This man was understood to be a Pole in exile, though his title to that

distinction could only have been on the side of the distaff, since

his father's descent from a ducal family of Venice was not denied; but

neither nationality nor expatriation was very obvious upon him. At first

sight you would have supposed him a sallow Englishman, spare of flesh

and too narrow in the chest; you might have put down his dead complexion

and his leanness to India or Jamaica, and been inclined to attribute

his dry cynicism to the same superfervent experience. But presently

you would be alive to his hungry mind, to his hungry, raging air, his

restless habit and large way of looking at circumstance--as if by no

possibility could it be any concern of his. And then the trick he had of

considering our people as Europeans, of dividing the races of the world

by continents rather than kingdoms; and that other of judging all cases,

including yours and his own, upon their merits--such traits, to an

experienced mind, would have established him for a foreigner, one of a

people who had had too much elbowing for breath to have time or space

for prejudice or minute classification. Superficially, to be sure, he

was English enough--from his speech to his tailoring; and his phlegm (of

which we boast) was unassailable. Nobody knew much of his history; Bill

Chevenix used to say that he was born whole, and thirty, out of an

egg dropped upon our coasts by a migratory roc; that he stepped out,

exquisitely dressed, and ordered a whisky and Apollinaris at the nearest

buffet. This, said Chevenix, was his ordinary breakfast. When Sanchia

objected that he might have stepped out in the afternoon, he replied

that it also formed his usual tea, and, so far as he knew, was the

staple of all his meals. “And cigarettes,” he added. “But he would have

had those with him. I bet you what you like he came out smoking.”

It was certain that he had been to Eton and to Oxford, and was member

of two good clubs. He was extremely rich, and he was by profession, said

Chevenix, a prince. He had no territory, and was not apparently scheming

to get any, either of his own or other people's. Nobody at the Foreign

Office believed that he corresponded with any intransigent; he used to

go there often and exchange urbane gossip with under-secretaries. He

lodged in Duke Street, gave dinner-parties at the Bachelors, had a

large visiting-list, and was, as they say, always “about.” One saw

him everywhere--in the city, in Mayfair drawing-rooms, at Kensington

tea-parties, and at Lambeth Palace. Chevenix swore that he had met him

at a Church Congress--and the only answer to that was that if Chevenix

had truly been there to see, Morosine might well have been there to be

seen. But this catholicity of experience was characteristic of the man;

his attraction to the nice observer lay precisely in that, that he was

a nomad, unappeased and unappeasable, ranging hungrily. There was a

probability, too, that below a surface exquisitely calm there lurked

corrosive tooth and claw. Here are sufficient elements of danger to draw

any woman; so Sanchia found herself presently drawn.

He came to Charles Street one evening late in November, to what Lady

Maria called a little party. There was an autumn session that year,

and London full. To her little party, then, came a solid wedge of three

hundred people into rooms capable of holding with comfort fifty.

Chevenix was by Sanchia's side at the top of the stair, chatting

pleasantly about every new-comer, when he suddenly stopped. “Hulloa,” he

said, “here's Morosine, as smooth as a glass stiletto. He'll amuse you.

I'll introduce him.”

Sanchia followed the leading of his eyes. She saw a tall and slim young

man, inordinately thin, slightly bald, with a moustache like a rake, and

heavy-browed, mournful eyes, pushing his way slowly upstairs. Without

effort, his hands behind his back, working from the shoulders, he made

room for himself, but so quietly that nobody seemed to observe how

aggressively he was at it. Occasionally some ousted dowager turned redly

upon him, or it might be some pushing gentleman smothered an oath as he

faced the attack. But Morosine's mournful eyes gazed calmly their fill,

seemed to be communing beyond the surging guests, beyond the wall,

with the eternal stars, and, without faltering, the narrow frame glided

forward into the space which indignation had cleared. Sanchia, above

him, and out of the game, was highly amused.

“He's very selfish, your friend. He takes care of himself; but no one

seems to know it.”

Chevenix chuckled. “That's the beauty of Alexis. But, as he asks, whom

else should he take care of? It's not queer if the Poles have learned

that lesson.”

“Oh,” said Sanchia. “Is he a Pole?” Jack Senhouse had been in Poland.

“Half of him is hungry Pole. The other part is bad Italian--pampered

Italian, fed for generations on oil and polenta. He's always dining

out, but he eats nothing because the Pole is feeding on the Venetian

all day.” Then he told her about the miraculous birth, the whisky and

Apollinaris, and concluded, “Oh, he'll amuse you vastly. Stay where you

are. I'll net him at the top.”

Presently after she saw the process. It consisted in violent effort on

Chevenix's part, languid attention from the other. Morosine dreamed over

the speaker as if he were a lost soul. Then, his consideration being

caught, he looked about him, and presently fixed upon her his melancholy

eyes. She felt a little shiver, the sensation of goose-flesh in the

spine--not unpleasantly. It was as if a light wind had ruffled her

blood. Shortly afterwards Morosine was bowing before her. In this,

perhaps, he betrayed himself; his hat covered his heart, he inclined

from the hips, and his head bent with his body. An Englishman bows with

the head only, and does not nowadays carry his hat upstairs.

He began to talk quietly and at once, and maintained a perfectly

even flow of comment, reflection, anecdote, reminiscence, and sudden,

flashing turns of inference. He seemed always to be searching after

general principles, cosmic laws, and to be always jumping at them,

testing them, finding them not comprehensive enough, and letting

them drift behind him as he pursued his search. She remarked on this

afterwards to Lady Maria, who said that principles were the last thing

to interest Morosine. He had none! at all, said Lady Maria, unless his

own immediate gratification was a principle; and perhaps with men you

might almost say that it was.

Chevenix remained, chuckling and interjecting here and there an

exclamation, just (as he told her later) to “start the chap on his

meander,” and presently betook himself elsewhere. It was then to be

observed that Morosine allowed himself to drift into the discussion of

matters not usually subjects of ordinary conversation; but he did so

without consciousness, and therefore without offence. Sanchia neither

disapproved nor felt uncomfortable. They were, moreover, interesting,

and rather material.

It began with Poland, a country which, the less it existed politically,

he said, was the better to live in, and be of. We live by our emotions,

the beasts by their appetites--a material distinction. Now, the

condition of the Poles was perfectly adapted to the quickening of

the emotional parts. Shorten time, you make love a precious ecstasy;

restrict liberty, freedom is a lust--none the worse for being lawful.

No Pole knows how long he may have to live: Russia or phthisis will have

him late or soon. What he pursues, then, must be fleeting--imagine with

what rapture he takes it to his breast! with what frenzy he guards it,

never knowing when it will be required of him again. Feverish? (This

was upon a remark from her.) Yes, and why not? Are not dreams more vivid

than waking life? Can you gallop your material horse as your courser of

the mind? Better to burn than to rust. That's the secret of life--which

all the laws of bureaucrats are directed to destroy. The establishments

want to see us as fixed as themselves. They are tentacled, stationary

creatures, feeding at ease. They would have us handy of access, falsely

secure, so that they can fasten on us one by one and suck our juices.

But the world is changing, thrones and churches are slackening in their

hold. Men are discovering how short a time they have to live, and that

eternity is more than questionable. A mild Epicureanism is gaining

ground. Instincts founded on the patriarchal system must give way to

that. “Have you ever considered,” he asked abruptly, “that the flocks

and herds of the Semitic patriarch are the sole cause of the moral

code which we still profess? Thou shalt not steal. Why not? Because you

injure the patriarch. Not murder? You might attack one of his family.

You have the habit in England of tracing prejudices to the Feudal

System: believe me, there is hardly anything in Europe so modern. I

should date at 4000 B.C. nearly all our present conventions, from

the British Sunday to the law of conspiracy. So long as you say that

property is sacred, you uplift the Patriarch and lose sight of the man.”

Sanchia, reminded of Senhouse--a Senhouse with his tongue dipped in

vinegar--objected that society may have demanded some of these laws

in defiance of the engrossing patriarch; but Morosine shook his head.

“Society is the patriarch's weapon. Society is a syndicate of patriarchs

who cannot live unless all men are enslaved. Man is not by nature

gregarious; he's solitary, like all the nobler beasts. Wolves and dogs

hunt in herds, but not the great cats; oxen and buffaloes, but not

elephants; rooks, but not eagles; bream, never salmon. And the time is

not so very far when man will discover why it is that he is herded and

marshalled hither and thither by police, legislatures, and monstrous

assemblies called armies or fleets. He has but to know it to abolish

these things; they fade like dreams in the morning. But hitherto

everything has been banded to make his sleep secure--his religion, his

cupidity, his timidity, his affections. Religion tells him it is wrong

to love without the Church; patriotism, that it is glorious to bleed in

making other men bleed; timidity, that property keeps the wolf from

the door; appetite, that under cover of the law you may devour your

neighbour and fear no indigestion. Finally, there are the affections of

a man which have been so guided that they see the aged more venerable

than the young, the old thing more sacred than the new 'Woodman, spare

that tree,' they cry: 'it dates from at least 2000 B.C.' Because old

wine is good, they argue, old laws must needs be. As well might a man

say, Because I relish old wine, I will love only old women. And so we go

on!” He shrugged and broke off--to talk shrewdly of books. They got

to Leopardi, from him to Dante; he heard of her studies at the British

Museum, and hoped he might meet her there. She reads there often? Mostly

in the afternoons? The light was bad: he usually devoted his mornings to

what work he had there. He was studying Persian, he said, but fitfully,

as the mood took him.

