As it was, his eyes travelled more quickly than her hand. She made a

gentle little effort to hide her concern as well. She smiled up at him,

asking where he had been. But it would not do. The child is parent to

the man, he is parent to the woman too--a stern parent, moreover, who

will brook no simple trifling with his authority, who overlooks nothing

and whose judgments are the blind record of an implacable justice. John

could not let that little deception pass. Instead of answering her

question, instead of taking his place at the table, he came to her side

and put one arm gently round her neck.

"What are you hiding, dearest?" he asked.

Like a child, who is discovered in the act of nefarious negotiations

with the good things of this world, she quietly took her hand away.

There stood the innocent little bottle in all its nakedness. John

stared at it questioningly--then at his mother.

"Is it something that you have to take, dearest?" he asked. "Aren't you

well?"

"Yes, I'm quite well," she said, and she played nervously with the cork

in the little bottle. It was a delicate subject. She began to wish

that she had never embarked upon it at all. But faith brings with it a

rare quality of courage, and so firmly did she believe, with the quaint

simplicity of her heart, in the course she had determined to adopt, that

the wish broke like a bubble on the moment.

"Well, what is in the bottle?" persisted John.

"Ignatia."

There was just the faintness of a whisper in her voice. She had not

found full courage as yet. Even in their firmest beliefs, old people

are pursued by the fear of being thought foolish. The new generation

always frightens them; it knows so much more than they.

"Ignatia?" John repeated.

"Yes--I--I want you to take it."

She began uncorking the bottle.

"Me? What for? I'm all right. I'm not ill."

"No--but----" she paused.

"But what?"

"It'll do you good. Try it, to please me."

She hid her white head against his coat.

"But what for, dearest?"

"Have you never heard of Ignatia?" she asked.

John shook his head.

"It's a plant. It's a homeopathic medicine. It's a cure for all sorts

of things. People take it when their nerves are bad, for worry, for

insomnia. It's a cure for trouble when--when you're in love."

She said it so simply, in such fear that he would laugh; but when he

looked down and found the hopefulness in her eyes, laughter was

impossible. He caught it back, but his nostrils quivered.

"And do you want to cure me of being in love?" he asked with a

straightened face.

"I thought you'd be happier, my dear, if you could get over it."

"So you recommend Ignatia?"

"I've known it do wonders," she asserted. "Poor Claudina was very much

in love with a worthless fellow--Tina--one of the gondolier!--surely you

remember him. He lived on the _Giudecca_."

John nodded smiling.

"Well, she came to me one day, crying her heart out. She declared she

was in love with the most worthless man in the whole of Venice. 'Get

over it then, Claudina,' I said. But she assured me that it was

impossible. He had only to put up his little finger, she said and she

had to go to his beckoning, if only to tell him how worthless she

thought he was. Well--I prescribed Ignatia, and she was cured of it in

a week. She laughs when she talks about him now."

John was forced to smile, but as quickly it died away.

"And is that what you want me to do?" he asked. "Do you want me to be

able to laugh when I talk about the lady of St. Joseph? You'd be as

sorry as I should, if I did. It would hurt you as much as it would me."

"Then you won't take it, John?" She looked up imploringly into his face.

"No--no charms or potions for me. Besides--" he bent down close to her

ear--"the lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to see you this

afternoon."

With a little cry of delight, she threw the bottle of Ignatia down upon

the table and caught his face in her trembling hands.

CHAPTER XXXI

THE SACRIFICE

A belief in Ignatia argues a ready disposition for Romance.

The mind of the little old white-haired lady belonged to that period

when love was a visitation only to be cured by the use of simples,

herbs, and magic. She called the treatment--homeopathic. It was her

gentle way of assuring herself that she marched bravely with the times;

that the superstition of the Middle-Ages had nothing whatever to do with

it.

This is all very well; but there is no such scientific name for the

portents told by the flight of a magpie; you cannot take shelter behind

fine-sounding words when you admit to the good fortune brought by a

black cat; there is no marching with the times for you, if you are

impelled to throw salt over your left shoulder. You are not stepping it

with the new generation then. And all these things were essentials in

the life of the little old white-haired lady. Certainly there were no

flights of magpies over the tiny Italian garden at the back of the

_Palazzo Capello_ to disturb the peace of her mind with joyous or

terrible prognostications. But the resources of an old lady's

suspicions are not exhausted in a flight of magpies. Oh, no! She has

many more expedients than that.

The very day before John's announcement of the advent of the lady of St.

Joseph to Venice, she had seen the new moon, a slim silver sickle, over

her right shoulder. There is good omen in that. She had gone to bed

the happier because of it. What it betokened, it was not in the range

of her knowledge at the time to conceive. Destiny, in these matters, as

in many others, is not so outspoken as it might be. But immediately

John told her, she remembered that little slip of a moon. Then this was

what it had heralded--the coming of the lady of St. Joseph.

As soon as their meal was finished, John went out to the Piazza, the

meeting place which he had arranged with Jill, leaving his mother and

Claudina to make all preparations for his return. How fast the heart of

the little old white-haired lady beat then, it would be difficult to

say. She was as excited as when Claudina put the treasures away to bed

in their night-caps. Her little brown eyes sparkled, for a party to old

people is much the same as is a party to a child. The preparations for

it are the whirlwind that carries the imagination into the vortex of the

event. And this, for which she was getting ready, was all illuminated

with the halo of Romance.

Sometimes, perhaps, a wave of jealousy would bring the blood warmly to

her cheeks. Supposing the lady of St. Joseph was not equal to her

expectations? Supposing she did not fulfil her hopes and demands of the

woman whom she had destined in her mind to be the wife of her son? How

could she tell him? How could she warn him that he was unwise? How

could she show him that the woman he loved was unworthy of him? It

would be a difficult task to accomplish; but her lips set tight at the

thought of it. She would shirk no duty so grave or serious as that.

Yet all these fears, with an effort, she put away from her. A generous

sense of justice told her that she might judge when she had seen, so she

sent out Claudina when everything was ready, to buy some cakes at

Lavena's and, stealing into her bedroom, knelt down before the little

altar at her bedside.

There, some ten minutes later, her husband found her. It was not her

custom to pray at that time of the afternoon, unless for some special

request and, for a moment, he stood in silence, watching the white head

buried in the pathetically twisted hands, the faint rays of the little

coloured lamp before the image shining through the silken silver of her

hair.

When at last, she raised her head and found him standing there, a smile

crept into her eyes. She beckoned to him silently to come to her, and

when he reached her side, she pulled him gently to his knees.

"What is it?" he whispered.

"I'm praying for John," she whispered back, for when you kneel before an

altar, even if it is only rough-made out of an old box, as was this, you

are in a chapel; you are in a cathedral; you are at the very feet of God

Himself and you must speak low.

"What about him?" he whispered again.

She put her dear lips close to his ear with its tuft of white hair

growing stiffly on the lobe, and she whispered:

"The lady of St. Joseph is in Venice. She's coming to tea this

afternoon."

And then, looking round over his shoulder, to see that he had closed the

door--because old gentlemen are sensitive about these things--his arm

slipped round her neck and both their heads bent together. It was, after

all, their own lives they were praying for. Every prayer that is

offered, every prayer that is granted, is really for the benefit of the

whole world.

What they prayed for--how they prayed; what quaint little sentences

shaped themselves in her mind, what fine phrases rolled in his, it is

beyond power to say. Certain it is that a woman comes before her God in

all the simplest garments of her faith, while a man still carries his

dignity well hung upon the shoulder.

Presently, they rose together and went into the other room. Everything

was in readiness. The blue and white cups were smiling in their

saucers; the brass kettle was beginning its tempting song upon the

spirit stove.

"Do you like my cap?" asked the little old white-haired lady and,

looking down to see if his waistcoat was not too creased, the old

gentleman said that it was the daintiest cap that he had ever seen.

"Poor John will be very shy," she continued, as she sat down and tried

to fold her hands in her lap as though she were at ease.

"John! shy!"

The old gentleman laughed at the idea of it and kissed her wrinkled

cheek to hide his excitement. John, shy! He remembered the days of his

own love-making. He had never been shy. It was like an accusation

against himself. Besides, what woman worth her salt would have anything

to do with the love-making of a man who was shy? John, shy! He

straightened his waistcoat for the second time, because it was getting

near the moment of their arrival, the kettle was nearly boiling, and he

was beginning to feel just a little bit embarrassed.

"Did John say when they were going to be married?" he asked presently.

"Oh, but you mustn't say that to him!" she cried out quickly. "Why, he

told me that he would never see her again. He said that they were

friends--just friends. But d'you think I can't guess! Why has she come

to Venice? She must have known he was here. Oh, he'll tell nothing

about it. We must just treat her as if she were a friend. But----"

She shook her head knowingly, not caring to finish her sentence.

Of course, she guessed it all--their meeting in the chapel--their

meeting in Kensington Gardens! A young man and a young woman do not meet

like that, unless it be that there is some good reason for it.

Besides--that last candle! What woman could fail to fall in love with a

man, who had thought of such a gentle consideration as that, even

letting alone the fact that that man was her son? There are some things

in this world which a woman knows and it is not the faintest use trying

to contradict her. To begin with, she is bound to be right, and

secondly, if it were possible to prove her wrong, it would only convince

her the more firmly of her opinion.

The old lady knew quite well what she was talking about. These two were

as fondly in love with each other as it was possible for them to be.

Their meeting here in Venice, after John had assured her that they were

never going to see each other again, was all the proof that she needed

of it. And with this knowledge held firmly in the heart of her, she was

already pre-disposed to see those signs by which, in spite of all their

cleverness, two people are bound in this predicament to show their

hands.

At last the bell clanged loudly. Its jangling hammered like echoes

beating to and fro against the walls of their hearts. The old lady set

straight her cap for the twentieth time; for the twentieth time, the old

gentleman pulled down his waistcoat, then he crept to the door and

looked out into the big room.

"Claudina's going!" he whispered back over his shoulder. "She's opened

the door. Yes--it's John!"

He came back quickly to his seat and there, when the two visitors

entered, they were sitting opposite to each other, quite placidly, quite

calmly, as though there were nothing left to happen in the world. Yet I

doubt if four hearts ever beat so quickly beneath such quiet exteriors

as these.

"This is Miss Dealtry," said John--in much the same tone of voice as

when he had told the cabman to drive to the opera.

The old gentleman had risen from his chair and, coming forward, with

that air--it is the air of courtesy--which makes a woman feel a queen,

if she is only a washerwoman, he took her hand, bowed low as he gently

shook it and then, drawing her further into the room, he bowed solemnly

again.

"My wife," said he, just catching the last note from the tone of John's

voice.

The little old white-haired lady held out her hands and, as Jill saw the

tortured, twisted fingers, her heart shuddered in pity. But before that

shudder could be seen, she had bent down and kissed the wrinkled face

that was lifted up to hers and from that moment, these two loved each

other.

With women, these things are spontaneous. A woman will go through the

play of pretending to kiss another; she will put forward her cheek,

mutter an affectionate word and kiss the air with her lips. No one is

deceived by it. The lookers-on know quite well that these two must hate

each other. The actors know it perfectly well themselves. But once the

lips of two women meet, their hearts go with the touching.

