CHAPTER I

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: "YOU HAVE MADE ME ONCE MORE IN LOVE WITH THE GOODNESS OF

GOD, IN LOVE WITH LIFE" See page 325]

Adrian

Savage

A Novel

BY LUCAS MALET

AUTHOR OF

"SIR RICHARD CALMADY"

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON

MCMXI

[Illustration: Title page]

COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HARPER & BROTHERS

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1911

TO

GABRIELLE FRANCESCA LILIAN MARY

THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED. UPON

HER BIRTHDAY. AS A LOVE-TOKEN

BY

LUCAS MALET

THE ORCHARD, EVERSLEY AUGUST 28, 1911

CONTENTS

I

CONCERNING THE DEAD AND THE LIVING

CHAP.

I. In which the Reader is Invited to Make the Acquaintance of the Hero

of this Book

II. Wherein a Very Modern Young Man Tells a Time-Honored Tale with but

Small Encouragement

III. Telling How René Dax Cooked a Savory Omelette, and Why Gabrielle

St. Leger Looked Out of an Open Window at Past Midnight

IV. Climbing the Ladder

V. Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book

VI. Some Consequences of Putting New Wine into Old Bottles

VII. In which Adrian Helps to Throw Earth into an Open Grave

VIII. A Modern Antigone

II

THE DRAWINGS UPON THE WALL

I. A Waster

II. The Return of the Native

III. A Straining of Friendship

IV. In which Adrian Sets Forth in Pursuit of the Further Reason

V. With Deborah, under an Oak in the Parc Monceau

VI. Recording the Vigil of a Scarlet Homunculus and Aristides the Just

III

THE OTHER SIDE

I. Recording a Brave Man's Effort to Cultivate His Private Garden

II. A Strategic Movement which Secures Victory while Simulating Retreat

III. In which Euterpe is Called Upon to Play the Part of Interpreter

IV. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book

V. In which Adrian's Knowledge of Some Inhabitants of the Tower House

is Sensibly Increased

VI. Which Plays Seesaw between a Game of Lawn Tennis and a Prodigal Son

VII. Pistols or Politeness--For Two

VIII. "Nuit de Mai"

IV

THE FOLLY OF THE WISE

I. Re-enter a Wayfaring Gossip

II. In the Track of the Brain-storm

III. In which the Storm Breaks

IV. On the Heights

V. De Profundis

V

THE LIVING AND THE DEAD

I. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book

II. Recording a Sisterly Effort to Let in Light

III. In which Joanna Embraces a Phantom Bliss

IV. "Come Unto These Yellow Sands"

V. In which Adrian Makes Disquieting Acquaintance with the Long Arm of

Coincidence

VI. Concerning a Curse, and the Manner of Its Going Home to Roost

VII. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book

VIII. In which a Strong Man Adopts a Very Simple Method of Clearing His

Own Path of Thorns

IX. Wherein Adrian Savage Succeeds in Awakening La Belle au Bois Dormant

PREFATORY NOTE

I will ask my readers kindly to understand that this book is altogether

a work of fiction. The characters it portrays, their circumstances and

the episodes in which they play a part, are my own invention.

Every sincere and scientific student of human nature and the social

scene must, of necessity, depend upon direct observation of life for

his general types--the said types being the composite photographs with

which study and observation have supplied him. But, for the shaping of

individual characters out of the said types, he should, in my opinion,

rely exclusively upon his imagination and his sense of dramatic

coherence. Exactly in proportion as he does this can he claim to be a

true artist. Since the novel, to be a work of art, must be impersonal,

neither autobiographical nor biographical.--I am not, of course,

speaking of the historical novel, whether the history involved be

ancient or contemporary, nor am I speaking of an admitted satire.

I wish further to assure my readers that the names of my characters

have been selected at random; and belong, certainly in sequence of

Christian and surname, to no persons with whom I am, or ever have been,

acquainted. I may also add that although I have often visited

_Stourmouth_ and its neighborhood--of which I am very fond--my

knowledge of the social life of the district is of the smallest, while

my knowledge of its municipal and commercial life is _nil_.

Finally, the lamented disappearance of _La Gioconda_, from the _Salon

Carré_ of the Louvre, took place when the whole of my manuscript was

already in the hands of the printers. May I express a pious hope that

this most seductive of women will be safely restored to her former

dwelling-place before any copies of my novel are in the hands of the

public?

LUCAS MALET.

_August_ 28, 1911

I

CONCERNING THE DEAD AND THE LIVING

ADRIAN SAVAGE

CHAPTER I

IN WHICH THE READER IS INVITED TO MAKE THE

ACQUAINTANCE OF THE HERO OF THIS BOOK

Adrian Savage--a noticeably distinct, well-groomed, and well-set-up

figure, showing dark in the harsh light of the winter afternoon against

the pallor of the asphalt--walked rapidly across the Pont des Arts,

and, about half-way along the _Quai Malaquais_, turned in under the

archway of a cavernous _porte-cochère_. The bare, spindly planes and

poplars, in the center of the courtyard to which this gave access,

shivered visibly. Doubtless the lightly clad, lichen-stained nymph to

whom they acted as body-guard would have shivered likewise had her

stony substance permitted, for icicles fringed the lip of her tilted

pitcher and caked the edge of the shell-shaped basin into which, under

normal conditions, its waters dripped with a not unmusical tinkle. Yet

the atmosphere of the courtyard struck the young man as almost mild

compared with that of the quay outside, along which the northeasterly

wind scourged bitingly. Upon the farther bank of the turgid,

gray-green river the buildings of the Louvre stood out pale and stark

against a sullen backing of snow-cloud. For the past week Paris had

cowered, sunless, in the grip of a black frost. If those leaden

heavens would only elect to unload themselves of their burden the

weather might take up! To Adrian Savage, in excellent health and

prosperous circumstances, the cold in itself mattered nothing--would,

indeed, rather have acted as a stimulus to his chronic appreciation of

the joy of living but for the fact that he had to-day been suddenly and

unexpectedly called upon to leave Paris and bid farewell to one of its

inhabitants eminently and even perplexingly dear to him. Having, for

all his young masculine optimism, the artist's exaggerated sensibility

to the aspects of outward things, and equally exaggerated capacity for

conceiving--highly improbable--disaster, it troubled him to make his

adieux under such forbidding meteorologic conditions. His regrets and

alarms would, he felt, have been decidedly lessened had kindly sunshine

set a golden frame about his parting impressions.

Nevertheless, as--raising his hat gallantly to the concierge, seated in

her glass-fronted lodge, swathed mummy-like in shawls and mufflers--he

turned shortly to the left along the backs of the tall, gray houses, a

high expectation, at once delightful and disturbing, took possession of

him to the exclusion of all other sensations. For the past eighteen

months--ever since, indeed, the distressingly sudden death of his old

friend, the popular painter Horace St. Leger--he had made this selfsame

little pilgrimage as frequently as respectful discretion permitted.

And invariably, at the selfsame spot--it was where, as he noted

amusedly, between the third and fourth of the heavily barred

ground-floor windows a square leaden water-pipe, running the height of

the house wall from the parapet of the steep slated roof, reached the

grating in the pavement--this quickening of his whole being came upon

him, however occupied his thoughts might previously have been with his

literary work, or with the conduct of the bi-monthly review of which he

was at once assistant editor and part proprietor. This quickening

remained with him, moreover, as he entered a doorway set in the near

corner of the courtyard and ran up the flights of waxed wooden stairs

to the third story. In no country of the civilized world, it may be

confidently asserted, do affairs of the heart, even when virtuous,

command more indulgent sympathy than in France. It followed that

Adrian entertained his own emotions with the same eager and friendly

amenity which he would have extended to those of another man in like

case. He was not in the least contemptuous or suspicious of them. He

permitted cynicism no smallest word in the matter. On the contrary, he

hailed the present ebullience of his affections as among those

captivating surprises of earthly existence upon which one should warmly

congratulate oneself, having liveliest cause for rejoicing.

To-day, as usual, there was a brief pause before the door of the

vestibule opened. A space of delicious anxiety---carrying him back to

the poignant hopes and despairs of childhood, when the fate of some

anticipated treat hangs in the balance--while he inquired of the trim

waiting-maid whether her mistress was or was not receiving. Followed

by that other moment, childlike, too, in its deliciously troubled

emotion and vision, when, passing from the corridor into the warm,

vaguely fragrant atmosphere of the long, pale, rose-red and

canvas-colored drawing-room, he once again beheld the lady of his

desires and of his heart.

From the foregoing it may be deduced, and rightly, that Adrian Savage

was of a romantic temperament, and that he was very much in love. Let

it be immediately added, however, that he was a young gentleman whose

head, to employ a vulgarism, was most emphatically screwed on the right

way. Only child of an eminent English physician of good family, long

resident in Paris, and of a French mother--a woman of great personal

charm and some distinction as a poetess--he had inherited, along with a

comfortable little income of about eighteen hundred pounds a year, a

certain sagacity and decision in dealing with men and with affairs, as

well as quick sensibility in relation to beauty and to drama. Artist

and practical man of the world went, for the most part, very happily

hand and hand in him. At moments, however, they quarreled, to the

production of complications.

The death of both his parents occurred during his tenth year, leaving

him to the guardianship of a devoted French grandmother. Under the

terms of Doctor Savage's will one-third of his income was to be applied

to the boy's maintenance and education until his majority, the

remaining two-thirds being set aside to accumulate until his

twenty-third birthday. "At that age," so the document in question

stated, "I apprehend that my son will have discovered in what direction

his talents and aptitudes lie. I do not wish to fetter his choice of a

profession; still I do most earnestly request him not to squander the

considerable sum of money into possession of which he will then come,

but to spend it judiciously, in the service of those talents and

aptitudes, with the purpose of securing for himself an honorable and

distinguished career." This idea that something definite, something

notable even in the matter of achievement was demanded from him, clung

to the boy through school and college, acting--since he was healthy,

high-spirited, and confident--as a wholesome incentive to effort. Even

before fulfilling his term of military service, Adrian had decided what

his career should be. Letters called him with no uncertain voice. He

would be a writer--dramatist, novelist, an artist in psychology, in

touch at all points with the inexhaustible riches of the human scene.

His father's science, his mother's poetic gift, should combine, so he

believed, to produce in him a very special vocation. His ambitions at

this period were colossal. The raw material of his selected art

appeared to him nothing less than the fee-simple of creation. He

planned literary undertakings beside which the numerically formidable

volumes of Balzac or Zola shriveled to positive next-to-nothingness.

Fortunately fuller knowledge begot a juster sense of proportion, while

his native shrewdness lent a hand to knocking extravagant conceptions

on the head. By the time he came into possession of the comfortable

sum of money that had accumulated during his minority and he was free

to follow his bent, Adrian found himself contented with quite modest

first steps in authorship. For a couple of years he traveled, resolved

to broaden his acquaintance with men and things, to get some clear

first-hand impressions both of the ancient, deep-rooted civilizations

of the East and the amazing mushroom growths of America. On his return

to Paris, it so happened that a leading bi-monthly review, which had

shown hospitality to his maiden literary productions, stood badly in

need of financial support. Adrian bought a preponderating interest in

it; and by the time in question--namely, the winter of 190- and the

dawn of his thirtieth year--had contrived to make it not only a

powerful factor in contemporary criticism and literary output, but a

solid commercial success.

To be nine-and-twenty, the owner of a well-favored person, of admitted

talent and business capacity, and to be honestly in love, is surely to

be as happily circumstanced as mortal man can reasonably ask to be.

That the course of true love should not run quite smooth, that the

beloved one should prove elusive, difficult of access, that obstacles

should encumber the path of achievement, that mists of doubt and

uncertainty should drift across the face of the situation, obscuring

its issues, only served in Adrian's case to heighten interest and whet

appetite. The last thing he asked was that the affair should move on

fashionable, conventional lines, a matter for newspaper paragraphs and

social gossip. The justifying charm of it, to his thinking, resided in

precisely those elements of uncertainty and difficulty. If, in the

twentieth century, a man is to subscribe to the constraints of marriage

at all, let it at least be in some sort marriage by capture! And, as

he told himself, what man worth the name, let alone what artist, what

poet--vowed by his calling to confession of the transcendental, the

eternally mystic and sacred in this apparently most primitive, even

savage, of human relations--would choose to capture his exquisite prey

amid the blatant materialism, the vulgar noise and chaffer of the

modern social highway; rather than pursue it through the shifting

lights and shadows of mysterious woodland places, the dread of its

final escape always upon him, till his feet were weary with running,

and his hands with dividing the thick, leafy branches, his ears, all

the while, tormented by the baffling, piercing sweetness of the

half-heard Pipes of Pan?

Not infrequently Adrian would draw himself up short in the midst of

such rhapsodizings, humorously conscious that the artistic side of his

nature had got the bit, so to speak, very much between its teeth and

was running away altogether too violently with its soberer, more

practical, stable companion. For, as he frankly admitted, to the

ordinary observer it must seem a rather ludicrously far cry from Madame

St. Leger's pleasant, well-found flat, in the center of cosmopolitan

twentieth-century Paris, to the arcana of pagan myth and legend! Yet,

speaking quite soberly and truthfully, it was of such ancient, secret,

and symbolic things he instinctively thought when looking into

Gabrielle St. Leger's golden-brown eyes and noting the ironic

loveliness of her smiling lips. That was just the delight, just the

provocation, just what differentiated her from all other women of his

acquaintance, from any other woman who, so far, had touched his heart

or stirred his senses. Her recondite beauty--to quote the phrase of

this analytical lover--challenged his imagination with the excitement

of something hidden; though whether hidden by intentional and delicate

malice, or merely by lack of opportunity for self-declaration, he was

at a loss to determine. Daughter, wife, mother, widow--young though

she still was, she had sounded the gamut of woman's most vital

experiences. Yet, it seemed to him, although she had fulfilled, and

was fulfilling, the obligations incident to each of these several

conditions in so gracious and irreproachable a manner, her soul had

never been effectively snared in the meshes of any net. Good Catholic,

good housewife, sympathetic hostess, intelligent and discriminating

critic, still--he might be a fool for his pains, but what artist

doesn't know better than to under-rate the fine uses of folly?--he

believed her to be, either by fate or by choice, essentially a _Belle

au Bois Dormant_; and further believed himself, thanks to the workings

of constitutional masculine vanity, to be the princely adventurer

designed by providence for the far from disagreeable duty of waking her

up. Only just now providence, to put it roughly, appeared to have

quite other fish for him to fry. And it was under compulsion of such

prospective fish-frying that he sought her apartment overlooking the

_Quai Malaquais_, this afternoon, reluctantly to bid her farewell.

CHAPTER II

WHEREIN A VERY MODERN YOUNG MAN TELLS A

TIME-HONORED TALE WITH BUT SMALL ENCOURAGEMENT

Disappointment awaited him. Madame St. Leger was receiving; but, to

his chagrin, another visitor had forestalled his advent--witness a

woman's fur-lined wrap lying across the lid of the painted Venetian

chest in the corridor. Adrian bestowed a glance of veritable hatred

upon the garment. Then, recognizing it, felt a little better. For it

belonged to Anastasia Beauchamp, an old friend, not unsympathetic, as

he believed, to his suit.

Sympathy, however, was hardly the note struck on his entrance. Miss

Beauchamp and Madame St. Leger stood in the vacant rose-red carpeted

space at the far end of the long room, in front of the open fire. Both

were silent; yet Adrian was aware somehow they had only that moment

ceased speaking, and that their conversation had been momentous in

character. The high tension of it held them to the point of their

permitting him to walk the whole length of the room before turning to

acknowledge his presence. This was damping for Adrian, who, like most

agreeable young men, thought himself entitled to and well worth a

welcome. But not a bit of it! The elder woman--high-shouldered,

short-waisted, an admittedly liberal sixty, her arms disproportionate

in their length and thinness to her low stature--continued to hold her

hostess's right hand in both hers and look at her intently, as though

enforcing some request or admonition.

Miss Beauchamp, it may be noted in passing, affected a certain

juvenility of apparel. To-day she wore a short purple serge

walking-suit. A velvet toque of the same color, trimmed with sable and

blush-roses, perched itself on her elaborately dressed hair, which, in

obedience to the then prevailing fashion, showed not gray but a full

coppery red. Her eyebrows and eyelids were darkly penciled, and powder

essayed to mask wrinkles and sallowness of complexion. Yet the very

frankness of these artifices tended to rob them of offense; or, in any

serious degree--the first surprise of them over--to mar the genial

promise of her quick blue-gray eyes and her thin, witty, strongly

marked, rather masculine countenance. Adrian usually accepted her

superficial bedizenments without criticism, as just part of her

excellent, if somewhat bizarre, personality. But to-day--his temper

being slightly ruffled--under the cold, diffused light of the range of

tall windows, they started, to his seeing, into quite unpardonable

prominence--a prominence punctuated by the grace and the proudly

youthful aspect of the woman beside her.

Madame St. Leger was clothed in unrelieved black, from the frill, high

about her long throat, to the hem of her trailing cling skirts. Over

her head she had thrown a black gauze scarf, soberly framing her

heart-shaped face in fine semi-transparent folds, and obscuring the

burnished lights in her brown hair, which stood away in soft, dense

ridges on either side the parting and was gathered into a loose knot at

the back of her head. Her white skin was very clear, a faint scarlet

tinge showing through it in the round of either cheek. But just now

she was pale. And this, along with the framing black gauze scarf,

developed the subtle likeness which--as Adrian held--she bore, in the

proportions of her face and molding of it, to Leonardo's world-famous

"Mona Lisa" in Salon Carré of the Louvre. The strange recondite

quality of her beauty, and the challenge it offered, were peculiarly in

evidence; thereby making, as he reflected, cruel, though unconscious,

havoc of the juvenile pretensions of poor Anastasia. And this was

painful to him. So that in wishing--as he incontestably did--the said

Anastasia absent, his wish may have been dictated almost as much by

chivalry as by selfishness.

All of which conflicting perceptions and emotions tended to rob him of

his habitual and happy self-assurance. His voice took on quite

plaintive tones, and his gay brown eyes a quite pathetic and orphaned

expression, as he exclaimed:

"Ah! I see that I disturb you. I am in the way. My visit is

inconvenient to you!"

The faint tinge of scarlet leaped into Madame St. Leger's cheeks, and

an engaging dimple indicated itself at the left corner of her closed

and smiling mouth. Meanwhile Anastasia Beauchamp broke forth

impetuously:

"No, no! On the contrary, it is I who am in the way, though our dear,

exquisite friend is too amiable to tell me so. I have victimized her

far too long already. I have bored her distractingly."

"Indeed, it is impossible you should ever bore me," the younger woman

put in quietly.

"Then I have done worse. I have just a little bit angered you," Miss

Beauchamp declared. "Oh! I know I have been richly irritating,

preaching antiquated doctrines of moderation in thought and conduct.

But '_les vérités bêtes_' remain '_les vérités vraies_,' now as ever.

With that I go. _Ma toute chère et belle_, I leave you. And," she

added, turning to Adrian, "I leave you, you lucky young man, in

possession. Retrieve my failures! Be as amusing as I have been

intolerable.--But see, one moment, since the opportunity offers. Tell

me, you are going to accept those articles on the Stage in the

Eighteenth Century, by my poor little protégé, Lewis Byewater, for

publication in the Review?"

"Am I not always ready to attempt the impossible for your sake, dear

Mademoiselle?" Adrian inquired gallantly.

"Hum--hum--is it as bad as that, then? Are his articles so impossible?

Byewater has soaked himself in his subject. He has been tremendously

conscientious. He has taken immense trouble over them."

"He has taken immensely too much; that is just the worry. His

conscience protrudes at every sentence. It prods, it positively

impales you!" The speaker raised his neat black eyebrows and broad

shoulders in delicate apology. "Alas! he is pompous, pedantic, I

grieve to report; he is heavy, very heavy, your little Byewater. The

eighteenth-century stage was many things which it had, no doubt, much

better not have been, but was it heavy? Assuredly not."

"Ah! poor child, he is young. He is nervous. He has not command of

his style yet. You should be lenient. Give him opportunity and

encouragement, and he will find himself, will rise to the possibilities

of his own talent. After all," she added, "every writer must begin

some time and somewhere!"

"But not necessarily in the pages of my Review," Adrian protested.

"With every desire to be philanthropic, I dare not convert it into a

_crèche_, a foundling hospital, for the maintenance of ponderous

literary infants. My subscribers might, not unreasonably, object."

"You floated René Dax."

"But he is a genius," Madame St. Leger remarked quietly.

"Yes," Adrian asserted, "there could be no doubt about his value from

the first. He is extraordinary."

"He is extraordinarily perverted," cried Miss Beauchamp.

"I am much attached to M. René Dax." Madame St. Leger spoke

deliberately; and a little silence followed, as when people listen,

almost anxiously, to the sound of a pebble dropped into a well, trying

to hear it touch bottom. Miss Beauchamp was the first to break it.

She did so laughing.

"In that case, _ma toute belle_, you also are perverse, though I trust

not yet perverted. It amounts to this, then," she continued, pulling

her long gloves up her thin arms: "I am to dispose of poor Byewater,

shatter his hopes, crush his ambitions, tell him, in short, that he

won't do. Just Heaven, you who have arrived, how soon you become

cruel!" She looked from the handsome black-bearded young man to the

beautiful enigmatic young woman, and her witty, accentuated face bore a

singular expression. "Good-by, charming Gabrielle," she said.

"Forgive me if I have been tedious, for truly I am devotedly fond of

you. And good-by to you, Mr. Savage. Yes! I go to dispose of the

ill-fated Byewater. But ah! ah! if you only knew all I have done this

afternoon, or tried to do, to serve you!"

Whereupon Adrian, smitten by sudden apprehension of deep and possibly

dangerous issues, followed her to the door, crying eagerly:

"Wait, I implore you, dear Mademoiselle. Do not be too precipitate in

disposing of Byewater. I may have underrated the worth of his

articles. I will re-read, I will reconsider. Nothing presses. I have

to leave Paris for a week or two. Let the matter rest till my return.

I may find it possible, after all, to accept them."

Then, the door closed, he came back and stood on the vacant space of

rose-red carpet in the pleasant glow of the fire.

"She is a clever woman," he said, reflectively. "She has cornered me,

and that is not quite fair--on the Review. For they constitute a

veritable atrocity of dullness, those articles by her miserable little

Byewater."

"It is part of her code of friendship--it holds true all round. If she

helps others--"

Madame St. Leger left her sentence unfinished and, glancing with a hint

of veiled mockery at her guest, sat down in a carven, high-backed,

rose-cushioned chair at right angles to the fireplace, and picked up a

bundle of white needlework from the little table beside it.

"You mean that Miss Beauchamp does her best for me, too?" Adrian

inquired, tentatively.

But the lady was too busy unfolding her work, finding needle and

thimble to make answer.

"I foresee that I shall be compelled to print the wretched little

Byewater in the end," he murmured, still tentatively.

"Did you not tell Miss Beauchamp you were going away?" Gabrielle asked.

She had no desire to continue the conversation on this particular note.

"Yes, I leave Paris to-night. That is my excuse for asking to see you

this afternoon. But I feel that my visit is ill-timed. I observed

directly I came in that you looked a little fatigued. I fear you are

suffering. Ought you to undertake the exertion of receiving visitors?

I doubt it. Yet I should have been desolated had you refused me. For

I leave, as I say, to-night in response to a sudden call to England

upon business--that of certain members of my father's family. I am

barely acquainted with them. But they claim my assistance, and I

cannot refuse it. I could not do otherwise than tell you of this

unexpected journey, could I? It distresses me to find you suffering."

Gabrielle had looked at him smiling, her lips closed, the little dimple

again showing in her left cheek. His eagerness and volubility were

diverting to her. They enabled her to think of him as still very

young; and she quite earnestly wished thus to think of him. To do so

made for security. At this period Madame St. Leger put a very high

value upon security.

"But, indeed," she said, "I am quite well. The corridor is chilly, and

I have been going to and fro preparing a little _fête_ for Bette. She

has her friends, our neighbor Madame Bernard's two little girls, from

the floor below, to spend the afternoon with her. My mother is now

kindly guarding the small flock. But I could not burden her with

preliminaries.--I am quite well, and, for the moment, I am quite at

leisure. Bring a chair. Sit down. It is for me to condole with you

rather than for you to condole with me," she went on, in her quiet

voice, "for this is far from the moment one would select for a

cross-Channel journey! But then you are more English than French in

all that. Hereditary instincts assert themselves in you. You have the

islander's inborn sense of being cramped by the modest proportions of

his island, and craving to step off the edge of it into space."

The young man placed his hat on the floor, opened the fronts of his

overcoat, and drew a chair up to the near side of the low work-table

whence he commanded an uninterrupted view of his hostess's charming

person.

"That is right," she said. "Now tell me about this sudden journey. Is

it for long? When may we expect you back?"

"What do I know?" he replied, spreading out his hands quickly. "It may

be a matter of days. It may be a matter of weeks. I am ignorant of

the amount of business entailed. The whole thing has come upon me as

so complete a surprise. What induced my venerable cousin to select me

as his executor remains inexplicable. I remember seeing him when, as a

child, I visited England with my parents. I remember, also, that he

filled me with alarm and melancholy. He lived in a big, solemn house

on the outskirts of a great, noisy, dirty, manufacturing town in

Yorkshire. It was impressed upon me that I must behave in his presence

with eminent circumspection, since he was very religious, very

intellectual. I fear I was an impertinent little boy. He appeared to

me to worship a most odious deity, who permitted no amusements, no

holidays, no laughter; while his conversation--my cousin's, I mean, not

that of the Almighty--struck me as quite the dullest I had ever

listened to. I cried, very loud and very often, to the consternation

of the whole establishment, and demanded to be taken home to Paris at

once. I never saw him again until three years ago, when he spent a few

days here, on a return journey from Carlsbad. As in duty bound, I did

what I could to render their stay agreeable to him and his companions."

Adrian's expression became at once apologetic and merry. "My efforts

were not, as I supposed, crowned with at all flattering success. My

venerable cousin still filled me with melancholy and alarm. In face of

his immense seriousness I appeared to myself as some capering

harlequin. Therefore it is, as you will readily understand, with

unqualified amazement that I learn he has intrusted the administration

of his very considerable estate to my care. Really, his faith in me

constitutes a vastly embarrassing compliment. I wish to heaven he had

formed a less exalted estimate of my probity and business acumen and

looked elsewhere for an executor!"

"He had no children, poor man?" Madame St. Leger inquired,

sympathetically.

"On the contrary, he leaves twin daughters. And it is in conjunction

with the--briefly--elder of these two ladies that I am required to act."

Gabrielle moved slightly in her chair. Her eyelids were half-closed.

She looked at the young man sideways without turning her head. Her

resemblance to the Mona Lisa was startling just then; but it was Mona

Lisa in a most mischievous humor.

"In many ways you cannot fail to find that interesting," she said.

"You are a professional psychologist, a student of character. And

then, too, it is your nature to be untiring in kindness and helpfulness

to women."

"To women of flesh and blood, yes, possibly, if they are amiable enough

to accept my services," Adrian returned, somewhat warmly, a lover's

resentment of any ascription of benevolence toward the sex, merely as

such, all agog in him. "But are these ladies really of flesh and

blood? They affected me, when I last saw them, rather as shadowy and

harassed abstractions. I gazed at them in wonder. They are not old.

But have they ever been young? I doubt it, with so aggressively

ethical and educative a father. I was at a loss how to approach them;

they were so silent, so restrained, so apparently bankrupt in the small

change of social intercourse. If they did not add sensibly to my alarm

they most unquestionably contributed to my melancholy--the humiliating,

disintegrating melancholy of harlequin, capering in conscious fatuity

before an audience morally and physically incapable of laughter. All

this was bad enough when our connection was but superficial and

transitory. It will be ten thousand times worse when we are forced

into a position of unnatural intimacy."

During this tirade, Gabrielle had shaken out the thin folds of her

needlework and begun setting quick stitches methodically. Her hands

were strong, square in the palm and the finger-tips, finely modeled,

finely capable--more fitted, as it might seem, to hold maul-stick and

palate, or even wield mallet and chisel, than to put rows of small,

even, snippety stitches in a child's lawn frock. If the fifteenth

century and the voluptuous humanism of the Italian Renaissance found

subtle reflection in her face, the twentieth century and its awakening

militant feminism found expression in her firm hands and their promise

of fearless and ready strength.

"I believe you do both yourself and those two ladies an injustice," she

said, her head bent over her stitching. "It will not be the very least

in the character of harlequin that they receive you, but rather in that

of a savior, a liberator. For you will be delightful to them--ah! I

see it all quite clearly--tactful, considerate, reassuring. That is

your _rôle_, and you will play it to perfection. How can you do

otherwise, since not only your sense of dramatic necessity but your

goodness of heart will be engaged? And, take it from me, the enjoyment

will not be exclusively on their side. For you will find it

increasingly inspiring to act providence to those two shadowy old-young

ladies as you see age vanish and youth return. I envy you. Think what

an admirable mission you are about to fulfil!"

She glanced up suddenly, her eyes and the turn of her mouth conveying

to unhappy Adrian a distracting combination of friendliness--detestable

sentiment, since it went no further!--and of raillery. Then, her face

positively brilliant with mischief, she gave him a final dig.

"What a thousand pities, though, that there are two of these

abstractions whom it is your office to materialize! Had there been but

one, how far simpler the problem of your position!"

The young man literally bounded on to his feet, his expression eloquent

of the liveliest repudiation and reproach. But Madame St. Leger's head

was bent over her needlework again. She stitched, stitched, in the

calmest manner imaginable, talking, meanwhile, in a quiet, even voice.

"Did I not tell you we are _en fête_? Bette has her friends, the

little Bernards, to spend the afternoon with her. It is an excuse for

keeping her indoors. The modern craze for sending children out in all

weathers does not appeal to me. I do not believe in a system of

hardening."

"Indeed?" Adrian commented, with meaning.

"For little girls?" she inquired. "Oh no, decidedly not. For grown-up

people, especially for men when they are young and in good health, it

may, of course, have excellent results."

"Ah!" he said, resentfully.

"They--the children, I mean--are busy in the dining-room making rather

terrible culinary experiments with a new doll's cooking stove. Shall

we go and see how they are getting on? I ought, perhaps, to just take

a look at them and assure myself they are not tiring my mother too

much. And then they will be distressed, my mother and Bette, if they

do not have an opportunity to bid you good-by before your journey."

For once Adrian was guilty of ignoring his hostess's suggestions. He

stood leaning one elbow upon the chimneypiece, and--above the

powder-blue Chinese jars and ivory godlings adorning it--scrutinizing

his own image in the looking-glass. He had just suffered a sharp and,

to his thinking, most uncalled-for rebuff. He smarted under it, unable

for the moment to recover his equanimity. But, contemplating the image

held by the mirror, his soul received a sensible measure of comfort.

