The Dark Flower.................................................................................................................................................1

John Galsworthy......................................................................................................................................1

He walked along Holywell that afternoon of early June with his short gown drooping down his arms, and no

cap on his thick dark hair. A youth of middle height, and built as if he had come of two very different strains,

one sturdy, the other wiry and light. His face, too, was a curious blend, for, though it was strongly formed, its

expression was rather soft and moody. His eyesdark grey, with a good deal of light in them, and very black

lasheshad a way of looking beyond what they saw, so that he did not seem always to be quite present; but

his smile was exceedingly swift, uncovering teeth as white as a negro's, and giving his face a peculiar

eagerness. People stared at him a little as he passedsince in eighteen hundred and eighty he was before his

time in not wearing a cap. Women especially were interested; they perceived that he took no notice of them,

seeming rather to be looking into distance, and making combinations in his soul.

Did he know of what he was thinkingdid he ever know quite definitely at that time of his life, when things,

especially those beyond the immediate horizon, were so curious and interesting?the things he was going to

see and do when he had got through Oxford, where everybody was 'awfully decent' to him and 'all right' of

He was on his way to his tutor's to read an essay on Oliver Cromwell; and under the old wall, which had once

hedged in the town, he took out of his pocket a beast. It was a small tortoise, and, with an extreme absorption,

he watched it move its little inquiring head, feeling it all the time with his short, broad fingers, as though to

discover exactly how it was made. It was mighty hard in the back! No wonder poor old Aeschylus felt a bit

sick when it fell on his head! The ancients used it to stand the world ona pagoda world, perhaps, of men

and beasts and trees, like that carving on his guardian's Chinese cabinet. The Chinese made jolly beasts and

trees, as if they believed in everything having a soul, and not only being just fit for people to eat or drive or

make houses of. If only the Art School would let him model things 'on his own,' instead of copying and

copyingit was just as if they imagined it would be dangerous to let you think out anything for yourself!

He held the tortoise to his waistcoat, and let it crawl, till, noticing that it was gnawing the corner of his essay,

he put it back into his pocket. What would his tutor do if he were to know it was there?cock his head a

little to one side, and say: "Ah! there are things, Lennan, not dreamed of in my philosophy!" Yes, there were

a good many not dreamed of by 'old Stormer,' who seemed so awfully afraid of anything that wasn't usual;

who seemed always laughing at you, for fear that you should laugh at him. There were lots of people in

Oxford like that. It was stupid. You couldn't do anything decent if you were afraid of being laughed at! Mrs.

Stormer wasn't like that; she did things becausethey came into her head. But then, of course, she was

When Anna Stormer came into the study she found her husband standing at the window with his head a little

on one sidea tall, longlegged figure in clothes of a pleasant tweed, and wearing a low turnover collar

(not common in those days) and a blue silk tie, which she had knitted, strung through a ring. He was

humming and gently tapping the windowpane with his wellkept fingernails. Though celebrated for the

amount of work he got through, she never caught him doing any in this house of theirs, chosen because it was

more than half a mile away from the College which held the 'dear young clowns,' as he called them, of whom

He did not turnit was not, of course, his habit to notice what was not absolutely necessarybut she felt

that he was aware of her. She came to the window seat and sat down. He looked round at that, and said:

It was a murmur almost of admiration, not usual from him, since, with the exception of certain portions of the

classics, it was hardly his custom to admire. But she knew that she was looking her best sitting there, her

really beautiful figure poised, the sun shining on her brown hair, and brightening her deepset, icegreen

eyes under their black lashes. It was sometimes a great comfort to her that she remained so goodlooking. It

would have been an added vexation indeed to have felt that she ruffled her husband's fastidiousness. Even so,

her cheekbones were too high for his taste, symbols of that something in her character which did not go with

histhe dash of desperation, of vividness, that lack of a certain English smoothness, which always annoyed

"Harold!"she would never quite flatten her r's"I want to go to the mountains this year."

The mountains! She had not seen them since that season at San Martino di Castrozza twelve years ago, which

She knew what he meant by that. No romance. How splendidly he had led that day! She had almost

worshipped him. What blindness! What distortion! Was it really the same man standing there with those

bright, doubting eyes, with grey already in his hair? Yes, romance was over! And she sat silent, looking out

into the street that little old street into which she looked day and night. A figure passed out there, came to

She felt her husband's eyes rest on her just for a moment, knew that he had turned, heard him murmur: "Ah,

the angel clown!" And, quite still, she waited for the door to open. There was the boy, with his blessed dark

"Well, Lennan, and how's old Noll? Hypocrite of genius, eh? Draw up; let's get him over!"

Motionless, from her seat at the window, she watched those two figures at the tablethe boy reading in his

queer, velvety bass voice; her husband leaning back with the tips of his fingers pressed together, his head a

little on one side, and that faint, satiric smile which never reached his eyes. Yes, he was dozing, falling

asleep; and the boy, not seeing, was going on. Then he came to the end and glanced up. What eyes he had!

Other boys would have laughed; but he looked almost sorry. She heard him murmur: "I'm awfully sorry, sir."

"Ah, Lennan, you caught me! Fact is, term's fagged me out. We're going to the mountains. Ever been to the

mountains? Whatnever! You should come with us, eh? What do you say, Anna? Don't you think this

When the boy had said goodbye, and she had watched him out into the street, Anna stood for a moment in

the streak of sunlight that came in through the open door, her hands pressed to cheeks which were flaming.

Then she shut the door and leaned her forehead against the windowpane, seeing nothing. Her heart beat very

fast; she was going over and over again the scene just passed through. This meant so much more than it had

Though she always had Heimweh, and especially at the end of the summer term, this year it had been a

different feeling altogether that made her say to her husband: "I want to go to the mountains!"

For twelve years she had longed for the mountains every summer, but had not pleaded for them; this year she

had pleaded, but she did not long for them. It was because she had suddenly realized the strange fact that she

did not want to leave England, and the reason for it, that she had come and begged to go. Yet why, when it

was just to get away from thought of this boy, had she said: "Yes, I think he ought to come!" Ah! but life for

her was always a strange pull between the conscientious and the desperate; a queer, vivid, aching business!

How long was it now since that day when he first came to lunch, silent and shy, and suddenly smiling as if he

were all lighted up withinthe day when she had said to her husband afterwards: "Ah, he's an angel!" Not

yet a yearthe beginning of last October term, in fact. He was different from all the other boys; not that he

was a prodigy with untidy hair, illfitting clothes, and a clever tongue; but because of

somethingsomething Ah! welldifferent; because he washe; because she longed to take his head

between her hands and kiss it. She remembered so well the day that longing first came to her. She was giving

him tea, it was quite early in the Easter term; he was stroking her cat, who always went to him, and telling her

that he meant to be a sculptor, but that his guardian objected, so that, of course, he could not start till he was

of age. The lamp on the table had a rosecoloured shade; he had been rowinga very cold dayand his

face was glowing; generally it was rather pale. And suddenly he smiled, and said: "It's rotten waiting for

things, isn't it?" It was then she had almost stretched out her hands to draw his forehead to her lips. She had

thought then that she wanted to kiss him, because it would have been so nice to be his mothershe might

just have been his mother, if she had married at sixteen. But she had long known now that she wanted to kiss,

not his forehead, but his lips. He was there in her lifea fire in a cold and unaired house; it had even become

hard to understand that she could have gone on all these years without him. She had missed him so those six

weeks of the Easter vacation, she had revelled so in his three queer little letters, halfshy, halfconfidential;

kissed them, and worn them in her dress! And in return had written him long, perfectly correct epistles in her

still rather quaint English. She had never let him guess her feelings; the idea that he might shocked her

inexpressibly. When the summer term began, life seemed to be all made up of thoughts of him. If, ten years

ago, her baby had lived, if its cruel deathafter her agonyhad not killed for good her wish to have

another; if for years now she had not been living with the knowledge that she had no warmth to expect, and

that love was all over for her; if life in the most beautiful of all old cities had been able to grip herthere

would have been forces to check this feeling. But there was nothing in the world to divert the current. And

she was so brimful of life, so conscious of vitality running to sheer waste. Sometimes it had been terrific, that

feeling within her, of wanting to liveto find outlet for her energy. So many hundreds of lonely walks she

had taken during all these years, trying to lose herself in Naturehurrying alone, running in the woods, over

the fields, where people did not come, trying to get rid of that sense of waste, trying once more to feel as she

had felt when a girl, with the whole world before her. It was not for nothing that her figure was superb, her

hair so bright a brown, her eyes so full of light. She had tried many distractions. Work in the back streets,

music, acting, hunting; given them up one after the other; taken to them passionately again. They had served

in the past. But this year they had not served. . . . One Sunday, coming from confession unconfessed, she had

faced herself. It was wicked. She would have to kill this feelingmust fly from this boy who moved her so!

If she did not act quickly, she would be swept away. And then the thought had come: Why not? Life was to

be livednot torpidly dozed through in this queer cultured place, where age was in the blood! Life was for

loveto be enjoyed! And she would be thirtysix next month! It seemed to her already an enormous age.

Thirtysix! Soon she would be old, actually oldand never have known passion! The worship, which had

made a hero of the distinguishedlooking Englishman, twelve years older than herself, who could lead up the

Cimone della Pala, had not been passion. It might, perhaps, have become passion if he had so willed. But he

was all form, ice, books. Had he a heart at all, had he blood in his veins? Was there any joy of life in this too

beautiful city and these people who lived in itthis place where even enthusiasms seemed to be formal and

have no wings, where everything was settled and sophisticated as the very chapels and cloisters? And yet, to

have this feeling for a boyfor one almost young enough to be her son! It was soshameless! That thought

haunted her, made her flush in the dark, lying awake at night. And desperately she would pray for she was

devoutpray to be made pure, to be given the holy feelings of a mother, to be filled simply with the sweet

sense that she could do everything, suffer anything for him, for his good. After these long prayers she would

feel calmed, drowsy, as though she had taken a drug. For hours, perhaps, she would stay like that. And then it

would all come over her again. She never thought of his loving her; that would beunnatural. Why should

he love her? She was very humble about it. Ever since that Sunday, when she avoided the confessional, she

had brooded over how to make an endhow to get away from a longing that was too strong for her. And she

had hit on this planto beg for the mountains, to go back to where her husband had come into her life, and

try if this feeling would not die. If it did not, she would ask to be left out there with her own people, away

from this danger. And now the foolthe blind foolthe superior foolwith his satiric smile, his

everlasting patronage, had driven her to overturn her own plan. Well, let him take the consequences; she had

done her best! She would have this one fling of joy, even if it meant that she must stay out there, and never

Standing in her dusky hall, where a faint scent of woodrot crept out into the air, whenever windows and doors

were closed, she was all tremulous with secret happiness. To be with him among her mountains, to show him

all those wonderful, glittering or tawny crags, to go with him to the top of them and see the kingdoms of the

world spread out below; to wander with him in the pine woods, on the Alps in all the scent of the trees and

the flowers, where the sun was hot! The first of July; and it was only the tenth of June! Would she ever live

so long? They would not go to San Martino this time, rather to Cortinasome new place that had no

She moved from the window, and busied herself with a bowl of flowers. She had heard that humming sound

which often heralded her husband's approach, as though warning the world to recover its good form before he

reached it. In her happiness she felt kind and friendly to him. If he had not meant to give her joy, he had

nevertheless given it! He came downstairs two at a time, with that air of not being a pedagogue, which she

His voice seemed to have an accent of compunction, to ask pardon for having issued that impulsive

invitation. And there came to her an overwhelming wish to laugh. To hide it, to find excuse for it, she ran up

to him, and, pulling his coat lapels till his face was within reach, she kissed the tip of his nose. And then she

laughed. And he stood looking at her, with his head just a little on one side, and his eyebrows just a little

When young Mark heard a soft tapping at his door, though out of bed, he was getting on but dreamilyit

was so jolly to watch the mountains lying out in this early light like huge beasts. That one they were going

up, with his head just raised above his paws, looked very far away out there! Opening the door an inch, he

It was awfully rude of him to keep her waiting! And he was soon down in the empty diningroom, where a

sleepy maid was already bringing in their coffee. Anna was there alone. She had on a flaxblue shirt, open at

the neck, a short green skirt, and a grey green velvety hat, small, with one blackcock's feather. Why could

not people always wear such nice things, and be as splendid looking! And he said:

She did not answer for so long that he wondered if it had been rude to say that. But she DID look so strong,

Down the hill, through a wood of larchtrees, to the river, and across the bridge, to mount at once by a path

through hayfields. How could old Stormer stay in bed on such a morning! The peasant girls in their blue

linen skirts were already gathering into bundles what the men had scythed. One, raking at the edge of a field,

paused and shyly nodded to them. She had the face of a Madonna, very calm and grave and sweet, with

delicate arched brows a face it was pure pleasure to see. The boy looked back at her. Everything to him,

who had never been out of England before, seemed strange and glamorous. The chalets, with their long wide

burnt brown wooden balconies and lowhanging eaves jutting far beyond the walls; these bright dresses of

the peasant women; the friendly little creamcoloured cows, with blunt, smokegrey muzzles. Even the feel

in the air was new, that delicious crisp burning warmth that lay so lightly as it were on the surface of frozen

stillness; and the special sweetness of all places at the foot of mountains scent of pinegum, burning

larchwood, and all the meadow flowers and grasses. But newest of all was the feeling within hima sort of

pride, a sense of importance, a queer exhilaration at being alone with her, chosen companion of one so

They passed all the other pilgrims bound the same waystout square Germans with their coats slung through

straps, who trailed behind them heavy alpenstocks, carried greenish bags, and marched stolidly at a pace that

But those two could not go fast enough to keep pace with their spirits. This was no real climbjust a training

walk to the top of the Nuvolau; and they were up before noon, and soon again descending, very hungry.

When they entered the little diningroom of the Cinque Torre Hutte, they found it occupied by a party of

English people, eating omelettes, who looked at Anna with faint signs of recognition, but did not cease

talking in voices that all had a certain halflanguid precision, a slight but brisk pinching of sounds, as if

determined not to tolerate a drawl, and yet to have one. Most of them had fieldglasses slung round them,

and cameras were dotted here and there about the room. Their faces were not really much alike, but they all

had a peculiar drooping smile, and a particular lift of the eyebrows, that made them seem reproductions of a

single type. Their teeth, too, for the most part were a little prominent, as though the drooping of their mouths

had forced them forward. They were eating as people eat who distrust the lower senses, preferring not to be

"From our hotel," whispered Anna; and, ordering red wine and schnitzels, she and the boy sat down. The lady

who seemed in command of the English party inquired now how Mr. Stormer washe was not laid up, she

hoped. No? Only lazy? Indeed! He was a great climber, she believed. It seemed to the boy that this lady

somehow did not quite approve of them. The talk was all maintained between her, a gentleman with a

crumpled collar and puggaree, and a short thickset greybearded man in a dark Norfolk jacket. If any of the

younger members of the party spoke, the remark was received with an arch lifting of the brows, and drooping

"Nothing in my life has given me greater pain than to observe the aptitude of human nature for becoming

crystallized." It was the lady in command who spoke, and all the young people swayed their faces up and

down, as if assenting. How like they were, the boy thought, to guineafowl, with their small heads and

"Ah! my dear lady"it was the gentleman with the crumpled collar "you novelists are always girding at

the precious quality of conformity. The sadness of our times lies in this questioning spirit. Never was there

more revolt, especially among the young. To find the individual judging for himself is a grave symptom of

"Surely, the subject is of the most poignant interest to all young people." Again all the young ones raised their

"My dear lady, we are too prone to let the interest that things arouse blind our judgment in regard to the

advisability of discussing them. We let these speculations creep and creep until they twine themselves round

"I shall not, I think"it was the lady speaking"be accused of licence when I say that I have always felt

that speculation is only dangerous when indulged in by the crude intelligence. If culture has nothing to give

us, then let us have no culture; but if culture be, as I think it, indispensable, then we must accept the dangers

Again the young people moved their faces, and again the younger of the two young men said: "Madre"

Who had spoken thus? Every eyebrow was going up, every mouth was drooping, and there was silence. The

boy stared at his companion. In what a strange voice she had made that little interjection! There seemed a sort

of flame, too, lighted in her eyes. Then the little greybearded man said, and his rather whispering voice

The boy felt his heart go thump at Anna's laugh. It was just as if she had said: "Ah! but not yousurely!"

"I wanted tothe English Grundys! Ah! don't be cross with me! They WERE English Grundys, weren't

She looked into his face so hard, that he felt the blood rush to his cheeks, and a dizzy sensation of being

"They have no blood, those people! Their voices, their supercilious eyes that look you up and down! Oh! I've

had so much of them! That woman with her Liberalism, just as bad as any. I hate them all!"

He would have liked to hate them, too, since she did; but they had only seemed to him amusing.

"They aren't human. They don't FEEL! Some day you'll know them. They won't amuse you then!"

"Why do they come here? It's still young and warm and good out here. Why don't they keep to their Culture,

where no one knows what it is to ache and feel hunger, and hearts don't beat. Feel!"

Disturbed beyond measure, the boy could not tell whether it was in her heart or in his hand that the blood was

At the edge of the larchwood where they sat, were growing numbers of little mountain pinks, with fringed

edges and the sweetest scent imaginable; and she got up presently to gather them. But he stayed where he

was, and odd sensations stirred in him. The blue of the sky, the feathery green of the larchtrees, the

She came back with her hands full of the little pinks, spread her fingers and let them drop. They showered all

over his face and neck. Never was so wonderful a scent; never such a strange feeling as they gave him. They

clung to his hair, his forehead, his eyes, one even got caught on the curve of his lips; and he stared up at her

through their fringed petals. There must have been something wild in his eyes then, something of the feeling

that was stinging his heart, for her smile died; she walked away, and stood with her face turned from him.

Confused, and unhappy, he gathered the strewn flowers; and not till he had collected every one did he get up

and shyly take them to her, where she still stood, gazing into the depths of the larchwood.

What did he know of women, that should make him understand? At his public school he had seen none to

speak to; at Oxford, only this one. At home in the holidays, not any, save his sister Cicely. The two hobbies

of their guardian, fishing, and the antiquities of his native county, rendered him averse to society; so that his

little Devonshire manorhouse, with its black oak panels and its wild stonewalled park along the riverside

was, from year's end to year's end, innocent of all petticoats, save those of Cicely and old Miss Tring, the

governess. Then, too, the boy was shy. No, there was nothing in his past, of not yet quite nineteen years, to go

by. He was not of those youths who are always thinking of conquests. The very idea of conquest seemed to

him vulgar, mean, horrid. There must be many signs indeed before it would come into his head that a woman

was in love with him, especially the one to whom he looked up, and thought so beautiful. For before all

beauty he was humble, inclined to think himself a clod. It was the part of life which was always

unconsciously sacred, and to be approached trembling. The more he admired, the more tremulous and

diffident he became. And so, after his one wild moment, when she plucked those sweetscented blossoms

and dropped them over him, he felt abashed; and walking home beside her he was quieter than ever, awkward

If there were confusion in his heart which had been innocent of trouble, what must there have been in hers,

that for so long had secretly desired the dawning of that confusion? And she, too, was very silent.

In the empty twilight within, one figure, a countrywoman in her black shawl, was kneelingmarvellously

still. He would have liked to stay. That kneeling figure, the smile of the sunlight filtering through into the half

darkness! He lingered long enough to see Anna, too, go down on her knees in the stillness. Was she praying?

Again he had the turbulent feeling with which he had watched her pluck those flowers. She looked so

splendid kneeling there! It was caddish to feel like that, when she was praying, and he turned quickly away

into the road. But that sharp, sweet stinging sensation did not leave him. He shut his eyes to get rid of her

imageand instantly she became ten times more visible, his feeling ten times stronger. He mounted to the

hotel; there on the terrace was his tutor. And oddly enough, the sight of him at that moment was no more

embarrassing than if it had been the hotel concierge. Stormer did not somehow seem to count; did not seem to

The man who was so old was posed in a characteristic attitude hands in the pockets of his Norfolk jacket,

one shoulder slightly raised, head just a little on one side, as if preparing to quiz something. He spoke as

"Ah! She will do that! Has she run you off your legs? No? Then let's walk and talk a little."

To be thus pacing up and down and talking with her husband seemed quite natural, did not even interfere

with those new sensations, did not in the least increase his shame for having them. He only wondered a little

how she could have married himbut so little! Quite far and academic was his wonderlike his wonder in

old days how his sister could care to play with dolls. If he had any other feeling, it was just a longing to get

away and go down the hill again to the church. It seemed cold and lonely after all that long day with heras

if he had left himself up there, walking along hour after hour, or lying out in the sun beside her. What was old

Stormer talking about? The difference between the Greek and Roman views of honour. Always in the

"Yes, sir, from this hotel. It was Mrs. Stormer's name for them. They were so very superior."

There was something unusual in the tone of that little word. And the boy staredfor the first time there

seemed a real man standing there. Then the blood rushed up into his cheeks, for there she was! Would she

come up to them? How splendid she was looking, burnt by the sun, and walking as if just starting! But she

passed into the hotel without turning her head their way. Had he offended, hurt her? He made an excuse, and

In the window from which that same morning he had watched the mountains lying out like lions in the dim

light, he stood again, and gazed at the sun dropping over the high horizon. What had happened to him? He

felt so different, so utterly different. It was another world. And the most strange feeling came on him, as of

the flowers falling again all over his face and neck and hands, the tickling of their softfringed edges, the

stinging sweetness of their scent. And he seemed to hear her voice saying: "Feel!" and to feel her heart once

Alone with that blackshawled figure in the silent church, Anna did not pray. Resting there on her knees, she

experienced only the sore sensation of revolt. Why had Fate flung this feeling into her heart, lighted up her

life suddenly, if God refused her its enjoyment? Some of the mountain pinks remained clinging to her belt,

and the scent of them, crushed against her, warred with the faint odour of age and incense. While they were

there, with their enticement and their memories, prayer would never come. But did she want to pray? Did she

desire the mood of that poor soul in her black shawl, who had not moved by one hair's breadth since she had

been watching her, who seemed resting her humble self so utterly, letting life lift from her, feeling the relief

of nothingness? Ah, yes! what would it be to have a life so toilsome, so little exciting from day to day and

hour to hour, that just to kneel there in wistful stupor was the greatest pleasure one could know? It was

beautiful to see her, but it was sad. And there came over Anna a longing to go up to her neighbour and say:

"Tell me your troubles; we are both women." She had lost a son, perhaps, some loveor perhaps not really

love, only some illusion. Ah! Love. . . . Why should any spirit yearn, why should any body, full of strength

and joy, wither slowly away for want of love? Was there not enough in this great world for her, Anna, to have

a little? She would not harm him, for she would know when he had had enough of her; she would surely have

the pride and grace then to let him go. For, of course, he would get tired of her. At her age she could never

hope to hold a boy more than a few yearsmonths, perhaps. But would she ever hold him at all? Youth was

so hardit had no heart! And then the memory of his eyes came backgazing up, troubled, almost

wildwhen she had dropped on him those flowers. That memory filled her with a sort of delirium. One look

from her then, one touch, and he would have clasped her to him. She was sure of it, yet scarcely dared to

believe what meant so much. And suddenly the torment that she must go through, whatever happened,

seemed to her too brutal and undeserved! She rose. Just one gleam of sunlight was still slanting through the

doorway; it failed by a yard or so to reach the kneeling countrywoman, and Anna watched. Would it steal on

and touch her, or would the sun pass down behind the mountains, and it fade away? Unconscious of that

issue, the black shawled figure knelt, never moving. And the beam crept on. "If it touches her, then he will

love me, if only for an hour; if it fades out too soon" And the beam crept on. That shadowy path of light,

with its dancing dustmotes, was it indeed charged with Fateindeed the augury of Love or Darkness? And,

slowly moving, it mounted, the sun sinking; it rose above that bent head, hovered in a golden mist,

Unsteadily, seeing nothing plain, Anna walked out of the church. Why she passed her husband and the boy on

the terrace without a look she could not quite have saidperhaps because the tortured does not salute her

torturers. When she reached her room she felt deadly tired, and lying down on her bed, almost at once fell

She was wakened by a sound, and, recognizing the delicate 'rattat' of her husband's knock, did not answer,

indifferent whether he came in or no. He entered noiselessly. If she did not let him know she was awake, he

would not wake her. She lay still and watched him sit down astride of a chair, cross his arms on its back, rest

his chin on them, and fix his eyes on her. Through her veil of eyelashes she had unconsciously contrived that

his face should be the one object plainly seenthe more intensely visualized, because of this queer isolation.

She did not feel at all ashamed of this mutual fixed scrutiny, in which she had such advantage. He had never

shown her what was in him, never revealed what lay behind those bright satiric eyes. Now, perhaps, she

would see! And she lay, regarding him with the intense excited absorption with which one looks at a tiny

wildflower through a magnifyinglens, and watches its insignificance expanded to the size and importance of

a hothouse bloom. In her mind was this thought: He is looking at me with his real self, since he has no reason

for armour against me now. At first his eyes seemed masked with their customary brightness, his whole face

with its usual decorous formality; then gradually he became so changed that she hardly knew him. That

decorousness, that brightness, melted off what lay behind, as frosty dew melts off grass. And her very soul

contracted within her, as if she had become identified with what he was seeinga something to be passed

over, a very nothing. Yes, his was the face of one looking at what was unintelligible, and therefore negligible;

at that which had no soul; at something of a different and inferior species and of no great interest to a man.

His face was like a soundless avowal of some conclusion, so fixed and intimate that it must surely emanate

from the very core of himbe instinctive, unchangeable. This was the real he! A man despising women! Her

first thought was: And he's marriedwhat a fate! Her second: If he feels that, perhaps thousands of men do!

Am I and all women really what they think us? The conviction in his stare its throughandthrough

convictionhad infected her; and she gave in to it for the moment, crushed. Then her spirit revolted with

such turbulence, and the blood so throbbed in her, that she could hardly lie still. How dare he think her like

thata nothing, a bundle of soulless inexplicable whims and moods and sensuality? A thousand times, No! It

was HE who was the soulless one, the dry, the godless one; who, in his sickening superiority, could thus deny

her, and with her all women! That stare was as if he saw hera doll tricked out in garments labelled soul,

spirit, rights, responsibilities, dignity, freedomall so many words. It was vile, it was horrible, that he

should see her thus! And a really terrific struggle began in her between the desire to get up and cry this out,

and the knowledge that it would be stupid, undignified, even mad, to show her comprehension of what he

would never admit or even understand that he had revealed to her. And then a sort of cynicism came to her

rescue. What a funny thing was married life to have lived all these years with him, and never known what

was at the bottom of his heart! She had the feeling now that, if she went up to him and said: "I am in love

with that boy!" it would only make him droop the corners of his mouth and say in his most satiric voice:

"Really! That is very interesting!"would not change in one iota his real thoughts of her; only confirm him

in the conviction that she was negligible, inexplicable, an inferior strange form of animal, of no real interest

And then, just when she felt that she could not hold herself in any longer, he got up, passed on tiptoe to the

The moment he had gone, she jumped up. So, then, she was linked to one for whom she, for whom women,

did not, as it were, exist! It seemed to her that she had stumbled on knowledge of almost sacred importance,

on the key of everything that had been puzzling and hopeless in their married life. If he really, secretly,

whole heartedly despised her, the only feeling she need have for one so dry, so narrow, so basically stupid,

was just contempt. But she knew well enough that contempt would not shake what she had seen in his face;

he was impregnably walled within his clever, dull conviction of superiority. He was for ever intrenched, and

Usually swift, almost careless, she was a long time that evening over her toilette. Her neck was very

sunburnt, and she lingered, doubtful whether to hide it with powder, or accept her gipsy colouring. She did

accept it, for she saw that it gave her eyes, so like glacier ice, under their black lashes, and her hair, with its

When the dinnerbell rang she passed her husband's door without, as usual, knocking, and went down alone.

In the hall she noticed some of the English party of the mountain hut. They did not greet her, conceiving an

immediate interest in the barometer; but she could feel them staring at her very hard. She sat down to wait,

and at once became conscious of the boy coming over from the other side of the room, rather like a person

walking in his sleep. He said not a word. But how he looked! And her heart began to beat. Was this the

moment she had longed for? If it, indeed, had come, dared she take it? Then she saw her husband descending

the stairs, saw him greet the English party, heard the intoning of their drawl. She looked up at the boy, and

said quickly: "Was it a happy day?" It gave her such delight to keep that look on his face, that look as if he

had forgotten everything except just the sight of her. His eyes seemed to have in them something holy at that

moment, something of the wonder yearning of Nature and of innocence. It was dreadful to know that in a

moment that look must be gone; perhaps never to come back on his facethat look so precious! Her husband

was approaching now! Let him see, if he would! Let him see that someone could adore that she was not to

everyone a kind of lower animal. Yes, he must have seen the boy's face; and yet his expression never

Then followed for young Lennan a strange time, when he never knew from minute to minute whether he was

happyalways trying to be with her, restless if he could not be, sore if she talked with and smiled at others;

yet, when he was with her, restless too, unsatisfied, suffering from his own timidity.

One wet morning, when she was playing the hotel piano, and he listening, thinking to have her to himself,

there came a young German violinistpale, and with a brown, thinwaisted coat, longish hair, and little

whiskersrather a beast, in fact. Soon, of course, this young beast was asking her to accompany himas if

anyone wanted to hear him play his disgusting violin! Every word and smile that she gave him hurt so, seeing

how much more interesting than himself this foreigner was! And his heart grew heavier and heavier, and he

thought: If she likes him I ought not to mindonly, I DO mind! How can I help minding? It was hateful to

see her smiling, and the young beast bending down to her. And they were talking German, so that he could

not tell what they were saying, which made it more unbearable. He had not known there could be such

And then he began to want to hurt her, too. But that was mean besides, how could he hurt her? She did not

care for him. He was nothing to heronly a boy. If she really thought him only a boy, who felt so oldit

would be horrible. It flashed across him that she might be playing that young violinist against him! No, she

never would do that! But the young beast looked just the sort that might take advantage of her smiles. If only

he WOULD do something that was not respectful, how splendid it would be to ask him to come for a walk in

the woods, and, having told him why, give him a thrashing. Afterwards, he would not tell her, he would not

try to gain credit by it. He would keep away till she wanted him back. But suddenly the thought of what he

would feel if she really meant to take this young man as her friend in place of him became so actual, so

poignant, so horribly painful, that he got up abruptly and went towards the door. Would she not say a word to

him before he got out of the room, would she not try and keep him? If she did not, surely it would be all over;

it would mean that anybody was more to her than he. That little journey to the door, indeed, seemed like a

march to execution. Would she not call after him? He looked back. She was smiling. But HE could not smile;

she had hurt him too much! Turning his head away, he went out, and dashed into the rain bareheaded. The

feeling of it on his face gave him a sort of dismal satisfaction. Soon he would be wet through. Perhaps he

would get ill. Out here, far away from his people, she would have to offer to nurse him; and

perhapsperhaps in his illness he would seem to her again more interesting than that young beast, and

He mounted rapidly through the dripping leaves towards the foot of the low mountain that rose behind the

hotel. A trail went up there to the top, and he struck into it, going at a great pace. His sense of injury began

dying away; he no longer wanted to be ill. The rain had stopped, the sun came out; he went on, up and up. He

would get to the top quicker than anyone ever had! It was something he could do better than that young beast.

The pinetrees gave way to stunted larches, and these to pine scrub and bare scree, up which he scrambled,

clutching at the tough bushes, terribly out of breath, his heart pumping, the sweat streaming into his eyes. He

had no feeling now but wonder whether he would get to the top before he dropped, exhausted. He thought he

would die of the beating of his heart; but it was better to die than to stop and be beaten by a few yards. He

stumbled up at last on to the little plateau at the top. For full ten minutes he lay there on his face without

moving, then rolled over. His heart had given up that terrific thumping; he breathed luxuriously, stretched out

his arms along the steaming grassfelt happy. It was wonderful up here, with the sun burning hot in a sky

clearblue already. How tiny everything looked belowhotel, trees, village, chaletslittle toy things! He

had never before felt the sheer joy of being high up. The rainclouds, torn and driven in huge white shapes

along the mountains to the South, were like an army of giants with chariots and white horses hurrying away.

He thought suddenly: "Suppose I had died when my heart pumped so! Would it have mattered the least bit?

Everything would be going on just the same, the sun shining, the blue up there the same; and those toy things

down in the valley." That jealousy of his an hour ago, whyit was nothinghe himself nothing! What did it

matter if she were nice to that fellow in the brown coat? What did anything matter when the whole thing was

On the edge of the plateau, to mark the highest point, someone had erected a rude cross, which jutted out

stark against the blue sky. It looked cruel somehow, sagged all crooked, and out of place up here; a piece of

bad manners, as if people with only one idea had dragged it in, without caring whether or no it suited what

was around it. One might just as well introduce one of these rocks into that jolly dark church where he had

A sound of bells, and of sniffing and scuffling, roused him; a large grey goat had come up and was smelling

at his hairthe leader of a flock, that were soon all round him, solemnly curious, with their queer yellow

oblongpupilled eyes, and their quaint little beards and tails. Awfully decent beastsand friendly! What

jolly things to model! He lay still (having learnt from the fisherman, his guardian, that necessary habit in the

presence of all beasts), while the leader sampled the flavour of his neck. The passage of that long rough

tongue athwart his skin gave him an agreeable sensation, awakened a strange deep sense of comradeship. He

restrained his desire to stroke the creature's nose. It appeared that they now all wished to taste his neck; but

some were timid, and the touch of their tongues simply a tickle, so that he was compelled to laugh, and at that

peculiar sound they withdrew and gazed at him. There seemed to be no one with them; then, at a little

distance, quite motionless in the shade of a rock, he spied the goatherd, a boy about his own age. How lonely

he must be up here all day! Perhaps he talked to his goats. He looked as if he might. One would get to have

queer thoughts up here, get to know the rocks, and clouds, and beasts, and what they all meant. The goatherd

uttered a peculiar whistle, and something, Lennan could not tell exactly what, happened among the goatsa

sort of "Here, Sir!" seemed to come from them. And then the goatherd moved out from the shade and went

over to the edge of the plateau, and two of the goats that were feeding there thrust their noses into his hand,

and rubbed themselves against his legs. The three looked beautiful standing there together on the edge against

That night, after dinner, the diningroom was cleared for dancing, so that the guests might feel freedom and

gaiety in the air. And, indeed, presently, a couple began sawing up and down over the polished boards, in the

apologetic manner peculiar to hotel guests. Then three pairs of Italians suddenly launched themselves into

spacetwirling and twirling, and glaring into each other's eyes; and some Americans, stimulated by their

precept, began airily backing and filling. Two of the 'English Grundys' with carefully amused faces next

moved out. To Lennan it seemed that they all danced very well, better than he could. Did he dare ask HER?

Then he saw the young violinist go up, saw her rise and take his arm and vanish into the dancingroom; and

leaning his forehead against a windowpane, with a sick, beaten feeling, he stayed, looking out into the

moonlight, seeing nothing. He heard his name spoken; his tutor was standing beside him.

Fortunately it was the boy's instinct and his training not to show his feelings; to be pleasant, though suffering.

"Ah! very jolly; yes. When I was your age I twirled the light fantastic with the best. But gradually, Lennan,

one came to see it could not be done without a partnerthere was the rub! Tell me do you regard women

That was meant for unkindness to her! He would not answer. If only Stormer would go away! The music had

stopped. They would be sitting out somewhere, talking! He made an effort, and said:

"I was up the hill at the back this morning, where the cross is. There were some jolly goats."

And suddenly he saw her coming. She was aloneflushed, smiling; it struck him that her frock was the same

He would say 'Yes,' and she would be gone again! But his tutor only made her a little bow, and said with that

That little silent journey with her to the dancingroom was the happiest moment perhaps that he had ever

known. And he need not have been so much afraid about his dancing. Truly, it was not polished, but it could

not spoil hers, so light, firm, buoyant! It was wonderful to dance with her. Only when the music stopped and

they sat down did he know how his head was going round. He felt strange, very strange indeed. He heard her

Without quite knowing what he did, he bent his face towards the hand that she had laid on his sleeve, then

Growing boyoverexertion in the morning! That was all! He was himself very quickly, and walked up to

bed without assistance. Rotten of him! Never was anyone more ashamed of his little weakness than this boy.

Now that he was really a trifle indisposed, he simply could not bear the idea of being nursed at all or tended.

Almost rudely he had got away. Only when he was in bed did he remember the look on her face as he left her.

How wistful and unhappy, seeming to implore him to forgive her! As if there were anything to forgive! As if

she had not made him perfectly happy when she danced with him! He longed to say to her: "If I might be

close to you like that one minute every day, then I don't mind all the rest!" Perhaps he would dare say that to

morrow. Lying there he still felt a little funny. He had forgotten to close the ribs of the blinds, and moonlight

was filtering in; but he was too idle, too drowsy to get up now and do it. They had given him brandy, rather a

lotthat perhaps was the reason he felt so queer; not ill, but mazy, as if dreaming, as if he had lost the desire

ever to move again. Just to lie there, and watch the powdery moonlight, and hear faraway music throbbing

down below, and still feel the touch of her, as in the dance she swayed against him, and all the time to have

the scent about him of flowers! His thoughts were dreams, his dreams thoughtsall precious unreality. And

then it seemed to him that the moonlight was gathered into a single slip of pallorthere was a thrumming, a

throbbing, and that shape of moonlight moved towards him. It came so close that he felt its warmth against

his brow; it sighed, hovered, drew back soundless, and was gone. He must have fallen then into dreamless

What time was it when he was awakened by that delicate 'rattat' to see his tutor standing in the doorway

Was young Lennan all right? Yes, he was perfectly all rightwould be down directly! It was most frightfully

His face seemed to the boy very kind just thenonly to laugh at him a very littlejust enough. And it was

awfully decent of him to have come, and to stand there while he drank the tea. He was really all right, but for

a little headache. Many times while he was dressing he stood still, trying to remember. That white slip of

moonlight? Was it moonlight? Was it part of a dream; or was it, could it have been she, in her

moonlightcoloured frock? Why had he not stayed awake? He would not dare to ask her, and now would

He breakfasted alone in the room where they had danced. There were two letters for him. One from his

guardian enclosing money, and complaining of the shyness of the trout; the other from his sister. The man she

was engaged tohe was a budding diplomat, attached to the Embassy at Romewas afraid that his leave

was going to be curtailed. They would have to be married at once. They might even have to get a special

licence. It was lucky Mark was coming back so soon. They simply MUST have him for best man. The only

bridesmaid now would be Sylvia. . . . Sylvia Doone? Why, she was only a kid! And the memory of a little

girl in a very short holland frock, with flaxen hair, pretty blue eyes, and a face so fair that you could almost

see through it, came up before him. But that, of course, was six years ago; she would not still be in a frock

that showed her knees, or wear beads, or be afraid of bulls that were never there. It was stupid being best

manthey might have got some decent chap! And then he forgot allfor there was SHE, out on the terrace.