So far he had scarcely looked at her, but had talked out his monologue

as if he had been alone, clasping one thin ankle, staring wide-eyed over

the heads of guests, occasionally, when he was vehement, throwing his

head up, shooting his words at the ceiling as if they had been Greek

fire. Now, as he got up to leave her, his eyes dwelt earnestly on her.

“It will be a pleasure, to which I shall aspire--that of meeting you

again. There or elsewhere.”

She thanked him as she gave him her hand. Excitement made her eyes

bright, mantled her cheeks. She felt that she was communing with

Senhouse at third hand.

“Then--it is understood--we meet again,” he concluded. He bowed over her

hand, on a second thought kissed her fingers, then left her immediately

and went downstairs. He paid no farewell to Lady Maria; was ascertained

to have left the house at once.

VII

Morosine had been called emancipated by Lady Maria, who after a week

or so found it proper to explain that he was by no means so free from

chains as he appeared. Sanchia, she thought, was seeing a good deal of

him. “He's the victim, like the rest of us, of his constitution. His, as

you may see, is deplorable. Weak heart, they say--but it may be lungs.

I never heard of a Pole who could live in any climate, least of any

his own. As for his mind, that follows his wasted body; it's hectic.

He affects a detachment which he will never have. It's a pose. He is

exceedingly sentimental, has an imagination which--if you could follow

it--might alarm you. I have no doubt at all but that, in imagination, he

has you safe in some island of Cythera or another, and has slain every

other male inhabitant of it lest some one of them should happen to

look at your footprints in the sand. Jealous! He would sicken at the

word--not because he would be ashamed, but because it would conjure up

the vision of some satyr-shape, and haunt him day and night. He has no

need to study Persian poetry, I assure you. He has rose-gardens enough

and to spare; for, if you are inclined to be flattered at my suggestion

of Cythera, I hasten to assure you that yours is not the only island of

his dominion. Bless you, he'll have an archipelago. But I have no fear

for you; you can afford a sentimental education.”

Sanchia did not tell her old friend how far that education was

proceeding--not because she was afraid, still less because she was

ashamed, but in obedience to her nature, which was extremely reserved.

She spoke of herself and her affairs with difficulty--never unless she

was forced. But it had become a custom just now--in the dull days on

either side of Christmas--to look for Morosine in the reading-room about

noon, to stroll the galleries for half-an-hour, to receive and to agree

to a lightly-offered proposition that they should lunch together, and

(it might well be) to accept his escort homewards. This, I say, had

become the rule of three days in the week, more or less. And it's not to

be supposed that so clear-sighted a young lady could see so much of so

keen-sighted a man without a good deal of self-communing.

Her capacity for silent meditation, during which she would sit before

her fire, gazing far, smiling at her thoughts, into the glowing coals,

had never left her. But there was a slight difference to be noted.

She could not think of Ingram--the past, the present, or any future

Ingram--without contraction of the brows. Smooth-browed she thought of

Morosine.

He interested her greatly; she was conscious of anxiety to learn his

opinion, of a wave of warm feeling when she awaited it. She credited him

with insight, had a notion, for instance, that she could discuss her

own affairs without any preliminary apology. He took so much for

granted--surely he would take her youth into full account. She had never

said to him a word of herself as yet; but there had been times when she

had felt near it--had seen herself rowing a boat, as it were, within

range of a weir, been conscious of effort to keep a straight course, and

of the fruitlessness of effort. There had been moments when she had

been tempted to throw down her oars with a sigh--by no means of despair.

Morosine seemed to her so extraordinarily reasonable, so ready, with

well-known laws, to account for unheard of vagaries, that it would

have been real luxury to her to find herself and her escapade the mere

creatures of some such law. To be discovered normal: what a relief from

strain!

Lady Maria, it seems, charged him with Oriental aptitudes. Sanchia gave

that judgment careful attention, studied her friend in the light of it,

weighed every word of his to her, watched him closely in company when he

could not be aware of it. She decided against the opinion. His manners

with women were his manners with men, those of urbane indifference to

sex. To sex! To much more than that. He was, in fact, outwardly polite

to the point of formality; but his attitude of mind towards the person

he happened to be with seemed to her--when she examined it closely--to

be sublimely insulting. No created thing, with the passions and

affections common to his kind, ought to take up such a position with

his fellow-creature--that which says, “I infer your existence from my

sensations: apart from them, I cannot bring myself to believe in it.”

She was aware that he must needs regard her from this stand-point, and

the knowledge piqued her. If she did not exist for him, why did he seek

her out? If she did, why did he pretend she did not? Or was Lady Maria

right? Were his sensations awake, and had they fired his imagination, to

carry her to Cythera, and keep her hidden there? These questions amused

her, and she made no attempt to answer them. Amusement might cease that

way: she indulged herself and left her questions open. One thing may be

added. Morosine no longer reminded her of Senhouse. Quite otherwise--for

of Senhouse just now she dared not think.

Her friend Bill Chevenix gave her no warnings. Even when she sounded for

them, he gave none. “I like Alexis,” he said once. “He's not so original

as he makes out, but there's enough to give him a relish. A handy chap,

too, in a dozen ways--he'll model you in wax, or draw you in pastels, or

sing about you on the guitar, or whistle you off on the piano; but he's

not strong, isn't Alexis. The one thing he can do--no, there are two. He

can ride anything, and he can use a revolver. I saw him empty the ten of

hearts once: very pretty. I dare say, if he was put to it, he could use

an iron to some purpose; but we don't stick each other here, so he'd

be out of practice. I rather wish we did, you know. It's far more

gentlemanly than laying for a chap outside his club with a hunting-crop,

and getting summoned for assault at Vine Street. Not a bit more vicious,

barring the Ten Commandments.”

“Prince Morosine doesn't believe in them,” Sanchia said. “He's vowed to

abolish them.”

“So he may tell you, my dear. Don't you believe it. So long as they

are good form they will be Alexis' form. He'd sooner die than covet his

neighbour's wife.” She reserved this for consideration. Meantime, she

saw more of Morosine than of any other man, and got through January very

well by his help.

She particularly liked his company in galleries, because, though he

never allowed himself raptures--of which she, too, was incapable--he was

always seeking the roots of rapture. Sanchia had a fund of enthusiasm

for art all the richer, perhaps, for being denied expression. It was

comfortable to have that securely based.

“Do you ever consider,” he asked her once, when they stood before

the great group of the Pediment, “why it is that these things are so

beautiful; why, although they are bare of colour and all that stands for

life to us in art, they are more than life? It's because they point to a

state of being exquisitely conform to the laws of being. Such a perfect

conformity soothes us into believing that while we witness it we are

of it--ourselves conforming. These splendid creatures here, so superbly

static--idle, you might say (only they wouldn't understand you),

indulging their strength--are strong and able precisely because they

have submitted themselves---”

“Unlike the Poles?” She reminded him of their first conversation, and

saw that he remembered it. He bowed to her.

“Let me finish. These existences, emanations, essences, what you will,

are submiss, not to man, but to Nature. They are as passive as Earth

herself, and as immune. They derive their strength from her. That's our

only reasonable service.” Whether he intended it or not, the effect of

this kind of talk was to make her view submission to the world's voice

as a reasonable service.

It was not so odd as it may seem that her intimates had always been men.

That reticence of hers which repelled her own sex was precisely that in

her which attracted, by provoking, the other. After her dumb childhood,

to which she never looked back, came her opening girlhood, and on the

threshold of that stood Jack Senhouse, the loyal servitor, the one man

who had loved her without an ounce of self-seeking. Then came Nevile

Ingram, and swallowed her up for a while, and when he had tired of her

she was once more without a friend. To Chevenix afterwards, rather

than to Mrs. Devereux, she had struggled to utter herself. That cry of

distress, “he wants me, to ravage me,” would never have been made by

her to a woman. She would have died of it sooner. And now came the Pole,

Morosine, and by taking for granted (as even Lady Maria could not have

done) much that could not have been explained, put her at her ease. She

found him a Jack without the spirit--without the divine spark. She could

never have loved him, though she liked him well, and she had no idea

that he thought of nothing but the greatness of his reward when, after

patient toiling, she might fall into his arms. Every nerve in her

body was now strung up to obedience to Jack's idea of her. She saw,

as clearly as if it was printed, her fate before her. She was to put

herself under the law. Jack should not have loved in vain her “dear

obsequious head.” Nevile would come back and require her. For Jack's

sake, who had seen her too noble to be touched by sin, she would dip

herself deep in sin.

Morosine, who frankly desired her to be the wife of a man she did not

love in order that she might the more easily find consolation in himself

afterwards, had the wit to see that she needed some of his sophistry,

though not enough to know exactly why. It was perfectly true. Her

churchgoing was an ointment. It could soothe but not heal her. Sanchia

had a mind. To do wrong by the world because it had seemed right to

her was not to be remedied by doing a right by it now, which to her

reasoning would glare before her as a monstrous sin. She forgot that

Senhouse had also taught her that the great sin of all was insincerity.

She could not have afforded to remember that. All her present desire was

to be, as nearly as she might, what she had been when Jack had seen her

first, what he had found excellent in her and love-worthy--pious, bowing

her head in a fair place, obsequious, obedient to the law. He had loved

her, of course, whatever she did--outraging the law as well as keeping

it, loving Nevile, letting himself go away. She could not remember that.