The smooth, opaque, colorless complexion; the pointed black beard, so

close cut as in no degree to hide the forcible line of the jaw or

distort the excellent proportions of the mask; the thick, well-trimmed

mustache, standing upward from the lip and leaving the curved mouth

free; the straight square-tipped nose, with its suggestion of

pugnacity; let alone the last word of contemporary fashion in collar

and tie and heavy box-cloth overcoat, the cut of which lent itself to

the values of a tall, well-set-up figure--all these went to form a far

from discouraging picture. Yes! surely he was a good-looking fellow

enough! One, moreover, with the promise of plenty of fight in him;

daring, constitutionally obstinate, not in the least likely tamely to

take "No" for an answer once his mind was made up.

Then, in thought, he made a rapid survey of the mental, social, moral,

and financial qualifications of those who had formed the circle of poor

Horace St. Leger's friends, and who, during the years of his marriage,

had been permitted the _entrée_ of his house. A varied and remarkable

company when one came to review it--savants, artists, politicians, men

of letters, musicians, journalists, from octogenarian M. de Cubières,

Member of the Senate, Member of the Academy, and Chevalier of the

Legion of Honor, to that most disconcerting sport of wayward genius,

vitriolic caricaturist and elegant minor poet, René Dax, whose immense

domed head and neat little toy of a body had won him at school the

nickname of _le tetard_--the tadpole--an appellation as descriptive as

it was unflattering, and which--rather cruelly--had stuck to him ever

since. Adrian marshaled all these, examined their possible claims, and

pronounced each, in turn, ineligible. Some, thank Heaven! were

securely married already. Others, though untrammeled by the bonds of

holy matrimony, were trammeled by bonds in no wise holy, yet scarcely

less prohibitive. Some were too old, others too young or too poor.

Some, as, for example, René Dax, were altogether too eccentric. True,

Madame St. Leger had just now declared herself warmly attached to him.

But wasn't that the best proof of the absence of danger? A woman

doesn't openly affirm her regard for a man unless that regard is of

purely platonic and innocuous character. And then, after

all--excellent thought!--was it not he, Adrian Savage, who had been

admitted even during the tragic hours of poor Horace's agony; who had

watched by the corpse through a stifling summer night, a night too hot

for sleep, restless with the continual sound of footsteps and voices,

the smell of the asphalt and of the river? And, since then, was it not

to him Gabrielle and her mother, Madame Vernois, had repeatedly turned

for advice in matters of business?

Fortified by which reflections, stimulated, though stung, by her

teasing, defiant of all other possible and impossible lovers, the young

man wheeled round and stood directly in front of Gabrielle St. Leger.

"Listen, _très chère Madame et amie_, listen one little minute," he

said, "I implore you. It is true that I go to-night, and for how long

a time I am ignorant, to arrange the worldly affairs of my alarming old

relative, Montagu Smyrthwaite, and, incidentally, to adjust those of

his two dessicated daughters. But it is equally true--for I vehemently

refuse such a solution of the problem of my relation to either of those

ladies as your words seem to prefigure--I repeat, it is equally true

that I shall return at the very earliest opportunity. And return in

precisely the same attitude of mind as I go--namely, wholly convinced,

wholly faithful, incapable of any attachment, indifferent to any

sentiment save one."

The corners of his mouth quivered and his gay brown eyes were misty

with tears.

"I do not permit myself to enlarge upon the nature of that sentiment

to-day. To do so might seem intrusive, even wanting in delicacy. But

I do permit myself--your own words have procured me the

opportunity--both to declare its existence and to assert my profound

assurance of its permanence. You may not smile upon it, dear Madame.

You may even regard it as an impertinence, a nuisance. Yet it is

there--there." Adrian drummed with his closed fist upon the region of

his heart. "It has been there for a longer period than I care to

mention. And it declines to be eradicated. While life remains, it

remains, unalterable. It is idle, absolutely idle, believe me, to

invite it to lessen or to depart."

Madame St. Leger had risen, too, laying her work down on the little

table. Her face was grave to the point of displeasure. The tinge of

scarlet had died out in the round of her cheeks. She was about to

speak, but the young man spread out his hands with an almost violent

gesture.

"No--no," he cried. "Do not say anything. Do not, I entreat, attempt

to answer me. When I came here this afternoon I had no thought of

making this avowal. It has been forced from me, and may well appear to

you premature. Therefore I entreat you for the moment ignore it. Let

everything between us remain as before. That is so easy, you see,

since I am going away. Only," he added, more lightly, "I think, if you

will excuse me, I will not join that interesting conference of amateur

chefs in the dining-room. My mind, I confess, at this moment is

slightly preoccupied, and I might prove a but clumsy and distracted

assistant. May I ask you, therefore, kindly to express to your mother,

Madame Vernois, and to the ravishing Mademoiselle Bette my regret at

being unable to make my farewells in person?"

He picked up his hat, buttoned his overcoat, and, without attempting to

take his hostess's hand, backed away from her.

"With your permission I shall write at intervals during my unwilling

exile," he said. "But merely to recount my adventures--nothing beyond

my adventures, rest assured. These are likely to possess a certain

piquancy, I imagine, and may serve to amuse you."

Something of his habitual happy self-confidence had returned to him.

His air was high-spirited, courteous, instinct with the splendid

optimism of his vigorous young manhood, as he paused, hat in hand, for

a last word in the doorway.

"_Au revoir, très chère Madame_," he cried. "I go to a land of

penetrating fogs and a household of pensive abstractions, but I shall

come back unaffected by either, since I carry a certain memory, a

certain aspiration in my heart. _Au revoir_. God keep you. Ah! very

surely, and with what a quite infinite gladness I shall come back!"

CHAPTER III

TELLING HOW RENÉ DAX COOKED A SAVORY OMELETTE,

AND WHY GABRIELLE ST. LEGER LOOKED OUT OF

AN OPEN WINDOW AT PAST MIDNIGHT

Wrapped in a wadded silk dressing-gown, with frilled muslin cape and

under-sleeves to it, Gabrielle St. Leger had made her nightly round.

Had seen that lights were switched off, fires safe, shutters bolted,

and the maids duly retired to their bedchamber. Had embraced her

mother, and looked into details of night-light and spirit-lamp, lest

the excessive cold should render some hot beverage advisable for the

elder lady in the course of the night. Had visited Bette in the little

room adjoining her own, and found the child snuggled down in her cot

profoundly and deliciously asleep. Then, being at last free of further

obligation to house or household, she turned the key in the lock of her

bedroom door and sat down to think.

Until the day's work, its courtesies as well as its duties, was fully

done she had agreed with herself not to think. For even startling

events and agitating experiences should, in her opinion, be dealt with

methodically in their proper season and order, without fear and without

haste. Only so could you be both just and clear-sighted in respect of

them. All of which---had she known it--went to prove a theory of

Adrian's--namely, that in her case, as in that of so many modern women

between the ages of eighteen and, say, eight and twenty, the reasoning,

the intellectual, rather than the sensuous and emotional elements are

in the ascendant.

And, indeed, Gabrielle honestly regretted that which had to-day

happened by the conversion of a valued friend into a declared lover.

It was tiresome, really tiresome to a degree! Nor was her vexation

lessened by the fact that she could not excuse herself of blame. The

catastrophe had been precipitated by her fatal habit of teasing. How

constantly she resolved to be staid and serious in the presence of

mankind! And then, all uninvited, a sprickety, mischievous humor would

take her, making it irresistible delicately to poke fun at those large,

self-confident, masculine creatures, to plague and trick them, placing

them at a disadvantage; and, by so doing, to lower, for a moment at

least, the crest of their over-weening self-complacency. Only this

afternoon, as she ruefully admitted, she had gone unwisely far, letting

malice tread hard on the heels of mere mischief. This was what vexed

her most. For why should malice find entrance in this particular

connection? Gabrielle would gladly have shirked the question. But it

stood out in capital letters right in front of her, with a portly note

of interrogation at the end of the sentence, asking, almost audibly,

"Why? Why? Why?"

With a movement of her hands, at once impatient and deprecatory, the

young woman lay back in her long chair. In part it was Anastasia

Beauchamp's fault. Anastasia had come rather close, venturing to

criticize and to warn. Anastasia was anti-feministe, distrustful of

modern tendencies, of independence, of woman's life and outlook in and

for itself. This genial unbeliever preached orthodoxy; this unmarried

woman--with a legend, for there were those who reported events in the

far past--preached matrimony. "In the end," she said, "in the end

independence proved a mistake." And not improbably she was right in as

far as her own generation was concerned. But now the world had moved

forward a big piece. The conditions were different. And in this,

Gabrielle's generation, how, save by experiment, could you possibly

prove that independence mightn't very much pay? Whereupon her thought

began to march down alluring avenues of speculation guarded by vague,

masterful theories of feminine supremacy.

The crimson shades of the electric lights above her dressing-table, the

crimson silk coverlet of her bed, gave an effect of warmth and comfort

to the otherwise cool-colored room, its carved, white furniture and

blue-green carpet, curtains, and walls. Formerly this had been a

guest-chamber. But, since her husband's death, Gabrielle had taken it

for her own. Her former room was too peopled with experiences and

memories for solitude. And, like all strong and self-realized natures,

Gabrielle demanded solitude at times--a place not only for rest, but

for those intimate unwitnessed battles which necessarily beset the

strong.

Just now, however, the desired solitude was almost too complete.

Presently her attention began to be occupied by it to the exclusion of

all other things. In the stillness of the sleeping house she heard the

wind crying along the steep house-roofs and hissing against the

windows. There was a note of homelessness, even of desolation, in the

sound. Involuntarily her thought returned upon Adrian Savage. She saw

the mail steamer thrashing out from Calais harbor into the black welter

of blizzard and winter sea. Saw, too, the young man's momentarily

tremulous lips and tearful eyes as he declared his love. And the

subsequent fine recovery of his natural gladness of aspect, as,

standing hat in hand in the doorway, a notably gallant and handsome

figure, he had asserted his speedy return rather than bade her good-by.

For quite an appreciable space of time she gazed at this visualized

recollection of him. Then, shutting her eyes, she turned her back on

it, and lay sideways in the long chair. She determined to be rid of

it. Almost fiercely she told it to go. For it was useless to deny

that it both charmed and moved her. And she didn't want that and all

which it involved and stood for. Earnestly, honestly, she didn't want

it!--Ah! what misguided temerity to have teased! For she wanted--yes

she did, Anastasia Beauchamp's middle-aged wisdom notwithstanding--to

retain her but lately acquired freedom; not only the repose, but the

stimulating clarity of mind and obligation, the conscious development

of personality and broadening of thought which went along with that

freedom. She had passed straight from the obedience of young girlhood

to the obedience of young wifehood. Now she wanted to belong wholly

and exclusively to herself, not to be the property of any man, however

devoted, talented, charming--not ever--not certainly for a long while

yet.

This craving for the conservation of her freedom took its rise neither

in the fact that the memory of her husband was hateful to her, nor that

it was so dear as to render the thought of a second marriage a

desecration, shocking to the heart. She remembered Horace St. Leger

with affection, in many respects with gratitude. He had been

considerate, watchfully protective of her beauty and her youth. As the

mother of his child he had yielded her a worship touched by an immense

tenderness. He had been irreproachably loyal and indulgent. All this

she admitted and valued. Wasn't it, indeed, very much?--The

circumstances of her marriage, moreover, had not been without their

romantic aspect. Madame Vernois, after the death of her husband, who

held a professorship at the Collège de France, both from motives of

economy and the wish to be near her own family, had retired to her

native Chambéry, in the _Haute Savoie_. It was in this strangely

picturesque town, rich in remarkable buildings and in traditions both

literary and historic, guarded by fantastic mountains and traversed by

unruly torrents, that Gabrielle Vernois passed her childhood--mixing in

a society both refined and devout though somewhat prejudiced and

circumscribed of outlook, the members of it being more distinguished

for the magnitude of their united ages and the multitude of their

quarterings, than for the length of their purses or their acquaintance

with the world as it now actually is.

And it was here, too--she being barely nineteen, he little short of

fifty--that Horace St. Leger had met her; had been captivated by her

singular type of beauty and the delicious combination of her innocence

and ready wit. He was something of a connoisseur in women. Now he

surely discovered a unique specimen! Naturally he wished to acquire

that specimen for himself. The years of his apprenticeship were over.

He had made a name; had, within the limits of his capacity, evolved his

style and mastered the exacting technique of his art. He was young for

his age, too; well-preserved, in the plentitude of his popularity. He

had made money and he had spent money, but he had never, to all

appearance, been more secure of continuing to make. He could well

afford to indulge his tastes, even when they took the expensive form of

a serious establishment and a seductive wife. He hastened back to

Paris, put a final and satisfactory termination to a connection which

had long lost its pristine ardors and begun to pall upon him, and then

returned to Chambéry, officially to offer this enchanting child of

nineteen the sum total of his life's achievement in respect of fame,

fortune, social opportunity, along with that suavity of temper and

outlook which result from the successful cultivation of a facile talent

untroubled by the torments and dislocations of genius.

The young girl's dowry was of the slenderest. The marriage offered not

only a secure and agreeable future for herself; but--and this

influenced her decision at least equally--relief to her mother from

straitened means and their attendant deprivations and anxieties. The

subtle unrest, the haunting ambitions and curiosities of her awakening

womanhood stirred in her, while the disparity of age between herself

and her suitor seemed, to her inexperience, a matter of indifference.

The marriage took place in due course, and ostensibly all went well.

Yet, looking back upon it now, sitting here alone in her bedchamber

while the wind cried along the house-roofs and Paris cowered in the

grip of the bitter frost, Gabrielle St. Leger knew that she had learned

life, the actualities both of human nature and civilized society, in a

hard enough school.

For indisputably the thirty years' difference in age between herself

and her husband, which, before marriage, had seemed so negligible a

quantity, entailed consequences that intruded themselves at every turn.

St. Leger's character and opinions were fixed, crystallized,

insusceptible of change, while her own were still, if not in the

actually fluid, yet in the distinctly malleable stage. This rendered

any equality of intercourse impossible. Her husband treated her as a

child, whose ignorance one finds exquisitely entertaining, and

enlightens with high, if indulgent, amusement--his attitude toward her

quasi-paternal in its serene assumption of omniscience. Yet, being

quick-witted and observant, she soon perceived that assumption did not

receive, by any means, universal indorsement. Among the younger

generation of the artistic and literary brotherhood it became evident

to her that, though the man was held in affection, the painter was

regarded as a bit of a charlatan, destitute of illumination and

sincerity of method--as one who had never possessed the courage or the

capacity to attempt any lifting the veil of Isis and penetration of the

mysteries it conceals. Nor was she slow to learn, hearing the witty

talk and covert allusions of the dinner-table and studio--although her

guests made honest and honorable effort to restrain their tongues in

her presence--that the rule of faith and morals which had been so

earnestly enjoined upon her in her childhood was very much of a dead

letter to the average man and woman of the world. The general scheme

of existence was a far more complicated affair than she had been taught

to suppose. The dividing line between the sheep and the goats was by

no means always easy of recognition. Delightful people did very shady,

not to say very outrageous and abominable, things. She suffered

moments of cruel perspicacity and consequent disgust, during which she

was tempted to accuse even her dearly loved mother of having purposely

misled and lied to her. For was it not idle to suppose that her

husband differed from other men? Or that his passion for her was

unique, without predecessors? Was it not very much more reasonable to

see, in the perfection of tactful delicacy with which he treated her,

proof positive of a large and varied emotional experience?

Then followed a further discovery. In this marriage she had looked

confidently for a brilliant future. But, in plain truth, what future

remained? St. Leger had reached the zenith of his career. He was well

on in middle life. The only possible future for him lay in the

direction of decline and decay. She recognized that her mission,

therefore, was not to share a brightening glory, but to maintain a

fondly cherished illusion, to soften the asperities of his declension

and mask the approach of age and lessening powers by the stimulus of

her own radiant youth.

One by one these revelations came upon her with the shock of detected

and abiding deceptions. Her pride suffered. Her jealous respect for

her own intelligence and personality was rudely shaken. But she kept

her own counsel, making neither complaint nor outcry. Silently, after

a struggle which left its impress in the irony of her smiling eyes and

lips, she faced each discovery in turn and reckoned with it. Then she

ranged herself, dismissing once and for all, as she believed,

high-flown heroic conceptions of love between man and woman, accepting

human nature and human relations as they actually are and

forgiving--though it shrewdly taxed her longanimity--all those pious

frauds which, from time immemorial, civilized parents and teachers have

supposed it their duty to practise upon the children whom they at once

adore and betray.

It remained to her credit, however, that, even in the most searching

hours of disillusionment, Gabrielle did not lose her sense of justice

or fail to discriminate, to the best of her ability, between that for

which the society in which he moved and that for which her husband,

personally, should be held responsible. So doing she admitted, and

gladly, that any legitimate cause of quarrel with him was of the

smallest. Taking all the circumstances of the case into account, he

had behaved well, even admirably, by her. The way of the world, its

habits and standards, the constitution of human nature, rather than

Horace St. Leger, was in fault. And it was precisely on that finding,

as she told herself now, having reasoned it out sitting here alone in

her bedchamber, that she deprecated any change of estate, the

contraction of any fresh and intimate relation. If she had not known

it might have been different--and there she paused a little wistfully,

sorrowfully. But she did know, and therefore she could not consent to

part with her freedom, with the repose of mind and the large liberty of

thought and action her freedom permitted her. Her body was her own.

Her soul, her emotions were her own. Almost fiercely she protested

they should remain so. Hence it was useless, useless, that Anastasia

should warn, or that the image of Adrian Savage should solicit her,

standing there handsome, devoted, and how maddeningly self-confident!

She could not listen. She would not listen. No, no, simply she would

not.

Having thus analyzed the position, summed up and delivered judgment

upon it, clearly it was the part of common-sense to go to bed and to

sleep. Gabrielle stretched out her hand for the crystal and silver

rosary lying, along with her missal and certain books of devotion, on a

whatnot beside her chair. She fingered it, making an effort to

concentrate and compose her thoughts. But they refused to be composed,

darting hither and thither like a flight of startled birds.

Restlessness still possessed her, making recitation of the hallowed

invocations which mark each separate bead trench perilously on

profanity. She let the rosary drop and pressed her hands over her

eyes. Certain words, over and above the disturbing ones spoken by

Adrian Savage, haunted her. For the agitations of the afternoon had

not ended with his declaration and exit. A subsequent episode had

contributed, in no small degree, to produce her existing state of

perturbation.

It had happened thus. A few minutes after Adrian left her, going out

on to the gallery, which runs the length of the flat from the vestibule

and studio at one end to the dining-room and offices at the other, she

had been struck by the strangely cold, haggard light filling it. The

ceiling stared, while details of pictures and china upon the walls, the

graceful statuette of a slim, unclad boy carrying a hooded hawk on his

wrist, and, farther on, a portrait bust of Horace St. Leger--each set

on an antique porphyry column--started into peculiar and shadowless

prominence. The windows of the gallery gave on to the courtyard.

Gabrielle held aside one of the vitrine curtains and looked out.

Snow was falling. Countless thin, fine flakes circled and eddied,

drifted earthward, and swept up again caught in some local draught.

Through the lace work of black, quivering branches the backs of the

houses across the courtyard showed pallid and gaunt. Far below, on the

frost-bitten grass-plat, the lichen-stained nymph tilted her ice-bound

pitcher above the frozen basin. The familiar scene in its present

aspect was indescribably dreary, provocative of doubting, distrustful

thoughts. With a movement of impatience, her expression hard, her

charming lips compressed, the young woman turned away, conscious of

being foolishly, unreasonably out of conceit with most things. Doing

so, the bust of her husband confronted her, seeming to watch her from

out the blank cavities in the eyeballs which so uncomfortably travesty

sight. An expression of amused, slightly cynical inquiry rested upon

the sculptured face. This, in her present somewhat irritable and

over-sensitized condition, she resented, finding it singularly

unpleasant. She moved rapidly away along the gallery. Then stopped

dead.

From the dining-room came a joyful racket. But, to her astonishment,

cutting through the rippling staccato of children's talk and laughter,

came the grave tones of a man's voice. Hearing which, steady of nerve

and strong though she was, Gabrielle turned faint. The blood left her

heart. She made for the nearest window-seat and sank down on

it.--Horace was there, in the dining-room, playing with Bette and her

little friends as he so dearly loved to play. The fact of her

widowhood, the past eighteen months of freedom, became as though they

were not. In attitude and sentiment she found herself relegated to an

earlier period, against which her whole nature rose in rebellion. She

realized how quite horribly little she wanted to see Horace again, or

renew his and her former relation. Realized her jealousy of him in

respect of her child. Realized, indeed, that, notwithstanding his many

attractive qualities and invariable kindness, his resurrection must

represent to her something trenching upon despair.

Yet it was cruel, she knew, heartless, to feel thus. She glanced in

positive mental torment at the marble bust. It still watched her,

through the haggard clarity of the snow-glare, with the same effect of

cynically questioning criticism and amusement, almost, so she thought,

as one should say: "My dear, be consoled. Even had I the will, I am

powerless to return and to claim you. Follow your own fancy. Make

yourself perfectly easy. Have no fear but that I am very effectually

wiped out of your life."

The blood rushed back to her heart. Her face flamed. She felt

humiliated, as though detected in a secret villainy, in an act of

detestable meanness. It is an ugly thing to pillage the dead. But she

was also very angry, for she understood what had happened. Not

Horace--poor, undesired Horace--but Adrian Savage was there in the

dining-room. He had changed his mind after all; and, in the hope of

somehow working upon her, had stayed to bid grandmother and grandchild

good-by. This was a plot, a plant, and she was furious, her sense of

justice suffering violent eclipse. For was it not abominable of him to

have placed her in so unworthy and mortifying a position in respect of

her dead husband, and, incidentally, to have given her such a dreadful

fright? Regardless of reason she piled his offenses mountain-high.

However, this simplified matters in a way, disposing of a certain

question forever. Marry him? She'd as soon marry a ragpicker, a

scavenger! She hoped devoutly he would have an atrocious crossing when

he did at last seek foreign shores.

Thereupon she rose and swept onward, in the stateliest manner

imaginable, with trailing, somber skirts, over the polished, shining

floor.

As she threw open the dining-room door a slender, white-frocked,

black-silk-legged figure rushed upon her and clasped her about the hips

with ecstatic cries.

"Ah! mamma," it piped. "At last you have come! I am so excited. We

have waited and listened. But it was a secret. He forbade us to tell

you he was here. It was to be a great surprise. Now you may look, but

you must promise not to interrupt with conversation. That is very

important, you understand, because the next few moments are critical.

M. Dax is cooking an omelette in my tiny, weeny frying-pan for our

dolls and Teddy-bears."

And so, once again upon this day of self-revelations, Madame St. Leger

had to revise her position and own herself in the wrong. Yet the

relief of finding neither resuscitated husband nor importunate lover,

but simply M. René Dax, in possession was so great that she greeted

that eccentric and gifted young man with warm cordiality--wholly

ignoring his affectations and the rumors current regarding his moral

aberrations, remembering only the irreproachable correctness of his

dress and manners, and the quaintly pathetic effect of his small, tired

face, great domed head and bulging forehead--like those of a

hydrocephalic baby--and the ingeniously fascinating qualities he

displayed as self-elected playfellow of Bette and her little friends.

Yes, she told herself, she really had a great regard for René Dax. He

touched her. And now she, undoubtedly, passed a wholly delightful

three-quarters of an hour in his and the little girls' company, Madame

Vernois looking on, meanwhile, sympathetic yet slightly perplexed. For

Gabrielle, in her reaction of feeling, forgetful of her black dress and

twenty-seven years, and the rather tedious restraints and dignities of

her matronhood, was taken with the sprightliest humor. She remembered

that three-quarters of an hour now with a degree of regret. If only it

could have stopped at that! But, unfortunately, things went further.

For, at parting, she had lingered in the gallery, where the haggard

whiteness of the snow-glare struggled with the deepening twilight,

thanking René Dax for his kindness to the children and for the happy

afternoon he had given them. The sense of holiday, of playtime, was

still upon her and she spoke with unaccustomed gaiety and intimacy of

tone.

The young man looked up at her attentively, queerly--the top of his

head barely level with her shoulder--and answered, a certain harshness

observable in his carefully modulated voice:

"Do not spoil it all by accusing me of a good action. In accusing me

of that you do my intelligence a gross injustice. My conduct has been

dictated, as always, by calculated selfishness."

And, when she smilingly protested, he went on:

"I have many faults, no doubt. But I am guiltless of the weakness of

altruism--contemptible word, under which the modern mind tries to

conceal its cowardice and absence of all sound philosophy. I am an

egoist, dear Madame, believe me, an egoist pure and simple."

He paused, looking down with an effect of the utmost gravity at his

very small and exquisitely shod feet.

"It happened, for reasons with which it is superfluous to trouble you,

that to-day I required a change of atmosphere. I needed to bathe

myself in innocence. I cast about for the easiest method of performing

such ablutions, and my thought traveled to Mademoiselle Bette. The

weather being odious, it was probable I should find her in the house.

My plan succeeded to admiration. Have no delusions under that head.

It is invariably the altruist, not the egoist, whose plans miscarry or

are foiled!"

He took a long breath, stretching his puny person.

"I am better. I am cleansed," he said. "For the moment at least I am

restored, renewed. And for this restoration the reason is at once

simple and profound. You must understand," he went on, in a soft

conversational manner, as one stating the most obvious common-place,

"my soul when it first entered my body was already old, immeasurably

old. It had traversed countless cycles of human history. It had heard

things no man may repeat and live. It had fed on gilded and splendid

corruptions. It had embraced the forbidden and hugged nameless

abominations to its heart. It had gazed on the naked face of the

Ultimate Self-Existent Terror whose breath drives the ever-turning

Wheel of Being. It had galloped back, appalled, through the blank,

shouting nothingness, and clothed itself in the flesh of an unborn,

unquickened infant, thus for a brief space obtaining unconsciousness

and repose."

René Dax looked up at her again, his little, tired face very solemn,

his eyes glowing as though a red lamp burned behind them.

"Has it ever occurred to you why we worship our mothers?" he asked.

"It is not because they bring us into life, but because for nine sacred

months they procure us blessed illusion of non-living. How can we ever

thank them sufficiently for this? And that," he added, "is why at

times, as to-day, I am driven to seek the society of young children.

It rests and refreshes me to be near them, because they have still gone

but a few steps along the horrible, perpetually retrodden pathway.

They have not begun to recognize the landmarks. They have not yet

begun to remember. They fancy they are here for the first time. Past

and future are alike unrealized by them. The aroma of the enchanted

narcotic of non-living, which still exhales from their speech and

laughter, renders their neighborhood infinitely soothing to a soul like

mine, staggering beneath the paralyzing burden of a knowledge of

accumulated lives."

Whether the young man had spoken sincerely, giving voice to a creed he

actually, however mistakenly, held, or whether his utterances were

merely a pose, the outcome of a perverse and morbid effort at

singularity, Madame St. Leger was uncertain. Still it was undeniable

that those utterances--whether honest or not--and the somber visions

evoked by them remained, distressing and perplexing her with a dreary

horror of non-progression, of perpetual and futile spinning in a

vicious circle, of perpetual and futile actual sameness throughout

perpetual apparent change.

So far all the essentials of the Faith in which she had been born and

educated remained to her. Yet, too often now, as she sorrowfully

admitted, her declaration of that Faith found expression in the

disciple's cry, "Lord, I believe; help Thou my unbelief." For

unbelief, reasoned not merely scoffing, had, during these years of

intercourse with the literary and artistic world of Paris, become by no

means inconceivable to her. More than half the people she met smiled

at, if they might not openly repudiate, Christianity. It followed that

she no longer figured the Faith to herself as a "fair land and large"

wherein she could dwell in happy security, but rather as a fortress set

on an island of somewhat friable rock, against which winds and waves

beat remorselessly. And truly, at moments--cruel moments, which she

dreaded--the onslaught of modern ideas, of the modern attitude in its

contempt of tradition and defiance of authority--flinging back

questions long since judged and conclusions long established into the

seething pot of individual speculation--seemed to threaten final

undermining of that rock and consequent toppling of the fortress of

Faith surmounting it into the waters of a laughing, envious,

all-swallowing sea. This troubled her the more because certain modern

ideas--notably that of emancipated and self-sustained

womanhood--appealed to and attracted her. Was there no middle way?

Was no marriage between the old Faith and the new science, the new

democracy, possible? If you accepted the latter, did negations and

denials logically follow, compelling you to let the former go?

And so it came about that to-night, she alone waking in the sleeping

house, the gloomy pictures called up by René Dax's strange talk held

her painfully. They stood between her and sleep, between her and

prayer, heightening her restlessness and suggesting thoughts very

subversive of Christian theology and Christian ethics.

Gabrielle rose from her chair and moved to and fro, her hands clasped

behind her. She never remembered to have felt like this before. The

room seemed too narrow, too neat, its appointments too finicking and

orderly, to contain her erratic and overflowing mental activity. The

abiding mystery which not only surrounds each individual life, but

permeates each individual nature, the impassable gulf which divides

even the nearest and most unselfishly loved--even she herself and her

own darling little Bette--from one another, presented itself oppressive

and distressing as a nightmare. Just now it appeared to her

inconceivable that to-morrow she would rise just as usual, satisfied to

accept conventions, subscribe to compromises, take things in general at

their face value, while contentedly expending her energies of brain and

body upon trivialities of clothes, housekeeping, gossip, the thousand

and one ephemeral interests and occupations of a sheltered, highly

civilized woman's daily existence. The inadequacy, the amazing

futility of it all!

Then, half afraid of the great stillness, she stood perfectly quiet,

listening to the desolate cry of the wind along the house-roofs and its

hissing against the window-panes.

"'My soul has gazed on the Ultimate Self-Existent Terror whose breath

drives the ever-turning Wheel of Being,'" she murmured as she listened.

"'It galloped back, appalled, through the blank, shouting

nothingness'"--

Yes, that was dreadful conception of human fate! But what if it were

true? Millions believed it, or something very closely akin to it, away

in the East, in those frightening lands of yellow sunrise and yellow,

expressionless peoples of whom it always alarmed her to think! Swiftly

her mind made a return upon the three men, living and dead, who to-day

had so deeply affected her, breaking up her practised calm and

self-restraint. She ranged them side by side, and, in her present

state of exaltation, they severally and equally--though for very

different reasons--appeared to her as enemies against whom she was

called upon to fight. Seemed to her as tyrants, either of whom to

sustain his own insolent, masculine supremacy schemed to enslave her,

to rob her of her intellectual and physical freedom, of her so

jealously cherished ownership of herself.