In his rush to join her he passed several of the 'English Grundys,' who stared at him askance. Indeed, his

conduct of the night before might well have upset them. An Oxford man, fainting in an hotel! Something

And, when she did not answer that, he had within him just the same light, intoxicated feeling as after he had

But now came a dreadful blow. His tutor's old guide had suddenly turned up, after a climb with a party of

Germans. The warhorse had been aroused in Stormer. He wished to start that afternoon for a certain hut, and

go up a certain peak at dawn next day. But Lennan was not to go. Why not? Because of last night's faint; and

because, forsooth, he was not some stupid thing they called 'an expert.' As if! Where she could go he

could! This was to treat him like a child. Of course he could go up this rotten mountain. It was because she

did not care enough to take him! She did not think him man enough! Did she think that he could not climb

what her husbandcould? And if it were dangerous SHE ought not to be going, leaving him behindthat

was simply cruel! But she only smiled, and he flung away from her, not having seen that all this grief of his

And that afternoon they went off without him. What deep, dark thoughts he had then! What passionate hatred

of his own youth! What schemes he wove, by which she might come back, and find him goneup some

mountain far more dangerous and fatiguing! If people did not think him fit to climb with, he would climb by

himself. That, anyway, everyone admitted, was dangerous. And it would be her fault. She would be sorry

then. He would get up, and be off before dawn; he put his things out ready, and filled his flask. The

moonlight that evening was more wonderful than ever, the mountains like great ghosts of themselves. And

she was up there at the hut, among them! It was very long before he went to sleep, brooding over his

injuriesintending not to sleep at all, so as to be ready to be off at three o'clock. At NINE o'clock he woke.

His wrath was gone; he only felt restless and ashamed. If, instead of flying out, he had made the best of it, he

could have gone with them as far as the hut, could have stayed the night there. And now he cursed himself for

being such a fool and idiot. Some little of that idiocy he could, perhaps, retrieve. If he started for the hut at

once, he might still be in time to meet them coming down, and accompany them home. He swallowed his

coffee, and set off. He knew the way at first, then in woods lost it, recovered the right track again at last, but

did not reach the hut till nearly two o'clock. Yes, the party had made the ascent that morningthey had been

seen, been heard jodelling on the top. Gewiss! Gewiss! But they would not come down the same way. Oh,

no! They would be going home down to the West and over the other pass. They would be back in house

He heard this, oddly, almost with relief. Was it the long walk alone, or being up there so high? Or simply that

he was very hungry? Or just these nice friendly folk in the hut, and their young daughter with her fresh face,

queer little black cloth sailor hat with long ribbons, velvet bodice, and perfect simple manners; or the sight of

the little silverydun cows, thrusting their broad black noses against her hand? What was it that had taken

away from him all his restless feeling, made him happy and content? . . . He did not know that the newest

thing always fascinates the puppy in its gambols! . . . He sat a long while after lunch, trying to draw the little

cows, watching the sun on the cheek of that pretty maiden, trying to talk to her in German. And when at last

he said: "Adieu!" and she murmured "Kuss die Hand. Adieu!" there was quite a little pang in his heart. . . .

Wonderful and queer is the heart of a man! . . . For all that, as he neared home he hastened, till he was

actually running. Why had he stayed so long up there? She would be backshe would expect to see him; and

that young beast of a violinist would be with her, perhaps, instead! He reached the hotel just in time to rush

up and dress, and rush down to dinner. Ah! They were tired, no doubtwere resting in their rooms. He sat

through dinner as best he could; got away before dessert, and flew upstairs. For a minute he stood there

doubtful; on which door should he knock? Then timidly he tapped on hers. No answer! He knocked loud on

his tutor's door. No answer! They were not back, then. Not back? What could that mean? Or could it be that

they were both asleep? Once more he knocked on her door; then desperately turned the handle, and took a

flying glance. Empty, tidy, untouched! Not back! He turned and ran downstairs again. All the guests were

streaming out from dinner, and he became entangled with a group of 'English Grundys' discussing a climbing

accident which had occurred in Switzerland. He listened, feeling suddenly quite sick. One of them, the short

greybearded Grundy with the rather whispering voice, said to him: "All alone again to night? The Stormers

not back?" Lennan did his best to answer, but something had closed his throat; he could only shake his head.

"Stormer, I fancy, is quite an expert!" and turning to the lady whom the young 'Grundys' addressed as 'Madre'

"To me the great charm of mountainclimbing was always the freedom from peoplethe remoteness."

The mother of the young 'Grundys,' looking at Lennan with her half closed eyes, answered:

"That, to me, would be the disadvantage; I always like to be mixing with my own kind."

And they went on talking, but of what Lennan no longer knew, lost in this sudden feeling of sick fear. In the

presence of these 'English Grundys,' so superior to all vulgar sensations, he could not give vent to his alarm;

already they viewed him as unsound for having fainted. Then he grasped that there had begun all round him a

sort of luxurious speculation on what might have happened to the Stormers. The descent was very nasty;

there was a particularly bad traverse. The 'Grundy,' whose collar was not now crumpled, said he did not

believe in women climbing. It was one of the signs of the times that he most deplored. The mother of the

young 'Grundys' countered him at once: In practice she agreed that they were out of place, but theoretically

she could not see why they should not climb. An American standing near threw all into confusion by saying

he guessed that it might be liable to develop their understandings. Lennan made for the front door. The moon

had just come up over in the South, and exactly under it he could see their mountain. What visions he had

then! He saw her lying dead, saw himself climbing down in the moonlight and raising her still living, but

halffrozen, form from some perilous ledge. Even that was almost better than this actuality of not knowing

where she was, or what had happened. People passed out into the moonlight, looking curiously at his set face

staring so fixedly. One or two asked him if he were anxious, and he answered: "Oh no, thanks!" Soon there

would have to be a search party. How soon? He would, he must be, of it! They should not stop him this time.

And suddenly he thought: Ah, it is all because I stayed up there this afternoon talking to that girl, all because

And then he heard a stir behind him. There they were, coming down the passage from a side doorshe in

front with her alpenstock and rucksacksmiling. Instinctively he recoiled behind some plants. They passed.

Her sunburned face, with its high cheekbones and its deepset eyes, looked so happy; smiling, tired,

triumphant. Somehow he could not bear it, and when they were gone by he stole out into the wood and threw

himself down in shadow, burying his face, and choking back a horrible dry sobbing that would keep rising in

Next day he was happy; for all the afternoon he lay out in the shade of that same wood at her feet, gazing up

through larch boughs. It was so wonderful, with nobody but Nature near. Nature so alive, and busy, and so

Coming down from the hut the day before, he had seen a peak that looked exactly like the figure of a woman

with a garment over her head, the biggest statue in the world; from further down it had become the figure of a

bearded man, with his arm bent over his eyes. Had she seen it? Had she noticed how all the mountains in

moonlight or very early morning took the shape of beasts? What he wanted most in life was to be able to

make images of beasts and creatures of all sorts, that were likethat hadthat gave out the spirit

ofNature; so that by just looking at them one could have all those jolly feelings one had when one was

watching trees, and beasts, and rocks, and even some sorts of menbut not 'English Grundys.'

And he said quickly: "Of course, I shall never want to leave Oxford while you are there."

He stayed out on the terrace when she had gone in, restless and unhappy the moment he was away from her.

There, in one of those high wicker chairs that insulate their occupants from the world, he saw his tutor

leaning back, head a little to one side, and tips of fingers pressed together. He looked like an idol sitting there

"Cheer up! You will break your neck yet! When I was your age, I remember feeling it deeply that I was not

"Ah! For all our admiration we cannot quite admitcan we, when it comes to the point?"

"Of course, I know I'm no good at climbing," the boy broke out again; "butbutI thought where she was

"Good! I like that." It was said so entirely without irony for once, that the boy was disconcerted.

"You are young, Brother Lennan," his tutor went on. "Now, at what age do you consider men develop

discretion? Because, there is just one thing always worth rememberingwomen have none of that better part

"May you long have that opinion!" His tutor had risen, and was ironically surveying his knees. "A bit stiff!"

"Ah, ah! Never is a long word, Lennan. I am going to have some tea;" and gingerly he walked away,

Lennan remained where he was, with burning cheeks. His tutor's words again had seemed directed against

her. How could a man say such things about women! If they were true, he did not want to know; if they were

not true, it was wicked to say them. It must be awful never to have generous feelings; always to have to be

satirical. Dreadful to be like the 'English Grundys'; only different, of course, because, after all, old Stormer

was much more interesting and intelligentever so much more; only, just as 'superior.' "Some never get

away!" Had she meantfrom that superiority? Just down below were a family of peasants scything and

gathering in the grass. One could imagine her doing that, and looking beautiful, with a coloured handkerchief

over her head; one could imagine her doing anything simpleone could not imagine old Stormer doing

anything but what he did do. And suddenly the boy felt miserable, oppressed by these dim glimmerings of

lives misplaced. And he resolved that he would not be like Stormer when he was old! No, he would rather be

When he went to his room to change for dinner he saw in a glass of water a large clove carnation. Who had

put it there? Who could have put it therebut she? It had the same scent as the mountain pinks she had

dropped over him, but deeper, richera scent moving, dark, and sweet. He put his lips to it before he pinned

There was dancing again that nightmore couples this time, and a violin beside the piano; and she had on a

black frock. He had never seen her in black. Her face and neck were powdered over their sunburn. The first

sight of that powder gave him a faint shock. He had not somehow thought that ladies ever put on powder. But

if SHE didthen it must be right! And his eyes never left her. He saw the young German violinist hovering

round her, even dancing with her twice; watched her dancing with others, but all without jealousy, without

troubling; all in a sort of dream. What was it? Had he been bewitched into that queer state, bewitched by the

gift of that flower in his coat? What was it, when he danced with her, that kept him happy in her silence and

his own? There was no expectation in him of anything that she would say, or dono expectation, no desire.

Even when he wandered out with her on to the terrace, even when they went down the bank and sat on a

bench above the fields where the peasants had been scything, he had still no feeling but that quiet, dreamy

adoration. The night was black and dreamy too, for the moon was still well down behind the mountains. The

little band was playing the next waltz; but he sat, not moving, not thinking, as if all power of action and

thought had been stolen out of him. And the scent of the flower in his coat rose, for there was no wind.

Suddenly his heart stopped beating. She had leaned against him, he felt her shoulder press his arm, her hair

touch his cheek. He closed his eyes then, and turned his face to her. He felt her lips press his mouth with a

swift, burning kiss. He sighed, stretched out his arms. There was nothing there but air. The rustle of her dress

Not one minute all that night did Anna sleep. Was it remorse that kept her awake, or the intoxication of

memory? If she felt that her kiss had been a crime, it was not against her husband or herself, but against the

boythe murder of illusion, of something sacred. But she could not help feeling a delirious happiness too,

He was ready, then, to give her a little love! Ever so little, compared to hers, but still a little! There could be

no other meaning to that movement of his face with the closed eyes, as if he would nestle it down on her

Was she ashamed of her little manoeuvres of these last few days ashamed of having smiled at the young

violinist, of that late return from the mountain climb, of the flower she had given him, of all the conscious

siege she had laid since the evening her husband came in and sat watching her, without knowing that she saw

him? No; not really ashamed! Her remorse rose only from the kiss. It hurt to think of that, because it was

death, the final extinction of the motherfeeling in her; the awakening ofwho knew whatin the boy! For

if she was mysterious to him, what was he not to her, with his eagerness, and his dreaminess, his youthful

warmth, his innocence! What if it had killed in him trust, brushed off the dew, tumbled a star down? Could

she forgive herself for that? Could she bear it if she were to make him like so many other boys, like that

young violinist; just a cynical youth, looking on women as what they called 'fair game'? But COULD she

make him into such would he ever grow like that? Oh! surely not; or she would not have loved him from

After that kissthat crime, if it were onein the dark she had not known what he had done, where

goneperhaps wandering, perhaps straight up to his room. Why had she refrained, left him there, vanished

out of his arms? This she herself hardly understood. Not shame; not fear; reverence perhapsfor what? For

lovefor the illusion, the mystery, all that made love beautiful; for youth, and the poetry of it; just for the

sake of the black still night itself, and the scent of that flowerdark flower of passion that had won him to

her, and that she had stolen back, and now wore all night long close to her neck, and in the morning placed

withered within her dress. She had been starved so long, and so long waited for that momentit was little

And now how should she meet him, how first look into his eyes? Would they have changed? Would they no

longer have the straight look she so loved? It would be for her to lead, to make the future. And she kept

saying to herself: I am not going to be afraid. It is done. I will take what life offers! Of her husband she did

But the first moment she saw the boy, she knew that something from outside, and untoward, had happened

since that kiss. He came up to her, indeed, but he said nothing, stood trembling all over and handed her a

telegram that contained these words: "Come back at once Wedding immediate Expect you day after

tomorrow. Cicely." The words grew indistinct even as she read them, and the boy's face all blurred. Then,

Without protest he looked at her; and she could hardly bear that lookit seemed to know so little, and ask so

much. She said: "It is nothingonly a few days. You will come back, or we will come to you."

"Will you really come to us soon, at onceif they ask you? Then I don't mindII" And then he

He seized her hand; pressed and pressed it in both his own, then stroked it gently, and said:

In a few minutes he would have to start to catch the only train that would get him home in time.

She went and helped him to pack. Her heart felt like lead, but, not able to bear that look on his face again, she

kept cheerfully talking of their return, asking about his home, how to get to it, speaking of Oxford and next

term. When his things were ready she put her arms round his neck, and for a moment pressed him to her.

Then she escaped. Looking back from his door, she saw him standing exactly as when she had withdrawn her

arms. Her cheeks were wet; she dried them as she went downstairs. When she felt herself safe, she went out

He raised his eyebrows, smiled dimly, and followed her. They walked slowly down the hill into the long

street of the little town. All the time she talked of she knew not what, and all the time she thought: His

Several carriages went jingling by. At last he came. Sitting there, and staring straight before him, he did not

"Hullo! Where is our young friend Lennan off to, with his luggage looking like a lion cub in trouble?"

She felt that her husband was gazing at her, and wondered what her face was like; but at that moment the

word "Madre!" sounded close in her ear and they were surrounded by a small drove of 'English Grundys.'

That twenty mile drive was perhaps the worst part of the journey for the boy. It is always hard to sit still and

When Anna left him the night before, he had wandered about in the dark, not knowing quite where he went.

Then the moon came up, and he found himself sitting under the eave of a barn close to a chalet where all was

dark and quiet; and down below him the moonwhitened valley villageits roofs and spires and little

In his evening suit, his dark ruffled hair uncovered, he would have made a quaint spectacle for the owners of

that chalet, if they had chanced to see him seated on the haystrewn boards against their barn, staring before

him with such wistful rapture. But they were folk to whom sleep was precious. . . .

And now it was all snatched away from him, relegated to some immensely faroff future. Would it indeed be

possible to get his guardian to ask them down to Hayle? And would they really come? His tutor would surely

never care to visit a place right away in the countryfar from books and everything! He frowned, thinking

of his tutor, but it was with perplexityno other feeling. And yet, if he could not have them down there, how

could he wait the two whole months till next term began! So went his thoughts, round and round, while the

It was better in the train; the distraction of all the strange crowd of foreigners, the interest of new faces and

new country; and then sleepa long night of it, snoozed up in his corner, thoroughly fagged out. And next

day more new country, more new faces; and slowly, his mood changing from ache and bewilderment to a

sense of something promised, delightful to look forward to. Then Calais at last, and a nightcrossing in a wet

little steamer, a summer gale blowing spray in his face, waves leaping white in a black sea, and the wild

sound of the wind. On again to London, the early drive across the town, still sleepy in August haze; an

English breakfastporridge, chops, marmalade. And, at last, the train for home. At all events he could write

Then he did not know how to go on, for all that he wanted to say was such as he had never even dreamed of

writingthings about his feelings which would look horrible in words; besides, he must not put anything

"It has been such a long journey," he wrote at last, "away from the Tyrol;" (he did not dare even to put "from

you,") "I thought it would never end. But at last it hasvery nearly. I have thought a great deal about the

Tyrol. It was a lovely timethe loveliest time I have ever had. And now it's over, I try to console myself by

thinking of the future, but not the immediate futureTHAT is not very enjoyable. I wonder how the

mountains are looking today. Please give my love to them, especially the lion ones that come and lie out in

the moonlightyou will not recognize them from this" then followed a sketch. "And this is the church we

went to, with someone kneeling. And this is meant for the 'English Grundys,' looking at someone who is

coming in very late with an alpenstock only, I am better at the 'English Grundys' than at the person with

the alpenstock. I wish I were the 'English Grundys' now, still in the Tyrol. I hope I shall get a letter from you

soon; and that it will say you are getting ready to come back. My guardian will be awfully keen for you to

come and stay with us. He is not half bad when you know him, and there will be his sister, Mrs. Doone, and

her daughter left there after the wedding. It will be simply disgusting if you and Mr. Stormer don't come. I

wish I could write all I feel about my lovely time in the Tyrol, but you must please imagine it."

And just as he had not known how to address her, so he could not tell how to subscribe himself, and only put

He posted the letter at Exeter, where he had some time to wait; and his mind moved still more from past to

future. Now that he was nearing home he began to think of his sister. In two days she would be gone to Italy;

he would not see her again for a long time, and a whole crowd of memories began to stretch out hands to him.

How she and he used to walk together in the walled garden, and on the sunk croquet ground; she telling him

stories, her arm round his neck, because she was two years older, and taller than he in those days. Their first

talk each holidays, when he came back to her; the first teawith unlimited jamin the old

mullionwindowed, flowerchintzed schoolroom, just himself and her and old Tingle (Miss Tring, the

ancient governess, whose chaperonage would now be gone), and sometimes that kid Sylvia, when she

chanced to be staying there with her mother. Cicely had always understood him when he explained to her

how inferior school was, because nobody took any interest in beasts or birds except to kill them; or in

drawing, or making things, or anything decent. They would go off together, rambling along the river, or up

the park, where everything looked so jolly and wildthe ragged oaktrees, and huge boulders, of whose

presence old Godden, the coachman, had said: "I can't think but what these ha' been washed here by the

Flood, Mast' Mark!" These and a thousand other memories beset his conscience now. And as the train drew

closer to their station, he eagerly made ready to jump out and greet her. There was the honeysuckle full out

along the paling of the platform over the waitingroom; wonderful, this yearand there was she, standing

alone on the platform. No, it was not Cicely! He got out with a blank sensation, as if those memories had

played him false. It was a girl, indeed, but she only looked about sixteen, and wore a sunbonnet that hid her

hair and half her face. She had on a blue frock, and some honeysuckle in her waistbelt. She seemed to be

smiling at him, and expecting him to smile at her; and so he did smile. She came up to him then, and said:

He answered: "Oh! thanks awfullyit was awfully good of you to come and meet me."

She took up his holdall, and he took it from her; she took his bag, and he took it from her; then they went

out to the Tcart. A small groom stood there, holding a silverroan cob with a black mane and black swish

She got up; he noticed that her eyes looked quite excited. Then his portmanteau came out and was deposited

The roan rushed past the little groom, whose top boots seemed to twinkle as he jumped up behind. They

whizzed round the corner from the station yard, and observing that her mouth was just a little open as though

Ah! when SHE came, he would drive her; they would go off alone in the Tcart, and he would show her all

"Oh! I know he's going to shy!" At once there was a swerve. The roan was cantering.

"Because horses are horses, and pigs are pigs; it's natural for horses to shy at them."

He looked up at her then, sidelong. The curve of her cheek and chin looked very soft, and rather jolly.

He stood up and took the reins, and she slipped past under them in front of him; her hair smelt exactly like

She kept regarding him steadily with very blue eyes, now that she was relieved of driving.

"Cicely was afraid you weren't coming," she said suddenly. "What sort of people are those old Stormers?"

He restrained the words: "Of course it's old to a kid like you!" And, instead, he looked at her. Was she exactly

a kid? She seemed quite tall (for a girl) and not very thin, and there was something frank and soft about her

This time he did not go red, such was the disturbance that question made in him. If he said: "Yes," it was like

letting the world know his adoration; but to say anything less would be horrible, disloyal. So he did say:

"I thought she was. Do you like her very much?" Again he struggled with that thing in his throat, and again

He wanted to hate this girl, yet somehow could notshe looked so soft and confiding. She was staring

before her now, her lips still just parted, so evidently THAT had not been because of Bolero's pulling; they

were pretty all the same, and so was her short, straight little nose, and her chin, and she was awfully fair. His

thoughts flew back to that other faceso splendid, so full of life. Suddenly he found himself unable to

picture itfor the first time since he had started on his journey it would not come before him.

Her hand was pulling at his arm. There in the field over the hedge a buzzard hawk was dropping like a stone.

She was covering her face with both her hands, and the hawk, with a young rabbit in its claws, was sailing up

again. It looked so beautiful that he did not somehow feel sorry for the rabbit; but he wanted to stroke and

"It's all right, Sylvia; it really is. The rabbit's dead already, you know. And it's quite natural."

She took her hands away from a face that looked just as if she were going to cry.

On the afternoon of the day following he sat in the smokingroom with a prayer book in his hand, and a

frown on his forehead, reading the Marriage Service. The book had been effectively designed for not spoiling

the figure when carried in a pocket. But this did not matter, for even if he could have read the words, he

would not have known what they meant, seeing that he was thinking how he could make a certain petition to

a certain person sitting just behind at a large bureau with a sliding top, examining artificial flies.

"Gordy!" (Why Gordy no one quite knew nowwhether because his name was George, or by way of

Mr. Heatherley was a man of perhaps sixtyfour, if indeed guardians have ages, and like a doctor rather than

a squire; his face square and puffy, his eyes always halfclosed, and his curly mouth using bluntly a voice of

"I only wondered if you'd mind asking Mr. and Mrs. Stormer to come here for a littlethey were awfully

He felt, rather than saw, his guardian scrutinizing him with those halfclosed eyes under their gouty lids.

"Thanks awfully, Gordy. It's most frightfully decent of you," and turned again to the Marriage Service. He

could make out some of it. In places it seemed to him fine, and in other places queer. About obeying, for

instance. If you loved anybody, it seemed rotten to expect them to obey you. If you loved them and they

loved you, there couldn't ever be any question of obeying, because you would both do the things always of

your own accord. And if they didn't love you, or you them, thenoh! then it would be simply too disgusting

for anything, to go on living with a person you didn't love or who didn't love you. But of course SHE didn't

love his tutor. Had she once? Those bright doubting eyes, that studiously satiric mouth came very clearly up

before him. You could not love them; and yethe was really very decent. A feeling as of pity, almost of

affection, rose in him for his remote tutor. It was queer to feel so, since the last time they had talked together

The noise of the bureau top sliding down aroused him; Mr. Heatherley was closing in the remains of the

artificial flies. That meant he would be going out to fish. And the moment he heard the door shut, Mark

sprang up, slid back the bureau top, and began to write his letter. It was hard work.

"My guardian wishes me to beg you and Mr. Stormer to pay us a visit as soon as you come back from the

Tyrol. Please tell Mr. Stormer that only the very best fishermenlike himcan catch our trout; the rest

catch our trees. This is me catching our trees (here followed a sketch). My sister is going to be married

tomorrow, and it will be disgusting afterwards unless you come. So do come, please. And with my very best

When he had stamped this production and dropped it in the letter box, he had the oddest feeling, as if he had

been let out of school; a desire to rush about, to frolic. What should he do? Cis, of course, would be

busythey were all busy about the wedding. He would go and saddle Bolero, and jump him in the park; or

should he go down along the river and watch the jays? Both seemed lonely occupations. And he stood in the

windowdejected. At the age of five, walking with his nurse, he had been overheard remarking: "Nurse, I

want to eat a biscuitALL THE WAY I want to eat a biscuit!" and it was still rather so with him

perhapsall the way he wanted to eat a biscuit. He bethought him then of his modelling, and went out to the

little empty greenhouse where he kept his masterpieces. They seemed to him now quite horribleand two of

them, the sheep and the turkey, he marked out for summary destruction. The idea occurred to him that he

might try and model that hawk escaping with the little rabbit; but when he tried, no nice feeling came, and

flinging the things down he went out. He ran along the unweeded path to the tennis groundlawn tennis was

then just coming in. The grass looked very rough. But then, everything about that little manor house was left

rather wild and anyhow; why, nobody quite knew, and nobody seemed to mind. He stood there scrutinizing

the condition of the ground. A sound of humming came to his ears. He got up on the wall. There was Sylvia

sitting in the field, making a wreath of honeysuckle. He stood very quiet and listened. She looked

They were some time selecting the tree, many being too easy for him, and many too hard for her; but one was

found at last, an oak of great age, and frequented by rooks. Then, insisting that she must be roped to him, he

departed to the house for some blindcord. The climb began at four o'clocknamed by him the ascent of the

Cimone della Pala. He led the momentous expedition, taking a hitch of the blindcord round a branch before

he permitted her to move. Two or three times he was obliged to make the cord fast and return to help her, for

she was not an 'expert'; her arms seemed soft, and she was inclined to straddle instead of trusting to one foot.

But at last they were settled, streaked indeed with moss, on the top branch but two. They rested there, silent,

listening to the rooks soothing an outraged dignity. Save for this slowly subsiding demonstration it was

marvellously peaceful and remote up there, halfway to a blue sky thinly veiled from them by the crinkled

browngreen leaves. The peculiar dry mossy smell of an oaktree was disturbed into the air by the least

motion of their feet or hands against the bark. They could hardly see the ground, and all around, other gnarled

"But they don't mean to; they only want them to eat. Don't you think things are jolliest at night?"

"Why not? It's splendidwhen things get mysterious." He dwelt lovingly on that word.

"No, I like early morningespecially in spring, when it's beginning to get leafy."

She was leaning against him, for safety, just a little; and stretching out his arm, he took good hold of the

He pondered. There were so many trees that were perfect. Birches and limes, of course; but beeches and

cypresses, and yews, and cedars, and holmoaksalmost, and planetrees; then he said suddenly:

Again he pondered. It was very important to explain exactly why; his feelings about everything were

concerned in this. And while he mused she gazed at him, as if surprised to see anyone think so deeply. At last

"Because they're independent and dignified and never quite cold, and their branches seem to brood, but

chiefly because the ones I mean are generally out of the common where you find them. You knowjust one

It occurred to him suddenly that he had forgotten larches. They, of course, could be heavenly, when you lay

under them and looked up at the sky, as he had that afternoon out there. Then he heard her say:

"If I could only have one flower, I should have lilies of the valley, the small ones that grow wild and smell so

"What would you have, Mark?" Her voice sounded a little hurt. "You ARE thinking of one, aren't you?"

Then a silence fell between them. She had ceased to lean against him, and he missed the cosy friendliness of

it. Now that their voices and the cawings of the rooks had ceased, there was nothing heard but the dry rustle

of the leaves, and the plaintive cry of a buzzard hawk hunting over the little tor across the river. There were

nearly always two up there, quartering the sky. To the boy it was lovely, that silencelike Nature talking to

youNature always talked in silences. The beasts, the birds, the insects, only really showed themselves

when you were still; you had to be awfully quiet, too, for flowers and plants, otherwise you couldn't see the

real jolly separate life there was in them. Even the boulders down there, that old Godden thought had been

washed up by the Flood, never showed you what queer shapes they had, and let you feel close to them, unless

you were thinking of nothing else. Sylvia, after all, was better in that way than he had expected. She could

keep quiet (he had thought girls hopeless); she was gentle, and it was rather jolly to watch her. Through the

It was much too jolly to go in, really. But if she wanted her tea girls always wanted tea! And, twisting the

cord carefully round the branch, he began to superintend her descent. About to follow, he heard her cry:

"Oh, Mark! I'm stuckI'm stuck! I can't reach it with my foot! I'm swinging!" And he saw that she WAS

"Let go; drop on to the branch belowthe cord'll hold you straight till you grab the trunk."

He tied the cord, and slithered hastily to the branch below her; then, bracing himself against the trunk, he

clutched her round the waist and knees; but the taut cord held her up, and she would not come to anchor. He

could not hold her and untie the cord, which was fast round her waist. If he let her go with one hand, and got

out his knife, he would never be able to cut and hold her at the same time. For a moment he thought he had

better climb up again and slack off the cord, but he could see by her face that she was getting frightened; he

"If I heave you up," he said, "can you get hold again above?" And, without waiting for an answer, he heaved.

She did not answer, but he saw that her face had gone very white. He snatched out his knife and cut the cord.

She clung just for that moment, then came loose into his arms, and he hauled her to him against the trunk.

Safe there, she buried her face on his shoulder. He began to murmur to her and smooth her softly, with quite a

feeling of its being his business to smooth her like this, to protect her. He knew she was crying, but she let no

sound escape, and he was very careful not to show that he knew, for fear she should feel ashamed. He

wondered if he ought to kiss her. At last he did, on the top of her head, very gently. Then she put up her face

After that she seemed all right, and very gingerly they descended to the ground, where shadows were

The night after the wedding the boy stood at the window of his pleasant attic bedroom, with one wall sloping,

and a faint smell of mice. He was tired and excited, and his brain, full of pictures. This was his first wedding,

and he was haunted by a vision of his sister's little white form, and her face with its starry eyes. She was

gonehis no more! How fearful the Wedding March had sounded on that organthat awful old wheezer;

and the sermon! One didn't want to hear that sort of thing when one felt inclined to cry. Even Gordy had

looked rather boiled when he was giving her away. With perfect distinctness he could still see the group

before the altar rails, just as if he had not been a part of it himself. Cis in her white, Sylvia in fluffy grey; his

impassive brotherinlaw's tall figure; Gordy looking queer in a black coat, with a very yellow face, and eyes

still halfclosed. The rotten part of it all had been that you wanted to be just FEELING, and you had to be

thinking of the ring, and your gloves, and whether the lowest button of your white waistcoat was properly

undone. Girls could do both, it seemedCis seemed to be seeing something wonderful all the time, and

Sylvia had looked quite holy. He himself had been too conscious of the rector's voice, and the sort of

professional manner with which he did it all, as if he were making up a prescription, with directions how to

take it. And yet it was all rather beautiful in a kind of fashion, every face turned one way, and a tremendous

hushexcept for poor old Godden's blowing of his nose with his enormous red handkerchief; and the soft

darkness up in the roof, and down in the pews; and the sunlight brightening the South windows. All the same,

it would have been much jollier just taking hands by themselves somewhere, and saying out before God what

they really feltbecause, after all, God was everything, everywhere, not only in stuffy churches. That was

how HE would like to be married, out of doors on a starry night like this, when everything felt wonderful all

round you. Surely God wasn't half as small as people seemed always making Hima sort of superior man a

little bigger than themselves! Even the very most beautiful and wonderful and awful things one could

imagine or make, could only be just nothing to a God who had a temple like the night out there. But then you

couldn't be married alone, and no girl would ever like to be married without rings and flowers and dresses,

and words that made it all feel small and cosy! Cis might have, perhaps, only she wouldn't, because of not

hurting other people's feelings; but Sylvianevershe would be afraid. Only, of course, she was young!

Leaning out, and resting his chin on his hands, he drew the night air into his lungs. Honeysuckle, or was it the

scent of lilies still? The stars all out, and lots of owls tonightfour at least. What would night be like

without owls and stars? But that was ityou never could think what things would be like if they weren't just

what and where they were. You never knew what was coming, either; and yet, when it came, it seemed as if

nothing else ever could have come. That was queeryou could do anything you liked until you'd done it, but

when you HAD done it, then you knew, of course, that you must always have had to . . . What was that light,

below and to the left? Whose room? Old Tingle'sno, the little spare roomSylvia's! She must be awake,

then! He leaned far out, and whispered in the voice she had said was still furry:

The light flickered, he could just see her head appear, with hair all loose, and her face turning up to him. He

"Wait half a shake. I'll let down some chocolate in my big bath towel; it'll swing along to youreach out."

"Which star is yours? Mine is the white one over the top branch of the big sycamore, from here."

What had stirredsome window opened? Cautiously he spied along the face of the dim house. There was no

light anywhere, nor any shifting blur of white at her window below. All was dark, remote still sweet with

the scent of something jolly. And then he saw what that something was. All over the wall below his window

white jessamine was in flowerstars, not only in the sky. Perhaps the sky was really a field of white flowers;

The next morning there was a letter on his plate when he came down to breakfast. He couldn't open it with

Sylvia on one side of him, and old Tingle on the other. Then with a sort of anger he did open it. He need not

have been afraid. It was written so that anyone might have read; it told of a climb, of bad weather, said they

were coming home. Was he relieved, disturbed, pleased at their coming back, or only uneasily ashamed? She

had not got his second letter yet. He could feel old Tingle looking round at him with those queer sharp

twinkling eyes of hers, and Sylvia regarding him quite frankly. And conscious that he was growing red, he

said to himself: 'I won't!' And did not. In three days they would be at Oxford. Would they come on here at

once? Old Tingle was speaking. He heard Sylvia answer: "No, I don't like 'bopsies.' They're so hard!" It was

their old name for high cheekbones. Sylvia certainly had none, her cheeks went softly up to her eyes.

Was SHEAnnastrongwilled? It came to him that he did not know at all what she was.

When breakfast was over and he had got away to his old greenhouse, he had a strange, unhappy time. He was

a beast, he had not been thinking of her half enough! He took the letter out, and frowned at it horribly. Why

could he not feel more? What was the matter with him? Why was he such a brutenot to be thinking of her

day and night? For long he stood, disconsolate, in the little dark greenhouse among the images of his beasts,

He stole out presently, and got down to the river unobserved. Comfortingthat crisp, gentle sound of water;

ever so comforting to sit on a stone, very still, and wait for things to happen round you. You lost yourself that

way, just became branches, and stones, and water, and birds, and sky. You did not feel such a beast. Gordy

would never understand why he did not care for fishingone thing trying to catch anotherinstead of

watching and understanding what things were. You never got to the end of looking into water, or grass or

fern; always something queer and new. It was like that, too, with yourself, if you sat down and looked

A soft rain had begun to fall, hissing gently on the leaves, but he had still a boy's love of getting wet, and

stayed where he was, on the stone. Some people saw fairies in woods and down in water, or said they did;

that did not seem to him much fun. What was really interesting was noticing that each thing was different

from every other thing, and what made it so; you must see that before you could draw or model decently. It

was fascinating to see your creatures coming out with shapes of their very own; they did that without your

understanding how. But this vacation he was no good couldn't draw or model a bit!

A jay had settled about forty yards away, and remained in full view, attending to his manycoloured feathers.

Of all things, birds were the most fascinating! He watched it a long time, and when it flew on, followed it

over the high wall up into the park. He heard the lunchbell ring in the far distance, but did not go in. So long

as he was out there in the soft rain with the birds and trees and other creatures, he was free from that unhappy

feeling of the morning. He did not go back till nearly seven, properly wet through, and very hungry.

All through dinner he noticed that Sylvia seemed to be watching him, as if wanting to ask him something.

She looked very soft in her white frock, open at the neck; and her hair almost the colour of special moonlight,

so goldypale; and he wanted her to understand that it wasn't a bit because of her that he had been out alone

all day. After dinner, when they were getting the table ready to play 'red nines,' he did murmur:

It was raining really hard now, swishing and dripping out in the darkness, and he whispered:

Anna did not receive the boy's letter in the Tyrol. It followed her to Oxford. She was just going out when it

came, and she took it up with the mingled beatitude and almost sickening tremor that a lover feels touching

the loved one's letter. She would not open it in the street, but carried it all the way to the garden of a certain

College, and sat down to read it under the cedartree. That little letter, so short, boyish, and dry, transported

her halfway to heaven. She was to see him again at once, not to wait weeks, with the fear that he would quite

forget her! Her husband had said at breakfast that Oxford without 'the dear young clowns' assuredly was

charming, but Oxford 'full of tourists and other strange bodies' as certainly was not. Where should they go?

Thank heaven, the letter could be shown him! For all that, a little stab of pain went through her that there was

not one word which made it unsuitable to show. Still, she was happy. Never had her favourite College garden

seemed so beautiful, with each tree and flower so cared for, and the very wind excluded; never had the birds

seemed so tame and friendly. The sun shone softly, even the clouds were luminous and joyful. She sat a long

time, musing, and went back forgetting all she had come out to do. Having both courage and decision, she did

not leave the letter to burn a hole in her corsets, but gave it to her husband at lunch, looking him in the face,

He said that, of course, knowing she could not say: Yes. And she answered simply: "No."

"Then let us both goon Monday. I will catch the young man's trout; thou shalt catchh'm!he shall

And, three days later, without another word exchanged on the subject, they started.