He had loved her meek; she would be meek. That was what her heart told

her; and Morosine, to serve his own ends, lulled her head with his

sophisticated anodynes, and sent her brain to sleep.

That he should know her story, as he obviously did, was not so

disconcerting to her as it would have been to most young women. Taciturn

as she was, it was not by reason of timidity, but rather that her own

motives seemed too clear to her to be worth stating. She was, perhaps,

rather given to assume her prerogative right to be different. Her first

thought, therefore, was that she was saved the trouble of explaining

herself, and her second that it was satisfactory to have a friend who

understood her without explanations.

As for Morosine, he may or may not have felt that he had broken the ice;

he pushed forward, at any rate, as if he had clear water in front of

him. Sanchia felt, when she next met him, that their acquaintance had

entered on a new phase.

Then suddenly, before she knew where she was, her fate was upon her.

It was in the Park on a fine Sunday forenoon in February. She was with

Lady Maria, and had met with Melusine and Gerald Scales. Morosine also,

seeing her and meeting her eyes, instantly left his companion and came

to greet her, hat in hand. He addressed himself to her exclusively,

having saluted Lady Maria; but she named her sister, and he saluted her

too. Gerald Scales, bronzed, plump, and very full in the eye, having

looked the newcomer over, decided against him, and gave him a shoulder.

“Foreign beggar,” was the conclusion he came to, which does credit to

his perspicacity, because the Pole had a very English appearance, and

Scales himself the look of a Jew.

When they turned to walk, Morosine took the side next Sanchia, and

though he talked to both ladies, so contrived that she should read more

in what he said than her sister. He did it deftly, but continuously.

Sanchia was entertained, slightly excited, and ended by taking part

in the game of skill. It is impossible to say by how much this sort of

thing increased the intimacy already established between the pair. It

was by so much, at least, that when Melusine joined her husband, by

dropping behind and waiting for him to come up with, the old lady, it

came as no sort of shock to Sanchia that he took up the talk where he

had ended it in the gallery.

“You have been to church, I see. But you are not a Christian?” He did

not look at her.

Nor did she turn her head to reply. “I don't know. Nominally, at least;

fitfully, at the most.”

“That must be the outside of it,” he continued. “The thing is the

antithesis of the Hellenic ideal--which is yours. Your seemingly passive

martyr is really in an ecstasy. He aims at outraging Nature; begins

by despising and ends by dreading it. Nature, however, has ways of

revenging herself.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Sanchia soberly.

They walked on together, she by this time very much absorbed. She was

not conscious of the shifting crowd, the lifting of hats, the chatter,

the yapping dogs that ran in and out of women's skirts.

Presently he spoke again. “You believe that you failed?”

Her voice came low. “I know that I failed.”

Then he looked at her, and spoke with vehemence. “And what is that to

you? What is, failure in such a cause, to such as you?” But she could

not meet his face, kept hers rigidly to the front.

“The cause,” Morosine told her, “is everything, the aim, the loyalty,

the great surrender. Beside this failure is nothing at all. Do you

say that the sapling fails that springs out of a cleft rock and

towers--seeking, as we all seek, the sun, the light in heaven? A gale

gathers it up and tears it out: over it goes, and lies shattered. Is

that failure? How can it be when nothing dies?”

Sanchia, very pale, turned her face to his at last. Her mouth was drawn

down at the corners, to the tragic droop. She almost whispered the

words, “Something did die.”

His intuition worked like a woman's, in flashes. He knew immediately

what she meant.

“I know, I know,” he said. “You were mistaken. But you never faltered.

You followed a call.”

“You tell me,” she said, “that there was none.”

“I do.”

“But,” she argued, “that with which I began failed me. I was entirely

certain, at the time; I could not possibly have hesitated. And then--it

died.” Her eyes loomed large. “It is quite dead now, and I feel that I

have betrayed myself--broken faith with myself.”

He shook his head. “You could not break faith; you are the soul of

truth.”

This praise she accepted. “I don't tell lies, I hope--and I don't shirk

things. But you see that I can stultify my own acts. I believed, and

acted on my belief; and then I ceased to believe, and acted on that. I

cannot trust myself--I ought to be ashamed to say so, and I hope I am.”

Morosine met her eyes again, and held them. “I can never believe that

you would fail. I tell you that you have not failed. It is that you have

been failed. You cannot give if what you give is not taken. Failed--you!

Ah, no, you have succeeded, I think.”

She bent her brows as she faced resolutely forward. “I must take the

consequences of what I have done. I see that.”

“Ah,” said Morosine, “that is a question of courage. Courage you have.”

“I need it,” she said in a hush, and stopped dead. Ingram stood before

her, and took off his hat.

“Well, Sanchia,” he said, “here I am.”

[Illustration: “Well, Sanchia,” he said. “Here I am.”]

VIII

The scattered party was suddenly strung to tensity; Morosine drew

himself up, stiff as steel, but stood his ground. Here was the man

he had waited for, who was necessary to him. Lady Maria, blinking her

little black eyes, Melusine, with hers in a blur of mist, Gerald Scales,

level and impassive, joined the other three.

Ingram, with a stretched smile, was volubly explaining. “I've been in

London a week--to-day's the first glimpse of the sun I've had. I do

think they might make better arrangements for a man home from Africa. I

met your mother last night at a play. She told me that I might see you

here.” He turned, without effrontery, to greet Melusine. “Ages since we

have met. Ah, Scales, how are you?”

The tall Melusine stooped her head; Scales nodded, then, by an

afterthought, shook hands. “I'm very fit, thanks,” he said. “Been

travelling?”

Sanchia sought the side of Lady Maria, to whom she named Ingram. His

exaggerated bow was accepted. “So you've arrived, I see,” said Lady

Maria.

“One does, you know.” Ingram shrugged at the inevitable. “All roads lead

to Rome.”

“Most roads lead to Lady Maria,” Morosine said to Sanchia, who replied

from her heart, “I'm very glad that mine did.” Moved either by loyalty

to his friendship, or touched by his recent words, she then brought him

bodily into play. “Mr. Nevile Ingram; Prince Morosine.”

The two men inclined; Morosine lifted his hat, Ingram touched his brim.

Ingram, whom Morosine judged as a hard worker just now, supported his

part with great gallantry. If he was naked to all these people who knew

him, he appeared quite unashamed. Morosine, watching him carefully,

believed that he had devoted a night's vigil to getting word perfect.

He described Khartoum with vivacity--the English drill sergeant reigning

over mudheaps, flies, and prowling dogs; getting up cricket-matches for

the edification of contemptuous blacks. “They judge us, those fellows,

you know. They are measuring us with their glazed eyes. The cud they

chew has gall in it. I don't suppose anything offends them more deeply

than our idiotic games. Is there a more frivolous race in the world than

ours?”

Lady Maria suggested that the Boers might ask that question; Morosine

that the Germans might answer it. Sanchia standing between these two,

faced by Ingram, kept silent. She was conscious of being closely under

observation. Morosine did not once lose sight of her. Whatever he said

was addressed to her. Once, when she looked at him, she saw the gleam of

knowledge in his eyes. He and Ingram never spoke to each other directly;

indirectly Morosine capped whatever Ingram said. It was these two who

maintained the talk through her sensitive frame.

Melusine and her husband exchanged glances--she in obedience to his

fidgety heels. He had dug a hole in the gravel deep enough to bury a

kitten. Her curtsey--it was almost that--to Lady Maria was very pretty.

She drew in her suffering sister, almost embraced her. “Dearest,

dearest!” she whispered. Sanchia, who was very pale, made no answer, and

hardly returned the salute.

“Insufferable beggar,” was Gerald Scales' outburst. “I could have shot

him at sight. But you women will go through with it, I suppose.”

“Oh, Gerald,” faltered Melusine, “it's dreadful--but what can she do?”

“Pon my soul, I'd take Morosov--the Polish

party--what's-his-name--first. I would indeed--on the whole.”

There was nothing to say. Melusine knew that could not be.

Lady Maria, however, who never made a fuss over spilt milk, lost no time

in ladling up what might be possible. She asked Ingram to luncheon, and

was accepted with a cheerful, “Thanks, most happy.” It may have been

malice which turned her to Morosine with the question. “And you? Will

you join us?”

Morosine promptly excused himself. He had guests, and must consider

them. He took ceremonious leave. “You remember, I hope, that I am to see

you on Thursday, Lady Maria. And Miss Percival?” He looked to Sanchia,

who did not turn him her eyes.

“Perfectly,” said her ladyship. “What's your hour?”

“We will dine at half-past eight.” He named the restaurant. He turned to

pay his farewells to Sanchia. She looked him No, being unable to speak

to him. Her eyes, deep lakes of woe, were crying to him. His answered.

He held out his hand and received hers. “Thursday,” he repeated, and

left her with her fate.

Lady Maria, at luncheon, made what she called the best of a bad

business. She treated Ingram to a brisk curiosity. “So you're a

wanderer, I hear--like the Gay Cavalier of my childhood. Your mother may

have heard the song. Mine sang it. I believe that that kind of thing was

considered heroic in her day; in ours, heroism is more difficult, and

much more dull. You might try heroism, Mr. Ingram.”

“I might, no doubt,” Ingram said. “Hitherto, I've preferred to travel.