From the instant that the lips of the little old lady touched Jill's,

there was sealed a bond. They both loved John, and in that kiss they

both admitted it. The mother wanted no further proof than this. Then

all jealousy vanished. With that kiss, she made the mother's sacrifice,

the sacrifice which is the last that the incessant demands of nature

makes upon her sex. She gave up the love of her son into the keeping of

another woman. And when Jill stood up again, the old lady's heart had

died down to a quiet, faint measure, fainter perhaps a little than it

had been before. Her life was finished. There was only left the

waiting and her eyes, still bright, sought John's, but found them fixed

on Jill.

CHAPTER XXXII

THE DEPARTURE--VENICE

Before that little tea party was over, these two old people had won the

heart of Jill. For all the world, they were like two children, making

believe with the most serious things in life. Like children, they

looked at each other in surprise when anything happened, or when

anything was said. Like children, they laughed or were intensely

earnest over their game. Like children, it seemed as if they were

playing at being old, he, with his nodding of the head, she, with her

crumpled figure and withered hands.

Sometimes at a thing that John would say, they would look at each other

and smile. It had reminded them of something far back in the years of

which neither John nor Jill knew anything. And in this again, they were

like children, upon whose faces one may sometimes trace a distant look

of memory--a look that is very marvellous and very wise--as though they

were gazing back into the heart of Time from which the hand of destiny

has brought them.

Yet it was not only this--this charm of wonderful simplicity--but that

whenever Jill looked up, she found their eyes resting tenderly on her.

It seemed--she did not understand why just then--as though they were

trying mutely to tell her how fond of her they were.

Then, when the old gentleman handed her her cup of tea, she recognised

from the description, the china of blue and white and turned with a

smile to John.

"Aren't these the cups?" she asked gently.

He nodded his head and tried to smile, too. The old lady watched those

smiles. Her eyes never left them for a moment.

"I've been told about these cups," Jill explained to the others. "Your

son told me one day when--when he was giving me a description of where

you lived."

"That's the real Chinese cobalt," said the old gentleman. "John told

you that of course."

"Well--no--they were not described in detail--at least----" suddenly she

found the blood mounting to her cheeks. "I--I knew that they had no

handles."

Why did she blush? The little old lady had not failed to see that

sudden flame of colour. Why did she blush? Something she had

remembered? Something that John had said? She looked quickly at her

son. His eyes were bent on Jill.

Oh, yes, they loved. There was no fear of her mistaking that. There

was a secret between them; a secret that had set free a flood of colour

to Jill's cheeks, that had brought a look of fixed intent into John's

eyes. What other could such secret be between a boy and girl, than

love? No one can keep it; but it is the greatest secret in the world.

Before the tea was over, they had betrayed it in a thousand different

ways to the sharp, bright eyes of the little old white-haired lady.

When vying with John to do honour to their guest, the old gentleman

persuaded Jill to take from the plate he proffered, then she bent her

head and smiled to see her husband's pride and poor John's discomfiture.

"She loves him! She loves him!" she whispered in her heart. "She is

the very woman for my John!"

"A charming little girl," whispered the old man's vanity, as he proudly

bore the plate back to the table. "Exactly the woman I would have

chosen for John myself."

And John was disconsolately wondering why, if she loved him, Jill had so

patently refused his offering.

Why had she refused? The little old white-haired lady knew that. She

wanted to please his father, because she loved John. That was their

secret. How it affected the blue and white china, she could not guess;

but that was their secret--they loved.

Only by exercising the greatest control over herself, could she refrain

from drawing her aside and telling Jill all she had seen, all she had

guessed, and all she hoped.

Presently, without seeking for it, the opportunity presented itself.

They had been eating little jam sandwiches--jam sandwiches, which

Claudina knew how to cut so thin, that the bread was almost threadbare,

and looked as if it wanted darning. They melted in your mouth, but then,

they made your fingers sticky. Jill looked ruefully at hers when the

tea was over. Holding them away from her at arm's length, she made a

little grimace. When one was young, one's mouth was the best, the

quickest, the most approved-of remedy for these matters. She might have

wished she were a child then, but wishing was all. She asked to be

allowed to wash them.

"You will come into my room, dear," said the little old lady eagerly,

and away she led her, where John could not hope to follow.

Ah, then she was cunning, when once she had her alone! What subtle

little compliments she paid! You would scarcely believe how cunning she

could be.

"That is your little altar?" said Jill, when she had dried her hands.

As she walked across to it, the old lady took her arm. It needed but

little manipulation from there to slip her hand into Jill's. It needed

but little management to show her in a hundred tender ways as she clung

to her for support, that she found her very dear, very loveable.

The hearts of women are responsive things. When there is sympathy

between them, they touch and answer, as though some current united them,

as well indeed it may.

So gentle, so expressive were those simple signs that passed between

Jill and the little old white-haired lady, that Jill was stricken in

conscience, realising all that they meant and wondering, almost

guiltily, what they would think of her if they knew. They must never

know. She could not bear the thought that these two old people, far

away in Venice as they might be, should hold in their hearts anything

but the affection which they were showing to her then.

"I was praying here just before you came," said the little old lady in a

whisper.

Jill pressed the withered hand.

"Do you know what I was praying for?"

A sudden fear seized Jill. She felt her forehead cold.

"No----" she tried to smile--"How could I know?"

"I was praying for John." She looked up simply into Jill's face. "He's

such a dear boy, you don't know. Look at the way he comes every year to

see us--all the way from London. I wonder would any other son do as

much. Do you think they would?"

She asked the question as naively as if, were there any doubt about it,

she really would like to know. You might have known there was no doubt

in her mind.

Before that little altar then, was a dangerous place to discuss such

subjects. Jill drew her gently away towards the door.

"Do you think there are any other sons have such a mother?" she said.

"Why don't you ask yourself that question?"

The little old lady looked up with a twinkle in her eyes. "I thought

perhaps you'd understand it better that way," she answered.

"Besides--it's easy to be a mother. You have only to have a son. It's

not so easy to be a son, because you need more than a mother for that."

Jill looked at her tenderly, then bent and kissed her cheek.

"I think John's very like you," she whispered. She could not keep it

back. And that was as much as the little old white-haired lady wanted;

that was all she had been playing for. With her head high in triumph,

she walked back with Jill to join the others.

Soon afterwards Jill declared she must go; that her friends would be

waiting for her.

"But when----" the old people began in a breath, then stopped together.

"You say, my dear," said the old gentleman--"I can wait."

Oh, no--she would not hear of it. He began first. Let him say what he

wanted to. He shook his head and bowed. John caught Jill's eye and

they held their laughter.

"Then when----" they both began again together and this time, they

finished out their sentence--"are we going to see you again?"

We share the same thoughts when we know each other well. But life runs

along in its separate channels with most people. They may be many years

beneath the shadow of one roof, yet for all they know of each other,

they might live at opposite ends of the earth, so little is it given to

human beings to understand humanity; so little do people study it except

in the desires which are in themselves.

In these two old people, it was quite charming to see one standing out

of the way to let the other pass on, as if they both were going in

vastly different directions, and then, to find that one was but speaking

the other's thoughts.

They all laughed, but their laughter died away again when Jill announced

that in two days she was leaving Venice for Milan, passing through the

Italian lakes on her way back to England.

"You only stay three days!" exclaimed the little old lady, and she

looked quickly at John. But John had known of it. There was no

surprise in his face. He breathed deeply; looked away out of the window

over the old Italian garden--that was all.

They made her promise to come the next day to lunch--to tea again if she

would--to stay with them the whole day. John looked to her appealingly

for her answer.

"But I can't leave my friends all that time," she said reluctantly.

"I'll come to lunch--I'll try and stay to tea. I can't do more than

that."

Then John took her down to her gondola. In the archway, before they

stepped on to the _fondamenta_, he took her arm and held her near him.

"You're sure it's too late?" he said hoarsely, below his breath.

"You're sure that there is nothing I could do to make things

different--to make them possible?"

She clung to him quietly. In the darkness, her eyes searched

impenetrable depths; stared to the furthest horizons of chance, yet saw

nothing beyond the track of many another woman's life before her.

"It is too late," she whispered--"Oh, I should never have come! I

should never have seen these two wonderful old people of yours. Now I

know all that the City of Beautiful Nonsense meant. You very nearly

made them real to me that day in Fetter Lane; but now I know them. Oh,

I don't wonder that you love them! I don't wonder that you would come

every year--year after year to see them! If only my mother and father

were like that, how different all of it would be then."

"You haven't the courage to break away from it all?" asked John

quietly--"to make these old people of mine--to make them yours. If I

couldn't support you over in London, you could live with them here, and

I would do as much of my work here as possible."

Jill looked steadily into his eyes.

"Do you think I should be happy?" she asked. "Would you be happy if, to

marry me, you had to give up them? Wouldn't their faces haunt you in

the most perfect moments of your happiness? Wouldn't his eyes follow you

in everything you did? Wouldn't those poor withered hands of hers be

always pulling feebly at your heart? And if you thought that they were

poor----?"

"They are," said John. He thought of the Treasure Shop; of that

pathetic figure, hiding in the shadows of it, who would not sell his

goods, because he loved them too well.

"Could you leave them to poverty then?" said Jill.

"So it's too late?" he repeated.

"I've given my word," she replied.

He lifted her hand generously to his lips and kissed it.

"Then you mustn't come to-morrow," he said quietly.

"Not see them again?" she echoed.

"No. You must send some excuse. Write to my mother. Say your friends

have decided to stop at Bologna on their way to Milan and that they are

going to start at once. She loves you too well--she counts on you too

much already. It'll be a long time before I can drive out of her head

the thought that you are going to be my wife. And I don't want to do it

by telling her that you are going to be married to someone else. She

wouldn't understand that. She belongs to an old-fashioned school, where

ringlets and bonnets and prim little black shoes over dainty white

stockings, make a wonderful difference to one's behaviour. She probably

couldn't understand your wanting to see them under such a circumstance

as that. She could scarcely believe that you cared for me and, if she

did, would think that we shouldn't see each other, as perhaps, after

this, we shan't. No, I shall have quite enough difficulty in driving

you out of her mind as it is. You mustn't come and see them to-morrow.

She'll nearly break her heart when she hears it, but nearly is not

quite."

"Shan't I ever see them again then?" she asked below her breath.

He shook his head.

"This is the last time you'll see any of us."

She put her hands on his shoulders. For a moment, she clung to him, her

face closely looking into his as though she must store him in her memory

for the rest of time. He shut his eyes. He dared not kiss her. When

the lips touch, they break a barrier through which floods a torrent

there is no quenching. John shut his eyes and held back his head, lest

the touching of her hair or the warmth of her breath should weaken his

resolve.

"How am I to do it?" she whispered. "I feel as though I must stay now;

as though I never wanted to go back home again."

He said nothing. The very tone of his voice would have been persuasion

to her then. Slowly, she unclasped her fingers; as slowly she drew

herself away. That was the last moment when he could have won her.

Then she was his as the blood was rushing through him, as her pulses

were throbbing wildly in time to his. But in love--it may be different

in war--these things may not be taken so. Some vague, some mystical

notion of the good does not permit of it.

"You must be going," said John gently. "We can't stay here."