Was she grateful to him? No. Afraid of him? No. Scornful of him? Not quite. But she was afraid of

HERSELF, horribly. How would she ever be able to keep herself in hand, how disguise from these people

that she loved their boy? It was her desperate mood that she feared. But since she so much wanted all the best

for him that life could give, surely she would have the strength to do nothing that might harm him. Yet she

He was there at the station to meet them, in riding things and a nice rough Norfolk jacket that she did not

recognize, though she thought she knew his clothes by heart; and as the train came slowly to a standstill the

memory of her last moment with him, up in his room amid the luggage that she had helped to pack, very

nearly overcame her. It seemed so hard to have to meet him coldly, formally, to have to waitwho knew

how longfor a minute with him alone! And he was so polite, so beautifully considerate, with all the

manners of a host; hoping she wasn't tired, hoping Mr. Stormer had brought his fishingrod, though they had

lots, of course, they could lend him; hoping the weather would be fine; hoping that they wouldn't mind

having to drive three miles, and busying himself about their luggage. All this when she just wanted to take

He did not drive with themhe had thought they would be too crowdedbut followed, keeping quite close

in the dust to point out the scenery, mounted on a 'palfrey,' as her husband called the roan with the black

This countryside, so rich and yet a little wild, the independent looking cottages, the old dark cosy

manorhouse, all was very new to one used to Oxford, and to London, and to little else of England. And all

was delightful. Even Mark's guardian seemed to her delightful. For Gordy, when absolutely forced to face an

unknown woman, could bring to the encounter a certain bluff ingratiation. His sister, too, Mrs. Doone, with

When Anna was alone in her room, reached by an unexpected little stairway, she stood looking at its carved

fourposter bed and the wide lattice window with chintz curtains, and the flowers in a blue bowl. Yes, all was

delightful. And yet! What was it? What had she missed? Ah, she was a fool to fret! It was only his anxiety

that they should be comfortable, his fear that he might betray himself. Out there those last few dayshis

eyes! And now! She brooded earnestly over what dress she should put on. She, who tanned so quickly, had

almost lost her sunburn in the week of travelling and Oxford. Today her eyes looked tired, and she was pale.

She was not going to disdain anything that might help. She had reached thirtysix last month, and he would

be nineteen to morrow! She decided on black. In black she knew that her neck looked whiter, and the colour

of her eyes and hair stranger. She put on no jewellery, did not even pin a rose at her breast, took white gloves.

Since her husband did not come to her room, she went up the little stairway to his. She surprised him ready

dressed, standing by the fireplace, smiling faintly. What was he thinking of, standing there with that smile?

"Good! Chaste as the night! Black suits you. Shall we find our way down to these savage halls?"

Everyone was already there, waiting. A single neighbouring squire and magistrate, by name Trusham, had

Dinner was announced; they went in. At the round table in a diningroom, all black oak, with many candles,

and terrible portraits of departed ancestors, Anna sat between the magistrate and Gordy. Mark was opposite,

between a quaintlooking old lady and a young girl who had not been introduced, a girl in white, with very

fair hair and very white skin, blue eyes, and lips a little parted; a daughter evidently of the faded Mrs. Doone.

A girl like a silvery moth, like a forgetmenot! Anna found it hard to take her eyes away from this girl's

face; not that she admired her exactly; pretty she wasyes; but weak, with those parted lips and soft chin,

and almost wistful look, as if her deepblue halfeager eyes were in spite of her. But she was youngso

young! That was why not to watch her seemed impossible. "Sylvia Doone?" Indeed! Yes. A soft name, a

pretty nameand very like her! Every time her eyes could travel away from her duty to Squire Trusham, and

to Gordy (on both of whom she was clearly making an impression), she gazed at this girl, sitting there by the

boy, and whenever those two young things smiled and spoke together she felt her heart contract and hurt her.

Was THIS why that something had gone out of his eyes? Ah, she was foolish! If every girl or woman the boy

knew was to cause such a feeling in her, what would life be like? And her will hardened against her fears. She

was looking brilliant herself; and she saw that the girl in her turn could not help gazing at her eagerly,

wistfully, a little bewilderedhatefully young. And the boy? Slowly, surely, as a magnet draws, Anna could

feel that she was drawing him, could see him stealing chances to look at her. Once she surprised him full.

What troubled eyes! It was not the old adoring face; yet she knew from its expression that she could make

And the dinner wore to an end. Then came the moment when the girl and she must meet under the eyes of the

mother, and that sharp, quaintlooking old governess. It would be a hard moment, that! And it camea hard

moment and a long one, for Gordy sat full span over his wine. But Anna had not served her time beneath the

gaze of upper Oxford for nothing; she managed to be charming, full of interest and questions in her still

rather foreign accent. Miss Doonesoon she became Sylviamust show her all the treasures and

antiquities. Was it too dark to go out just to look at the old house by night? Oh, no. Not a bit. There were

goloshes in the hall. And they went, the girl leading, and talking of Anna knew not what, so absorbed was she

in thinking how for a moment, just a moment, she could contrive to be with the boy alone.

It was not remarkable, this old house, but it was his homemight some day perhaps be his. And houses at

"That is my room," the girl said, "where the jessamine isyou can just see it. Mark's is abovelook, under

"Oh, I don't! Listen. That's an owl. We have heaps of owls. Mark likes them. I don't, much."

"He's awfully keen, you see, about all beasts and birdshe models them. Shall I show you his

There through the glass Anna indeed could just see the boy's quaint creations huddling in the dark on a bare

For all her cautious resolutions Anna could not for the life of her help saying:

Anna laughed, and took her arm. How soft and young it felt! A pang went through her heart, half jealous, half

"No. Gordy is only Mark's uncle by marriage; my mother is Gordy's sisterso I'm nothing."

"I thought you would have dark eyes, and Venetian red hair, and not be quite so tall. Of course, I haven't any

They were at the door again when the girl said that, and the hall light was falling on her; her slip of a white

Just then the men came out from the diningroom; her husband with the look on his face that denoted he had

been well listened to; Squire Trusham laughing as a man does who has no sense of humour; Gordy having a

curly, slightly asphyxiated air; and the boy his pale, brooding look, as though he had lost touch with his

surroundings. He wavered towards her, seemed to lose himself, went and sat down by the old governess. Was

it because he did not dare to come up to her, or only because he saw the old lady sitting alone? It might well

And the evening, so different from what she had dreamed of, closed in. Squire Trusham was gone in his high

dogcart, with his famous mare whose exploits had entertained her all through dinner. Her candle had been

given her; she had said goodnight to all but Mark. What should she do when she had his hand in hers? She

would be alone with him in that grasp, whose strength no one could see. And she did not know whether to

clasp it passionately, or to let it go coolly back to its owner; whether to claim him or to wait. But she was

unable to help pressing it feverishly. At once in his face she saw again that troubled look; and her heart smote

her. She let it go, and that she might not see him say goodnight to the girl, turned and mounted to her room.

Fully dressed, she flung herself on the bed, and there lay, her handkerchief across her mouth, gnawing at its

Mark's nineteenth birthday rose in grey mist, slowly dropped its veil to the grass, and shone clear and

glistening. He woke early. From his window he could see nothing in the steep park but the soft bluegrey,

balloonshaped oaks suspended one above the other among the roundtopped boulders. It was in early

morning that he always got his strongest feeling of wanting to model things; then and after dark, when, for

want of light, it was no use. This morning he had the craving badly, and the sense of not knowing how

weighed down his spirit. His drawings, his modelsthey were all so bad, so fumbly. If only this had been his

twentyfirst birthday, and he had his money, and could do what he liked. He would not stay in England. He

would be off to Athens, or Rome, or even to Paris, and work till he COULD do something. And in his

holidays he would study animals and birds in wild countries where there were plenty of them, and you could

watch them in their haunts. It was stupid having to stay in a place like Oxford; but at the thought of what

Oxford meant, his roaming fancy, like a bird hypnotized by a hawk, fluttered, stayed suspended, and dived

back to earth. And that feeling of wanting to make things suddenly left him. It was as though he had woken

up, his real self; thenlost that self again. Very quietly he made his way downstairs. The garden door was

not shuttered, not even lockedit must have been forgotten overnight. Last night! He had never thought he

would feel like this when she cameso bewildered, and confused; drawn towards her, but by something held

back. And he felt impatient, angry with himself, almost with her. Why could he not be just simply happy, as

this morning was happy? He got his fieldglasses and searched the meadow that led down to the river. Yes,

there were several rabbits out. With the white marguerites and the dew cobwebs, it was all moonflowery

and white; and the rabbits being there made it perfect. He wanted one badly to model from, and for a moment

was tempted to get his rook riflebut what was the good of a dead rabbitbesides, they looked so happy!

He put the glasses down and went towards his greenhouse to get a drawing block, thinking to sit on the wall

and make a sort of Midsummer Night's Dream sketch of flowers and rabbits. Someone was there, bending

down and doing something to his creatures. Who had the cheek? Why, it was Sylviain her dressinggown!

He grew hot, then cold, with anger. He could not bear anyone in that holy place! It was hateful to have his

things even looked at; and sheshe seemed to be fingering them. He pulled the door open with a jerk, and

said: "What are you doing?" He was indeed so stirred by righteous wrath that he hardly noticed the gasp she

gave, and the collapse of her figure against the wall. She ran past him, and vanished without a word. He went

up to his creatures and saw that she had placed on the head of each one of them a little sprig of jessamine

flower. Why! It was idiotic! He could see nothing at first but the ludicrousness of flowers on the heads of his

beasts! Then the desperation of this attempt to imagine something graceful, something that would give him

pleasure touched him; for he saw now that this was a birthday decoration. From that it was only a second

before he was horrified with himself. Poor little Sylvia! What a brute he was! She had plucked all that

jessamine, hung out of her window and risked falling to get hold of it; and she had woken up early and come

down in her dressinggown just to do something that she thought he would like! Horriblewhat he had

done! Now, when it was too late, he saw, only too clearly, her startled white face and quivering lips, and the

way she had shrunk against the wall. How pretty she had looked in her dressinggown with her hair all about

her, frightened like that! He would do anything now to make up to her for having been such a perfect beast!

The feeling, always a little with him, that he must look after herdating, no doubt, from days when he had

protected her from the bulls that were not there; and the feeling of her being so sweet and decent to him

always; and some other feeling tooall these suddenly reached poignant climax. He simply must make it up

to her! He ran back into the house and stole upstairs. Outside her room he listened with all his might, but

could hear nothing; then tapped softly with one nail, and, putting his mouth to the keyhole, whispered:

"Sylvia!" Again and again he whispered her name. He even tried the handle, meaning to open the door an

inch, but it was bolted. Once he thought he heard a noise like sobbing, and this made him still more wretched.

At last he gave it up; she would not come, would not be consoled. He deserved it, he knew, but it was very

hard. And dreadfully dispirited he went up to his room, took a bit of paper, and tried to write:

"It was most awfully sweet of you to put your stars on my beasts. It was just about the most sweet thing you

could have done. I am an awful brute, but, of course, if I had only known what you were doing, I should have

He took this down, slipped it under her door, tapped so that she might notice it, and stole away. It relieved his

Back in the greenhouse, sitting on a stool, he ruefully contemplated those chapletted beasts. They consisted of

a crow, a sheep, a turkey, two doves, a pony, and sundry fragments. She had fastened the jessamine sprigs to

the tops of their heads by a tiny daub of wet clay, and had evidently been surprised trying to put a sprig into

the mouth of one of the doves, for it hung by a little thread of clay from the beak. He detached it and put it in

his buttonhole. Poor little Sylvia! she took things awfully to heart. He would be as nice as ever he could to

her all day. And, balancing on his stool, he stared fixedly at the wall against which she had fallen back; the

line of her soft chin and throat seemed now to be his only memory. It was very queer how he could see

nothing but that, the way the throat moved, swallowedso white, so soft. And HE had made it go like that!

As the hour approached he haunted the hall, hoping she might be first down. At last he heard footsteps, and

waited, hidden behind the door of the empty diningroom, lest at sight of him she should turn back. He had

rehearsed what he was going to dobend down and kiss her hand and say: "Dulcinea del Toboso is the most

beautiful lady in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight upon the earth," from his favourite passage out

of his favourite book, 'Don Quixote.' She would surely forgive him then, and his heart would no longer hurt

him. Certainly she could never go on making him so miserable if she knew his feelings! She was too soft and

gentle for that. Alas! it was not Sylvia who came; but Anna, fresh from sleep, with her icegreen eyes and

bright hair; and in sudden strange antipathy to her, that strong, vivid figure, he stood dumb. And this first

lonely moment, which he had so many times in fancy spent locked in her arms, passed without even a kiss;

for quickly one by one the others came. But of Sylvia only news through Mrs. Doone that she had a

headache, and was staying in bed. Her present was on the sideboard, a book called 'Sartor Resartus.'

"Markfrom Sylvia, August 1st, 1880," together with Gordy's cheque, Mrs. Doone's pearl pin, old Tingle's

'Stones of Venice,' and one other little parcel wrapped in tissuepaperfour ties of varying shades of green,

red, and blue, handknitted in silka present of how many hours made short by the thought that he would

wear the produce of that clicking. He did not fail in outer gratitude, but did he realize what had been knitted

Birthdays, like Christmas days, were made for disenchantment. Always the false gaiety of gaiety

arrangedalways that pistol to the head: 'Confound you! enjoy yourself!' How could he enjoy himself with

the thought of Sylvia in her room, made ill by his brutality! The vision of her throat working, swallowing her

grief, haunted him like a little white, soft spectre all through the long drive out on to the moor, and the picnic

in the heather, and the long drive homehaunted him so that when Anna touched or looked at him he had no

spirit to answer, no spirit even to try and be with her alone, but almost a dread of it instead.

They were standing in the inner porch, pretending to examine the ancestral chartdotted and starred with

dolphins and little full rigged galleons sailing into harbourswhich always hung just there.

What could he say, since he did not know himself? He stammered, tried to speak, could not get anything out.

She shivered, and went into the house. But he stayed, staring at the chart with a dreadful stirredup

feelingof shame and irritation, pity, impatience, fear, all mixed. What had he done, said, lost? It was that

horrid feeling of when one has not been kind and not quite true, yet might have been kinder if one had been

still less true. Ah! but it was all so mixed up. It felt all bleak, too, and wintry in him, as if he had suddenly

"Ah! friend Lennanlooking deeply into the past from the less romantic present? Nice things, those old

It was difficult to remember not to be illmannered then. Why did Stormer jeer like that? He just managed to

"There are so many moons we wish for, Lennan, and they none of them come tumbling down."

The voice was almost earnest, and the boy's resentment fled. He felt sorry, but why he did not know.

When he came down to the drawingroom, Anna in her moonlight coloured frock was sitting on the sofa

talking toSylvia. He kept away from them; they could neither of them want him. But it did seem odd to

him, who knew not too much concerning women, that she could be talking so gaily, when only half an hour

He sat next her at dinner. Again it was puzzling that she should be laughing so serenely at Gordy's stories.

Did the whispering in the porch, then, mean nothing? And Sylvia would not look at him; he felt sure that she

turned her eyes away simply because she knew he was going to look in her direction. And this roused in him

a sore feelingeverything that night seemed to rouse that feeling of injustice; he was cast out, and he

could not tell why. He had not meant to hurt either of them! Why should they both want to hurt him so? And

presently there came to him a feeling that he did not care: Let them treat him as they liked! There were other

things besides love! If they did not want himhe did not want them! And he hugged this reckless, unhappy,

But even birthdays come to an end. And moods and feelings that seem so desperately real die in the unreality

If to the boy that birthday was all bewildered disillusionment, to Anna it was verily slow torture; SHE found

no relief in thinking that there were things in life other than love. But next morning brought readjustment, a

sense of yesterday's extravagance, a renewal of hope. Impossible surely that in one short fortnight she had

lost what she had made so sure of! She had only to be resolute. Only to grasp firmly what was hers. After all

these empty years was she not to have her hour? To sit still meekly and see it snatched from her by a slip of a

soft girl? A thousand times, no! And she watched her chance. She saw him about noon sally forth towards the

river, with his rod. She had to wait a little, for Gordy and his bailiff were down there by the tennis lawn, but

they soon moved on. She ran out then to the park gate. Once through that she felt safe; her husband, she

knew, was working in his room; the girl somewhere invisible; the old governess still at her housekeeping;

Mrs. Doone writing letters. She felt full of hope and courage. This old wild tangle of a park, that she had not

yet seen, was beautifula true trystingplace for fauns and nymphs, with its mossy trees and boulders and

the high bracken. She kept along under the wall in the direction of the river, but came to no gate, and began to

be afraid that she was going wrong. She could hear the river on the other side, and looked for some place

where she could climb and see exactly where she was. An old ashtree tempted her. Scrambling up into its

fork, she could just see over. There was the little river within twenty yards, its clear dark water running

between thick foliage. On its bank lay a huge stone balanced on another stone still more huge. And with his

back to this stone stood the boy, his rod leaning beside him. And there, on the ground, her arms resting on her

knees, her chin on her hands, that girl sat looking up. How eager his eyes nowhow different from the

And to Anna it seemed verily as if those two young faces formed suddenly but onethe face of youth.

If she had stayed there looking for all time, she could not have had graven on her heart a vision more

indelible. Vision of Spring, of all that was gone from her for ever! She shrank back out of the fork of the old

ashtree, and, like a stricken beast, went hurrying, stumbling away, amongst the stones and bracken. She ran

thus perhaps a quarter of a mile, then threw up her arms, fell down amongst the fern, and lay there on her

face. At first her heart hurt her so that she felt nothing but that physical pain. If she could have died! But she

knew it was nothing but breathlessness. It left her, and that which took its place she tried to drive away by

pressing her breast against the ground, by clutching the stalks of the brackenan ache, an emptiness too

dreadful! Youth to youth! He was gone from herand she was alone again! She did not cry. What good in

crying? But gusts of shame kept sweeping through her; shame and rage. So this was all she was worth! The

sun struck hot on her back in that lair of tangled fern, where she had fallen; she felt faint and sick. She had

not known till now quite what this passion for the boy had meant to her; how much of her very belief in

herself was bound up with it; how much clinging to her own youth. What bitterness! One soft slip of a white

girl one YOUNG thingand she had become as nothing! But was that true? Could she not even now

wrench him back to her with the passion that this child knew nothing of! Surely! Oh, surely! Let him but

once taste the rapture she could give him! And at that thought she ceased clutching at the bracken stalks,

lying as still as the very stones around her. Could she not? Might she not, even now? And all feeling, except

just a sort of quivering, deserted heras if she had fallen into a trance. Why spare this girl? Why falter? She

was first! He had been hers out there. And she still had the power to draw him. At dinner the first evening she

had dragged his gaze to her, away from that girlaway from youth, as a magnet draws steel. She could still

bind him with chains that for a little while at all events he would not want to break! Bind him? Hateful word!

Take him, hankering after what she could not give himyouth, white innocence, Spring? It would be

infamous, infamous! She sprang up from the fern, and ran along the hillside, not looking where she went,

stumbling among the tangled growth, in and out of the boulders, till she once more sank breathless on to a

stone. It was bare of trees just here, and she could see, across the river valley, the high larchcrowned tor on

the far side. The sky was clearthe sun bright. A hawk was wheeling over that hill; far up, very near the

blue! Infamous! She could not do that! Could not drug him, drag him to her by his senses, by all that was

least high in him, when she wished for him all the finest things that life could give, as if she had been his

mother. She could not. It would be wicked! In that moment of intense spiritual agony, those two down there

in the sun, by the grey stone and the dark water, seemed guarded from her, protected. The girl's white

flowerface trembling up, the boy's gaze leaping down! Strange that a heart which felt that, could hate at the

same moment that flowerface, and burn to kill with kisses that eagerness in the boy's eyes. The storm in her

slowly passed. And she prayed just to feel nothing. It was natural that she should lose her hour! Natural that

her thirst should go unslaked, and her passion never bloom; natural that youth should go to youth, this boy to

his own kind, by the law oflove. The breeze blowing down the valley fanned her cheeks, and brought her a

faint sensation of relief. Nobility! Was it just a word? Or did those that gave up happiness feel noble?

She wandered for a long time in the park. Not till late afternoon did she again pass out by the gate, through

which she had entered, full of hope. She met no one before she reached her room; and there, to be safe, took

refuge in her bed. She dreaded only lest the feeling of utter weariness should leave her. She wanted no vigour

of mind or body till she was away from here. She meant neither to eat nor drink; only to sleep, if she could.

Tomorrow, if there were any early train, she could be gone before she need see anyone; her husband must

arrange. As to what he would think, and she could saytime enough to decide that. And what did it matter?

The one vital thing now was not to see the boy, for she could not again go through hours of struggle like

those. She rang the bell, and sent the startled maid with a message to her husband. And while she waited for

him to come, her pride began revolting. She must not let him see. That would be horrible. And slipping out of

bed she got a handkerchief and the eaudeCologne flask, and bandaged her forehead. He came almost

instantly, entering in his quick, noiseless way, and stood looking at her. He did not ask what was the matter,

but simply waited. And never before had she realized so completely how he began, as it were, where she left

off; began on a plane from which instinct and feeling were as carefully ruled out as though they had been

blasphemous. She summoned all her courage, and said: "I went into the park; the sun must have been too hot.

I should like to go home tomorrow, if you don't mind. I can't bear not feeling well in other people's houses."

"Ah!" he said; "yes. The sun, a touch of that will last some days. Will you be fit to travel, though?"

She had a sudden conviction that he knew all about it, but that since to know all about it was to feel

himself ridiculoushe had the power of making himself believe that he knew nothing. Was this fine of him,

"My head is bad, but I SHALL be able. Only I don't want a fuss made. Could we go by a train before they are

There was not the faintest sound now, but of course he was still there. In that dumb, motionless presence was

all her future. Yes, that would be her futurea thing without feeling, and without motion. A fearful curiosity

came on her to look at it. She opened her gaze. He was still standing just as he had been, his eyes fixed on

her. But one hand, on the edge of his coat pocketout of the picture, as it werewas nervously closing and

unclosing. And suddenly she felt pity. Not for her futurewhich must be like that; but for him. How

dreadful to have grown so that all emotion was exiledhow dreadful! And she said gently:

As if he had heard something strange and startling, his eyes dilated in a curious way, he buried that nervous

When young Mark came on Sylvia by the loganstone, it was less surprising to him than if he had not known

she was therehaving watched her go. She was sitting, all humped together, brooding over the water, her

sunbonnet thrown back; and that hair, in which his star had caught, shining faintgold under the sun. He

came on her softly through the grass, and, when he was a little way off, thought it best to halt. If he startled

her she might run away, and he would not have the heart to follow. How still she was, lost in her brooding!

And, seeing that she did not move, he went up to her. Surely she could not still be angry with him!

She made no answer. And leaning his rod against the stone, he sighed. That silence of hers seemed to him

unjust; what was it she wanted him to say or do? Life was not worth living, if it was to be all bottled up like

"I never meant to hurt you. I hate hurting people. It's only that my beasts are so badI can't bear people to

see themespecially youI want to please youI do really. So, you see, that was all. You MIGHT forgive

Something over the wall, a rustling, a scattering in the fern deer, no doubt! And again he said eagerly,

"Of course, you count! Most awfully! Oh, don't be unhappy! I hate people being unhappy. Don't be unhappy,

Sylvia!" And he began gently to stroke her arm. It was all strange and troubled within him; one thing only

plainhe must not admit anything! As if reading that thought, her blue eyes seemed suddenly to search right

Ah! He was not going to say: She doesn't! It would be caddish to say that. Even if she didn't countDid she

still?it would be mean and low. And in his eyes just then there was the look that had made his tutor

He got up and took his rod. What was the use? He could not stay there with her, since he could notmust

He felt a choke in his throat, bent down to her hand, and kissed it; then shouldered his rod, and marched

away. Looking back once, he saw her still sitting there, gazing after him, forlorn, by that great stone. It

seemed to him, then, there was nowhere he could go; nowhere except among the birds and beasts and trees,

who did not mind even if you were all mixed up and horrible inside. He lay down in the grass on the bank. He

could see the tiny trout moving round and round the stones; swallows came all about him, flying very low; a

hornet, too, bore him company for a little. But he could take interest in nothing; it was as if his spirit were in

prison. It would have been nice, indeed, to be that water, never staying, passing, passing; or wind, touching

everything, never caught. To be able to do nothing without hurting someonethat was what was so ghastly.

If only one were like a flower, that just sprang up and lived its life all to itself, and died. But whatever he did,

or said now, would be like telling lies, or else being cruel. The only thing was to keep away from people. And

He went back to the house for lunch, but both those guests were out, no one seemed quite to know where.

Restless, unhappy, puzzled, he wandered round and about all the afternoon. Just before dinner he was told of

Mrs. Stormer's not being well, and that they would be leaving tomorrow. Goingafter three days! That

plunged him deeper into his strange and sorrowful confusion. He was reduced now to a complete brooding

silence. He knew he was attracting attention, but could not help it. Several times during dinner he caught

Gordy's eyes fixed on him, from under those puffy halfclosed lids, with asphyxiated speculation. But he

simply COULD not talkeverything that came into his mind to say seemed false. Ah! it was a sad

eveningwith its glimmering vision into another's sore heart, its confused gnawing sense of things broken,

faith betrayed; and yet always the perplexed wonder"How could I have helped it?" And always Sylvia's

He stole out, leaving Gordy and his tutor still over their wine, and roamed about the garden a long time,

listening sadly to the owls. It was a blessing to get upstairs, though of course he would not sleep.

But he did sleep, all through a night of many dreams, in the last of which he was lying on a mountain side,

Anna looking down into his eyes, and bending her face to his. He woke just as her lips touched him. Still

under the spell of that troubling dream, he became conscious of the sound of wheels and horses' hoofs on the

gravel, and sprang out of bed. There was the waggonette moving from the door, old Godden driving, luggage

piled up beside him, and the Stormers sitting opposite each other in the carriage. Going away like

thathaving never even said goodbye! For a moment he felt as people must when they have unwittingly

killed someone utterly stunned and miserable. Then he dashed into his clothes. He would not let her go

thus! He wouldhe mustsee her again! What had he done that she should go like this? He rushed

downstairs. The hall was empty; nineteen minutes to eight! The train left at eight o'clock. Had he time to

saddle Bolero? He rushed round to the stables; but the cob was out, being shoed. He wouldhe must get

there in time. It would show her anyway that he was not quite a cad. He walked till the drive curved, then

began running hard. A quarter of a mile, and already he felt better, not so miserable and guilty; it was

something to feel you had a tough job in hand, all your work cut outsomething to have to think of

economizing strength, picking out the best going, keeping out of the sun, saving your wind uphill, flying

down any slope. It was cool still, and the dew had laid the dust; there was no traffic and scarcely anyone to

look back and gape as he ran by. What he would do, if he got there in timehow explain this mad

threemile run he did not think. He passed a farm that he knew was just halfway. He had left his watch.

Indeed, he had put on only his trousers, shirt, and Norfolk jacket; no tie, no hat, not even socks under his

tennis shoes, and he was as hot as fire, with his hair flying back a strange young creature indeed for

anyone to meet. But he had lost now all feeling, save the will to get there. A flock of sheep came out of a

field into the lane. He pushed through them somehow, but they lost him several seconds. More than a mile

still; and he was blown, and his legs beginning to give! Downhill indeed they went of their own accord, but

there was the long runin, quite level; and he could hear the train, now slowly puffing its way along the

valley. Then, in spite of exhaustion, his spirit rose. He would not go in looking like a scarecrow, utterly done,

and make a scene. He must pull himself together at the end, and stroll in as if he had come for fun. But

howseeing that at any moment he felt he might fall flat in the dust, and stay there for ever! And, as he ran,

he made little desperate efforts to mop his face, and brush his clothes. There were the gates, at lasttwo

hundred yards away. The train, he could hear no longer. It must be standing in the station. And a sob came

from his overdriven lungs. He heard the guard's whistle as he reached the gates. Instead of making for the

bookingoffice, he ran along the paling, where an entrance to the goods'shed was open, and dashing through

he fell back against the honeysuckle. The engine was just abreast of him; he snatched at his sleeve and passed

it over his face, to wipe the sweat away. Everything was blurred. He must seesurely he had not come in

time just not to see! He pushed his hands over his forehead and hair, and spied up dizzily at the slowly

passing train. She was there, at a window! Standing, looking out! He dared not step forward, for fear of

falling, but he put out his hand She saw him. Yes, she saw him! Wasn't she going to make a sign? Not

one? And suddenly he saw her tear at her dress, pluck something out, and throw it. It fell close to his feet. He

did not pick it uphe wanted to see her face till she was gone. It looked wonderfulvery proud, and pale.

She put her hand up to her lips. Then everything went blurred again and when he could see once more, the

train had vanished. But at his feet was what she had thrown. He picked it up! All dry and dark, it was the

Creeping out, past the goods'shed, he made his way to a field, and lay down with his face pressed to that

The asphyxiated speculation in his guardian's eyes had not been without significance. Mark did not go back

to Oxford. He went instead to Rometo live in his sister's house, and attend a school of sculpture. That was

To Anna he wrote twice, but received no answer. From his tutor he had one little note:

"So! You abandon us for Art? Ah! wellit was your moon, if I rememberone of them. A worthy

moona little dusty in these daysa little in her declinebut to you no doubt a virgin goddess, whose

Gleam of a thousand lights; clack and mutter of innumerable voices, laughter, footsteps; hiss and rumble of

passing trains taking gamblers back to Nice or Mentone; fevered wailing from the violins of four fiddlers

with darkwhite skins outside the cafe; and above, around, beyond, the dark sky, and the dark mountains, and

the dark sea, like some great dark flower to whose heart is clinging a jewelled beetle. So was Monte Carlo on

But Mark Lennan, at one of the little marbletopped tables, was in too great maze and exaltation of spirit and

of senses to be conscious of its glare and babel, even of its beauty. He sat so very still that his neighbours,

with the instinctive aversion of the human creature to what is too remote from its own mood, after one good

He was lost, indeed, in memory of the minutes just gone by. For it had come at last, after all these weeks of

Very stealthily it had been creeping on him, ever since that chance introduction nearly a year ago, soon after

he settled down in London, following those six years of Rome and Paris. First the merest friendliness,

because she was so nice about his work; then respectful admiration, because she was so beautiful; then pity,

because she was so unhappy in her marriage. If she had been happy, he would have fled. The knowledge that

she had been unhappy long before he knew her had kept his conscience still. And at last one afternoon she

said: "Ah! if you come out there too!" Marvelously subtle, the way that one little outslipped saying had

worked in him, as though it had a life of its ownlike a strange bird that had flown into the garden of his

heart, and established itself with its new song and flutterings, its new flight, its wistful and ever clearer call.

That and one moment, a few days later in her London drawingroom, when he had told her that he WAS

coming, and she did not, could not, he felt, look at him. Queer, that nothing momentous said, doneor even

And so she had gone with her uncle and aunt, under whose wing one might be sure she would meet with no

"We've arrived. It is so good to be in the sun. The flowers are wonderful. I am keeping Gorbio and

That letter was the single clear memory he had of the time between her going and his following. He received

it one afternoon, sitting on an old low garden wall with the spring sun shining on him through appletrees in

blossom, and a feeling as if all the desire of the world lay before him, and he had but to stretch out his arms to

Then confused unrest, all things vague; till at the end of his journey he stepped out of the train at Beaulieu

with a furiously beating heart. But why? Surely he had not expected her to come out from Monte Carlo to

A week had gone by since then in one long effort to be with her and appear to others as though he did not

greatly wish to be; two concerts, two walks with her alone, when all that he had said seemed as nothing said,

and all her sayings but ghosts of what he wished to hear; a week of confusion, day and night, until, a few

minutes ago, her handkerchief had fallen from her glove on to the dusty road, and he had picked it up and put

it to his lips. Nothing could take away the look she had given him then. Nothing could ever again separate her

from him utterly. She had confessed in it to the same sweet, fearful trouble that he himself was feeling. She

had not spoken, but he had seen her lips part, her breast rise and fall. And HE had not spoken. What was the

He felt in the pocket of his coat. There, against his fingers, was that wisp of lawn and lace, soft, yet somehow

alive; and stealthily he took it out. The whole of her, with her fragrance, seemed pressed to his face in the

touch of that lawn border, roughened by little white stars. More secretly than ever he put it back; and for the

first time looked round. These people! They belonged to a world that he had left. They gave him the same

feeling that her uncle and aunt had given him just now, when they said goodnight, following her into their

hotel. That good Colonel, that good Mrs. Ercott! The very concretion of the world he had been brought up in,

of the English point of view; symbolic figures of health, reason, and the straight path, on which at that

moment, seemingly, he had turned his back. The Colonel's profile, ruddy through its tan, with grey

moustache guiltless of any wax, his cheery, high pitched: "Goodnight, young Lennan!" His wife's curly

smile, her flat, cosy, confidential voicehow strange and remote they had suddenly become! And all these

people here, chattering, drinking how queer and far away! Or was it just that he was queer and remote to

And getting up from his table, he passed the fiddlers with the darkwhite skins, out into the Place.

He went up the side streets to the back of her hotel, and stood by the railings of the gardenone of those

hotel gardens which exist but to figure in advertisements, with its few arid palms, its paths staring white

And there came to him the oddest feelingthat he had been there before, peering through blossoms at those

staring paths and shuttered windows. A scent of woodsmoke was abroad, and some dry plant rustled ever so

faintly in what little wind was stirring. What was there of memory in this night, this garden? Some dark sweet

thing, invisible, to feel whose presence was at once ecstasy, and the irritation of a thirst that will not be

And he walked on. Houses, houses! At last he was away from them, alone on the high road, beyond the limits

of Monaco. And walking thus through the night he had thoughts that he imagined no one had ever had before

him. The knowledge that she loved him had made everything seem very sacred and responsible. Whatever he

For in spite of six years of art in Rome and Paris, he still had a fastidious reverence for women. If she had

loved her husband she would have been safe enough from him; but to be bound to a companionship that she

gave unwillinglythis had seemed to him atrocious, even before he loved her. How could any husband ask

that? Have so little prideso little pity? The unpardonable thing! What was there to respect in such a

marriage? Only, he must not do her harm! But now that her eyes had said, I love you! What then? It was

simply miraculous to know THAT, under the stars of this warm Southern night, burning its incense of trees

Climbing up above the road, he lay down. If only she were there beside him! The fragrance of the earth not

yet chilled, crept to his face; and for just a moment it seemed to him that she did come. If he could keep her

there for ever in that embrace that was no embracein that ghostly rapture, on this wild fragrant bed that no

lovers before had ever pressed, save the creeping things, and the flowers; save sunlight and moonlight with

Then she was gone; his hands touched nothing but the crumbled pine dust, and the flowers of the wild thyme

He stood on the edge of the little cliff, above the road between the dark mountains and the sea black with

depth. Too late for any passerby; as far from what men thought and said and did as the very night itself with

its whispering warmth. And he conjured up her face, making certain of itthe eyes, clear and brown, and

Then he leaped down into the road, and ranone could not walk, feeling this miracle, that no one had ever

In their most reputable hotel 'Le Coeur d'Or,' long since remodelled and renamed, Mrs. Ercott lay in her

brassbound bed looking by starlight at the Colonel in his brassbound bed. Her ears were carefully freed

from the pressure of her pillow, for she thought she heard a mosquito. Companion for thirty years to one

whose life had been feverishly punctuated by the attentions of those little beasts, she had no love for them. It

was the one subject on which perhaps her imagination was stronger than her common sense. For in fact there

was not, and could not be, a mosquito, since the first thing the Colonel did, on arriving at any place farther

South than Parallel 46 of latitude, was to open the windows very wide, and nail with many tiny tacks a piece

of mosquito netting across that refreshing space, while she held him firmly by the coattails. The fact that

other people did not so secure their windows did not at all trouble the Colonel, a true Englishman, who loved

to act in his own way, and to think in the ways of other people. After that they would wait till night came,

then burn a peculiar little lamp with a peculiar little smell, and, in the full glare of the gaslight, stand about on

chairs, with slippers, and their eyes fixed on true or imaginary beasts. Then would fall little slaps, making

little messes, and little joyous or doleful cries would arise: "I've got that one!" "Oh, John, I missed him!" And

in the middle of the room, the Colonel, in pyjamas, and spectacles (only worn in very solemn moments, low

down on his nose), would revolve slowly, turning his eyes, with that look in them of outfacing death which

he had so long acquired, on every inch of wall and ceiling, till at last he would say: "Well, Dolly, that's the

lot!" At which she would say: "Give me a kiss, dear!" and he would kiss her, and get into his bed.

There was, then, no mosquito, save that general ghost of him which lingered in the mind of one devoted to

her husband. Spying out his profile, for he was lying on his back, she refrained from saying: "John, are you

awake?" A whiffling sound was coming from a nose, to whichoriginally straightattention to military

duties had given a slight crook, half an inch below the level of grizzled eyebrows raised a little, as though

surprised at the sounds beneath. She could hardly see him, but she thought: "How good he looks!" And, in

fact, he did. It was the face of a man incapable of evil, having in its sleep the candour of one at heart a

child that simple candour of those who have never known how to seek adventures of the mind, and have

The Colonel slowly turned his head. His wife was an imaginative woman! She had always been so. Dimly he

perceived that something romantic was about to come from her. But with that almost professional gentleness

"What always astonishes me about young people is the way they think they're not seenpoor dears!"

For a considerable sound of breathing, not mere whiffling now, was coming from the Colonelto his wife a

And indeed he WAS thinking. Dolly was an imaginative woman, but something told him that in this case she

Mrs. Ercott raised herself. He looked more good than ever; a little perplexed frown had climbed up with his

Mrs. Ercott fell back on her pillows. In her heart there was just that little soreness natural to a woman over

Something vague moved deep down in the Colonel; he stretched out his hand. In that strip of gloom between

Mrs. Ercott in her turn was thinking. Her thoughts were flat and rapid like her voice, but had that sort of

sentiment which accompanies the mental exercise of women with good hearts. Poor young man! And poor

Olive! But was a woman ever to be pitied, when she was so pretty as that! Besides, when all was said and

done, she had a finelooking man for husband; in Parliament, with a career, and fond of herdecidedly. And

their little house in London, so close to Westminster, was a distinct dear; and nothing could be more

charming than their cottage by the river. Was Olive, then, to be pitied? And yetshe was not happy. It was

no good pretending that she was happy. All very well to say that such things were within one's control, but if

you read novels at all, you knew they weren't. There was such a thing as incompatibility. Oh yes! And there

was the matter of difference in their ages! Olive was twentysix, Robert Cramier fortytwo. And now this

young Mark Lennan was in love with her. What if she were in love with him! John would realize then,

perhaps, that the young flew to the young. For meneven the best, like John, were funny! She would never

The Colonel rose on his elbow. This was another of those occasions that showed him how, during the later

years of his service in Madras and Upper Burmah, when Dolly's health had not been equal to the heat, she

had picked up in London a queer way of looking at thingsas if they were notnot so right or wrong

asas he felt them to be. And he repeated those two French words in his own way, adding:

The Colonel experienced the same sensation as when one suddenly knows that one is not digesting food.