"'It galloped back through the blank, shouting nothingness,'" she

repeated. But there came the sharpest sting of the situation. For to

what covert? Where could her soul take sanctuary since friendship and

marriage proved so full of pitfalls, and her fortress of Faith was just

now, as she feared, shaken to the base?

Then, the homeless cry of the wind finding echo in her homelessness of

spirit, a sort of anger upon her, blind anger against things as they

are, she moved over to the window, drew back the curtains and opened

the locked casements. The cold clutched her by the throat, making her

gasp for breath, making her flesh sting and ache. Yet the apprehension

of a Presence, steadying and fortifying in its great simplicity of

strength, compelled her to remain. She knelt upon the window-seat and

leaned out between the inward opening casements, planting her elbows on

the window-ledge and covering her mouth with her hands to protect her

lips from the blistering chill.

Outside was the wonder of an unknown Paris, a vacant, frozen, voiceless

Paris, wrapped in a winding-sheet of newly fallen snow. Under the

lamps, along the quay immediately below, that winding-sheet glittered

in myriad diamond points, a uniform surface as yet unbroken by wheel

tracks or footprints--misery, pleasure, business, alike in hiding from

the bitter frost. Elsewhere it spread in a heavy, muffling

bleachedness, from the bosom of which walls, buildings, bridges reared

themselves strangely unsubstantial, every ledge and projection enameled

in white. Beneath the _Pont des Arts_ on the right and the _Pont des

Saints Pères_ on the left--each very distinct with glistening roadway

and double row of lamps--the river ran black as ink. The trees

bordering the quays were black, a spidery black, in their agitated,

wind-tormented bareness. And the sky was black, too, impenetrable,

starless, low and flat, engulfing the many domes, monuments, and towers

of Paris, engulfing even the roofs and pavilions of the Louvre along

the opposite bank of the Seine, inclosing and curiously isolating the

scene. This effect of an earth so much paler and, for the most part,

so much less solid than the sky above it, this effect of buildings

rising from that pallor to lose themselves in duskiness, was unnatural

and disquieting in a high degree. The sentiment of this desert,

voiceless Paris was more disquieting still. For Gabrielle retained

something of the provincial's persistent distrust of the siren

personality of _la ville lumière_. The wonderful and brilliant city

had enthralled her imagination, but had never quite conquered her

affections. Now, leaning out of the high-set window, she gazed as far

as sight carried, east, west, and north, while a vague, deep-seated

excitement possessed her. It was as though she touched the verge of

some extraordinary revelation, some tremendous crisis of the cosmic

drama. Had universal paralysis seized the heart of things, she asked

herself, of which this desert, voiceless Paris was the symbol? Had the

ever-turning Wheel of Being ceased to turn, struck into immobility, as

the world-famous city appeared to be, by some miracle of incalculable

frost?

The cry of the wind answered. So the wind, at least, was alive and

awake yet, as were the black seaward-flowing waters of the river.

Then suddenly, unexpectedly, along with that homeless cry of the wind

hailing from she knew not what immense desolation of polar spaces, came

a small, plaintive, human cry close at hand.

Hearing which last the young woman sprang down from her kneeling place,

locked the gaping casements together, and ran lightly and swiftly into

the adjoining room. There in the warm dimness, her hands outstretched

grasping the rail of her cot on either side, slim little Bette sat

woefully straight up on end.

"Mamma, mamma," she wailed, "come and hold me tight, very tight! I

have had a bad dream. I am frightened. M. René Dax touched all my

toys, all my darling, tiny saucepans and kettles, all my dolls and

Teddy-bears with his little walking-cane. And it was terrifying. They

all came alive and chased me. Hold me tight. I am so frightened.

They rushed along. They chased me and chased me. They panted. Their

mouths were open. I could see their red tongues. And they yelped as

the little pet dogs do in the public gardens when they try to catch the

sparrows. I called and called to you, but you were not there. You did

not come. I tried very hard to run away, but my feet stuck to the

floor. They were so very heavy I could not lift them. It is not true?

Tell me it is not true. He cannot touch all my toys with his little

cane and make them come alive? I think I shall be afraid ever to play

with them any more. They were so dreadfully unkind. Tell me it is not

true!"

"No, no, my angel," Gabrielle declared, soothingly. "It is not true,

not in the very least true. It is only a silly dream. All the poor

toys are quite good. You will find them obedient and loving, asking

ever so prettily to be played with again to-morrow morning."

She took the slender, soft, warm body up in her arms--it was sweet with

the flower-like sweetness of perfect cleanliness and health--and held

it close against her. And for the moment perplexities, far-reaching

speculations and questionings were obliterated in a passion of

tenderness for this innocent life, this innocent body, which was the

fruit of her own life and her own body. All else fell away from her,

leaving her motherhood triumphant and supreme.

The child, making good the opportunity, began to wheedle and coax.

"I think it is really very cold in my bed," she said. "I am sure it

would be far warmer in yours. And I may dream M. Dax came back and

touched my toys with his little walking-cane and made them naughty if I

remain here by myself. Do not you think it would be rather dangerous

to leave me here alone? I might wake grandmamma if I were to be

terrified again and to scream. I like your big bed so very much best."

The consequence of all of which was that Gabrielle St. Leger said her

rosary that night fingering the beads with one hand while the other

clasped the sleeping child, whose pretty head lay on her bosom. Her

mind grew calm. The fortress of Faith stood firm again, as she

thankfully believed, upon its foundation of rock. She recovered her

justness of attitude toward departed husband and absent lover. But she

determined to reduce her intercourse with M. René Dax to a minimum,

since the tricks he played with his little walking-cane seemed liable

to be of so revolutionary and disintegrating a character.

CHAPTER IV

CLIMBING THE LADDER

The snow had been cleared away from the drive and carriage sweep, but

still lay in thick billowy masses upon the branches of the fir and pine

trees and upon the banks of laurel and rhododendron below. At sunset

the sky had cleared somewhat, and a scarlet glow touched the under side

of the vast perspective of pale, folded cloud, and blazed on the upper

south westward-facing windows of the Tower House as with a dazzle of

fierce flame. Joseph Challoner, however, was unaware of these rather

superb impressionist effects as, with his heavy, lunging step, he came

out of the house on to the drive. The drawing-room had been hot, and

he had gone through a somewhat emotional interview. A man at once hard

and sentimental, just now sentiment was, so to speak, on the top. His

upright face and head were decidedly flushed. He felt warm. He also

felt excited, perceiving perspectives quite other than those presented

by the folded clouds and the afterglow.

Usually Joseph Challoner affected a country-gentleman style of

dress--tweeds of British manufacture, noted for their wear and

wet-resisting qualities, symbolic of those sturdy, manly, no-nonsense

sort of virtues, of which he reckoned himself so conspicuous an

exponent, and which have, as we all know, gone to make England what she

is. But to-day out of respect for his late client, Montagu

Smyrthwaite, he had put on garments of ceremony, black braid-edged coat

and waistcoat, pepper-and-salt-mixture overcoat with black-velvet

collar, striped dove-gray and black trousers--which had served at a

recent local wedding--and top hat. This costume tended to make an

awkwardness of gait and action which belonged to him the more

observable. Over six feet in height, he was commonly described by his

admirers--mostly women--as "a splendid-looking man." Others, doubtless

envious of his success with the fair sex and of his inches, compared

him, with his straight, thick, up-and-down figure, as broad across the

loins as at the shoulders, his large paw-like hands and feet and

flattened, slightly Mongolian caste of countenance, to a colossal

infant. His opinion of his own appearance, concerning which he was in

a chronic state of anxiety, fluctuated between these two extremes, with

hopeful leanings toward the former. At the present moment, for private

reasons, he hoped fervently that he was "a splendid-looking man."

That he was a moist and hot one was undeniable. He took off his hat

and passed his hand over his straight, shiny, reddish hair--carefully

brushed across impending calvities--and sucked the ends of his rather

ragged mustache nervously into the corners of his mouth.

He was touched, very much touched. He had not felt so upset for years.

He admired his own sensibility. Yes, most distinctly he trusted that

he was "a splendid-looking man"--and that she so regarded him. Then,

coming along the drive toward him, between the snow-patched banks of

evergreen, he caught sight of the short, well-bred, well-dressed, busy,

not to say fussy, little figure of that cherished institution of the

best Stourmouth society, Colonel Rentoul Haig. This diverted his

thoughts into another channel, or, to be perfectly accurate, set a

second stream running alongside the first. Both, it may be added,

tended in the direction of personal self-aggrandizement.

"Good-day to you, Challoner. Glad to meet you," Colonel Haig said, a

hint of patronage in his tone. "I heard the sad news from Woodward at

the club at luncheon-time, and I took the tram up as far as the County

Gates as soon as I could get away. We had a committee meeting at

two-thirty. I felt it would be only proper to come and inquire."

"Yes," the other answered, in a suitably black-edged manner, "our poor

friend passed away early this morning. I was sent for immediately."

Having a keen sense of the value of phrases, Colonel Haig pricked up

his ears, so to speak. His attitude of mind was far from democratic,

and "our poor friend" from a local solicitor struck him as a trifle

familiar. He looked up sharply at the speaker. He felt very much

tempted to teach the man his place. But there was such a lot he wanted

to hear which only this man could tell him. And so, the inquisitive

nose and puckered, gossipy mouth getting the better of the commanding

military eye, he decided to postpone the snubbing of Challoner to a

more convenient season.

"I came round this afternoon chiefly to see Miss Margaret," the latter

continued. "She was terribly distressed and felt unequal to seeing me

this morning. She is very sensitive, very sensitive and feminine. Her

father's death came as a great shock to her. And then owing to some

mistake or neglect she was not present at the last. As she told me,

she feels that very much indeed." The speaker's voice took a severe

tone. He shifted his weight from one massive foot to the other, rather

after the manner of a dancing bear. "Her grief was painful to witness.

And I think you'll agree with me, Colonel, it was just one of the

neglects which ought not to have occurred."

"A pity, a pity!" the other admitted. "But on such occasions people

will lose their heads. It's unavoidable. Look here, Challoner, I must

go on and leave cards. But I sha'n't be more than five minutes. I

shall not ask to see either of the ladies to-day. So if you'll wait

I'll walk as far as the County Gates with you, supposing you're going

in my direction."

The Mongolian caste of countenance is conveniently non-committal,

lending itself to no compromising play of expression. Challoner was

more than willing to wait. He had certain things to say, a favor,

indeed, to ask. And it always looked well, moreover--conferred a sort

of patent of social solvency upon you--to be seen in public with

Colonel Haig. He wished the weather had been less inclement so that

more people might be about! But he betrayed no eagerness. Took out

his watch, even, and noted the hour before answering.

"Yes, I think I may allow myself the pleasure," he said. "I have been

too much engaged here to get down to my office to-day, and there will

be a mass of business waiting for me at home--no taking it easy in my

profession if you're to do your duty by your clients--but, yes, I shall

be happy to wait for you."

Then, left alone in the still, clear cold, he became absorbed in

thought again.

When Joseph Challoner, the elder, settled at Stourmouth in the early

sixties of the last century, that famous health-resort had consisted of

a single street of small shops, stationed along a level space about

half a mile up the fir and pine clad valley from the sea, plus some

dozen unattractive lodging-houses perched on the top of the West Cliff.

The beginnings of business had been meager. Now Stourmouth and the

outlying residential districts to which it acts as center--among them

the great stretch of pine-land known as the Baughurst Park

Estate--covers the whole thirteen miles, in an almost unbroken series

of shops, boarding-houses, hotels, villas, and places of amusement,

from the ancient abbey-town of Marychurch at the junction of the rivers

Wilmer and Arn, on the east, to Barryport, the old sea-faring town,

formerly of somewhat sinister reputation, set beside a wide, shallow,

island-dotted, land-locked harbor to the west. Along with the

development of Stourmouth the elder Challoner's fortunes developed. So

that when, as an old man, he died in the last of the eighties, his son,

the younger Joseph, succeeded to a by no means contemptible patrimony.

As business increased other members came into the firm, which now

figured as that of Challoner, Greatrex & Pewsey. But, and that not in

virtue of his senior partnership alone, Joseph Challoner's interest

remained the largely predominant one. He was indefatigable, quick to

spot a good thing, and, so some said, more clever than scrupulous in

his pursuit of it. He came to possess the reputation of a man who it

is safer to have for your friend than your enemy. So much for the hard

side of his character.

As to the sentimental side. When a youth of twenty he had fallen head

over ears in love with the daughter of a local retail chemist, a

pretty, delicate girl, with the marks of phthisis already upon her.

She brought him a few hundred pounds. They married. And he was quite

a good husband to her--as English husbands go. Still this marriage had

been, he came to see, a mistake. The money, after all, was but a

modest sum, while her ill-health proved decidedly costly. And then he

had grown to know more of the world, grown harder and stronger, grown

to perceive among other things that connection with a shop is a

handicap. The smell of it sticks. There's no ridding yourself of it.

Joseph Challoner may be acquitted of being more addicted to peerage or

money worship, to being a greater snob, in short, than the average

self-respecting Anglo-Saxon; yet it would be idle to deny that when an

all-wise and merciful providence permitted his poor, pretty young

wife--after several unsuccessful attempts at the production of infant

Challoners--to die of consumption, her husband felt there were

compensations. He recognized her death as a call, socially speaking,

to come up higher. He set himself to obey that call, but he did not

hurry. For close upon thirteen years now, though of an amorous and

domestic disposition, he had remained a widower. And this of set

purpose, for he proposed that the last whiff of the shop should have

time to evaporate. By the period immediately in question he had reason

to believe it really had done so. Privately he expended a considerable

sum in procuring his father-in-law a promising business near London.

Stourmouth knew that retail chemist no more. And so it followed that

the dead wife's compromising origin was, practically, forgotten; only

admiration of the constancy of the bereaved husband remained. To

complete the divorce between past and present, Challoner, some few

years previously, had let the "upper part" over the firm's offices, at

the corner where the Old Marychurch Road opens upon the public gardens

and The Square in the center of Stourmouth, to his junior partner, Mr.

Pewsey, and removed to Heatherleigh, a fair-sized villa on the

Baughurst Park Estate, which he bought at bargain price owing to the

insolvency of its owner. Here, with a married couple at the head of

his household, as butler and cook-housekeeper, he lived in solid

British comfort--so-called--giving tea and tennis parties at intervals

during the summer months, and somewhat heavy dinners during the winter

ones, followed by bridge and billiards.

Granted the man and his natural tendencies, it was impossible that the

thirteen years which had elapsed since the death of his wife should

have been altogether free from sentimental complications. These had,

in point of fact, been numerous. Upon several of them he could not

look back with self-congratulation. Still the main thing was that he

had escaped, always managing to sheer off in time to avoid being "had,"

being run down and legally appropriated. The retreat may not have been

graceful, might not, to a scrupulous conscience, even figure as

strictly honorable, but it had been accomplished. And for

that--standing here, now, to-day, on the snow-powdered carriage sweep

of the Tower House--with a movement of unsuspected cynicism and

profanity he gave thanks, sober, heartfelt, deliberate thanks to God

his Maker. For his chance had come, the chance of a lifetime! He

turned fiercely, grimly angry at the bare notion that any turn of

events might have rendered him not free to embrace it. And his anger,

as anger will, fixed itself vindictively upon a concrete object, upon a

particular person.

But, at this point, his meditations were broken in upon by the sound of

Colonel Haig's slightly patronizing speech and the ring of his brisk

returning footsteps over the hard gravel.

"Very obliging of you to wait for me, Challoner," he said. "There are

several things which I should be glad to hear, in confidence, about all

this matter. Since their father's death I feel a certain

responsibility toward the Miss Smyrthwaites. They have only

acquaintances here in the south of England--no old friends, no

relatives. I really stand nearest to them, though we are but distantly

connected."

"I was not aware of even a distant connection," Challoner returned.

"Probably not. I suppose hardly any one here is aware of it. In a

watering-place like Stourmouth, a place that has come up like a

mushroom in a night, as you may say, only a very small and exclusive

circle do know who is who. That is one of the things one has to put up

with, though I confess I find it annoying at times. Well, you see, my

grandmother and poor Smyrthwaite's mother were first cousins once

removed--both Savages, the Yorkshire, not the Irish, branch of the

family. I have reason to believe there was a good deal of opposition

to Mrs. Smyrthwaite's marriage. She was not a Roman Catholic, like

most of her people. But they all were--and all are, I am thankful to

say--people of very solid standing, landed gentry, soldiers, and so on.

Naturally they objected to a marriage with a manufacturer and a

Non-conformist. I am quite prepared to admit Unitarians have more

breeding than most dissenters, but still it isn't pleasant, it isn't

quite the thing, you know. Prejudice? Perhaps. But gentle-people are

naturally prejudiced in favor of their own class. And, upon my word, I

am inclined to believe it is very happy for the community at large they

should be so."

The two men reached the gate opening from the grounds of the Tower

House on to the public road--a broad, straight avenue, the foot-paths

on either side divided from the carriage-way by a double line of Scotch

firs rising from an undergrowth of rhododendron and laurel. At

intervals the roofs, gables, and turrets of other jealously secluded

villas--in widely differing styles and no-styles of architecture--were

visible. But these struck the eye as accidental. The somber,

far-stretching fir and pine woods were that which held the attention.

They, and the great quiet of them; in which the cracking of a branch

over-weighted with snow, the distant barking of a dog, or the

twittering of a company of blue-tits foraging from tree-stem to

tree-stem where the red scaling bark gave promise of insect provender,

amounted to an arresting event.

After a moment of just perceptible hesitation Joseph Challoner pushed

open the heavy gate for the elder man and let him pass out first.

Several points in Colonel Haig's discourse pleased him exceedingly

little, but, in dealing with men as with affairs, he never permitted

minor issues to obscure his judgment regarding major ones. If the old

lad chose to be a bit impertinent and showy, never mind. Let him amuse

himself that way if he wanted to. Challoner had a use for him just

now, and could be patient till he had used him--used him right up, in

fine, and no longer had any use left for him. It followed that as,

side by side, the two turned north-eastward up The Avenue he answered

in a noticeably conciliatory tone:

"I really am indebted to you, Colonel, for telling me this. I own my

position looked awkward in some respects. I foresaw I might want to

consult some one, unofficially, you understand, about the Miss

Smyrthwaites' affairs; and, as you truly say, they've nothing beyond

acquaintances here. I recognized there really wasn't a soul to whom I

should feel at liberty to speak. But now that I know of your

connection with and the interest you take in the family, I feel I have

some one to turn to if I should need advice. It is a great relief."

Colonel Haig's self-importance was agreeably tickled.

"I am very happy to have the opportunity of being of service to you,

Challoner," he said, graciously, "particularly in connection with my

cousin's affairs." Then he became eminently businesslike. "The

disposition of the property is intricate?" he asked.

"No, not exactly. The provisions of the will--I drew it--are simple

enough--in a way. But there is such a large amount of property to deal

with."

"Yes, yes, Smyrthwaite was very close, of course, very reticent. Still

I have always supposed there was a good deal of money. Now, what about

is the amount, approximately, I mean--if you are free to tell me?"

"Under the circumstances I see no reason why I should not tell you--in

strict confidence, of course."

"That is understood, my dear Challoner. Whatever you may feel it

advisable, in the interests of these ladies, to say to me goes no

farther, absolutely no farther."

This from one whose face was irradiated with the joy of prospective

gossipings struck his hearer as a trifle simple-minded. Never mind.

The said hearer had the game well in hand.

"I take that for granted, Colonel," he answered. "Professional

instinct made me allude to it. One gets so much into the habit of

insisting on silence regarding confidential communications that one

insists when, as in the present case, there's not the slightest

necessity for doing so. A form of words--nothing more. With you I

know I'm safe. Well, the estate stands at about two hundred thousand,

rather more than less, with a considerable yearly income from the mills

at Leeds in addition."

Haig stopped short. He went very red in the face.

"Yes, it makes a very tidy heiress of each of the ladies," Challoner

said, parenthetically.

"It all goes to them?"

"Practically all of it."

"I doubt if women should be left so much money," Colonel Haig

exclaimed, explosively. Remembrance of his own eight or nine hundred a

year disgusted him. What a miserable pittance! He moved forward

again, still red from mingled surprise and disgust, his neat, frizzly,

gray mustache positively bristling. "Yes, I doubt, I very much doubt,"

he repeated, "whether it is doing any woman a kindness, an unmarried

woman, in particular, to leave her so much money. It opens the door to

all sorts of risks. Women have no idea of money. It's not in them.

The position of an heiress is a most unfortunate one, in my opinion.

It places her at the mercy of every description of rascally,

unscrupulous fortune hunter."

"You're perfectly right, Colonel--I agree," Challoner said. "It does."

His face was unmoved, but his voice shook, gurgling in his throat like

that of a man on the edge of a boisterous horse-laugh. For a few steps

the two walked in silence, then he added: "And that is why I am so

relieved at having you to turn to, Colonel. Unscrupulous fortune

hunters are just the sort of dirty gentry we shall have to protect the

two ladies against."

"You may be sure of me, Challoner," Colonel Haig said, with much

seriousness. "We must work together."

"Yes, we must work together, Colonel--in a good cause--that's it." And

again his voice shook.

"Are you executor?" the other inquired, after a pause.

"No, and, between ourselves, I am glad of it. I shall be able to

safeguard the Miss Smyrthwaites' interests better since I am not

dealing directly with the property. Miss Joanna and a distant relative

are the executors. I think the second appointment a bad one, and

ventured to say as much to Mr. Smyrthwaite when I drew this new will

for him about two years ago."

"A new will?"

"Yes; a name occurred in the earlier one which he wished to have cut

out."

The speaker paused, and the other man rose, metaphorically speaking, as

a fish at a neatly cast fly.

"Ah! his son's, I suppose. Poor Bibby's--William, I mean, William

Smyrthwaite. Everybody knew him as Bibby."

"Yes," Challoner said, "his son, William Smyrthwaite. Of course I am

aware something went wrong there, but, to tell you the truth, Colonel,

I have never got fairly at the story."

"Well you may take it from me the story is a disgraceful one. I am a

man of the world, Challoner, and not squeamish. I can make excuses,

but, you may take it from me, young Smyrthwaite was a hopelessly bad

lot. A low, vicious, ill-conditioned young fellow--degenerate, that is

the only word, I am sorry to say. He was several years younger than

his sisters. I heard all about it at the time through friends. There

were nasty rumors about him at Rugby, and he was expelled--quite

properly. His father put him into the business. Then things happened

at Leeds--gambling, chorus girls, drink. I need not go into

particulars. There was some question, too, of embezzlement, and young

Smyrthwaite had to disappear. It was a terrible blow to his father.

He decided to leave Leeds. He came south, bought the Tower House and

settled here. I think he was quite right. The position was a very

humiliating one, especially for his wife and daughters."

Joseph Challoner listened carefully.

"And what became of the boy?"

"Oh, dead--fortunately for everybody concerned, dead."

"Dead? Very fortunate. But a proven case of death or only an accepted

one?"

"Oh, proven, I take it. Yes, unquestionably proven. I never heard

there was the slightest doubt about that."

"What a chattering fool the old bird is!" Challoner said to himself

irreverently, adding, aloud: "Apparently, then, we may leave Master

Bibby out of our count. That's a good thing, anyhow. I am extremely

obliged to you for giving me such a clear account of the whole matter,

Colonel. It explains a great deal. Really I can't be sufficiently

glad that I happened to run across you this afternoon. I may call it

providential. But now to go back to another young gentleman, Miss

Joanna's coexecutor, who is not in the very least dead."

"Yes?" Haig inquired, with avidity. "Speak without reserve, Challoner.

Ask me anything you are in any difficulty about."

"I don't want to abuse your good nature. And I don't forget you have

seen a lot more of the world than I have. Your point of view may be

different. I shall be only too glad if you can reassure me. For I

tell you, Colonel, it makes me uneasy. England's good enough for me,

England and Englishmen. I may be narrow-minded and insular, but I can

do without the foreigner."

"Yes, and I'm not sure you are not right in that," the other said,

rising at another clever cast. "Yes?"

"I am glad you agree. Well, this coexecutor whom we have to look after

is, to all intents and purposes, a foreigner, that is to say, born

abroad--a Parisian and a journalist. Ah, exactly! I am not sorry to

see it strikes you as it did me, Colonel, when poor Mr. Smyrthwaite

first broached the subject. Doesn't sound very substantial, does it?

And when you remember the amount of money that will pass through his

hands! Still you may be able to reassure me. By the way, I suppose he

must be a relative of yours. His name is Adrian Savage."

"Never heard of him in my life," Haig exclaimed, irritably. Then,

afraid he had altogether too roundly given away his ignorance, he went

on:

"But wait a moment, wait! Yes, now I come to think, I do recollect

that one of the Savages, a younger son, went into the medical

profession. I never saw anything of him. There was a strong feeling

in the family about it. Like marriage with a dissenter, they felt

doctoring wasn't exactly the thing for a Savage. So he was advised, if

he must follow the medical profession, to follow it at a distance. I

remember I heard he settled in Paris and married there. This

journalist fellow may be a son of his." The speaker cleared his

throat. He was put about, uncertain what line it would be best to

take. "At one time I used to be over there often. As a young man I

knew my Paris well enough--"

"I'll be bound you did, Colonel," Challoner put in, with a flattering

suggestiveness. "Silly old goat!" he said to himself.

"Yes, I do not deny I have amused myself there a little in the past,"

the other acknowledged. "But somehow I never looked Doctor Savage up.

It was unfriendly, perhaps, but--well--in point of fact I never did."

"Had neater and sweeter things to look up, eh, Colonel?" Challoner put

in again. "I believe you. Wish I'd ever had your luck."

Here resisted laughter got the better of him, jarring the quiet of the

woods with a coarseness of quality startling even to his own ears.

Nothing betrays lack of breeding more than a laugh. He knew this, and

it galled him. He felt angry, and hastened in so far as he might to

recover himself.

"Seriously, though, joking apart, I very much wish, as things turn out,

you had kept in touch with the doctor," he said. "Then you would have

been in a position to give me your views on this son of his. Mr.

Smyrthwaite seems to have taken an awful fancy to him. But I don't

attach much importance to that. He was ill and crotchety, just in the

state of health to take unreasoning likes and dislikes. And I can't

help being anxious, I tell you, Colonel. It does not affect my pocket

in any way--I'm not thinking of myself. And I am no sentimentalist.

My line of business leaves neither time nor room for that. Still I

tell you candidly it goes tremendously against the grain with me to

think of some irresponsible, long-haired, foreign, Bohemian chap being

mixed up with the affairs of two refined English gentlewomen like the

Miss Smyrthwaites. Of course he may turn out a less shadowy individual

than I anticipate. Nothing would please me better than that he should.

But, in any case, I mean to keep my eye upon him. He's not going to

play hanky-panky with the ladies' money if Joseph Challoner can prevent

it. I hold myself responsible to you, as well as to them and to my own

conscience, Colonel, to keep things straight."

"I am confident you will do your best," the other replied, graciously.

"And I trust you to consult me whenever you think fit. Don't hesitate

to make use of me."

"I won't, Colonel. Make yourself easy on that point. I am greatly

indebted to you. I won't."

The end of the long avenue had come into sight, where, between high

stone gate-posts--surmounted by just-lighted gas-lamps--it opens upon

the main road and tram-line running from Stourmouth to Barryport.

After the silence and solitude of the woods the street appeared full of

movement. A row of shop-fronts, across the roadway, threw a yellow

glare over the pavement and on to the snow-heaps piled in the gutter.

The overhead wires hummed in the frosty air. A gang of boys snowballed

one another in the middle of the street, scattering before some passing

cart, and rushed back, shouting, to renew the fight. Groups of

home-going workmen tramped along the pavement, their breath and the

smoke of their pipes making a mist about their heads in the cold winter

dusk.

Challoner held out a paw-like hand.

"You'll excuse me if I leave you, Colonel?" he said. "I have outstayed

my time already. I am afraid I must be getting home--a lot of work

waiting for me. Good-night."

He turned away. Then, just inside the gates, a sudden thought

apparently striking him, he hesitated and came back.

"By the way," he said, "I had been meaning to write a line to you

to-day, but this sad business at the Tower House put it clean out of my

head. I may just as well ask you by word of mouth. It'll save you the

bother of a note. Woodford has nominated me for election at the club.

Your name, as one of the oldest and most influential members, of

course, carries much weight. If you second me you'll do me a great

kindness."

Here the towering, well-lighted tram from Barryport sailed majestically

up, with a long-drawn growl, ending in a heavy clang and thin shriek as

the powerful brakes gripped, bringing it to a stop.

"All right. I may take it for settled, then. I have your promise.

Really I am awfully obliged to you. Don't let me make you miss your

tram, though. Hi! conductor, steady a minute. Colonel Haig's going

with you.--Thanks, Colonel, good-night," Challoner cried, all in a

breath, without giving the hustled, harried, almost apoplectic

ex-warrior time to utter a syllable good or bad.

"Had him neatly," he said to himself, as he turned once more into the

stillness and twilight of the woods. "He can't back out--daren't back

out. Their swagger, aristocratic, d-----your-impudence Stourmouth Club

taken by assault!"

And again he laughed, but this time the coarse quality of the sound

failed to jar him. On the contrary, he rather relished its stridency.

He was winning all along the line, so he could afford--for a little

while here alone under the snow-laden fir-trees in the deepening

dusk--to be himself.

In the hall at Heatherleigh his man-servant--a thin, yellowish, gentle,

anxious-looking person, who played the part of shuttlecock to the

battledores of his strong master and of a commanding wife, ten years

his senior--met him.

"Mr. Pewsey is waiting for you in the smoke-room, sir," he said, while

helping Challoner off with the pepper-and-salt-mixture overcoat. "And

Mrs. Spencer, sir, called to leave this note. She said there was no

answer, but I was to be sure and give it to you directly you came in."

Challoner took the note, and stopped for a minute under the hanging,

colored-glass gas-lantern to read it. It was written in a large,

showy, yet tentative hand, on highly scented mauve paper with a white

border to it, and ran thus:

"B. gone to Mary church to dine and sleep. Alone. Come round if you

can after dinner. Want you. Quite safe. Love. GWYNNIE."

Challoner rolled the small scented sheet into a ball and tossed it

viciously on to the fire, watching till the flame licked it up.

"No, there's no answer. Quite true, Mrs. Gwynnie--even even less

answer than you suppose or will in the least bit like," he said,

between his teeth.

Then he opened the door and passed into the smoking-room to join his

junior partner, with a quite expressionless face.

CHAPTER V

PASSAGES FROM JOANNA SMYRTHWAITE'S LOCKED BOOK

"You won't go sitting up writing to-night, Miss Joanna? You should get

right into bed, for you are properly worn out."

