"You, for instance, could never guess what I should do in certain
circumstances."
"Such as--"
"Oh, in a thousand things."
"I should have a shrewd idea."
"No."
Anthony didn't contradict him, but got up from the dinner-table and
joined him by the fire, glass in hand.
"I might not let you know how much I guessed, how much I knew."
Sergius laughed.
"Oh, ignorance always surrounds itself with mystery," he said.
"Knowledge need not go naked."
Again the eyes of the two friends met in the firelight, and over the
face of Sergius there ran a new expression. There was an awakening of
wonder in it, but no uneasiness. Anxiety was far away from him that
night. When passion has gripped a man, passion strong enough, resolute
enough, to over-ride all the prejudices of civilisation, all the
promptings of the coward within us, whose voice, whining, we name
prudence, the semi-comprehension, the criticism of another man cannot
move him. Sergius wondered for an instant whether Anthony suspected
against what his heart was beating. That was all.
While he wondered, the clock chimed the half hour after nine. He heard
it.
"I shall have to go very soon," he said.
"You can't. Just listen to the rain."
"Rain! What's that got to do with it?"
Sergius spoke with a sudden unutterable contempt.
"Ring for another bottle of champagne," Anthony replied. "This one is
empty."
"Well--for a parson and a teetotaller, I must say!"
Sergius rang the bell. A second bottle was opened. The servant went out
of the room. As he closed the door, the wind sighed harshly against the
window panes, driving the rain before it.
"Rough at sea to-night," Anthony said.
The remark was an obvious one; but, as spoken, it sounded oddly furtive,
and full of hidden meaning. Sergius evidently found it so, for he said:
"Why, whom d'you know that's going to sea to-night?"
Anthony was startled by the quick question, and replied almost
nervously:--
"Nobody in particular--why should I?"
"I don't know why, but I think you do."
"People one knows cross the channel every night almost."
"Of course," Sergius said indifferently.
He glanced towards the clock and again mechanically his hand went up,
for a second, to his left breast. Anthony leaned forward in his chair
quickly, and broke into speech. He had seen the stare at the clock-face,
the gesture.
"It's strange," he said, "how people go out of our lives, how friends
go, and enemies!"
"Enemies!"
"Yes. I sometimes wonder which exit is the sadder. When a friend
goes--with him goes, perhaps for ever, the chance of saying 'I am your
friend.' When an enemy goes--"
"Well, what then?"
"With him goes, perhaps for ever, too, the chance of saying, 'I am not
your enemy.'"
"Pshaw! Parson's talk, Anthony."
"No, Sergius, other men forgive besides parsons; and other men, and
parsons too, pass by their chances of forgiving."
"You're a whole Englishman, I'm only half an Englishman. There's
something untamed in my blood, and I say--damn forgiveness!"
"And yet you've forgiven."
"Whom?"
"Olga Mayne."
The face of Sergius did not change at the sound of this name, unless,
perhaps, to a more fixed calm, a more still and pale coldness.
"Olga is punished," he said. "She is ruined."
"Her ruin may be repaired."
Sergius smiled quietly.
"You think so?"
"Yes. Tell me, Sergius"--Anthony spoke with a strong earnestness, a
strong excitement that he strove to conceal and hold in check--"you
loved her?"
"Yes, I loved her--certainly."
"You will always love her?"
"Since I'm not changeable, I daresay I shall."
Anthony's thin, eager face brightened. A glow of warmth burned in his
eyes and on his cheeks.
"Then you would wish her ruin repaired."
"Should I?"
"If you love her, you must."
"How could it be repaired?"
"By her marriage with--Vernon."
Anthony's strong voice quivered before he pronounced the last word, and
his eyes were alight with fervent anxiety. He was looking at Sergius
like a man on the watch for a tremendous outbreak of emotion. The
champagne he had drunk--a new experience for him since he had taken
orders--put a sort of wild finishing touch to the intensity of the
feelings, under the impulse of which he had forced himself upon Sergius
to-night. He supposed that his inward excitement must be more than
matched by the so different inward excitement of his friend. But he--who
thought he understood!--had no true conception of the region of cold,
frosty fury in which Sergius was living, like a being apart from all
other men, ostracised by the immensity and peculiarity of his own power
of emotion. Therefore he was astonished when Sergius, with undiminished
quietude, replied:
"Oh, with Vernon, that charming man of fashion, whose very soul, they
say, always wears lavender gloves? You think that would be a good
thing?"
"Good! I don't say that. I say--as the world is now--the only thing. He
is the author of her fall. He should be her husband."
"And I?"
Anthony stretched out his hand to grasp his friend's hand, but Sergius
suddenly took up his champagne glass, and avoided the demonstration of
sympathy.
"You can be nothing to her now, Serge," Anthony said, and his voice
quivered with sympathy.
"You think so? I might be."
"What?"
"Oh, not her husband, not her lover, not her friend."
"What then?"
Sergius avoided answering.
"You would have her settle down with Vernon in Phillimore Place?" he
said. "Play the wife to his noble husband? Well, I know there's been
some idea of that, as I told you yesterday."
The clock chimed ten. Although Sergius seemed so calm, so
self-possessed, Anthony observed that now he paid no heed to the little,
devilish note of time. This new subject of conversation had been
Anthony's weapon. Desperately he had used it, and not, it seemed,
altogether in vain.
"Yes; as you told me yesterday."
"And it seems good to you?"
"It seems to me the only thing possible now."
"There are generally more possibilities than one in any given event, I
fancy."
Again Anthony was surprised at the words of Sergius, who seemed to grow
calmer as he grew more excited, who seemed, to-night, strangely
powerful, not simply in temper, but even in intellect.
"For a woman there is sometimes only one possibility if she is to be
saved from ignominy, Serge."
"So you think that Olga Mayne must become the wife of Vernon, who is
a--"
"Coward. Yes."
At the word coward, Sergius seemed startled out of his hard calm. He
looked swiftly and searchingly at Anthony.
"Why do you say coward?" he asked sharply. "I was not going to use that
word."
Anthony was obviously disconcerted.
"It came to me," he said hurriedly.
"Why?"
"Any man that brings a girl to the dust is a coward."
"Ah--that's not what you meant," Sergius said.
Anthony stole a glance at the clock. The hand crawled slowly over the
quarter of an hour past ten.
"No, it was not," he said slowly.