Because young Lennan was in danger of getting into a dishonourable fix, he was told to be human! Really,

Dolly was! The white blur of her new boudoir cap suddenly impinged on his consciousness. Surely she

"I'm thinking of Olive," he said; "I don't want her worried with that sort of thing."

"Perhaps Olive can manage for herself. In these days it doesn't do to interfere with love."

If one's own wife called thisthis sort ofthing, lovethen, why had he been faithful to herin very hot

climatesall these years? A sense of waste, and of injustice, tried to rear its head against all the side of him

that attached certain meanings to certain words, and acted up to them. And this revolt gave him a feeling,

strange and so unpleasant. Love! It was not a word to use thus loosely! Love led to marriage; this could not

lead to marriage, except throughthe Divorce Court. And suddenly the Colonel had a vision of his dead

brother Lindsay, Olive's father, standing there in the dark, with his grave, clearcut, ivorypale face, under

the black hair supposed to be derived from a French ancestress who had escaped from the massacre of St.

Bartholomew. Upright fellow always, Lindsayeven before he was made bishop! Queer somehow that

Olive should be his daughter. Not that she was not upright; not at all! But she was soft! Lindsay was not!

Imagine him seeing that young fellow putting her handkerchief in his pocket. But had young Lennan really

done such a thing? Dolly was imaginative! He had mistaken it probably for his own; if he had chanced to

blow his nose, he would have realized. For, coupled with the almost childlike candour of his mind, the

Colonel had real administrative vigour, a true sense of practical values; an ounce of illustration was always

worth to him a pound of theory! Dolly was given to riding off on theories. Thank God! she never acted on

"My dear! Young Lennan may be an artist and all that, but he's a gentleman! I know old Heatherley, his

One of the countless legion that hold a creed taken at face value, into whose roots and reasons they have

never dreamed of going, the Colonel was staggered. Like some native on an island surrounded by troubled

seas, which he has stared at with a certain contemptuous awe all his life, but never entered, he was

Indeed, Mrs. Ercott had not intended to go so far; but there was in her, as in all women whose minds are more

active than their husbands', a something worrying her always to go a little farther than she meant. With real

She had seriously troubled him, then! Now he would not sleepthe blood went to his head so quickly. He

would just lie awake, trying not to disturb her. She could not bear him not to disturb her. It seemed so selfish

of her! She ought to have known that the whole subject was too dangerous to discuss at night.

She became conscious that he was standing just behind her; his figure in its thin covering looked very lean,

Again Mrs. Ercott felt that jealous twinge, soon lost this time in the motherliness of a childless woman for her

"The water's boiling! Now sip a good glass slowly, and get into bed, or I'll take your temperature!"

Obediently the Colonel took from her the glass, and as he sipped, she put her hand up and stroked his head.

In the room below them the subject of their discussion was lying very wide awake. She knew that she had

betrayed herself, made plain to Mark Lennan what she had never until now admitted to herself. But the

lovelook, which for the life of her she could not keep back, had been followed by a feeling of having 'lost

caste.' For, hitherto, the world of women had been strictly divided by her into those who did and those who

did not do such things; and to be no longer quite sure to which half she belonged was frightening. But what

was the good of thinking, of being frightened?it could not lead to anything. Yesterday she had not known

this would come; and now she could not guess at tomorrow! Tonight was enough! Tonight with its

A new sensation for heras different from those excited by the courtships of her girlhood, or by her

marriage, as light from darkness. For she had never been in love, not even with her husband. She knew it

now. The sun was shining in a world where she had thought there was none. Nothing could come of it. But

Quite simply she began to plan what he and she would do. There were six days left. They had not yet been to

Gorbio, nor to Castellarnone of those long walks or rides they had designed to do for the beauty of them.

Would he come early tomorrow? What could they do together? No one should know what these six days

would be to hernot even he. To be with him, watch his face, hear his voice, and now and then just touch

him! She could trust herself to show no one. And then, it would beover! Though, of course, she would see

And, lying there in the dark, she thought of their first meeting, one Sunday morning, in Hyde Park. The

Colonel religiously observed Church Parade, and would even come all the way down to Westminster, from

his flat near Knightsbridge, in order to fetch his niece up to it. She remembered how, during their stroll, he

had stopped suddenly in front of an old gentleman with a puffy yellow face and eyes half open.

And the old gentleman, glaring a little, as it seemed to her, from under his eyelids and his grey top hat, had

answered: "Colonel Ercott, I think? Here's the fellow himselfMark!" And a young man had taken off his

hat. She had only noticed at first that his dark hair grewnot longbut very thick; and that his eyes were

very deepset. Then she saw him smile; it made his face all eager, yet left it shy; and she decided that he was

nice. Soon after, she had gone with the Ercotts to see his 'things'; for it was, of course, and especially in those

days, quite an event to know a sculptorrather like having a zebra in your park. The Colonel had been

delighted and a little relieved to find that the 'things' were nearly all of beasts and birds. "Very interestin'" to

one full of curious lore about such, having in his time killed many of them, and finding himself at the end of

Acquaintanceship had ripened fast after that first visit to his studio, and now it was her turn to be relieved that

Mark Lennan devoted himself almost entirely to beasts and birds instead of to the human form, socalled

divine. Ah! yesshe would have suffered; now that she loved him, she saw that. At all events she could

She fell asleep at last, and dreamed that she was in a boat alone on the river near her country cottage, drifting

along among spiky flowers like asphodels, with birds singing and flying round her. She could move neither

face nor limbs, but that helpless feeling was not unpleasant, till she became conscious that she was drawing

nearer and nearer to what was neither water nor land, light nor darkness, but simply some unutterable feeling.

And then she saw, gazing at her out of the rushes on the banks, a great bull head. It moved as she movedit

was on both sides of her, yet all the time only one head. She tried to raise her hands and cover her eyes, but

Nearly six o'clock already! Her dream made her disinclined to trust again to sleep. Sleep was a robber

nowof each minute of these few days! She got up, and looked out. The morning was fine, the air warm

already, sweet with dew, and heliotrope nailed to the wall outside her window. She had but to open her

shutters and walk into the sun. She dressed, took her sunshade, stealthily slipped the shutters back, and stole

forth. Shunning the hotel garden, where the eccentricity of her early wandering might betray the condition of

her spirit, she passed through into the road toward the Casino. Without perhaps knowing it, she was making

for where she had sat with him yesterday afternoon, listening to the band. Hatless, but defended by her

sunshade, she excited the admiration of the few connoisseurs as yet abroad, strolling in blue blouses to their

labours; and this simple admiration gave her pleasure. For once she was really conscious of the grace in her

own limbs, actually felt the gentle vividness of her own face, with its nearly black hair and eyes, and creamy

In the Casino gardens she walked more slowly, savouring the aromatic trees, and stopping to bend and look at

almost every flower; then, on the seat, where she had sat with him yesterday, she rested. A few paces away

were the steps that led to the railwaystation, trodden upwards eagerly by so many, day after day, night after

night, and lightly or sorrowfully descended. Above her, two pines, a peppertree, and a palm mingled their

shadeso fantastic the jumbling of trees and souls in this strange place! She furled her sunshade and leaned

back. Her gaze, free and friendly, passed from bough to bough. Against the bright sky, unbesieged as yet by

heat or dust, they had a spiritual look, lying sharp and flat along the air. She plucked a cluster of pinkish

berries from the peppertree, crushing and rubbing them between her hands to get their fragrance. All these

beautiful and sweet things seemed to be a part of her joy at being loved, part of this sudden summer in her

heart. The sky, the flowers, that jewel of green blue sea, the bright acacias, were nothing in the world but

And those few who passed, and saw her sitting there under the peppertree, wondered no doubt at the

In the small hours, which so many wish were smaller, the Colonel had awakened, with the affair of the

handkerchief swelling visibly. His niece's husband was not a man that he had much liking fora taciturn

fellow, with possibly a bit of the brute in him, a man who rather rode people down; but, since Dolly and he

were in charge of Olive, the notion that young Lennan was falling in love with her under their very noses was

alarming to one naturally punctilious. It was not until he fell asleep again, and woke in full morning light, that

the remedy occurred to him. She must be taken out of herself! Dolly and he had been slack; too interested in

this queer place, this queer lot of people! They had neglected her, left her to. . . Boys and girls!One ought

always to remember. But it was not too late. She was old Lindsay's daughter; would not forget herself. Poor

old Lindsayfine fellow; bit too much, perhaps, of theHuguenot in him! Queer, those throwbacks! Had

noticed in horses, time and againwhite hairs about the tail, carriage of the headskip generations and then

pop out. And Olive had something of his lookthe same ivory skin, same colour of eyes and hair! Only she

was not severe, like her father, not exactly! And once more there shot through the Colonel a vague dread, as

He was out before eight o'clock, a thin upright figure in hard straw hat and grey flannel clothes, walking with

the indescribable loose poise of the soldier Englishman, with that air, different from the French, German,

what not, because of shoulders ever asserting, through their drill, the right to put on mufti; with that perfectly

quiet and modest air of knowing that, whatever might be said, there was only one way of wearing clothes and

moving legs. And, as he walked, he smoothed his drooping grey moustache, considering how best to take his

niece out of herself. He passed along by the Terrace, and stood for a moment looking down at the sea beyond

the pigeonshooting ground. Then he moved on round under the Casino into the gardens at the back. A

beautiful spot! Wonderful care they had taken with the plants! It made him think a little of Tushawore, where

his old friend the Rajahprecious old rascal!had gardens to his palace rather like these. He paced again to

the front. It was nice and quiet in the early mornings, with the sea down there, and nobody trying to get the

better of anybody else. There were fellows never happy unless they were doing someone in the eye. He had

known men who would ride at the devil himself, make it a point of honour to swindle a friend out of a few

pounds! Odd place this 'Monte'sort of a Garden of Eden gone wrong. And all the real, but quite inarticulate

love of Nature, which had supported the Colonel through deserts and jungles, on transports at sea, and in

mountain camps, awoke in the sweetness of these gardens. His dear mother! He had never forgotten the

words with which she had shown him the sunset through the coppice down at old Withes Norton, when he

was nine years old: "That is beauty, Jack! Do you feel it, darling?" He had not felt it at the timenot he; a

thickheaded, scampering youngster. Even when he first went to India he had had no eye for a sunset. The

rising generation were different. That young couple, for instance, under the peppertree, sitting there without

a word, just looking at the trees. How long, he wondered, had they been sitting like that? And suddenly

something in the Colonel leaped; his steel coloured eyes took on their look of outfacing death. Choking

down a cough, he faced about, back to where he had stood above the pigeonshooting ground. . . . Olive and

that young fellow! An assignation! At this time in the morning! The earth reeled. His brother's childhis

favourite niece! The woman whom he most admiredthe woman for whom his heart was softest. Leaning

over the stone parapet, no longer seeing either the smooth green of the pigeonshooting ground, or the

smooth blue of the sea beyond, he was moved, distressed, bewildered beyond words. Before breakfast! That

was the devil of it! Confession, as it were, of everything. Moreover, he had seen their hands touching on the

seat. The blood rushed up to his face; he had seen, spied out, what was not intended for his eyes. Nice

positionthat! Dolly, too, last night, had seen. But that was different. Women might see things it was

expected of them. But for a manaa gentleman! The fullness of his embarrassment gradually disclosed

itself. His hands were tied. Could he even consult Dolly? He had a feeling of isolation, of utter solitude.

Nobodynot anybody in the world could understand his secret and intense discomfort. To take up a

positionthe position he was bound to take up, as Olive's nearest relative and protector, andwhat was

itchaperon, by the aid of knowledge come at in such a way, however unintentionally! Never in all his days

in the regimentand many delicate matters affecting honour had come his wayhad he had a thing like this

to deal with. Poor child! But he had no business to think of her like that. No, indeed! She had not

behavedas And there he paused, curiously unable to condemn her. Suppose they got up and came that

He took his hands off the stone parapet, and made for his hotel. His palms were white from the force of his

grip. He said to himself as he went along: "I must consider the whole question calmly; I must think it out."

This gave him relief. With young Lennan, at all events, he could be angry. But even there he found, to his

dismay, no finality of judgment. And this absence of finality, so unwonted, distressed him horribly. There

was something in the way the young man had been sitting there beside herso quiet, so almost timidthat

had touched him. This was bad, by Jovevery bad! The two of them, they made, somehow, a nice couple!

Confound it! This would not do! The chaplain of the little English church, passing at this moment, called out,

"Fine morning, Colonel Ercott." The Colonel saluted, and did not answer. The greeting at the moment

seemed to him paltry. No morning could be fine that contained such a discovery. He entered the hotel, passed

into the diningroom, and sat down. Nobody was there. They all had their breakfast upstairs, even Dolly.

Olive alone was in the habit of supporting him while he ate an English breakfast. And suddenly he perceived

that he was face to face already with this dreadful situation. To have breakfast without, as usual, waiting for

her, seemed too pointed. She might be coming in at any minute now. To wait for her, and have it, without

He was conscious of a faint rustling behind him. There she was, and nothing decided. In this moment of

hopeless confusion the Colonel acted by pure instinct, rose, patted her cheek, and placed a chair.

She was looking very dainty, very soft. That creamy dress showed off her dark hair and eyes, which seemed

somehow to beflying off somewhere; yesit was queer, but that was the only way to put it. He got no

reassurance, no comfort, from the sight of her. And slowly he stripped the skin from the banana with which

he always commenced breakfast. One might just as well be asked to shoot a tame dove or tear a pretty flower

to pieces as be expected to take her to task, even if he could, in honour. And he sought refuge in the words:

But she did not so answer. The colour came into her cheeks, indeed, but she nodded: "It's so lovely!"

How pretty she looked saying that! He had put himself out of court nowcould never tell her what he had

He was amazed at her steadinessnever, to his knowledge, having encountered a woman armoured at every

point to preserve a love that flies against the world. How tell what was under her smile! And in confusion of

Between sense of trusteeship and hatred of spoiling sport; between knowledge of the danger she was in and

halfpitying admiration at the sight of her; between real disapproval of an illicit and underhand business

(what else was it, after all?) and some dim perception that here was something he did not begin to be able to

fathomsomething that perhaps no one but those two themselves could deal withbetween these various

Then, in an impulse of sheer affection, he said with startling suddenness: "My dear, I've often meant to ask,

There was something sinister about the way she repeated that, as if the word "home" were strange to her.

She drank her coffee and got up; and the Colonel felt afraid of her, standing thereafraid of what she was

going to tell him. He grew very red. But, worse than all, she said absolutely nothing; only shrugged her

On the wild thyme, under the olives below the rock village of Gorbio, with their mules cropping at a little

distance, those two sat after their lunch, listening to the cuckoos. Since their uncanny chance meeting that

morning in the gardens, when they sat with their hands just touching, amazed and elated by their own good

fortune, there was not much need to say what they felt, to break with words this rapture of belonging to each

otherso shyly, so wildly, so, as it were, without reality. They were like epicures with old wine in their

And so their talk was not of love, but, in that pathetic way of starcrossed lovers, of the things they loved;

It was the telling of her dream that brought the words from him at last; but she drew away, and answered:

Then he just clung to her hand; and presently, seeing that her eyes were wet, took courage enough to kiss her

Trembling and fugitive indeed that first passage of their love. Not much of the conquering male in him, nor in

And then they went, outwardly sober enough, riding their mules down the stony slopes back to Mentone.

But in the grey, dusty railwaycarriage when she had left him, he was like a man drugged, staring at where

Two hours later, at dinner in her hotel, between her and Mrs. Ercott, with the Colonel opposite, he knew for

the first time what he was faced with. To watch every thought that passed within him, lest it should by the

slightest sign betray him; to regulate and veil every look and every word he spoke to her; never for a second

to forget that these other persons were actual and dangerous, not merely the insignificant and grotesque

shadows that they seemed. It would be perhaps for ever a part of his love for her to seem not to love her. He

did not dare dream of fulfilment. He was to be her friend, and try to bring her happinessburn and long for

her, and not think about reward. This was his first real overwhelming passionso different to the loves of

springand he brought to it all that naivete, that touching quality of young Englishmen, whose secret

instinct it is to back away from the full nature of love, even from admitting that it has that nature. They two

were to love, andnot to love! For the first time he understood a little of what that meant. A few stolen

adoring minutes now and then, and, for the rest, the presence of a world that must be deceived. Already he

had almost a hatred of that orderly, brownfaced Colonel, with his eyes that looked so steady and saw

nothing; of that flat, kindly lady, who talked so pleasantly throughout dinner, saying things that he had to

answer without knowing what they signified. He realized, with a sense of shock, that he was deprived of all

interests in life but one; not even his work had any meaning apart from HER. It lit no fire within him to hear

Mrs. Ercott praise certain execrable pictures in the Royal Academy, which she had religiously visited the day

before leaving home. And as the interminable meal wore on, he began even to feel grief and wonder that

Olive could be so smiling, so gay, and calm; so, as it seemed to him, indifferent to this intolerable

impossibility of exchanging even one look of love. Did she really love himcould she love him, and show

not one little sign of it? And suddenly he felt her foot touch his own. It was the faintest sidelong, supplicating

pressure, withdrawn at once, but it said: 'I know what you are suffering; I, too, but I love you.'

Characteristically, he felt that it cost her dear to make use of that little primitive device of common loves; the

touch awoke within him only chivalry. He would burn for ever sooner than cause her the pain of thinking that

After dinner, they sat out on a balcony. The stars glowed above the palms; a frog was croaking. He managed

to draw his chair so that he could look at her unseen. How deep, and softly dark her eyes, when for a second

they rested on his! A moth settled on her kneea cunning little creature, with its hooded, horned owl's face,

and tiny black slits of eyes! Would it have come so confidingly to anyone but her? The Colonel knew its

namehe had collected it. Very common, he said. The interest in it passed; but Lennan stayed, bent forward,

The voice of Mrs. Ercott, sharper than its wont, said: "What day does Robert say he wants you back, my

He managed to remain gazing at the moth, even to take it gently from her knee, while he listened to her calm

Then he got up, and let the moth fly into the darkness; his hands and lips were trembling, and he was afraid of

their being seen. He had never known, had not dreamed, of such a violent, sick feeling. That this man could

thus hale her home at will! It was grotesque, fantastic, awful, butit was true! Next Tuesday she would

journey back away from him to be again at the mercy of her Fate! The pain of this thought made him grip the

railing, and grit his teeth, to keep himself from crying out. And another thought came to him: I shall have to

They were saying goodnight; and he had to smirk and smile, and pretendto her above allthat he was

Then he was alone, with the feeling that he had failed her at the first shot; torn, too, between horror of what

he suddenly saw before him, and longing to be back in her presence at any cost. . . . And all this on the day of

He sat down on a bench facing the Casino. Neither the lights, nor the people passing in and out, not even the

gipsy bandsmen's music, distracted his thoughts for a second. Could it be less than twentyfour hours since

he had picked up her handkerchief, not thirty yards away? In that twentyfour hours he seemed to have

known every emotion that man could feel. And in all the world there was now not one soul to whom he could

speak his real thoughtsnot even to her, because from her, beyond all, he must keep at any cost all

knowledge of his unhappiness. So this was illicit loveas it was called! Loneliness, and torture! Not

jealousyfor her heart was his; but amazement, outrage, fear. Endless lonely suffering! And nobody, if they

Was there really, then, as the ancients thought, a Daemon that liked to play with men, as men liked to stir an

He got up and made his way towards the railwaystation. There was the bench where she had been sitting

when he came on her that very morning. The stars in their courses had seemed to fight for them then; but

whether for joy he no longer knew. And there on the seat were still the pepper berries she had crushed and

strewn. He broke off another bunch and bruised them. That scent was the ghost of sacred minutes when her

There was no peace now for Colonel and Mrs. Ercott. They felt themselves conspirators, and of conspiracy

they had never had the habit. Yet how could they openly deal with anxieties which had arisen solely from

what they had chanced secretly to see? What was not intended for one's eyes and ears did not exist; no canon

of conduct could be quite so sacred. As well defend the opening of another person's letters as admit the

possibility of making use of adventitious knowledge. So far tradition, and indeed character, made them feel at

one, and conspire freely. But they diverged on a deeper plane. Mrs. Ercott had SAID, indeed, that here was

something which could not be controlled; the Colonel had FELT ita very different thing! Less tolerant in

theory, he was touched at heart; Mrs. Ercott, in theory almost approvingshe read that dangerous authoress,

George Eliotat heart felt cold towards her husband's niece. For these reasons they could not in fact

conspire without, in the end, saying suddenly: "Well, it's no good talking about it!" and almost at once

In proposing to her that mule, the Colonel had not had time, or, rather, not quite conviction enough as to his

line of action, to explain so immediately the new need for her to sit upon it. It was only when, to his

somewhat strange relief, she had refused the expedition, and Olive had started without them, that he told her

of the meeting in the Gardens, of which he had been witness. She then said at once that if she had known she

would, of course, have put up with anything in order to go; not because she approved of interfering, but

because they must think of Robert! And the Colonel had said: "Dn the fellow!" And there the matter had

rested for the moment, for both of them were, wondering a little which fellow it was that he had damned.

That indeed was the trouble. If the Colonel had not cared so much about his niece, and had liked, instead of

rather disliking Cramier; if Mrs. Ercott had not found Mark Lennan a 'nice boy,' and had not secretly felt her

husband's niece rather dangerous to her peace of mind; if, in few words, those three had been puppets made

of wood and worked by law, it would have been so much simpler for all concerned. It was the discovery that

there was a personal equation in such matters, instead of just a simple rule of three, which disorganized the

Colonel and made him almost angry; which depressed Mrs. Ercott and made her almost silent. . . . These two

good souls had stumbled on a problem which has divided the world from birth. Shall cases be decided on

Beneath an appearance and a vocabulary more orthodox than ever, the Colonel's allegiance to Authority and

the laws of Form was really shaken; he simply could not get out of his head the sight of those two young

people sitting side by side, nor the tone of Olive's voice, when she had repeated his regrettable words about

If only the thing had not been so human! If only she had been someone else's niece, it would clearly have

been her duty to remain unhappy. As it was, the more he thought, the less he knew what to think. A man who

had never had any balance to speak of at his bank, and from the nomadic condition of his life had no

exaggerated feeling for a settled social statusdeeming Society in fact rather a borehe did not unduly

exaggerate the worldly dangers of this affair; neither did he honestly believe that she would burn in

everlasting torment if she did not succeed in remaining true to 'that great black chap,' as he secretly called

Cramier. His feeling was simply that it was an awful pity; a sort of unhappy conviction that it was not like the

women of his family to fall upon such ways; that his dead brother would turn in his grave; in two words that

it was 'not done.' Yet he was by no means of those who, giving latitude to women in general, fall with whips

on those of their own family who take it. On the contrary, believing that 'Woman in general' should be

stainless to the world's eye, he was inclined to make allowance for any individual woman that he knew and

loved. A suspicion he had always entertained, that Cramier was not by breeding 'quite the clean potato' may

insensibly have influenced him just a little. He had heard indeed that he was not even entitled to the name of

Cramier, but had been adopted by a childless man, who had brought him up and left him a lot of money.

There was something in this that went against the grain of the childless Colonel. He had never adopted, nor

been adopted by anyone himself. There was a certain lack about a man who had been adopted, of reasonable

guaranteehe was like a nonvintage wine, or a horse without a pedigree; you could not quite rely on what

he might do, having no tradition in his blood. His appearance, too, and manner somehow lent colour to this

distrust. A touch of the tarbrush somewhere, and a stubborn, silent, pushing fellow. Why on earth had Olive

ever married him! But then women were such kittle cattle, poor things! and old Lindsay, with his vestments

and his views on obedience, must have been a Tartar as a father, poor old chap! Besides, Cramier, no doubt,

was what most women would call goodlooking; more taking to the eye than such a quiet fellow as young

Lennan, whose features were rather anyhow, though pleasant enough, and with a nice smilethe sort of

young man one could not help liking, and who certainly would never hurt a fly! And suddenly there came the

thought: Why should he not go to young Lennan and put it to him straight? That he was in love with Olive?

Not quitebut the way to do it would come to him. He brooded long over this idea, and spoke of it to Mrs.

Ercott, while shaving, the next morning. Her answer: "My dear John, bosh!" removed his last doubt.

Without saying where he was going, he strolled out the moment after breakfastand took a train to

Beaulieu. At the young man's hotel he sent in his card, and was told that this Monsieur had already gone out

for the day. His mood of marching straight up to the guns thus checked, he was left pensive and distraught.

Not having seen Beaulieu (they spoke of it then as a coming place), he made his way up an incline. That

whole hillside was covered with rosetrees. Thousands of these flowers were starring the lower air, and the

strewn petals of blown and fallen roses covered the light soil. The Colonel put his nose to blossoms here and

there, but they had little scent, as if they knew that the season was already over. A few bluebloused peasants

were still busy among them. And suddenly he came on young Lennan himself, sitting on a stone and dabbing

away with his fingers at a lump of putty stuff. The Colonel hesitated. Apart from obvious reasons for

discomfiture, he had that feeling towards Art common to so many of his caste. It was not work, of course, but

it was very clevera mystery to him how anyone could do it! On seeing him, Lennan had risen, dropping his

handkerchief over what he was modellingbut not before the Colonel had received a dim impression of

something familiar. The young man was very redthe Colonel, too, was conscious suddenly of the heat. He

"Nice quiet place this," he stammered; "never seen it before. I called at your hotel."

Now that he had his chance, he was completely at a loss. The sight of the face emerging from that lump of

'putty stuff' had quite unnerved him. The notion of this young man working at it up here all by himself, just

because he was away an hour or two from the original, touched him. How on earth to say what he had come

to say? It was altogether different from what he had thought. And it suddenly flashed through himDolly

The Colonel stared. There was something about young Lennan that he had not noticed before; a 'Don't take

liberties with me!' look that made things difficult. But still he lingered, staring wistfully at the young man,

who stood waiting with such politeness. Then a safe question shot into his mind:

While he spoke, a puff of wind lifted the handkerchief from the modelled face. Would the young fellow put it

"It would have been bad form. He knew I wouldn't take advantage. Yes! He's a gentleman!"

Lifting his hand to the salute, he said: "Well, I must be getting back. See you at dinner perhaps?" And turning

The remembrance of that face in the 'putty stuff' up there by the side of the road accompanied him home. It

was badit was serious! And the sense that he counted for nothing in all of it grew and grew in him. He told

When the Colonel turned with ceremony and left him, Lennan sat down again on the flat stone, took up his

'putty stuff,' and presently effaced that image. He sat still a long time, to all appearance watching the little

blue butterflies playing round the red and tawny roses. Then his fingers began to work, feverishly shaping a

head; not of a man, not of a beast, but a sort of horned, heavy mingling of the two. There was something

frenetic in the movement of those rather short, bluntended fingers, as though they were strangling the thing

In those days, such as had served their country travelled, as befitted Spartans, in ordinary firstclass

carriages, and woke in the morning at La Roche or some strangesounding place, for paler coffee and the

pale brioche. So it was with Colonel and Mrs. Ercott and their niece, accompanied by books they did not

read, viands they did not eat, and one somnolent Irishman returning from the East. In the disposition of legs

there was the usual difficulty, no one quite liking to put them up, and all ultimately doing so, save Olive.

More than once during that night the Colonel, lying on the seat opposite, awoke and saw her sitting,

withdrawn into her corner, with eyes still open. Staring at that little head which he admired so much, upright

and unmoving, in its dark straw toque against the cushion, he would become suddenly alert. Kicking the

Irishman slightly in the effort, he would slip his legs down, bend across to her in the darkness, and, conscious

of a faint fragrance as of violets, whisper huskily: "Anything I can do for you, my dear?" When she had

smiled and shaken her head, he would retreat, and after holding his breath to see if Dolly were asleep, would

restore his feet, slightly kicking the Irishman. After one such expedition, for full ten minutes he remained

awake, wondering at her tireless immobility. For indeed she was spending this night entranced, with the

feeling that Lennan was beside her, holding her hand in his. She seemed actually to feel the touch of his

finger against the tiny patch of her bare palm where the glove opened. It was wonderful, this uncanny

communion in the dark rushing nightshe would not have slept for worlds! Never before had she felt so

close to him, not even when he had kissed her that once under the olives; nor even when at the concert

yesterday his arm pressed hers; and his voice whispered words she heard so thirstily. And that golden

fortnight passed and passed through her on an endless band of reminiscence. Its memories were like flowers,

such scent and warmth and colour in them; and of all, none perhaps quite so poignant as the memory of the

moment, at the door of their carriage, when he said, so low that she just heard: "Good bye, my darling!"

He had never before called her that. Not even his touch on her cheek under the olives equalled the simple

treasure of that word. And above the roar and clatter of the train, and the snoring of the Irishman, it kept

sounding in her ears, hour after dark hour. It was perhaps not wonderful, that through all that night she never

once looked the future in the facemade no plans, took no stock of her position; just yielded to memory, and

to the halfdreamed sensation of his presence close beside her. Whatever might come afterwards, she was his

this night. Such was the trance that gave to her the strange, soft, tireless immobility which so moved her

In Paris they drove from station to station in a vehicle unfit for three'to stretch their legs'as the Colonel

said. Since he saw in his niece no signs of flagging, no regret, his spirits were rising, and he confided to Mrs.

Ercott in the buffet at the Gare du Nord, when Olive had gone to wash, that he did not think there was much

"Haven't you ever noticed that Olive never shows what she does not want to? She has not got those eyes for

Thus suddenly deserted, the Colonel brooded, drumming on the little table. What now! Dolly was unjust!

Poor Dolly! He was as fond of her as ever! Of course! How could he help Olive's being young and pretty;

how could he help looking after her, and wanting to save her from this mess! Thus he sat wondering,

dismayed by the unreasonableness of women. It did not enter his head that Mrs. Ercott had been almost as

sleepless as his niece, watching through closed eyes every one of those little expeditions of his, and saying to

She returned serene enough, concealing her 'grief,' and soon they were once more whirling towards England.

But the future had begun to lay its hand on Olive; the spell of the past was already losing power; the sense

that it had all been a dream grew stronger every minute. In a few hours she would re enter the little house

close under the shadow of that old Wren church, which reminded her somehow of childhood, and her austere

father with his chiselled face. The meeting with her husband! How go through that! And tonight! But she

did not care to contemplate tonight. And all those tomorrows wherein there was nothing she had to do of

which it was reasonable to complain, yet nothing she could do without feeling that all the friendliness and

zest and colour was out of life, and she a prisoner. Into those tomorrows she felt she would slip back, out of

her dream; lost, with hardly perhaps an effort. To get away to the house on the river, where her husband came

only at weekends, had hitherto been a refuge; only she would not see Mark thereunless! Then, with the

thought that she would, must still see him sometimes, all again grew faintly glamorous. If only she did see

The Colonel was reaching down her handbag; his cheery: "Looks as if it would be rough!" aroused her. Glad

to be alone, and tired enough now, she sought the ladies' cabin, and slept through the crossing, till the voice

of the old stewardess awakened her: "You've had a nice sleep. We're alongside, miss." Ah! if she were but

THAT now! She had been dreaming that she was sitting in a flowery field, and Lennan had drawn her up by

On deck, the Colonel, laden with bags, was looking back for her, and trying to keep a space between him and

his wife. He signalled with his chin. Threading her way towards him, she happened to look up. By the rails of

the pier above she saw her husband. He was leaning there, looking intently down; his tall broad figure made

the people on each side of him seem insignificant. The clean shaved, squarecut face, with those almost

epileptic, forceful eyes, had a stillness and intensity beside which the neighbouring faces seemed to

disappear. She saw him very clearly, even noting the touch of silver in his dark hair, on each side under his

straw hat; noting that he seemed too massive for his neat blue suit. His face relaxed; he made a little

movement of one hand. Suddenly it shot through her: Suppose Mark had travelled with them, as he had

wished to do? For ever and ever now, that dark massive creature, smiling down at her, was her enemy; from

whom she must guard and keep herself if she could; keep, at all events, each one of her real thoughts and

hopes! She could have writhed, and cried out; instead, she tightened her grip on the handle of her bag, and

smiled. Though so skilled in knowledge of his moods, she felt, in his greeting, his fierce grip of her

shoulders, the smouldering of some feeling the nature of which she could not quite fathom. His voice had a

grim sincerity: "Glad you're backthought you were never coming!" Resigned to his charge, a feeling of

sheer physical faintness so beset her that she could hardly reach the compartment he had reserved. It seemed

to her that, for all her foreboding, she had not till this moment had the smallest inkling of what was now

before her; and at his muttered: "Must we have the old fossils in?" she looked back to assure herself that her

Uncle and Aunt were following. To avoid having to talk, she feigned to have travelled badly, leaning back

with closed eyes, in her corner. If only she could open them and see, not this squarejawed face with its

intent gaze of possession, but that other with its eager eyes humbly adoring her. The interminable journey

ended all too soon. She clung quite desperately to the Colonel's hand on the platform at Charing Cross. When

his kind face vanished she would be lost indeed! Then, in the closed cab, she heard her husband's: "Aren't you

She tried so hard to think: What does it matter? It's not I, not my soul, my spiritonly my miserable lips!

She heard him say: "You don't seem too glad to see me!" And then: "I hear you had young Lennan out there.

She felt the turmoil of sudden fear, wondered whether she was showing it, lost it in unnatural alertnessall

She knew that he was looking at heran inquisitive, halfmenacing regard. Whyoh, why!could she not

then and there cry out: "And I love himdo you hear?I love him!" So awful did it seem to be denying her

love with these half lies! But it was all so much more grim and hopeless than even she had thought. How

inconceivable, now, that she had ever given herself up to this man for life! If only she could get away from

him to her room, and scheme and think! For his eyes never left her, travelling over her with their pathetic

greed, their menacing inquiry, till he said: "Well, it's not done you any harm. You look very fit." But his

touch was too much even for her selfcommand, and she recoiled as if he had struck her.

It seemed to her that he was jeeringthen realized as vividly that he was not. And the full danger to her,

perhaps to Mark himself, of shrinking from this man, striking her with all its pitiable force, she made a

painful effort, slipped her hand under his arm, and said: "I'm very tired. You startled me."

But he put her hand away, and turning his face, stared out of the window. And so they reached their home.

When he had left her alone, she remained where she was standing, by her wardrobe, without sound or

When Mark Lennan, travelling through from Beaulieu, reached his rooms in Chelsea, he went at once to the

little pile of his letters, twice hunted through them, then stood very still, with a stunned, sick feeling. Why

had she not sent him that promised note? And now he realizedthough not yet to the fullwhat it meant to

be in love with a married woman. He must wait in this suspense for eighteen hours at least, till he could call,

and find out what had happened to prevent her, till he could hear from her lips that she still loved him. The

chilliest of legal lovers had access to his love, but he must possess a soul that was on fire, in this deadly

patience, for fear of doing something that might jeopardize her. Telegraph? He dared not. Write? She would

get it by the first post; but what could he say that was not dangerous, if Cramier chanced to see? Call? Still

more impossible till three o'clock, at very earliest, tomorrow. His gaze wandered round the studio. Were

these household gods, and all these works of his, indeed the same he had left twenty days ago? They seemed

to exist now only in so far as she might come to see themcome and sit in such a chair, and drink out of

such a cup, and let him put this cushion for her back, and that footstool for her feet. And so vividly could he

see her lying back in that chair looking across at him, that he could hardly believe she had never yet sat there.

It was odd howwithout any resolution taken, without admission that their love could not remain platonic,

without any change in their relations, save one humble kiss and a few whispered words everything was

changed. A month or so ago, if he had wanted, he would have gone at once calmly to her house. It would

have seemed harmless, and quite natural. Now it was impossible to do openly the least thing that strict

convention did not find desirable. Sooner or later they would find him stepping over convention, and take

him for what he was nota real lover! A real lover! He knelt down before the empty chair and stretched out

his arms. No substanceno warmthno fragrancenothing! Longing that passed through air, as the wind

He went to the little round window, which overlooked the river. The last evening of May; gloaming above the

water, dusk resting in the trees, and the air warm! Better to be out, and moving in the night, out in the ebb and

flow of things, among others whose hearts were beating, than stay in this place that without her was so cold

Lampsthe passionfruit of townswere turning from pallor to full orange, and the stars were coming out.