"It would be useless for me to attempt to sleep yet, Isherwood, but I

shall not sit up late."

This, between two women standing on the gallery of the spacious,

heavily carpeted stair-head. Save for the feeble light of their

glass-shaded candles the place was in darkness. The atmosphere,

oppressive from the heat given off by radiators in the hall below and

upon the landing itself, was permeated by the clinging odor of some

disinfectant. They spoke in subdued voices, covered and whispering as

those of reverent-minded persons unwillingly compelled to hold

conversation in church. The northeasterly wind--which, at this same

hour, cried homeless along the steep house-roofs of the _Quai

Malaquais_ to the disturbance of Gabrielle St. Leger's meditations upon

the deceptions of modern marriage--raked the thick-set fir and pine

trees bordering the carriage-drive outside, and shattered against the

elaborately leaded panes of the high staircase windows, making the

thick velvet curtains which covered them sway and quiver in the draught.

"You had better let me wait and brush your hair as usual, Miss Joanna.

It might soothe your nerves," the elder of the two women said. She was

a comely, vigilant-eyed person, a touch of mustache on her long upper

lip and a ruddiness upon her high cheek-bones as of sun-ripened fruit.

Though well on in the sixties, her carriage was upright, and her hair,

looped window-curtain fashion over her ears and plaited in a round at

the back of her head, still showed as black as her close-fitted black

silk dress. First nurse in the Smyrthwaite family, now for many years

lady's maid and housekeeper, capable, prejudiced, caustic of speech,

untiring in faithful devotion to those--the very few--whom she loved,

Mrs. Isherwood, virgin and spinster, represented a domestic type

becoming all too rapidly extinct.

The younger woman made no immediate answer. Her bearing and attitude

bespoke a great lassitude as she stood resting her right hand on the

ball of the newel-post. The light of the candle she carried was thrown

upward, showing a face making but small claim to beauty. A thick,

pasty complexion, straight, heavy, yellowish auburn hair turned back

over a pad from the high, square forehead. No sufficient softening of

the pale, anxious, blue-gray eyes by eyelash or eyebrow. An acquiline

nose with upcut winged nostrils, and a mouth, which, but for the

compression of the lips, might have argued a certain coarseness of

nature. A face, in fine, almost painful in its effect of studied

self-repression, patient as it was unsatisfied, an arrested,

consciously resisted violence of feeling perceptible in every line of

it.

"I could hardly bear having my hair brushed to-night, I am afraid,

Isherwood," she said, presently. "I am really only fit to be alone.

You say Margaret is quite composed now? You think she will sleep?"

"Oh! dear me, yes, Miss Joanna, Miss Margaret will sleep. She drank a

full tumbler of hot milk and fairly settled off before I left her. I

wish I was half as easy about your night's rest as I am about hers."

"My good Isherwood," Miss Smyrthwaite said, softly, as she moved away

across the landing. Suddenly she paused and came hurriedly back.

"Isherwood, Isherwood," she called under her breath, "the smell of that

disinfectant seems so very strong. You're sure the door of--of papa's

room is shut and locked?"

"Dear me, yes, Miss Joanna. I have the key here in my pocket. Mr.

Smallbridge and I went in the last thing before I came up, and I locked

the door myself. You've got the smell of that nasty stuff in your

nose. Anybody would, the amount those nurses used of it! Now you

promise you'll ring, Miss Joanna, if you should feel nervous or poorly

in the night? You know it never troubles me the least to get up."

"My good Isherwood!" the younger woman said again.

From the age of fourteen Joanna Smyrthwaite had been encouraged to keep

a diary. For the diary was an acknowledged part of the system of

feminine education--"forming the character," it used euphemistically to

be called--that obtained so largely among serious-minded persons of

leisure during the earlier half of the Victorian Era. Thoughtfulness,

reserve, methodical habits, the saving of time, hands never unemployed,

the conforming of one's own conduct to and testing of the conduct of

others by certain wholly arbitrary and conventional standards--these

nominal rather than real virtues were perpetually pressed home upon the

minds and consciences of the "well-brought-up" female child.

Inevitable reaction carried the majority of _fin-de-siècle_ female

children notably far in the quite opposite direction. But in some

instances the older system survived its appointed span--that of the

Smyrthwaite family may be cited as a case in point. The consequences

were of doubtful benefit; since conditions have changed, and

adaptability to environment is a necessity of mental as well as of

physical health.

Joanna Smyrthwaite was now in her twenty-ninth year. She still kept a

diary. Written in a very small, neat, scholarly hand, it filled many

octavo volumes, bound in dark-purple leather, each with a clasp and

lock to it, her initials and the date stamped in gold lettering on the

back. She was a diarist absolutely innocent of any thought or wish of

eventual print. A fierce modesty, indeed, overlay the whole matter of

her diary. That it should be secret, unseen by any eyes save her own,

gave it its value. She regarded it with a singular jealousy of

possession. As nothing else belonging to her, her diaries were

exclusively, inviolably her own. It may almost be asserted that she

took refuge in them, as weaker women, under stress of unsatisfied

passion, will take refuge in a drug.

And so to-night, without waiting to make any change in her dress,

feverishly, as one at last set free from unwelcome observation, she

pushed back the cylinder of the handsome satinwood bureau in her

bedroom, set lighted candles upon the flat desk of it, took the current

volume of the diary out of one of the pigeon-holes, and sat down, her

thin hands trembling with mingled fatigue and excitement, to write.

"_Wednesday, Jan. 12, 190-_

"It has been impossible to put down anything for some days. The strain

of nursing and the demands upon my time have been incessant and too

great. I do not know that I am justified in writing to-night.

Isherwood begged me not to do so, but it is a relief. It will quiet

me, and bring me into a more normal relation to myself and to my own

thought. For days I have been a mere beast of burden, bearing the

anxieties of the sick-room and of the household upon my back. My

intellectual life has been at a standstill. I have read nothing, not

even the newspapers--The Times or last week's Spectator. There has

been perpetual friction between the servants and the nurses which I

have had to adjust. Margaret could not be looked to for help in this.

She is too easily influenced, being disposed always to take sides with

the person who last spoke to her. Mr. Savage cannot arrive before

to-morrow afternoon. I am glad of this breathing space, for the

thought of his coming is oppressive to me. He appeared so lively and

so much a man of society, when we met him in Paris, that I felt shy and

awkward in talking to him. But it is useless to dwell upon this. He

is coming. I must accept the fact. My head aches. I keep on fancying

there are strange sounds in the house. But, as Isherwood says, I am

overtired. I meant to state quite simply what has occurred since I

last wrote; but I find it difficult to concentrate my attention.

"Papa died just before five o'clock this morning. It was snowing and

the wind was high. Isherwood and I were in the room, with the

night-nurse. Margaret had gone to lie down and I did not call her.

She has reproached me for this since and will probably continue to do

so. Perhaps I acted wrongly in not calling her, but I was dazed.

Everything appeared unreal, and I did not grasp what was occurring

until they told me. We had watched so long that I had grown dull and

unresponsive. I was sitting upon the ottoman--in which mamma's evening

gowns used to be kept--at the foot of the bed, when Isherwood came

close to me and said, 'Miss Joanna, Mr. Smyrthwaite's going.' I said,

'Where?' not understanding what she meant. 'You had better be quick,'

the night-nurse said. Her manner has never been respectful. I got up

and went to the side of the bed. Papa's eyes were open. They seemed

to stare at something which made him angry. He used to look thus at

poor Bibby. I felt a spirit of opposition arise in me. This I now

regret, for it was not a proper state of mind. Presently the

night-nurse felt his pulse and held a hand-mirror to his mouth. I saw

that the surface of it remained unblurred. She looked across at

Isherwood and nodded familiarly. 'I thought so,' she said. Then I

understood that papa was dead; and I felt sorry for him, both because I

knew how much he disliked the idea of dying, and also because I should

never be afraid of him any more.

"The night-nurse said, quite out loud--her offhand way of speaking has

struck me, all along, as objectionable--'There is no reason Miss

Smyrthwaite should stop any longer. I always prefer to do the

laying-out by myself. I get through with it so much quicker.'

"'Isherwood will remain,' I said. I felt it right to assert my

authority, and I so dread the upper servants being annoyed. It makes

everything so difficult to manage.

"'That is quite unnecessary,' she answered. 'If I require assistance

for lifting I can call Nurse Bagot. She will be coming on duty anyhow

in another hour, and as the case is over I should not mind disturbing

her. She can finish her rest later.'

"But I wish Mrs. Isherwood to remain,' I repeated.

"'Of course I shall stay, Miss Joanna,' Isherwood said. 'It is my

place to do so. It is not suitable or likely I should leave the

laying-out to strangers. Besides, I do not take orders from anybody in

this house but you or Miss Margaret.'

"To have a wrangle just then was painful; but I think both Isherwood

and I spoke under great provocation.

"Afterward I went to Margaret. It was still dark, and I heard the wind

and snow driving against the passage windows. I found Margaret

difficult to awaken. When I told her, she became hysterical and said I

ought to have spoken less suddenly. But Margaret cries readily. I

believe it is a relief to her and enables her to get over trouble more

easily. I have had no disposition to cry so far, yet I have been much

more of a companion to papa than Margaret ever has. Latterly, in

particular, she avoided being with him on the plea that was too

exhausting for her. Sometimes I have thought her selfish. When I

asked her to sit with him she was so ready with excuses. Still he

cared for her more than for me. She is pretty and I am not--less than

ever now, my eyes look so tired and have red rims to them--and then

Margaret never opposed him. She has a way of slipping out of things

without expressing a direct opinion. I did oppose him during the

terrible troubles about poor Bibby, and when he spoke harshly or

sarcastically before mamma. And I kept him at Carlsbad, away from

mamma, during the last days of her illness, by telegraphing false

reports to him. That is nearly eight years ago. He never actually

knew that I had deceived him, unless Margaret has hinted at it, and I

hardly think she would dare do so--she is not very courageous--but he

suspected something, and he never forgave me, although he gradually

grew more and more dependent upon me. I have examined my conscience

strictly, and it is clear in relation to him. Yet he looked angry this

morning when he was dead. I suppose I shall always think of him as

looking angry. But I think I do not care. How extraordinary it is to

feel that--to feel that I have ceased to mind, to be afraid.

"I sent round quite early to Heatherleigh for Mr. Challoner. He came

at once. He strongly expressed the wish to do all he can to help me,

and inquired more than once for Margaret. He said that, directly he

heard of papa's death, he thought of Margaret, as he feared she would

be prostrated by the shock. He said she impressed him as so fragile

and so sensitive. The words struck me because it had never occurred to

me that Margaret was fragile. She has better health than I have. She

is more excitable than I am, and easily gets into a fuss, but I do not

think her particularly sensitive. Probably it was just Mr. Challoner's

way of expressing himself, but I cannot think the terms are

particularly applicable. I am afraid Mr. Challoner is vexed at papa

having appointed Mr. Savage my coexecutor. He intimated that Margaret

had been slighted by the arrangement. I may do him an injustice, but I

fancy he is disappointed at not being executor himself. In this I am

not to blame. As I told him, I should have preferred to act with him

rather than with Mr. Savage, as he knows so much about the property. I

told him I urged papa, in as far as I could, to give up the idea of

appointing Mr. Savage. I think this pleased him. He kindly sent off

the telegram to Mr. Savage for me and the obituary notices for the

newspapers himself. He said he would call later in the day to inquire

for Margaret, and to see if there was anything further he could do for

us. I told Margaret this. She became more composed when she knew he

was coming, and ceased reproaching me for not having called her when

papa was dying. She said she should be glad to see Mr. Challoner. She

has always liked him better than I have. He is clever, but

uncultivated. But Margaret has never really cared about culture. I

know mamma feared she might become frivolous and worldly if she was not

under intellectual influences. If mamma had only lived till now!--I

dare not develop all I mean in saying that. I foresee difficulties

with Margaret. I earnestly hope she will not take up the idea she has

been slighted. I do not want to put myself forward, yet it is my duty

not only to carry out papa's instructions, but, in as far as I know

them, mamma's wishes also.

"I tried to word the obituary notices as papa would have liked.

Perhaps I should have inserted the words _Liberal_ and _Unitarian_, so

as to define his political and religious position. Yet he differed

from the main body of Unitarians on so many points and condemned so

many modern Liberal tendencies and measures that I did not feel

justified in employing those terms. They are generic, and, as it

appeared to me, committed him to views he had long ceased actually to

hold. I should have consulted Margaret, but she was very fretful just

then; and it was useless to ask Mr. Challoner, as he would not

appreciate fine distinctions, I fancy. So I simply put 'At his

residence, the Tower House, Baughurst Park Estate, Stourmouth, Hants,

Montagu Priestly Smyrthwaite, formerly of the Priestly Mills and of

Highdene, Leeds, aged seventy-six. No flowers, by special request.' I

suppose Andrew Merriman and others from the mills will attend the

funeral. I dread seeing Andrew Merriman again. It will bring back all

the terrible trouble about poor Bibby. And I cannot think how Mr.

Savage will get on with the people from the mills. It would have been

simpler to have Mr. Challoner act officially in the capacity of host.

I dare not think much about the funeral.

"After luncheon I filled in their papers and dismissed the nurses. I

think they expected some present, but I did not feel it necessary to

give them any. They had only done what they were well paid to do; and

I liked neither of them, though Nurse Bagot was the least patronizing

and interfering. Their refusing to take their meals in the

housekeeper's room and the upper servants' objection to waiting upon

them made arrangements very trying. I sympathized with the servants,

but I had to consider the nurses, lest they should be quarrelsome and

make everybody even more uncomfortable. I am thankful we had no

professional nurses when mamma was ill, and that Isherwood and I nursed

her. But this case was different. We could not have done without

professional help even had we wished to do so.

"I went to papa's room this afternoon, when the undertakers had

finished taking measurements for the coffin. I thought it my duty to

go. I supposed Margaret would have accompanied me, but she refused,

saying it would only upset her again just as she was expecting Mr.

Challoner. I told her I feared the servants might think it unnatural

and unfeeling if she did not go into the room at all. She said if she

felt better to-morrow she would make an effort to go then. I hope she

will. I should not like her to expose herself to criticism, even

though unspoken, on the part of the servants. One of our first duties,

now we are alone, is to set an example to the household. I think she

is wrong in putting off going. It will not be any less painful

to-morrow than to-day. And if I can bear it, she should be able to

bear it. We are different, but I do not pretend to be Margaret's

superior in any way.

"The room was very cold. I suppose I remarked this particularly

because of the high temperature which has been kept up in it for so

many weeks. The upper sashes of all the windows were open behind the

drawn blinds, which the air alternately inflated and sucked outward.

This made an unpleasant dragging sound. I was foolish to mind it, but

I am tired. There was a sheet over the bed, which was quite proper;

but there were sheets over the toilet-glass, the cheval-glass, and the

mirror above the chimneypiece also. This must have been Isherwood's

doing. It placed me in a difficulty. I did not want to hurt her

feelings, but I know papa would have disapproved. He was so intolerant

of all superstition, that the ignorant notion any one might see the

dead person's face reflected in a looking-glass in the death-chamber,

and that it would bring misfortune, would have made him extremely

angry. He was contemptuous of uneducated people and of their ideas. I

had begun taking the sheet off the cheval-glass when I saw that

Margaret's gray Persian cat was in the room. I suppose it must have

slipped in beside me without my noticing it. The light was very dim

and I was thinking only of my own feelings. I called it, in a whisper,

but it ran away from me mewing. It went twice right round the bed,

squeezing in between the head of it and the wall. It stood upon its

hind-legs, and then crouched, preparing to spring up over the

footboard. I drove it away, but it kept on mewing. It hid under the

bed and I could not dislodge it. I was afraid to go across and ring

the bell lest it should attempt to spring up again. The room grew

dark. It was weak of me, but I felt helpless and nervous. I seemed to

see a movement upon the bed, as though some one was trying to crawl

from underneath the sheet and had not sufficient strength to do so. No

doubt this was the result of my brain being so exhausted by

sleeplessness and anxiety, but I could not reason with myself just

then. It seemed quite real and it terrified me. I was afraid I should

scream. At last Isherwood came. She had missed me and came to look

for me. I could not explain at first, but when she understood, she

called Sarah, the second housemaid, of whom the cat is fond. Sarah was

frightened at entering the room, and Isherwood had to speak sharply to

her. It was all very dreadful. At last Sarah coaxed the cat from

under the bed. Isherwood knelt down and pushed it behind with a broom.

When Sarah had taken it away, I lost my self-control and was quite

overcome. I felt and spoke bitterly about the maids' and Margaret's

carelessness. During the whole of papa's illness the cat has been kept

out of the south wing, and it would have been so easy to exercise care

a little longer. I said it appeared things were intentionally

neglected now that papa's authority is withdrawn, and that those who

formerly cringed to him now took pleasure in defying his orders and

wishes. This was an exaggerated statement; but the incident brought

home to me how little any person, even the most important and

autocratic, matters as soon as he or she is dead. Death does more than

level, it obliterates.

"Moreover, I could not rid my mind of the thought of those feeble,

ineffectual movements beneath the sheet. This added to my distress and

nervousness. I asked Isherwood to uncover the bed so that I might

assure myself the body remained in the same position. I looked closely

at it, though it was extremely painful to me to do so. The eyes were

now closed, but the face was still severe, expressive of disapproval.

Why, and for what? Obviously it is useless to disapprove of whatever

may follow death--if, indeed, anything does, sensibly, follow it.

Papa's belief in the survival of consciousness and individuality was of

the slightest. So is mine. The so-called 'future life' is, I fear,

but a 'fond thing vainly imagined.' The extinction of myriads of

intelligent, highly organized and highly gifted beings after a few

years--few, as against the vast stretch of astral or geologic

periods--of earthly struggle, suffering, and attainment appears

incredibly wasteful. But that constitutes no valid argument against

extinction--at least, in my opinion, it would be weakly optimistic to

accept it as a valid one. A very superficial study of biology

convinces one of the supreme indifference of Nature to waste. As far

as sentient living creatures, other than man, are concerned, Nature is

certainly no economist. She destroys as lavishly as she creates.

Therefore it is safer to eliminate all hope of restitution or reward

from one's outlook, and accustom oneself to the thought of extinction.

I have long tried to school myself to this, but I find it difficult. I

must try harder.

"Recalling the scene of this afternoon, I feel grateful to Isherwood.

I was childishly unreasonable and passionate, and she was very patient

with me. She is always kind to me; but I must not permit myself to

lean too much upon her. She is an uneducated woman, and has the

prejudices and superstitions of her class. To lean upon her might

prove enfeebling to my character and judgment.

"I have not yet spoken to Margaret about the cat; for, when I was

sufficiently composed to go down-stairs, Mr. Challoner had just left

and she began talking about his visit, which seemed to have pleased and

excited her. She praised his thoughtfulness and sympathy. No doubt he

has valuable qualities, but I own something in his manner and way of

expressing himself jars upon me. He is not quite gentleman-like in

mind or appearance. Margaret called me proud and fastidious, and added

that I took pleasure in depreciating those who showed her attention.

That is neither true nor just, but I will be more careful what I say

about people before her. It is unwise to be betrayed into discussions

since she so often misunderstands me and so easily takes offense.

Later on she spoke about our mourning. I had not given the subject a

thought, I admit, since there has been so very much else to occupy me.

I took for granted Madame Pell would make it for us, in Stourmouth, as

she has done all our dressmaking lately. But Margaret said Madame

Pell's things were always rather old-fashioned and that she wished to

have our mourning from Grays'. I pointed out that it would be

inconvenient and unsuitable for either of us to go up to London, for a

day, just now. She replied that Grays' would send some one down with a

selection for us to choose from. I mentioned expense. Margaret said

that need not be considered, adding:

"'Mr. Challoner tells me we shall both be rich. For years papa Has

lived very much below his income and has saved a great deal of money.

All the property is left to you and me. We shall each have a large

fortune.'

"I was annoyed by her tone, which struck me as both exultant and

unfeeling. I cannot forget that the greater proportion of papa's

property would have been Bibby's, and it is dreadful to me that

Margaret and I should profit by our brother's disgrace and death.--If

he is dead! To the last mamma believed he was still alive, in hiding

somewhere. I still believe it, and hope he may come back--poor,

darling Bibby! Margaret, I am convinced, neither wishes nor hopes

this. She has said more than once, lately, that if people do wrong it

is better to put them out of one's life altogether, and I know she was

thinking of Bibby. I could never put him out of my life, even if I

wished to do so. I had the greatest difficulty to-day in not speaking

of him when she talked about our large fortunes, but I controlled

myself. I was still shaken by the scene with her cat, and feared I

might exhibit temper. I did reason with her about having our mourning

from Grays', as it seems to me ostentatious. But she became fretful

and inclined to cry again, accusing me of always wanting my own way and

of trying to deny her every little interest and amusement, so I thought

it best to give in to her.

"I promised Isherwood I would not sit up, so I must stop writing. The

smell of the disinfectant pursues and disgusts me, and I go on fancying

that I hear strange noises in the house. I wish I could feel sorrow

for papa's death. It would be more natural. But I feel none. I only

feel resentment against mamma's suffering and Bibby's disgrace. How

cruel and purposeless the past seems! And I feel alarm in thinking of

the future. I cannot picture Margaret's and my life alone together.

Will it be cruel and purposeless, too? I shall not sleep, but I must

not break my word to Isherwood. I will stop writing and go to bed."

Two o'clock had struck before Joanna Smyrthwaite closed and locked her

diary and replaced it in the pigeon-hole of the satin wood bureau. At

the same hour, away in Paris, Gabrielle St. Leger, answering little

Bette's cry, gathered the child's soft, warm body in her arms and found

the solution of many perplexities in the God-ordered discipline of

mother-love. The less fortunate Englishwoman also received comfort--of

a kind. Her hands were stiff with cold. The small, neat writing on

the last page of the diary showed cramped and almost illegible. She

was faint from the long vigil. Yet the fever of her spirit was

somewhat appeased. For, in thus visualizing and recording her

emotions, in thus setting the picture of her life outside her, she had,

in a measure, lightened the strain of it. The drug from which she had

sought relief acted, so to speak, allaying the ache of her loveless,

unsatisfied heart.

CHAPTER VI

SOME CONSEQUENCES OF PUTTING NEW WINE INTO OLD BOTTLES

The next entry in Joanna Smyrthwaite's diary dates several days later.

The handwriting, though quite clear, is less neat and studied than

usual.

"I have a sense of crowding and confusion, of incapacity to realize and

deal with that which is happening around me and in my own thought.

Hence I have delayed writing. I hoped to attain composure and

lucidity; but, since these seem as far off as ever, it is useless to

wait any longer. Possibly the act of writing may help me.

"Mr. Savage arrived on Thursday, immediately after luncheon. We had

not expected him until the evening, and I felt unprepared. I am afraid

my reception of him was awkward and ungracious, but his quick speech

and brilliant manner made me nervous. He spoke at once of his respect

for papa, and expressed sympathy for us in our bereavement, adding that

he 'placed himself entirely at our disposition.' I found it difficult

to make a suitable reply. I do not know whether he noticed

this--probably he put it down to my grief--and I am not grieved. I am

hard and cold, and, I am afraid, resentful. All of which is wrong. I

do not attempt to justify my state of mind, but it would be dishonest

to pretend, even to myself, about it.

"To return to Mr. Savage. He speaks English fluently, but employs

words and frames his sentences in a peculiar manner. This helps to

give vivacity and point to all which he says, but it might also give

rise to misunderstandings. I trust it will not do so when he and Mr.

Challoner and Andrew Merriman discuss business. Smallbridge valets

him, not Edwin. I was uncertain whether Smallbridge would like to do

so, but he said he preferred it. I think Mr. Savage has made a good

impression upon the servants. I am glad of this. He is certainly very

courteous to them. After Margaret and I came up-stairs, the first

evening he was here, she remarked that he was very handsome. She has

repeated this frequently since. I suppose it is true. Margaret is

always very much occupied about personal appearance. Mr. Savage is,

undoubtedly, very kind, and seems most anxious to save us trouble and

take care of us. Margaret evidently likes this. I am unaccustomed to

being taken care of. I find it embarrassing. It adds to my

nervousness.

"I feel dissatisfied with myself, and anxious lest I should not behave

with the dignity which my position, as head of the household, demands;

but I am tired and so many new duties and new ideas crowd in on me. I

seem to have lost my identity. Ever since I can remember, papa has

occupied the central place in my thoughts and plans. His will and

wishes supplied the pivot on which all our lives turned, and I cannot

accustom myself to the absence of his authority. I am pursued by a

fear that I am forgetting some order of his, or neglecting some duty

toward him, for which omission I shall presently be called to account.

He represented Fate, Nemesis to me. As I see now, I had never

questioned but that his power, or right to use that power, was

absolute. Even through all the trouble about poor Bibby, though I

protested against his action, I never doubted his right to act as he

saw fit. Now I cannot help reasoning about our relation to him, and

asking myself whether--in the general scheme of things--it can be

intended that one human being should exercise such complete and

arbitrary control over the minds and consciences of others. I know

that I was greatly his inferior in ability and knowledge, let alone

that I am a woman and that, as his daughter, I owed him obedience.

Still I cannot help feeling that I may have been rendered unnecessarily

stupid and diffident through subjection to him. Something which Mr.

Savage said to-day at luncheon about Individualism--though I do not

think he meant it to apply to papa--suggested to me that there are

other forms of cannibalism besides that practised by the degraded

savages who cook and eat the dead bodies of their captives. In

civilized communities a more subtle, but more cruel, kind of

cannibalism is neither impossible nor infrequent--a feeding upon the

intelligence, the energies and personality of those about you, which,

though it does not actually kill, leaves its victims sterile and

helpless. I suppose this idea would be called morbid, and should not

be encouraged. But my will is weak just now, and I cannot put it away

from me. I am haunted by remembrance of the classic legend of Saturn

devouring his own children. It is monstrous and shocking, yet it does

haunt me. If papa had been less stern and exacting with Bibby, the

latter might not have fallen into bad habits, or, at all events, might

have had strength to recover from them. But papa's dominating

personality made him hopeless and helpless, depriving him of

self-respect and initiative. With me it has been the same, though in a

lesser degree; and I am aware of this, especially when talking to Mr.

Savage. Then I feel how dull I am, like some blighted, half-dead thing

incapable of self-expression and spontaneity. And I cannot help

knowing that he perceives this and pities me--not merely on account of

our present trouble, but for something inalienably wanting in myself.

This fills me with resentment toward the past, as though, by my

education and home circumstances, I had been wronged and deprived of a

power of happiness which was my natural right. Our lives were

devoured--mamma's, Bibby's, mine--by papa's love of power and pursuit

of self-exaltation. Only Margaret, in virtue of her slighter nature,

escaped. It was so. I see it clearly. But I must not dwell on this.

I have said it once now. I must let that suffice. To enlarge upon it

is useless and would further embitter me.

"To go back to every-day matters. I asked Mr. Challoner to dine the

night before last, so that he and Mr. Savage might make further

acquaintance. I am afraid Mr. Savage found it a tedious dinner, after

the brilliant society he has been accustomed to in Paris. I know I

have little conversation, and Margaret, though she looked unusually

animated, never really has very much to say. Mr. Challoner did not

show to advantage. He is not at his ease with Mr. Savage. He is heavy

and crude in speech and in appearance beside him. I thought he showed

bad taste in his remarks about foreigners and his insistence on the

superiority of everything English. I do not think Margaret remarked

this, but it made me hot and nervous. Mr. Savage behaved with great

courtesy, for which I was grateful to him. I am afraid I was a poor

hostess, but we have entertained so little since we left Highdene, and

then papa always led the conversation. We were merely listeners. The

cooking was satisfactory with the exception of the cheese _soufflé_,

the top of which was slightly burnt. I spoke to Rossiter about it this

morning and begged her to be more careful in future.

"A young woman came from Grays' yesterday, bringing a profusion of

dresses and millinery. Margaret seemed amused and interested, trying

everything on, asking the young woman's advice and talking freely with

her. I tried to be interested, too, but I did not find it easy. The

styles seemed to me exaggerated and showy, and the prices exorbitant.

I should prefer what is simpler for such deep mourning, but Margaret

did not agree with me. It would not do for us to be differently

dressed, and when I suggested modifications the young woman, supported

by Margaret, overruled me. Margaret is fond of elaborate styles, and

the young woman said that a good deal of fullness and trimming was

necessary for me as I have so little figure. It was foolish to attach

importance to the remarks of a person in her position, yet what she

said hurt me. She admired Margaret's figure, or affected to do so, and

paid her a number of compliments. I looked at myself in the long glass

in my room last night, after Margaret left me, and I see that I am very

thin. My cheeks have fallen in and there are lines across my forehead

and at the corners of my mouth. My face can give no pleasure to those

who see it--the features are not good, and the expression is anxious.

I look several years older than Margaret. I do not know why I should

mind this. Long ago I accepted the fact that I was not pretty. But

last night I was depressed by the realization of it. For the first

time since papa's death I felt inclined to cry. When Isherwood came to

undress me I made an excuse and sent her away. I did not want her to

see me cry. I feared she might ask questions; and I had no reason for

crying--at least no fresh reason, none certainly that I could explain

to Isherwood. I am ashamed, remembering my state of mind last night.

I could not write, neither could I sleep. I sat for a long while in

front of the glass, looking at myself and crying. I seemed rarely to

have seen a less pleasing woman. I have always valued intellect and

talent more highly than beauty, but last night I doubted. My strongest

convictions seemed to be slipping away from me. I suppose this is

partly the result of physical strain. I must try not to give way thus

to useless emotion.

"Mrs. Paull and the Woodfords called yesterday to inquire. So did Mrs.

Spencer and Marion Chase. I was surprised at Mrs. Spencer calling. We

have met her at garden-parties and at-homes, but we have never

exchanged visits. No doubt her intention in calling was kind, but I

should not care to be intimate with her. Neither she nor her sister

appear to me very ladylike. I hope Margaret will not want to make

friends with her now. She strikes me as a frivolous person, whose

influence might be the reverse of desirable. Margaret saw Marion,

saying she wished to consult her about some details of our mourning. I

did not see her. She and Margaret spent more than an hour together in

the blue sitting-room. The Pottingers and Mrs. Norbiton sent around

cards of inquiry by a servant to-day. I think every one wishes to be

kind. Papa was very much respected, though perhaps he was not liked.

He was more highly educated and more intellectual than any one here,

and that helped to make him unpopular. His conversation and manner

tended to make others aware of their mental inferiority, which they

resented. This was only natural, yet it increased our isolation.

