into the town a narrow stream darted, flashing like an arrow. - Behind town and castle, across the horizon, towered a saffron wall of - cloud, tipped along the edge with fire and notched in the center where the - molten ball of the setting sun rested. From quaint gray streets came up a - multitude of small sounds, like the lazy humming of women spinning. And - over all, across orchards and roofs of houses, the grim warden on the rock - threw his shadow. It was a valley forgotten by the centuries—a - garden without barriers. - </p> - <p> - “Where are we?” I whispered. - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - She was aflame in the light of the sunset. Her face was ivory, intense and - ardent with glory. Her waywardness and fondness for disguise were gone; - her true self, steady and unafraid, gazed out on me. The havoc of passion - was replaced by the contentment of a desire all but satisfied. - </p> - <p> - “Let’s go to the castle first,” she said. “You remember its story?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Leaving the car in the village street, we climbed the rock and gained - admittance. As we gazed down from the splintered battlements into the - winding streets, Fiesole drew me to her, throwing her arm carelessly about - my neck as though we were boy and girl. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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——” - </p> - <p> - “Thinking something dangerous, I’ll warrant.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps—if you steal strongly.” - </p> - <p> - “But I have stolen strongly; see how I’ve carried you off.” - </p> - <p> - We discovered a little hotel, the courtyard of which was invaded by a - garden and opened out beyond into a misty orchard. At sound of our - entrance a white-haired old country-woman came out from the office, - holding her knitting in her hands. I made to go towards her, but Fiesole - detained me. “You’re my prisoner,” she said; “I’m responsible. You stay - here and I’ll tell her what we want.” - </p> - <p> - The air had grown sharper, but the moments were too precious to be spent - indoors. We had our dinner served beneath a fig-tree in the courtyard, - where we could see the shadows creeping through the garden and hear the - sabots clap along the causeways. - </p> - <p> - We were almost shy with one another. We had little to say, and that little - was spoken with our eyes for the most part. We did not dare to think: for - me there was the ghost of Vi; and she also had I knew not what memories. - We were restless till the meal was ended; the contact of live hands was - the best speech possible. The tremulous dusk had fallen when we wandered - out into the narrow climbing streets, traveling directionless under broken - archways, past ancient churches—bribes to God for forgiveness for - wrongs still more ancient. - </p> - <p> - We peeped into crouching cottages as we passed. We were glad of their - company; they kept us from giving way to the tumult of feeling that ran - riot in our hearts. Their small leaded windows were like lanterns set out - to guide and not to watch us. We had glimpses through the glowing panes of - kindly peasant interiors, with low ceilings and home-made furnishings. - Sometimes at a rough table round which wine and bread were passed, the - family was gathered, their faces illumined by a solitary candle in the - center; looming out of the shadows on the wall was the cross. Sometimes - the man was still at work, carving sabots or weaving, while the woman held - a child to her breast, or rocked it in a cradle on the stone-paved floor. - </p> - <p> - One by one the lights were quenched and the doors fastened. - </p> - <p> - Fiesole leant more heavily against me, her arm encircling me, her head - upon my shoulder. Now that the town slept, I could feel the wild clamor of - her body and hear the fluttering intake of her breath. The wind, - whispering through flowering trees, blew cool and fragrant in our - nostrils. For intervals there was no sound save the rustle of falling - blossoms and our own stealthy footsteps; from somewhere out in the pale - dusk, a lamb would call and its mother would answer. Above us, between - steep roofs, as down a beaten pathway, the silver chariot of the moon - plunged onward, scattering the clouds before it. - </p> - <p> - We came again to the hostel; when we entered, we walked apart. Quickly, as - though seized with sudden misgiving, Fiesole left me. I heard her footstep - mounting the stairs and saw the light spring up in her window. Every other - window was in darkness. From where I sat in the courtyard I could see the - shadow of her figure groping, and her arms uplifted as she unbound her - hair. The light went out. I wondered if she watched me. I listened to hear - her stirring; I could hear nothing. - </p> - <p> - In the dim quiet, shut out from the excitement of her presence, I had - leisure to reflect on whither I was going. I drew apart from myself and - eyed my doings impartially. It was a whim of curiosity that had brought me - to Paris—one of those instinctive decisions which construct a - destiny. The sight of her as Lucrezia had stabbed me to remorse, and then - to folly. That she had hated me up to last night and that the desire of - her wild heart had been to torture me, I did not doubt; but I thought that - there were moments in this day when she had loved me with the old - uncalculating kindness. What was her intention now? - </p> - <p> - Unaccountably out of the past, Fiesole had returned—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. - </p> - <p> - All seeming failure of the past would take on an aspect of design and - would appear a straight road leading to this moment, were our journeyings - to end in marriage. And, though she would not own it, she needed the - protection of a man who loved her to guard her against her success and - self-reliance. - </p> - <p> - My thoughts ran on, picturing the home and little children we would have. - Children would be walls about our love, making it secure. For these I was - hungry—desperately afraid lest the hope of them should be withdrawn. - In imagination they seemed already mine, I would speak my heart out: she - should understand before it was too late that my need was also hers. - </p> - <p> - I entered the hostel. In the office the old woman nodded above her - knitting. I roused her and asked for my candle. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - In my surprise I told her that it did not matter. - </p> - <p> - I felt my way up the unlit stairs. At the bedroom-door I knocked. - Fiesole’s voice just reached me, whispering to me to enter. On the - threshold I paused, peering into the darkness. The floor was bare; there - was little furniture. In the shadows against the wall, a canopied, - high-mattressed bed loomed mountainous. Through the window, reaching - almost to my feet, a ray of moonlight slanted; in it, gleaming white, - stood Fiesole. - </p> - <p> - My heart was in my throat. I could not speak. We watched one another; as - the silence lengthened, the space between us seemed impassable. - </p> - <p> - She held out her arms; her hoarse voice spoke, yearning towards me with - its lazy sweetness. “Even now, if you want to, you may go, Dannie.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - CHAPTER X—THE FRUIT OF THE GARDEN - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> had been for a - saunter through the town. Several times I had returned before I found - Fiesole beneath the fig-tree in the courtyard, seated at the table with a - paper spread out in front of her. She looked up swiftly at sound of my - footstep and threw me a smile, gathering herself in to make room for me - beside her. When I stood over her, she lifted up her face with childish - eagerness as though we had not kissed already more than once that morning. - “Shall I order déjeuner out here?” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “Something interesting?” - </p> - <p> - “Rather.” She raised her green eyes mischievously. “It’s all up. We’ll be - collared within the hour.” - </p> - <p> - “What’s all up? Who’s got the right to collar us?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Let ’em try. We don’t care.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “If it’s damages for a broken contract they’re after, I’ll settle that for - you.” - </p> - <p> - She smiled mysteriously and, bowing her head above the paper, read me - extracts, throwing in, now and then, her own vivacious comments. - </p> - <p> - It appeared that up to the last moment the theatre-management had expected - her and had allowed the audience to assemble. They had delayed matters for - half an hour while they sent out messengers to search for her. When the - crowd grew restless, they had commenced the performance with an - under-study. But the people would have none of her; they rose up in their - places stamping and threatening, shouting for <i>La Fiesole</i>. The - curtain had been rung down and Monsieur Georges had come forward, weeping - and wringing his hands, saying that <i>La Fiesole</i> had been kidnaped by - an admirer that morning. Pandemonium broke loose. The theatre for a time - was in danger of being wrecked; but the police were summoned and got the - audience out, and the money refunded. - </p> - <p> - The journalist’s story followed of the unknown Englishman who, a few - nights before, had stood up in his box applauding when everyone else had - grown silent; and how the same Englishman, one night previously, had - created a scene between himself and <i>La Fiesole</i> at a café in the - Champs Elysées—a scene which had terminated by them going away - together. - </p> - <p> - “Make you out quite a desperate character, don’t they, old darling?” she - drawled, looking up into my eyes, laughing. - </p> - <p> - I did my best to share her levity, but I was secretly annoyed at so much - publicity. Taking the paper from her, I patted her on the shoulder. “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “And if they did find us, they couldn’t do anything. Discovery won’t be - easy.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “But didn’t you warn Marie?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Humph!” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “You’ve done it. Go on, John Bunyan.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, here’s my plan: that we motor through to Cherbourg and skip over to - Southampton.” - </p> - <p> - “And then?” - </p> - <p> - “Get a special license in the shortest time possible. When we’re - discovered, you’ll be Lady Cardover.” - </p> - <p> - “But it isn’t necessary that I should be Lady Cardover. I’m not ashamed of - anything. Are you?” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - Our meal was finished. We wandered off into the orchard at the back. When - we were safe from watching eyes, Fiesole gave me her hand. We came to a - place where trees grew closer together; here we rested. She leant against - me, her face wistful and troubled; the sun through the branches scattered - gold and the blossoms snowflakes in her hair. - </p> - <p> - Presently she disentangled herself from my arms, and jumped to her feet, - smiling gently. “I’ve a surprise for you, my virgin man. I want you to - stop here for half an hour and promise not to follow.” - </p> - <p> - “A long time to be without you.” - </p> - <p> - “But promise.” - </p> - <p> - “All right. Very well.” - </p> - <p> - She stooped over me quietly before she went. I watched her pass swaying - across the dappled turf, under the dancing shadows and rain of petals. - Just before she entered the courtyard, she turned and waved her hand. - </p> - <p> - Something in Fiesole’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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Yet my present conduct was not incompatible with my past: it was the - result of it. Puppy passions of thought had grown into hounds of action—that - was all. - </p> - <p> - From the first my pagan imagination, at war with my puritan conscience, - had lured me on. All my life I had been breaking bounds imaginatively: - innocently for Ruthita in my childhood; in appearance for Fiesole at - Venice; dangerously for Vi; and at last in fact for Fiesole. Narrower - affections I had passed by, not perceiving that their narrowness made for - safety and kindness. The unwalled garden of masterless desire had proved a - wilderness; its fruit was loneliness. - </p> - <p> - Last night, sitting in the courtyard, I had told myself that in remaining - constant to Vi, I had gambled for the impossible. Was it true? In any - case, to have followed up the risk strongly was my only excuse for having - gambled at all. By turning back I abandoned the prize, and made the sin of - loving a forbidden woman paltry.