She let him lead her to the door. As it came open to his hand and the

greater light flooded in, he knew that it was all finished.

She stepped down into her gondola that was waiting, and the gondolier

pushed off from the steps. Until it swayed out of sight, John stood

motionless on the fondamenta, watching its passing. Sometimes Jill

looked back over her shoulder and waved a little handkerchief. John

bent his head acknowledging it.

But neither of them saw the two white heads that, close together in a

window up above, were whispering to each other in happy ignorance of all

the misery which that little white handkerchief conveyed.

"You see how long they took to get down the steps," whispered the old

lady.

"Oh, I don't know that you can judge anything by that," replied her

husband. "Those steps are very dark to anyone not accustomed to them."

She took his arm. She looked up into his face. Her brown eyes twinkled.

"They are," she whispered back--"very dark--nearly as dark as that

little avenue up to the house where I lived when you first met me."

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SIXTEENTH OF FEBRUARY--LONDON

The abhorrence of Nature for a vacuum, is nothing to her abomination of

unfinished work. In the great Tapestry which Time sits eternally

weaving with the coloured threads of circumstance, there are no loose

ends allowed. Every little picture which finds its way into the mighty

subject of that vast material, must be complete in its symbol of

accomplished Destiny. No ragged edges must there be; no lines

unfinished, no shadow left out. And even, in so inconsequent a matter

as a story of Beautiful Nonsense, some definite completion must be shown

to round the whole, to leave no hanging thread by which the picture

might be unravelled.

When John said good-bye to Jill on the steps of the _fondamenta_, when

the last wave of her little white handkerchief had fluttered into a

curling light upon the water, he had turned back into the house,

believing that the story was irretrievably ended. The last word had been

written. So far as Jill was concerned, he might well close the book and

thank the pen of Chance that it had shown him an ideal as high above the

common conception of life as it is good for the eyes of a man to lift.

But he had not, in this calculation, counted the presence of those two

white heads in the window up above. For him, so far as his eye could

see, Destiny had had its fill, had drained the cup of possibility to its

utmost dregs. But this was not so for them. They had yet to be

appeased. For them, the matter had only just begun. To them, it was

the last shuttle, whose speeding to and fro, would weave in the past

with the present and so fulfil their final justification.

From that day, the little old white-haired lady looked forward to John's

marriage with Jill as to the consummation of her whole life's desire.

She lived--she thought--she ordered her existence for nothing else. Her

disappointment was pathetic to witness when she received Jill's little

note telling her departure the next day. But her beliefs were not

shaken; her hopes were not thwarted. She still saw the last burning of

her romance before the flame should flicker and become a light no more.

She spoke to John about it of course. Sitting in the window one day,

the window that looked down on to the old gentleman's garden, she told

him what she knew; what was not the slightest use his contradicting.

They loved each other. Oh, not a doubt of it! She spoke

authoritatively, as women will on these subjects. Who better able to

than they?

"You really think she loves me, mother?" he asked in a quick moment of

hopefulness.

She took his hand. She lifted one tired arm about his neck.

"Why do you think she came like that to Venice?" she asked. "There's

not a thing she wouldn't do for you--not a place she wouldn't go to in

order to see you. Don't you realise that?"

It was unfortunate she should have chosen that phrase. There were

things, Jill would not do for him. It had needed every effort from him

to find the full value of unselfishness in what she was about to do; but

he could not think that she loved him as his mother would have him

believe. It was unfortunate, her choosing of that phrase. From that

moment, John shrank into himself. He could not bring himself to tell

her the whole truth of it; therefore, it was no good talking any more.

"Her people are too well off," he said, rising with a gesture of despair

from the seat in the window. "They're in a different position

altogether. I've no right to tell her. I've no right to try and win

her affection. It would only be a hopeless business all through."

From that moment, he avoided the subject; from that moment, he became

impregnable whenever the little old white-haired lady tried to assail

him with the weapons of her worldly knowledge.

"I can get John to say nothing," she said one night to her husband. "He

won't speak about it at all."

He put his arms round her in the darkness.

"You're worrying yourself, little woman," he said, sleepily. "I woke up

once last night and you were wide awake. Did you sleep at all?"

"Very little," she admitted.

"Well--you mustn't worry. Leave it to Nature. John will tell her

everything about it one of these days. Young men are always getting on

the high horse and trying to tilt against Nature, and women are forever

offering to assist Nature, thinking she must come off the worst. It's

waste of time either way, my dearest. Nature's a windmill. It'll grind

the flour out of everyone of us when the wind blows. It's no good

tilting at it on a windy day; and it's no good trying to turn the sails

round when it's calm. The wind'll blow,"--he yawned and turned over on

his side--"soon enough." And he was asleep.

She believed so much in what her husband said, did the little old

white-haired lady. It is not often, that after twenty odd years of

married life, a man keeps still alive that ideal of unquestionable

reliability which his wife first found in everything he said. Usually

there comes a time--sad enough in its way, since ideals are almost

everything--when those which once were words of wisdom, fall tainted

with the odour of self-interest. It becomes a difficult thing to

believe in then, that aphorism of your philosopher, which brings him the

warmest seat in the chimney corner, or the softest place in the bed. And

that is the wisdom of a lot of people--a philosophy of self, translated

into a language for others.

By some kink of chance perhaps--though rather it would be kinder to

think, by some quality of mutual affection--the old gentleman had

avoided this tragedy. It is a tragedy; for no man likes a mean motive

to be attributed to his philosophy--especially when it is true. And so,

the old lady still believed in the infallibility of her husband's wisdom

which in its way was quite good. That night at least then, she worried

no more. She turned over her white head in his direction and she fell

asleep. And whenever he turned through the night, she turned as well.

After twenty years or so, these things become mechanical. Life is

easier after twenty years, if you can bear with it till then.

But before John had left, her worries began again and, not daring to

speak to him any more, she was driven to bear her trouble in silence.

She hoped up to the last that he would mention it once more, and a

thousand different times in a thousand different ways, decoyed their

conversations into topics which would suggest it to his mind. Yet

always with the caution of some wary animal pursued, John avoided

it--sheered off and chose another path.

Even on the day of his departure, she yet thought that he would speak

and, clinging gently to him, with her arms about his neck, she

whispered:

"Have you nothing to say to me, John?"

"Nothing--nothing, dearest," he replied, adding the term of endearment

as he saw the bitter look of disappointment in her eyes.

Then he was gone. For another year that vast chamber with its high

windows, and that tiny room which peeped out into it, would be silent of

the sound of his voice. For another year, night after night, these two

old people would continue to look up in surprise when Claudina entered

for the ceremony; they would continue to exclaim: "You don't mean to say

it's ten o'clock, Claudina!" And perhaps, as the days wore on and the

year drew itself out to the thin grey thread, the surprise would get

fainter, the note of exclamation not so emphatic as it used to be. She

took her breath in fear as she thought of it. Supposing the year were

to pass and John had not married Jill? She went into the little altar

in her bedroom and commenced a novena--one of the many that she began

and dutifully finished, before that year had gone.

So, it may be seen, in these two old people, who have woven themselves

so inextricably into this whole story of Nonsense, how Time has by no

means finished with the picture it set itself the weaving on that

mysterious 18th of March, whereof the calendar still keeps its secret.

John went back to his labours in London, but he left behind him, forces

at work of which he knew nothing. The old gentleman was quite right.

Nature has no need of the meddling hand. The seed had been transplanted

into the mind of the little old white-haired lady and, in her, will the

completion of Destiny be found.

For the first few weeks, she wrote her usual letters to John, avoiding

the subject with a rigid perseverance which, she might have known, which

certainly her husband knew, she could never hope to maintain. This

perseverance did not break down all at once. She began with

inconsequent allusions to Jill; then at last, when they called forth no

word of a reply from John, she gave way to the passionate desire that

was consuming her, commencing a long series of letters of counsel and

advice such as an old lady will give, who believes that the world is the

same place that it was when she was a girl.

"_Have you ever spoken to her, John?_" she asked in one of her letters.

"_With your eyes you have. I saw you do it that afternoon at tea. But

the language of the eyes is not enough for a woman, who has never heard

the sound of the spoken word in her ears._"

"_Tell her you love her--ask her to marry you, and if she says no--don't

believe her. She doesn't mean it. It's more or less impossible for a

woman to say yes the first time. It's over so soon._"

"_You say her people are wealthy; that they are in a very different

position to you. Of course, I know blood is thicker than water, but

love is stronger than them both. And, after all, their position is one

of luxury--that is of the body. Your's is a position of the mind.

There is no comparison._"

"_I lie awake sometimes at night, thinking of all the trials and

troubles your father and I had to go through before we found our corner

in the world, and then I know how much more worth than youth or luxury,

pleasure or ease, is love._"

"_I believe in that short time she was here, she became very fond of me,

and in one of those moments when one woman shows her heart to

another--they are very seldom--it was when she came to wash her hands

after eating the jam sandwiches--she said she thought you were very like

me. Now comparisons, with women, are not always odious; it is generally

the only way they have of describing anything._"

"_I am sending you a bracelet of jade to give to her. It is very old.

I will send you the history of it another time. I have it all written

out somewhere. Anyhow, it belonged to one of the great Venetian ladies

when Leonardo Loredano was Doge. Give it to her as coming from you. It

does come from you. I give it you. A gift, however small, however

poor, means a great deal to a woman. She reads a meaning into it--the

very meaning I send with this._"

"_Oh, my dear boy, will you tell me nothing. Don't you know how my

heart must be aching to hear some news of your happiness. It is the

last happiness I shall know myself. Don't delay it too long._"

These extracts from the letters written by the little old white-haired

lady to her son, John, over that period of the first three months after

her meeting with Jill, could occupy the space of many a page in this

history. But these few which, with John's permission, I have quoted

here, are sufficient to show how close her heart was wrapt up in the

fortunes of his love-making.

Hoping, that, in his reticence on the subject, she might in time grow to

lose interest, finally even forgetting Jill's existence altogether, John

procrastinated, putting off, putting off the day when he must tell her

all the truth. There was, too, he has admitted it, some fanciful sense

of satisfaction intricately woven in with the pain he felt when he read

those letters of hers every week. It was nonsense again, perhaps, but

it kept the idea a living reality in his mind. He came to look forward

to them as to the expression of a life that was too wonderful, except to

dream of. And so, as an Eastern takes his opium and, retiring into the

gloomy shadows of his den, is transported into the glorious heavens of a

phantom creation, John read these letters of his mother's in his room in

Fetter Lane. There, the passings to and fro of Mrs. Rowse, the hawker's

cries and the screams of the parrot on the other side of the road, had

no power to waken him from his sleep, so long as it lasted.

For nearly three months--week after week--he received these letters,

dreamed his dreams and, in writing back to the little old white-haired

lady, tried to allay the expectancy of her mind.

At last it could be done no longer. You may put back the hands of a

clock to your heart's content, but there is no warding off of the

inevitable. There came a letter saying she would write of it no more.

It was not impatient, it was not in anger, but in the spirit, as when an

old lady lays down her sewing in her lap as the sun sets and, gently

tells you, she can see the stitches no longer.

It was then, that John, knowing what he had lost, conceived another

felonious means of transport--this time the transport of the mind.