"Colonel Rentoul Haig called on the day of papa's death. He has

written since, very civilly, asking if he can be of any help to us. He

appears anxious to make Mr. Savage's acquaintance, but I do not want to

ask any one here until after the funeral. Colonel Haig assumes the

tone of a near relation. This pleased Margaret, and she is annoyed at

my unwillingness to invite him until after the funeral. I think she is

flattered by his expression of interest in our affairs.

"I am worried about Margaret. Mr. Challoner is here constantly, and I

cannot help observing how much attention he pays her. He refers to her

on every occasion and insists upon asking her opinion. It is almost as

though he placed her and himself in opposition to Mr. Savage and me;

this causes delays in business, and unnecessary discussions which are

very tiresome. His tone in speaking of or to Margaret is protective,

as though he thought she was not being well treated. Perhaps I am

unjust toward him, but he and Margaret are so frequently together. He

asks for her and goes up to the blue sitting-room to see her. I am

sure Mr. Savage observes this. I feel very anxious lest any wrong

impression should gain ground among the servants or others. I dread

anything approaching gossip just now. Since we left Highdene we have

always kept ourselves free of that. Ever since we came here people

have known little or nothing of our doings and affairs, and it would

humiliate me that they should be canvassed now. I wish Margaret would

be more careful of appearances. Then, too, although I do not like her,

it is our duty to consider Mrs. Spencer. Her name has been so freely

associated with that of Mr. Challoner. Every one has taken it for

granted they will eventually marry. I ought to remind Margaret of

this, since she seems to ignore it, and I have not the moral courage to

do so. I am afraid of her tears and reproaches. When the funeral is

over, Mr. Challoner will have less excuse for coming so often. I think

I will wait. Things may arrange themselves, and I may be spared the

unpleasantness of speaking.

"Something happened this evening which threw me into a strange

excitement. I hardly know whether to set it down or not. I thought

the impression would pass away, but I have been writing for more than

an hour and it is still strongly upon me. My state of mind is

exaggerated. Perhaps if I set it down I shall become more composed.

When I bade Mr. Savage good-night in the hall--Margaret had gone on and

was half-way up-stairs, she was not in a good temper--he spoke kindly

about the responsibilities which have fallen upon me, and the amount I

have had to do lately. He said he admired my business capacity and my

high sense of duty. He addressed me as 'my dear cousin,' and kissed my

right hand. This surprised and affected me. No one ever kissed my

hand before. The tones of his voice are very varied. They caused me

unexpected emotion. All was said and done very lightly and gracefully,

almost playfully, but I cannot forget it. When I came up-stairs I

locked the door of my room, and walked up and down in the firelight,

looking at my hand, for a long while before I recovered sufficient

self-control to light the candles and sit down and write. I have a

strange feeling toward my own hand. It seems to have gained an

intrinsic beauty and value, as of something quite apart from myself. I

look at it with a sense of admiration. I enjoy touching it with my

other hand. And yet I am doubtful whether to write this down. Only

these sensations are so new to me that, when they are past, I shall be

glad, I think, to have some record of them. I wrote about other things

first, to-night, to test whether the impression was fugitive or not.

It is still with me, though I am quite composed now. I am composed,

but I still look at my hand with emotion. I will not write any more.

I think I shall sleep to-night."

CHAPTER VII

IN WHICH ADRIAN HELPS TO THROW EARTH INTO AN OPEN GRAVE

Adrian Savage, meanwhile, his native buoyancy of spirit

notwithstanding, became increasingly sensible of the depressing moral

atmosphere surrounding him. He was impatient of it. For did they not

really take things rather ridiculously hard, these excellent English

people? Had they no sense of proportion? Had they no power of

averaging, no little consolations of good-tempered philosophy? He went

so far, in moments of levity, as to accuse _le bon Dieu_ of

reprehensible squandering by thus bestowing the eminently good gift of

life upon persons so deplorably incapable of profiting by it. To him

they appeared thankless, cowardly, and quite unpardonably clumsy in

their handling of opportunity. Moreover, while curiously clannish,

ready on the slightest provocation to stand back to back against the

world, they waged internecine war, being permanently suspicious of, and

unamiable toward, one another. If this represented a fair sample of

the much-vaunted English home and the English character--well, for his

part, Adrian was of opinion they did these things quite as well, if not

a great deal better, in France!

He shrugged his shoulders, elevated his black eyebrows, stroked his

neat beard, trying at once to overcome his sense of depression and

stifle his sense of humor. The atmosphere would, he told himself, no

doubt become more exhilarating when poor Montagu Smyrthwaite's body had

been removed from that rather terrible best bedroom--apparently "turned

up," as the maids have it, for spring cleaning--and finally consigned

to the tomb. Never had he seen a dead fellow-creature treated with

such meager tribute, either in language or symbol, of human pity or

eternal hope! It shocked his sensibility that the corpse should lie

there, locked away by itself in a cold, dismal twilight of drawn

blinds, without any orderly setting-out of the death-chamber, without

watchers, or prayer offered, or lighted candles, or flowers, or other

suggestion either of tenderness or of religious obligation.

Observances of this sort, he was given to understand by Joseph

Challoner, were discredited in highly intellectual circles, such as

that in which the Smyrthwaites moved, as savoring of antiquated and

unscientific superstitions. The result, to Adrian's thinking,

presented an effect at once so abjectly domestic, and so miserably

deficient in any appreciation of the eternal mystery of human fate,

that the crudest death-rites of the most degraded aborigines would have

been preferable.

And then, by a singular inversion of sentiment, it was held necessary

as a testimony of respect to keep the poor, disagreeable old

gentleman's body waiting such a quite inordinately long time for

interment! During a, to Adrian, positively endless week did it remain

there, amid a doleful array of dusting-sheets and disinfectants! So

that, what with the dark, snow-patched fir woods without, and the dark,

neutral-tinted house within; what with conventionally hushed footsteps

and lowered voices, plus an all-pervasive odor of iodiform tainting the

close, heated air, the young man found the present among quite the most

trying and distasteful of all his personal experiences.

Yet, as the interminable days went by--while Joseph Challoner, jealous

alike of his own position and of the newcomer's breeding and ability,

alternately bluffed, snarled and flattered, and pompous, little Colonel

Haig fell headlong from attempted patronage to a certain fulsomeness of

conciliation--against this dismal background the figure of Joanna

Smyrthwaite came to stand out, to Adrian's seeing, with an intensity of

moral effort and sustained determination of duty both impressive and

admirable. Beneath the bloodless surface, behind the anxious, unlovely

countenance and coldly nervous manner, he began to divine a remarkable

character. He had been mistaken in calling her a shadow. She was a

distinct entity, but she was also, to him, quite arrestingly

unattractive. And, just on that account, the chivalry both of the man

and the artist grew alert to be very gentle to her, to omit no smallest

offering of friendliness or courtesy. The very reason and purpose of

woman's existence being charm and beauty--his thought turned with a

great yearning to remembrance of a certain enigmatic fair lady, the

windows of whose rose-red and canvas-colored drawing-room overlooked

the heart of Paris from above the _Quai Malaquais_--it was pitiful in

the extreme to see any woman thus disfranchised.

The inherent tragedy of that disfranchisement was brought home to him,

with peculiar force, on the evening following Montagu Smyrthwaite's

funeral. For eventually, almost to Adrian's surprise, the poor lonely

corpse really did get itself buried! Then, at the Tower House, the

blinds were drawn up, and the mourners, local and official, returning

thither, discarding the appointed countenance assumed as due to the

mournful character of the rites lately accomplished and resuming that

common to them under ordinary conditions, prepared almost jovially to

do justice to an excellent luncheon. The Miss Smyrthwaites excused

themselves from attendance, no other ladies being there, so it fell to

Adrian's lot to preside at the banquet. He was amused to note the fact

that they had left all which was mortal of the late owner of the house

in the new West Stourmouth cemetery--which, with its pale monuments,

roads and pathways, showed as a gigantic scar upon the face of the

dusky moorland--in no perceptible degree impaired the healthy appetite

of any member of the company. To eat offers agreeably convincing

testimony that one is as yet well within the pale of the living; and

none of the eighteen or twenty gentlemen present, whatever their

diversities of profession or of social standing, entertained the

faintest desire to follow Montagu Smyrthwaite--their neighbor, kinsman,

patron, or employer--to the grave in any sense save a strictly

complimentary one. That final civility being now duly paid in respect

of him, it was in the spirit of those who receive well-earned reward

for well-performed labor that they sat down to feed.

In Adrian, both the Latin and the Catholic were still somewhat in

revolt against this scant tenderness shown toward death. The whole

matter from start to finish had been, as he reflected, notably of the

earth-to-earth order. The alacrity, displayed by the assistants, in

the direction of food and drink, was of the earth earthy, too. It,

however, had at least the merit of being very human. Therefore, to

him, it came as a rather humorous relief. Since his childhood his

visits to England had been infrequent. With London and London society

he was fairly well acquainted, but of provincial life and its social

conditions he knew next to nothing. It followed that, in their racial

and psychological aspects, the members of the present company were

interesting to him. He tried to forget the poor, unloved corpse lying

beneath the rattling snow-sodden gravel of the moorland and absorb

himself in observation of the men seated on either side the

dinner-table; to where, at the opposite end of it, the hard-featured,

taciturn, sagacious, Yorkshire manufacturer, Andrew Merriman, manager

and part proprietor of the Priestly woolen mills, faced him. This man

had not taken off the appointed countenance, for the very good reason

that he had never put it on, his nature being of a type which disdains

conventional manifestations, either of joy or woe. Throughout the day,

in this as in other particulars, Merriman's personality had struck

Adrian as distinct, standing away from the rest of the company,

silently declaring itself as possessed of unusual vigor and

independence. He tried to enter into conversation, but invariably

Joseph Challoner contrived to intervene; and it was not till evening,

shortly before Merriman and the rest of the Yorkshire contingent were

due to depart to Stourmouth on their return journey by the night mail

to Leeds, that he succeeded in getting private speech of him.

Then, after some brief mention of certain business details, Merriman

said to him, gruffly, and as though grudgingly:

"I own I am more satisfied now I have met you, Mr. Savage. I did not

much care about your appointment as executor. But I might have trusted

Mr. Smyrthwaite's judgment. I have seldom known him wrong in his

estimate of a man."

"You wish me to understand that you believe me to be quite fairly

honest and competent?" Adrian returned, in mingled annoyance and

pleasure. The intention was complimentary, but the address so

singularly blunt! "I venture to agree with you, my dear sir. Without

vanity, I have reason to believe I really am both."

"So much the better," Merriman answered, sardonically. "I have no wish

to offend you. But an uncommon amount of property, in which I am

interested, is changing hands; and honest, trustworthy persons are

pretty scarce." He glanced from under penthouse eyebrows across the

room to where Challoner, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to

the other, dancing-bear fashion, stood talking to Colonel Haig. "At

least in my experience they are, Mr. Savage. When a family is dying

out you generally find the males are debilitated specimens and the

females the strongest. In this family, if Miss Smyrthwaite had been

born a boy it would have been better for the name and for the business.

Only, then, you and I shouldn't have met here to-day, because Mr.

Smyrthwaite would never have left Highdene, and I should never have

been manager at the mills."

"Which would have been a misfortune--for me, in any case," Adrian

returned, suavely.

"Maybe," the other said. "But I can tell you Joanna Smyrthwaite's all

right. She has sound commercial instincts if she's allowed to use

them. It is an all-fired pity she's a woman."

An idea occurred to Adrian.

"She should have married," he said. This bluntness of statement became

lamentably infectious! "Every woman should marry. Then her abilities

find their natural expression and development."

"Quite right, sir. And it is on the cards, I am thinking, Joanna would

have married if a man had not been too much afraid of her father to ask

her. Mind," he added, "I have no quarrel with our late head. My

father was a national schoolmaster. My grandfather was a mill-hand. I

should not be where I am but for Mr. Smyrthwaite. He fancied my looks

when I was quite a little nipper, picked me out and gave me my start.

And I'm not boasting, any more than you were just now, if I say I know

he never had reason to regret doing that."

The speaker straightened up his heavy figure, looking Adrian steadily

in the eyes.

"I told you he was a sure judge of men. But women, except to bring him

children, and mind his house, and put up with his tempers, and fetch

and carry for him, didn't enter into his calculations at all. He was a

bit of a Grand Turk was Mr. Smyrthwaite. And Joanna, from quite a

little mite, made herself useful as his amanuensis and reader and so

on. He looked upon her as his private property, and kept her busy, I

promise you; so that the man who wanted to take her away from him

didn't have a fighting chance."

"But now the Grand Turk is finally removed," Adrian declared. "Haven't

we just concluded all that?"

"And now a man is afraid of her money, I'm thinking," the big

Yorkshireman returned, slowly, a grim smile pulling at the corners of

his mouth. "Joanna was always the plain one of the two girls. And she

has aged lately. You can't seem to picture her with a healthy baby on

her lap. And so, nobody would believe--the man, though he wished it

ever so, would hardly believe himself--it was the woman he wanted, the

woman he was after, and not just her wealth."

He stood silent a moment, his jaw set, and then held out a large, hard,

but not unkindly hand to Adrian.

"I reckon our time's about up," he said. "Write or wire me to come if

I am needed, Mr. Savage. And, when you leave, I should be obliged if

you'll remind Joanna I'm always at her service. I shall look after the

girls' interest at the mills right enough, but I can get away down here

for twenty-four hours almost any time at a push. Good-day to you, sir.

I am glad we've met. Now I must round up my lads and take 'em back

home to work."

This conversation, in its crude sincerity of language and statement,

remained by Adrian, and was still present to his mind next morning when

he rose. Early in his stay at the Tower House he had petitioned

Smallbridge to bring him rolls and coffee when calling him, since a

solid breakfast at nine, followed by a solid luncheon at one-thirty,

proved too serious an undertaking for the comfort of the Latin stomach.

By the above arrangement he secured two or three hours to himself

either for writing or for exercise. This morning he went out soon

after eight and walked down the wide avenue, past large, jealously

secluded villas, each standing in its acre or half acre of thickly

planted grounds, to where the mouth of the long, dark wooded valley

opens between striated gray and orange sand-cliffs, as through a giant

gateway, upon the sea. Thin, primrose-yellow sunlight glinted on the

backs of the steel-blue waves. A great flight of gulls, driven inshore

by stress of weather, swept, and dropped, and lifted again, with wild,

yelping laughter, above the flowing tide. Fringing the cliff edge the

purple boles, red trunks, and black, ragged heads of a line of

wind-tormented Scotch firs, detached themselves, from foot to crown,

against the colorless winter sky.

The thirty or forty yards of level sand, stretching from the turn of

the road in the valley bottom to the dark windrows of sea-wrack marking

the tide-line, were pocketed by footsteps. But, at this hour, the

place was wholly deserted, it being too early in the day, and too early

in the season, for invasion by any advance guard of the mighty army of

tourists and trippers which infests the coast from Marychurch and

Stourmouth, westward to Barryport, during the summer and autumn months.

Adrian found himself solitary, in a silent wilderness, save for the

murmur of the pines, the plunge and hush of the waves, and harsh

laughter of the strong-winged gulls. From where he stood, looking

inland, the surface of the vast, somber amphitheater of blue-black fir

forest, variegated here and there by the purple-brown of a grove of

bare, deciduous trees, or the pallor of a snow-dusted space of

tussock-grass and heather, was unbroken by house-roof or other sign of

human habitation. Looking seaward no shipping was visible. To Adrian

the scene appeared arrestingly northern in character, the spirit of it

questioning, introspective, coldly complex, yet primitive and elfin,

reminding him of Grieg's Occasional Music to the haunting parable-poem

of Peer Gynt. Then, as he paced the harder sand to the seaward side of

the tide-mark, the chill breeze pushing against him and the keen smell

of the brine in his nostrils, his thought carried back vividly to his

conversation of last night with Andrew Merriman.

For, now that he came to think of it, might not Joanna, the main

subject of that conversation, in all her feminine leanness and

overstrained mentality, have stepped straight out of one of those plays

of Ibsen's which, heretofore, had so perplexed him by their distance

from any moral and racial conditions with which he was familiar?

Northern, joyless, uncertain in faith, burdened by scruples, prey to a

misplaced intellectualism, yet clear-headed and able in practical

matters, could not her prototype be found again and again in the

Norwegian playwright's penetrating and disheartening pages? And, if it

came to that, in the relentless common-sense of the big Yorkshireman's

cruelly sagacious estimate of his own attitude toward her was there not

an Ibsenish element, too? For that Andrew Merriman was, himself, "the

man" of whom he had spoken, Adrian entertained no doubt.

So he paced the sand, absorbed in analysis and in apprehension, while

ripples of spent waves slipped, in foam-outlined curves, near and

nearer to his feet. It seemed to him he touched something new here in

human tendencies and human development; something which, in the coming

social order, might very widely obtain, especially among Protestant

English-speaking peoples.--A democratic, scientific, unsparing

self-knowledge, physical and mental, on the one hand, and a narrow,

sectarian, self-sufficiency, on the other; a morbidly cold-blooded

acknowledgment of fact and application of means to ends, in which

neither poetry nor religion had any determining part. The artist in

him protested hotly. For really a world so ordered did not look

enticing in the very least!

Then, his thought fixing itself again exclusively on Joanna, played

around the everlastingly baffling problem of woman's mind, woman's

outlook, in itself, divorced from her relation to man. It was not the

first time his imagination had been held up by this problem, nor was he

conceited enough to suppose it would be the last. Woman in her

relation to man was a stale enough, obvious enough, story. But in her

relation to her fellow-woman, in her relation to herself--had not this

tripped even the cleverest novelists and dramatists of his own sex?

Wasn't it, after all, easier for a woman rightly to imagine the life a

man lives among men, than for a man to conceive woman's life with his

own great self left out of it? He feared so, though the admission was

far from flattering to masculine perspicacity. He resented his own

inability to negotiate those moral and emotional lines of cleavage

which do, so very actually, divide the sexes. To think, for example,

that Joanna Smyrthwaite and Gabrielle St. Leger--their radical

differences of circumstances, endowment, and experience

notwithstanding--were still essentially nearer to each other, more

capable of mutual sympathy and understanding in the deep places of

their nature, than he, with all his acute sensibility and dramatic

insight, could ever be to either of them!

But there the young man stopped and fairly laughed outright. For to

class Gabrielle St. Leger, the devoutly worshiped and desired, and poor

Joanna Smyrthwaite together, even in passing, was a little too

outrageously far-fetched. Here, indeed, the study of psychology ran

frankly and, in a sense, almost profanely mad.

He looked away, through the shifting cloud of screaming gulls, over the

steel-blue levels of the Channel toward far-distant France, and a

strong nostalgia took him for the delightful, quick-witted land of his

birth. It seemed a thousand years since he left Paris. What were they

all doing over there, the dear people whose friendship spelled for him

more than half the joy of living? Save for one brief note, in the

response to the announcement of his arrival, Madame St. Leger had given

no sign. And he, in face of his last interview with her, wanted to

know--wanted so very badly to know. He wanted to look at her. He

wanted to hear her voice.--Whereupon he turned positively vindictive.

Oh! most consoling doctrine of purgatory!--Might Montagu Smyrthwaite

very thoroughly suffer the depleting pains of it as punishment for this

fiendishly tiresome legacy of an executorship! Why couldn't he have

left Adrian free to pursue his delicious love campaign, and appointed

somebody else--the unpleasant, heavy-weight Challoner, say, or the

worldly, feather-weight Haig? Either of them would have reveled in the

brief authority it conferred, while to him it constituted an

intolerable waste of time. He was sick to death, interesting racial

and psychological researches notwithstanding, sick to death of the

whole _corvée_.

And then he skipped aside with quite undignified haste, for an incoming

wave threatened his long-toed French boots with total immersion.

CHAPTER VIII

A MODERN ANTIGONE

His retina still holding that northern elfin landscape and seascape,

his ears the voices of the forest and of the wildly yelping gulls, his

mind still working on the thought of that new moral and social order

now coming into being, his heart and his manhood crying out for the

woman he loved, Adrian--the keen freshness of the winter morning

pouring in through the open door along with him--entered the hall of

the Tower House. And down the broad staircase, over the thick,

sound-muffling carpet, the wan light streaming in through the blurred,

leaded glass of the great staircase windows falling upon her meager,

flat-bosomed, crape-clad figure, yellowish-auburn hair and strained,

anxious countenance, came the other woman, the Ibsen woman, concerning

whose nature and attributes he had just indulged in so much analytic

speculation.

Joanna held up the front of her crape dress. Her feet showed as she

stepped down the shallow treads. And Adrian, standing below, looking

up at her, hat in hand, saw--though he didn't in the least want to

see--that she wore black velvet slippers with square toes and no heels

to them, and that both her feet and hands, though comparatively small,

were lacking in individuality and in that sharpness of outline which is

the mark of fineness of breeding. They might have been just anybody's

hands and feet; and so--he felt amusedly ashamed of himself for

admitting it--they were exactly the hands and feet one would expect

Joanna Smyrthwaite to possess.

Taking himself to task for this involuntary cruelty of observation, his

manner the more persuasive and gallant because he felt himself to

blame, the young man advanced through the dull reds and browns of the

spacious hall to the foot of the staircase.

"Ah! you are here! Good-morning, _chère cousine_," he said. "I rose

early and have already been out walking in your great woods and down on

the shore. It is all a poem of the first days of creation, before man

intruded his perplexing presence upon the earth. I felt quite

rampantly decadent in this overcivilized twentieth-century costume,

under obligation to offer the humblest apologies to the hairy mammoths

and pterodactyls, which, at every turn of the road, I instinctively

braced my courage to meet. But really it is rather wonderful how 'the

desert and the sown' jostle one another here in England. The contrasts

are so unexpected, so violent, so complete!"

Adrian talked on rather at random, smiling, his head thrown back, the

expression of his handsome face gay yet subtlely apologetic; the

general effect of him pleasantly healthy, self-secure, finished, and on

excellently good terms both with fortune and with himself. And Joanna,

looking down at him, faltered, stopped in her descent, let slip the

folds of her crape skirt, while she laid one hand hurriedly upon the

baluster-rail and pressed the other nervously against her left side

over her heart.

"I am afraid," she said, "you get up and go out so early on our

account--I mean so that you may devote all the rest of the day to us."

"Oh no," Adrian returned, still smiling. "It is an old habit, one of

my very few good habits, that of early rising. You see, I am quite a

busy man in my own small way, what with my Review, my friends, my

literary work--"

"I realize that, and so I am very much distressed at the demands which

we are making upon your valuable time. I cannot justify or excuse it

to myself. I do not think it was proper that papa should have

appointed you as my coexecutor without consulting you and asking your

permission first."

She spoke with a suppressed violence of feeling which caused Adrian to

gulp down his complete agreement in these sentiments, and reply in

soothing tones:

"But, dear cousin, surely at this time of day it is superfluous to vex

yourself about that! Believe me, you are too scrupulous, too

considerate. I assure you, as I have so often assured you before, that

I am touched by the confidence your father showed me in thus

temporarily intrusting not only his affairs, but yourself and your

sister, to my care. My sole desire is worthily to fulfil that trust.

To do so constitutes, in as far as my time is concerned, an

all-sufficient reward. And then, after all," he added, gaily, "ten

days, a fortnight even, should I have to go north to Leeds for a brief

visit, will see all imperative business through and so put a term to

our joint labors."

There he paused, looking discreetly aside as he unbuttoned his

overcoat, since he was aware that the gladness of coming freedom might

declare itself with unflattering distinctness. For in imagination he

sprinted once again, three steps at a time, up the three flights of

stairs to the top story of the tall, gray house overlooking the _Quai

Malaquais_, while high expectation, at once delicious and disturbing,

circulated through every fiber of his being. How adorable it would

be--how richly, poignantly enchanting! But just then, though by no

means easily open to hypnotic or mesmeric influences, he became

conscious that Joanna Smyrthwaite's eyes--those tenacious, prominent,

faded-blue eyes, with red-rimmed lids to them, which, to his seeing, so

perpetually gave away the inward tempest of feeling to which the

compressed lips refused utterance--were fixed upon him with an

extraordinary intensity of questioning scrutiny. For a moment the

young man felt frankly embarrassed, uncertain how to comport himself.

For he had no answer whatever to give to that questioning scrutiny. He

suddenly grew wary, fearing demand might create supply--of a fraudulent

sort--courtesy betraying him into return glances dishonestly

sympathetic in character. But, to his relief, the sound of an opening

door, followed by that of two chattering feminine voices--high-pitched,

unmusical in tone, one indeed peevish and complaining--coming from the

gallery above created a diversion. He felt, rather than saw, Joanna

Smyrthwaite start and look impatiently upward. Thus the awkward minute

passed, resolving itself; and the situation--if the little episode

deserved so high-sounding a title--was saved. Adrian backed away and

slipped off his overcoat, doubling it together across his arm.

Joanna, her expression and manner agitated, descending the remaining

treads of the staircase hastily, followed and stood close by him.

"That is Margaret," she said, in a hurried undertone. "Marion Chase is

with her as usual. And Mr. Challoner comes here at half-past eleven.

It was his own proposition. I had a note from him early this morning.

I should have been glad to put aside legal business just for to-day,

but Margaret expressed unwillingness that I should refuse to receive

him. There is something I feel I must explain to you, Cousin Adrian,

before I see him. But I cannot speak of it before Margaret, still less

before Marion Chase. Would it trouble you too much to come into the

library with me? We should be alone. Margaret would hardly attempt to

bring Marion in there, I should think."

The young man assented readily, though the invitation was not very much

to his taste. Of all the rooms in this finely proportioned yet gloomy

house, that distinctly masculine apartment, the library aforesaid, was,

to his thinking, the most depressing. Facing north and east, its

windows were darkened by the rough corrugated trunks and scraggy lower

branches of a grove of Weymouth pines, spared when the rest of the site

had been cleared for building. These, at close quarters and when old,

are doleful trees, lifeless and unchanging in aspect, telling of sour

soil and barren, unprofitable spaces. Two sides of the room were

lined, to within a couple of feet of the ceiling, with mahogany

bookcases, the contents of which, in Adrian's opinion, only too

thoroughly harmonized in spirit with the doleful grove outside. They

consisted of ranges of well-bound volumes upon such juiceless subjects

as commercial and municipal law, ethics of citizenship and political

economy, together with an extensive collection of pamphlets embodying

the controversies of the last fifty years--social, political,

ecclesiastical, and religious--neatly indexed and bound. Not only did

the complete works of Adam Smith, David Hume, Dugald Stewart, and the

two Mills--elder and younger--decorate the shelves; but portrait prints

of these authors, along with those of certain liberal statesmen and

Nonconformist divines, solidly framed and glazed, decorated the

remaining wall spaces. The carpet and curtains were of a dull brown,

patterned in dusky blues and greens. A writing-table of huge

dimensions, fitted with many drawers; dark leather-covered chairs,

various mechanical devices in the form of reading-desks and leg-rests,

and an elaborate adjustable invalid couch constituted the other

appointments of the room.

Following Joanna's crape-clad figure into this severely educational

sanctuary, Adrian could not but think of the long joyless hours she

must have spent there reading to or writing for that imperious old

gentleman, the late lamented Montagu. And this thought softened his

attitude toward her, reawakening sentiments of chivalrous pity. For,

though rich, highly educated, and clever, had not she, poor girl, every

bit as much as her cautious, halting lover, been denied the very barest

fighting chance?

"You are tired, _chère cousine_," he said, consolingly. "Is it any

wonder after the painful fatigues of yesterday? See, I place this

chair comfortably near the fire for you. Sit down, and, while resting,

tell me at your leisure what it is that you wish to explain."

And Joanna not only sat down obediently, but, rather to his

consternation, bowed her lean person together and pressed a fine,

black-bordered pocket-handkerchief--insisted upon by the stylish young

person from Grays' as a necessary part of her mourning

equipment--against her faded eyes and wept. Ah! poor thing! poor

thing! she was a pitiful spectacle, a pitiful creature, inciting all

the young man's goodness of heart, sense of personal success, delight

in living, physical soundness and well-being, to claim sympathy and

forbearance toward her!

"Yes, yes," he declared, almost tenderly. "I comprehend and associate

myself with your grief. The trial has been so prolonged. You cannot

expect to throw off painful impressions and adjust yourself to new

conditions immediately. But that adjustment will come, dear cousin,

believe me. It is merely a question of time, for you are young, and in

youth our recuperative power is immense. So do not fight against your

tears. If they relieve you, shed them freely."

For a while Joanna remained bowed together, then she threw herself back

in her chair almost convulsively.

"You must not be too kind to me," she cried. "I enjoy it, but it

encourages my want of self-control."

"Don't you good English people set an exaggerated value upon

self-control, perhaps?" Adrian asked, gently, argumentatively. "Why

waste so much energy in the effort to maintain an appearance of Red

Indian stoicism and impassivity? Why fear to be human? Sensibility is

a grace rather than a fault, especially in a woman--"

He moved away and stood by one of the eastern windows looking out into

the pine grove. A draught of air, round the corner of the house, shook

the stiff branches. He felt sorry for her, quite horribly sorry. But,

just Heaven, how plain she was, with that tear-blotched face and those

quivering lips and nostrils! Andrew Merriman's appraisement of her

appearance and the consequences entailed by it in respect of a possible

suitor were not overstated. Adrian waited, giving not only her, but

himself, time to recover, and, approaching her again, did so smiling.

"Ah! that is well, dear cousin," he said. "Already you feel better,

you regain your serenity. Well then, let us talk quietly about this

matter which you wish to explain to me."

"It was about our wills--Margaret's and mine, I mean; about the

disposition of our property." As she spoke she clenched her right

hand, working it against the palm of her left, like a ball working in a

socket. "Mr. Challoner has mentioned this subject to Margaret,

impressing upon her that we ought to attend to it without delay."

"Our good Challoner is a little disposed to magnify his office," Adrian

put in, lightly.

"So I have thought--sometimes," Joanna agreed, a trace of eagerness in

her flat, colorless voice, produced--as always--from the top of an

empty lung. "But he has great influence over Margaret. I do not want

to be unjust, but I think the ideas he suggests to her are not always

suitable. They tend to create difficulties between us. From what

Margaret tells me I gather that he has discussed this subject very

freely with her. She refers to it and quotes him continually when we

are alone. I gather that he thinks I ought to make a will exclusively

in Margaret's favor, so that in the event of my death the estate may

pass to papa's direct descendants. He tells Margaret, as I gather,

that papa wished this although he left no written instructions

regarding it. And he--he--Mr. Challoner, I mean--appears to take for

granted that while Margaret will almost certainly marry now, it is

improbable I shall ever marry."

"But," Adrian cried, indignantly, though against his convictions and

his better judgment, "in even hinting at such a thing Challoner is

guilty of a very great impertinence! He takes for granted that which

is no concern of his, and takes it for granted altogether prematurely,

thereby laying himself open to a well-deserved and very extensive

snubbing."