But I'm home for good now, so far as I can see.”

“We all hope so,” said Lady Maria. “But that remains to be seen.”

“Of course it does,” said Ingram blandly, and turned to Sanchia. “I

thought your mother looking very well. Your father wasn't there. I saw

Philippa, by the way; but I suppose she didn't remember me. That was

her husband with her, I take it. Stiff old boy.” So he went on, letting

bygones be bygones. It was after luncheon that her ordeal came.

Lady Maria having departed for her siesta, he came instantly to Sanchia

with his hand out for her. “Sancie, I couldn't talk before all those

people. You must forgive me, my dear. You are too good a sort--you must

forgive me.”

He had to wait; but slowly she lifted her hand and let him take it. “I

have forgiven you,” she said. He stroked her arm.

“That's nice of you--that's like you. I know that I behaved like a

brute. I was awfully cut up about it afterwards--but, as you know, I had

great provocation.”

“Not from me, I think.” Her eyes were upon him now.

“No, no,” he admitted; “certainly not from you; but--well, perhaps I may

say that I had some ground for thinking that you--possibly--No, I don't

think I ought to say that. At any rate, I thought then that I had. As

for that young friend of yours--but he's nothing. It's you I want to

make my peace with.”

“It's not difficult,” she said. “I tell you that I don't bear any

malice. I bore none at the time. I wanted to go.”

He let her hand slide from his, and plunged his own into his pockets.

“I know you did; I felt that at the time. That hurt me a good bit. I had

come to rely upon you so much--oh, for every mortal thing. I expect the

whole place has gone to the devil now. You had your hand on the tiller,

by Jove! You kept a straight course, You see, I'd got into the way of

thinking we were--married, don't you know, and all that---”

“I think you had, indeed,” she said. He saw her wry smile.

“I know what you mean by that. You mean, if that's marriage--many

thanks! Well, my dear, all I can say is, you were absolutely wrong. It

was _not_ marriage--it never had been, and you know it couldn't have

been. But if it had been, Sancie, you'd have been as right as rain. You

know you would. Your own place--everything to your hand--Society--all

that kind of thing. Why, you'd never have thought it amiss in me to go

off tiger-shooting for a bit. You'd have had your whack of travelling,

playing the grass widow; you'd have entertained, had all sorts of little

games--and both of us been all the better. No! But it was just because

our relationship was so infernally irregular that you felt those

separations--took them, if I may say it, so hard. Depend upon it, that

was it.”

Her lip curled back, though she said nothing. She wondered if he had

always been quite so fatuous as this, quite so sublimely unhumorous.

If he had, what under heaven had she been about? That she could have

believed this smug cockscomb to have loved her--to have been capable

of anything but hunger and thirst for her--incredible! It made her out

precisely as fatuous as he. And yet she said nothing. With the likes of

him nothing seemed worth doing except to forget him.

And she was to marry him, to live in his house, to see him daily--ah,

and more than that; and yet she said nothing of what her curled back lip

expressed. She was in the presence of her fate, and, as ever, was dumb

before it. To make him shrivel under scorn, to wind her tongue about

him like a whip till he writhed; to play the honest woman and tell him

quietly that she did not love and had nothing more to say to him; or to

ask him urgently for release--she did none of these things: none of them

entered her head. She had never shirked the apportioning of the Weaving

Women. Destiny was unquestionable. She felt that she abhorred Ingram.

What she was to suffer from him she knew but too well. And yet she knew

also that she was going to marry him, to be neglected by him, put to

scorn, betrayed. All these things she would undergo, because they could

not be avoided. She was bound as well as gagged. Her destiny was before

her, as her character was within. The one had begotten the other. She

had sowed, and now she was to reap. Her stony mind contemplated the

harvest, and saw that it was just.

Therefore she said nothing, but stood with her foot on the fender,

shading her face from the fire with her thin hand. In this attitude,

though able to see sideways what was coming upon her, she stood

nerveless to his approach. “Sancie, my own Sancie,” he said, and put

his arm about her, and drew her bodily to his side. She stiffened, but

allowed it.

“Dearest girl, tell me that you forgive me--tell me that. I am wretched

without you--I can't go on like this. It's not good for me; my health

suffers. Darling Sancie, forgive poor old Nevile. He was once your

boy--you loved him so much. For the sake of old times, Sancie, my dear.”

She could only say, “I have forgiven you--you know that. I have told you

so.” He pressed her closely to him, feeling his urgent need to make the

most of what she had to give him. Her apathy struck him mortally chill;

he wooed her the more desperately.

Holding her to his heart--an inanimate burden--he kissed her cold

lips, her eyelids, her hair; called her by names whose use she had long

forgotten, whose revival caused her pain like nausea. If he could have

known it, this was the last way to win her. It was like pressing upon a

queasy invalid the sweets which had made him sick. But he, remembering

their ancient potency, seeing himself the triumphant wielder of charms,

felt secure in them still; therefore she was his darling, his hardy

little lover, his Queen of Love, his saucy Sancie, his lass. On fire

himself by his own blowing, at last he fell upon his knees and clasped

hers: “Dearest, most beautiful, my own, I love you more than ever.

Comfort me, be my salvation--I pray that I may be worth your while.

Marry me, Sancie, and save my soul alive.”

Honestly, for the moment, he believed himself irresistible, and so far

succeeded with her that her disgust hid itself in a cloud of pity. She

felt pity for a man abject at her feet, and could speak more kindly to

him.

But she could not bring herself to touch him. Looking down at him there,

her eyes were softer and her lips took a gentler curve. “You mustn't be

down there,” she said. “I don't like to see you there--and can't talk

to you till you get up. Let's sit down and talk--if you will.” He rose

obediently and stood with heaving chest, while she drew a chair to the

fire and seated herself. Then he took to the hearthrug, and possessed

himself of her hand.

“What a cold hand, my dear! Oh, Sancie, how I could have warmed you

once! Is that never to be again? Don't tell me so, for God's sake.”

“Oh, how can I tell!” cried she. “Surely you can understand me better

than that? Do you ask me to forget everything that has has happened in

eight years?”

“I asked you to forgive me, my dear.”

“And I have forgiven.”

“But do you store these things up against me? That's not too generous,

is it?”

“I don't store anything,” she assured him; “but it wouldn't be honest of

me to pretend I am what I was--once. I was a child then, and now I'm a

woman. You have made me that. I am what you made me.”

He stared into the fire, dropped her hand, which she instantly hid under

the other.

“You mean to tell me, then,” he said, “that I have made you cease to

care?”

She tried to soften the verdict. “You seemed to me not to care very much

yourself. You left me for a year together--”

“Once, my dear. I left you for one year.”

“One whole year, you know,” she replied, “and for other times too.”

“I never ceased to love you,” he vowed. “You must be aware how much I

depended upon you. You were always with me.”

She could have laughed at him. “I don't pretend to the same state of

mind. During those absences of yours I learned to be happy alone--and I

was happy, too.”

This seemed horrible to him. “I could not have believed it of you,” he

said, aghast. “You must have changed indeed.”

“I have changed,” she owned. He started to his knees and clasped her.

“Beloved, I can change you again--I am the man who had your heart. I

must do it--it's my right as well as my duty. Trust me again, my own;

give me your dear hand again--and you shall see. If you are changed for

the worse, I am changed for the better. You have redeemed me. What is

it they say in the Bible? By your stripes I am healed. Yes, yes--that's

precisely it. Kiss me, my own girl; kiss me.” His eyes implored: she

stooped her sad head that he might kiss her. He strained upwards and

held her until she broke away with a sob. “Oh, leave me, leave me for

a little while,” she prayed him brokenly. “I can't talk any more now; I

assure you I can't.”

He begged her pardon for his vehemence. “I'm pretty bad myself, you

know. This kind of thing plays the deuce with a man's heart.”

She could thank him with a woman's for this naive assurance. “I don't

doubt you for a moment,” she said. “You have been rather eloquent.”

“Eloquent, my dear!” He raised his eyebrows. “You might spare

me congratulations upon my eloquence. I don't deserve very much,

perhaps--though God knows I tried to make you comfortable; but perhaps I

deserve credit for sincerity.”

She was not to be drawn that way. “I don't doubt your sincerity in the

least,” she said. “But I wish you to allow for mine. I am changed, and

have told you so.”

“I can see that you are. Heaven knows that. Perhaps I deserve it: I

don't know. It's hardly for me to talk about my own points, is it?

Criticism, from whichever side it comes, does seem to me out of place

in a love-scene. And you found me eloquent in spite of it! Surely I may

congratulate myself upon that.”

She looked at him standing before her, his arms folded; she showed him

a face too dreary to be moved by sarcasm. “You may congratulate yourself

on lots of things, I'm sure.”

Annoyance began to prick him; he showed spirit. “You are tired--and

I may have tired you. I won't do that any longer. I think I'll go, if

you'll excuse me to your Lady Maria. Sensible lady, that. She goes to

sleep....” He took a turn over the room, then came back and stood over

her. “I have not had my answer yet. I'll come for it in a few days'

time. May I hope you'll have it for me--say, to-day week?”

“What is the question I have to answer?” She looked up for it, though

she knew what it was to be quite well.

“Do you wish it repeated?” He was perfectly cool by now. “I'll put it

categorically. I have wronged you, and wish to repair my fault: will you

allow it? I love you more than before: will you permit me to prove it? I

believe that I can make you happy: may I try?”