Jill was only known to his people as Miss Dealtry. They did not know

where she lived. They knew nothing of her relations. They could not

communicate with her in any way.

For a long while he sat looking at that last letter of his mother's,

where she had said she would write no more of Jill.

"She wants a love story--bless her heart," he said musingly--and Mrs.

Morrell's sandy cat coming at that moment into the room, he repeated it

for the cat's benefit--"She wants a love story," he said. The cat

blinked its eyes, curled a rough red tongue lovingly about its whiskers,

and sat down as though, having half an hour to spare and the

tortoiseshell not being in the way, it was quite ready to listen to it

then.

"And, by Jove!" exclaimed John--"She shall have it!"

Miss Morrell curled her tail comfortably round her in the most perfect

attitude of attention.

"I'll write her a story," said John to Miss Morrell--"a story of

beautiful nonsense--some of it true and some of it made up as I go

along."

And, therewith, he sat himself down to answer her letter.

It was necessary, if he were to re-create the interest of the little old

white-haired lady, for him to meet Jill again. Accordingly, with some

ingenious preamble, in which he explained his silence of the preceding

months, he began with the description of his second meeting with Jill in

Kensington Gardens--that time when she came and spent the entire morning

in telling him that she could not come and meet him that day.

"_Undoubtedly God could have made a place more fitted for Romance than

Kensington Gardens,_" he began--"_but unquestionably He never did._"

And this was how the last tissue of nonsense came to be woven.

Of course, he told her, that it was all a secret. Jill had to keep it a

secret from her people. He had to do that. Well--surely it was true?

He put the question boldly for his conscience to answer, and a look of

the real thing came into his eyes. It was as well, however, that he

thought of doing it, for the old lady was nearly landing him in an

awkward predicament. She enclosed a letter to Jill and asked him to

forward it, as, of course, she did not know the address.

He made a grimace at Miss Morrell when he received it, as though asking

her what she would do under the circumstances. Miss Morrell yawned. It

was so simple. So far, she had taken an interest in the case, had come

in every day since the writing of the first letter to get her saucer of

milk and hear the latest. But if he was going to put questions to her

like this, there was all probability that she would be bored. Of course

there was only one thing to be done. Miss Morrell could see that. And

John did it. He answered the letter himself--wrote in a woman's hand;

which is to say, he wrote every letter slanting backwards--said all that

was important when the letter was finished, and scribbled it in and out

between the date and the address, then, with a last effort at realism,

spelt two words wrong on every page.

By this means, he was getting two letters every week, answering them

both himself with as much industry and regularity as he ever put into

his work.

This was all very well--all very simple so long as it lasted. But even

Miss Morrell, whose eye to the main chance was unerring when it

concerned a saucer of milk, warned him of what would follow. One

morning, he received a letter from the little old white-haired lady,

asking him when they were going to be married.

Quite placidly, he sat down and wrote----

"_We're to be married on the 16th of February. I've taken a small

cottage down in the country. It costs forty pounds a year. I thought

it wise to begin on economical lines. There's a little rustic porch to

the front door, with William Allan Richardson roses climbing all over

it. In the front, there are ten feet of garden, protected from the road

by a wooden railing about two foot and a brick high with a tiny gate

that's always locked to prevent burglars getting in. Three pink

chestnuts combine to give it the appearance of an ambrosial park. At

the back, there's a little lawn, just large enough for pitch and

toss--I've measured it myself, it takes thirty-nine and a half of the

longest steps I can take. And in the middle there's an apple

tree,--that's likely to have a crop of three this year._"

Miss Morrell closed her eyes in silent acquiescence when he read it out

to her. It is possible that she may have considered him extravagant

and, having that eye to the main chance, wondered whether he would be

able to afford her her basin of milk with all this expenditure on two

establishments. She did not say it, however, and listened patiently

when he told her of other arrangements he had made.

"I forgot to tell you," he said, taking Miss Morrell on his knee--"that

Lizzie Rowse is going to give up sticking labels on the jam-jars at

Crosse and Blackwell's and is coming to do housemaid, cook, and general

help for seven and sixpence a week--including beer money as she doesn't

drink. I wanted to pay her more, but she wouldn't take it. I asked her

why and she said, because she mightn't get it; that it was better to be

certain of things in this world, rather than spending your life in

hoping for what was too good to be true. It was no good my telling her

that the whole business was only going to be transacted on paper, and

that black and white would be the colour of everything she'd ever make

out of it. But no! Seven and six was what she stuck at. As it was, it

was a rise of sixpence to what she was getting at the jam-jars, and she

wouldn't take a penny more. She said I'd been too kind to her as it

was."

Miss Morrell listened to all this with contempt. Mrs. Rowse was not in

good repute just then. They thought very nasty things about her on the

third and second floors--what is more, they said them, and in tones

quite loud enough for Miss Morrell and her tortoiseshell companion to

hear.

Mrs. Rowse, it appeared, had spilt some water on the landing mid-way

between the first and second floor where was the water cock common to

the entire uses of the whole establishment. Five drops would convey an

idea of about the amount she had spilled. At a first glance, this may

seem very slight, but when it is explained that the stairs from the

first to the second floor were covered with linoleum specially purchased

by Mrs. Brown to make the approach to her residence the more ornate, it

will be easily understood what a heinous offence this was.

Mrs. Brown had spoken about it and the untidy habits of the people on

the first floor generally, in tones so opprobrious and so loud that not

only the first floor, but indeed the whole house had heard her.

Following this, there had appeared, stuck upon the wall so that all who

approached the fountain must read, the accompanying notice--"If persons

spill the water, will they have the kindness to slop it up."

It may be imagined how, in the effort to compose so reserved a notice as

this, the feelings of Mrs. Brown, aided and abetted by Mrs. Morrell,

must have overflowed in speech, all of which, of course, Miss Morrell

would undoubtedly have heard. Hence her contempt.

When John had finished his dissertation upon the generosity and good

qualities of Lizzie Rowse, Miss Morrell climbed down quietly from his

knee. She was too dignified to say what she thought about it and so,

with tail erect, stiffened a little perhaps for fear he might not

perceive the full value of her dignity, she walked from the room.

The time passed by. It grew perilously near to that 16th of February.

But John took it all very placidly; probably that is the way, when one

does these things on paper. He invented all day long, and took as much

pride in the ingenuity and construction of those letters as ever he took

over his work.

"We went last night to the pit of a theatre," he said one morning to

Miss Morrell. "Took Mrs. Rowse and Lizzie and Maud. The two girls

persisted in eating oranges till Maud put a piece of a bad one in her

mouth; then they both stopped. I was rather glad, Maud got hold of a

bad one, because I was just racking my brains to know how I could stop

them without giving offence."

Miss Morrell looked quietly up into his face.

"You shouldn't take those sort of people to a theatre," said she.

John took no notice of her grammar. "It was Jill's idea," he replied.

On the 16th of February, right enough, they were married. Miss Morrell

came that morning to drink her saucer of milk in honour of the event.

She walked in without knocking. It was her privilege. John was seated

at his table, with his head buried in his hands, his shoulders shaking

like a woman's with sobs that had no tears in them. And there, before

him, with their paper wrappings all scattered about the place, were a

pair of Dresden china shepherds, playing gaily on their lutes. Hanging

about the neck of one of them was a card, on which was written: "_To

John on his wedding day--from his loving father_."

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE DISSOLUBLE BONDAGE

If only it were that these things could continue--but alas! they cannot!

We make our bubbles with all the colours of heaven in them, but cannot

abide to see them only floating in the air. The greens and purples, the

golds and scarlets, they seem so real upon the face of that diaphanous,

crystal disc, that to touch them, to find their glorious stain upon the

fingers, becomes the desire of every one of us. Out stretches the hand,

the fingers tighten! The bubble is gone!

That was much the way with John's beautiful bubble of Nonsense. So long

as Jill knew nothing of it; so long as he played with the fairy thing by

himself, it was enough; but the every-day business of life, in which

death is one of the unavoidable duties, intervened. One cannot play at

these wonderful games for long. You cannot be married on paper--more

perhaps is the pity. There would be fewer separations, fewer

misunderstandings if you could. Life unfortunately does not permit of

it. The law of Gravity is universal. You come down to earth.

When John had been living a married life of unbroken happiness for two

months, there came two letters on the same day to Fetter Lane. He

looked at one with no greater bewilderment than he did at the other.

The first was from Venice in a strange handwriting; the second, from

Jill. He opened it apprehensively. It could not be an invitation to

her wedding? She could not have done that? Then what?

"_Is there any reason why we should not see each other again? I shall

be in Kensington Gardens to-morrow at 11.30._"

He laid it down upon the table. For the moment, he forgot the existence

of the other letter. In the midst of all his make-believe, this message

from Jill was hard to realise; no easy matter to reconcile with all the

phantoms in whose company he had been living.

What strange and unexpected things were women! Did ever they know what

they wanted? or, knowing, and having found it, did any of them believe

it to be what they had thought it at first?

Was she married? Since he had come back from Venice, the world might

have been dead of her. He had heard nothing--seen nothing--and now this

letter. Like the falling of some bolt of destruction from a heaven of

blue, it had dropped into his garden, crushing the tenderest flowers he

had planted there, in its swift rush of reality.

She wanted to see him again. The mere wish was a command; the mere

statement that she would be in Kensington Gardens, a summons. All his

sacrifice, his putting her away from him that day of her departure in

Venice, was in one moment gone for nought. All this dream in which he

had been living, became the bubble broken in the hand of such

circumstance as this. While it had lasted, while he had continued to

hear nothing of her, it had been real enough. Up till that moment, he

had been happily married, quietly living down at Harefield in the county

of Middlesex, in his cottage with its William Allan Richardson roses and

its insurmountable wooden railing, two foot and a brick high. Every

day, he had been coming up to London to work in Fetter Lane and to get

his letters. Some very good reason, he had given to the old people why

they should write to him there. And now, because he must obey this

summons to go to Kensington Gardens and talk of things, perhaps, that

little mattered, for fear they might embark upon the sea of those things

that did, all his dream had vanished. The only reality left him, was

that he was alone.

With a deep breath of resignation, he turned to the other letter and

opened it.

"_Dear Mr. Grey--I am writing this for your mother, to tell you the

unfortunate news that your father is very ill. He has had a heart

seizure, and, I fear, cannot live more than a few days. I am told by

Mrs. Grey to ask you and your wife to come here as soon as possible. He

knows the worst, and is asking to see you before he dies._"

The paper hung limply in John's fingers. He stared blindly at the wall

in front of him. One hand of ice seemed laid upon his forehead; the

cold fingers of another gripped his heart.

Death--the end of everything--the irrevocable passing into an

impenetrable darkness. It was well enough to believe in things

hereafter; but to put it into practice wanted a power greater than

belief. The old gentleman was going to die. The little old white-haired

lady was to be left alone. How could he believe it? Would she believe

it? Old people must die. He had said that often enough to himself

while they had been well, while there had been no fear of it. He had

said it, as the philosopher says that everything that is, is for the

best. Now, as the philosopher so frequently has to do, he had to put it

to the test.