Halfpast nine! At ten o'clock, and not before, he would walk past her house. To have this something to look

forward to, however furtive and barren, helped. But on a Saturday night there would be no sitting at the

House. Cramier would be at home; or they would both be out; or perhaps have gone down to their river

cottage. Cramier! What cruel demon had presided over that marring of her life! Why had he never met her till

after she had bound herself to this man! From a negative contempt for one who was either not sensitive

enough to recognize that his marriage was a failure, or not chivalrous enough to make that failure bear as

little hardly as possible on his wife, he had come already to jealous hatred as of a monster. To be face to face

with Cramier in a mortal conflict could alone have satisfied his feeling. . . . Yet he was a young man by

His heart beat desperately as he approached that streetone of those little old streets, so beautiful, that

belonged to a vanished London. It was very narrow, there was no shelter; and he thought confusedly of what

he could say, if met in this remote backwater that led nowhere. He would tell some lie, no doubt. Lies would

now be his daily business. Lies and hatred, those violent things of life, would come to seem quite natural, in

He stood a moment, hesitating, by the rails of the old church. Black, whiteveined, with shadowy summits, in

that half darkness, it was like some gigantic vision. Mystery itself seemed modelled there. He turned and

walked quickly down the street close to the houses on the further side. The windows of her house were

lighted! So, she was not away! Dim light in the diningroom, lights in the room aboveher bedroom,

doubtless. Was there no way to bring her to the window, no way his spirit could climb up there and beckon

hers out to him? Perhaps she was not there, perhaps it was but a servant taking up hot water. He was at the

end of the street by now, but to leave without once more passing was impossible. And this time he went

slowly, his head down, feigning abstraction, grudging every inch of pavement, and all the time furtively

searching that window with the light behind the curtains. Nothing! Once more he was close to the railings of

the church, and once more could not bring himself to go away. In the little, close, deserted street, not a soul

was moving, not even a cat or dog; nothing alive but many discreet, lighted windows. Like veiled faces,

showing no emotion, they seemed to watch his indecision. And he thought: "Ah, well! I dare say there are

lots like me. Lots as near, and yet as far away! Lots who have to suffer!" But what would he not have given

for the throwing open of those curtains. Then, suddenly scared by an approaching figure, he turned and

In the middle of her white drawingroom, whose latticed window ran the whole length of one wall, stood a

little table on which was a silver jar full of early larkspurs, evidently from her garden by the river. And

Lennan waited, his eyes fixed on those blossoms so like to little blue butterflies and strangehued crickets,

tethered to the pale green stems. In this room she passed her days, guarded from him. Once a week, at most,

he would be able to come there once a week for an hour or two of the hundred and sixtyeight hours that

And suddenly he was conscious of her. She had come in without sound, and was standing by the piano, so

pale, in her creamwhite dress, that her eyes looked jet black. He hardly knew that face, like a flower closed

What had he done? What had happened in these five days to make her like this to him? He took her hands

At that he stood silent, looking into that face, frozen to a dreadful composure, on the breaking up of which his

But as soon as he had spoken he saw that he need not have asked, and flung his arms round her. She clung to

He obeyed, halfdivining, halfrefusing to admit all that lay behind that strange coldness, and this desperate

embrace; all the selfpity, and selfloathing, shame, rage, and longing of a married woman for the first time

She seemed now to be trying to make him forget her strange behaviour; to be what she had been during that

"Quick! When can we see each other? I will come to you to tea tomorrow," and, following her eyes, he

saw the door opening, and Cramier coming in. Unsmiling, very big in the low room, he crossed over to them,

and offered his hand to Lennan; then drawing a low chair forward between their two chairs, sat down.

"No doubt." And with those words he turned to his wife. His elbows rested along the arms of his chair, so that

his clenched palms were upwards; it was as if he knew that he was holding those two, gripped one in each

"I wonder," he said slowly, "that fellows like you, with nothing in the world to tie them, ever sit down in a

place like London. I should have thought Rome or Paris were your happy huntinggrounds." In his voice, in

those eyes of his, a little bloodshot, with their look of power, in his whole attitude, there was a sort of muffled

menace, and contempt, as though he were thinking: "Step into my path, and I will crush you!"

"How long must I sit here?" Then, past that figure planted solidly between them, he caught a look from her,

swift, sure, marvellously timedagain and againas if she were being urged by the very presence of this

danger. One of those glances would surelysurely be seen by Cramier. Is there need for fear that a swallow

should dash itself against the wall over which it skims? But he got up, unable to bear it longer.

He could hardly see his hand touching Cramier's heavy fist. Then he realized that she was standing so that

their faces when they must say goodbye could not be seen. Her eyes were smiling, yet imploring; her lips

He had never dreamed that to see her in the presence of the man who owned her would be so terrible. For a

moment he thought that he must give her up, give up a love that would drive him mad.

He climbed on to an omnibus travelling West. Another twentyfour hours of starvation had begun. It did not

matter at all what he did with them. They were simply so much aching that had to be got through

somehowso much aching; and what relief at the end? An hour or two with her, desperately holding himself

Like most artists, and few Englishmen, he lived on feelings rather than on facts; so, found no refuge in

decisive resolutions. But he made manythe resolution to give her up; to be true to the ideal of service for

no reward; to beseech her to leave Cramier and come to himand he made each many times.

At Hyde Park Corner he got down, and went into the Park, thinking that to walk would help him.

A great number of people were sitting there, taking mysterious anodyne, doing the right thing; to avoid them,

he kept along the rails, and ran almost into the arms of Colonel and Mrs. Ercott, who were coming from the

direction of Knightsbridge, slightly flushed, having lunched and talked of 'Monte' at the house of a certain

They greeted him with the surprise of those who had said to each other many times: "That young man will

come rushing back!" It was very nicethey saidto run across him. When did he arrive? They had thought

he was going on to Italyhe was looking rather tired. They did not ask if he had seen herbeing too kind,

and perhaps afraid that he would say 'Yes,' which would be embarrassing; or that he would say 'No,' which

would be still more embarrassing when they found that he ought to have said 'Yes.' Would he not come and

sit with them a littlethey were going presently to see how Olive was? Lennan perceived that they were

warning him. And, forcing himself to look at them very straight, he said: "I have just been there."

Mrs. Ercott phrased her impressions that same evening: "He looks quite hunted, poor young man! I'm afraid

there's going to be fearful trouble there. Did you notice how quickly he ran away from us? He's thin, too; if it

wasn't for his tan, he'd look really ill. The boy's eyes are so pathetic; and he used to have such a nice smile in

The Colonel, who was fastening her hooks, paused in an operation that required concentration.

"It's a thousand pities," he muttered, "that he hasn't any work to do. That puddling about with clay or

whatever he does is no good at all." And slowly fastening one hook, he unhooked several others.

"And I saw Olive, when she thought I wasn't looking; it was just as if she'd taken off a mask. But Robert

Cramier will never put up with it. He's in love with her still; I watched him. It's tragic, John."

When Lennan reached his rooms again after that encounter with the Ercotts, he found in his letterbox a

visiting card: "Mrs. Doone" "Miss Sylvia Doone," and on it pencilled the words: "Do come and see us before

we go down to HayleSylvia." He stared blankly at the round handwriting he knew so well.

Sylvia! Nothing perhaps could have made so plain to him how in this tornado of his passion the world was

drowned. Sylvia! He had almost forgotten her existence; and yet, only last year, after he definitely settled

down in London, he had once more seen a good deal of her; and even had soft thoughts of her againwith

her palegold hair, her true look, her sweetness. Then they had gone for the winter to Algiers for her mother's

When they came back, he had already avoided seeing her, though that was before Olive went to Monte Carlo,

before he had even admitted his own feeling. And sincehe had not once thought of her. Not once! The

world had indeed vanished. "Do come and see us Sylvia." The very notion was an irritation. No rest from

And then the idea came to him: Why not kill these hours of waiting for tomorrow's meeting by going on the

He reached the village after dark, and spent the night at the inn; got up early next morning, took a boat, and

pulled downstream. The bluffs of the opposite bank were wooded with high trees. The sun shone softly on

their leaves, and the bright stream was ruffled by a breeze that bent all the reeds and slowly swayed the

water flowers. One thin white line of wind streaked the blue sky. He shipped his sculls and drifted, listening

to the woodpigeons, watching the swallows chasing. If only she were here! To spend one long day thus,

drifting with the stream! To have but one such rest from longing! Her cottage, he knew, lay on the same side

as the village, and just beyond an island. She had told him of a hedge of yewtrees, and a white dovecote

almost at the water's edge. He came to the island, and let his boat slide into the backwater. It was all

overgrown with willowtrees and alders, dark even in this early morning radiance, and marvellously still.

There was no room to row; he took the boathook and tried to punt, but the green water was too deep and

entangled with great roots, so that he had to make his way by clawing with the hook at branches. Birds

seemed to shun this gloom, but a single magpie crossed the one little clear patch of sky, and flew low behind

the willows. The air here had a sweetish, earthy odour of too rank foliage; all brightness seemed entombed.

He was glad to pass out again under a huge poplartree into the fluttering gold and silver of the morning.

And almost at once he saw the yewhedge at the border of some bright green turf, and a pigeonhouse, high

on its pole, painted creamwhite. About it a number of ringdoves and snow white pigeons were perched or

flying; and beyond the lawn he could see the dark veranda of a low house, covered by wistaria just going out

of flower. A drift of scent from late lilacs, and newmown grass, was borne out to him, together with the

sound of a mowing machine, and the humming of many bees. It was beautiful here, and seemed, for all its

restfulness, to have something of that flying quality he so loved about her face, about the sweep of her hair,

the quick, soft turn of her eyesor was that but the darkness of the yewtrees, the whiteness of the dovecote,

He lay there a long time quietly beneath the bank, careful not to attract the attention of the old gardener, who

was methodically pushing his machine across and across the lawn. How he wanted her with him then!

Wonderful that there could be in life such beauty and wild softness as made the heart ache with the delight of

it, and in that same life grey rules and rigid barrierscoffins of happiness! That doors should be closed on

love and joy! There was not so much of it in the world! She, who was the very spirit of this flying,

nymphlike summer, was untimely winteredup in bleak sorrow. There was a hateful unwisdom in that

thought; it seemed so grim and violent, so corpselike, gruesome, narrow and extravagant! What possible end

could it serve that she should be unhappy! Even if he had not loved her, he would have hated her fate just as

Soft white cloudsthose bright angels of the river, never very long awayhad begun now to spread their

wings over the woods; and the wind had dropped so that the slumbrous warmth and murmuring of summer

gathered full over the water. The old gardener had finished his job of mowing, and came with a little basket

of grain to feed the doves. Lennan watched them going to him, the ringdoves, very dainty, and capricious,

keeping to themselves. In place of that old fellow, he was really seeing HER, feeding from her hands those

birds of Cypris. What a group he could have made of her with them perching and flying round her! If she

were his, what could he not achieveto make her immortallike the old Greeks and Italians, who, in their

He was back in his rooms in London two hours before he dared begin expecting her. Living alone there but

for a caretaker who came every morning for an hour or two, made dust, and departed, he had no need for

caution. And when he had procured flowers, and the fruits and cakes which they certainly would not

eatwhen he had arranged the teatable, and made the grand tour at least twenty times, he placed himself

with a book at the little round window, to watch for her approach. There, very still, he sat, not reading a word,

continually moistening his dry lips and sighing, to relieve the tension of his heart. At last he saw her coming.

She was walking close to the railings of the houses, looking neither to right nor left. She had on a lawn frock,

and a hat of the palest coffeecoloured straw, with a narrow black velvet ribbon. She crossed the side street,

stopped for a second, gave a swift look round, then came resolutely on. What was it made him love her so?

What was the secret of her fascination? Certainly, no conscious enticements. Never did anyone try less to

fascinate. He could not recall one single little thing that she had done to draw him to her. Was it, perhaps, her

very passivity, her native pride that never offered or asked anything, a sort of soft stoicism in her fibre; that

He waited to open till he heard her footstep just outside. She came in without a word, not even looking at

him. And he, too, said not a word till he had closed the door, and made sure of her. Then they turned to each

other. Her breast was heaving a little, under her thin frock, but she was calmer than he, with that wonderful

composure of pretty women in all the passages of love, as who should say: This is my native air!

They stood and looked at each other, as if they could never have enough, till he said at last:

"I thought I should die before this moment came. There isn't a minute that I don't long for you so terribly that

Well, he had known that she would not. He had not earned her. What right had he to ask her to fly against the

world, to brave everything, to have such faith in himas yet? He had no heart to press his words, beginning

then to understand the paralyzing truth that there was no longer any resolving this or that; with love like his

he had ceased to be a separate being with a separate will. He was entwined with her, could act only if her will

and his were one. He would never be able to say to her: 'You must!' He loved her too much. And she knew it.

So there was nothing for it but to forget the ache, and make the hour happy. But how about that other truth

that in love there is no pause, no resting? . . . With any watering, however scant, the flower will grow till its

time comes to be plucked. . . . This oasis in the desertthese few minutes with her alone, were swept

through and through with a feverish wind. To be closer! How not try to be that? How not long for her lips

when he had but her hand to kiss? And how not be poisoned with the thought that in a few minutes she would

leave him and go back to the presence of that other, who, even though she loathed him, could see and touch

her when he would? She was leaning back in the very chair where in fancy he had seen her, and he only dared

sit at her feet and look up. And this, which a week ago would have been rapture, was now almost torture, so

far did it fall short of his longing. It was torture, too, to keep his voice in tune with the sober sweetness of her

voice. And bitterly he thought: How can she sit there, and not want me, as I want her? Then at a touch of her

fingers on his hair, he lost control, and kissed her lips. Her surrender lasted only for a second.

And, when she was gone, he sat in the chair where she had sat. That clasp of her, the kiss he had begged her

to forgetto forget!nothing could take that from him. He had done wrong; had startled her, had fallen

short of chivalry! And yeta smile of utter happiness would cling about his lips. His fastidiousness, his

imagination almost made him think that this was all he wanted. If he could close his eyes, now, and pass out,

And, the smile still on his lips, he lay back watching the flies wheeling and chasing round the hanginglamp.

When, walking from Lennan's studio, Olive reentered her dark little hall, she approached its alcove and

glanced first at the hatstand. They were all therethe silk hat, the bowler, the straw! So he was in! And

within each hat, in turn, she seemed to see her husband's headwith the face turned away from herso

distinctly as to note the leathery look of the skin of his cheek and neck. And she thought: "I pray that he will

die! It is wicked, but I pray that he will die!" Then, quietly, that he might not hear, she mounted to her

bedroom. The door into his dressingroom was open, and she went to shut it. He was standing there at the

It was the first direct lie she had ever told him, and she was surprised to feel neither shame nor fear, but rather

a sense of pleasure at defeating him. He was the enemy, all the more the enemy because she was still fighting

"Rather boring, wasn't it? I should have thought you'd have got young Lennan to take you there."

By instinct she had seized on the boldest answer; and there was nothing to be told from her face. If he were

With a shrug she turned away and shut the door. She sat down on the edge of her bed, very still. In that little

passage of wits she had won, she could win in many such; but the full hideousness of things had come to her.

Lies! lies! That was to be her life! That; or to say farewell to all she now cared for, to cause despair not only

in herself, but in her lover, andfor what? In order that her body might remain at the disposal of that man in

the next roomher spirit having flown from him for ever. Such were the alternatives, unless those words:

"Then come to me," were to be more than words. Were they? Could they be? They would mean such

happiness ifif his love for her were more than a summer love? And hers for him? Was itwere

theymore than summer loves? How know? And, without knowing, how give such pain to everyone? How

break a vow she had thought herself quite above breaking? How make such a desperate departure from all the

traditions and beliefs in which she had been brought up! But in the very nature of passion is that which

resents the intrusion of hard and fast decisions. . . . And suddenly she thought: If our love cannot stay what it

She got up and began to dress for dinner. Standing before her glass she was surprised to see that her face

showed no signs of the fears and doubts that were now her comrades. Was it because, whatever happened,

she loved and was beloved! She wondered how she had looked when he kissed her so passionately; had she

In her garden by the river were certain flowers that, for all her care, would grow rank and of the wrong

colourwanting a different soil. Was she, then, like those flowers of hers? Ah! Let her but have her true soil,

Then in the doorway she saw her husband. She had never, till to day, quite hated him; but now she did, with

a real blind horrible feeling. What did he want of her standing there with those eyes fixed on herthose

forceful eyes, touched with blood, that seemed at once to threaten, covet, and beseech! She drew her wrapper

Then he took her by the shoulders, and raised her up to him. And, quite unnerved, she stood without resisting.

Then, suddenly letting her go, he covered his eyes with his hands. That frightened her mostit was so unlike

him. Not till now had she understood between what terrifying forces she was balancing. She did not speak,

but her face grew white. From behind those hands he uttered a sound, not quite like a human noise, turned

sharply, and went out. She dropped back into the chair before her mirror, overcome by the most singular

feeling she had ever known; as if she had lost everything, even her love for Lennan, and her longing for his

love. What was it all worth, what was anything worth in a world like this? All was loathsome, herself

loathsome! All was a void! Hateful, hateful, hateful! It was like having no heart at all! And that same

"Our love must never turn to earthiness as it might have this afternoon. Everything is black and hopeless. HE

suspects. For you to come here is impossible, and too dreadful for us both. And I have no right to ask you to

be furtive, I can't bear to think of you like that, and I can't bear it myself. I don't know what to do or say.

Colonel Ercott was not a racing man, but he had in common with others of his countrymen a religious feeling

in the matter of the Derby. His remembrances of it went back to early youth, for he had been born and

brought up almost within sound of the coachingroad to Epsom. Every Derby and Oaks day he had gone out

on his pony to watch the passing of the tall hats and feathers of the great, and the pothats and feathers of the

lowly; and afterwards, in the fields at home, had ridden races with old Lindsay, finishing between a cow that

But for one reason or another he had never seen the great race, and the notion that it was his duty to see it had

now come to him. He proposed this to Mrs. Ercott with some diffidence. She read so many bookshe did

not quite know whether she would approve. Finding that she did, he added casually:

The Colonel looked at her most dubiously. Dolly could talk of it as a tragedy, and aa grand passion, and

yet make a suggestion like that! Then his wrinkles began slowly to come alive, and he gave her waist a

When the Colonel went to fetch his niece he found her ready, and very halfheartedly he asked for Cramier.

At this quiet answer the Colonel was beset again by all his fears. He put his white 'topper' down, and took her

"My dear," he said, "I don't want to intrude upon your feelings; butbut is there anything I can do? It's

dreadful to see things going unhappily with you!" He felt his hand being lifted, her face pressed against it;

and, suffering acutely, with his other hand, cased in a bright new glove, he smoothed her arm. "We'll have a

She gave the hand a kiss and turned away. And the Colonel vowed to himself that she should not be

unhappylovely creature that she was, so delicate, and straight, and fine in her pearly frock. And he pulled

himself together, brushing his white 'topper' vigorously with his sleeve, forgetting that this kind of hat has no

And so he was tenderness itself on the journey down, satisfying all her wants before she had them, telling her

stories of Indian life, and consulting her carefully as to which horse they should back. There was the Duke's,

of course, but there was another animal that appealed to him greatly. His friend Tabor had given him the

tip Tabor, who had the best Arabs in all Indiaand at a nice price. A man who practically never gambled,

the Colonel liked to feel that his fancy would bring him in something really substantialif it won; the idea

that it could lose not really troubling him. However, they would see it in the paddock, and judge for

themselves. The paddock was the place, away from all the dust and racketOlive would enjoy the paddock!

Once on the course, they neglected the first race; it was more important, the Colonel thought, that they should

lunch. He wanted to see more colour in her cheeks, wanted to see her laugh. He had an invitation to his old

regiment's drag, where the champagne was sure to be good. And he was so proud of herwould not have

missed those young fellows' admiration of her for the world; though to take a lady amongst them was, in fact,

against the rules. It was not, then, till the second race was due to start that they made their way into the

paddock. Here the Derby horses were being led solemnly, attended each by a little posse of persons, looking

up their legs and down their ribs to see whether they were worthy of support, together with a few who liked

to see a whole horse at a time. Presently they found the animal which had been recommended to the Colonel.

It was a chestnut, with a starred forehead, parading in a far corner. The Colonel, who really loved a horse,

was deep in admiration. He liked its head and he liked its hocks; above all, he liked its eye. A fine creature,

all sense and fireperhaps just a little straight in the shoulder for coming down the hill! And in the midst of

his examination he found himself staring at his niece. What breeding the child showed, with her delicate

arched brows, little ears, and fine, close nostrils; and the way she movedso sure and springy. She was too

pretty to suffer! A shame! If she hadn't been so pretty that young fellow wouldn't have fallen in love with her.

If she weren't so prettythat husband of hers wouldn't! And the Colonel dropped his gaze, startled by the

discovery he had stumbled on. If she hadn't been so pretty! Was that the meaning of it all? The cynicism of

his own reflection struck him between wind and water. And yet something in himself seemed to confirm it

somehow. What then? Was he to let them tear her in two between them, destroying her, because she was so

pretty? And somehow this discovery of histhat passion springs from worship of beauty and warmth, of

form and colourdisturbed him horribly, for he had no habit of philosophy. The thought seemed to him

strangely crude, even immoral. That she should be thus between two ravening desiresa bird between two

hawks, a fruit between two mouths! It was a way of looking at things that had never before occurred to him.

The idea of a husband clutching at his wife, the idea of that young man who looked so gentle, swooping

down on her; and the idea that if she faded, lost her looks, went off, their greed, indeed, any man's, would die

awayall these horrible ideas hurt him the more for the remarkable suddenness with which they had come to

him. A tragic business! Dolly had said so. Queer and quickwere women! But his resolution that the day

was to be jolly soon recurred to him, and he hastily resumed inspection of his fancy. Perhaps they ought to

have a tenpound note on it, and they had better get back to the Stand! And as they went the Colonel saw,

standing beneath a tree at a little distance, a young man that he could have sworn was Lennan. Not likely for

an artist chap to be down here! But it WAS undoubtedly young Lennan, brushedup, in a tophat.

Fortunately, however, his face was not turned in their direction. He said nothing to Olive, not

wishingespecially after those unpleasant thoughtsto take responsibility, and he kept her moving towards

the gate, congratulating himself that his eyes had been so sharp. In the crush there he was separated from her

a little, but she was soon beside him again; and more than ever he congratulated himself that nothing had

occurred to upset her and spoil the day. Her cheeks were warm enough now, her dark eyes glowing. She was

excited no doubt by thoughts of the race, and of the 'tenner' he was going to put on for her.

He recounted the matter afterwards to Mrs. Ercott. "That chestnut Tabor put me on to finished

nowherecouldn't get down the hill knew it wouldn't the moment I set eyes on it. But the child enjoyed

herself. Wish you'd been there, my dear!" Of his deeper thoughts and of that glimpse of young Lennan he did

not speak, for on the way home an ugly suspicion had attacked him. Had the young fellow, after all, seen and

That letter of hers fanned the flame in Lennan as nothing had yet fanned it. Earthiness! Was it earthiness to

love as he did? If so, then not for all the world would he be otherwise than earthy. In the shock of reading it,

he crossed his Rubicon, and burned his boats behind him. No more did the pale ghost, chivalrous devotion,

haunt him. He knew now that he could not stop short. Since she asked him, he must not, of course, try to see

her just yet. But when he did, then he would fight for his life; the thought that she might be meaning to slip

away from him was too utterly unbearable. But she could not be meaning that! She would never be so cruel!

Ah! she wouldshe must come to him in the end! The world, life itself, would be well lost for love of her!

Thus resolved, he was even able to work again; and all that Tuesday he modelled at a big version of the

fantastic, bulllike figure he had conceived after the Colonel left him up on the hillside at Beaulieu. He

worked at it with a sort of evil joy. Into this creature he would put the spirit of possession that held her from

him. And while his fingers forced the clay, he felt as if he had Cramier's neck within his grip. Yet, now that

he had resolved to take her if he could, he had not quite the same hatred. After all, this man loved her too,

could not help it that she loathed him; could not help it that he had the disposition of her, body and soul!

June had come in with skies of a blue that not even London glare and dust could pale. In every square and

park and patch of green the air simmered with life and with the music of birds swaying on little boughs.

Piano organs in the streets were no longer wistful for the South; lovers already sat in the shade of trees.

To remain indoors, when he was not working, was sheer torture; for he could not read, and had lost all

interest in the little excitements, amusements, occupations that go to make up the normal life of man. Every

outer thing seemed to have dropped off, shrivelled, leaving him just a condition of the spirit, a state of mind.

Lying awake he would think of things in the past, and they would mean nothingall dissolved and dispersed

by the heat of this feeling in him. Indeed, his sense of isolation was so strong that he could not even believe

that he had lived through the facts which his memory apprehended. He had become one burning moodthat,

And he sat for a long time that evening under a large limetree on a knoll above the Serpentine. There was

very little breeze, just enough to keep alive a kind of whispering. What if men and women, when they had

lived their gusty lives, became trees! What if someone who had burned and ached were now spreading over

him this leafy peacethis blueblack shadow against the stars? Or were the stars, perhaps, the souls of men

and women escaped for ever from love and longing? He broke off a branch of the lime and drew it across his

face. It was not yet in flower, but it smelled lemony and fresh even here in London. If only for a moment he

No further letter came from her next morning, and he soon lost his power to work. It was Derby Day. He

determined to go down. Perhaps she would be there. Even if she were not, he might find some little

distraction in the crowd and the horses. He had seen her in the paddock long before the Colonel's sharp eyes

detected him; and, following in the crush, managed to touch her hand in the crowded gateway, and whisper:

"Tomorrow, the National Gallery, at four o'clockby the Bacchus and Ariadne. For God's sake!" Her

gloved hand pressed his hard; and she was gone. He stayed in the paddock, too happy almost to breathe. . . .

Next day, while waiting before that picture, he looked at it with wonder. For there seemed his own passion

transfigured in the darkening starcrowned sky, and the eyes of the leaping god. In spirit, was he not always

rushing to her like that? Minutes passed, and she did not come. What should he do if she failed him? Surely

die of disappointment and despair. . . . He had little enough experience as yet of the toughness of the human

heart; how life bruises and crushes, yet leaves it beating. . . . Then, from an unlikely quarter, he saw her

They walked in silence down to the quiet rooms where the Turner watercolours hung. No one, save two

Frenchmen and an old official, watched them passing slowly before those little pictures, till they came to the

The arguments he had so carefully rehearsed were all forgotten; nothing left but an incoherent pleading. Life

without her was not life; and they had only one life for loveone summer. It was all dark where she was

notthe very sun itself was dark. Better to die than to live such false, broken lives, apart from each other.

Better to die at once than to live wanting each other, longing and longing, and watching each other's sorrow.

And all for the sake of what? It maddened, killed him, to think of that man touching her when he knew she

did but hate him. It shamed all manhood; it could not be good to help such things to be. A vow when the

spirit of it was gone was only superstition; it was wicked to waste one's life for the sake of that. Societyshe

knew, she must knowonly cared for the forms, the outsides of things. And what did it matter what Society

thought? It had no soul, no feeling, nothing. And if it were said they ought to sacrifice themselves for the sake

of others, to make things happier in the world, she must know that was only true when love was light and

selfish; but not when people loved as they did, with all their hearts and souls, so that they would die for each

other any minute, so that without each other there was no meaning in anything. It would not help a single

soul, for them to murder their love and all the happiness of their lives; to go on in a sort of living death. Even

if it were wrong, he would rather do that wrong, and take the consequences! But it was not, it COULD not be

And all the time that he was pouring forth those supplications, his eyes searched and searched her face. But

there only came from her: "I don't knowI can't tellif only I knew!" And then he was silent, stricken to

the heart; till, at a look or a touch from her, he would break out again: "You do love meyou do; then what

And so it went on and on that summer afternoon, in the deserted room meant for such other things, where the

two Frenchmen were too sympathetic, and the old official too drowsy, to come. Then it all narrowed to one

But to that, too, he got only the one mournful answer, paralyzing in its fateful monotony.

It was awful to go on thus beating against this uncanny, dark, shadowy resistance; these unreal doubts and

dreads, that by their very dumbness were becoming real to him, too. If only she could tell him what she

feared! It could not be povertythat was not like herbesides, he had enough for both. It could not be loss

of a social position, which was but irksome to her! Surely it was not fear that he would cease to love her!

Tomorrowshe had told himshe was to go down, alone, to the riverhouse; would she not come now,

this very minute, to him instead? And they would start offthat night, back to the South where their love

had flowered. But again it was: "I can't! I don't knowI must have time!" And yet her eyes had that

brooding lovelight. How COULD she hold back and waver? But, utterly exhausted, he did not plead again;

did not even resist when she said: "You must go, now; and leave me to get back! I will write.

PerhapssoonI shall know." He begged for, and took one kiss; then, passing the old official, went quickly

He reached his rooms overcome by a lassitude that was not, however, quite despair. He had made his effort,

failedbut there was still within him the unconquerable hope of the passionate lover. . . . As well try to

extinguish in full June the beating of the heart of summer; deny to the flowers their deepening hues, or to

winged life its slumbrous buzzing, as stifle in such a lover his conviction of fulfilment. . . .

He lay down on a couch, and there stayed a long time quite still, his forehead pressed against the wall. His

will was already beginning to recover for a fresh attempt. It was merciful that she was going away from

Cramier, going to where he had in fancy watched her feed her doves. No laws, no fears, not even her

commands could stop his fancy from conjuring her up by day and night. He had but to close his eyes, and she

A ring at the bell, repeated several times, roused him at last to go to the door. His caller was Robert Cramier.

And at sight of him, all Lennan's lethargy gave place to a steely feeling. What had brought him here? Had he

been spying on his wife? The old longing for physical combat came over him. Cramier was perhaps fifteen

years his senior, but taller, heavier, thicker. Chances, then, were pretty equal!

The voice had in it the same mockery as on Sunday; and it shot through him that Cramier had thought to find

his wife here. If so, he did not betray it by any crude look round. He came in with his deliberate step, light

"So this," he said, "is where you produce your masterpieces! Anything great since you came back?"

Lennan lifted the cloths from the halfmodelled figure of his bull man. He felt malicious pleasure in doing

that. Would Cramier recognize himself in this creature with the hornlike ears, and great bossed forehead? If

this man who had her happiness beneath his heel had come here to mock, he should at all events get what he

If Cramier had seen, he had dared to add a touch of cynical humour, which the sculptor himself had never

thought of. And this even evoked in the young man a kind of admiring compunction.

"Not quite like that, are theyhuman ears? But I suppose you would call this symbolic. What, if I may ask,

"Not at all. If I am right, you want something for it to tread on, don't you, to get your full effect?"

"The broken curve here"then, with sudden disgust at this fencing, was silent. What had the man come for?

"To pass to another subjectyou see a good deal of my wife. I just wanted to tell you that I don't very much

That heavy figurethose threatening eyes! The whole thing was like a dream come true!

"I do not feel it so. I am not one of those who let things drift. Please understand me. You come between us at

The veins in Cramier's forehead were swollen, his face and neck had grown crimson. And Lennan thought

with strange elation: Now he's going to hit me! He could hardly keep his hands from shooting out and seizing

in advance that great strong neck. If he could strangle, and have done with him!

But, quite suddenly, Cramier turned on his heel. "I have warned you," he said, and went.

Lennan took a long breath. So! That was over, and he knew where he was. If Cramier had struck out, he

would surely have seized his neck and held on till life was gone. Nothing should have shaken him off. In

fancy he could see himself swaying, writhing, reeling, battered about by those heavy fists, but always with his

hands on the thick neck, squeezing out its life. He could feel, absolutely feel, the last reel and stagger of that

great bulk crashing down, dragging him with it, till it lay upturned, still. He covered his eyes with his hands. .

He went to the door, opened it, and stood leaning against the door post. All was still and drowsy out there in

that quiet backwater of a street. Not a soul in sight! How still, for London! Only the birds. In a neighbouring

studio someone was playing Chopin. Queer! He had almost forgotten there was such a thing as Chopin. A

mazurka! Spinning like some top thing, round and roundweird little tune! . . . Well, and what now? Only

one thing certain. Sooner give up life than give her up! Far sooner! Love her, achieve heror give up

everything, and drown to that tune going on and on, that little dancing dirge of summer!

What lay beneath all that bright waterwhat strange, deep, swaying, life so far below the ruffling of wind,

and the shadows of the willow trees? Was love down there, too? Love between sentient things, where it was

almost dark; or had all passion climbed up to rustle with the reeds, and float with the waterflowers in the

sunlight? Was there colour? Or had colour been drowned? No scent and no music; but movement there would

be, for all the dim groping things bending one way to the currentmovement, no less than in the

aspenleaves, never quite still, and the winged droves of the clouds. And if it were dark down there, it was

dark, too, above the water; and hearts ached, and eyes just as much searched for that which did not come.

To watch it always flowing by to the sea; never looking back, never swaying this way or that; drifting along,

quiet as Fatedark, or glamorous with the gold and moonlight of these beautiful days and nights, when

every flower in her garden, in the fields, and along the river banks, was full of sweet life; when dogroses

She was not alone there, though she would much rather have been; two days after she left London her Uncle

and Aunt had joined her. It was from Cramier they had received their invitation. He himself had not yet been

Every night, having parted from Mrs. Ercott and gone up the wide shallow stairs to her room, she would sit

down at the window to write to Lennan, one candle beside herone pale flame for comrade, as it might be

his spirit. Every evening she poured out to him her thoughts, and ended always: "Have patience!" She was

still waiting for courage to pass that dark hedge of impalpable doubts and fears and scruples, of a dread that

she could not make articulate even to herself. Having finished, she would lean out into the night. The

Colonel, his black figure cloaked against the dew, would be pacing up and down the lawn, with his

goodnight cigar, whose fiery spark she could just discern; and, beyond, her ghostly dovehouse; and,

beyond, the riverflowing. Then she would clasp herself close afraid to stretch out her arms, lest she

Each morning she rose early, dressed, and slipped away to the village to post her letter. From the woods

across the river wild pigeons would be callingas though Love itself pleaded with her afresh each day. She

was back well before breakfast, to go up to her room and come down again as if for the first time. The

Colonel, meeting her on the stairs, or in the hall, would say: "Ah, my dear! just beaten you! Slept well?" And,

while her lips touched his cheek, slanted at the proper angle for uncles, he never dreamed that she had been

Now that she was in the throes of an indecision, whose ending, one way or the other, must be so tremendous,

now that she was in the very swirl, she let no sign at all escape her; the Colonel and even his wife were

deceived into thinking that after all no great harm had been done. It was grateful to them to think so, because

of that stewardship at Monte Carlo, of which they could not render too good account. The warm sleepy days,

with a little croquet and a little paddling on the river, and much sitting out of doors, when the Colonel would

read aloud from Tennyson, were very pleasant. To himif not to Mrs. Ercottit was especially jolly to be

out of Town 'this confounded crowded time of year.' And so the days of early June went by, each finer than

And then Cramier came down, without warning on a Friday evening. It was hot in London . . . the session

dull. . . . The Jubilee turning everything upside down. . . . They were lucky to be out of Town!

Mrs. Ercott noticed that he drank wine like water, and for minutes at a time fixed his eyes, that looked heavy

as if he had not been sleeping, not on his wife's face but on her neck. If Olive really disliked and feared

himas John would have itshe disguised her feelings very well! For so pale a woman she was looking

brilliant that night. The sun had caught her cheeks, perhaps. That black lowcut frock suited her, with old

Milanesepoint lace matching her skin so well, and one carnation, of darkest red, at her breast. Her eyes were

really sometimes like black velvet. It suited pale women to have those eyes, that looked so black at night! She

was talking, too, and laughing more than usual. One would have said: A wife delighted to welcome her

husband! And yet there was somethingsomething in the air, in the feel of thingsthe lowering fixity of

that man's eyes, orthunder coming, after all this heat! Surely the night was unnaturally still and dark,

hardly a breath of air, and so many moths out there, passing the beam of light, like little pale spirits crossing a

river! Mrs. Ercott smiled, pleased at that image. Moths! Men were like moths; there were women from whom

they could not keep away. Yes, there was something about Olive that drew men to her. Not meretriciousto

do her justice, not that at all; but something soft, andfatal; like one of these candleflames to the poor

moths. John's eyes were never quite as she knew them when he was looking at Olive; and Robert

Cramier'swhat a queer, drugged look they had! As for that other poor young fellowshe had never

And when after dinner they sat on the veranda, they were all more silent still, just watching, it seemed, the

smoke of their cigarettes, rising quite straight, as though wind had been withdrawn from the world. The

Colonel twice endeavoured to speak about the moon: It ought to be up by now! It was going to be full.

And then Cramier said: "Put on that scarf thing, Olive, and come round the garden with me."

Mrs. Ercott admitted to herself now that what John said was true. Just one gleam of eyes, turned quickly this

way and that, as a bird looks for escape; and then Olive had got up and quietly gone with him down the path,

Disturbed to the heart, Mrs. Ercott rose and went over to her husband's chair. He was frowning, and staring at

his evening shoe balanced on a single toe. He looked up at her and put out his hand. Mrs. Ercott gave it a

They had passed without a single word spoken, down through the laurels and guelder roses to the river bank;

then he had turned to the right, and gone along it under the dovehouse, to the yew trees. There he had

stopped, in the pitch darkness of that foliage. It seemed to her dreadfully still; if only there had been the

faintest breeze, the faintest lisping of reeds on the water, one bird to make a sound; but nothing, nothing save

his breathing, deep, irregular, with a quiver in it. What had he brought her here for? To show her how utterly

she was his? Was he never going to speak, never going to say whatever it was he had in mind to say? If only

Then he moved, and a stone dislodged fell with a splash into the water. She could not help a little gasp. How

black the river looked! But slowly, beyond the dim shape of the giant poplar, a shiver of light stole outwards

across the blackness from the far bankthe moon, whose rim she could now see rising, of a thick gold like a

coin, above the woods. Her heart went out to that warm light. At all events there was one friendly inhabitant

Suddenly she felt his hands on her waist. She did not move, her heart beat too furiously; but a sort of prayer

fluttered up from it against her lips. In the grip of those heavy hands was such quivering force!

His voice sounded very husky and strange: "Olive, this can't go on. I suffer. My God! I suffer!"

A pang went through her, a sort of surprise. Suffer! She might wish him dead, but she did not want him to

He made a sound that was almost a groan, and dropped on his knees. Feeling herself held fast, she tried to

push his forehead back from her waist. It was fiery hot; and she heard him mutter: "Have mercy! Love me a

little!" But the clutch of his hands, never still on the thin silk of her dress, turned her faint. She tried to writhe

"Mercy? Can I MAKE myself love? No one ever could since the world began. Please, please get up. Let me

But he was pulling her down to him so that she was forced on to her knees on the grass, with her face close to

his. A low moaning was coming from him. It was horribleso horrible! And he went on pleading, the words

all confused, not looking in her face. It seemed to her that it would never end, that she would never get free of

that grip, away from that stammering, whispering voice. She stayed by instinct utterly still, closing her eyes.