She had scarcely listened, and when she answered him, did not lift her

head. “I can't answer you now, Nevile. Don't ask me.”

“I have not asked you. I have simply put my questions fairly. I will

come for my answer next Sunday afternoon. Good-bye, Sanchia.”

He held out his hand and received hers, which he kissed. Then he turned

and left her alone.

* * * * *

“I should swallow him, if I were you,” was Lady Maria's spoken

reflection upon what her young friend was able to tell her. “I should

swallow him like a pill. You won't taste him much, and he'll do you

worlds of good. The world? I'm not talking of the world. I never do.

He'll put you right with yourself. That's much more to the point. He's

in love with you, I believe. From what you tell me, that's new. You

suppose that he was in love with you before. I do not. He was in love

with himself, as you presented him. Most men are. Now you are to occupy

that exceedingly comfortable position of a woman out of love with her

husband, extravagantly beloved by him. Next to being a man's mistress

there's no surer ground for you than that, with respectability added,

mind you. No mean addition. Take my advice, my dear, and you won't

regret it.”

But Sanchia knew at the bottom of her heart that Ingram was not in love

with her. He wanted her restored to his collection.

IX

On the Monday morning, after a night of broken sleep, she received a

letter from her mother.

“MY DEAR CHILD,” Mrs. Percival wrote, “I met Nevile Ingram, _quite

unexpectedly,_ on Saturday evening. Yesterday he called here, after he

had seen you in the house where you choose to remain. Our interview was

naturally distressing, and I should be glad to feel sure that you could

spare me a _third_. I need not remind you of the first.

“But I feel bound to own, from what I could learn from him of his

_discussion_ (as I must call it) with you, that I am most uneasy. If I

were to say _unhappy_, tho' it would be less than the truth, you

might accuse me of exaggeration. That I could not bear. Therefore, let

'uneasy' be the word. Is it possible, I ask myself, that my youngest

child--my latest-born--can find it in her heart to _torture_ the already

agonised heart of her mother? I put the question to you, Sanchia, for I

am incapable myself of finding the answer. I blush to write it--but such

is the terrible fact. I can only beg you to put me out of suspense

as gently as may be. I am growing old. There are limits to what a

grey-haired mother's heart can bear.

“Mr. Ingram's proposals towards a settlement of the untold _ruin_ he

has wrought in a once smiling and contented household were (I must say)

liberal. That they were all that they should be, I must not declare--for

how could that ever be? He put himself, however, and his extremely

handsome fortune unreservedly in my hands and those of your father, who

was not present at our interview. He was _resting,_ I believe--his own

phrase. Philippa came in to tea, with her trusty, honourable Tertius,

and was more than gracious to N. You know her way. She _stoops_ more

charmingly than any woman I have ever met. Her manners, certainly, are

to be copied.

“His position in the county--I return to Nevile--I need not dwell upon.

It may be _brilliant._ A Justice of the Peace at thirty-two! I leave you

to imagine what he might become, building upon that, if he were blessed

with the loving companionship of a _tender, chaste and Xtian wife._ Such

an one could guide him into Green Pastures--and such an one only. Secure

in the gratitude of his inferiors, the respect of his peers, reconciled

to the Altar, and his God, one sees before Nevile the upright,

prosperous, honoured career of an English Gentleman. There is no higher,

I believe. But it is clear to all of those who truly love you, my child,

that you only can ensure him these advantages. He is sincerely penitent

now--of that I am sure. Who can tell, however, what relapse there may be

unless he is taken in hand?

“You have been his curse, but may be his Blessing. You have my prayers.

“I beg my compliments to Lady Maria Wenman if she condescends to

recognise the existence of--Your affect. Mother,

“CATHERINE WELBORE PERCIVAL.”

“_P.S._--Nevile assures me that his cousin, the Bishop, would perform

the rite. This would be a _great thing_. One must think of N's position

in the county.”

“Venus, wounded in the side ...” is the opening line of an old poem of

Senhouse's, one of those “Greek Idylls” with which he made his bow to

the world--old placid stories illuminated by modern romantic fancy;

nursery-rhyme versions, we may call them, of the myths. “Venus, wounded

in the side,” recounts how the Dame, struck by a shaft of her son's, ran

moaning from one ally to another seeking Pity, the only balm that could

assuage her wound. To the new lover, to the old, to the fresh-wedded, to

the long-mated: from one to the other she ran--hand clapt to throbbing

heart. None could help her. “Pity! What's that?” cried the first. “I

triumph: rejoice with me. Is she not like the sun in a valley?” The

second cursed her for a procuress. The bride stirred in her sleep, and

whispered, “Kiss me again, Beloved.” As for the fourth, he said, “All

my Pity was for myself. It is gone; now I am frost-bound.” Venus wept:

Adonis healed the wound.

Sanchia, reading long afterwards, saw in it a parallel to her case, when

she, stricken deep, ran about London ways for a soothing lotion. She

saw herself trapped; felt the steel bite to the bone. Tears might have

helped her, but she had none: pray she could not, nor crave mercy. It

was not Ingram who held her caged, but Destiny; and there's no war with

him.

She thought of Vicky, of Melusine. Their kisses would have been sweet,

but she knew what they would say. Melusine's sideways head, her sighed,

“Dearest, how sad! But life is so serious, isn't it?” She saw the gleam

in Vicky's eyes, and heard her “Dear old Sancie, how splendid! Now

you'll be all right.” Then she would clasp her round the neck and

whisper in her ear, “Do make me an aunt--I shall adore your baby. Quick,

darling!” She turned her back on Kensington and Camberley, and went into

the City, to The Poultry, with her griefs.

Poor Mr. Percival's rosy gills and white whiskers, his invariable,

“Well, Sancie--well, my dear, well, well--” called her home. She ran

forward, clung to him, and lay a while in his arms, short-breathing,

breathless for the advent of peace. To his, “What is it, my love? Tell

your old father all about it,” she could only murmur, “Oh, dearest, what

shall I do?” He urged her again to tell him what the matter was--“What

has hurt you? Who has dared to hurt my darling? Show me that

scoundrel--” but she was luxuriating in new comfort and would say

nothing. Into her false peace she snuggled and lay still; and the honest

man, loving her to be there, let her be.

Presently she opened her weary eyes, looked up, and smiled, then

snuggled again. He led her to his office chair, and took her on his

knee. “Lie here, my bird, make your pillow of my shoulder. That's more

comfortable, I hope. Why, Sancie, you've not been here, in my arms,

since you hurt your foot at Sidmouth deuce knows how long ago--and I

kissed it well! Do you remember that? Ah, but I do. I'm a foolish old

chap, with nothing else to think about but my girls. And you're the only

one left--the only one, Sancie. And I always loved you best--and behaved

as if you were the worst--God forgive me!” She put her hand up and

touched his cheek. “Hush, dearest. We don't talk about that.”

“No, no, my darling--that's over, thank God. You have forgiven me, I

know--my great-hearted Sancie. Now, if you feel stronger, tell me all

your troubles.” She murmured what follows.

“He came to see me. Nevile came.”

“I know, my love. Your mother told me.”

“She wrote to me. Rather a dreadful letter. She's on his side--she talks

about his position in the county.”

“I daresay, I daresay. But you know, your mother thinks a great deal

of that kind of thing. She says we owe a deal to our station, you know.

There's something in it, my dear. I'm bound to say that.”

“Papa, he--wants me again. He thinks he does.”

“Oh, my dear, there's no doubt about that--none at all. He

proposes--well, it's _carte blanche_; there's no other word for it.

A blank cheque, you know. We must do Master Nevile justice. It is the

least he can do; but he does it.”

“What am I to do, Papa?” The poor gentleman looked rather blank.

“Do, my dear? Do?” He puzzled; then, as the light broke on him, could

not help showing his dismay. “Why, you don't mean to say--Oh, my child,

is that what you mean?”

She clung to him convulsively, buried her face.

“God help us all!” His thought, his pity, his love whirled him hither

and thither. He shivered in the blast. “'Pon my soul, I don't know how

we shall break it to your mother. I don't, indeed.” He stared miserably,

then caught her to him. “It breaks my heart to see you like this--my

child; it cuts me to the heart. Sancie, what are we to do?”

She sat up and brushed her dry eyes with her handkerchief. “I know.

There's nothing to do. It's my fate.”

This was rather shocking to old Mr. Percival, who shared the common

opinion of matrimony, that it should be marked by champagne at

luncheons. It was a signal for rejoicing--therefore you must rejoice.

White stood for a wedding all the world over, black for a funeral. To go

scowling to church, or tearless to the cemetery, was to fail in duty.

“We mustn't look at it like that, my darling. I don't think we ought,

indeed. Fate, you know! That's a gloomy view of an affair of the sort. I

don't pretend to understand you, quite, my love. You see, a year or two

ago, you would have asked nothing better--and now you call it fate. Oh,

my dear--”

She could not have hoped that he would understand, and yet she felt more

like crying than at any time yet. “My heart is cold,” she said. “It's

dead, I think.”

He echoed her, whispering, “Not dead, Sancie, not dead, my child.

Numbed. He'll warm it asleep, he'll kiss it awake. He loves you.”

She moaned as she shook her head. “No, no. He wants me--that's all.”