His father was going to die. In a few days, he would see the last of

him. Then pictures--scenes in his father's life--rode processionally

through his mind. Last of all, he saw him, hands trembling, eyes alight

and expression eager, placing back the Dresden Shepherd in the window of

the Treasure Shop--that same gay figure in china which, with its fellow,

he had sent to John on his imaginary wedding day.

With that picture, came the tears tumbling from his eyes. The wall

opposite became a blurred vision in shadow as he stared at it. And all

the time, the two Dresden Shepherds, perched upon his mantel-piece,

played gaily on their lutes.

In the light-heartedness of his imagination, he had not conceived of

this aspect of his deception. His father had asked to see his wife

before he died. Now, he would give the world that the description had

never been. Already, he could see the look of pain in the old

gentleman's eyes, when he should say--as say he must--that he had had to

leave her behind. Already, he could feel the sting of his own

conscience when, by that bedside in the little room, he invented the

last messages which Jill had sent to make his passing the easier.

It had been simple matter enough to conceive a thousand of these

messages and write them upon paper; it had been simple matter enough to

write those letters, which they were to suppose had come from Jill's own

hand. But to act--to become the mummer in mask and tinsel, beside his

father's death-bed, hurt every sensibility he possessed. It was beyond

him. He knew he could not do it. Jill must know. Jill must be told

everything, the whole story of this flight of his imagination. He

trusted the gentle heart of her, at least, to give him some message of

her own; something he could repeat for his father to hear, without the

deriding knowledge in his heart that it was all a lie, all a

fabrication, which, if the old gentleman did but know, he would reproach

him with in his last moments.

There, then, with the tears still falling down his cheeks, he wrote to

Jill, telling her everything; enclosing the last letter which he had

just received.

"_Give me something to say,_" he begged--"_something which comes from

the kindness of your heart and not from the fiendishness of my

imagination. In those few moments you saw him, he must have shown you

some of the gentleness of his nature; must have shown you something

which, putting aside the blame which I deserve at your hands for all I

have said, expects this generosity from you. I have become a beggar, an

importunate beggar, scarcely to be denied; but I become so with all

humility. Just write me a line. You can see now, that I dare not meet

you to-morrow, now that you know. But send me a line as soon as you

receive this, which I may learn by heart and repeat to him with a

conscience made clear, in so much as I shall know that such words have

actually been said by you._"

When he had posted this, John began the packing of those things which he

would require for the journey. Into the chapel of unredemption he

marched and made an indiscriminate offering of everything he possessed

on his list of sacrificial objects. The high priest swept them all into

his keeping and winked at his acolytes.

The next morning came Jill's reply. John tore it open, and read and

re-read and re-read again.

"_Meet me on Friday morning on the Piazetta at 12 o'clock._"

CHAPTER XXXV

THE WONDER OF BELIEF

To believe, is the greater part of reality.

Despite all argument that flung itself at his credulity, John believed

that Jill would be true to her word. Reasons in multitude there were,

why it should be impossible for her to take such a journey and at such

short notice. He admitted them all, as his mind presented them before

him; yet still he believed. Though his faith trembled a thousand times

in the balance; though common sense warned him insistently that hope was

fruitless; nevertheless, he believed. Even when the little men on the

Plaza began the striking of their twelve strokes on that Friday morning

and, searching the gondolas as they rode in sight, searching them with

eyes burning and pupils dilated in nervous expectancy, yet finding no

sight of Jill, he still had faith that triumphed above all reason and

overcame all doubt.

The vibrations of the last stroke from the great clock in the Square had

died down to the faint trembling in his ear; the single bell in all the

churches was tolling for the Angelus; hope was just beginning to flicker

in John's heart as a candle trembles that feels its approaching end and

then, round the corner of the _Rio San Luca_, shooting quickly into the

Grand Canal, came the twentieth gondola John had espied, in which one

solitary lady was seated. Something about the haste with which this

gondolier plied his oar, something in the attitude of the lady as she

half leant forward, half reclined upon the cushion at her back,

something even in the crisp, swift hiss of the water as it shot away

from the bows, brought him the conviction at last that it was Jill. When

instinct is once awake, it finds a thousand little proofs to give it

assurance.

As the gondola came nearer, the lady moved her position. She had

observed John waiting. He strained his eyes to see through the glare of

light that sparkled up from the dancing water. Then a little white

handkerchief darted out, and fluttering, shook the beating of his heart

with realisation. It was Jill.

In another moment, he was holding her hands and saying the most

common-place words of greeting, but in a voice that held in it all the

joy of his heart. The gondolier stood by smiling, waiting to be paid.

The signora had wanted to be taken quickly to the _Piazetta_, and he had

travelled as fast as if they were going to a funeral. It was almost

payment enough to see her meeting with the signor. Not quite enough,

however, for when they walked away, forgetting, in the embarrassement of

their happiness, what he was owed, he stepped forward and, very

politely, touched John's arm.

"_Doue lire, signor,_" he said and showed some wonderful teeth in a

brilliant smile. John thought of a London cabby under similar

circumstances, giving him three and a smile as well.

Then he turned back to Jill.

"Well--are you going to explain it all?" he asked.

"There's nothing to explain," she said, half laughing. "I'm here--isn't

that enough?"

"But your husband?"

"We're not married yet. I pleaded for a long engagement."

"Then your people?"

"Aren't you satisfied that I'm here?" she said gently. "Does it matter

how I got here? You might just as well be curious to know whether I

came by the St. Gothard or the Simplon. But you don't ask that. I'm

here--you don't worry about that. Then why worry about the other?" and

her eyes twinkled with mystery.

"Is it Mrs. Crossthwaite again?"

She nodded her head with a laugh.

"She's with you?"

"No--she's at her cottage in Devonshire."

"But you'll be found out."

"Not if I go back to-morrow."

"And you are going back?"

"Yes."

"And you came all this way----?"

"Yes--here I am--in the City of Beautiful Nonsense again."

"The little old white-haired lady was right then!" he exclaimed.

"How right?"

"She said that you would come anywhere, that you would do anything for

me."

Jill tried to meet his eyes.

"When did she say that?" she asked.

"Last year--after you had gone."

He watched her as he waited for her to reply, but she kept silent. It

was not a moment in which she dared to speak; moreover, other matters

were waiting.

In St. Mark's, beneath the image of St. Anthony, where they had met the

year before, they chose to go and make their arrangements. There is

everything that is conservative about Romance. Places become dear for

themselves, for the spirit of the Romance which, like a lingering

perfume, still hangs about their corners. The times alter perhaps,

sometimes even the woman herself is different; but the spirit, the

Romance and with them often the place, remain the same.

"You understand all it means, your coming to see them?" he asked when

they were seated. "You understood my letter? You realise what I've

been saying?"

"Yes, every word."

"Then why did you come?"

"I couldn't bear to think of his dying without----" she hesitated, or

did she hang upon the words--"without seeing your--your wife as he

wanted to. Oh, John! Why did you say it? It wasn't right of you! You

ought not to have done it!"

She was angry! His beautiful nonsense had offended her! Might he not

have known that? What woman in the world was there who could have

understood so well as to sympathise with the trick which he had played.

"If it has annoyed you," said he, "why did you come? Of course, I know

it was unpardonable; but then, I thought you'd never know. I didn't

understand how much a fabrication, an invention it was, until I heard

that he was dying and wanted to see you before the end. It had been so

easy to make up till then. I'd become infatuated with my own success.

Then, when I got the letter from the doctor, I realised that I was done.

I couldn't go to his death-bed, making up lies, giving him messages that

had never passed your lips, never entered into your thoughts. I was

done. And I hoped you'd understand. I hoped--like a fool, I

suppose--that you wouldn't be offended."

"But I'm not offended."

He stared at her. Even St. Anthony stared, because St. Anthony does not

know so much about women as you would expect. He knows full well their

extraordinary valuation of trifles, but on serious matters such as

these, he is as ignorant of them as the rest of us.

"You're not offended!" echoed John.

"No."

"Then why did you say I was wrong? Why did you say I ought not to have

done it?"

"Because it was not fair to them. They might have found out. The

little old white-haired lady may find out even now."

"Then you don't think it was unfair to you?"

"You thought I should?"

He nodded emphatically two or three times.

"That, I believe, is the way you judge women. That is why their actions

are so incomprehensible to you. You form an opinion of them and then,

naturally, everything they do seems a mystery, because you won't change

your opinion. They're not the mystery. I assure you women are very

simple. The mystery is that their actions don't conform with your

pre-conceived opinion." She stumbled over those last big words. She

was not quite sure of them. They sounded very large, moreover, they

sounded as if they expressed what she felt. What they really meant was

another matter. She could have told you nothing about that. That is

not the way women choose their words.

"Well now," he said--"we must be going. Of course I haven't been,

though I arrived last night. I counted on your coming."

"Yes," she whispered, "that's the wonderful part about you--you

believe."

She thought of her father--she thought of the man with the brown beard

like St. Joseph. They believed nothing until it was before their eyes.

But a woman likes to be trusted, because at least, she means to do what

she says; sometimes--God knows--she does it.

CHAPTER XXXVI

THE PASSING

It was a greater ordeal than they knew of, for Death, though he is for

ever in our midst, always covers his face, and you may never recognise

the features until that last moment when, with the sweeping gesture of

the arm, he throws aside the folds that enshroud him, and in his quiet

voice, so low, yet so distinct, announces "It is finished."

At the opening of the little door, they beheld the dear old white-haired

lady. Her arms fell about them both and, in her feeble way, she clasped

them to her. It was not hysterical, not that cry of the witless woman

who is faced with the stern matters of life and will lean upon any

shoulder to support her weight. She was losing that which was hers

alone, and these two, though she thought they belonged irrevocably to

each other, belonged also in their way to her. They were all now that

was left her.

"How is he?" asked John, as she led them down that vast chamber to the

deep-set door which opened to the tiny bedroom.

"You're only just in time," she replied. "The priest is with him. It's

just the end."

There was a true, a steady note of reconciliation in her voice. She

knew and had accepted the inevitable with that silent courage which

brave women have. You knew that there would be no sudden passionate

outburst of cries and tears when at last it actually was all over. His

time of departure had come. She recognised it; had faced it bravely for

the last few days. On Claudina's ample bosom, the first wild torrent of

weeping had been made; for your servant, your meanest slave is a woman

when she understands in such moments as these. When her agony had

passed, she had raised her head, brushed away the tears. With warm

water, Claudina had bathed her eyes and then, bravely setting a smile

upon her trembling lips, she had gone to watch by his bedside.

Gently, now, she opened the door and admitted them, then silently closed

it behind her. The jalousies were closed. In faint bars of light, the

sunshine stole into the room and lit it faintly as though stained

through the amber-coloured glass of church windows. In a deep shadow,

burnt the tiny flame of red upon their bedroom altar. Bowed humbly down

before it, knelt the priest, whose even, muttered tones just stirred in

a gentle vibration of sound as of some hive of bees muffled with a heavy

cloth and, only with the sibilant lisping of the breath between his lips

as he pronounced certain letters, did it seem that a man was speaking at

all. It was all so quiet, so even, so monotonous, a gentle noise to

waft a spirit to its last sleep.