Then she felt his gaze for the first time that evening on her face, and realized that he had not dared to look

until her eyes were closed, for fear of reading what was in them. She said very gently:

He relaxed the grip of his arms; she sank down and stayed unmoving on the grass. After such utter stillness

that she hardly knew whether he were there or not, she felt his hot hand on her bare shoulder. Was it all to

begin again? She shrank down lower still, and a little moan escaped her. He let her go suddenly, and, when at

She got to her feet trembling, and moved quickly from under the yewtrees. She tried to thinktried to

understand exactly what this portended for her, for him, for her lover. But she could not. There was around

her thoughts the same breathless darkness that brooded over this night. Ah! but to the night had been given

that palegold moonray, to herself nothing, no faintest gleam; as well try to pierce below the dark surface of

She passed her hands over her face, and hair, and dress. How long had it lasted? How long had they been out

here? And she began slowly moving back towards the house. Thank God! She had not yielded to fear or pity,

not uttered falsities, not pretended she could love him, and betrayed her heart. That would have been the one

unbearable thing to have been left remembering! She stood long looking down, as if trying to see the future in

her dim flower beds; then, bracing herself, hurried to the house. No one was on the veranda, no one in the

drawingroom. She looked at the clock. Nearly eleven. Ringing for the servant to shut the windows, she stole

up to her room. Had her husband gone away as he had come? Or would she presently again be face to face

with that dread, the nerve of which never stopped aching now, dread of the night when he was near? She

determined not to go to bed, and drawing a long chair to the window, wrapped herself in a gown, and lay

The flower from her dress, miraculously uncrushed in those dark minutes on the grass, she set in water beside

her at the window Mark's favourite flower, he had once told her; it was a comfort, with its scent, and hue,

Strange that in her life, with all the faces seen, and people known, she had not loved one till she had met

Lennan! She had even been sure that love would never come to her; had not wanted it very much; had

thought to go on well enough, and pass out at the end, never having known, or much cared to know, full

summer. Love had taken its revenge on her now for all slighted love offered her in the past; for the one hated

love that had tonight been on its knees to her. They said it must always come once to every man and

womanthis witchery, this dark sweet feeling, springing up, who knew how or why? She had not believed,

but now she knew. And whatever might be coming, she would not have this different. Since all things

changed, she must change and get old and be no longer pretty for him to look at, but this in her heart could

not change. She felt sure of that. It was as if something said: This is for ever, beyond life, beyond death, this

is for ever! He will be dust, and you dust, but your love will live! Somewherein the woods, among the

flowers, or down in the dark water, it will haunt! For it only you have lived! . . . Then she noticed that a

slender silverywinged thing, unlike any moth she had ever seen, had settled on her gown, close to her neck.

It seemed to be sleeping, so delicate and drowsy, having come in from the breathless dark, thinking, perhaps,

that her whiteness was a light. What dim memory did it rouse; something of HIM, something HE had

donein darkness, on a night like this. Ah, yes! that evening after Gorbio, the little owlmoth on her knee!

She leaned out for air. What a night!whose stars were hiding in the sheer heavy warmth; whose small,

round, golden moon had no transparency! A night like a black pansy with a little gold heart. And silent! For,

of the trees, that whispered so much at night, not even the aspens had voice. The unstirring air had a dream

solidity against her cheeks. But in all the stillness, what sentiency, what passionas in her heart! Could she

not draw HIM to her from those woods, from that dark gleaming river, draw him from the flowers and trees

and the passionmood of the skydraw him up to her waiting here, so that she was no more this craving

creature, but one with him and the night! And she let her head droop down on her hands.

All night long she stayed there at the window. Sometimes dozing in the chair; once waking with a start,

fancying that her husband was bending over her. Had he beenand stolen away? And the dawn came;

dewgrey, filmy and wistful, woven round each black tree, and round the white dovecot, and falling

scarflike along the river. And the chirrupings of birds stirred among leaves as yet invisible.

When she awoke once more, in daylight, smiling, Cramier was standing beside her chair. His face, all dark

"So!" he said: "Sleeping this way doesn't spoil your dreams. Don't let me disturb them. I am just going back

Like a frightened bird, she stayed, not stirring, gazing at his back as he leaned in the window, till, turning

"But remember this: What I can't have, no one else shall! Do you understand? No one else!" And he bent

Four years' submission to a touch she shrank from; one long effort not to shrink! Bad wife! Not if he killed

He had gripped the arms of her chair, till she could feel it quiver beneath her. Would he drive his fist into her

face that she managed to keep still smiling? But there only passed into his eyes an expression which she

The moment he had gone she sprang up: Yes, she was a bad wife! A wife who had reached the end of her

tether. A wife who hated instead of loving. A wife in prison! Bad wife! Martyrdom, then, for the sake of a

faith in her that was lost already, could be but folly. If she seemed bad and false to him, there was no longer

reason to pretend to be otherwise. No longer would she, in the words of the old song:'sit and sighpulling

bracken, pulling bracken.' No more would she starve for want of love, and watch the nights throb and ache, as

And while she was dressing she wondered why she did not look tired. To get out quickly! To send her lover

word at once to hasten to her while it was safethat she might tell him she was coming to him out of prison!

She would telegraph for him to come that evening with a boat, opposite the tall poplar. She and her Aunt and

Uncle were to go to dinner at the Rectory, but she would plead headache at the last minute. When the Ercotts

had gone she would slip out, and he and she would row over to the wood, and be together for two hours of

happiness. And they must make a clear plan, toofor tomorrow they would begin their life together. But it

would not be safe to send that message from the village; she must go down and over the bridge to the

postoffice on the other side, where they did not know her. It was too late now before breakfast. Better after,

when she could slip away, knowing for certain that her husband had gone. It would still not be too late for her

telegramLennan never left his rooms till the midday post which brought her letters.

She finished dressing, and knowing that she must show no trace of her excitement, sat quite still for several

minutes, forcing herself into languor. Then she went down. Her husband had breakfasted and gone. At

everything she did, and every word she spoke, she was now smiling with a sort of wonder, as if she were

watching a self, that she had abandoned like an old garment, perform for her amusement. It even gave her no

feeling of remorse to think she was going to do what would be so painful to the good Colonel. He was dear to

herbut it did not matter. She was past all that. Nothing matterednothing in the world! It amused her to

believe that her Uncle and Aunt misread her last night's walk in the dark garden, misread her languor and

serenity. And at the first moment possible she flew out, and slipped away under cover of the yewtrees

towards the river. Passing the spot where her husband had dragged her down to him on her knees in the grass,

she felt a sort of surprise that she could ever have been so terrified. What was he? The pastnothing! And

she flew on. She noted carefully the river bank opposite the tall poplar. It would be quite easy to get down

from there into a boat. But they would not stay in that dark backwater. They would go over to the far side into

those woods from which last night the moon had risen, those woods from which the pigeons mocked her

every morning, those woods so full of summer. Coming back, no one would see her landing; for it would be

pitch dark in the backwater. And, while she hurried, she looked back across her shoulder, marking where the

water, entering, ceased to be bright. A dragonfly brushed her cheek; she saw it vanish where the sunlight

failed. How suddenly its happy flight was quenched in that dark shade, as a candle flame blown out. The tree

growth there was too thickthe queer stumps and snags had uncanny shapes, as of monstrous creatures,

whose eyes seemed to peer out at you. She shivered. She had seen those monsters with their peering eyes

somewhere. Ah! In her dream at Monte Carlo of that bullface staring from the banks, while she drifted by,

unable to cry out. No! The backwater was not a happy placethey would not stay there a single minute. And

more swiftly than ever she flew on along the path. Soon she had crossed the bridge, sent off her message, and

returned. But there were ten hours to get through before eight o'clock, and she did not hurry now. She wanted

this day of summer to herself alone, a day of dreaming till he came; this day for which all her life till now had

been shaping herthe day of love. Fate was very wonderful! If she had ever loved before; if she had known

joy in her marriage she could never have been feeling what she was feeling now, what she well knew she

would never feel again. She crossed a newmown hayfield, and finding a bank, threw herself down on her

back among its uncut grasses. Far away at the other end men were scything. It was all very beautifulthe

soft clouds floating, the clover stalks pushing themselves against her palms, and stems of the tall couch

grass cool to her cheeks; little blue butterflies; a lark, invisible; the scent of the ripe hay; and the goldfairy

arrows of the sun on her face and limbs. To grow and reach the hour of summer; all must do that! That was

the meaning of Life! She had no more doubts and fears. She had no more dread, no bitterness, and no remorse

for what she was going to do. She was doing it because she must. . . . As well might grass stay its ripening

because it shall be cut down! She had, instead, a sense of something blessed and uplifting. Whatever Power

had made her heart, had placed within it this love. Whatever it was, whoever it was, could not be angry with

A wild bee settled on her arm, and she held it up between her and the sun, so that she might enjoy its dusky

glamour. It would not sting hernot today! The little blue butterflies, too, kept alighting on her, who lay

there so still. And the lovesongs of the woodpigeons never ceased, nor the faint swish of scything.

At last she rose to make her way home. A telegram had come saying simply: "Yes." She read it with an

unmoved face, having resorted again to her mask of languor. Toward teatime she confessed to headache,

and said she would lie down. Up there in her room she spent those three hours writingwriting as best she

could all she had passed through in thought and feeling, before making her decision. It seemed to her that she

owed it to herself to tell her lover how she had come to what she had never thought to come to. She put what

she had written in an envelope and sealed it. She would give it to him, that he might read and understand,

when she had shown him with all of her how she loved him. It would pass the time for him, until

tomorrowuntil they set out on their new life together. For tonight they would make their plans, and

At halfpast seven she sent word that her headache was too bad to allow her to go out. This brought a visit

from Mrs. Ercott: The Colonel and she were so distressed; but perhaps Olive was wise not to exert herself!

And presently the Colonel himself spoke, lugubriously through the door: Not well enough to come? No fun

At last, watching from the corridor, she saw them sally forth down the drivethe Colonel a little in advance,

carrying his wife's evening shoes. How nice he lookedwith his brown face, and his grey moustache; so

There was no languor in her now. She had dressed in white, and now she took a blue silk cloak with a hood,

and caught up the flower that had so miraculously survived last night's wearing and pinned it at her breast.

Then making sure no servant was about, she slipped downstairs and out. It was just eight, and the sun still

glistened on the dovecot. She kept away from that lest the birds should come fluttering about her, and betray

her by cooing. When she had nearly reached the towpath, she stopped affrighted. Surely something had

moved, something heavy, with a sound of broken branches. Was it the memory of last night come on her

again; or, indeed, someone there? She walked back a few steps. Foolish alarm! In the meadow beyond a cow

was brushing against the hedge. And, stealing along the grass, out on to the towpath, she went swiftly

A hundred times in these days of her absence Lennan had been on the point of going down, against her

orders, just to pass the house, just to feel himself within reach, to catch a glimpse of her, perhaps, from afar.

If his body haunted London, his spirit had passed down on to that river where he had drifted once already,

reconnoitring. A hundred timesby day in fancy, and by night in dreamspulling himself along by the

boughs, he stole down that dim backwater, till the dark yews and the white dovecot came into view.

For he thought now only of fulfilment. She was wasting cruelly away! Why should he leave her where she

was? Leave her to profane herself and all womanhood in the arms of a man she hated?

And on that day of midJune, when he received her telegram, it was as if he had been handed the key of

Would shecould she mean to come away with him that very night? He would prepare for that at all events.

He had so often in mind faced this crisis in his affairs, that now it only meant translating into action what had

been carefully thought out. He packed, supplied himself liberally with money, and wrote a long letter to his

guardian. It would hurt the old manGordy was over seventy nowbut that could not be helped. He would

After telling how it had all come about, he went on thus: "I know that to many people, and perhaps to you,

Gordy, it will seem very wrong, but it does not to me, and that is the simple truth. Everybody has his own

views on such things, I suppose; and as I would noton my honour, Gordyever have held or wished to

hold, or ever will hold in marriage or out of marriage, any woman who does not love me, so I do not think it

is acting as I would resent others acting towards me, to take away from such unhappiness this lady for whom

I would die at any minute. I do not mean to say that pity has anything to do with itI thought so at first, but I

know now that it is all swallowed up in the most mighty feeling I have ever had or ever shall have. I am not a

bit afraid of conscience. If God is Universal Truth, He cannot look hardly upon us for being true to ourselves.

And as to people, we shall just hold up our heads; I think that they generally take you at your own valuation.

But, anyway, Society does not much matter. We shan't want those who don't want usyou may be sure. I

hope he will divorce her quicklythere is nobody much to be hurt by that except you and Cis; but if he

doesn'tit can't be helped. I don't think she has anything; but with my six hundred, and what I can make,

even if we have to live abroad, we shall be all right for money. You have been awfully good to me always,

Gordy, and I am very grieved to hurt you, and still more sorry if you think I am being ungrateful; but when

one feels as I dobody and soul and spiritthere isn't any question; there wouldn't be if death itself stood in

the way. If you receive this, we shall be gone together; I will write to you from wherever we pitch our tent,

and, of course, I shall write to Cicely. But will you please tell Mrs. Doone and Sylvia, and give them my love

if they still care to have it. Goodbye, dear Gordy. I believe you would have done the same, if you had been

In all those preparations he forgot nothing, employing every minute of the few hours in a sort of methodic

exaltation. The last thing before setting out he took the damp cloths off his 'bullman.' Into the face of the

monster there had come of late a hungry, yearning look. The artist in him had done his work that unconscious

justice; against his will had set down the truth. And, wondering whether he would ever work at it again, he

He did not go to her village, but to one five or six miles down the riverit was safer, and the row would

steady him. Hiring a skiff, he pulled up stream. He travelled very slowly to kill time, keeping under the far

bank. And as he pulled, his very heart seemed parched with nervousness. Was it real that he was going to her,

or only some fantastic trick of Fate, a dream from which he would wake to find himself alone again? He

passed the dovecot at last, and kept on till he could round into the backwater and steal up under cover to the

poplar. He arrived a few minutes before eight o'clock, turned the boat round, and waited close beneath the

bank, holding to a branch, and standing so that he could see the path. If a man could die from longing and

All wind had failed, and the day was fallen into a wonderful still evening. Gnats were dancing in the sparse

strips of sunlight that slanted across the dark water, now that the sun was low. From the fields, bereft of

workers, came the scent of hay and the heavy scent of meadowsweet; the musky odour of the backwater

was confused with them into one brooding perfume. No one passed. And sounds were few and far to that

wistful listener, for birds did not sing just there. How still and warm was the air, yet seemed to vibrate against

his cheeks as though about to break into flame. That fancy came to him vividly while he stood waitinga

vision of heat simmering in little pale red flames. On the thick reeds some large, slow, dusky flies were still

feeding, and now and then a moorhen a few yards away splashed a little, or uttered a sharp, shrill note. When

she cameif she did come!they would not stay here, in this dark earthy backwater; he would take her

over to the other side, away to the woods! But the minutes passed, and his heart sank. Then it leaped up.

Someone was comingin white, with bare head, and something blue or black flung across her arm. It was

she! No one else walked like that! She came very quickly. And he noticed that her hair looked like little

wings on either side of her brow, as if her face were a white bird with dark wings, flying to love! Now she

was close, so close that he could see her lips parted, and her eyes lovelightedlike nothing in the world but

darkness wild with dew and starlight. He reached up and lifted her down into the boat, and the scent of some

flower pressed against his face seemed to pierce into him and reach his very heart, awakening the memory of

something past, forgotten. Then, seizing the branches, snapping them in his haste, he dragged the skiff along

through the sluggish water, the gnats dancing in his face. She seemed to know where he was taking her, and

neither of them spoke a single word, while he pulled out into the open, and over to the far bank.

There was but one field between them and the wooda field of young wheat, with a hedge of thorn and

alder. And close to that hedge they set out, their hands clasped. They had nothing to say yet like children

saving up. She had put on her cloak to hide her dress, and its silk swished against the silvery blades of the

wheat. What had moved her to put on this blue cloak? Blue of the sky, and flowers, of birds' wings, and the

blackburning blue of the night! The hue of all holy things! And how still it was in the late gleam of the sun!

Not one little sound of beast or bird or tree; not one bee humming! And not much colouronly the starry

white hemlocks and globecampion flowers, and the lowflying glamour of the last warm light on the wheat.

. . . Now over wood and river the evening drew in fast. And first the swallows, that had looked as if they

would never stay their hunting, ceased; and the light, that had seemed fastened above the world, for all its last

The moon would not rise till ten! And all things waited. The creatures of night were slow to come forth after

that long bright summer's day, watching for the shades of the trees to sink deeper and deeper into the now

chalkwhite water; watching for the chalk white face of the sky to be masked with velvet. The very black

plumed trees themselves seemed to wait in suspense for the grape bloom of night. All things stared, wan in

that hour of passing dayall things had eyes wistful and unblessed. In those moments glamour was so dead

that it was as if meaning had abandoned the earth. But not for long. Winged with darkness, it stole back; not

the soul of meaning that had gone, but a witchlike and brooding spirit harbouring in the black trees, in the

high dark spears of the rushes, and on the grimsnouted snags that lurked along the river bank. Then the owls

came out, and nightflying things. And in the wood there began a cruel birdtragedysome dark pursuit in

the twilight above the bracken; the piercing shrieks of a creature into whom talons have again and again gone

home; and mingled with them, hoarse raging cries of triumph. Many minutes they lasted, those noises of the

night, soundemblems of all the cruelty in the heart of Nature; till at last death appeased that savagery. And

any soul abroad, that pitied fugitives, might once more listen, and not weep. . . .

Then a nightingale began to give forth its long liquid gurgling; and a corncrake churred in the young wheat.

Again the night brooded, in the silent tops of the trees, in the more silent depths of the water. It sent out at

long intervals a sigh or murmur, a tiny scuttling splash, an owl's hunting cry. And its breath was still hot and

It was past ten when they came out from the wood. She had wanted to wait for the moon to rise; not a gold

coin of a moon as last night, but ivory pale, and with a gleaming radiance level over the fern, and covering

Through the wicket gate they passed once more beside the moon coloured wheat, which seemed of a

different world from that world in which they had walked but an hour and a half ago.

And in Lennan's heart was a feeling such as a man's heart can only know once in all his lifesuch humble

gratitude, and praise, and adoration of her who had given him her all. There should be nothing for her now

but joylike the joy of this last hour. She should never know less happiness! And kneeling down before her

at the water's edge he kissed her dress, and hands, and feet, which tomorrow would be his forever.

The smile of the moonlight glided over each ripple, and reed, and closing waterlily; over her face, where the

hood had fallen back from her loosened hair; over one hand trailing the water, and the other touching the

What happened then he never knew, never clearlyin all those after years. A vision of her white form risen

to its feet, bending forward like a creature caught, that cannot tell which way to spring; a crashing shock, his

head striking something hard! Nothingness! And thenan awful, awful struggle with roots and weeds and

slime, a desperate agony of groping in that pitchy blackness, among treestumps, in dead water that seemed

to have no bottomhe and that other, who had leaped at them in the dark with his boat, like a murdering

beast; a nightmare search more horrible than words could tell, till in a patch of moonlight on the bank they

laid her, who for all their efforts never stirred. . . . There she lay all white, and they two crouched at her head

and feetlike dark creatures of the woods and waters over that which with their hunting they had slain.

How long they stayed there, not once looking at each other, not once speaking, not once ceasing to touch with

their hands that dead thinghe never knew. How long in the summer night, with its moonlight and its

And then the most enduring of all sentient things had moved in him again; so that he once more felt. . . .

Never again to see those eyes that had loved him with their light! Never again to kiss her lips! Frozenlike

moonlight to the earth, with the flower still clinging at her breast. Thrown out on the bank like a plucked

waterlily! Dead? No, no! Not dead! Alive in the nightalive to himsomewhere! Not on this dim bank, in

this hideous backwater, with that dark dumb creature who had destroyed her! Out there on the riverin the

wood of their happinesssomewhere alive! . . . And, staggering up past Cramier, who never moved, he got

But once there in the tide, he fell huddled forward, motionless above his oars. . . .

And the moonlight flooded his dark skiff drifting down. And the moonlight effaced the ripples on the water

that had stolen away her spirit. Her spirit mingled now with the white beauty and the shadows, for ever part

of the stillness and the passion of a summer night; hovering, floating, listening to the rustle of the reeds, and

the whispering of the woods; one with the endless dreamthat spirit passing out, as all might wish to pass,

When on that November night Lennan stole to the open door of his dressingroom, and stood watching his

A low fire was burningone of those fires that throw faint shadows everywhere, and once and again glow so

that some object shines for a moment, some shape is clearly seen. The curtains were not quite drawn, and a

planetree branch with leaves still hanging, which had kept them company all the fifteen years they had lived

there, was moving darkly in the wind, now touching the glass with a frail tap, as though asking of him, who

had been roaming in that wind so many hours, to let it in. Unfailing comradesLondon planetrees!

He had not dared hope that Sylvia would be asleep. It was merciful that she was, whichever way the issue

wentthat issue so cruel. Her face was turned towards the fire, and one hand rested beneath her cheek. So

she often slept. Even when life seemed all at sea, its landmarks lost, one still did what was customary. Poor

tender hearted thingshe had not slept since he told her, fortyeight hours, that seemed such years, ago!

With her flaxen hair, and her touching candour, even in sleep, she looked like a girl lying there, not so greatly

changed from what she had been that summer of Cicely's marriage down at Hayle. Her face had not grown

old in all those twentyeight years. There had been till now no special reason why it should. Thought, strong

feeling, suffering, those were what changed faces; Sylvia had never thought very deeply, never suffered

much, till now. And was it for him, who had been careful of hervery careful on the whole, despite man's

selfishness, despite her never having understood the depths of him was it for him of all people to hurt her

He crept a little farther in and sat down in the armchair beyond the fire. What memories a fire gathered into

it, with its flaky ashes, its little leaflike flames, and that quiet glow and flicker! What tale of passions! How

like to a fire was a man's heart! The first young fitful leapings, the sudden, fierce, mastering heat, the long,

steady sober burning, and thenthat last flamingup, that clutch back at its own vanished youth, the final

eager flight of flame, before the ashes wintered it to nothing! Visions and memories he saw down in the fire,

as only can be seen when a man's heart, by the agony of long struggle, has been stripped of skin, and quivers

at every touch. Love! A strange haphazard thing was loveso spun between ecstacy and torture! A thing

insidious, irresponsible, desperate. A flying sweetness, more poignant than anything on earth, more dark in

origin and destiny. A thing without reason or coherence. A man's lovelife what say had he in the ebb and

flow of it? No more than in the flights of autumn birds, swooping down, alighting here and there, passing on.

The loves one left behindeven in a life by no means vagabond in love, as men's lives went! The love that

thought the Tyrol skies would fall if he were not first with a certain lady. The love whose star had caught in

the hair of Sylvia, now lying there asleep. A socalled lovethat halfglamorous, yet sordid little meal of

pleasure, which youth, however sensitive, must eat, it seems, some time or other with some young light of

lovea glimpse of life that beforehand had seemed much and had meant little, save to leave him

disillusioned with himself and sorry for his partner. And then the love that he could not, even after twenty

years, bear to remember; that alldevouring summer passion, which in one night had gained all and lost all

terribly, leaving on his soul a scar that could never be quite healed, leaving his spirit always a little lonely,

haunted by the sense of what might have been. Of his share in that night of tragedythat 'terrible accident on

the river'no one had ever dreamed. And then the long despair which had seemed the last death of love had

slowly passed, and yet another love had been bornor rather born again, pale, sober, but quite real; the fresh

springingup of a feeling long forgotten, of that protective devotion of his boyhood. He still remembered the

expression on Sylvia's face when he passed her by chance in Oxford Street, soon after he came back from his

four years of exile in the East and Romethat look, eager, yet reproachful, then stoically ironic, as if saying:

'Oh, no! after forgetting me four years and moreyou can't remember me now!' And when he spoke, the still

more touching pleasure in her face. Then uncertain months, with a feeling of what the end would be; and then

their marriage. Happy enoughgentle, not very vivid, nor spiritually very intimatehis work always

secretly as remote from her as when she had thought to please him by putting jessamine stars on the heads of

his beasts. A quiet successful union, not meaning, he had thought, so very much to him nor so very much to

heruntil fortyeight hours ago he told her; and she had shrunk, and wilted, and gone all to pieces. And

Sitting there by the fire, with nothing yet decided, he could see it all from the start, with its devilish, delicate

intricacy, its subtle slow enchantment spinning itself out of him, out of his own state of mind and body, rather

than out of the spell cast over him, as though a sort of fatal force, long dormant, were working up again to

Yes, it had begun within him over a year ago, with a queer unhappy restlessness, a feeling that life was

slipping, ebbing away within reach of him, and his arms never stretched out to arrest it. It had begun with a

sort of long craving, stilled only when he was working harda craving for he knew not what, an ache which

They said that about fortyfive was a perilous age for a man especially for an artist. All the autumn of last

year he had felt this vague misery rather badly. It had left him alone most of December and January, while he

was working so hard at his group of lions; but the moment that was finished it had gripped him hard again. In

those last days of January he well remembered wandering about in the parks day after day, trying to get away

from it. Mild weather, with a scent in the wind! With what avidity he had watched children playing, the

premature buds on the bushes, anything, everything youngwith what an ache, too, he had been conscious

of innumerable lives being lived round him, and loves loved, and he outside, unable to know, to grasp, to

gather them; and all the time the sands of his hourglass running out! A most absurd and unreasonable feeling

for a man with everything he wanted, with work that he loved, quite enough money, and a wife so good as

Sylviaa feeling that no Englishman of fortysix, in excellent health, ought for a moment to have been

troubled with. A feeling such as, indeed, no Englishman ever admitted havingso that there was not even, as

yet, a Society for its suppression. For what was this disquiet feeling, but the sense that he had had his day,

would never again know the stir and fearful joy of falling in love, but only just hanker after what was past

It wasyesthe last day of January, when, returning from one of those restless rambles in Hyde Park, he

met Dromore. Queer to recognize a man hardly seen since schooldays. Yet unmistakably, Johnny Dromore,

sauntering along the rails of Piccadilly on the Green Park side, with that slightly rolling gait of his thin,

horseman's legs, his dandified hat a little to one side, those strange, chaffing, goggling eyes, that look, as if

making a perpetual bet. Yesthe very same teasing, now moody, now reckless, always astute Johnny

Dromore, with a good heart beneath an outside that seemed ashamed of it. Truly to have shared a room at

"Mark Lennan! By gum! haven't seen you for ages. Not since you turned out a fullblownwhat d'you call

it? Awfully glad to meet you, old chap!" Here was the past indeed, long vanished in feeling and thought and

all; and Lennan's head buzzed, trying to find some common interest with this hunting, racing

Johnny Dromore come to life againhe whom the Machine had stamped with astute simplicity by the time

he was twentytwo, and for ever after left untouched in thought and feelingJohnny Dromore, who would

never pass beyond the philosophy that all was queer and freakish which had not to do with horses, women,

wine, cigars, jokes, goodheartedness, and that perpetual bet; Johnny Dromore, who, somewhere in him, had

"You ever see old Fookes now? Been racin' at all? You live in Town? Remember good old Blenker?" And

then silence, and then another spurt: "Ever go down to 'Bambury's?' Ever go racin'? . . . Come on up to my

'digs.' You've got nothin' to do." No persuading Johnny Dromore that a 'what d'you call it' could have

anything to do. "Come on, old chap. I've got the hump. It's this damned east wind."

Well he remembered it, when they shared a room at 'Bambury's'that hump of Johnny Dromore's, after

And down that narrow byestreet of Piccadilly he had gone, and up into those 'digs' on the first floor, with

their little dark hall, their Van Beers' drawing and Vanity Fair cartoons, and prints of racehorses, and of the

old Nightgown Steeplechase; with the big chairs, and all the paraphernalia of Race Guides and raceglasses,

foxmasks and stags'horns, and huntingwhips. And yet, something that from the first moment struck him

as not quite in keeping, foreign to the picturea little jumble of books, a vase of flowers, a grey kitten.

Sunk into the recesses of a marvellous chair, with huge arms of tawny leather, he listened and spoke

drowsily. 'Bambury's,' Oxford, Gordy's clubsdear old Gordy, gone now!things long passed by; they

seemed all round him once again. And yet, always that vague sense, threading this resurrection, threading the

smoke of their cigars, and Johnny Dromore's clipped talkof something that did not quite belong. Might it

be, perhaps, that sepia drawingabove the 'Tantalus' on the oak sideboard at the far end of a woman's

face gazing out into the room? Mysteriously unlike everything else, except the flowers, and this kitten that

was pushing its furry little head against his hand. Odd how a single thing sometimes took possession of a

room, however remote in spirit! It seemed to reach like a shadow over Dromore's outstretched limbs, and

weathered, longnosed face, behind his huge cigar; over the queer, solemn, chaffing eyes, with something

"Ever get the hump? Bally awful, isn't it? It's getting old. We're bally old, you know, Lenny!" Ah! No one

had called him 'Lenny' for twenty years. And it was true; they were unmentionably old.

"When a fellow begins to feel old, you know, it's time he went brokeor something; doesn't bear sittin'

'Monte!' That old wound, never quite healed, started throbbing at the word, so that he could hardly speak his:

"Winter's bally awful, when you're not huntin'. You've changed a lot; should hardly have known you. Last

time I saw you, you'd just come back from Rome or somewhere. What's it like bein' aa sculptor? Saw

The eyes goggled slightly. Quaint, that unholy interest! Just like boys, the Johnny Dromoreswould never

grow up, no matter how life treated them. If Dromore spoke out his soul, as he used to speak it out at

'Bambury's,' he would say: 'You get a pull there; you have a bally good time, I expect.' That was the way it

took them; just a converse manifestation of the very same feeling towards Art that the pious Philistines had,

with their deploring eyebrows and their 'peril to the soul.' Babes all! Not a glimmering of what Art

Again that appreciative goggle, as who should say: 'Ho! there's more in this than I thought!'

A long silence, then, in the dusk with the violet glimmer from outside the windows, the fire flickering in front

of them, the grey kitten purring against his neck, the smoke of their cigars going up, and such a strange,

dozing sense of rest, as he had not known for many days. And thensomething, someone at the door, over

A hand took Lennan's, a hand that seemed to waver between the aplomb of a woman of the world, and a

Then Dromore turned the light up. A figure fairly tall, in a grey ridinghabit, stupendously well cut; a face

not quite so round as a child's nor so shaped as a woman's, blushing slightly, very calm; crinkly lightbrown

hair tied back with a black ribbon under a neat hat; and eyes like those eyes of Gainsborough's

'Perdita'slow, grey, mesmeric, with long lashes curling up, eyes that draw things to them, still innocent.

And just on the point of saying: "I thought you'd stepped out of that picture"he saw Dromore's face, and

What a woman of the world! But what a child, too! And now he could see that the face in the sepia drawing

was older altogether lips not so full, look not so innocent, cheeks not so round, and something sad and

desperate about ita face that life had rudely touched. But the same eyes it hadand what charm, for all its

disillusionment, its air of a history! Then he noticed, fastened to the frame, on a thin rod, a dustcoloured

"Would you mind if I showed you my drawings? It would be awfully good of you. You could tell me about

them." And with dismay he saw her open a portfolio. While he scrutinized those schoolgirl drawings, he

could feel her looking at him, as animals do when they are making up their minds whether or no to like you;

then she came and stood so close that her arm pressed his. He redoubled his efforts to find something good

about the drawings. But in truth there was nothing good. And if, in other matters, he could lie well enough to

save people's feelings, where Art was concerned he never could; so he merely said:

But before he could answer, she was already effacing that naive question in her most grownup manner.

After that he vaguely remembered Dromore's asking if he ever rode in the Row; and those eyes of hers

following him about; and her hand giving his another childish squeeze. Then he was on his way again down

the dimlylighted stairs, past an interminable array of Vanity Fair cartoons, out into the east wind.

Crossing the Green Park on his way home, was he more, or less, restless? Difficult to say. A little flattered,

certainly, a little warmed; yet irritated, as always when he came into contact with people to whom the world

of Art was such an amusing unreality. The notion of trying to show that child how to drawthat feather

pate, with her riding and her kitten; and her 'Perdita' eyes! Quaint, how she had at once made friends with

him! He was a little different, perhaps, from what she was accustomed to. And how daintily she spoke! A

strange, attractive, almost lovely child! Certainly not more than seventeenandJohnny Dromore's

The wind was bitter, the lamps bright among the naked trees. Beautiful alwaysLondon at night, even in

January, even in an east wind, with a beauty he never tired of. Its great, dark, chiselled shapes, its gleaming

lights, like droves of flying stars come to earth; and all warmed by the beat and stir of innumerable lives

He told Sylvia of his encounter. Dromore! The name struck her. She had an old Irish song, 'The Castle of

It froze hard all the week, and he began a lifesize group of their two sheepdogs. Then a thaw set in with

that first southwest wind, which brings each February a feeling of Spring such as is never again recaptured,

and men's senses, like sleepy bees in the sun, go roving. It awakened in him more violently than ever the

thirst to be living, knowing, lovingthe craving for something new. Not this, of course, took him back to

Dromore's rooms; oh, no! just friendliness, since he had not even told his old roommate where he lived, or

said that his wife would be glad to make his acquaintance, if he cared to come round. For Johnny Dromore

had assuredly not seemed too happy, under all his hardbitten air. Yes! it was but friendly to go again.

Dromore was seated in his long armchair, a cigar between his lips, a pencil in his hand, a Ruff's Guide on

his knee; beside him was a large green book. There was a festive air about him, very different from his

"Halo, old man!glad to see you. Take a pew. Look here! Agapemonewhich d'you think I ought to put

her toSan Diavolo or Ponte Canet?not more than four crosses of St. Paul. Goin' to get a real good one

"Oh! Ponte Canet, without doubt. But if you're working I'll come in another time."

"Lord! no! Have a smoke. I'll just finish lookin' out their bloodand take a pull."

And so Lennan sat down to watch those researches, wreathed in cigar smoke and punctuated by muttered

expletives. They were as sacred and absorbing, no doubt, as his own efforts to create in clay; for before

Dromore's inner vision was the perfect racehorsehe, too, was creating. Here was no mere dodge for

making money, but a process hallowed by the peculiar sensation felt when one rubbed the palms of the hands

together, the sensation that accompanied all creative achievement. Once only Dromore paused to turn his

Real Art! How well an artist knew that desperate search after the point of balance, the central rivet that must

be found before a form would come to life. . . . And he noted that today there was no kitten, no flowers, no

sense at all of an extraneous presence even the picture was curtained. Had the girl been just a dreama

Then he saw that Dromore had dropped the large green book, and was standing before the fire.

"Nell took to you the other day. But you always were a lady's man. Remember the girl at Coaster's?"

Coaster's teashop, where he would go every afternoon that he had money, just for the pleasure of looking

shyly at a face. Something beautiful to look atnothing more! Johnny Dromore would no better understand

that now than when they were at 'Bambury's.' Not the smallest good even trying to explain! He looked up at

"I sayyou ARE goin' grey. We're bally old, Lenny! A fellow gets old when he marries."

From Dromore's face the chaffing look went, like a candleflame blown out; and a coppery flush spread over

it. For some seconds he did not speak, then, jerking his head towards the picture, he muttered gruffly:

A sort of anger leaped in Lennan; why should Dromore speak that word as if he were ashamed of his own

daughter? Just like his sortnone so hidebound as menabouttown! Flotsam on the tide of other men's

opinions; poor devils adrift, without the one true anchorage of their own real feelings! And doubtful whether

Dromore would be pleased, or think him gushing, or even distrustful of his morality, he said:

"As for that, it would only make any decent man or woman nicer to her. When is she going to let me teach

Dromore crossed the room, drew back the curtain of the picture, and in a muffled voice, said:

"My God, Lenny! Life's unfair. Nell's coming killed her mother. I'd rather it had been mebar chaff!

Lennan got up from his comfortable chair. For, startled out of the past, the memory of that summer night,

when yet another woman had no luck, was flooding his heart with its black, inextinguishable grief. He said

Dromore drew the curtain again across the picture, and came back to the fire. And for a full minute he stared

"She's been at school. In the summer she goes to IrelandI've got a bit of an old place there. She'll be

eighteen in July. I shall have to introduce her to women, and all that. It's the devil! How? Who?"

He took his leave soon after. Johnny Dromore! Bizarre guardian for that child! Queer life she must have of it,

in that bachelor's den, surrounded by Ruff's Guides! What would become of her? Caught up by some young

spark about town; married to him, no doubt her father would see to the thoroughness of that, his standard

of respectability was evidently high! And aftergo the way, maybe, of her motherthat poor thing in the

No business of his! The merest sense of comradeship, then, took him once more to Dromore's after that

disclosure, to prove that the word 'outside' had no significance save in his friend's own fancy; to assure him

again that Sylvia would be very glad to welcome the child at any time she liked to come.

When he had told her of that little matter of Nell's birth, she had been silent a long minute, looking in his

face, and then had said: "Poor child! I wonder if SHE knows! People are so unkind, even nowadays!" He

could not himself think of anyone who would pay attention to such a thing, except to be kinder to the girl; but

in such matters Sylvia was the better judge, in closer touch with general thought. She met people that he did

"Mr. Dromore, sir," the man saidhe had one of those strictly confidential faces bestowed by an allwise

Providence on servants in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly"Mr. Dromore, sir, is not in. But he will be

And there she was, sitting at the table, pasting photographs into an albumlonely young creature in that

abode of male middleage! Lennan stood, unheard, gazing at the back of her head, with its thick

crinklybrown hair tied back on her darkred frock. And, to the confidential man's soft:

"Oh, yes, do! if you don't mind the mess I'm making;" and, with a little squeeze of the tips of his fingers,

And down they sat together before the photographssnapshots of people with guns or fishingrods, little

groups of schoolgirls, kittens, Dromore and herself on horseback, and several of a young man with a broad,

daring, rather goodlooking face. "That's OliverOliver DromoreDad's first cousin once removed. Rather

Lennan did not know. Not her second cousin; her father's first cousin once removed! And again there leaped

"I thought you were only being polite. I oughtn't to have asked. Of course, I want to awfullyonly I know

What was in a name that she should like him because of it? His fame as a sculptorsuch as it wascould

have nothing to do with that, for she would certainly not know of it. Ah! but there was a lot in a namefor

children. In his childhood what fascination there had been in the words macaroon, and Spaniard, and

Carinola, and Aldebaran, and Mr. McCrae. For quite a week the whole world had been Mr. McCraea most

By whatever fascination moved, she talked freely enough nowof her school; of riding and motoringshe

seemed to love going very fast; about Newmarketwhich was 'perfect'; and theatresplays of the type that

Johnny Dromore might be expected to approve; these together with 'Hamlet' and 'King Lear' were all she had

seen. Never was a girl so untouched by thought, or Artyet not stupid, having, seemingly, a certain natural

good taste; only, nothing, evidently, had come her way. How could it'Johnny Dromore duce, et auspice

Johnny Dromore!' She had been taken, indeed, to the National Gallery while at school. And Lennan had a

vision of eight or ten young maidens trailing round at the skirts of one old maiden, admiring Landseer's dogs,

giggling faintly at Botticelli's angels, gaping, rustling, chattering like young birds in a shrubbery.