“Well, my dear,” pleaded good Mr. Percival, “and so he may. We do want

what we love, don't we now? He's come to his senses by this time, found

out the need of you. And I don't wonder at it. You're a beautiful girl,

my dear--you're the pick of my bevy. But I must bring back the roses to

those cheeks--Mildred Grant, eh? Jack Etherington used to call you that:

he was a great rose-fancier--old Jack. Do you remember our tea-party

last summer? And how happy we were? Let's be happy again, my lamb! Come,

my child, can't you squeeze me out one little smile? You'll make the sun

shine in this foggy old den of mine.” He pinched her cheek, peered for

the dimple which a smile must bring; then he drew her closer to him and

whispered his darling thought: “Shall I tell you something, Sancie? What

your old dad prays for when he's by himself? I want another grandchild,

my dear--one I can spoil. I ought to be a happy man with what I've

got--I know that. But you were always the pet, my love; you know you

were--until, until--ah, Sancie! And one of yours! Aren't you going to

indulge your old father? He's only got a few years left, mind you. Don't

want any more. To see his darling happy, smiling down on her baby--bless

me, I'm getting foolish.” He blinked his bravest, but had to wipe his

glasses. She rewarded him with a kiss, and did not leave till she could

leave him at ease.

X

Sanchia, after many nights' stony vigil, decided that she must fight her

beasts by herself. She was going to make her parents and sisters happy;

she was going through with her bargain; but there was no need to tell

them any more about it. In her hard mood she told herself that that was

the only wear. If she should be wept over, she might well recant. When

the fatal word was once spoken, she would write to her mother--that was

all that she could do. For the same reason--that she dreaded a tender

moment--she did not go to church with her griefs. The Gods there were

too human--the Man of Sorrows, the Mother with the swords in her bosom.

It was Destiny that had her by the heel. As ye sow, ye shall reap.

Vaster gods, heartless, blind, immortal shapes, figuring the everlasting

hills, were her need. She was going to her fate, because the Fates

called her. There's no war with them.

There had been one who would have had it all out of her in a trice. But

he was remote, a part of her childhood. She hardly called him to mind at

this hour. It was dangerous work to think of him, she knew--and her old

fortitude stood by her, which said, Turn your mind resolutely away from

that which may influence your judgment. Senhouse was not a stoic; he

was an epicurean, she now considered. She wanted something flintier than

Senhouse. He might have tried to dissuade her; but her mind was now made

up. She intended to marry Nevile.

She breakfasted alone, and immediately afterwards went upstairs to write

her agreement. The thing was to be gone through with, and the sooner the

better.

“MY DEAR NEVILE,” she wrote, “if it can ever be right to marry without

love, it must be in my case. I don't blame you in the least for what

happened. It was as much my doing as yours--and I still think that I was

right. And now I think that it is right to fulfil one's bargain--as it

would have been if I had married you. If I had been married to you, I

should not have left you unless you told me to go, and I don't think

that I ought to now. If you really wish it, you shall marry me when you

please, and I will do my duty by you always. Whatever arrangements you

make will suit me quite well; but the less fuss we make the better. I am

sure that you will think so too. Don't come to see me for a few days if

you don't mind. I want to think.--Yours affectionately, SANCHIA.”

It was not a very gracious letter, it must be owned. So young and so

untender! One would have said that the man must be a courageous lover

who would take marriage on such terms; but either Ingram was very much

in love, or honestly hoped to be loved again. I incline to the opinion

of Bill Chevenix, to whom he showed it. “Nevile, old chap,” he said,

“you take her on any terms. You've no idea how set up you'll feel by

everybody saying you've done the square thing. I tell you frankly that

she's too good for you. Look how she's shaped in Charles Street! As if

she'd been born to it. And never once--never once--allowed to anybody

that she's been in the wrong. Not to a soul. And neither you nor I

believe that she has--nor did old Dosshouse, or whatever his name was.”

Ingram knew quite well to whom he so airily referred.

“I shall have landed that chap once for all, anyhow,” he said.

“Landed him!” cried the other. “Why, bless you, didn't you know? He

landed himself two years after you did. He's married.”

“Married, is he?” Ingram asked, not thinking of Senhouse in particular.

“Who did he marry?”

“He married a rather pretty woman, a widow, a Mrs. Germain.”

Ingram looked sharply up. “I'll take my oath he didn't. I met her the

other day. She's Mrs. Duplessis.”

Chevenix stared at him. “Why, I know the chap. Where did you meet her?

Where do they live?” he asked his friend.

But Ingram had other things to think of, and returned to his letter. “I

shall take this as she means it, Bill. She wants me to go slow--I can

take a hint. She shall have her head. When I get her down to Wanless we

shall be all right. The place isn't fit to live in now, you know. I was

up there last week--and found everything going to pot. Not a horse

fit to ride--not a sound one amongst 'em. Plantations all to

pieces--gardens--tenants in arrears--oh, beastly! She'll have it all to

rights in no time, and she'll simply revel in it. She'll come round--you

leave that to me. If _I_ can't get a girl round I ought to.”

Chevenix listened, and judged. He knew his Ingram pretty well, and took

his confidence, like his confidences, for what they were worth. “Where

did you say that the Duplessis lived?”

“I think she's in a hotel. It might be Brown's. I believe it _is_

Brown's. What d'you want her for?”

“Think she knows some of my people,” said Chevenix, and presently took

himself out of the Coffee Tree Club.

But Sanchia, her day's work done, went--not to church, but to

Bloomsbury. Entering the portals of the Museum, she swam to the portico,

full of her cares. But smoothly, swiftly, she went, with that even,

gliding gait peculiar to her kind, which has precisely the effect of a

swan breasting the stream. Past the door, she turned to the left, not

glancing at the aligned Caesars, scarcely bowing to Demeter of the

remote gaze. In that long gallery, where the Caryatid thrusts her bosom

that her neck may be the prouder to the weight, she saw the objects

of her present pilgrimage--beaten, blind, and dumb, immovable as the

eternal hills, the Attic Fates; and before them at gaze, his arms folded

over his narrow chest, Morosine the Pole.

Whether she had sought him here or not, she did not falter in her

advance. Smoothly, swiftly, and silently she came to him and stood by

his side. He turned his head, looked sharply at her pale face and sad

eyes, then resumed his meditation before the Three. Neither of them had

a care to speak.

Presently Morosine said, “I knew that you would be here.” He kept his

face towards the mystery, and so did she when she echoed him. “Did you

know that? You know me, I think.”

“I believe that I do. You have come here for strength. You will get it.”

Ruefully enough she answered, “I wish I could believe that.”

“You have it in you already. These great ladies will call it out. I wish

you had been here, say, the day before yesterday. They might have helped

you.”

“But they did help me,” she said. “They were with me. I remembered what

we had talked about before them.”

He nodded his head. “I had intended that you should. I was rightly

inspired.”

“Without them,” she went on, “I don't know what I should have done. It

seems absurd to say so, but--”

He interrupted. “It's not absurd at all--to you and me. If it's absurd,

then Art is pastry-cook-stuff: sugar and white-of-egg. The man who

fashioned these things had walked with God. Here are his secrets,

revealed to you and me.”

She followed her own thoughts, not his. “I came to--day because I have

made up my mind. I wanted them to confirm me--to say that I was right.

If you weren't here, I should go up to them and whisper to them, as I've

seen women do to the Madonna abroad. I should tell them everything.”

He looked at her keenly. “Do it now. I'll leave you.”

She smiled faintly. “No, don't leave me. I couldn't do it now. But I

meant to when I came in.”

“You didn't think that I might be here?” He watched her.

“No. I remember that you said we were to meet on Thursday. And I have a

great deal to think of; I'm in great trouble.”

“I know you are,” he said. “I fear to be impertinent; but if I can help

you---”

She gave him a grateful look. Her trouble was very real, and made almost

a child of her. “I should value your advice. It would help me to have

it--even if it couldn't change my intentions.”

“You shall have it, assuredly,” he said. “Shall we find a seat?”

“No, no. I would rather stop where we are. Perhaps they'll hear us.”

They looked at each other and smiled at a shared sentiment.

“Tell me, then,” he said.

“He wants me to marry him,” she said hurriedly, “and I think that I

must. All my people wish it, and my friends--I mean those who have known

me for a long time. I don't mind very much about most of them; but one

of my sisters--Vicky--who was always my closest friend, expects it--and

it would break my father's heart if I did not do it. The others don't

count; but those two do. And there are other things--one other person

who would think I am doing right.”

“Would you”--Morosine spoke slowly, addressing the statues--“would you

consider the possibility of marrying any one else?”

She spoke as one in a trance. “No--I couldn't--I shouldn't dare.

Besides, there is no possibility--there would be Papa and Vicky

again. That would never satisfy them. And then I feel that it's my

punishment--if I deserve punishment, as they all imply that I do. At any

rate, it's part of my bargain. I began this thing, and I must go on with

it, at all costs to myself. I mustn't think of myself in it at all. I'm

only part of the world's plan; but I happen to know that I am; and so I

must go where I am called to go. I must follow my Destiny, just as I did

at first. That time I followed it against everybody's opinion; this time

I must follow against my own will. Don't you agree with me?”

Morosine reflected in silence. Then he said, “Yes, I agree with you. I

recommend you to follow your determination.”

Her eyes looked blankly at him; for the first moment he thought her

disappointed, but he corrected his impression in the second.

“I'm glad you agree with me,” she said. “I should have been disappointed

if you hadn't.”