In a dark corner of the room, away from the rest, almost lost in the

shadow, knelt Claudina, her head bent low upon her breast, her shoulders

gently lifting and falling in sobs that were tuned low to the silence.

She did not look up as they entered. The priest did not move his head.

It all continued, just as if nothing had happened and, lying still,

inert upon the pillow, almost lost in the big bed, was that silent

figure of the old white-haired gentleman, who never stirred, nor uttered

any sound, as though the chanting of the priest had already lulled him

to his infinite sleep.

They all knelt down by the bedside, buried their faces in their hands,

and the chanting continued.

What thoughts passed through the minds of those two who knelt there,

playing their part, acting the life which both of them knew could never

be real, it would be impossible to say. In the face of death, the mind

has such simple thoughts, that words can scarcely touch their

expression. Remorse may have scourged them; it may have been that, in

seeing the peaceful passing of his spirit, they were satisfied that what

they did was for the best; or, in the deepest secrets of their hearts

they may have been longing that it all were true. Yet, there they both

knelt, with the little old white-haired lady by their side. For all the

world you might have thought, as did all the others in the room, that

they were husband and wife on the very threshold of that journey through

the years of which this death-bed meeting was the gate where all must

pass out into the land that is in the blue haze beyond.

Presently, the voice of the priest became silent. The heads of all sank

lower in their hands as the Extreme Unction was given. God visits the

earth in great silences. It was a wonderful silence then. The wine

gurgling softly into the cup, the unfolding of the little napkin, the

patten lying on the tongue, the last brave effort as the old gentleman

swallowed the sacred bread, were all noises that thrilled and quivered

in that silence.

Then it was all passed, all finished, the spirit cleansed, the last

gentle confession made of such sins of thought and deed as a brave and

generous gentleman is capable of. The priest rose to his feet and,

taking his little vessels with him in their case, stole quietly from the

room. A moment or so passed in still deeper silence. At last Claudina

rose. She crossed herself as she passed the little altar, crept also to

the door and went away.

Now the silence was still deeper than before, as though, in the mere

functions of their living, these two had taken with them their

disturbing elements of full-blooded life from this place where life was

so fainting and so weak. When they had gone, the very vibrations of air

seemed more still and a greater quietness fell with their absence.

And the three who remained, continued there motionless on their

knees--motionless, until, in the midst of the silence, came the

whispering of a tired voice--a voice, pronouncing with infinite

difficulty, one, single word,

"John--John."

John knelt quickly upright. He stretched out his hand and found a hand

to meet it, a hand that could not hold, that only lay in tender

submission upon his own.

"Father," he said; and that, after all, is the only word that a son can

say--father or mother--they are the last words left in the deepest heart

of a man. He utters them, incoherently almost, when emotion is choking

speech.

"Where is Jill?" the voice whispered again.

Jill crept round on her knees to his side. With one hand below in the

darkness, John held hers. They clasped them and unclasped them as the

sobs rose and broke silently in their throats.

The old gentleman's eyes took a light into them, as he saw their heads

together by his bedside. With a great effort, he strained himself to

rise upon one elbow in the bed and, laying the other hand upon their

heads, he whispered that blessing which it has been in the power of the

father to give from time immemorial.

"God bless you," he whispered. "Make your lives out of love, as I have

made mine. Make your children out of love, as I have made mine. Make

your work out of love--as I have made mine."

His voice burnt low, but yet it burnt. The flame of it was there. It

seared into the very hearts of them. Jill's fingers lay in John's as a

bird that is starved and cold, lies limply in the hand that succours it.

Her cheeks were ashen white. Her eyes stared wildly before her at the

pattern on the counter-pane and tears rolled from them without heed or

stay.

The moments passed then, as the old gentleman leant back upon his

pillows. Without moving, they stayed there with heads bowed down before

him. At last, he moved again. His hand stretched out once more and felt

for John's.

"God bless you my boy," he said, as his son bent over him. "You've made

us very happy. You've set your life just as we could wish. Now do your

work. I expect I shall hear how you get on. They won't keep that from

me. They'll let me see your first happy ending. It's the only way to

end--like this. Now kiss me--you don't mind--this time--do you?"

John kissed him, as pilgrims kiss the feet of God.

"And tell me----" the old gentleman whispered. He paused to breathe as

the thought came swiftly on him. "Tell me--why did you kiss me--on the

forehead--that night--a year ago?"

"I'd seen you in the Treasure Shop, sir--and I----" the words wrestled

in his throat--"I thought you were the finest man I'd ever known."

The old gentleman lay back again upon his pillows. The light of a great

pride was flashing in his eyes. His son had called him--sir. That was

all. Yet in that moment, he felt like a Viking being borne out upon his

burning ship into the sea of noble burial. His son had called him, sir.

He lay still, listening to the great sound of it, as it trumpeted

triumphantly in his ears. His son, who was going to be far greater than

he had ever been, whose work was above and beyond all work that he had

ever done--his son had called him--sir.

Then, for some time, everything was still once more. They bent their

heads again within their hands. At last, the little old white-haired

lady, like

CHAPTER XXXVII

THE CIRCULAR TOUR

The evening, with her quiet feet, had stolen across the sky; night was

fast riding in the wake of her, when at last they left the little old

white-haired lady alone.

Repeatedly John had offered to stay and keep her company.

"You may not sleep, dearest," he said gently. "Someone had better be

with you."

"I shall have Claudina," she replied with a smile of gratitude. "And I

think I shall sleep. I've scarcely been to bed since he was ill. I

think I shall sleep." And her eyes closed involuntarily.

Jill offered to stay, to help her to bed, to sit by her side until she

slept. But, patiently and persistently, she shook her tired, white head

and smiled.

"Claudina understands my little fidgety ways," she said--"and perhaps I

shall be better with her."

Down the vast chamber, she walked with them again to the little door.

Her head was high and brave, but the heart within her beat so faintly

and so still, that sometimes, unseen by them, she put her hand upon her

bodice to assure herself that it beat at all.

Before they pulled the heavy curtain, she stopped and took both their

hands in hers.

"My dear--dear children," she whispered, and for the first time her

voice quivered. A sob answered it in Jill's throat. She tried to face

the old lady's eyes, bright with a strange and almost unnatural

brilliance, but a thousand reproaches cried at her courage and beat it

back.

"My dear--dear children," said the old lady once more, and this time her

voice took a new power into itself. Her figure seemed to straighten,

her eyes to steady with resolve.

"I have something I want to say; something your father would have said

as well, had there been time. I thought of waiting till to-morrow,

perhaps till he was buried. But I'm going to say it now; before you can

tell me what I know you mean to. I discussed it all with your father

before you came, and he quite agreed with me." She paused. A great,

deep breath she drew, as does a painter when he nerves his hand. And in

the gathering darkness in that great room, they waited with all

attention expectant.

"When your father is buried," she began slowly, drawing with reserve

from that long deep breath, "I am going to live on here." Quickly she

raised her hand before John could answer. She thought she knew what he

was going to say. "No!" she said, "you must let me finish. I'm going

to live on here. For the next ten years, these rooms belong to us--and

ten years----" she smiled--"are more than I shall need. I could not

leave here. I know it so well. You want me to come and live with

you--but no----" the white head shook, and a curl fell out of place upon

her cheek. She did not notice it. "No--I know what is best," she went

on. "Your father and I decided what was right. Old people have their

place. They should never get in the way of the ones who are just

beginning. I shall be contented waiting here for the year to come round

to bring you both to see me. Don't think I shall be discontented.

Claudina will take care of me, and I shall not be in your way. You'll

like me all the better in the summer. I get tiresome in the winter. I

know I do. He used not to say so, but Claudina has to admit it. I get

colds. I have to be looked after. Sometimes I'm in bed for days

together and have to be nursed. All of which things," she added,

turning with a bright smile to Jill, "Claudina can do so much more

easily than you. She's more accustomed to them."

And look at my poor hands, she might have said, how much would you not

have to do for me? You would have to dress me, to undress me, to get me

up, to put me to bed. But she hid her hands. Those withered hands had

their pathos even for her. She would not press them upon their notice.

"Think over what I've said, dear," she concluded, looking up to John.

"Tell me what you've thought about it to-morrow, or the next day. I

know all this evening, it has been in your mind to tell me of the

arrangements you have thought of making for me in your little cottage;

but think over it again, from my point of view. Understand it as I do,

and I'm sure you'll find I'm right."

And they could say nothing. In silence, they had listened to all this

indomitable courage, to this little old white-haired lady preparing to

face the great loneliness after death. In silence, Jill had bent down

and kissed her. The last lash had fallen upon her then. She could not

speak. By the bedside of the old gentleman, the utmost tears had

tumbled from her eyes. And now this, from the little old lady, had been

more than she could bear. That sensation which they call the breaking

of the heart, was almost stifling the breath within her. The whole army

of her emotions had been thundering all this time at the gates of her

heart. When she had heard his blessing, she had flung the gates open

wide. Now, they were trampling her beneath their feet. She could not

rise above them. She could not even cry out loud the remorse and pain

she felt.

With John, this silence that was forced upon him was more cruel still.

On a scaffold, set before the crowd, he stood, listening to the loathing

and reproach that groaned in every throat. The little old lady was

making this sacrifice, and yet, he knew a thousand times that he should

not let it be. To stand there then and, in that derisive silence, to

quietly give consent, was the utmost penalty that he could pay. Then,

in the teeth of all reproach, as though to shut out from his ears the

moaning of that cruel, relentless crowd, he caught her slender figure in

his arms and strained her to him.

"My little mother," he said wildly in his breath, "it can't be like

that--it can't be! Something must be done. I'll think it out, but

something must be done."

Then, kissing her again and again, he put her down from him, as you put

back a little doll into its cradle--a little doll which some thoughtless

hand has treated ill.

They said no word to each other as they passed through the archway this

time. In silence, they stepped into the gondola which had been waiting

for them at the steps for an hour and more.

John told him the hotel at which Jill was staying, and the gondolier

pushed out into the black water. Another moment, and they were swaying

into the soft velvet darkness, rent here and there with little points of

orange light, where a lamp burnt warmly in some tiny window.

"And to-morrow," said John presently, "you must go back? Perhaps that's

the hardest part of it."

"I shall not go for a few days," Jill replied quietly.

He looked quickly at her white face. Impulsively his hand stretched out

to hers. She stared before her as he took it. She was like a figure of

ivory, set strangely in black marble, as black as the water itself.

There was no movement from her, no stir, scarcely a sign of life.

"That's good of you," he said in honest thankfulness. "You're being

wonderfully good to me." He repeated it, ruminating, with his eyes

looking out into the distance where hers were set. "But, I might have

known you'd be that."

She shuddered. Praise from him, then, hurt more than all. She

shuddered as if a wind had chilled her.

After a long pause, he moved and spoke again.

"How are you going to manage?" he asked. "What are you going to do?"

"I shall write."

"Home?"

"No--to Mrs. Crossthwaite."

"Is it safe?"

"I think so."

"But you mustn't be discovered," he said quickly. Conscience pulled him

first one way, then another. Every instinct prompted him to accept her

generosity without question. "You must not take too great a risk. Why,

indeed, should you take any?"

The words came slowly. He felt both glad and sorry when once they were

spoken. The tragedy of life is indecision. They bury suicides at the

crossroads, for that is where lurks all tragedy--the indecision of which

way to choose.