But with all her surroundings, this child of Johnny Dromoredom was as yet more innocent than cultured girls

of the same age. If those grey, mesmeric eyes of hers followed him about, they did so frankly, unconsciously.

An hour went by, and Dromore did not come. And the loneliness of this young creature in her incongruous

He wanted to say: And how long is that? But managed to refrain, and got up to go instead. She caught his

"You're not to go!" Saying that she looked as a dog will, going to bite in fun, her upper lip shortened above

her small white teeth set fast on her lower lip, and her chin thrust a little forward. A glimpse of a wilful spirit!

"Ah! but I must, you see!" she at once regained her manners, only saying rather mournfully: "You don't call

When he got out into the street, he felt terribly like a man who, instead of having had his sleeve touched, has

had his heart plucked at. And that warm, bewildered feeling lasted him all the way home.

Changing for dinner, he looked at himself with unwonted attention. Yes, his dark hair was still thick, but

going distinctly grey; there were very many lines about his eyes, too, and those eyes, still eager when they

smiled, were particularly deepset, as if life had forced them back. His cheekbones were almost 'bopsies' now,

and his cheeks very thin and dark, and his jaw looked too set and bony below the almost black moustache.

Altogether a face that life had worn a good deal, with nothing for a child to take a fancy to and make friends

Sylvia came in while he was thus taking stock of himself, bringing a freshlyopened flask of

eaudeCologne. She was always bringing him somethingnever was anyone so sweet in those ways. In

that grey, lowcut frock, her white, still prettiness and palegold hair, so little touched by Time, only just fell

short of real beauty for lack of a spice of depth and of incisiveness, just as her spirit lacked he knew not what

of poignancy. He would not for the world have let her know that he ever felt that lack. If a man could not hide

little rifts in the lute from one so good and humble and affectionate, he was not fit to live.

She sang 'The Castle of Dromore' again that night with its queer haunting lilt. And when she had gone up, and

he was smoking over the fire, the girl in her darkred frock seemed to come, and sit opposite with her eyes

fixed on his, just as she had been sitting while they talked. Dark red had suited her! Suited the look on her

"You're not to go!" Odd, indeed, if she had not some devil in her, with that parentage!

Next day they had summoned him from the studio to see a peculiar phenomenonJohnny Dromore, very

well groomed, talking to Sylvia with unnatural suavity, and carefully masking the goggle in his eyes! Mrs.

Lennan ride? Ah! Too busy, of course. Helped Mark with hiser No! Really! Read a lot, no doubt? Never

had any time for readin' himselfawful bore not having time to read! And Sylvia listening and smiling, very

What had Dromore come for? To spy out the land, discover why Lennan and his wife thought nothing of the

word 'outside'whether, in fact, their household was respectable. . . . A man must always look twice at

'whatd'youcallems,' even if they have shared his room at school! . . . To his credit, of course, to be so

careful of his daughter, at the expense of time owed to the creation of the perfect racehorse! On the whole he

seemed to be coming to the conclusion that they might be useful to Nell in the uncomfortable time at hand

when she would have to go about; seemed even to be falling under the spell of Sylvia's transparent

goodness abandoning his habitual vigilance against being scored off in life's perpetual bet; parting with his

armour of chaff. Almost a relief, indeed, once out of Sylvia's presence, to see that familiar, unholy curiosity

creeping back into his eyes, as though they were hoping against parental hope to find somethinger

amusing somewhere about that mysterious Mecca of good timesa 'whatd'youcallit's' studio. Delicious

to watch the conflict between relief and disappointment. Alas! no modelnot even a statue without clothes;

nothing but portrait heads, casts of animals, and suchlike sobrietiesabsolutely nothing that could bring a

blush to the cheek of the young person, or a glow to the eyes of a Johnny Dromore.

With what curious silence he walked round and round the group of sheepdogs, inquiring into them with that

long crinkled nose of his! With what curious suddenness, he said: "Damned good! You wouldn't do me one

of Nell on horseback?" With what dubious watchfulness he listened to the answer:

Did he think that in some way he was being outmanoeuvered? For he remained some seconds in a sort of

"Done! And if you want to ride with her to get the hang of it, I can always mount you."

When he had gone, Lennan remained staring at his unfinished sheep dogs in the gathering dusk. Again that

sense of irritation at contact with something strange, hostile, uncomprehending! Why let these Dromores into

his life like this? He shut the studio, and went back to the drawingroom. Sylvia was sitting on the fender,

gazing at the fire, and she edged along so as to rest against his knees. The light from a candle on her

writingtable was shining on her hair, her cheek, and chin, that years had so little altered. A pretty picture she

made, with just that candle flame, swaying there, burning slowly, surely down the pale waxcandle flame,

of all lifeless things most living, most like a spirit, so bland and vague, one would hardly have known it was

fire at all. A drift of wind blew it this way and that: he got up to shut the window, and as he came back;

She turned round, and looked up at him, and instinctively he felt that something difficult to answer was

What else to be said? To speak of those feelings of the last few monthsthose feelings so ridiculous to

And having received her answer, Sylvia turned back to the fire, resting silently against his knees. . . .

Three days later the sheepdogs suddenly abandoned the pose into which he had lured them with such

difficulty, and made for the studio door. There in the street was Nell Dromore, mounted on a narrow little

black horse with a white star, a white hoof, and devilish little goat's ears, pricked, and very close together at

"Dad said I had better ride round and show you Magpie. He's not very good at standing still. Are those your

She had slipped her knee already from the pummel, and slid down; the sheepdogs were instantly on their

hindfeet, propping themselves against her waist. Lennan held the black horsea bizarre little beast, all fire

and whipcord, with a skin like satin, liquid eyes, very straight hocks, and a thin bangtail reaching down to

them. The little creature had none of those commonplace good looks so discouraging to artists.

He had forgotten its rider, till she looked up from the dogs, and said: "Do you like him? It IS nice of you to be

When she had ridden away, looking back until she turned the corner, he tried to lure the two dogs once more

to their pose. But they would sit no more, going continually to the door, listening and sniffing; and everything

That same afternoon at Sylvia's suggestion he went with her to call on the Dromores.

While they were being ushered in he heard a man's voice rather highpitched speaking in some language not

"No, no, Oliver. 'Dans l'amour il y a toujours un qui aime, et l'autre qui se laisse aimer.'"

She was sitting in her father's chair, and on the windowsill they saw a young man lolling, who rose and

stood stockstill, with an almost insolent expression on his broad, goodlooking face. Lennan scrutinized

him with interestabout twentyfour he might be, rather dandified, cleanshaved, with crisp dark hair and

wideset hazel eyes, and, as in his photograph, a curious look of daring. His voice, when he vouchsafed a

They stayed but a few minutes, and going down those dimly lighted stairs again, Sylvia remarked:

"How prettily she said goodbyeas if she were putting up her face to be kissed! I think she's lovely. So

She came to them often after that, sometimes alone, twice with Johnny Dromore, sometimes with young

Oliver, who, under Sylvia's spell, soon lost his standoff air. And the statuette was begun. Then came Spring

in earnest, and that real business of lifethe racing of horses 'on the flat,' when Johnny Dromore's genius

was no longer hampered by the illegitimate risks of 'jumpin'.' He came to dine with them the day before the

first Newmarket meeting. He had a soft spot for Sylvia, always saying to Lennan as he went away: "Charmin'

womanyour wife!" She, too, had a soft spot for him, having fathomed the utter helplessness of this

"Ought we to have Nell to stay with us while you're finishing her? She must be very lonely now her father's

It was like Sylvia to think of that; but would it be pleasure or vexation to have in the house this child with her

quaint grown upness, her confiding ways, and those 'Perdita' eyes? In truth he did not know.

She came to them with touching alacrityvery like a dog, who, left at home when the family goes for a

And she was no trouble, too well accustomed to amuse herself; and always quaint to watch, with her

continual changes from child to woman of the world. A new sensation, thisof a young creature in the

house. Both he and Sylvia had wanted children, without luck. Twice illness had stood in the way. Was it,

perhaps, just that little lack in herthat lack of poignancy, which had prevented her from becoming a

mother? An only child herself, she had no nieces or nephews; Cicely's boys had always been at school, and

now were out in the world. Yes, a new sensation, and one in which Lennan's restless feelings seemed to

Outside the hours when Nell sat to him, he purposely saw but little of her, leaving her to nestle under Sylvia's

wing; and this she did, as if she never wanted to come out. Thus he preserved his amusement at her quaint

warmths, and quainter calmness, his aesthetic pleasure in watching her, whose strange, halfhypnotized,

halfhypnotic gaze, had a sort of dreamy and pathetic lovingness, as if she were brimful of affections that had

Every morning after 'sitting' she would stay an hour bent over her own drawing, which made practically no

progress; and he would often catch her following his movements with those great eyes of hers, while the

sheepdogs would lie perfectly still at her feet, blinking horriblysuch was her attraction. His birds also, a

jackdaw and an owl, who had the run of the studio, tolerated her as they tolerated no other female, save the

housekeeper. The jackdaw would perch on her and peck her dress; but the owl merely engaged her in

Now that she was with them, Oliver Dromore began to haunt the house, coming at all hours, on very

transparent excuses. She behaved to him with extreme capriciousness, sometimes hardly speaking, sometimes

treating him like a brother; and in spite of all his nonchalance, the poor youth would just sit glowering, or

One of these July evenings Lennan remembered beyond all others. He had come, after a hard day's work, out

from his studio into the courtyard garden to smoke a cigarette and feel the sun on his cheek before it sank

behind the wall. A pianoorgan far away was grinding out a waltz; and on an hydrangea tub, under the

drawing room window, he sat down to listen. Nothing was visible from there, save just the square patch of a

quite blue sky, and one soft plume of smoke from his own kitchen chimney; nothing audible save that tune,

and the neverending street murmur. Twice birds flew acrossstarlings. It was very peaceful, and his

thoughts went floating like the smoke of his cigarette, to meet whoknewwhat other thoughtsfor

thoughts, no doubt, had little swift lives of their own; desired, found their mates, and, lightly blending, sent

forth offspring. Why not? All things were possible in this wonderhouse of a world. Even that waltz tune,

floating away, would find some melody to wed, and twine with, and produce a fresh chord that might float in

turn to catch the hum of a gnat or fly, and breed again. Queerhow everything sought to entwine with

something else! On one of the pinkish blooms of the hydrangea he noted a beeof all things, in this

hiddenaway garden of tiles and gravel and plants in tubs! The little furry, lonely thing was drowsily clinging

there, as if it had forgotten what it had come forseduced, maybe, like himself, from labour by these last

rays of the sun. Its wings, closefurled, were glistening; its eyes seemed closed. And the pianoorgan played

Then, through the window above his head, he heard Oliver Dromorea voice one could always tell, pitched

high, with its slight drawl pleading, very softly at first, then insistent, imperious; and suddenly Nell's

He rose to go out of earshot. Then a door slammed, and he saw her at the window above him, her waist on a

level with his head; flushed, with her grey eyes ominously bright, her full lips parted. And he said:

Through his head went a medley of sayings to soothe children that are hurt; but he felt unsteady, unlike

It was as if she had really been a little child, wanting the place kissed to make it well.

After that strange outburst, Lennan considered long whether he should speak to Oliver. But what could he

say, from what standpoint say it, andwith that feeling? Or should he speak to Dromore? Not very easy to

speak on such a subject to one off whose turf all spiritual matters were so permanently warned. Nor somehow

could he bring himself to tell Sylvia; it would be like violating a confidence to speak of the child's outburst

and that quivering moment, when she had kneeled and put her hot forehead to his lips for comfort. Such a

And then young Oliver solved the difficulty by coming to the studio himself next day. He entered with

'Dromore' composure, very well groomed, in a silk hat, a cutaway black coat and charming lemon coloured

gloves; what, indeed, the youth did, besides belonging to the Yeomanry and hunting all the winter, seemed

known only to himself. He made no excuse for interrupting Lennan, and for some time sat silently smoking

his cigarette, and pulling the ears of the dogs. And Lennan worked on, waiting. There was always something

attractive to him in this young man's broad, goodlooking face, with its crisp dark hair, and halfinsolent

At last Oliver got up, and went over to the unfinished 'Girl on the Magpie Horse.' Turning to it so that his face

"You and Mrs. Lennan have been awfully kind to me; I behaved rather like a cad yesterday. I thought I'd

Lennan was glad that the young man's face was so religiously averted. He let his hands come to anchor on

what he was working at before he answered: "She's only a child, Oliver;" and then, watching his fingers

"She'll be eighteen this month," he heard Oliver say. "If she once gets outamongst peopleI don't know

The young man's face was very red; he was forgetting to hide it now. Then it went white, and he said through

clenched teeth: "She sends me mad! I don't know how not to If I don't get her, I shall shoot myself. I shall,

you knowI'm that sort. It's her eyes. They draw you right out of yourselfand leave you" And from his

gloved hand the smokedout cigaretteend fell to the floor. "They say her mother was like that. Poor old

Johnny! D'you think I've got a chance, Mr. Lennan? I don't mean now, this minute; I know she's too young."

"Ah, well!" he said, "you must give the child time. Perhaps when she comes back from Ireland, after the

"Yes. I've got the run of that, you know. And I shan't be able to keep away." He took up his hat. "I suppose I

oughtn't to have come and bored you about this, but Nell thinks such a lot of you; and, you being different to

most peopleI thought you wouldn't mind." He turned again at the door. "It wasn't gas what I said just

And Lennan stood, staring at the statuette. So! Passion broke down even the defences of Dromoredom.

'Being different to most peopleI thought you wouldn't mind'! How had this youth known that Sylvia would

not understand passion so out of hand as this? And what had made it clear that he (Lennan) would? Was

there, then, something in his face? There must be! Even Johnny Dromoremost reticent of creatureshad

confided to him that one hour of his astute existence, when the wind had swept him out to sea!

Yes! And that statuette would never be any good, try as he might. Oliver was rightit was her eyes! How

they had smokedin their childish angerif eyes could be said to smoke, and how they had drawn and

pleaded when she put her face to his in her still more childish entreaty! If they were like this now, what

would they be when the woman in her woke? Just as well not to think of her too much! Just as well to work,

and take heed that he would soon be fortyseven! Just as well that next week she would be gone to Ireland!

And the last evening before she went they took her to see "Carmen" at the Opera. He remembered that she

wore a nearly high white frock, and a dark carnation in the ribbon tying her crinkly hair, that still hung loose.

How wonderfully entranced she sat, drunk on that opera that he had seen a score of times; now touching his

arm, now Sylvia's, whispering questions: "Who's that?" "What's coming now?" The Carmen roused her to

adoration, but Don Jose was 'too fat in his funny little coat,' till, in the maddened jealousy of the last act, he

rose superior. Then, quite lost in excitement, she clutched Lennan's arm; and her gasp, when Carmen at last

fell dead, made all their neighbours jump. Her emotion was far more moving than that on the stage; he

wanted badly to stroke, and comfort her and say: "There, there, my dear, it's only make believe!" And, when

it was over, and the excellent murdered lady and her poor fat little lover appeared before the curtain, finally

forgetting that she was a woman of the world, she started forward in her seat and clapped, and clapped.

Fortunate that Johnny Dromore was not there to see! But all things coming to an end, they had to get up and

go. And, as they made their way out to the hall, Lennan felt a hot little finger crooked into his own, as if she

simply must have something to squeeze. He really did not know what to do with it. She seemed to feel this

halfheartedness, soon letting it go. All the way home in the cab she was silent. With that same abstraction

she ate her sandwiches and drank her lemonade; took Sylvia's kiss, and, quite a woman of the world once

more, begged that they would not get up to see her offfor she was to go at seven in the morning, to catch

He stayed full half an hour at the window, smoking. No street lamp shone just there, and the night was

velvety black above the plane trees. At last, with a sigh, he shut up, and went tiptoeing upstairs in

darkness. Suddenly in the corridor the white wall seemed to move at him. A warmth, a fragrance, a sound like

a tiny sigh, and something soft was squeezed into his hand. Then the wall moved back, and he stood

listeningno sound, no anything! But in his dressingroom he looked at the soft thing in his hand. It was the

carnation from her hair. What had possessed the child to give him that? Carmen! Ah! Carmen! And gazing at

the flower, he held it away from him with a sort of terror; but its scent arose. And suddenly he thrust it, all

fresh as it was, into a candleflame, and held it, burning, writhing, till it blackened to velvet. Then his heart

smote him for so cruel a deed. It was still beautiful, but its scent was gone. And turning to the window he

Now that she was gone, it was curious how little they spoke of her, considering how long she had been with

them. And they had from her but one letter written to Sylvia, very soon after she left, ending: "Dad sends his

best respects, please; and with my love to you and Mr. Lennan, and all the beasts.NELL.

It was difficult, of course, to speak of her, with that episode of the flower, too bizarre to be toldthe sort of

thing Sylvia would see out of all proportionas, indeed, any woman might. Yetwhat had it really been,

but the uncontrolled impulse of an emotional child longing to express feelings kindled by the excitement of

that opera? What but a child's feathery warmth, one of those flying peeps at the mystery of passion that young

things take? He could not give away that pretty foolishness. And because he would not give it away, he was

They had made no holiday plans, and he eagerly fell in with her suggestion that they should go down to

Hayle. There, if anywhere, this curious restlessness would leave him. They had not been down to the old

They left London late in August. The day was closing in when they arrived. Honeysuckle had long been

improved away from that station paling, against which he had stood twentynine years ago, watching the

train carrying Anna Stormer away. In the hired fly Sylvia pressed close to him, and held his hand beneath the

ancient dust rug. Both felt the same excitement at seeing again this old home. Not a single soul of the past

days would be there nowonly the house and the trees, the owls and the stars; the river, park, and logan

stone! It was dark when they arrived; just their bedroom and two sittingrooms had been made ready, with

fires burning, though it was still high summer. The same old execrable Heatherleys looked down from the

black oak panellings. The same scent of apples and old mice clung here and there about the dark corridors

with their unexpected stairways. It was all curiously unchanged, as old houses are when they are let

Once in the night he woke. Through the wideopen, uncurtained windows the night was simply alive with

stars, such swarms of them swinging and trembling up there; and, far away, rose the melancholy, velvetsoft

Yes, he remembered. And in his drowsy mind just roused from dreams, there turned and turned the queer

A pleasant month thatof reading, and walking with the dogs the country round, of lying out long hours

The little old greenhouse temple of his early masterpieces was still extant, used now to protect watering

pots. But no vestige of impulse towards work came to him down there. He was marking time; not restless, not

bored, just waitingbut for what, he had no notion. And Sylvia, at any rate, was happy, blooming in these

old haunts, losing her fairness in the sun; even taking again to a sunbonnet, which made her look

extraordinarily young. The trout that poor old Gordy had so harried were left undisturbed. No gun was fired;

rabbits, pigeons, even the few partridges enjoyed those first days of autumn unmolested. The bracken and

leaves turned very early, so that the park in the hazy September sunlight had an almost golden hue. A gentle

mellowness reigned over all that holiday. And from Ireland came no further news, save one picture postcard

In the last week of September they went back to London. And at once there began in him again that restless,

unreasonable aching that sense of being drawn away out of himself; so that he once more took to walking

the Park for hours, over grass already strewn with leaves, always lookingcravingand for what?

At Dromore's the confidential man did not know when his master would be back; he had gone to Scotland

with Miss Nell after the St. Leger. Was Lennan disappointed? Not sorelieved, rather. But his ache was

there all the time, feeding on its secrecy and loneliness, unmentionable feeling that it was. Why had he not

realized long ago that youth was over, passion done with, autumn upon him? How never grasped the fact that

'Time steals away'? And, as before, the only refuge was in work. The sheepdogs and 'The Girl on the

Magpie Horse' were finished. He began a fantastic 'relief'a nymph peering from behind a rock, and a

wildeyed man creeping, through reeds, towards her. If he could put into the nymph's face something of this

lure of Youth and Life and Love that was dragging at him, into the man's face the state of his own heart, it

might lay that feeling to rest. Anything to get it out of himself! And he worked furiously, laboriously, all

October, making no great progress. . . . What could he expect when Life was all the time knocking with that

It was on the Tuesday, after the close of the last Newmarket meeting, and just getting dusk, when Life opened

the door and walked in. She wore a darkred dress, a new one, and surely her faceher figurewere very

different from what he had remembered! They had quickened and become poignant. She was no longer a

child that was at once plain. Cheeks, mouth, neck, waistall seemed fined, shaped; the crinkly,

lightbrown hair was coiled up now under a velvet cap; only the great grey eyes seemed quite the same. And

at sight of her his heart gave a sort of dive and flight, as if all its vague and wistful sensations had found their

Then, in sudden agitation, he realized that his last moment with this girlnow a child no longerhad been a

secret moment of warmth and of emotion; a moment which to her might have meant, in her might have bred,

feelings that he had no inkling of. He tried to ignore that fighting and diving of his heart, held out his hand,

"Ah, Nell! Back at last! You've grown." Then, with a sensation of every limb gone weak, he felt her arms

round his neck, and herself pressed against him. There was time for the thought to flash through him: This is

terrible! He gave her a little convulsive squeezecould a man do less?then just managed to push her

gently away, trying with all his might to think: She's a child! It's nothing more than after Carmen! She doesn't

know what I am feeling! But he was conscious of a mad desire to clutch her to him. The touch of her had

If he did not keep to the notion that she was just a child, his head would go. Perdita'the lost one'! A good

name for her, indeed, as she stood there, her eyes shining in the firelightmore mesmeric than ever they had

been! And, to get away from the lure of those eyes, he bent down and raked the grate, saying:

"Have you seen Sylvia?" But he knew that she had not, even before she gave that impatient shrug. Then he

"You're not old a bit; you're quite young." At his wits' end, with his heart thumping, but still keeping his eyes

Afraid to trust himself near her, he had begun walking up and down. And she stood, following him with her

gazethe firelight playing on her red frock. What extraordinary stillness! What power she had developed in

these few months! Had he let her see that he felt that power? And had all this come of one little moment in a

dark corridor, of one flower pressed into his hand? Why had he not spoken to her roughly thentold her she

was a romantic little fool? God knew what thoughts she had been feeding on! But who could have

supposedwho dreamed? And again he fixed his mind resolutely on that thought: She's a childonly a

That was the moment to have said: No! You are a foolish child, and I an elderly idiot! But he had neither

courage nor clearness of mind enough; northe desire. And, without answering, he went towards the door to

The shadowy room, the bluish dusk painted on all the windows, the fitful shining of the fire, the pallor and

darkness of the dim casts and bronzes, and that one glowing figure there before the hearth! And her voice, a

He went back into the glow, and she gave a little sigh of satisfaction. Then her calm young voice said, ever so

He dared not say: Why not? He dared not say anything. It was too dangerous. And then followed those

It was ridiculous, almost shameful to understand their meaning. And he stood, staring in front of him, without

a word; humility, dismay, pride, and a sort of mad exultation, all mixed and seething within him in the

"Come, my child; we're neither of us quite ourselves tonight. Let's go to the drawingroom."

Back in the darkness and solitude of the studio, when she was gone, he sat down before the fire, his senses in

a whirl. Why was he not just an ordinary animal of a man that could enjoy what the gods had sent? It was as

if on a November day someone had pulled aside the sober curtains of the sky and there in a chink had been

April standingthick white blossom, a purple cloud, a rainbow, grass vivid green, light flaring from one

knew not where, and such a tingling passion of life on it all as made the heart stand still! This, then, was the

marvellous, enchanting, maddening end of all that year of restlessness and wanting! This bit of Spring

suddenly given to him in the midst of Autumn. Her lips, her eyes, her hair; her touching confidence; above

allquite unbelievableher love. Not really love perhaps, just childish fancy. But on the wings of fancy

this child would fly far, too farall wistfulness and warmth beneath that light veneer of absurd composure.

To live againto plunge back into youth and beautyto feel Spring once moreto lose the sense of all

being over, save just the sober jogtrot of domestic bliss; to know, actually to know, ecstasy again, in the love

of a girl; to rediscover all that youth yearns for, and feels, and hopes, and dreads, and loves. It was a prospect

By just closing his eyes he could see her standing there with the firelight glow on her red frock; could feel

again that marvellous thrill when she pressed herself against him in the halfinnocent, seducing moment

when she first came in; could feel again her eyes drawingdrawing him! She was a witch, a greyeyed,

brownhaired witcheven unto her love of red. She had the witch's power of lighting fever in the veins.

And he simply wondered at himself, that he had not, as she stood there in the firelight, knelt, and put his arms

round her and pressed his face against her waist. Why had he not? But he did not want to think; the moment

thought began he knew he must be torn this way and that, tossed here and there between reason and desire,

pity and passion. Every sense struggled to keep him wrapped in the warmth and intoxication of this discovery

that he, in the full of Autumn, had awakened love in Spring. It was amazing that she could have this feeling;

yet there was no mistake. Her manner to Sylvia just now had been almost dangerously changed; there had

been a queer cold impatience in her look, frightening from one who but three months ago had been so

affectionate. And, going away, she had whispered, with that old tremblingup at him, as if offering to be

kissed: "I may come, mayn't I? And don't be angry with me, please; I can't help it." A monstrous thing at his

age to let a young girl love himcompromise her future! A monstrous thing by all the canons of virtue and

gentility! And yetwhat future?with that naturethose eyes that originwith that father, and that

Nevertheless, he showed the signs of thought, and badly; for after dinner Sylvia, putting her hand on his

He held those fingers fast. Sylvia! No, indeed he must not think! But he took advantage of her words, and

He walked at a great paceto keep thought awaytill he reached the river close to Westminster, and,

moved by sudden impulse, seeking perhaps an antidote, turned down into that little street under the big Wren

church, where he had never been since the summer night when he lost what was then more to him than life.

There SHE had lived; there was the housethose windows which he had stolen past and gazed at with such

distress and longing. Who lived there now? Once more he seemed to see that face out of the past, the dark

hair, and dark soft eyes, and sweet gravity; and it did not reproach him. For this new feeling was not a love

like that had been. Only once could a man feel the love that passed all things, the love before which the world

was but a spark in a draught of wind; the love that, whatever dishonour, grief, and unrest it might come

through, alone had in it the heart of peace and joy and honour. Fate had torn that love from him, nipped it off

as a sharp wind nips off a perfect flower. This new feeling was but a fever, a passionate fancy, a grasping

once more at Youth and Warmth. Ah, well! but it was real enough! And, in one of those moments when a

man stands outside himself, seems to be lifted away and see his own life twirling, Lennan had a vision of a

shadow driven here and there; a straw going round and round; a midge in the grip of a mad wind. Where was

the home of this mighty secret feeling that sprang so suddenly out of the dark, and caught you by the throat?

Why did it come now and not then, for this one and not that other? What did man know of it, save that it

made him spin and hoverlike a moth intoxicated by a light, or a bee by some dark sweet flower; save that it

made of him a distraught, humble, eager puppet of its fancy? Had it not once already driven him even to the

edge of death; and must it now come on him again with its sweet madness, its drugging scent? What was it?

Why was it? Why these passionate obsessions that could not decently be satisfied? Had civilization so

outstripped man that his nature was cramped into shoes too smalllike the feet of a Chinese woman? What

Pall Mall brought him back to that counterfeit presentment of the realreality. There, in St. James's Street,

was Johnny Dromore's Club; and, again moved by impulse, he pushed open its swing door. No need to ask;

for there was Dromore in the hall, on his way from dinner to the cardroom. The glossy tan of hard exercise

and good living lay on his cheeks as thick as clouted cream. His eyes had the peculiar shine of superabundant

vigour; a certain subfestive air in face and voice and movements suggested that he was going to make a

"Hallo, old chap! Awfully glad to see you! What you doin' with yourself? Workin' hard? How's your wife?

You been away? Been doin' anything great?" And then the question that would have given him his chance, if

That old query, half furtive and half proud, as much as to say: 'I know she's not in the studbook, but, dn

it, I sired her!' And then the old sudden gloom, which lasted but a second, and gave way again to chaff.

Lennan stayed very few minutes. Never had he felt farther from his old schoolchum.

No. Whatever happened, Johnny Dromore must be left out. It was a position he had earned with his goggling

He passed along the railings of the Green Park. On the cold air of this last October night a thin haze hung,

and the acrid fragrance from little bonfires of fallen leaves. What was there about that scent of burnedleaf

smoke that had always moved him so? Symbol of parting!that most mournful thing in all the world. For

what would even death be, but for parting? Sweet, long sleep, or new adventure. But, if a man loved

othersto leave them, or be left! Ah! and it was not death only that brought partings!

He came to the opening of the street where Dromore lived. She would be there, sitting by the fire in the big

chair, playing with her kitten, thinking, dreaming, andalone! He passed on at such a pace that people

stared; till, turning the last corner for home, he ran almost into the arms of Oliver Dromore.

The young man was walking with unaccustomed indecision, his fur coat open, his operahat pushed up on

his crisp hair. Dark under the eyes, he had not the proper gloss of a Dromore at this season of the year.

They crossed to the railings of the Square's dark garden, where nobody was passing. And with every step

Lennan's humiliation grew. There was something false and undignified in walking with this young man who

had once treated him as a father confessor to his love for Nell. And suddenly he perceived that they had made

"You remember what I told you in the summer. Well, it's worse now. I've been going a mucker lately in all

And Lennan thought: You're not alone in that! But he kept silence. His chief dread was of saying something

"Why can't she care? I suppose I'm nothing much, but she's known me all her life, and she used to like me.

"In every other one of those houses, Oliver," he said, "there's probably some creature who can't make out why

another creature doesn't care. Passion comes when it will, goes when it will; and we poor devils have no say

Lennan had an almost overwhelming impulse to turn on his heel and leave the young man standing there. But

he forced himself to look at his face, which even then had its attractionperhaps more so than ever, so pallid

"I'm not up to giving you advice. The only thing I might say is: One does not press oneself where one isn't

wanted; all the same who knows? So long as she feels you're there, waiting, she might turn to you at any

moment. The more chivalrous you are, Oliver, the more patiently you wait, the better chance you have."

Oliver took those words of little comfort without flinching. "I see," he said. "Thanks! But, my God! it's hard.

I never could wait." And with that epigram on himself, holding out his hand, he turned away.

Lennan went slowly home, trying to gauge exactly how anyone who knew all would judge him. It was a little

Sylvia had not gone up, and he saw her looking at him anxiously. The one strange comfort in all this was that

his feeling for her, at any rate, had not changed. It seemed even to have deepenedto be more real to him.

How could he help staying awake that night? How could he help thinking, then? And long time he lay,

Passion never plays the game. It, at all events, is free from selfconsciousness, and pride; from dignity,

nerves, scruples, cant, moralities; from hypocrisies, and wisdom, and fears for pocket, and position in this

world and the next. Well did the old painters limn it as an arrow or a wind! If it had not been as swift and

After that fevered night Lennan went to his studio at the usual hour and naturally did not do a stroke of work.

He was even obliged to send away his model. The fellow had been his hairdresser, but, getting ill, and falling

on dark days, one morning had come to the studio, to ask with manifest shame if his head were any good.

After having tested his capacity for standing still, and giving him some introductions, Lennan had noted him

down: "Five feet nine, good hair, lean face, something tortured and pathetic. Give him a turn if possible." The

turn had come, and the poor man was posing in a painful attitude, talking, whenever permitted, of the way

things had treated him, and the delights of cutting hair. This morning he took his departure with the simple

And so, walking up and down, up and down, the sculptor waited for Nell's knock. What would happen now?

Thinking had made nothing clear. Here was offered what every warmblooded man whose Spring is past

desiresyouth and beauty, and in that youth a renewal of his own; what all men save hypocrites and

Englishmen would even admit that they desired. And it was offered to one who had neither religious nor

moral scruples, as they are commonly understood. In theory he could accept. In practice he did not as yet

know what he could do. One thing only he had discovered during the night's reflections: That those who

scouted belief in the principle of Liberty made no greater mistake than to suppose that Liberty was dangerous

because it made a man a libertine. To those with any decency, the creed of Freedom wasof allthe most

enchaining. Easy enough to break chains imposed by others, fling his cap over the windmill, and cry for the

moment at least: I am unfettered, free! Hard, indeed, to say the same to his own unfettered Self! Yes, his own

Self was in the judgmentseat; by his own verdict and decision he must abide. And though he ached for the

sight of her, and his will seemed paralyzedmany times already he had thought: It won't do! God help me!

Then twelve o'clock had come, and she had not. Would 'The Girl on the Magpie Horse' be all he would see of

her todaythat unsatisfying work, so cold, and devoid of witchery? Better have tried to paint herwith a

red flower in her hair, a pout on her lips, and her eyes fey, or languorous. Goya could have painted her!

After taking one look at his face, she slipped in ever so quietly, like a very good child. . . . Marvellous the

instinct and finesse of the young when they are women! . . . Not a vestige in her of yesterday's seductive

power; not a sign that there had been a yesterday at alljust confiding, like a daughter. Sitting there, telling

him about Ireland, showing him the little batch of drawings she had done while she was away. Had she

brought them because she knew they would make him feel sorry for her? What could have been less

dangerous, more appealing to the protective and paternal side of him than she was that morning; as if she

only wanted what her father and her home could not give heronly wanted to be a sort of daughter to him!

She went away demurely, as she had come, refusing to stay to lunch, manifestly avoiding Sylvia. Only then

he realized that she must have taken alarm from the look of strain on his face, been afraid that he would send

her away; only then perceived that, with her appeal to his protection, she had been binding him closer,

making it harder for him to break away and hurt her. And the fevered aching began againworse than

everthe moment he lost sight of her. And more than ever he felt in the grip of something beyond his power

to fight against; something that, however he swerved, and backed, and broke away, would close in on him,

In the afternoon Dromore's confidential man brought him a note. The fellow, with his castdown eyes, and

his wellparted hair, seemed to Lennan to be saying: "Yes, sirit is quite natural that you should take the

note out of eyeshot, sirBUT I KNOW; fortunately, there is no necessity for alarmI am strictly

"You promised to ride with me onceyou DID promise, and you never have. Do please ride with me

tomorrow; then you will get what you want for the statuette instead of being so cross with it. You can have

Dad's horsehe has gone to Newmarket again, and I'm so lonely. Pleasetomorrow, at halfpast

To hesitate in view of those confidential eyes was not possible; it must be 'Yes' or 'No'; and if 'No,' it would

"Very good, sir." Then from the door: "Mr. Dromore will be away till Saturday, sir."

Now, why had the fellow said that? Curious how this desperate secret feeling of his own made him see

sinister meaning in this servant, in Oliver's visit of last nightin everything. It was vilethis

suspiciousness! He could feel, almost see, himself deteriorating already, with this furtive feeling in his soul. It

would soon be written on his face! But what was the use of troubling? What would come, wouldone way

And suddenly he remembered with a shock that it was the first of NovemberSylvia's birthday! He had

never before forgotten it. In the disturbance of that discovery he was very near to going and pouring out to

her the whole story of his feelings. A charming birthday present, that would make! Taking his hat, instead, he

Next door was a jeweller's. He had never really known if Sylvia cared for jewels, since one day he happened

to remark that they were vulgar. And feeling that he had fallen low indeed, to be trying to atone with some

miserable gewgaw for never having thought of her all day, because he had been thinking of another, he went

in and bought the only ornament whose ingredients did not make his gorge rise, two small pearshaped black

pearls, one at each end of a fine platinum chain. Coming out with it, he noticed over the street, in a clear sky

fast deepening to indigo, the thinnest slip of a new moon, like a bright swallow, with wings bent back, flying

towards the ground. That meantfine weather! If it could only be fine weather in his heart! And in order that

the azalea might arrive first, he walked up and down the Square which he and Oliver had patrolled the night

When he went in, Sylvia was just placing the white azalea in the window of the drawingroom; and stealing

up behind her he clasped the little necklet round her throat. She turned round and clung to him. He could feel

that she was greatly moved. And remorse stirred and stirred in him that he was betraying her with his kiss.

Next day, still following the lead of her words about fresh air and his tired look, he told her that he was going

to ride, and did not say with whom. After applauding his resolution, she was silent for a littlethen asked:

Had she meant anything by that? And feeling as if he were fencing with his own soul, he said:

He had perceived suddenly that he did not know his wife, having always till now believed that it was she who

If she had not been out at lunchtime, he would have lunched out himselfafraid of his own face. For

feverishness in sick persons mounts steadily with the approach of a certain hour. And surely his face, to

anyone who could have seen him being conveyed to Piccadilly, would have suggested a fevered invalid rather

The horses were before the doorthe little magpie horse, and a thoroughbred bay mare, weeded from

Dromore's racing stable. Nell, too, was standing ready, her cheeks very pink, and her eyes very bright. She

did not wait for him to mount her, but took the aid of the confidential man. What was it that made her look so

perfect on that little horseshape of limb, or something soft and fiery in her spirit that the little creature

They started in silence, but as soon as the sound of hoofs died on the tan of Rotten Row, she turned to him.

"But please don't look like yesterday. Today's too heavenly. Oh! I love beautiful days, and I love riding,

and" She broke off and looked at him. 'Why can't you just be nice to me'she seemed to be saying'and

love me as you ought!' That was her powerthe conviction that he did, and ought to love her; that she ought

But riding, too, is a simple passion; and simple passions distract each other. It was a treat to be on that bay

At the far end of the Row she cried out: "Let's go on to Richmond now," and trotted off into the road, as if

she knew she could do with him what she wished. And, following meekly, he asked himself: Why? What was

there in her to make up to him for all that he was losinghis power of work, his dignity, his selfrespect?