—Might she not have been waiting for - me all these years, as I had been waiting! What an irony if now, when I - was destroying both the hope and reward of our sacrifice, she were free - and preparing to come to me! - </p> - <p> - And Fiesole! I had used her to drug my unsatisfied longing. Should I not - do her more grievous wrong in marrying her while I loved another woman?—I - had been mad. I was appalled. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - Marry Fiesole! In marriage lay escape from the penalty of my lifelong - lawless curiosity. Walls of children might grow up, responsibilities of - domestic affection, giving shelter and security. - </p> - <p> - This was treachery. Fiesole should never guess I had faltered. The door - should be closed on the past—— - </p> - <p> - I had been waiting for, perhaps, half-an-hour, when I heard the chugging - of a motor newly started. There were no other travelers staying at the - inn; I thought that I recognized the beat of the engine. As I listened, I - felt sure that the car was being backed into the road. I expected to hear - it stop, and to see Fiesole come from under the archway and signal for me. - It did not stop. It began to gather speed. The sound droned fainter and - fainter. - </p> - <p> - Promise or no promise, I could not resist my excited curiosity. I ran - across the orchard, through the courtyard, into the sunlit street. Far up - the road, I saw a cloud of dust growing smaller, disappearing in the - direction of Paris. I watched, confused and dumbfounded, as it dwindled. - </p> - <p> - The old proprietress approached me shyly and touched me on the arm. “For - Monsieur from Madame.” - </p> - <p> - Snatching the note from her hand, I tore it open with trembling fingers. - The writing was hasty and agitated. I read and re-read it, trying to twist - its words into another meaning. - </p> - <p> - The note ran: - </p> - <p> - <i>My poor Dante, as you said to me, I have a woman’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.</i> - </p> - <p> - Raising my eyes, I stood alone, gazing along the gleaming road to Paris. - The cloud of dust had vanished. - </p> - <h3> - THE END - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's The Garden Without Walls, by Coningsby Dawson - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS *** - -***** This file should be named 54801-h.htm or 54801-h.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. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for the eBooks, unless you receive -specific permission. If you do not charge anything for copies of this -eBook, complying with the rules is very easy. You may use this eBook -for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, -performances and research. They may be modified and printed and given -away--you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks -not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the -trademark license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country outside the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - 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. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and The -Project Gutenberg Trademark LLC, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's principal office is in Fairbanks, Alaska, with the -mailing address: PO Box 750175, Fairbanks, AK 99775, but its -volunteers and employees are scattered throughout numerous -locations. Its business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt -Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to -date contact information can be found at the Foundation's web site and -official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -For additional contact information: - - Dr. Gregory B. Newby - Chief Executive and Director - gbnewby@pglaf.org - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide -spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. - - - -</pre> - - </body> -</html> diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/0001.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/0001.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 05c23a0..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/0001.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/0002.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/0002.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 8b6a626..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/0002.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/0003.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/0003.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index be0f7ae..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/0003.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/0005.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/0005.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 9086ef8..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/0005.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 05c23a0..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/54801-h/images/enlarge.jpg b/old/54801-h/images/enlarge.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5a9bcf3..0000000 --- a/old/54801-h/images/enlarge.jpg +++ /dev/null |