At last, she turned her head and looked at him. The hand he held

quickened with feeling. It became alive. He felt the fingers tighten

on his own.

"You are thinking of me?" she said.

"I must," he replied.

"You feel it your duty because I'm here alone?"

He shook his head.

"I don't feel duty," he answered. "There is no such thing. People do

what they do. When it is a disagreeable thing to do, they make it worth

the doing by calling it duty. That is the satisfaction they get out of

it. But everything that is done, is done for love--love of self or love

of other people. Duty is the name that enhances the value of

disagreeable things. But it's only a name. There's nothing behind

it--nothing human, nothing real. I don't feel duty as some do, and so I

never attempt anything that's disagreeable. A thing that is weighed is

repugnant to me. Just now things are very hard--just now I scarcely

know which way to turn. The little old white-haired lady puts her arms

round me and I feel I can't let her go. You hold my hand and I feel

that I would move heaven and earth to save you from a moment's

unhappiness." Reluctantly, he let go her hand and sat upright. "Here

we are; I say good-night here. You must think before you write that

letter."

She put out a detaining hand.

"Tell him to go back to your rooms," she said--"I'll take you back there

before I go in. I've got a lot to say."

John smiled incredulously. He could have asked heaven for no greater

gift. His heart was sick. There was nothing but disillusionment to

which he could look forward. His own disillusionment had come already;

but that of the little old white-haired lady was harder to bear than his

own. Stretching before him, an ugly shadow, he saw the unswerving

promise of that day when he must tell her all the truth; that day, a

year perhaps to come, when, arriving in Venice without Jill, he must

explain her absence, either by another fabrication or the naked fact.

To hide his face from it all a little longer; to have Jill's presence

closing his eyes to it, even though it were only for a speck of time in

the eternity that was to follow, was a reprieve for which he had not

dared to hope.

"You mean that?" he said eagerly.

"Yes."

John gave the order. The gondolier did not smile. Perhaps the motion of

his oar as he swung them round was a gentle comment. Every man has his

different medium of expression. There was once a ballet dancer who,

whenever she became excited and was driven to gesticulation, always

caught her skirt just below the knee and lifted it to show her instep.

It meant more than any words she could ever have uttered.

John sat back again by Jill's side.

"Oh! it's good," he said, half aloud, half to himself.

"What is good?" she whispered.

"To be just a little while longer with you. I dread to-night, I dread

the next few nights to come. I shall see his eyes. I shall hear that

sound in his voice when he called to her. I shall see that brave look

in her face, and hear that whole speech of her sacrifice as we stood by

the door. My God! What wonderful things women can be when they love."

"She's so gentle and yet so brave," said Jill.

"Brave!" he echoed it, but it had not the force of all he felt. "Great

Heavens! Think of her there now, alone. Everything but us gone out of

her life; a sudden rent in the clouds--just a flash, and but for us, in

that moment she's made destitute. And then, with a smile in her eyes, to

give up what little she has. And I, to have to accept it. Lord! what a

fool I've been. I remember that day when Mrs. Morrell's sandy cat came

slouching into the room and I'd just received the letter saying she

would write no more of you. I took that confounded cat into my

confidence--'The little old lady wants a love story,' I said. And the

cat seemed to wink as though it had no objection to hearing one, too.

Then I began. Lord! what a child I am. Not the faintest idea of the

future! No conception of consequence! Just a blind idea of doing

things as they come, without the smallest consideration of results! I

never foresaw that it was going to lead to this. What a child! My

heavens! What a child! He was a child! She's a child! I'm a child,

too! We're a family of children, not fit for one of the

responsibilities of life."

"Do you think you're any the worse for that?" she asked softly.

"I don't know," he shrugged his shoulders. "Upon my soul, it seems now

the greatest crime a man can commit. In a world of grown-up men and

women who can pay their rents and taxes, meet their bills and save their

money, to be a child is a monstrous, a heinous crime."

"Only to those who don't understand," she answered.

"Well--and who does?"

"I do."

"You do? Yes, I know that--but how can you help? You've done more than

a thousand women would have done. You helped me to make his passing a

happy one; you can't do more than that. You're even going to stay on a

few days longer to help this fool of a child still more. That proves

you understand. I know you understand--God bless you."

He shrank into himself despairingly. His whole body seemed to contract

in the pain of self-condemnation, and he pressed his hands violently

over his eyes. Suddenly, he felt her move. He took his hands away and

found her kneeling at his feet, that white face of ivory turned up to

his, her eyes dimmed with tears.

"Do you call it understanding if I leave you now--little child?" she

whispered, and her voice was like the sound in a long-dreamt dream

which, on the morning, he had forgotten and striven to remember ever

since.

Slowly, he took away his hands. Now he recalled the voice. The whole

dream came back. It was summer--summer in England. They were in a

field where cattle grazed under the warm shadows of high elm trees.

Cowslips grew there, standing up through the grass with their thin,

white, velvet stems; here and there an orchid with spotted leaves, a

group of scabii bending their feathered heads in the heat of the day.

Jill sat sewing little garments, and he lay idle, stretched upon his

back, gazing up into the endless blue where the white clouds sailed like

little ships, making for distant harbours. And as she sewed, she talked

of things more wonderful than God had made the day; of things that

women, in the most sacred moments of their life, sometimes reveal to

men.

This was the dream he had forgotten. In his sleep, he had known that it

was a dream; had known that he must remember it all his life; yet in the

morning, but faintly recollected he had dreamt at all. Now, those two

words of hers--little child--and the summer day, the browsing cattle,

the white flutter of the tiny garments, the scent of the fields and the

sound of her voice had all returned in one swift rush of memory.

"What do you mean?" he asked slowly--"if you leave me now, what do you

mean? What do you mean by--little child?"

Both hands, she put out; both hands to clasp on his. The tears ceased

gathering in her eyes. Before God and in great moments, the eyes forget

their tears; there is no trembling of the lips; the voice is clear and

true.

"Don't you remember what he said?" she asked. "'Make your lives out of

love, as I have made mine. Make your children out of love as I have made

mine.' Did you think I could hear that from him without knowing what

you yourself have said just now, that there is no such thing as Duty?"

John stared at her. He dared not interpose. He dared not even answer

the question she had asked, for fear his voice should break the linking

of her thoughts.

"Can you hear him saying--'Make your lives out of duty, as I have made

mine. Make your children out of duty as I have made mine?' Can you

imagine him saying that? Can you feel how it would have grated on your

ears? Yet that's just what I'm going to do; but I didn't realise it

till then."

"What is it you're going to say?" he asked below his breath. "What is

it you're leading to? All this is leading to something. What is it?"

"That I'm not going to leave you, little child. That if, after all,

there is such a thing as Duty, he has shown me what it is."

The gondola bumped against the steps. The voice of the gondolier called

out that their destination was reached. John rose quickly to his feet.

"Go back," he said. "Go back to the hotel."

Away they started again and as he plied his oar, the gondolier gazed up

at the stars, and hummed a muffled tune.

For a few moments, John remained standing. She was not going to leave

him. She was never going to leave him. That was the big thought,

triumphant in his mind. But a thousand little thoughts, like grains of

dust in a great sunbeam, danced and whirled about it. He thought of

those rooms of his in Fetter Lane; of his own improvidence, of the

disreputable appearance of Mrs. Morrell on Saturday mornings when she

cleaned the stairs of the house, and conversed, in language none too

refined, with Miss Morrell. He thought of the impudence of Mrs. Brown,

when she appeared in curling papers and made remarks about her

neighbours with a choice of words that can only be said to go with that

particular adornment of the hair.

But these were only cavilling considerations, which made the big thought

real. He could change his address. Now, indeed, he could go down to

Harefield. He could work twice as hard; he could make twice as much

money. All these things, ambition will easily overcome in the face of

so big a thought as this. She was never going to leave him.

He took her hands as he sat down.

"Do you think you realise everything?" he said; for the first instinct

of the grateful recipient is to return the gift. He does not mean to

give it back; but neither does he quite know how to take it.

She nodded her head.

"All my circumstances? How poor I am?"

"Everything."

"And still----?"

"And still," she replied. "Nothing but your asking could change me."

He sat gazing at her, just holding her hands. Only in real stories do

people at such a moment fall into each other's arms. When the matter is

really nonsense, then people act differently--perhaps they are more

reserved--possibly the wonder of it all is greater then.

John sat silently beside her and tried to understand. It was so

unexpected. He had scarcely even wished that it might be so.

"When did you think this?" he asked presently.

"Just--before he died."

"When he blessed us?"

"Yes."

"Why haven't you said so before?"

"I couldn't. I haven't been able to speak. I've suddenly seen things

real----"

"In the midst of all this nonsense----"

"Yes--and it's taken my breath away. All in a few hours, I've seen

death and love, and I don't know what the change is in me, but I'm

different. I've grown up. I understand. You say I have understood

before; but I've understood nothing. I should never have come here last

year, if I had understood. I should never have continued meeting you in

Kensington Gardens, if I had understood. Women don't understand as a

rule; no girl understands. She would never play with love, if she did.

I know, suddenly, that I belong to you; that I have no right to marry

anyone else. In these last few hours, I've felt that a force outside me

determines the giving of my life, and it has frightened me. I couldn't

say anything. When you said you were a child, then I suddenly found my

tongue. I wasn't afraid any more. I knew you were a child, my

child--my little child--not my master. There's no mastery in it; you're

just my child."

Suddenly she closed her arms round him; she buried her head on his

shoulder.

"I can't explain any more!" she whispered--"It's something I can't

explain--I haven't any words for it."

And, as he held her to him, John thought of the dream he had dreamt, of

the field and the cattle, and the white fluttering of the tiny garments,

and the clouds sailing in the sky, and again came to him the note in her

voice as she told him the most wonderful thing in the whole world.

Then, leaning out from the hood, he called out to the gondolier:

"Just take us out on the Lagoon before we go back."

And they swung round again to his oar.

CHAPTER XXXVIII

A PROCESS OF HONESTY

The very best of us have a strain of selfishness. The most understanding

of us are unable to a nicety to grasp the other person's point of view;

and there will always be some little thing, some subtle matter, which it

is not in the nature of us to perceive in the nature of someone else.

Perhaps this is the surest proof of the existence of the soul.

When, on the steps of the hotel, John bid good-night to Jill, there was

but one regret in the minds of both of them, that that blessing which

they had received at the hands of the old gentleman had come too soon;

that in the receipt of it, they had been impostors, unworthy of so close

a touch with the Infinite.

There is nothing quite so distressing to the honest mind as this and, to

avoid it, to mitigate the offence, it is quite a simple process for the

honest mind to project itself into some further evil of selfishness, so

long as it may gain peace and a free conscience.

"There is only one thing that we can do," said John, and, if good

intentions weigh, however lightly, in the sensitive scales of justice,

let one be here placed in the balance for him.

"I know what you are going to say," replied Jill.

Of course she knew. They had begun to think alike already.

"We must tell her."

She nodded her head.

"We can't deceive her," he went on--"It's bad enough to have deceived

him. And now--well, it's such a different matter now. She must

understand. Don't you think she will?"