Joanna's breath caught in her throat. Again the young man felt her

eyes fix on him with an extraordinary intensity of gaze.

"Cousin Adrian," she said, hurriedly, "has any one ever told you--do

you know--I think you ought to know--about our brother William--about

Bibby?"

This time Adrian met her gaze steadily. He felt it imperative to do

so. To his relief, after a momentary fluttering, the red-rimmed

eyelids were lowered.

"I have heard a little about him, poor boy," he answered, gently and

respectfully. "I have heard that he caused those who loved him anxiety

and trouble."

"And humiliation and disgrace," Joanna whispered.

"But what would you have, dear cousin? It must be so at times. Life

is a tremendous, a dangerous, though, in my opinion, a very splendid

experiment. We all start as amateurs, in ignorance of the laws which

govern it. Is it not, therefore, inevitable that some should get off

the true lines, and make mistakes injurious to themselves and

lamentable to others?"

"But papa did not permit mistakes. He never forgave them."

"Pardon me, but in not forgiving them did he not himself, perhaps,

commit the very gravest of all mistakes?" Adrian could not resist

asking, though he feared the question trenched on levity.

"I wish I could believe that." She spoke bitterly. "It would simplify

so much for me. I should be so thankful to believe it. It would help

to excuse Bibby. I know he was weak in character; but he was so

nervous and delicate as a child. Papa alarmed him. He demanded too

much of him, and was stern and sarcastic because Bibby could not meet

that demand. My brother did not go to a preparatory school, but at

thirteen he was sent to Rugby. It was papa's old school, and he

believed the traditions and atmosphere of it were calculated to induce

the serious sense of moral and intellectual responsibility in which he

thought Bibby deficient."

"Poor child!" Adrian murmured.

"Yes," she said; "I am thankful you understand and pity him. I know

papa's purpose was Bibby's good, the improvement and development of his

character; but the treatment was too severe. It did not brace him, but

only broke his spirit. He was unaccustomed to associate with other

boys. They frightened and bullied him. He was so miserable that at

the beginning of his second term he ran away."

She waited a moment, struggling against rising emotion, her hands

working again ball-and-socket fashion.

"It was all very dreadful. For nearly a week he was lost. We knew he

could have very little money, for his allowance was small. Papa held

economy to be a duty for the young. I think, next to mamma, I suffered

most, for I always loved Bibby best--better than I did Margaret. I

shall never forget that week. I suppose papa suffered, too, in his own

way. He was very silent, and looked angry. Andrew Merriman traced

Bibby to London and brought him home. Mamma pleaded to keep him for a

time, but he was sent straight back to school. About six months later

papa received a request to remove him. He was accused of taking money

from another boy's locker. Nothing was actually proved, but suspicion

clung to him, and as his general conduct was reported unsatisfactory,

the authorities thought it better he should leave. Papa sent him

abroad to a private school at Lausanne. He remained there three years,

until he was seventeen. Papa refused to let him spend the holidays at

home, so during the whole of that time we only saw him twice, when we

were traveling."

The monotonous, colorless voice, the monotonous story of well-meaning,

cold-blooded tyranny it narrated, got upon the listener's nerves. With

difficulty he restrained explosive comment reflecting far from politely

upon the so recently buried dead. He really could not sit still under

the indignation it provoked in him. He got up, moved away and stood

leaning his shoulder against the dark, polished woodwork of the eastern

window, his back to the light. He thought it well the narrator should

not see his expression too clearly.

"It is almost inconceivable," he said.

"I am not exaggerating, Cousin Adrian," Joanna returned, straining her

eyes in the effort to fix them upon his face. "All these events in

their consecutive order are stamped indelibly upon my memory."

"I am convinced you are not exaggerating, my dear cousin, and just on

that very account it is the more inconceivable," Adrian declared.

"But in your present relation to us--to me--I feel you ought to know

all about poor Bibby, all about our--my--family history. My duty is to

place the facts before you. I should be guilty of great

self-indulgence if I concealed anything from you in that connection,"

Joanna protested, with growing agitation. "I should do very wrong if,

to spare myself pain, I deceived you."

And again that sensation of embarrassment, of uncertainty how to

comport himself, returned upon Adrian.

"But, dear cousin," he said, in a mildly argumentative manner, "don't

you emphasize the obligation of truth-telling unnecessarily? I am here

to be of help to you, to shield you, in so far as possible, from that

which is distressing. In thus reviving painful memories do you not

defeat the very object of my presence?"

"Oh no, no," Joanna cried. "Surely you realize how bitterly I might

have cause to upbraid myself--later--if I now left anything untold

which it was right you should have heard? It is incumbent upon me, a

matter of--of honor, to be perfectly explicit."

Adrian raised his eyebrows the least bit. How providential he stood

with his back to the light! He passed his left hand down over his neat

black beard, and his lips parted silently. Poor, dear young woman,

what in the name of wonder did--And then he came near laughing. The

idea was too preposterous, and, worse still--shame filled him at even

momentary entertainment of it--too fatuous! He gave it unqualified

dismissal.

"No," she repeated, with a veiled and somber violence, "I should do

very wrong by permitting you to remain in ignorance. I should deserve

any after suffering which might come to me. For I have a duty to

fulfil to Bibby as well--that is what I wanted to explain to you before

giving instructions to Mr. Challoner about drafting my will. Some day

my duty to Bibby may appear to clash with another duty; and therefore

it is necessary you should know clearly beforehand."

Joanna flung herself back in her chair.

"Whatever it may cost me now or--or--in the future, I must tell you the

rest, Adrian."

More mystified than ever, startled by the use of his Christian name

without any qualifying prefix, at once affected and repelled by her

excitement, the young man moved from his station at the window and

stood near her, leaning his hands upon the head of the ungainly

adjustable, couch.

"Pray tell me any and everything which may help to procure you relief,"

he said, kindly.

And Joanna, lying back, looked up at him, an immense appeal, a

something desperate and unsatiable in her faded blue eyes, which made

him consciously shrink. The Ibsen woman--the Ibsen woman in another

manifestation!--It was not pleasant. He didn't like it in the very

least.--Then, as if at the touch of a spring, she sat bolt upright,

looking past him out of the window at the dark, wind-shaken branches of

the pines.

"When my brother returned from Lausanne," she began again in that

colorless, monotonous voice, "he was put into Andrew Merriman's office

at the mills. Mamma and I were glad at first. We trusted Andrew

Merriman. He had always been tactful and kind about Bibby. But papa

decided he--my brother--should live at home so that he might exert a

direct personal authority over him. And the two had nothing, nothing

in common. You can judge from the contents of this library what papa's

tastes and pursuits were. My brother did not care anything about

politics, or social reform, or that class of subject. He was

pleasure-loving, and I do not think his long stay abroad improved him

in that respect. Papa supposed the discipline at M. Leonard's school

to be rigid. Among the elder boys I have reason to fear it was

decidedly lax."

Adrian made a slight movement of comprehension. He could picture the

_régime_, and could well imagine the nice little games these exiled

young gentlemen had been at!

"Papa was stern; Bibby inattentive, sullen, and nervous. At dinner

we--mamma and I--used constantly to be in dread of collisions. We were

in perpetual anxiety as to what Bibby might inadvertently say, or not

say, which might provoke papa's sarcasm. Then mamma's health began to

give way. We went to Torquay for the winter, taking the servants, and

Highdene was shut up. Bibby went into lodgings near to Andrew

Merriman, in the suburb of Leeds, in which the mills are situated.

Papa wishing to train him in habits of economy, only allowed him the

salary of a junior clerk. But every one there knew we were rich, so

the tradespeople were only too ready to give Bibby credit, while

unscrupulous persons borrowed of him. He was naturally generous, and

easily imposed upon, and he enjoyed the society of those who flattered

and made much of him. It was said he frequented low company, that he

gambled at cards and got intoxicated. I I do not know how far this was

true, but he did get deeply into debt. More than once Andrew Merriman

helped him, but he could not afford to be responsible for Bibby's

continued extravagance. And then--then--my brother manipulated certain

accounts and embezzled a large sum of money. Andrew Merriman

discovered this. He tried to shield him, and interceded with papa for

him--"

The speaker broke off, pausing for breath, bending down as though

crushed by the weight of her recollections.

"It was very, very dreadful," she said. "Papa paid my brother's debts,

but he forbade him all intercourse with us. He cut Bibby out of our

family life, as a surgeon might cut out some malignant growth. He

regarded him thus, I think--indeed, he said so once--as a diseased part

the excision of which was imperative if the moral health of the family

was to be preserved. He gave Andrew Merriman a capital sum, which was

to be remitted to Bibby in small quarterly instalments. When that sum

was exhausted he was to receive nothing further. We never saw him

again. Papa bought this house, and we moved here. He would not remain

at Highdene. The scandal had been too great. He could not forgive,

nor could he endure pity. He made the business into a company, and

retired. Mamma had become a complete invalid. The doctors thought

this climate might benefit her; and then this place is far away from

our former friends and associations. We knew no one here."

Joanna raised herself, looking, not at Adrian Savage, but past him, out

at the dusky pines. She wiped her lips with her black-bordered

handkerchief.

"That is all, Cousin Adrian," she said.

But, when the young man would have spoken she held up one hand

restrainingly, and he saw that she shivered.

"Except--except this," she went on. "Papa ordered that Bibby should be

considered as dead. Later Andrew ceased to hear from him, and rumors

came that he was actually dead--that he had died at Buenos Ayres, where

he had gone as a member of some theatrical troupe. But mamma and I

never credited those rumors. Nor did Andrew Merriman. He does not

credit them now."

She turned her head, looking full at Adrian with that same desperation

of appeal.

"I asked him yesterday," she said. "It was dreadful to speak to him on

the subject, but I felt it my duty to do so. I felt I ought to know

where I stood in regard to my fortune, because--because of the future.

Andrew believes my brother is still alive. And that is why I must

refuse to make a will in Margaret's favor. If, as you say, papa made

the gravest of all mistakes in never pardoning mistakes, clearly my

duty to his memory is to redress the mistake he made in the case of my

brother in as far as it is possible for me to do so. Margaret will

have ample means of her own. I cannot be ruled by Mr. Challoner's

opinion."

Joanna rose and walked over to the window, standing exactly where

Adrian had stood some ten minutes before. There seemed a definite

purpose in her selection of the exact spot, both in the placing of her

feet and the leaning of her shoulder against the window-frame. Her

back was to the light. Adrian could not see the expression of her face

distinctly. He was glad of this. He did not want to see it, for again

he was conscious of shrinking from her.

"After all, Mr. Challoner may be wrong--as you yourself just now said,

Cousin Adrian--in taking for granted I shall never marry. I may marry.

But, whatever happens, I shall not leave any part of my fortune to

Margaret. I shall leave two-thirds of it to Bibby, and the rest--"

Smallbridge threw open the library door.

"Mr. Challoner, ma'am," he said; and the Stourmouth solicitor, his

Mongolian countenance quite strikingly devoid of all expression,

ponderously entered the room.

II

THE DRAWINGS UPON THE WALL

CHAPTER I

A WASTER

It was still cold, but the skies were clear. The snow had been carted

away and Paris was herself again; the note of her exhilarating,

seductive, vibrant--a note at once curiously fiercer and more feminine

than that of London.

René Dax, crossing the _Place du Carrousel_, stood for a moment

listening to that vibrant note, sensible of its charm and challenge;

looking westward, meanwhile, across the Tuileries Gardens and _Place de

la Concorde_ to the ascending perspective of the _Champs-Élysées_. The

superb _ensemble_ and detail of the scene, softened by lavender mist at

the ground levels, was crowned by the blood-red and gold of a

wide-flung frosty sunset--a city of fire, as the young man told

himself, built on foundations of dreams!

He had just come away from the press view of a one-man show of his own

drawings. The rooms were crowded to suffocation. The success of the

exhibition was already assured, promising to be prodigious, to amount

to a veritable sensation. He was aware of this, yet his mood remained

an unhappy one. As usual the critics showed themselves a herd of

imbeciles. They praised the wrong things, or, more exasperating still,

praising the right ones praised them wrongly, extolling their weak

points rather than their fine ones, misinterpreting their message and

inner meaning. Had Adrian Savage been there--unluckily he was still in

England--some sense might have been spoken. Adrian was an austere

critic, but always an intelligent and discriminating one. As for the

rest of the confraternity--René gazed mournfully at the flaming sunset

splendor--they got upon his nerves, they nauseated him.

And it all went deeper than that. For those many square yards of wall,

plastered with his mordant verdict upon the human species, got upon his

nerves, too, and nauseated him. He recoiled, as he had often recoiled

before--taking it thus wholesale--from his own merciless exposure of

the follies, vulgarities, the mental and physical deformities and

distortions of his fellow-creatures; recoiled from the reek of his own

Rabelaisian humor, of his own extravagant ribaldry and ingenious

grossness. It was his vocation, as that of other and more famous

satirists, to wreak a vindictive vengeance thus upon humanity. Only,

in his care, reaction invariably followed. The devil of unsanctified

laughter for the time satiated and cast out of him, he wandered--as

this evening--a very sad and plaintive little being, firmly

resolving--as how often before!--once and for all to throw away his

rather horrible pencil, and betake himself exclusively to the

construction of those delicate lyrics and rondels from which, whatever

minor perversions of sentiment they might exhibit, the witty bestiality

common to his caricatures was conspicuously absent.

He wanted to forget the hot, close rooms, packed with admirers, male,

and, though happily in a minority, female also. By René Dax that

minority was held in particularly small respect. The woman who

relished, or affected to relish, his art ought to be ashamed of

herself--such at least was his opinion. His art was meant for men, not

for women; and the women who couldn't arrive at that conclusion by

instinct, unaided, were women for whom, especially in his existing

mood, he had no use whatever, didn't want in the very least. That

which he did want, under the head of things feminine, was something

conspicuously different--a far-removed, stately, inaccessible type of

womanhood. And, still more, he wanted the child who should grow into

such womanhood--a tender, elusive, sprite-like, spotlessly innocent and

unsoiled creature, to whom moral and physical ugliness were equally

unknown and equally, saving the paradox, abhorrent.

Well, were not the tall, old-fashioned houses of the _Quai Malaquais_

across the river there just opposite, and was it not still early enough

to pay a visit? But then, as he rather fretfully remembered, Madame

St. Leger had been pertinaciously invisible of late. He had called

several times, only to be told she was not receiving or that she was

out. He had never succeeded in seeing her and little Bette; never, now

that he came to think of it, since the day of the great snow, the day

when Adrian, whose absence he had just been deploring, left for England.

The bringing of these two facts into any relation of cause and effect

had not previously occurred to him. It did not do so seriously even

now. Yet unquestionably the names of Madame St. Leger and Adrian

Savage took up a position side by side in his mind, thereby subtly

coloring his reflections. He had no friend upon whom he depended and

who, in his capricious exacting fashion, he loved as he did Adrian.

The friendship had remained practically unbroken since the time when

Adrian, the healthier, happier-natured boy, protected him, the queer

little Tadpole, from tormentors at school. This friendship had been

among the wholesomest influences of his life, and, amid many

aberrations and perversities of thought and conduct, he clung to it.

But it followed on his self-absorption and selfishness, natural and

assumed, that his friend's interests and concerns, save in so far as

they bore direct relation to his own, were a matter of indifference to

him. He had never troubled himself as to the possible state or

direction of Adrian's affections, and perhaps consequently, this sudden

juxtaposition of names came to him as a surprise, and an irritating one.

Slipping in and out between private cars, taxis, and humbler,

horse-drawn vehicles, he crossed the roadway to the _Pont des Saints

Pères_. The sunset glories faded, while avenues of living white and

glow-worm green lights sprang into being. Still, here and there, red

splashes, as of blood, stained the livid, swirling surface of the

Seine, which, in half flood, fed by the melted snow, hissed and gurgled

under the arches and against the masonry of the bridge.

As it happened, just then, a lull occurred in the cross-river traffic,

a break in the quick-moving throng of foot-passengers, so that in front

of René Dax the pale arc of the right-hand pavement showed empty in the

whole of its length, save for a single tall, slouching, shabby figure,

clothed in a blue-serge suit unmistakably English in cut and in

pattern. As René advanced, his mind still working around those two

names set in such irritating juxtaposition, he saw the man in the

English-made suit first glance sharply to right and left, then bend

down, grasping the outer edge of the parapet, while slowly and, as it

seemed, furtively, drawing one knee up on to the flat of the coping.

--Was it possible that Madame St. Leger's repeated refusals to receive

him were other than accidental? Was it possible they had some

connection with Adrian's absence? Was it conceivable his friend had

turned traitor, had interfered, saying or hinting at that which might,

socially, justify such denial of admission? Suspicion, resentment,

self-pity, a lively sense of personal injury invaded him.--

The shabby, slouching loafer's right knee was fairly upon the coping

now. He threw up both arms, threw back his head, his mouth opened wide

as one letting loose a great cry. René Dax saw his extended arms, his

bare head, his profile with that wide-open mouth, dark against a pale

background of buildings and cold, translucent sky. The effect was of

the strangest, the more so that no sound came from the apparently

loud-crying mouth. Suddenly his chin dropped on his breast. His hands

were lowered, clutching at the edge of the parapet again, and he

remained thus for a few seconds, immobile, crouched together, his left

foot, in a well-cut but bulging hole-riddled boot, still resting upon

the pavement.

Then in a flash, awakening from contemplation of his own lately

discovered woes, René realized what was about to occur. His height and

reach were insufficient, encumbered as he was, moreover, by a thick

fur-lined overcoat, for him to get his arms round the crouching figure.

So he just clutched whatever came handiest, the back of the fellow's

jacket, the slack of the seat of his trousers. Exerting all his

strength, René hauled and jerked at these well-worn garments. The

attack, though neither very forcible nor very scientific, was

completely unexpected. The man's grip relaxed. His knee slipped and

he fell back, an amorphous indigo and sandy-red heap, upon the pallid

asphalt.

René pulled a scented pocket-handkerchief out of the breast-pocket of

his coat and proceeded delicately to wipe the fingers and palms of his

gray _suède_ gloves. He was unaccustomed to such exertion. His heart

thumped against his ribs. His sight was blurred. He felt slightly

faint and light-headed and was grateful for the cold back-draught of

air off the rapidly flowing river. It was his pride, part of his pose,

in fact, never to display emotion; and he now found himself excited and

shaken, by no means fully self-possessed. He needed a space of quiet

in which to regain his accustomed affectations of bearing and manner.

He was aware, too, that those shabby garments were decidedly unpleasant

to touch. Therefore he stood still, breathing rather hard through his

nostrils, and daintily wiping the neat, little gray suede gloves

incasing his quick, clever little fingers.

"I must express regret for my violence," he said, with the utmost

civility, to the heap on the pavement, as soon as he judged his voice

sufficiently steady for speech. "I must apologize to you for such

absence of ceremony, but really, my dear sir, it appeared to me no time

should be lost. You had, unconsciously of course, placed yourself in a

highly ridiculous position from which it was clearly incumbent upon me,

as an amiable and sympathetic person, immediately to remove you. At

times one is compelled to act with decision rather than politeness.

This was a case in point. Doubtless you are at present annoyed with

me. But a few moments' reflection will, I feel sure, commend my action

to you. You will recognize how right, even to the point of an apparent

sacrifice of personal dignity, I was."

The man by now had got upon all fours, looking like some unsightly,

shambling animal. Limply he rose to his feet and, supporting himself

against the balustrade, turned upon his savior a dissipated boyish

countenance, down which tears dribbled miserably.

"Why the devil couldn't you leave me alone?" he asked, petulantly, in

English. "What earthly concern is it of yours? Aren't I my own

master?"

His voice rose to a wail.

"I've been trying to--to do it all day, but there have been too many

people about. They stared at me. They suspected and followed me. I

could not dodge them. Now I thought the opportunity had come. I was

rid of them at last. I never saw you, curse you, you're so short.

After all, one doesn't think of looking on the ground, except for

vermin. And I'd just pulled myself together. I mayn't have the nerve

to try again. I've lost my chance," he wailed, childishly, his weak,

loose-lipped mouth twisted by the wretchedness of crying. "I've lost

my chance through you, you beast. And you've torn my coat, too. It's

the only one I have left; and I did want to look decent, when they

found me, when I was dead."

He flung away passionately, pressing his face down on his folded arms

upon the parapet, while his angular shoulders heaved and his body

shuddered under the ragged blue-serge jacket.

"I shall not have the pluck again. I know myself, and I sha'n't have

it. By now I should have been out of the whole accursed tangle. The

whole show would have been over--over--I should know nothing more. I

should be quit of my misery. I should be dead--ah! my God,

dead--dead--"

But René Dax continued to wipe his neat, little gray _suède_ gloves.

For his mood had changed. The taunt regarding his smallness of stature

had turned him wicked, so that the exquisite minor poet, yearning for

the companionship of things pure, lovely, and of good report, fled

away. The injured friend fled away likewise. And the satirist, the

caricaturist, impure and unsimple, greedy of human ugliness and

degradation, malignant, mercilessly scoffing, reigned in their stead.

And here, in this loose-limbed, blue-eyed, tawny-headed foreign

youth--whose voice and speech, coarseness of expression

notwithstanding, witnessed to education and gentle blood--vainly

essaying to drown himself under the dying sunset skies of the city of

fire built on foundations of dreams, was a subject, surely made to the

satirist's hand, a subject of great price! The despotism of his art

came upon René Dax, that necessity for vengeance upon humanity; and

this time, for him, the edge of vengeance was sharpened by personal

insult. For this was no common vagabond wastrel, thrown up from the

foul underlying dregs of the population, but a person of condition,

once his social equal, whose insolence therefore touched his honor as

that of a man of the people could not.

"You are offensive, my young friend," he said, in careful, slightly

over-pronounced, but fluent English. "You are also remarkably

unattractive and wanting in intelligence. But I, being happily none of

these things--offensive, I would say, unattractive or wanting in

intelligence--can afford to be magnanimous. Learn, then, that had I

not intervened--at much inconvenience to myself--to prevent your

projecting your unsavory carcass into the river, but permitted you to

carry out your thrice-idiotic purpose, it would not, as you say, have

been all over by now and you quit of your misery, not one bit of it!

Were you less crude in idea, less bestially ignorant, you would be

aware that the principle of life is indestructible. Choking and

struggling in the black water there you would have suffered abominable

discomfort. But, even when the process of asphyxiation was complete,

you yourself would have been still alive, still conscious, and would

have discovered, to your infinite chagrin, that you had merely

exchanged one state of being for an other and more odious one."

René rested his elbows upon the top of the balustrade, and, putting his

little, tired baby face close, spoke with incisive clearness of

enunciation into the young man's ear.

"Be under no delusion," he said. "Once alive, always alive. There is

no breaking out of that prison. It is too cleverly constructed. You

cannot get away. Your sentence is for life; and there is no term to

living--none, absolutely none, forever and forever. You might have

killed your present very unpleasing body, I grant, but this would not

have advanced matters. For your essential self, the Me, the ego, would

have remained and would have been compelled by incalculable and

indomitable natural forces to surround itself with another body, in

which to endure the shame of birth, the agonizing sorrows of childhood,

and all that which, from childhood, has rendered existence intolerable

to you, over again. Or you might, very probably, have come to rebirth

lower down in the scale of creation--as a beetle to be crushed under

foot, a dog to be pinned out on the vivisector's table, a lamb to be

flayed at the abattoir, a worm to writhe on the fisherman's hook, a

formless grub to bloat itself with carrion."

Here the wretched youth raised his head and stared at his

self-constituted mentor. Tearful wretchedness had given place to an

expression of moral terror, almost trenching on insanity--terror of

immeasurable possibilities, of conceptions monstrous and unnatural.

"Who are you, what are you," he cried, "you mincing little devil?

Isn't it all horrible enough already without you trying to scare me? I

hate you. And you haven't been dead. How can you know?"

"Ah! you begin to take notice, to listen. And although you continue

offensive, that you should listen is satisfactory, as it assures me my

amiable attentions and instructive conversation are not altogether

wasted. Learn then, my cherished pupil," René added, in a soft, easy,

small-talk tone, "that you are still in error, since I--I who so

patiently reason with you--have unquestionably been dead scores,

hundreds, probably thousands of times. I have sampled many different

incarnations, just as you, doubtless, under less indigent

circumstances, have sampled dinners at many different restaurants; with

this distinction, however, that whereas, in Paris at all events, you

must have eaten a number of quite passable dinners, I have never yet

experienced an incarnation which was not in the main detestable, a

flagrant outrage on sensibility and good taste. Hence, you see, I do

not speak at random, but from a wide basis of fact. I know all about

it. And, therefore, I just emphasize this point once more. Engrave it

upon the tablets of your memory. It is well worth remembering,

particularly in reckless and exaggerated moments. Life is

indestructible. To end it is merely to begin it under slightly altered

material conditions, with a prelude of acute mental and physical

discomfort thrown in; hideous disappointment, moreover, waiting to

transfix you when your higher faculties are--like mine--sufficiently

developed for you to have acquired the power of looking backward and

visualizing the premutations of your past."

The speaker turned sideways, leaning on one elbow. He took his

handkerchief neatly from his breast-pocket again and held it to his

nose.

"Really, you do need washing rather badly, my young friend!" he said.

"But not down there, not in the but dubiously cleanly waters of our

beloved Seine. A Turkish bath, and a vigorous shampoo afterward, and,

subsequently, a change of linen.--However, that, for the moment, must

wait. To return to our little lesson in practical philosophy.--I have

rescued you from the disaster of premature reincarnation. I have also

striven to improve your mind, to enlighten you, and that at

considerable discomfort to myself, for I find it very cold standing and

instructing you in the fundamental principles of being, here on this

remarkably draughty bridge. I risk double pneumonia in your service.

Be grateful, then, and make suitable acknowledgment of the immense

charity I have shown you."

"You are a devil, and I hate you. Why can't you go away?" the young

man answered in a terrified sulkiness.

"Truly you are mistaken," René returned, imperturbably. "My charity is

too great to permit me to go away until you, my pupil, are provided

for. You have so much which it would be to your advantage to learn! I

am not a devil. No--but I admit that I am, to-day, one of the

most-talked-about persons in Paris. I must therefore entreat you to

adopt a more respectful tone and less accentuated manner. We have

ceased to be alone. Many people are crossing the bridge. Among them

must be those to whom my appearance is familiar; and, if I am remarked

pleading thus with a debauched, would-be suicide, I shall certainly

read in the morning papers that M. René Dax has discovered a new method

of self-advertisement, a catchy puff for his picture-show. This would

be disagreeable to me. My work is big enough to stand on its own

merits. Self-advertisement, in my case, is as superfluous as it is

vulgar. Compose yourself. Cease to be ridiculous. And above all do

not call me rude names in the hearing of the public. Ah!

excellent!--There is an empty cab."

He hailed a passing taxi, and, as the chauffeur drew up to the curb,

put his arm within that of his companion, persuasively, even

affectionately.

"Come, then, my child," he said. "See, my charity is really

inexhaustible! I will take you home with me, though I confess you are

a far from fragrant fellow-traveler, pending that so desirable Turkish

bath. And, listen--I will take you home, I will also feed you. And I

will draw little pictures of you, several little pictures, because I

find in you a singularly edifying example of a singularly degraded

type. After I have drawn as many little pictures as pleases me, I will

have you washed, I will give you clothes, I will give you money, and

then I will send you away without asking any questions, without so much

as inquiring your name."

He moved toward the waiting car, the door of which the chauffeur held

open. But the young man showed a disposition to struggle and hang back.

"Get in, dirty animal, or I call the police," René Dax ordered,

sharply, "and recount to them your recent exploit. They will not give

you money or clothes, nor will they abstain from asking inconvenient

questions. Ah! you decide to accompany me? That is well."

And, with a roughly helping hand from the chauffeur, he projected the

limp, wretched figure into the cab.

"A good tip, my son, and drive smartly," he added, after giving an

address in the _Boulevard du Mont Parnasse_.

CHAPTER II

THE RETURN OF THE NATIVE

"Yes, I have returned. I am here, veritably here, _chère Madame et

amie_. At last I have effected my escape from the Land of Egypt and

the House of Bondage--and such a bondage! Ah! it is an incredibly

happy thing to be back!"

Adrian permitted himself to hold his hostess's hand some seconds longer

than is demanded by strict etiquette. His face was as glad as a spring

morning. Tender gallantry lurked in his eyes. His voice had a ring of

joy irrepressible. His aspect was at once that of suppliant and of

conqueror. And this whole brilliant effect was infectious, finding

readier and more sympathetic reflection in Madame St. Leger's

expression and humor than she at all intended or bargained for. For

the moment, indeed, the charm and the rush of it came near sweeping her

off her feet. She ceased to subscribe to theory, ceased to reason,

yielded to spontaneous feeling, practice claiming her--the secular and

delightful practice of he being man, she woman, and of both being

fearless, high-spirited, beautifully human, and beautifully young.

"In any case the House of Bondage has not disagreed with you," she

said, gaily. "For I have never seen you looking more admirably well."

"Ah! you must not put that down to the credit of the House of Bondage,

but to the fact of my entrancing escape from it, to the fact that once

more I am here--here--with you." As he spoke Adrian glanced round the

dear rose-red-and-canvas-colored room. He wished to make sure that, in

every detail, he found it precisely as he had left it, every article of

furniture, every picture, every ornament in its accustomed position.

He felt jealous of the minutest change of object or of place. "No,

nothing is altered, nothing," he said, answering his own thought aloud

in the greatness of his content.

Gabrielle abstained from comment. She owned herself moved, excited,

uplifted, by the joyful atmosphere which his presence exhaled. Indeed,

that presence affected her far more deeply than she had anticipated,

catching her imagination and emotions as in the dazzling meshes of a

golden net. Some men are gross, some absurd, some unspeakably tedious

when in love. Adrian was very certainly neither of these objectionable

things. He struck, indeed, an almost perfect note. And that was just

where the danger came in, just why she dared not let this interview

continue at the enthusiastic level. She might suffer the charm of it

too comprehensively, and--for already she began to reason again--that

would entail regret, and, only too likely, worse than regret.

So, steeling herself against the insidious charm which so worked on and

quickened her, she moved away from the vacant place before the fire,

where she had been standing with Adrian Savage, sat down in her

high-backed, rose-cushioned chair and picked up the bundle of white

lawn and lace lying on the little table beside it. She needed

protection--whether from him or from herself she did not quite care to

inquire--and reckoned it wiser to put a barrier of actual space and

barrier of sobering employment between herself and this inconveniently

moving returned guest and lover. She refused to be taken by storm.

But Adrian's buoyancy of spirit was not so easily to be crushed.