He smiled. “You are stronger than you think. You can suffice to

yourself. But I hope that I shall never disappoint you.”

“I have no fear of that,” she said, young again and confident. She

thanked the Immortal Three with her eyes, and turning to Morosine, asked

him, “Shall we go?” They went together. Passing the Demeter of Cnidos,

her swinging hand touched his. He held his breath. Her face, sharply

in profile, was as pure and pale as a silver coin. Her breast held her

secret. To her own heart she voiced the cry, “Have I done well, dear

one? Have I done well? Do you approve of me? Do you?” It may be that

Senhouse heard her in his Wiltshire hills.

XI

Nevile Ingram was capable of fine ideas, we have seen, and could

sometimes carry them out. He had had a moment of generosity, with

Sanchia's letter in his hand, and held in the main to his expressed

intentions. When he went to see her, at the end of three rigorous days,

he behaved like a gentleman. She entered the room where he awaited

her, pale for his embrace: he came to meet her, put his hand upon her

shoulder, and, stooping, kissed her lightly. “My dear,” he said, “I'll

deserve you yet;” and he really meant it. She was touched, and quite

kind to him. He exhibited his version of her surrender.

“We're friends, eh? We know each other of old, have no surprises, and

can take raptures for granted. That's your notion, I fancy? It's not

mine, but I'll be thankful for what you give me, and it shall be my

fault if you find me backward when you're ready. Bygones are bygones,

then? We make a new start?”

She sat staidly under his gaze, not aware at the moment that his

steel-blue eyes searched her avidly for a hint of more than he stated.

“So far as I am concerned--certainly,” she said. “I shall never unlock

any cupboards.”

“Better to burn the contents, perhaps,” he laughed. “I tell you fairly,

I had rather they were cleared out. Now, I'll confess to anything you

please to ask me. That's a firm offer.” He would probably have done it,

but she told him that she had no questions to put. “Very well, my dear,”

he said. “Have it as you will. It's sublime of you--but it's not love.

If you don't want to know it's because you don't care.”

“No, indeed,” she sighed, with such conviction that he was stung.

“Hang it all, Sancie,” he cried, “you can't have known me for eight

years without feeling something.” She looked up at him, and he saw that

her eyes were full.

“Oh, Nevile,” she said, with a quivering lip, “don't let us look back.

Indeed, I can't do it now.” He put his arm round her and, drawing her

closer, kissed her forehead. “My pretty one, we won't. I had much rather

look forward. The future is to be my affair--if the past was yours.”

Then he went away, and she saw nothing of him for two days. On

the second of them he dined with Lady Maria, and met some of the

Percivals--the father and mother, the Sinclairs, and Mr. Tompsett-King.

(Philippa had declined to come.) He behaved with great discretion, and

so continued. After a week or ten days of courtship, she could hardly

believe that their relations had ever been interrupted. His reliance

upon her was absolute, his confidence no less so. He babbled of himself

and his concerns in the old vein of mocking soliloquy, careless whether

she heard him or not. Now that he had her promise, he seemed in no hurry

for possession. His kisses were fraternal, his embraces confined to

a hand on her shoulder, an arm lightly about her waist. She was

inordinately thankful to him, and by a queer freak of the mind, poured

all her gratitude into Senhouse. She told herself that but for him she

would never have brought herself to her duty; but for him, therefore,

would never have discovered how little she had to fear. Here was a crown

for her “dear obsequious head”: shutting her eyes tightly, she thought

that she could feel his fingers putting it on, smoothing out her hair

so that the circlet should fit closely. Night after night she knelt to

receive it. It came as a result of prayer.

The marriage-announcement, got into the paper by Mrs. Percival, was

accepted for what it was worth. It was partly the price of her crown. A

few letters from old friends were formally answered. Sanchia had

never been a free writer; nobody but Senhouse had found her letters

eloquent--he only had been able to feel the throb beneath the stiff

lines. Her handwriting, round and firm, had for him a provocative

quality; it stung his imagination. He used to sing her “divine frugality

of utterance,” and protest that it was all of a piece with the rest of

her life. No one, he had told her once, but a sculptor could embody her

in Art--her chill perfection, her severity and definite outline. A

poet might not dare, for he would have to be greater than love itself,

greater than the love which inspired him, able to put it down below him,

and stand remote from it, and regard it as a speck in the landscape.

Your sober thought, and your pride

To nurse the passion you hold and hide

he had written of her in his day. That austere concealment of her

heart, which so impassioned him, chilled enthusiasm in all others of her

acquaintance. So her letters were few, and now she was thankful enough.

She herself wrote to nobody, and never spoke of her future unless she

was compelled to answer questions.

Once a day, however, she took out a writing-block, and traced upon it

the words, “My dear Jack, I think I ought to tell you--” or a similar

exordium. She got no further. How could she tell him that without

telling him more? And how tell him more when, of her own accord, she had

sent him about his business, and set her approval upon his marriage,

or what must be considered his marriage? An instinct forbade her. She

didn't reason with it: her reason was paralysed. “It's part of the

price. It's what he would have praised me for”--and she flew to her

text.

“_A great power is in your thin sweet hands, my sweet; you are in the

way of being a great artist._” She looked at her hands, and loved them

for his sake who had loved them so well. Her “thin sweet hands!” Could

one write so of her hands and not love them well?

But the power, the power that she had! Hear her rhapsodist. _“If you can

so work upon your delicate surface as to mould it close to your noble

soul; if in the gallery of the world you can unveil yourself for a

thousand pair of eyes to see, and praise God for the right to see--why,

what an artist you are, and what an audience you have! ... Like a whiff

of thyme on a grassy down, like the breath of violets from a bank, or of

bean-flower blown across a dusty hedge, some gentle exhalation of your

soul sighed through your body will hint to the passion-driven wretch

things innocent and quiet. The blue beam of your steadfast eyes may turn

his own to heaven; a chance-caught, low, sweet tone of your voice may

check clamour; an answer may turn his wrath.... You can be picture,

form, poem, symphony in one.... Think of it, Sanchia, before you turn

away. Think well whether upon that exquisite medium you cannot express

your best.”_

She found herself trembling--in these days she easily trembled--as she

re-read these words. That such a power should indeed be hers--and how

could she fail to believe it?--was inspiration enough to send her to

the fire. She read no more, but used to sit shivering, thrilling through

every fibre of her body, with the strength of such splendid praise. For

whatever might be her fate, splendid it was to have been so loved,

so seen, and so praised. It was well for Ingram that she read her old

love-letters--and extremely unfortunate for the writer of them, who

anguished for her now in his desert place. Odd situation! that the

love-letters of one man should reconcile her to the arms of another.

From Torquay, where she spent the Easter holidays with her father, the

two alone and happily together, she wrote two or three times to Nevile.

He was at Wanless, professedly getting some order into things there, and

protesting to her by every word he sent her upon the need there was of

her hand upon affairs. There was not a word of love used between

the pair. All the love-making, indeed, was done by Senhouse, whose

master-stroke was called for by and by.

Towards the end of April she was alone in Charles Street, preparing the

house for Lady Maria's return from Rome. Ingram was still at Wanless,

grumbling through his duties of magistrate, landlord, and county

gentleman. “They seem to think up here that a fellow has nothing to do

but 'take the chair,'” he wrote. “I can tell you I'm pretty sick of it,

and fancy that they will be before long. I'm an awkward customer when

I'm bored--as I am now, damnably.” She sent him matter-of-fact replies,

and wrote principally of the weather.

The Pole continued his discreet and temperate wooing after the plan he

had formulated. He strove to interest her perpetually, never left her

without having, as he taught himself to believe, impressed himself anew

upon her imagination. Watching her as a cat a mouse, he learned to read

her by signs so slight that no one who had not the intuition of a woman

could have seen them at all. Unfortunately for him, he misinterpreted

what he read. The slap-dash Ingram thought all was well; Chevenix, the

more observant, thought there was a bare chance; Morosine alone could

see how her quivering soul was being bruised, and if he thought that she

looked to him for balm, he may be excused. She was drowning, she held

out her hands. To whom, but to him upon the bank? How should he know

what shadow stood behind him, with praise in his dim eyes for a “dear

obsequious head”?

Playing deputy to Senhouse, little as he guessed it, he devoted himself

to bracing her for the match, having made up his mind that there was no

other way of making her happiness his own. His mistress she might

be, his wife never. As he read her, she would keep the letter of the

law--since the law required it of her. The rest, he flattered himself,

might be left to time and him. His present aim was to interest and

stimulate her, without alarming.

He counted greatly upon some sudden emotional stimulus, which would

cause her to fall to him; and one came, though it had no such effect.

The opera of _Tristan and Isolde,_ to which she was taken by Lady

Maria--where she sat in his box, by his side, absorbed in the most

sensuous expression of the love-malady that has ever tormented its way

out of a poet's heart--had been a real test of his restraint. He had not

once met her eyes--though hers, craving sympathy at any hand, had sought

his often; he had not once permitted himself to gaze upon her beauty,

though it was her beauty, so carven, so purely Greek, which had drawn

him to her from the first. While the great music went sobbing and

chiding through her frame, like wounded nightingales, he had sat in the

dark, with his arms folded, never looking at her fully, nor seeking to

win a glance from her soul to his own. That it stirred her to the deeps

he knew. He could watch sideways, listen sideways, both hear and see

that she was rapt. Her quick-heaving breast, the whistle of her short

breath, the strained line of her head and shoulder--all this he

marked and stored without a sign. Even when, on going out, he had been

conscious of her overcharged heart, of her breast full of emotion; even

when she had told him under her breath that she was happier, though he

shivered, he drew away. He had nodded quickly, smiled, blinked his eyes.