But the moment they touched turf, with one look back at him, she was off. Had she all the time meant to give

him this breakneck chaseor had the loveliness of that Autumn day gone to her head blue sky and

coppery flames of bracken in the sun, and the beech leaves and the oak leaves; pure Highland colouring come

When in the first burst he had tested the mare's wind, this chase of her, indeed, was sheer delight. Through

glades, over fallen treetrunks, in bracken up to the hocks, out across the open, past a herd of amazed and

solemn deer, over rotten ground all rabbit burrows, till just as he thought he was up to her, she slipped away

by a quick turn round trees. Mischief incarnate, but something deeper than mischief, too! He came up with

her at last, and leaned over to seize her rein. With a cut of her whip that missed his hand by a bare inch, and a

wrench, she made him shoot past, wheeled in her tracks, and was off again like an arrow, back amongst the

treeslying right forward under the boughs, along the neck of her little horse. Then out from amongst the

trees she shot downhill. Right down she went, full tilt, and after her went Lennan, lying back, and expecting

the bay mare to come down at every stride. This was her idea of fun! She switched round at the bottom and

went galloping along the foot of the hill; and he thought: Now I've got her! She could not break back up that

Then he saw, not thirty yards in front, an old sandpit; and Great God! she was going straight at it! And

shouting frantically, he reined his mare outwards. But she only raised her whip, cut the magpie horse over the

flank, and rode right on. He saw that little demon gather its feet and springdown, down, saw him pitch,

struggle, sinkand she, flung forward, roll over and lie on her back. He felt nothing at the moment, only had

that fixed vision of a yellow patch of sand, the blue sky, a rook flying, and her face upturned. But when he

came on her she was on her feet, holding the bridle of her dazed horse. No sooner did he touch her, than she

sank down. Her eyes were closed, but he could feel that she had not fainted; and he just held her, and kept

pressing his lips to her eyes and forehead. Suddenly she let her head fall back, and her lips met his. Then

opening her eyes, she said: "I'm not hurt, onlyfunny. Has Magpie cut his knees?"

Not quite knowing what he did, he got up to look. The little horse was cropping at some grass,

unharmedthe sand and fern had saved his knees. And the languid voice behind him said: "It's all right

Now that he knew she was unhurt, he felt angry. Why had she behaved in this mad waygiven him this

fearful shock? But in that same languid voice she went on: "Don't be cross with me. I thought at first I'd pull

up, but then I thought: 'If I jump he can't help being nice'so I did Don't leave off loving me because I'm

For answer she only flung her arms round his neck; then, since he held back from kissing her, let them fall

"Very well. But I love you. You can think of THATyou can't prevent me!" And without waiting for help,

Very sober that ride home! The horses, as if ashamed of their mad chase, were edging close to each other, so

that now and then his arm would touch her shoulder. He asked her once what she had felt while she was

"Only to be sure my foot was free. It was rather horrid coming down, thinking of Magpie's knees;" and

touching the little horse's goatlike ears, she added softly: "Poor dear! He'll be stiff to morrow."

She was again only the confiding, rather drowsy, child. Or was it that the fierceness of those past moments

had killed his power of feeling? An almost dreamy hourwith the sun going down, the lamps being lighted

At the door, where the groom was waiting, Lennan would have said goodbye, but she whispered: "Oh, no,

And so, half carrying her, he mounted past the Vanity Fair cartoons, and through the corridor with the red

Once settled back in Dromore's great chair, with the purring kitten curled up on her neck, she murmured:

And so Lennan stayed, while the confidential man brought tea and toast; and, never once looking at them,

Then they were alone again, and, gazing down at her stretched out in that great chair, Lennan thought:

But suddenly she looked up at him, and pointing to the picture that today had no curtain drawn, said:

"Do you think I'm like her? I made Oliver tell me aboutmyself this summer. That's why you needn't bother.

It doesn't matter what happens to me, you see. And I don't carebecause you can love me, without feeling

"Only we won't talk about that now, will we? It's too cosy. I AM nice and tired. Do smoke!"

But Lennan's fingers trembled so that he could hardly light that cigarette. And, watching them, she said:

The virtue of Johnny Dromore! Yes! It would always be by proxy! And he muttered:

"I don't care." Then peering up through the kitten's fur she murmured: "Oliver wants me to go to a dance on

When he got up to go, she did not move, but just looked up at him; and how he got away he did not know.

Stopping his cab a little short of home, he ran, for he felt cold and stiff, and letting himself in with his

latchkey, went straight to the drawingroom. The door was ajar, and Sylvia standing at the window. He

heard her sigh; and his heart smote him. Very still, and slender, and lonely she looked out there, with the light

shining on her fair hair so that it seemed almost white. Then she turned and saw him. He noticed her throat

"Surely you haven't been anxious! Nell had a bit of a fall jumping into a sandpit. She's quite mad

sometimes. I stayed to tea with herjust to make sure she wasn't really hurt." But as he spoke he loathed

She only answered: "It's all right, dear," but he saw that she kept her eyesthose blue, too true

And so began another evening and night and morning of fever, subterfuge, wariness, aching. A round of

halfecstatic torment, out of which he seemed no more able to break than a man can break through the walls

Though it live but a day in the sun, though it drown in tenebrous night, the dark flower of passion will have

To deceive undoubtedly requires a course of training. And, unversed in this art, Lennan was fast finding it

intolerable to scheme and watch himself, and mislead one who had looked up to him ever since they were

children. Yet, all the time, he had a feeling that, since he alone knew all the circumstances of his case, he

alone was entitled to blame or to excuse himself. The glib judgments that moralists would pass upon his

conduct could be nothing but the imbecilities of smug and pharisaic foolsof those not under this drugging

The day after the ride Nell had not come, and he had no word from her. Was she, then, hurt, after all? She had

lain back very inertly in that chair! And Sylvia never asked if he knew how the girl was after her fall, nor

offered to send round to inquire. Did she not wish to speak of her, or had she simplynot believed? When

there was so much he could not talk of it seemed hard that just what happened to be true should be distrusted.

She had not yet, indeed, by a single word suggested that she felt he was deceiving her, but at heart he knew

that she was not deceived. . . . Those feelers of a woman who lovescan anything check their delicate

Towards evening, the longing to see the girla sensation as if she were calling him to come to herbecame

almost insupportable; yet, whatever excuse he gave, he felt that Sylvia would know where he was going. He

sat on one side of the fire, she on the other, and they both read books; the only strange thing about their

reading was, that neither of them ever turned a leaf. It was 'Don Quixote' he read, the page which had these

words: "Let Altisidora weep or sing, still I am Dulcinea's and hers alone, dead or alive, dutiful and

unchanged, in spite of all the necromantic powers in the world." And so the evening passed. When she went

up to bed, he was very near to stealing out, driving up to the Dromores' door, and inquiring of the confidential

man; but the thought of the confounded fellow's eyes was too much for him, and he held out. He took up

Sylvia's book, De Maupassant's 'Fort comme la mort'open at the page where the poor woman finds that her

lover has passed away from her to her own daughter. And as he read, the tears rolled down his cheek. Sylvia!

Sylvia! Were not his old favourite words from that old favourite book still true? "Dulcinea del Toboso is the

most beautiful woman in the world, and I the most unfortunate knight upon the earth. It were unjust that such

perfection should suffer through my weakness. No, pierce my body with your lance, knight, and let my life

expire with my honour. . . ." Why could he not wrench this feeling from his heart, banish this girl from his

eyes? Why could he not be wholly true to her who was and always had been wholly true to him?

Horriblethis willless, nerveless feeling, this paralysis, as if he were a puppet moved by a cruel hand. And,

as once before, it seemed to him that the girl was sitting there in Sylvia's chair in her dark red frock, with her

eyes fixed on him. Uncannily vividthat impression! . . . A man could not go on long with his head in

It was growing dusk on Saturday afternoon when he gave up that intolerable waiting and opened the studio

door to go to Nell. It was now just two days since he had seen or heard of her. She had spoken of a dance for

But he had not taken six steps when he saw her coming. She had on a grey furry scarf, hiding her mouth,

making her look much older. The moment the door was shut she threw it off, went to the hearth, drew up a

He could not speak of Sylvia to this childspeak of his married life, hitherto so dignified, so almost sacred.

"It can't be wrong to love YOU! I don't care if it is wrong," and saw her lips quivering, and her eyes suddenly

piteous and scared, as if for the first time she doubted of the issue. Here was fresh torment! To watch an

unhappy child. And what was the use of even trying to make clear to heron the very threshold of lifethe

hopeless maze that he was wandering in! What chance of making her understand the marsh of mud and

tangled weeds he must drag through to reach her. "Nobody need know." So simple! What of his heart and his

wife's heart? And, pointing to his new workthe first man bewitched by the first nymphhe said:

"Look at this, Nell! That nymph is you; and this man is me." She got up, and came to look. And while she

was gazing he greedily drank her in. What a strange mixture of innocence and sorcery! What a wonderful

young creature to bring to full knowledge of love within his arms! And he said: "You had better understand

what you are to meall that I shall never know again; there it is in that nymph's face. Oh, no! not YOUR

face. And there am I struggling through slime to reach younot MY face, of course."

She said: "Poor face!" then covered her own. Was she going to cry, and torture him still more? But, instead,

she only murmured: "But you HAVE reached me!" swayed towards him, and put her lips to his.

He gave way then. From that too stormy kiss of his she drew back for a second, then, as if afraid of her own

recoil, snuggled close again. But the instinctive shrinking of innocence had been enough for Lennanhe

Without a word she picked up her fur, put it on, and stood waiting for him to speak. Then, as he did not, she

And he nodded. Her eyes and lips smiled at him; she opened the door, and, still with that slow, happy smile,

His blood on fire, heedless of everything but to rush after happiness, Lennan spent those hours before the

dance. He had told Sylvia that he would be dining at his Cluba set of rooms owned by a small coterie of

artists in Chelsea. He had taken this precaution, feeling that he could not sit through dinner opposite her and

then go out to that danceand Nell! He had spoken of a guest at the Club, to account for evening

dressanother lie, but what did it matter? He was lying all the time, if not in words, in actionmust lie,

Des oeillets rouges? Yes, those tonight! To this address. No green with them; no card!

How strange the feelingwith the die once cast for loveof rushing, of watching his own self being left

In the Brompton Road, outside a little restaurant, a thin musician was playing on a violin. Ah! and he knew

this place; he would go in there, not to the Cluband the fiddler should have all he had to spare, for playing

those tunes of love. He turned in. He had not been there since the day before that night on the river, twenty

years ago. Never since; and yet it was not changed. The same tarnished gilt, and smell of cooking; the same

macaroni in the same tomato sauce; the same Chianti flasks; the same staring, lightblue walls wreathed with

pink flowers. Only the waiter different hollowcheeked, patient, dark of eye. He, too, should be well

tipped! And that poor, overhatted lady, eating her frugal meal to her, at all events, a look of kindness. For

all desperate creatures he must feel, this desperate night! And suddenly he thought of Oliver. Another

desperate one! What should he say to Oliver at this dancehe, aged fortyseven, coming there without his

wife! Some imbecility, such as: 'Watching the human form divine in motion,' 'Catching sidelights on Nell for

the statuette' some cant; it did not matter! The wine was drawn, and he must drink!

It was still early when he left the restauranta dry night, very calm, not cold. When had he danced last?

With Olive Cramier, before he knew he loved her. Well, THAT memory could not be broken, for he would

not dance tonight! Just watch, sit with the girl a few minutes, feel her hand cling to his, see her eyes turned

back to him; andcome away! And thenthe future! For the wine was drawn! The leaf of a planetree,

fluttering down, caught on his sleeve. Autumn would soon be gone, and after Autumnonly Winter! She

would have done with him long before he came to Winter. Nature would see to it that Youth called for her,

and carried her away. Nature in her courses! But just to cheat Nature for a little while! To cheat

Here was the place with redstriped awning, carriages driving away, loiterers watching. He turned in with a

beating heart. Was he before her? How would she come to this first dance? With Oliver alone? Or had some

chaperon been found? To have come because she this child so lovely, born 'outside'might have need of

chaperonage, would have been some comfort to dignity, so wistful, so lost as his. But, alas! he knew he was

Already they were dancing in the hall upstairs; but not she, yet; and he stood leaning against the wall where

she must pass. Lonely and out of place he felt; as if everyone must know why he was there. People stared,

and he heard a girl ask: "Who's that against the wall with the hair and dark moustache?"and her partner

murmuring his answer, and her voice again: "Yes, he looks as if he were seeing sand and lions." For whom,

then, did they take him? Thank heaven! They were all the usual sort. There would be no one that he knew.

Suppose Johnny Dromore himself came with Nell! He was to be back on Saturday! What could he say, then?

How meet those doubting, knowing eyes, goggling with the fixed philosophy that a man has but one use for

woman? God! and it would be true! For a moment he was on the point of getting his coat and hat, and

sneaking away. That would mean not seeing her till Monday; and he stood his ground. But after tonight

there must be no more such riskstheir meetings must be wisely planned, must sink underground. And then

he saw her at the foot of the stairs in a dress of a shellpink colour, with one of his flowers in her light

brown hair and the others tied to the handle of a tiny fan. How selfpossessed she looked, as if this were

indeed her native elementher neck and arms bare, her cheeks a deep soft pink, her eyes quickly turning

here and there. She began mounting the stairs, and saw him. Was ever anything so lovely as she looked just

then? Behind her he marked Oliver, and a tall girl with red hair, and another young man. He moved

deliberately to the top of the stairs on the wall side, so that from behind they should not see her face when she

greeted him. She put the little fan with the flowers to her lips; and, holding out her hand, said, quick and low:

Then swaying a little, so that her hair and the flower in it almost touched his face, she passed, and there in her

Lennan had expected one of his old insolent looks, but the young man's face was eager and quite friendly.

"She wasn't able; she's not quite" and could have sunk into the shining floor. Youth with its touching

confidence, its eager trust! This was the way he was fulfilling his duty towards Youth!

When they had passed into the ballroom he went back to his position against the wall. They were dancing

Number Three; his time of waiting, then, was drawing to a close. From where he stood he could not see the

Not a true waltzsome French or Spanish pavement song played in waltz time; bizarre, pathetic, whirling

after its own happiness. That chase for happiness! Well, life, with all its prizes and its possibilities, had

nothing that quite satisfiedsave just the fleeting moments of passion! Nothing else quite poignant enough

The waltz was over. He could see her now, on a rout seat against the wall with the other young man, turning

her eyes constantly as if to make sure that he was still standing there. What subtle fuel was always being

added to the fire by that flattery of her inexplicable adorationof those eyes that dragged him to her, yet

humbly followed him, too! Five times while she sat there he saw the redhaired girl or Oliver bring men up;

saw youths cast longing glances; saw girls watching her with cold appraisement, or with a touching, frank

delight. From the moment that she came in, there had been, in her father's phrase, 'only one in it.' And she

At the first notes of the polka he went to her. It was she who found their place of refugea little alcove

behind two palm plants. But sitting there, he realized, as never before, that there was no spiritual

communion between him and this child. She could tell him her troubles or her joys; he could soothe or

sympathize; but never would the gap between their natures and their ages be crossed. His happiness was only

in the sight and touch of her. But that, God knew, was happiness enougha feverish, craving joy, like an

overtired man's thirst, growing with the drink on which it tries to slake itself. Sitting there, in the scent of

those flowers and of some sweet essence in her hair, with her fingers touching his, and her eyes seeking his,

he tried loyally not to think of himself, to grasp her sensations at this her first dance, and just help her to

enjoyment. But he could not paralyzed, made drunk by that insensate longing to take her in his arms and

crush her to him as he had those few hours back. He could see her expanding like a flower, in all this light,

and motion, and intoxicating admiration round her. What business had he in her life, with his dark hunger

after secret hours; hea coin worn thin alreadya destroyer of the freshness and the glamour of her youth

She took his hand and laid her cheek against it; yet, to the music, which had begun again, the tip of her shoe

She covered his lips with the fan, and said: "You're not to think; you're not to thinknever! When can I

"I must find the best way. Not tomorrow. Nobody must know, Nell for your sakefor hersnobody!"

She nodded, and repeated with a soft, mysterious wisdom: "Nobody." And then, aloud: "Here's Oliver! It was

He lingeredto watch her through this one dance. How they made all the other couples sink into

insignificance, with that something in them both that was better than mere good looksthat something not

outre or eccentric, but poignant, wayward. They went well together, those two Dromoreshis dark head and

her fair head; his clear, brown, daring eyes, and her grey, languorous, mesmeric eyes. Ah! Master Oliver was

happy now, with her so close to him! It was not jealousy that Lennan felt. Not quiteone did not feel jealous

of the young; something very deeppride, sense of proportion, who knew whatprevented that. She, too,

looked happy, as if her soul were dancing, vibrating with the music and the scent of the flowers. He waited

for her to come round once more, to get for a last time that flying glance turned back; then found his coat and

Outside, he walked a few steps, then stood looking back at the windows of the hall through some trees, the

shadows of whose trunks, in the light of a street lamp, were spilled out along the ground like the splines of a

fan. A church clock struck eleven. For hours yet she would be there, going round and round in the arms of

Youth! Try as he might he could never recapture for himself the look that Oliver's face had wornthe look

that was the symbol of so much more than he himself could give her. Why had she come into his lifeto her

undoing, and his own? And the bizarre thought came to him: If she were dead should I really care? Should I

not be almost glad? If she were dead her witchery would be dead, and I could stand up straight again and look

people in the face! What was this power that played with men, darted into them, twisted their hearts to rags;

this power that had looked through her eyes when she put her fan, with his flowers, to her lips?

It must have been nearly twelve when he reached home. Now, once more, would begin the gruesome process

of deceptionflinching of soul, and brazening of visage. It would be better when the whole thievish business

There was no light in the drawingroom, save just the glow of the fire. If only Sylvia might have gone to

"I'm afraid you've been lonely. I had to stay rather late. A dull evening." And, since she did not move or

answer, but just sat there very still and white, he forced himself to go close, bend down to her, touch her

cheek; even to kneel beside her. She looked round then; her face was quiet enough, but her eyes were

Perhaps it was the smile, perhaps her voice or eyesbut something gave way in Lennan. Secrecy, precaution

went by the board. Bowing his head against her breast, he poured it all out, while they clung, clutched

together in the half dark like two frightened children. Only when he had finished did he realize that if she had

pushed him away, refused to let him touch her, it would have been far less piteous, far easier to bear, than her

wan face and her hands clutching him, and her words: "I never thoughtyou and I oh! Markyou and

I" The trust in their life together, in himself, that those words revealed! Yet, not greater than he had

hadstill had! She could not understandhe had known that she could never understand; it was why he had

fought so for secrecy, all through. She was taking it as if she had lost everything; and in his mind she had lost

nothing. This passion, this craving for Youth and Life, this madnesscall it what one wouldwas

something quite apart, not touching his love and need of her. If she would only believe that! Over and over he

repeated it; over and over again perceived that she could not take it in. The only thing she saw was that his

love had gone from her to anotherthough that was not true! Suddenly she broke out of his arms, pushing

him from her, and cried: "That girlhateful, horrible, false!" Never had he seen her look like this, with

flaming spots in her white cheeks, soft lips and chin distorted, blue eyes flaming, breast heaving, as if each

breath were drawn from lungs that received no air. And then, as quickly, the fire went out of her; she sank

down on the sofa; covering her face with her arms, rocking to and fro. She did not cry, but a little moan came

from her now and then. And each one of those sounds was to Lennan like the cry of something he was

"Sylvia! Sylvia! Don't! oh! don't!" And she was silent, ceasing to rock herself; letting him smooth and stroke

her. But her face she kept hidden, and only once she spoke, so low that he could hardly hear: "I can'tI

won't keep you from her." And with the awful feeling that no words could reach or soothe the wound in that

It was atrocioushorriblethis that he had done! God knew that he had not sought itthe thing had come

on him. Surely even in her misery she could see that! Deep down beneath his grief and selfhatred, he knew,

what neither she nor anyone else could know that he could not have prevented this feeling, which went

back to days before he ever saw the girlthat no man could have stopped that feeling in himself. This

craving and roving was as much part of him as his eyes and hands, as overwhelming and natural a longing as

his hunger for work, or his need of the peace that Sylvia gave, and alone could give him. That was the

tragedyit was all sunk and rooted in the very nature of a man. Since the girl had come into their lives he

was no more unfaithful to his wife in thought than he had been before. If only she could look into him, see

him exactly as he was, as, without part or lot in the process, he had been madethen she would understand,

and even might not suffer; but she could not, and he could never make it plain. And solemnly, desperately,

with a weary feeling of the futility of words, he went on trying: Could she not see? It was all a thing outside

hima craving, a chase after beauty and life, after his own youth! At that word she looked at him:

For a woman to feel that her beautythe brightness of her hair and eyes, the grace and suppleness of her

limbswere slipping from her and from the man she loved! Was there anything more bitter?or any more

sacred duty than not to add to that bitterness, not to push her with suffering into old age, but to help keep the

Man and womanthey both wanted youth again; she, that she might give it all to him; he, because it would

He had not once said that he could give it up. The words would not pass his lips, though he knew she must be

conscious that he had not said them, must be longing to hear them. All he had been able to say was:

"So long as you want me, you shall never lose me" . . . and, "I will never keep anything from you again."

Up in their room she lay hour after hour in his arms, quite unresentful, but without life in her, and with eyes

What a maze was a man's heart, wherein he must lose himself every minute! What involved and intricate

turnings and turnings on itself; what fugitive replacement of emotion by emotion! What strife between pities

And in his feverish exhaustion, which was almost sleep, Lennan hardly knew whether it was the thrum of

music or Sylvia's moaning that he heard; her body or Nell's within his arms. . . .

But life had to be lived, a face preserved against the world, engagements kept. And the nightmare went on for

both of them, under the calm surface of an ordinary Sunday. They were like people walking at the edge of a

high cliff, not knowing from step to step whether they would fall; or like swimmers struggling for issue out of

In the afternoon they went together to a concert; it was just something to dosomething that saved them for

an hour or two from the possibility of speaking on the one subject left to them. The ship had gone down, and

they were clutching at anything that for a moment would help to keep them above water.

In the evening some people came to supper; a writer and two painters, with their wives. A grim

eveningnever more so than when the conversation turned on that perennial themethe freedom, spiritual,

mental, physical, requisite for those who practise Art. All the stale arguments were brought forth, and had to

be joined in with unmoved faces. And for all their talk of freedom, Lennan could see the volteface his

friends would be making, if they only knew. It was not 'the thing' to seduce young girlsas if, forsooth, there

were freedom in doing only what people thought 'the thing'! Their cant about the free artist spirit

experiencing everything, would wither the moment it came up against a canon of 'good form,' so that in truth

it was no freer than the bourgeois spirit, with its conventions; or the priest spirit, with its cry of 'Sin!' No, no!

To resistif resistance were possible to this dragging powermaxims of 'good form,' dogmas of religion

and morality, were no helpnothing was any help, but some feeling stronger than passion itself. Sylvia's

face, forced to smile! that, indeed was a reason why they should condemn him! None of their doctrines

about freedom could explain that awaythe harm, the death that came to a man's soul when he made a

But they were gone at lastwith their "Thanks so much!" and their "Delightful evening!"

He knew that it must begin all over againinevitable, after the stab of that wretched argument plunged into

"I won't, I mustn't keep you starved, and spoil your work. Don't think of me, Mark! I can bear it!"

And then a breakdown worse than the night before. What genius, what sheer genius Nature had for torturing

her creatures! If anyone had told him, even so little as a week ago, that he could have caused such suffering to

SylviaSylvia, whom as a child with wide blue eyes and a blue bow on her flaxen head he had guarded

across fields full of imaginary bulls; Sylvia, in whose hair his star had caught; Sylvia, who day and night for

fifteen years had been his devoted wife; whom he loved and still admiredhe would have given him the lie

direct. It would have seemed incredible, monstrous, silly. Had all married men and women such things to go

throughwas this but a very usual crossing of the desert? Or was it, once for all, shipwreck? deathunholy,

He had told her that he would not see Nell again without first letting her know. So, when morning came, he

simply wrote the words: "Don't come today!"showed them to Sylvia, and sent them by a servant to

Hard to describe the bitterness with which he entered his studio that morning. In all this chaos, what of his

work? Could he ever have peace of mind for it again? Those people last night had talked of 'inspiration of

passion, of experience.' In pleading with her he had used the words himself. Shepoor soul!had but

repeated them, trying to endure them, to believe them true. And were they true? Again no answer, or certainly

none that he could give. To have had the waters broken up; to be plunged into emotion; to feel desperately,

instead of stagnatingsome day he might be gratefulwho knew? Some day there might be fair country

again beyond this desert, where he could work even better than before. But just now, as well expect creative

work from a condemned man. It seemed to him that he was equally destroyed whether he gave Nell up, and

with her, once for all, that roving, seeking instinct, which ought, forsooth, to have been satisfied, and was not;

or whether he took Nell, knowing that in doing so he was torturing a woman dear to him! That was as far as

he could see today. What he would come to see in time God only knew! But: 'Freedom of the Spirit!' That

was a phrase of bitter irony indeed! And, there, with his work all round him, like a man tied hand and foot, he

was swept by such a feeling of exasperated rage as he had never known. Women! These women! Only let

him be free of both, of all women, and the passions and pities they aroused, so that his brain and his hands

might live and work again! They should not strangle, they should not destroy him!

Unfortunately, even in his rage, he knew that flight from them both could never help him. One way or the

other the thing would have to be fought through. If it had been a straight fight even; a clear issue between

passion and pity! But both he loved, and both he pitied. There was nothing straight and clear about it

anywhere; it was all too deeply rooted in full human nature. And the appalling sense of rushing ceaselessly

True, he had now and then a lucid interval of a few minutes, when the ingenious nature of his own torments

struck him as supremely interesting and queer; but this was not precisely a relief, for it only meant, as in

prolonged toothache, that his power of feeling had for a moment ceased. A very pretty little hell indeed!

All day he had the premonition, amounting to certainty, that Nell would take alarm at those three words he

had sent her, and come in spite of them. And yet, what else could he have written? Nothing save what must

have alarmed her more, or plunged him deeper. He had the feeling that she could follow his moods, that her

eyes could see him everywhere, as a cat's eyes can see in darkness. That feeling had been with him, more or

less, ever since the last evening of October, the evening she came back from her summer grownup. How

long ago? Only six dayswas it possible? Ah, yes! She knew when her spell was weakening, when the

current wanted, as it were, renewing. And about six o'clockdusk alreadywithout the least surprise, with

only a sort of empty quivering, he heard her knock. And just behind the closed door, as near as he could get

to her, he stood, holding his breath. He had given his word to Sylviaof his own accord had given it.

Through the thin wood of the old door he could hear the faint shuffle of her feet on the pavement, moved a

few inches this way and that, as though supplicating the inexorable silence. He seemed to see her head, bent a

little forward listening. Three times she knocked, and each time Lennan writhed. It was so cruel! With that

seeingsense of hers she must know he was there; his very silence would be telling herfor his silence had

its voice, its pitiful breathless sound. Then, quite distinctly, he heard her sigh, and her footsteps move away;

and covering his face with his hands he rushed to and fro in the studio, like a madman.

No sound of her any more! Gone! It was unbearable; and, seizing his hat, he ran out. Which way? At random

he ran towards the Square. There she was, over by the railings; languidly, irresolutely moving towards home.

But now that she was within reach, he wavered; he had given his wordwas he going to break it? Then she

turned, and saw him; and he could not go back. In the biting easterly wind her face looked small, and

pinched, and cold, but her eyes only the larger, the more full of witchery, as if beseeching him not to be

She clutched at his arm; then drew herself up, and said in her clear, clipped voice:

They walked a minute, that might have been an hour, without a word; not round the Square, as he had walked

with Oliver, but away from the house. At last she said in a halfchoked voice: "I only want a little bit of you."

Then, suddenly, he felt her hand in his, the fingers lacing, twining restlessly amongst his own; and again the

Hardest of all to stand against was this pathetic, clinging, frightened child. And, not knowing very clearly

"Yesyes; it'll be all right. Be braveyou must be brave, Nell. It'll all come right."

Her face looked just as when she had ridden at that gravel pit. Loving, wild, undisciplined, without resource

of any kindwhat might she not do? Why could he not stir without bringing disaster upon one or other? And

between these two, suffering so because of him, he felt as if he had lost his own existence. In quest of

"Oliver asked me again at the dance on Saturday. He said you had told him to be patient. Did you?"

That was his chance. But with her arm touching his, her face so pale and desperate, and those maddening

At that a sigh of content escaped her, as if she were saying to herself: 'If he wants me he will not let me go.'

They had come somehow to Pall Mall by now. And scared to find himself so deep in the huntingground of

the Dromores, Lennan turned hastily towards St. James's Park, that they might cross it in the dark, round to

Piccadilly. To be thus slinking out of the world's sight with the daughter of his old roommateof all men in

the world the last perhaps that he should do this to! A nice treacherous business! But the thing men called

honourwhat was it, when her eyes were looking at him and her shoulder touching his?

Since he had spoken those words, "Yes, I want you," she had been silentfearful perhaps to let other words

destroy their comfort. But near the gate by Hyde Park Corner she put her hand again into his, and again her

"I don't want to hurt anybody, but you WILL let me come sometimes you will let me see youyou won't

Again her fingers twined amongst his, like a child's. She seemed to have a wonderful knowledge of the exact

"I didn't try to love youit isn't wrong to loveit wouldn't hurt her. I only want a little of your love."

A littlealways a little! But he was solely bent on comforting her now. To think of her going home, and

sitting lonely, frightened, and unhappy, all the evening, was dreadful. And holding her fingers tight, he kept

Then he saw that they were out in Piccadilly. How far dared he go with her along the railings before he said

goodbye? A man was coming towards them, just where he had met Dromore that first fatal afternoon nine

months ago; a man with a slight lurch in his walk and a tall, shining hat a little on one side. But thank

Heaven! it was not Dromoreonly one somewhat like him, who in passing stared sphinxlike at Nell.

For a moment he thought she was going to break down, refuse to leave him. Then she threw up her head, and

for a second stood like that, quite motionless, looking in his face. Suddenly stripping off her glove, she thrust

her warm, clinging hand into his. Her lips smiled faintly, tears stood in her eyes; then she drew her hand away

and plunged into the traffic. He saw her turn the corner of her street and disappear. And with the warmth of

that passionate little hand still stinging his palm, he almost ran towards Hyde Park.

Taking no heed of direction, he launched himself into its dark space, deserted in this cold, homeless wind,

that had little sound and no scent, travelling its remorseless road under the greyblack sky.

The dark firmament and keen cold air suited one who had little need of aids to emotionone who had,

indeed, but the single wish to get rid, if he only could, of the terrible sensation in his head, that bruised,

battered, imprisoned feeling of a man who paces his cell never, never to get out at either end. Without

thought or intention he drove his legs along; not running, because he knew that he would have to stop the

sooner. Alas! what more comic spectacle for the eyes of a good citizen than this married man of middle age,

striding for hours over those dry, dark, empty pastureshunted by passion and by pity, so that he knew not

even whether he had dined! But no good citizen was abroad of an autumn night in a bitter easterly wind. The

trees were the sole witnesses of this grim exercisethe trees, resigning to the cold blast their crinkled leaves

that fluttered past him, just a little lighter than the darkness. Here and there his feet rustled in the drifts,

waiting their turn to serve the little bonfires, whose scent still clung in the air. A desperate walk, in this heart

of Londonround and round, up and down, hour after hour, keeping always in the dark; not a star in the sky,

not a human being spoken to or even clearly seen, not a bird or beast; just the gleam of the lights far away,

and the hoarse muttering of the traffic! A walk as lonely as the voyage of the human soul is lonely from birth

to death with nothing to guide it but the flickering glow from its own frail spirit lighted it knows not where. . .

And, so tired that he could hardly move his legs, but free at last of that awful feeling in his headfree for the

first time for days and daysLennan came out of the Park at the gate where he had gone in, and walked

towards his home, certain that tonight, one way or the other, it would be decided. . . .

This thenthis long trouble of body and of spiritwas what he remembered, sitting in the armchair beyond

his bedroom fire, watching the glow, and Sylvia sleeping there exhausted, while the dark planetree leaves

taptapped at the window in the autumn wind; watching, with the uncanny certainty that, he would not pass

the limits of this night without having made at last a decision that would not alter. For even conflict wears

itself out; even indecision has this measure set to its miserable powers of torture, that any issue in the end is

better than the hell of indecision itself. Once or twice in those last days even death had seemed to him quite

tolerable; but now that his head was clear and he had come to grips, death passed out of his mind like the

shadow that it was. Nothing so simple, extravagant, and vain could serve him. Other issues had reality;

deathnone. To leave Sylvia, and take this young love away; there was reality in that, but it had always

faded as soon as it shaped itself; and now once more it faded. To put such a public and terrible affront on a

tender wife whom he loved, do her to death, as it were, before the world's eyesand then, ever remorseful,

grow old while the girl was still young? He could not. If Sylvia had not loved him, yes; or, even if he had not

loved her; or if, again, though loving him she had stood upon her rightsin any of those events he might

have done it. But to leave her whom he did love, and who had said to him so generously: "I will not hamper

yougo to her"would be a black atrocity. Every memory, from their boyandgirl lovering to the

desperate clinging of her arms these last two nightsmemory with its innumerable tentacles, the invincible

strength of its countless threads, bound him to her too fast. What then? Must it come, after all, to giving up

the girl? And sitting there, by that warm fire, he shivered. How desolate, sacrilegious, wasteful to throw love

away; to turn from the most precious of all gifts; to drop and break that vase! There was not too much love in

the world, nor too much warmth and beautynot, anyway, for those whose sands were running out, whose

Could Sylvia not let him keep both her love and the girl's? Could she not bear that? She had said she could;

but her face, her eyes, her voice gave her the lie, so that every time he heard her his heart turned sick with

pity. This, then, was the real issue. Could he accept from her such a sacrifice, exact a daily misery, see her

droop and fade beneath it? Could he bear his own happiness at such a cost? Would it be happiness at all? He

got up from the chair and crept towards her. She looked very fragile sleeping there! The darkness below her

closed eyelids showed cruelly on that too fair skin; and in her flaxcoloured hair he saw what he had never

noticeda few strands of white. Her softly opened lips, almost colourless, quivered with her uneven

breathing; and now and again a little feverish shiver passed up as from her heart. All soft and fragile! Not

much life, not much strength; youth and beauty slipping! To know that he who should be her champion

against age and time would day by day be placing one more mark upon her face, one more sorrow in her

As he stood there holding his breath, bending to look at her, that slurring swish of the planetree branch,

flung against and against the window by the autumn wind, seemed filling the whole world. Then her lips

moved in one of those little, soft hurrying whispers that unhappy dreamers utter, the words all blurred with

And he thought: I, who believe in bravery and kindness; I, who hate crueltyif I do this cruel thing, what

shall I have to live for; how shall I work; how bear myself? If I do it, I am lostan outcast from my own

And, kneeling there close to that face so sad and lonely, that heart so beaten even in its sleep, he knew that he

could not do it knew it with sudden certainty, and a curious sense of peace. Over!the long

struggleover at last! Youth with youth, summer to summer, falling leaf with falling leaf! And behind him

He rose, and crept away stealthily downstairs into the drawing room, and through the window at the far end

out into the courtyard, where he had sat that day by the hydrangea, listening to the piano organ. Very dark

and cold and eerie it was there, and he hurried across to his studio. There, too, it was cold, and dark, and

eerie, with its ghostly plaster presences, stale scent of cigarettes, and just one glowing ember of the fire he

He went first to the bureau, turned up its lamp, and taking out some sheets of paper, marked on them

directions for his various works; for the statuette of Nell, he noted that it should be taken with his

compliments to Mr. Dromore. He wrote a letter to his banker directing money to be sent to Rome, and to his

solicitor telling him to let the house. He wrote quickly. If Sylvia woke, and found him still away, what might

she not think? He took a last sheet. Did it matter what he wrote, what deliberate lie, if it helped Nell over the

"I write this hastily in the early hours, to say that we are called out to Italy to my only sister, who is very ill.

We leave by the first morning boat, and may be away some time. I will write again. Don't fret, and God bless

He could not see very well as he wrote. Poor, loving, desperate child! Well, she had youth and strength, and

"My wife and I are obliged to go posthaste to Italy. I watched you both at the dance the other night. Be very

gentle with Nell; andgood luck to you! But don't say again that I told you to be patient; it is hardly the way

That, then, was allyes, all! He turned out the little lamp, and groped towards the hearth. But one thing left.

To say goodbye! To her, and Youth, and Passion!to the only salve for the aching that Spring and Beauty

bringthe aching for the wild, the passionate, the new, that never quite dies in a man's heart. Ah! well,

He crouched down before the hearth. There was no warmth in that fastblackening ember, but it still glowed

like a darkred flower. And while it lived he crouched there, as though it were that to which he was saying

goodbye. And on the door he heard the girl's ghostly knocking. And beside hima ghost among the ghostly

presencesshe stood. Slowly the glow blackened, till the last spark had faded out.

Then by the glimmer of the night he found his way back, softly as he had come, to his bedroom.

Sylvia was still sleeping; and, to watch for her to wake, he sat down again by the fire, in silence only stirred

by the frail tap tapping of those autumn leaves, and the little catch in her breathing now and then. It was less

troubled than when he had bent over her before, as though in her sleep she knew. He must not miss the

moment of her waking, must be beside her before she came to full consciousness, to say: "There, there! It's

all over; we are going away at onceat once." To be ready to offer that quick solace, before she had time to

plunge back into her sorrow, was an island in this black sea of night, a single little refuge point for his

bereaved and naked being. Something to dosomething fixed, real, certain. And yet another long hour

before her waking, he sat forward in the chair, with that wistful eagerness, his eyes fixed on her face, staring

through it at some vision, some faint, glimmering lightfar out there beyondas a traveller watches a star. .