"Ah! only that was needed," he declared, "to complete my

satisfaction--that you should place yourself thus and shake out your

pretty needlework. It procures me the welcome belief that no time has

really been lost or wasted; it almost convinces me that I have not been

away at all. You cannot conceive what pleasure, what happiness it

gives me, to be here, to see you again. But now that I am able to

observe you calmly, _chère Madame_--"

"Yes, calmly, calmly," she put in, without raising her eyes from her

stitching. "How I value, how I appreciate calm!"

"Do you not appear a little tired, a little pale?"

"Very possibly," she answered. "I have been troubled about my mother

recently. The extreme cold affected her circulation. For some days we

were in grave anxiety. Her vitality is low. Indeed, I have passed

through some trying hours."

"And I was ignorant of her illness, ignorant of your anxiety! Why did

you not write and tell me?"

"Does not the difficulty of answering letters one has never received

occur to you?" Gabrielle inquired, mildly. "And it was not I, you

know, who volunteered to write."

The young man had drawn a chair up to the near side of the little

table. Now he leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, both hands

extended, as one who offers a petition.

"Do not reproach me with my silence or I shall be broken-hearted," he

said. "My inclination was to write reams to you, volumes. I did, in

fact, begin many letters. But I restrained myself. I destroyed them.

To have sent them would have been selfish and indiscreet. I was bound,

by my promise to you at parting, not to allude to the subject which

most vitally touches my happiness. And I found over there so much

which was perplexing and sad. I asked myself what right I had to

inflict upon you a recital of melancholy impressions and events. I

came to the conclusion that I really had none."

Madame St. Leger looked at him sideways from between half-closed

eyelids. The dimple showed in her cheek, but her smile was distinctly

ironic.

"Why not admit that I was right in foretelling that you would find

those shadowy ladies, and your mission to them, of absorbing interest?

It occupied your time and thoughts to the exclusion of all else--now,

was it not so? Was I not right?"

"Yes and no, _chère Madame_," he answered, presently, slowly and with

so perceptible a change of tone that his hearer was startled to the

point of finding it difficult to go on with her needlework.

Adrian sat silently watching her. The singular character of her

beauty, both in its subtlety and suggestion of a reserve of moral

force, had never been more evident to him. More than ever, in each

gesture, in the long, suave lines of her body and limbs shrouded in

clinging black, in the gleam of her furrowed hair as she turned or bent

her charming head, in the abiding provocation and mystery of her eyes

and lips, did she appear to him unique and infinitely desirable.

Watching her, he inclined to become lyrical and cry aloud his worship

in heroic fashion, careless of twentieth-century decorum and restraint.

But if her room, the material frame and setting of that beauty, to his

immense content remained unchanged in every particular, her attitude of

mind, to his immense discontent, evidently remained unchanged likewise.

In the first surprise of his arrival she had yielded somewhat, catching

alight from his flame. But with a determined hand she shut down those

sympathetic fires, becoming obdurate as before. He could feel her will

sensibly stiffening against his own; and this at once hurt him shrewdly

and whipped up passion, preaching a reckless war of conquest, bidding

him disregard promises, bidding him speak and thunder down opposition

by sheer law of the strongest. In every man worth the name temptation

must arise, at moments, to beat the defiant beloved object into an

obedient and docile jelly--the defiant beloved object, it may

confidently be added, would regard any man as unworthy of serious

consideration did it not. But, in Adrian's case, sitting watching her

now, though such temptation did very really arise, its duration was

brief. Less primitive counsels prevailed. She was far from kind and

he was hotly in love; but he was also the child of his age, and a fine

gentleman at that, to whom, given time for reflection, berserker

methods must inevitably present themselves as both unworthy and

ludicrous. So, if she condemned him to play a waiting game, he would

bow to her ruling and play it. He had considerable capital of

self-confidence to draw upon. In as far as the ultimate issues were

concerned he wasn't a bit afraid--as yet. He could afford, so he

believed, to wait. Only, since tormenting was about, all the fun of

that amiable pastime shouldn't be on her side. And to this end now he

would make her speak first.

He remained silent, therefore, still observing her, until the color

deepened in the round of her cheeks, and the stitches were set less

regularly in the white work, while uneasiness gained on her causing her

presently to look up.

"Yes and no?" she said, "yes and no? That is nothing of an answer. I

am all attention. I am curious to hear your explanation. And

then--yes and no--what next?"

"This," he replied, "that on nearer acquaintance the two ladies proved

anything but shadowy. They proved, in some respects, even a little

tremendous. Far from being absorbed in them, I came alarmingly near

being absorbed by them--which is a very different matter."

"Ah, that is interesting. You did not like them?"

"I really cannot say. They both--but particularly the elder sister, my

cousin Joanna--were new to my experience. I do not feel that I have

even yet placed them in my mind. The members of all nations above a

certain social level can meet on common ground. It is below that level

national tendencies and eccentricities actually declare themselves. I

went over, strong in the conceit of ignorance. I supposed I knew all

about it and should find myself quite at home. I was colossally

mistaken. The manners and mental attitude of the provincial

middle-class English were a revelation to me of the blighting effects

of a sea frontier and a Puritan descent. The men have but three

subjects of conversation--politics, games, and their own importance.

The women"--Adrian paused, looking full at Madame St. Leger--"I am

very, very sorry for the women. Ah! dear Madame," he added, "let us

return devout thanks that we were born on this side, the humane, the

amiable, the artistic side of the Channel, you and I. For they are

really a very uncomfortable people those middle-class Anglo-Saxons.

Until I spent this age-long three weeks among them I had no conception

what a convinced Catholic--in sentiment, if not, to my shame,

altogether in practice--and thorough-paced Latin I was!"

During the above harangue Gabrielle's hands remained idle. He was

really very good, meeting her thus half-way in the suppression of the

personal and amatory note. She was obliged to him, of course; yet, in

honest truth, was she so very much pleased by his readiness to take the

hint? She could not but ask herself that--and then hurry away, so to

speak, from the answer, her fingers in her pretty ears. His cue was an

intelligent exchange of ideas then? An excellent one!--She stopped her

ears more resolutely.--She, too, would be intelligent.

"Increased faith and increased patriotism as the result of your

journey! How admirable! Clearly it is highly beneficial to one's

morale to cross the Channel. Were it rather later in the year, and

were the weather less inclement, I should be disposed to take the

little cure, without delay, myself."

"It would not suit you in the least," Adrian asserted. "You would

dislike it all quite enormously."

Gabrielle St. Leger at the Tower House! The idea produced in him a

violent unreasoning repulsion, as though she ran some actual physical

danger. Heaven forbid!

"I should not go with any purpose of enjoyment, but rather as a

penance, hoping the dislike of what I found over there might heighten

my appreciation of all my blessings here at home."

Whereupon Adrian, careless of diplomacy, clutched at his chance.

"Then you are not so entirely satisfied, _chère Madame et amie_," he

cried, laughing a little in his eagerness, "not so utterly happy and

content!"

"Is one ever as devout, ever as patriotic, as one ought to be?" she

asked, gravely.

"Or as sincere?" he returned, with corresponding gravity.

The hot color deepened in the young woman's face, and she picked up her

needlework again quickly.

"I--insincere?" she asked. "Is not that precisely why you find me

slightly vexatious, my dear Mr. Savage, that I am only too sincere, a

veritable model of sincerity?"

And she rose, gracious, smiling, to receive another guest.

"Ah! _ma toute belle_, how are you, and how is the poor, darling

mother? Better? Thank God for that! But still in her room? Dear!

dear! Yet, after all, what can one expect? In such weather

convalescence must necessarily be protracted. I am forced to come and

ask for news in person since you refuse to have a telephone. Just

consider the many annoying intrusions, such as the present, which that

useful instrument would spare you!"

Anastasia Beauchamp, overdressed and genial as ever, interspersed these

remarks with the unwinding of voluminous fox furs, all heads and tails

and feebly dangling paws, the kissing of her hostess on either cheek,

and finally a hand-shake to Adrian.

"So you are restored to us, my dear Savage," she continued. "I am more

than delighted to see you, though at this moment I am well aware that

delight is not reciprocated.--There, there, it is superfluous to

perjure yourself by a denial.--And you are back just in time to write a

scathing criticism of your _protégé_ M. Dax's exhibition, in the

Review. Here is matter for sincere congratulation, for, believe me,

very plain speaking is demanded. The newspapers are afraid of him.

They cringe. Their pusillanimity is disgusting. Really this time he

has broken his own record! It is just these things which create a

wrong impression and bring France into bad odor with other nations. He

is a traitor to the best traditions of the art of this country. I

deplore it from that point of view. His exhibition is a scandal. The

correctional police should step in."

"You have yourself visited the exhibition, dear Anastasia?" Madame St.

Leger inquired, demurely.

"Naturally, I have been to see it. Don't I see everything which is

going? Isn't that my acknowledged little hobby, my dear? Then, too,

where does the benefit of increasing age come in unless you claim the

privileges of indiscretion conferred by it? Still, even in senile

indiscretion, one should observe a decent limit. I went alone,

absolutely alone, to inspect those abominable productions. I wore a

thick veil, too, and--I blushed behind it. Needless to relate, I now

and then quivered with laughter. One is but human after all, and to be

human is also to be diverted by impropriety. But I could have whipped

myself for laughing, even though quite alone and behind the veil. Go

and judge for yourself whether I am not justified in my disgust, my

dear Savage. And as for you, _ma toute belle_, do not, I implore you,

go at all--unless you have had the misfortune to do so already--even

though going would effectually cure you of any kindness you may

entertain toward the artist--an end, in my poor opinion, greatly to be

desired."

"I have not seen M. Dax's exhibition, nor have I seen M. Dax himself

for some length of time," Gabrielle remarked, quietly.

"You have dropped him? I rejoice to hear it. A man of so villainous

an imagination is unfit to approach you."

"I will not say that I have dropped him." As she spoke she was aware

that Adrian looked keenly, inquiringly at her. And this displeased

her, as an intrusion upon her liberty of action. "M. Dax has a

charming devotion to my little Bette," she continued. "No one whom I

know is so perfect a playfellow to children. His sympathy with them is

extraordinary. He understands their tastes and pleasures, and is

unwearied in his kindness to them. Only, perhaps, his games are a

little overstimulating, overexciting. After his last visit my poor

Bette suffered from agitating dreams and awoke in the night frightened

and crying. I had difficulty in soothing her."

"Praiseworthy babe, how profoundly right are her instincts!" Miss

Beauchamp declared, fervently. "But, Heaven help us, what's this!" she

added, under her breath. "Perfidious infant, how these praiseworthy

babies can fool one!"

She nodded and beckoned to Adrian, still speaking under her breath.

"As you value my friendship, don't go, on no account go, my dear

Savage. Come and sit here by me and tell me about your time in

England. Like the chivalrous young man you are, stick to me. Supply

me with a valid excuse for remaining. For, manners or no manners, I am

resolved not to leave her alone with that depraved little horror. I am

resolved to outstay him."

CHAPTER III

A STRAINING OF FRIENDSHIP

Bette, light-footed, sprightly, in beaver cap, pelisse, and muff, brown

cloth gaiters and boots to match, her face pink from air and exercise,

her eyes wide and bright with consciousness of temerity, spricketed

toward her mother, leading René Dax by the hand.

"I found him outside in the courtyard as I returned from my walk with

my little friends," she piped, the words tumbling over one another in

her pretty haste. "He told me that he wished so much to see us, but

that he never found us at home now. And he looked unhappy. You have

always instructed me that it is our duty to console the unhappy. So I

informed him that I knew you were at home to-day, because you would not

leave my grandmother, and I assured him that, speaking in your name, it

would give us much pleasure to receive him. And then I invited him to

come up-stairs with me. And that was all quite proper, wasn't it,

mamma, because we do not like him to be unhappy, and it does give us

pleasure to receive M. Dax, does it not?"

"Assuredly it gives us pleasure to receive M. Dax," Gabrielle said, her

head carried high and a just perceptible ring of defiance in her voice.

She smiled graciously upon the young man, and for an instant the three

stood hand in hand--René Dax, the Tadpole, offering the very strangest

of connecting links between the beautiful mother and delicious little

girl.

Miss Beauchamp uttered a sharp exclamation, which she vainly attempted

to mask by a cough. Adrian Savage looked, saw, and turned his back.

He stared blindly out of window at Paris beneath, sparkling in the

keen-edged February sunshine. The sweat broke out on his forehead. He

had received an agonizing, a hateful impression, amounting, sound and

self-confident though he was, to acute physical pain. "No, not that,

not that," he cried to himself. "Of all conceivable combinations, not

that one. It is hideous, unbearable, out of nature!"

Miss Beauchamp touched him on the arm. Her face spoke volumes.

"Talk to me, my dear Savage," she said, urgently. "I can imagine what

you feel. But talk. Create some, any excuse for staying, and take

_It_, that depraved little horror, away with you when you go. Rally

your resources, my dear friend. Play up, I entreat you, play up."

Then louder.

"You had a deplorable crossing--fog, coming into Calais? Yes, February

is among the most odious months of the year. But I go over so seldom

now, you know, since my poor brother's death. Nearly all my friends

are on this side; and, after all, one only has to wait. Everybody who

is anybody must pass through Paris sooner or later.--Talk, my dear

Savage, talk. Support me.--Ah yes, in London you observed many

changes? I hear a mania has taken the authorities lately for

improvements. You did not stay in town? Ah no, of course not.

Stourmouth?--Yes, I remember the place vaguely. Interminable black

fir-trees and interminable, perambulating pink-and-white

consumptives--I like neither. Yes, talk--talk--my own remarks are

abysmal in their fatuity. But no matter. It's all in a good cause.

Let us keep on."

René, meanwhile, successfully affected ignorance of any human presences

save those of his hostess and his little guide.

"Why have you refused me? Why have you never let me see you?" he

asked, gazing mournfully at Madame St. Leger.

"I have not been receiving," she replied. "My mother has been ailing,

and my time has been devoted to her."

"But to see me, even to be aware that I was near her, would have done

her good," he returned. "She has a great regard for me; and, in the

case of a sensitive organization, the proximity of a person to whom one

is attached acts as a restorative. It was on that account I have

needed to come here. I, too, have been ailing. My exhibition is a

howling success. Being a person of refinement, this naturally has

disagreed with me, inducing repeated fits of the spleen, flooring me

with a dumb rage of melancholy. As a corrective I required the

soothing society of Madame, your mother, and of Mademoiselle Bette. I

required also to be with you, Madame, to look at you. This I believed

would prove beneficial to my nerves, lacerated by frenzied public

admiration. By excluding me, you have not only wounded my

susceptibilities, but prolonged my ill health. As I have already

proved to you, Madame Vernois's regrettable illness is no sufficient

reason for that exclusion. There must have been some further reason."

"There was a further reason," Gabrielle replied, quietly.

René gazed up at her, a point of flame in his somber eyes. All of a

sudden, with an amazingly quick, very vulgar, street-boy gesture and a

wicked grimace, tipping his thumb over his shoulder, he indicated the

other two guests holding uneasy converse at the other side of the room.

The thing was done in a twinkling, and he regained his accustomed

plaintive solemnity of aspect.

"What further reason, that he, the janitor, otherwise Adrian the

Magnificent, was away?"

"You are impertinent," Madame St. Leger said, sternly. At first her

anger concentrated itself upon René Dax. Then, quite arbitrarily and

unjustly, it took a wider sweep. She called Bette to her; and,

kneeling down, the train of her dress trailing out across the rosy

carpet, her head bowed, began undoing the frogs of the child's fur

pelisse.

"Pray understand," she said, still sternly, "Mr. Savage's presence or

absence is a matter which in no degree affects my actions."

While in the pause which followed Adrian's voice, harsh from his effort

to make it sound quite disengaged and natural, asserted itself forcibly.

"Yes," he was saying, "Colonel Rentoul Haig.--You cannot surely have

been so heartless as to have forgotten his existence, dear Miss

Beauchamp, when he retains such enthusiastic memories of you and of the

brilliancy of your conversation?"

"Rentoul Haig? Rentoul Haig? Ah! to be sure! I have it at last.

Yes, certainly, in the early eighties, at my cousin Delamere

Beauchamp's place in Midlandshire. Of course, of course--a neat,

little, tea-party subaltern, out in camp with some militia regiment, in

general request for answering questions and running messages, and so

on; qualifying, even then, as a walking hand-book of the English landed

and titled gentry."

"He has continued in that line until his genealogical learning has

reached truly monumental proportions," Adrian returned, in the same

harsh voice. "It possesses and obsesses him, keeping him in a

perpetual ferment of apprehension lest he should be called upon to

associate with persons of no family in particular. In this connection

my arrival, I fear, caused him cruel searchings of heart. His mother

and my father were hundredth cousins. Hence, alarms. Should I prove

presentable to the funny old gentlemen at the local club, or should I

compromise him? He has hardly marched with the times, and pictured

me--this I learned from his own ingenuous lips--as some long-haired,

threadbare, starveling Bohemian, straight out of the pages of Henri

Mürger or Eugène Sue. My personal appearance did, I rejoice to say,

reassure him to a certain extent. But your name, and recollections

both of your cousin's fine place and of your own conversational powers,

did much more toward allaying the torment of his social sense. He

ended, indeed, by conveying to me that, my beloved mother's alien

nationality and my beloved father's profession notwithstanding, I was

really quite a credit to the united houses of Savage and Haig."

"Are you going again to exclude me, are you going to shut the door on

me, because I have been that which you qualify by the word

'impertinent'?" René Dax asked, softly and sadly, as Madame St.

Leger--the little girl's coat removed and her frilled white skirts

straightened out--rose proudly to her feet.

"You richly deserve that I should do so," she replied.

"Ah! _pardon_--but just consider. For to be cross with me, to

repudiate me, is so conspicuously useless. It only serves to

accentuate my faults--always supposing I really have any. I am

controlled, I am led, by kindness, and I possess most engaging

qualities. In the interests of all concerned you should encourage the

display of those qualities."

"Pray do not be severe with M. Dax any more," little Bette put in,

prettily and busily. "You have, perhaps, dear mamma, been so on my

account, therefore it is for me to plead with you."

Madame St. Leger's expression softened. The Tadpole, his big

overdeveloped brain and puny body, touched the springs of maternal

compassion in her, somehow. She glanced at him. Surely she had

exaggerated the disturbing influences which could be exercised by so

quaint and relatively insignificant a creature? Then, stooping down,

she took little Bette up in her arms, smiling, her figure finely

poised, both in lifting and bearing the weight of that graceful burden.

In an ecstasy of affection the child snuggled against her, cheek to

cheek.

"I am no longer afraid of his little walking-cane," Bette murmured, in

a confidential whisper. "That was a silly dream. I assure you I shall

not allow it to trouble me, should it repeat itself. So I entreat you,

mamma, tell M. Dax he may come here again and play with me and my

little friends as he used to do."

Gabrielle's smile sweetened to a tender merriment. With her child

pressed close against her, thus, she felt so satisfied, so secure in

the strong, pure joys of her motherhood, that she gave caution the

slip. So safeguarded, what, she asked herself, could disquiet her soul

or harm her? René Dax was right, moreover, in saying he possessed

engaging qualities--though it mightn't be the best taste in the world

that he, himself, should announce the fact. What a good work, then, to

nurture those qualities, and, by keeping them in play, strengthen and

redeem all that was best in the young man's complex and wayward nature!

A quite missionary spirit, toward the singular Tadpole, arose in her.

And something further--though this she did not willingly

acknowledge--namely, a hot desire to assert the completeness of her

personal liberty before witnesses just now present. She would conserve

her freedom, and demonstrate unequivocally to present company that she

intended so doing.

"Good, most precious one," she said, returning the child's fluttering

kisses. Then: "Since my little daughter wishes it, the door shall

remain open, M. Dax."

But here Adrian Savage, partially overhearing the conversation,

partially divining that purpose of demonstration, smitten, moreover, by

Madame St. Leger's resolved and exalted aspect, was overcome by alarm

and distress altogether too acute for further concealment. Miss

Beauchamp might wave her long, thin arms, and pour forth cascades of

transparently artificial conversation in the effort to delay his

departure, but he could bear the position no longer. She, after all,

was actuated by motives of social expediency and of friendship only,

was merely an onlooker at this drama, while he was a principal actor in

it, all his dearest hopes, all his future happiness at stake. He had

reached the limits of moral and emotional endurance. His handsome face

was drawn and blanched to an unnatural pallor as against his black,

pointed beard, black eyebrows, and dark, close-cropped hair. A few

moments more and he felt he might be guilty of some irretrievable

breach of good manners, might make a scene, commit some unpardonable

folly of speech and action, or that just simply he might collapse,

might faint. So, then and there, he bounded tiger-like, so to speak,

into the open space before the fire where his hostess still stood,

addressing her rapidly, imperatively, wholly ignoring her companion,

René Dax.

"Pardon me, Madame, that I interrupt you, but I have already, as I

fear, greatly outstayed your patience and will delay no further to bid

you good-by. My excuse, both for coming to-day and for remaining so

long, must be that I am here, in Paris, probably for but a few days on

the business of the Review. I may be recalled to England at any

moment, and it is conceivable in the press of work which demands my

attention that I may not have another opportunity of presenting myself

to you before I go."

"Behold Vesuvius in full eruption," René murmured, gazing pensively at

his hostess.

The latter had stood little Bette down on the seat of the

rose-cushioned chair. She still held the child close, one arm round

her waist. The unaccustomed tones of Adrian's voice, his vehemence,

and air of unmistakable suffering, agitated her. Was it the price of

her independence to hurt a faithful friend so sorely as all this?

"I was unaware you were likely to leave Paris again so soon," she said.

"I supposed you had returned for good; and there is so much that I

wished to hear, so much that I had promised myself the entertainment of

having you recount to me."

"Unfortunately the claims of my venerable cousin's affairs are

inexorable," Adrian replied, with a not very successful attempt at

lightness, looking her in the eyes while his lips perceptibly shook.

"In death, as in life, he has proved himself an unscrupulously

devouring old tyrant. Indeed, I am quite unable to forecast, as yet,

when I shall escape out of the house of bondage for good."

"Mamma, dearest," little Bette whispered, politely, "I like it of

course, but you will excuse me if I mention that you are squeezing me

so very tight?"

And thereupon, somehow, Gabrielle's gentler mood evaporated. She

ceased to be touched by the young man's troubled aspect, or to regret

her share in the production of that trouble. She felt angry, though

not very certainly with innocent Bette. Mockery supplanted concern in

the expression of her beautiful face as she gave her hand to her

unhappy lover.

"In time the arrangement of even the richest succession must be

terminated. When that termination is reached we shall hope to welcome

you back, Mr. Savage--unless, of course, you have any thought of

forming ties which will necessitate your settling permanently in

England?"

And, before Adrian had either time or heart to parry this cruel thrust,

René intervened, patting him delicately on the back.

"So you are going, _mon vieux_? See, I will accompany you. No,

no--indeed, I gladly go with you, leaving Mademoiselle Beauchamp--who

detests me--as she so earnestly desires, in possession of the field of

battle. Why should I not go, my dear fellow? You do not hurry my

departure in the least. I have accomplished the object of my visit. I

am restored, soothed comforted. I have got all--all that, for the

moment, I want."

As the door closed behind the two young men Anastasia advanced. She

re-adjusted her frisky hat, pulled her long gloves up at the elbow,

cast the heads and tails and feebly dangling paws of her fox furs about

her neck and shoulders.

"_Ma toute belle_, at the risk of your being angry and requesting me to

mind my own business, I am constrained to tell you that I fear you are

committing a very grave folly," she said.

But Madame St. Leger was engaged in caressing little Bette.

CHAPTER IV

IN WHICH ADRIAN SETS FORTH IN PURSUIT OF THE

FURTHER REASON

Coming from under the _porte-cochère_ into the street, Adrian, pleading

a business appointment as excuse, shook off his companion somewhat

unceremoniously, and hailing the first empty motor-cab, sped away to

the office, his Review, in the _rue Druoi_. The rush across the center

of Paris, through the thick of the afternoon traffic, with its lively

chances of smashing or being smashed, served to steady him. Yet he was

still under the empire of considerable emotion when he entered his

private room at the office, and Emile Konski, his secretary, a

roundabout, pink-cheeked, gray-headed, alert little man of fifty, arose

bowing and beaming to relieve him of hat, coat, and umbrella.

"Thanks, thanks, my good Konski," he said. "And now just arrange the

copy I have to revise, will you kindly, and take your own work into the

outer office. I am rather hurried. I will call through to you should

I want you."

"Perfectly, sir," the good Konski returned, obediently; but he beamed

no more. His employer was also the god of his ingenuous idolatry, and

to leave the private room for the outer office was to leave the

Sanctuary for the Court of the Gentiles. Opportunities of devotion had

been limited lately, hence banishment became the more grievous.

Once alone, Adrian sat down before his writing-table. The fortnightly

_chronique_ of home and foreign politics awaited his revision, so did

literary and art notices. Among the latter a _critique_ of René Dax's

picture-show remained to be written, Adrian having expressed an

intention of dealing with it himself. He meant to have passed an hour

in the galleries after calling upon Madame St. Leger this afternoon,

but had relinquished his purpose. For he desired rightly to divide the

word of truth regarding René's eccentric performances; and just now,

for reasons quite independent of their inherent merits or demerits, he

feared they might stink in his nostrils to a degree subversive of any

just exercise of the critical faculty.

He made an honest effort to settle to work and absorb himself in the

affairs of Morocco, the last new books, the last debates in the

Chamber. But the neatly typed words and sentences proved singularly

lacking in interest or meaning. He read them over and over again, only

to find them crumble into purposeless units, like so much dry sand,

incapable of cohesion. For what mattered--so, in a crisis, is even the

cleverest of us dominated by personal feeling--what mattered the future

of Morocco, for instance, though involving possibilities of war to all

Europe, as against the future of himself, Adrian Savage?

And that future did, unquestionably, present itself just now as

lamentably parlous. That he might fail, that Madame St. Leger might

eventually and finally refuse to marry him, had never really seriously

entered his head before. That he might have to diplomatize, to lay

long and patient siege to the enchanting and enchanted beleaguered city

before it fell he had long ago accepted; but that, in the end, it would

most assuredly fall and he rapturously claim it by right of conquest,

in his triumphant masculine optimism he had never, till this afternoon,

doubted. Now the doubt did very really present itself and proved a

staggering one. Nor was this all. For, save during those first few

delicious moments of greeting he had been sensible of a sinister

element battling against him, painfully affecting him, yet which he

failed to define or to grasp.

Adrian stared at the copy outspread on his blotting-pad, and its blank,

unmeaning sentences. Never before had he realized what a terrible,

imprisoning, stultifying thing it may be to love! Morocco? Morocco?

What, in the name of all which makes a man's life worth living, did he

care about the fate of that forbidding North African coast? Let it

stew in its own barbarous juice! All the same, his inability to

concentrate his attention upon the subject of that disagreeable country

served to increase his perturbation and distress. Thanks to admirable

physical health, he was accustomed to have his faculties thoroughly and

immediately at command, and this refusal of his brain to work to order

fairly infuriated him.

There was the _critique_ of René Dax's picture-show to be written, too!

Adrian rose from the table and walked restlessly, almost distractedly,

about the room. For where exactly, in respect of the resistance of

that beloved beleaguered city, did René come in? Oh! that Tadpole of

perverted genius, that perniciously clever Tadpole, who from childhood

he had protected and befriended, whose fortunes he had so assiduously

pushed! And again now, as when staring forth blindly from the high-set

windows of _la belle_ Gabrielle's thrice-sacred drawing-room at Paris,

glittering in the sharp-edged sunshine, Adrian's whole being cried

aloud against the blasphemy of a certain conceivable, yet

inconceivable, combination in a passionate, agonized "God forbid!"

But verbal protest against that combination, however loud-voiced and

vehement, ranging ineffectually within the narrow confines of his

office, was a transparently inadequate mode of self-expression. His

native impetuosity rendered uncertainty and suspense intolerable to

him. He must act, must make a reconnaissance, must discover some means

of ascertaining whether anything had occurred during his absence which

served to explain the apparently existing situation. But, here, the

intrinsic delicacy of the said situation asserted itself; since

precisely those questions to which an answer is most urgently needed

are the questions which a person of fine feeling cannot ask. Good

breeding, sensibility, a chivalrous regard for the feelings of others

are, as he reflected, at times a quite abominable handicap.

He sat down once again at the writing-table. What should he do? At

his elbow stood the ebonized upright of the telephone, the long, green,

silk-covered wire of it trailing away across the parquet floor to the

plug in the wainscot. From a man he could not ask advice or

information. But from a woman--surely it was different, permissible?

Adrian left off pulling the ends of his upturned mustache and

meditated. Distraction slightly lifted and lessened. He looked up an

address in the directory; and, after an at first polite then slightly

acrimonious parley with the operator at the exchange, got into

communication with the person wanted. Would she be at home to-night

after dinner, say about eight forty-five? Might he call? And, with

multiplied apologies, might he depend upon finding her alone? To these

questions the replies proved satisfactory, so that, in a degree

solaced, his thirst for immediate action in a measure appeased and his

scattered wits consequently once more fairly at command, Adrian

resolutely turned his attention to the affairs of neglected Morocco.

As to René Dax's exhibition? Well, till to-morrow, at all events, it

must wait.

Ever since he could remember, Miss Beauchamp had occupied the same

handsome, second-floor flat in a quiet street just off the _Parc

Monceau_. Adrian recalled a visit, in company with his mother, made to

her there at a period when he still wore white frilled drawers and

long-waisted holland tunics. Later, during his early school-days, he

vaguely recollected a period during which his grandmother rarely

mentioned Anastasia, and then with a suggestive pursing up of the lips

and lift of the eyebrows. Afterward he came to know how, for some

years, Miss Beauchamp's name had been rather conspicuously associated

with that of a certain famous Hungarian composer resident in Paris.

But the said composer had long since gone the way of all flesh, and the

question as to whether his and Anastasia's friendship was, or was not,

strictly platonic in character had long since ceased to interest

society. Other stars rose and set in the musical firmament. Other

scandals, real or imaginary, offered food for discussion to those

greedy of such fly-blown provender. Miss Beauchamp, meanwhile, had

become an institution; was received--as the phrase goes--everywhere.

Report declared her rich. Her generosity to young musicians, artists,

and _literati_ was, unquestionably, large to the verge of prodigality.

The aspect of her domicile, when he entered it this evening, struck

Adrian as much the same now as on that long-ago visit with his mother.

The suite of living-rooms was lofty, having coved and painted ceilings,

captivating to his childish fancy. The rooms opened one from another

in a sequence of three. The two first, both somewhat encumbered with

furniture, pictures, and bric-à-brac--of very varying value and

merit--were dimly lighted and vacant, places of silence and shadows,

the atmosphere of them impregnated with a scent of cedar and sandal

wood. From the third, the doorway of which was masked by thick

curtains of Oriental embroidery, came the sound of a grand piano,

played, and in masterly fashion, by a man's hands.