“I was sure of that,” was all he allowed himself in the way of intimacy.

Swift, fire-consumed, intensely sensitive, subtle-minded, this was a

man who relished suggestions more than things. He had far rather deal

mentally with the lovely image of Sanchia, as he saw it, than actually

with the breathing, palpitating flesh. To picture her longing,

straining, trembling--to keep her always so, always holding out her

arms, never obtaining what she sought: his bliss lay in that. He knew

himself, after much experience of the sort; he had missed so often by

blundering in, that now he dared not risk a wreck. Here at last, he

told himself, was perfection: let him look to it that he kept it at its

perfect poise. He must poise himself to do that, balance himself upon

a knife-edge. Little of an ascetic as he was by temper, he could train

himself to the last ounce if the prize were worth it. And it was. Never

had musician had instrument more sensitive to play upon. It seemed to

him worthy of a lifetime of preparation to have her for one moment of

time throbbing in his arms.

[Illustration: The great music went sobbing and chiding through her

frame, like wounded nightingales.]

So Morosine went into the palaestrum, and fasted with prayer. His

_sangfroid_ through _Tristan,_ and the going out with all its cry

ringing in him, and in her, surprised even himself, who knew himself

well. “My friend,” he thought, as he stalked to his club, “you have done

well.”

But he had not reckoned with the flinty core which lay beneath her fair

and delicate seeming. Her frugality of utterance, which charmed and

chained him, really implied no reserve. She did not speak, because

she had nothing to say, did not reveal herself, because she knew of no

mystery. She was at once very simple and very practical; she had

healthy tastes which she desired to gratify, and a deliberate mind

which instructed her how far she might do so. Once in her life those had

played her false, when they told her that the pity she had for Ingram

was love, and the need he had for possession of her was her own need to

give it him. She had been bitterly mistaken, and was now so weary with

herself that she seemed to have no desire in the world but that of

sleep. Tristan and Isolde, drowning soul and body in music which made

love, and love which was the heart of music, were not to be thought of

on this side of the grave. The Fates had a sterner way for her. She was

never to empty herself in a kiss or to watch out the stars with Jack

Senhouse. Homing in the carriage with Lady Maria, she denied him, like

Peter his Lord. “I know not the man.” Vaguely dreaming at her open

window, under the fire-fretted roof of that May night, she suddenly

thought of him again--nay, knew him bodily there, alone with her under

the sky--and for the first time in her life felt his eyes upon her,

seeking of her what he had never dared to seek, and then his arms about

her, touching her as assuredly he had never dreamed to do. She had

denied him once too often, it seems. Here was a sudden attack, a trick

of the sprites. She held her breath, she trembled, her breast heaved,

she shut her eyes, and her lips relaxed their hold of each other. “Not

yet, my blessed one, not yet!” and “Come, Rose of the World!” Thus they

murmured to each other and strove. An expectancy, the shiver and thrill

of it, possessed her; she seemed to feel the touch of a beloved hand,

which drew her, trembling and panting, closer and closer to some high

experience of which she had never dreamed before, to the expression of

inexpressible things, to a giving of the utmost, to a wild strife of

emulation which of them two should give the most. The dark was all about

them like a bed--and closer he drew her, and closer yet. For one wild

moment that endured--O heaven, they two in love under the stars! He was

of the Open Country--as free as the wind. Thus he would love her, if he

ever loved. Tristan's crying would be his--and Isolde's whimper of hurt

would be her answer. Thus, if ever, she might be loved. And then, if

ever in this world, peace!

Shivering still, with the sense of an arm still about her, of wild

breath beating on her cheek, she looked wonderfully out at the stars

which had seen her possessing. They burned steadily in their violet

hold--a million kindly eyes welcoming her to the Open Country. The great

town lay so still below that but for the glare behind the houses, which

told her that it lived, she might have thought herself enfolded in the

hills. So sure she was that she had been wedded, she glanced swiftly

up and down the street, lest one chance passenger should have seen

her naked soul. So a young girl, kissed by her lover, will search the

emptiness in fear. Not a soul could be seen; Charles Street under its

lamplight showed like a broad white ribbon curving towards the Square,

towards the Park. To her heart she whispered, “Dearest, you may love

me--we are alone under the stars”--and then shut her eyes fast, and with

parted lips breathed quick and short.

Out of the night, out of an empty street, a voice came up, “He loves

you--none so well. He lies out on the down in a white robe. He watches

for you and waits. I have seen him, talked with him of you. Can you

refuse such love as his? Goddess though you are, you will get no higher

love.”

The voice was very real. She knew it well. From the close arms that held

her, she answered it. “Oh, Struan, I know! I knew before you told me.

It's wonderful. Love is a wonderful thing.”

“It's all we have in the world. I am here to tell you that he waits for

you. Good-night.”

“Good-night, Struan,” she said. “I'm quite happy now.”

She remembered afterwards, with a shock of dismay at her selfishness,

that she had never asked Struan of his welfare.

* * * * *

She came to herself with a shudder and envisaged her circumstance. She

had had “a rare vision,” like Bottom the weaver--and that was all. Jack

Senhouse had never loved her so. To him she had been Artemis, the cold

goddess, or Queen Mab, whom no man might take. He had said so often--and

had looked it whenever she was near him. Meantime, she was to be

married--and _Tristan_ was unprofitable provender. It had given her an

indigestion of the mind. She would go to bed.

That she deliberately did--with one ceremony, characteristic of her

frugality. She opened a locked drawer, and looked at its contents. There

lay three goodly piles of letters, tied with blue ribbon. Each packet

was labelled “Jack to Me,” and dated with beginning and ending. She

contented herself with looking at them, smiling wisely and thoughtfully

as she did so. Then, like a child, not trusting to her eyes alone, she

looked at them with her fingers; touched them delicately in turn, with

a caress. Immediately afterwards she locked them up; and turned to her

disrobing. She slept quietly, and went about her affairs of the morrow

with a calmness that surprised her.

At a later day, in a conversation which Morosine had with her, he

permitted himself a reference to the Museum. “You go no more? They've

done their work--the Three?”

She smiled upon him, looking up from a little blue-covered book which

lay half-cut upon her lap. It had arrived by the post that morning

without message, or even inscription. But it was dedicated, she

observed, “To the Fairest,” and had smiled wisely to herself, observing

it. A finger in the book, she answered Morosine. “Yes, they've done

their work. I'm much happier now. I've thrown up my arms, you see. I'm

drowning.” She suddenly blushed, to remember her dream; and he perceived

it.

“Drowning?” he asked.

“Drifting with the tide,” she explained. “And I like it.”

It was on his tongue to refer to _Tristan_, but--such was her

hardihood--she saved him the trouble. “I was fearfully excited with the

opera. During the performance, and after it.”

His heart beat high. “You were not more so than I was,” he said, looking

at her. “I thought of things possible and impossible. I had a vision.”

So had she had a vision, whose force was such that she could not

continue to talk of such things. She had flashed her eyes upon him

vividly for a moment, but was compelled to turn them away. He read

in them a wild surmise; he thought that she understood him and was

perturbed--perturbed, but not displeased. The bustling entry of

Chevenix, unannounced, prevented him from pursuing his campaign.

Chevenix was gay. “Hulloa, Sancie--this is ripping. I say, I have

something frightfully interesting to tell you.” Then he saw Morosine.

“Hulloa, Alexis, is that you? Now we'll sit each other out, and Sancie

won't have her news.”

“But I hope I shall,” she cried. “I haven't got a secret in the world.

Don't go, Prince, please. Mr. Chevenix shall tell you the news too. I

haven't the faintest idea.”

“It's something you want to know very badly. At least, I should think

you did. It's not Nevile's address.” She took him gaily.

“I don't want to know that at all, if it's a new one. I have three

already.”

“Perhaps,” said Morosine, with a friendly look, “it's to cancel some of

them.”

She held up a book. “Is that what you mean? Do look. _Songs,_ by S.

Glyde. Did you mean to tell me of that?”

Chevenix stared. “The poet Glyde? No. By Jove, though, not a bad shot. I

referred, my dear, to the poet Senhouse.”

She received that full in the face. She paled, then coloured. Her heart

leaped, then stood still. She spelt with her blue eyes, “Tell me.”

Chevenix peered at her. “Thought I should fetch you, my dear. The poet

Senhouse is run to ground, and I'm going to see him. That's all.”

It was plain to Morosine that she was very much concerned with this

intelligence. She simply sat there, staring at Chevenix, shaking, moving

her white lips. She was as white as chalk and her eyes burned black in

her face. What on earth--who on earth--? He couldn't for the life of

him make it out. He had never heard of the man. It was a shock to him to

discover--so soon we flatter ourselves--that Sanchia had any reserve of

confidence. He had felt so sure of her!

“Another new poet?” he asked her. She recovered herself, shook her head.

“He's not new--to me. He's the greatest friend I ever had.” That was all

she could say. She turned to Chevenix, her desire fainting in her eyes.

“You're going to see him? Oh, take me with you!”

“Right,” said Chevenix.