With a gentle pressure of his hand, she agreed.

They both pictured her glad of the knowledge, because in the hearts of

them both, they were so glad to be able to tell. For this is how the

honest deceive themselves, by super-imposing upon another, that state of

mind which is their own. With all belief, they thought the little old

white-haired lady must be glad when she heard; with all innocence and

ignorance of human nature, they conceived of her gratitude that such an

ending had been brought about.

"When shall we tell her?" asked Jill.

"Oh--not at once. In a day or so. The day you go, perhaps."

"And you think she'll forgive me?"

He smiled at her tenderly for her question.

"Do you think you know anything about the little old white-haired lady

when you ask that? I'll just give you an example. She abominates

drunkenness--loathes it--in theory has no pity for it, finds no excuse.

Well, they had a gardener once, when they were better off. There's not

a school for the trade in Venice, as you can imagine. Tito knew

absolutely nothing. He was worthless. He was as likely as not to pull

up the best plant in the garden and think it was a weed. But there he

was. Well, one day Claudina reported he was drunk. Drunk! Tito drunk!

In their garden! Oh, but it was horrible--it was disgusting! She could

scarcely believe that it was true. But Claudina's word had to be taken

and Tito must go. She could not even bear to think he was still about

the place.

"Tito--I have heard so and so--is it true?" she said.

Well--Tito talked about not feeling well and things disagreeing with

him. At last he admitted it.

"Then you must go," said she--"I give you a week's wages."

But a piteous look came into Tito's face and he bent his head and he

begged--'Oh, don't send me away, _egregia signora_!' and that cry of his

went so much to her heart, that she almost took his head on her shoulder

in her pity for him. And you say--will she forgive you? Why, her

capacity for forgiveness is infinite! I often think, when they talk of

the sins that God cannot pardon, I often think of her."

She looked up and smiled.

"Do you always tell a little story when you want to explain something?"

she asked.

"Always," said he--"to little children."

She shut her eyes to feel the caress in the words.

"Well, then," she said, opening them again--"we tell her the day after

to-morrow."

"That is the day you go?"

"Yes--I must go then. And may I say one thing?"

"May you? You may say everything but one."

"What is that?"

"That I have been dreaming all this to-night."

"No, you haven't been dreaming. It was all real."

"Then--what do you want to say?"

"That the little old white-haired lady is not to live alone. I'm going

to live with her as much of the year as you'll let me--all of it if you

will."

For one moment, he was silent--a moment of realisation, not of doubt.

"God seems to have given me so much in this last hour," he said, "that

nothing I could offer would appear generous after such a gift. It shall

be all the year, if you wish it. I owe her that and more. But for her,

perhaps, this would never have been."

He took her hand and pressed his lips to it.

"Good-night, sweetheart. And the day after to-morrow then, we tell her

everything."

CHAPTER XXXIX

THE END OF THE LOOM

When the little door had closed behind them, the old lady stood with

head inclined, listening to the sound of their footsteps. Then,

creeping to the high window that looked over the _Rio Marin_,--that same

window at which, nearly a year before, she had stood with her husband

watching Jill's departure--she pressed her face against the glass,

straining her eyes to see them to the end.

It was very dark. For a moment, as John helped Jill into the gondola,

she could distinguish their separate figures; but then, the deep shadow

beneath the hood enveloped them and hid them from her gaze. Yet still

she stayed there; still she peered out over the water as, with that

graceful sweeping of the oar, they swung round and swayed forward into

the mystery of the shadow beyond.

To the last moment when, melting into the darkness, they became the

darkness itself, she remained, leaning against the sill, watching, as

they watch, who long have ceased to see. And for some time after they

had disappeared, her white face and still whiter hair were pressed

against the high window in that vast chamber, as if she had forgotten

why it was she was there and stood in waiting for her memory to return.

Such an impression she might have given, had you come upon her, looking

so lost and fragile in that great room. But in her mind, there was no

want of memory. She remembered everything.

It is not always the philosopher who makes the best out of the saddest

moments in life. Women can be philosophic; the little old white-haired

lady was philosophic then, as she stood gazing out into the empty

darkness. And yet, no woman is really a philosopher. To begin with,

there is no heart in such matter at all; it is the dried wisdom of

bitterness, from which the burning sun of reason has sucked all blood,

all nourishment. And that which has no heart in it, is no fit food for

a woman. For a woman is all heart, or she is nothing. If she can add

two and two together, and make a calculation of it, then let her do it,

but not upon one page in your life, if you value the paper upon which

that life be written. For once she sees that she can add aright, she

brings her pen to all else. The desire of power, to a woman who has

touched it, is a disease.

But it was other than the calculation of philosophy which sustained the

mind of the little old lady at this, the saddest and the most lonely

moment of her life.

As she leant, gazing out of the window down the black line of water that

lost itself in the silent gathering of the houses, there almost was

triumph in her mind. She had lost everything, but she had done

everything. She was utterly alone; but only because she had outlived

her world. And last of all, there was triumph in her heart, because her

world was complete. She could have asked nothing more of it. Her

Romance was rekindled. If there was anything to live for, it was to see

the flames leaping up in some other brazier--those flames which she had

given the spark of her life to ignite. And had she not seen them rising

already? Had she not seen the fire blessed by the only hand to whom the

power of blessing is given? For all she knew, for all she dared to

guess, the old gentleman's blessing had fallen upon a future, further

distant than, perhaps, he dreamed of. What more had desire to ask for

than that?

She remembered how, in those days of doubt and troubling, she had

counted in fear the time which was left in which John should take his

wife. She remembered doubting that they might even live to see the

realisation of such happiness as that.

They were old people. There had no longer been certainty for them in

the counting of the years. And, as this very day had proved, John's

marriage had come none too soon. Had it been later, had they not

received that blessing to which, with all such things as the flights of

magpies and the turnings of the moon, this simple soul of hers gave

magic virtue, then, indeed, she might have looked sorrowfully out of the

high window in the great room.

But no--there had been no such mischance as that. The vivid sense of

completeness filled her heart and raised the beating of it for a few

moments, as the hope of a dying priest is raised by the presentation of

his beloved cross.

And this is the philosophy, the stoicism of women, who will face the

fearsome emptiness of a whole desert of life, so be it, that their heart

is full and satisfied.

Who, passing below on the black strip of water and, seeing her pale,

white face looking out from that high window into the night, could have

conceived of such wonderful reconciliation as this? Who could have

imagined the whole moment as it was? An old gentleman lying in a tiny

room, the lamp still burning on the altar at his side, his hands crossed

upon his breast in an unbreaking sleep; away out upon the water of the

Lagoon, two lovers, young, alight with life, exalted in a sudden

realisation of happiness, and this little old white-haired lady, alone

in that great, high-ceilinged room, with its heavy, deep-coloured

curtains and its massive pictures hanging on the wall and in the heart

of her, a great uplifting thankfulness in the midst of such absolute

desolation as this, a thankfulness that her life was a great, an

all-comprehending fulfilment, that her greatest work was done, her

highest desire reached--who, in the first inspiration of their

imagination, seeing that frail white face pressed close against the

window pane, could have conjured to their mind such a moment as this?

And yet, these simple things are life. A face peering from a window, a

hand trembling at a touch, a sudden laugh, a sudden silence, they all

may hide the greatest history, if one had but the eyes to read.

For more than half-an-hour she remained there without movement almost,

except when she pressed her hand inquiringly to her breast to feel for

the beating of her heart. At last, with a little shudder, as though, in

that moment, she realised the vast space of emptiness in the great room

behind her, she moved away.

Still her steps were steady, still her head was high, as she walked back

to the little room where, evening after evening, year after year, the

old gentleman had sat with her and talked, until the time came when they

must go to bed. For with old people, as you know, it comes to be a

state of--must--they must go to bed. It is not kind to tell them so,

but there it is.

The room was disordered; for a time of sickness is as a time of

siege--the time when Death lays siege upon a house and there are no

moments left to put things as they were.

On any other occasion, she would have fretted at the sight. The world

is sometimes all compassed in an old lady's work-basket, and to upset

that, is to turn the world upside down. But now, as she saw all the

untidiness, the little old white-haired lady only sighed. She took her

accustomed chair and, seating herself, stared quietly at the chair that

was empty, the chair that was still placed, just as he had left it that

morning when, going down to see to his garden and to speak to Tito, he

had fallen in the great room outside, and they had carried him straight

to his bed.

Now it was empty. The whole room was empty. She heard sounds, sounds in

Venice, sounds that she had never realised before. She heard the clock

ticking and wondered why she had never heard that. She heard Claudina

moving in the kitchen. She heard the voice of a gondolier singing on

the canal.

Presently, she rose to her feet and walked slowly to a drawer that had

long been closed. Opening it, she took out some part of an old lace

shawl, unfinished, where it had been laid from that moment when God had

withered her hands and she was powerless to do her work.

Bringing it with her, she came back to her chair; sat down and laid it

on her lap. This was the only thing incomplete in her life. Memory

became suddenly vivid as she looked at it. She almost

remembered--perhaps pretended that she did recall--the last stitch where

she had left off.

And there, when she came in for her unfailing ceremony, Claudina found

her, gazing towards the door with the unfinished lace shawl in her

hands.

The little white head moved quickly, the eyes lighted for one sudden

moment of relief----

"Surely it's after ten o'clock, Claudina," she said.

And Claudina shook her head gravely.

"No, signora. It wants some minutes yet. But I thought if Giovanino

was gone, you ought to go to bed."

They had prepared another little room for her to sleep in; but she

insisted first upon going to see him once more.

By the light of the altar lamp, she found her way to the bed. Without

the sound of a cry, or the hesitation of those who are suddenly brought

into the presence of Death, she lifted the sheet from his face. It was

almost as though she had expected to find that he was asleep.

For a little while, she stood there, looking quietly at the peacefulness

of it all, then she bent over the bed. Claudina saw her whisper

something in his ear. At the last, she crossed him with trembling

finger, laid back the sheet upon his face and, without a sound, slowly

turned away.

In Claudina's hands she was like a little child. Like a little child,

she was undressed, like a little child put into her bed, the clothes

pulled warmly round her, her beads given into her hand to hold.

With candle lighted and held above her head, Claudina stood at the door

before she went out. The tears rushed warmly to her eyes as she saw the

white head alone upon the pillow, and thought of the silent figure they

had just left in the other room.

"_Buona notte, signora,_" she said as bravely as she could.

"_Buona notte,_" replied the little old white-haired lady.

At her accustomed hour of the morning, came Claudina into the little

room. Feeling her way to the window, she threw open wide the jalousies.

A flood of sunshine beat into the room and made all dazzling white.

Claudina felt thankful for it. It was a new day. It was a wonderful

day.

She turned to the bed. There was the still white head, alone upon the

pillow, the powerless hand just showing from beneath the coverlet, still

holding its string of beads.

"_Buona Giorno, signora,_" she said, trying to make the note of some

cheerfulness in her voice.

But there was no reply.

Far away out in the wonderful city, she heard the cry of a

gondolier,--"Ohe"--and in through the window, there floated a butterfly

of white, that had been beating its wings against the jalousies outside.

Into the room it flew, dipping and dancing, swaying and lifting in the

free air of the day just born.

THE END