Adrian stopped abruptly, turning to the elderly maid.

"Miss Beauchamp informed me she would be alone," he said.

"Mademoiselle is alone," the maid answered. "She gave instructions no

one was to be admitted save monsieur."

"Thanks--I will not detain you. I will announce myself," Adrian said.

He crossed the second and larger room, threading his way in and out of

a perfect archipelago of furniture; and held one curtain partially

aside, while the purpose of his visit and the smart of his own

distractions alike were merged in a sensation of curiosity and surprise.

Miss Beauchamp sat at a grand piano, placed in the middle of the bare

polished floor at right angles to the doorway. Adrian saw her face and

high-shouldered, high-waisted figure in profile. She wore a

cinnamon-colored tea-gown, opening over an under-dress of copper

sequin-sewn net. A veritable pagoda of fiery curls crowned her head.

Yet, though thin and bony, hers were the man's hands which compelled

such rich, forcible music from the piano, making it speak, declaim,

sing, plead, touch tragedy, triumphantly affirm, in this so very

convincing a manner. The method and mind of the player, in their

largeness of conception and fearless security of execution, held the

young man captive, raising his whole attitude and outlook to a nobler

plane. The music, indeed, carried his imagination up to regions

heroic. He was in no haste to have it cease. He waited, therefore.

When the final chords were struck Anastasia Beauchamp, raising her

hands from the keyboard, rested the tips of her fingers upon the edge

of the empty music-desk, and sat motionless, absorbed in thought.

Then, as the seconds passed, Adrian's position became, in his opinion,

equivocal, courtesy demanding that he should either make his presence

known or withdraw. He chose the former alternative and, taking a step

forward, let the curtain fall into place behind him. Imperiously, with

a lift of the chin, Miss Beauchamp turned her head and looked full at

him; and, for a moment, the young man was fairly taken aback. For,

setting of flaming pagoda and frisky tea-gown notwithstanding, he

beheld a countenance no longer bizarre, that of an accredited jester,

but sibylline, that of a woman who, in respect of certain departments

of human knowledge, has touched ultimate wisdom, so that, in respect of

those departments, life has no further secrets to reveal. Here was

something outpacing the province of Adrian's self-confident, young

masculine attainment; and it was to his credit that he instantly

recognized this, accepting it with quick-witted and intuitive sympathy.

"Forgive me if I have presumed upon your indulgence, dear lady," he

said, advancing with a disarming air of admiration and modesty, "by

remaining here unannounced. I could not permit any interruption of

your wonderful playing. It would have amounted to profanity. Your art

is sublime, is so altogether impressively great. But oh! why," he

added, as the sibylline countenance softened somewhat, "have you

elected to let me, to let your many friends, remain in ignorance? Why

have you deprived us all of the joy of your superb musical gift?"

"Because that gift served its turn very fully many years ago, when you,

my dear Savage, were little more than a baby," she answered. "Since

then I have felt at liberty to regard my playing as a trifle of private

property which I might keep to and for myself."

As she spoke Miss Beauchamp rose from her seat at the piano, and began

replacing a multiplicity of bracelets and rings, laid aside during the

performance.

"As we grow older we, most of us, are disposed to practise such

reservations, I suppose, whether openly acknowledged or not," she

continued. "They may take their rise in inclinations of a sentimental,

avaricious, or penitential nature; but, however divergent their cause,

their object is identical--namely, to keep intact one's individuality,

menaced by the disintegrating wear and tear of outward things. The

tendency of the modern world is to render one invertebrate, to pound

one's character and opinions into a pulp. In self-defense one is

forced to reserve and to cultivate some hidden garden, wherein one's

poor, battered individual me may walk in assuaging solitude and

recollection. Especially"--she looked bravely at Adrian through the

shaded light, while her long-armed, ungainly, rusty-gold figure, and

strangely wise face surmounted by that flaming top-knot, appeared to

him more than ever impressive--"especially, perhaps, is this the case

if that garden once represented--as my music possibly once did--a

Garden of Paradise in which one did not walk altogether solitary. But,

come. You want to speak to me. Let us go into the drawing-room and

have our talk there."

"Let us talk, by all means," Adrian put in, quickly, "but let it be

here, please. This room is sympathetic--full of splendid echoes good

for the soul."

Anastasia's expression softened yet more.

"That is charmingly said. We will stay here, since you wish it. The

sofa? Yes, this is my corner--thanks. And now, to be quite frank with

you, understand that I had lost count of time and you were inordinately

punctual, or you wouldn't have caught me making music. And understand,

further, that had I not been unusually moved, by something which

occurred this afternoon, I should not have made music at all. I rarely

walk in the hidden garden now. As one grows older one has to economize

one's emotions. They are too tiring, liable to endanger one's sleep

afterward. But this evening circumstances, associations, were too

strong for me. The garden called to me and--I walked."

CHAPTER V

WITH DEBORAH, UNDER AN OAK IN THE PARC MONCEAU

Miss Beauchamp leaned back against the piled-up sofa cushions shading

her eyes with her left hand; and that hand must have been a little

unsteady, since Adrian heard the bracelets upon her wrist rattle and

clink.

"Shall I tell you what the something was which so moved me?" she asked.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken it is the main cause of our present

interview, so that to speak of it may help to make that interview

easier for us both."

"Pray tell me." Adrian felt curious as to what should follow; but his

curiosity was tempered by deepening respect.

"It comes to this, then, my dear young man, I think," she said. "For

those who have once been acquainted with true love--I am not speaking

of mere sexual passion, still less of silly flirtations or wanton

amorettes--those who have once known that uniquely beautiful and

illuminating condition can neither forget nor mistake it. They carry

an infallible touchstone in their own eyes, and ears, and hearts. It

is my privilege to carry such a touchstone; and this afternoon--there,

there, don't wince; quite, quite reverently and gently I put my finger

on the fact--I beheld true love again; but true love tormented and far

from happy. Wasn't it so?"

"Yes," Adrian replied, with a touch of bitterness, "it was."

"And that brought certain events and experiences--your dear mother's

sympathy and friendship among them--so vividly before me that I could

only come home here, to this practically deserted room, and make music,

as long ago, when another man, another true lover, sat where you now

sit. Do you follow me?"

Adrian's heart was somewhat full. He bowed his head in silent assent.

"The ice is satisfactorily broken then? I am an old woman now. Many

people, I don't doubt, describe me as a flighty, prankish old spinster,

who apes departed youth in a highly ridiculous manner."

She no longer shaded her eyes with her hand, but looked full at Adrian,

through the quiet light, smiling--half sibyl, half jester, but, as he

felt, wholly wise, wholly kind.

"Such criticisms matter to me rather less than nothing," she continued,

"since the hidden garden knows the why and wherefore of all that, and

more besides. And now, my dear boy, I have said enough, I think, to

show you that you can unburden yourself without reserve or hesitation.

You will not speak to me of an undiscovered country."

But just then Adrian felt it difficult to speak. Coming to this woman,

he had found so much more than he had asked for or expected--namely, a

finding of high romance, of almost reckless generosity, which made him

feel humble, feel indeed quite quaintly ignorant and inexperienced. It

followed that, when he did speak, he did so in child-like fashion,

protesting his innocence as though needing to disarm censure.

"Believe me, I have not acted unworthily," he said. "From the first I

was charmed, I was enthralled, but I made every effort to restrain

myself. Even in thought I was loyal to poor St. Leger. I did my best

to conceal my admiration--I kept away, as much as I could without

discourtesy. You see, her very perfection is, in a sense, her

safeguard, for how inconceivably vile to endanger the peace of mind of

so adorable a creature by any hint, any suggestion! It is only since

St. Leger's death that I--"

"Yes, yes, I take all that for granted," Anastasia broke in. "Doesn't

it stand to reason, since we are talking of true love?"

And Adrian could not forbear to smile, notwithstanding his humbled

condition; the touch was so deliciously feminine in its assumption and

non-logic. Unless, by chance, she was laughing at him out of her

larger wisdom? Possibly she was. Well, she could do nothing but

right, anyhow--so he didn't care! Whereupon he proceeded to pour forth

the history of his affection in all its phases, from its first

inception to the existing moment, with dramatic fervor, spreading

abroad his hands descriptively, while the sentences galloped with

increasing velocity and the mellow, baritone voice rose and fell.

"Ah! and can you not conceive it? After that dismal time in England,

burying the dead, contending with all manner of tiresomenesses, with

narrow-minded, over-strenuous, over-educated women and men--ye gods,

such men!--to come back, to see her, was like coming from some

underground cavern into the sunshine. She received me exquisitely. I

tasted ecstasy. I was transported by hope. Then, abruptly, her manner

changed; and that change did not appear to me spontaneous, but

calculated--as though, in obedience to some alien influence, she

unwillingly put a constraint upon herself. Since then I have

reconstituted the scene repeatedly--"

"My poor dear boy!" Anastasia murmured.

"Yes, repeatedly, repeatedly. I try to convince myself that her change

of manner was unwilling, not the result of caprice."

"Madame St. Leger is not capricious."

"I am sure of it. Her nature, at bottom, is serious. She reasons and

obeys reason. But in this case what reason? Not dislike of me? No,

no, my mind refuses such an explanation of her conduct. It would be

too horrible, too desolating."

"Isn't there another rather obvious explanation of Madame St. Leger's

attitude--the fear of liking you a little too much?"

"But why should she fear to like me?" poor Adrian cried. "I am no

devouring monster! I have some talent, sufficient means, and no

concealed vices."

And there the thought of René Dax invaded him, scorching him with

positively rampant jealousy and repulsion. For could this, which he

had just asserted regarding himself, be asserted with equal truth

regarding the Tadpole of genius? He knew very well it could not.

Still, even so, he shrank from the _rôle_ of treacherous friend or

detractor.

"She can be gracious enough to others," he contented himself by saying,

gazing at his hostess meanwhile, his expression altogether orphaned and

pathetic.

"Dangerously gracious. And that is why I did all in my power to delay

your departure this afternoon, although I knew perfectly well you were

on the rack."

"But, dear God in heaven!" he broke out, incoherently, burying his face

in both hands, "you cannot imply, you cannot intend to convey to me

your belief--"

"That Gabrielle St. Leger contemplates marrying that libelous little

horror, M. Dax? Never in life!"

Adrian got up and walked unsteadily--for indeed the floor seemed to

shift and lurch beneath his feet--across the room. Without the

faintest conception of what he was looking at, he minutely examined a

landscape hanging upon the opposite wall. He also blew his nose and

wiped his eyes. While Anastasia Beauchamp, her jaw set, leaning back

against the sofa cushions, very actually and poignantly walked in that

hidden garden of hers--once a Garden of Eden, and not an Adamless

one--wrapped about by remembrance.

After a time the young man came back and sat down beside her. His face

was white and his eyes were luminous.

"Most dear and kind friend, forgive me," he said, very gently. "I have

climbed giddy pinnacles of rapture, and tumbled off them--plop--into

blackest morasses of despair to-day, and my nerves have suffered."

"Ah! it has got you!" she returned. "I'm not a bit sorry for you. On

the contrary, I congratulate you. For you are very handsomely and

hopelessly in love."

Adrian nodded assent, pushing up the ends of his mustache with a twist

of his fingers and smiling.

"Yes, yes, indeed I know," he said. "It is a thing for which to be

immeasurably thankful. Yet, all the same, it has its little hours of

inconvenience, as I have to-day discovered. It can hold the field to

the exclusion of all else; and that with a quite demoralizing

intensity, making one feel murderous toward one's oldest friends and,

in respect of one's work, no better than a driveling idiot."

"Such are inevitable symptoms of the blessed state. I still

congratulate you."

"But you admit, at least, that they are practically extremely impeding?

And so, dear Mademoiselle, you whom my mother loved and who loved my

mother, you who have done so much to help and comfort me in the last

half-hour--will you do something more?"

"I suppose I shall," Anastasia answered, with a laugh which was against

herself rather than against him. "I seem to be pretty thoroughly

committed to this business for--well, for two people's sakes, perhaps."

"Yes, for her sake also--for hers as well as mine," Adrian cried,

impetuously. "Those few words are beautifully full of encouragement.

For see here," he went on, "in some ways I am just simply an obstinate,

pig-headed Englishman. You permit me to speak quite freely? Loosing

her, I cannot console myself elsewhere. It is not merely a wife that I

want; having reached the age when a man should range himself a

well-bred, healthy, and generally unexceptionable mother for his

children! Don't imagine that I would not like to make my subscription

to humanity in the form of charming babies. Of course I should. Still

those small people, however beguiling, are not to the point in this

connection. I am not in pursuit of a suitable marriage, but of--"

"_La belle Gabrielle_--only and solely _la belle Gabrielle_--that must

be conspicuously evident to the meanest intelligence," Anastasia put

in, merrily. "But there, unfortunately, we run up against the crux of

the whole situation. For, it is only fair to tell you, our exquisite

young woman is even less in pursuit of a suitable marriage than you

yourself are. We have had some intimate conversations, she and I.

Don't imagine for an instant your name, or any other name, has been

hinted at, much less mentioned. But she has been good enough to bestow

her confidence upon me, in as far as she bestows it upon any one.

Fundamentally she is a mysterious creature, and that's exactly why, I

suppose, one finds her so endlessly interesting. And, from those

conversations, I gather her mind is set on things quite other than

marriage."

"Ah! just Heaven--and what things, then?" poor Adrian exclaimed,

distraction again threatening him.

"She would, I think, have very great difficulty in telling you."

Here distraction did more than threaten. It jumped on him, so that in

his agitation he positively bounced, ball-like, upon the seat of the

sofa.

"I knew it," he cried. "I was sure of it. Almost immediately I

detected an alien and inimical influence intrude itself between us, as

I have already told you, and battle against me. And this was the more

detestable to me because I felt powerless to combat it, being ignorant

whence it came and what its nature actually was."

Miss Beauchamp looked at him indulgently. And he, distraction

notwithstanding, perceived that her countenance once more had grown

sibylline. This served sensibly to quiet and steady him.

"I fancy that influence comes from very deep and very far," she said.

"A woman of so much temperament and so much intelligence as Gabrielle

St. Leger must, of necessity, be the child of the age in which she

lives, in touch with the spirit of it. Her eyes are turned toward the

future, and the strange unrestful wind, the wind of Modernity, which

blows from out the future, is upon her face. This is the influence you

have to battle against, my dear young man, I am afraid, nothing less

than the Spirit of the Age, the spirit of Modernity. You have your

work cut out for you! To combat it successfully will be--to put it

vulgarly--a mighty tough job."

"Like King David of old, I'd rather fall into the hands of God than

into those of man," Adrian returned, with rather rueful humor.

"Is one so very sure they are the hands of the Almighty? Too often one

has reason to suspect they belong to exactly the opposite person--the

inspirer--namely, of so many of your friend M. René Dax's unpardonable

caricatures. But there," she added, "I don't want to give place to

prejudice; though whether Modernity is veritably the highroad to the

state of human earthly felicity its exponents so confidently--and

truculently--predict, or not rather to some appalling and final

catastrophe, some Armageddon, and Twilight of the Gods, appears to me,

in the existing stage of its evolution, open to the liveliest question.

Fortunately, at my time of life one is free to stand aside and look on,

passively awaiting the event without taking part in the production of

it. But with Madame St. Leger, as with yourself, it is different. You

are on the active list. Whether you like or not, you are bound to

participate in the production of the event--and she, at least, is by no

means unwilling to do so."

"But how, _chère Mademoiselle_, but how?" Adrian questioned.

"After a fashion you can hardly be expected to indorse

enthusiastically."

Miss Beauchamp shaded her eyes with her left hand again, while the many

bracelets slipping up her thin wrist clinked and rattled.

"See here, my dear Savage," she said, "among all the destructions and

reconstructions, the changes--many of them nominal rather than real,

and, consequently, superfluous--of which Modernity is made up, one

change is very real and has, I sincerely believe, come to stay. I mean

the widespread change in thought and attitude of my sex toward yours."

"Feminism, in short."

"In short, Feminism."

A little silence followed. Then: "You take the dose very nicely,"

Anastasia said.

"Perhaps I take it so nicely because I am convinced it is innocuous.

On the other hand, perhaps I don't take it at all. Really, I am not

certain which."

He shifted his position, planting his elbows on his knees and his chin

in the hollow of his hands.

"The deuce, the deuce!" he said, softly, tapping one long-toed boot

meditatively upon the floor.

Miss Beauchamp watched him, amused, observant, making no comment.

"I am sorry," he went on, presently. "It's all moonshine, of course.

Nature's too strong for them. In the end they must come into line."

"Moonshine has often proved a very dangerous, because so very

intangible an enemy. And the end promises to be far off."

"Yes, I am sorry," Adrian repeated, "very sorry, we were over in

England I could understand. Women there have an excuse for revolt.

All Englishmen are pedants, even in their games, even in their sport.

They have been called a nation of shopkeepers. They might with equal

truth be called a nation of schoolmasters; not because they desire to

impart knowledge, but because they crave to exercise power and prove,

to themselves, their innate superiority by the chastisement of others.

Ah! I have witnessed plenty of that in the last month! Truly, they

are very disagreeable sons, husbands, and fathers, those middle-class

Britons, the schoolmaster, so to speak, permanently on top. And there

are not even enough of them to go round! Numerically they are

inferior; and this helps to feed their arrogance and inflame their

conceit. But even if there were enough, they wouldn't--if I may so

express myself--go round. On the contrary, they would go in the

opposite direction, to their own selfish pleasures, their clubs, their

playing-fields, their interminable football, and cricket, and golf."

"Hum--hum! What about the British flag you waved so vigorously five

minutes ago?"

"Did I? Forget it, then. It was a passing aberration. I repent and

wrap myself once more in the folds of the tricolor. Most distinctly

that is the flag under which a lover of your adorable sex should fight!"

"With the Gallic cock set symbolic at the top of the flag-staff?"

"And why not? Why not? Who can do otherwise than behold with approval

that smart, well-groomed, abundantly amatory, I grant you, but also

abundantly chivalrous fowl? His absence is, in a sense, precisely that

with which I quarrel on the other side of the Channel. It goes to make

the revolt of the Englishwoman comprehensible. Her countrymen's

relation to her is so inartistic, so utilitarian, so without delicate

humor. We hear of her freedom from annoyance, her personal security.

But in what do these take their rise? Simply in her countrymen's

indifference to her--to her emotions, her mentality, her thousand and

one delicate needs, elusive and charming necessities. If he thinks

about her at all, it is with the schoolmaster's odious design of

correcting her faults, of improving her. The blatant conceit of the

animal! As if she could be improved, as if she were not perfect

already! But stay. There I pause to correct myself. The Englishwoman

is susceptible of improvement. And how? By being snubbed, depressed,

depreciated, grumbled at, scolded, made to think meanly of herself?

Never a bit.--She has suffered generations of that treatment already.

By being admired, reverenced, playfully delighted in, appreciated,

encouraged."

Adrian spread abroad his hands with the most amiably persuasive

expression and gesture.

"Ah! believe me, dear friend," he cried, "when Luther, the burly

renegade German monk; Calvin, the parchment-dry, middle-class Picard

lawyer, and English 'King Hal,' of grossest memory, conspired to depose

Our Blessed Lady from her rightful throne in heaven, they,

incidentally, went far to depose woman from her rightful throne here

upon earth. So that, small wonder, having no eternal, universal

Mother, whose aid and patronage she can invoke in hours of perplexity

and distress, the modern, non-Catholic woman is constrained to rush

around in prison-vans, or any other unlovely public vehicle which may

come handy, invoking the aid of parliamentary suffrage and kindred

dreary mechanical forms of protection against the tedious tyrannies of

arrogant, sullen, selfish, slow-witted, birch-rod-wielding, pedagogic

man. Yes, truly, as over there, I understand, I sympathize. But here,

where, though we may have tolerated, even invented, Revolution, we have

at least withstood that most time-serving and inartistic compromise,

Reformation--with an impudent capital letter--here, in the patrimony of

Chantecler, enveloped in the folds of the gallant tricolor, surely such

revolt is unreasonable, is out of place! For here are we not all

Feminists, every man-jack of us? _Chère Mademoiselle_, you know that

we are. What more, then, have the members of your adored sex to ask?"

And, for the moment, Anastasia Beauchamp's usually ready tongue played

her false. The whirl of words had been somewhat overpowering, while,

through the whirl, his good faith was so transparently apparent, his

argument suggested rather than aggressively pressed home, so evidently

to himself conclusive, that a cogent answer was far from easy to frame.

"What more have they to ask?" she said, presently, smiling at him.

"Well, just those alluring, because new, untried and intangible

satisfactions which the Spirit of the Age promises so largely, and

which you, my dear Savage, if you'll pardon my saying, don't and can't

promise at all."

"The Spirit of the Age now, as so often in history, will prove a false

prophet, a charlatan and juggler, making large promises which he will

fail to redeem," Adrian declared. "See, do not art, nature, the

cumulative result of human experience, combine to discredit his methods

and condemn his objects?"

"Convince Gabrielle St. Leger of that, and my thanks and applause will

not be wanting."

"I will convince her," Adrian cried, with growing exaltation. "I will

convince her. I devote my life to that purpose, to that end."

And thereupon a certain solemnity seemed to descend upon and diffuse

itself through the quiet, lofty room, affecting both speaker and

listener, causing them to sit silent, as though in hushed suspense,

awaiting the sensible ratification of some serious engagement entered

into, some binding oath taken. In the stillness faint, fugitive echoes

reached them of the palpitating life and movement of the city outside.

The effect was arresting. To Adrian it seemed as though he stood on

the extreme edge, the crumbling, treacherous verge, of some momentous

episode in which he was foredoomed to play a part, but a part alien to

his desires and defiant of his control. While--and this touched him

with intimate, though half-ashamed, shrinking and repudiation--not

Gabrielle St. Leger, but Joanna Smyrthwaite appeared to stand beside

him imploring rescue and safety upon that treacherously crumbling

verge. His sense of her presence was so acute, so overmastering in its

intensity, that he felt in an instant more he should hear her flat,

colorless voice and be compelled--how unwillingly!--to meet the fixed

scrutiny of her pale, insatiable eyes.

Then, startling in its suddenness as the ping of a rifle-bullet, came a

very different sound to that of Joanna's toneless voice close at hand.

For, with a wrenching twang and thin, piercing, long-drawn vibration

which shuddered through the air, shuddered through every object in the

room, strangely setting in motion that pervasive scent of cedar and

sandalwood, a string of the piano broke.

Miss Beauchamp uttered an angry, yet smothered, cry, as one who

receives and resents an unexpected hurt. And Adrian, alarmed,

agitated, hardly understanding what had actually occurred, turning to

her, perceived that her countenance again had changed. Now it was that

neither of sibyl nor of jester, but vivid, keen with fight. Yet, even

as he looked, it grew gray, grief-smitten, immeasurably, frighteningly

old.

Natural pity, and some inherited instinct of healing, made the young

man lean toward her and take her hand in his, holding and chafing it,

while his finger-tips sought and found the little space between the

sinews of the wrist where the tides of life ebb and flow. Her pulse

was barely perceptible, intermittent, weak as a thread.

Adrian took the other passive hand, and, chafing both, used this

contact as a conduit along which to transmit some of his own fine

vitality. His act of willing this transmission was conscious,

determined, his concentration of purpose great; so that presently,

while he watched her, the grayness lifted, her lips regained their

normal color, her pulse steadied and strengthened, and her face filled

out, resuming its natural contours. Then as she moved sat upright,

smiling, an unusual softness in her expression.

"Don't attempt to speak yet," he said, still busy with and somewhat

excited by his work of restoration. "Rest a little. I have been a

shameless egoist this evening. I have talked too much, have made too

heavy a demand upon your sympathies, and so have exhausted you."

"Whatever you may have taken, you have more than paid back," she

answered. She was touched--a nostalgia being upon her for things no

longer possible, for youth and all the glory and sweetness of youth.

"It is not for nothing that you are the son of a famous physician and

of a woman of remarkable imaginative gifts," she went on. "You have

_la main heureuse_, life-giving both to body and spirit. This is a

power and a great one. But now that, thanks to you, my weakness is

passed we will not remain in this room. You said it was full of

splendid echoes, good for the soul. It is rather too full of them,

since one's soul is still weighted with a body. I find them oppressive

in their suggestion and demand. Frankly, I dare not expose myself to

their influence any longer."

Helped by Adrian, she rose and, taking his arm, moved slowly toward the

doorway.

"Sometimes, unexpectedly, the merciful dimness which holds our eyes is

broken up, giving place to momentary clear-seeing of all which lies

beyond and around the commonplace and conventional medium in which we

live. Unless one is rather abnormally constituted that clear-seeing is

liable to blind rather than to illuminate. Flesh and blood aren't

quite equal to it. And so with the snapping of the piano string.

Doubtless the causes were simple enough--some peculiar atmospheric

conditions, along with the fact that the instrument has been unused for

many months. Still in me it produced one of those fateful instants of

clairvoyance. I knew it for the signing of a death-warrant. Not my

own. Thanks to the kindly ministrations of _la main heureuse_ the

signature of that particular warrant is postponed for a while yet. Nor

yours either, of that I am convinced. I cannot say whose. The

clear-seeing was too rapidly obscured by failing bodily strength. I am

not talking nonsense. This has happened twice before. The second time

a string broke my brother's death followed within the year."

"And the first time?" Adrian felt impelled to ask. His recent

expenditure of will-power had left his nerves in a state of slightly

unstable equilibrium which rendered him highly impressionable.

"The first time?" Miss Beauchamp repeated, lifting her hand from his

arm. "The death of that other true lover, who listened here to my

playing, of the friend who walked with me in the hidden garden,

followed the breaking of the first string."

Adrian stepped forward and held aside the embroidered curtain, letting

her pass into the drawing-room. Here the air was lighter, the moral

and emotional atmosphere, as it seemed to him, lighter likewise. He

was aware of a relaxation of mental tension and a deadening of

sensation which he at once welcomed and regretted. He waited a few

seconds until he was sure that in his own case, too, any disquieting

tendency to clairvoyance was over and the conventional and commonplace

had fairly come back.

Miss Beauchamp passed on into the first room of the suite. Here the

lights were turned on and he found her seated at a little supper-table,

vivacious, accentuated in aspect and manner, flaming pagoda of curls

and frisky cinnamon-colored, sequin-sewn tea-gown once again very much

in evidence. But these things no longer jarred on him. He could view

them in their true perspective, as the masquerade make-up with which a

proud woman elected--in self-defense--to disguise too deep a knowledge,

too sensitive a nature, and too passionate a heart.

"Yes, sit down, my dear Savage," she cried, "sit down. Eat and drink.

For really it is about time we both indulged in what are vulgarly

called 'light refreshments.' We have been surprisingly clever, you and

I, and have rubbed our wits together to the emission of many sparks! I

am not a bit above restoring wasted tissue in this practical

manner--nor, I trust, are you. Moreover, our lengthy discourse

notwithstanding, I have still five words to say to you. For, see, very

soon Madame St. Leger's period of mourning will be over. She will

begin to go into society again."

"Alas! yes." Adrian sighed.

"You don't like it? Probably not. You would prefer keeping her, like

blessed St. Barbara, shut up on the top of her tower, I dare say. But

doesn't it occur to you that there are as insidious dangers on the

tower top as in the world below--visits from the little horror, M. René

Dax, for example? Anyhow, she will shortly very certainly descend from

the tower. For we are neither of us, I suppose, under the delusion she

has buried all her joy of living in poor Horace St. Leger's grave."

"I have no violent objection to her not having done so," Adrian said,

with becoming gravity.

"That first descent after her long seclusion will be critical. She

will need protection and advice."

"Her mother, Madame Vernois, is at hand," Adrian remarked, perhaps

rather tentatively.

"Yes, a sweet person and a devoted mother; but a little conspicuously

with the outlook and moral standards of a past generation. She is at

once too charitable and too humble-minded to be a judge of

character--one born to follow rather than to lead--and, though a woman

of breeding and position, always a provincial. She followed Professor

Vernois as long as he was here to follow. Then she followed her noble

and needy relations away in Chambéry. Now she follows her beautiful

daughter. And the daughter, in the near future, is going to be a mark

for the archers--male and female. Already I have reason to believe

that archery practice has begun. The sweet, timid mother, though

perplexed and anxious, hasn't a notion how to turn those arrows aside."

Miss Beauchamp gazed into the shallow depths of her wine-glass.

"It's an unsavory subject," she continued, "and, I agree with you,

Feminism has next to no legitimate excuse for existence here. That is

just why, I imagine, it has allied itself with ideas and practices not

precisely legitimate. It makes its appeal to by no means the most

exalted elements of our very mixed human nature."

"Ah! but," Adrian broke out in a white heat of anger, "it is not

possible! Such persons would never presume--"

"They have already presumed. Zélie de Gand, helped by I don't quite

know who, though I have my suspicions, has approached Madame St. Leger.

She is crazy to recover lost ground, to get herself and her clique

reinstated. Madame St. Leger's beauty, brains, and her reputation--so

absolutely unsullied and above suspicion--represent an immense asset to

any cause she may embrace."

"But need she embrace any cause?"

"My dear young man," Miss Beauchamp returned, smiling rather broadly,

"you had better take it for said, once and for all, that a beautiful

young woman of seven and twenty, who is beginning the world afresh

after being relieved of a not entirely satisfactory marriage, is

perfectly certain to embrace--well--well--Something, if she doesn't

embrace Somebody."

Presently, after a silence, Anastasia spoke again, gently and seriously.

"I am altogether on your side," she said. "But I cannot pretend it is

plain sailing for you. There is a reserve of enthusiasm in her nature,

an heroic strain pushing her toward great enterprises. It may be she

will suffer before she arrives, will be led astray, will follow

delusions. Her mind is critical rather than creative. She is disposed

to distrust her instincts and to reason where she had ten thousand

times better only feel. And, as I tell you, she looks toward the

future; the restless wind of it is upon her face, alluring, exciting

her. No--no--it is not plain sailing for you, my dear young man. But,

for Heaven's sake, don't let true love be your undoing, seducing you

from work, from personal achievement in your own admirable world of

letters. For remember, the greater your own success the more you have

to offer. And the modern woman asks that. She requires not merely

Somebody to whom to give herself, but Something which shall so satisfy

her brain and her ambitions as to make that supreme act of giving worth

while."

Anastasia smiled wistfully, sadly.

"Yes, indeed, times have changed and the fashion of them! Man's

supremacy is very quaintly threatened. For the first time in the

history of the human race he finds sex at a discount.--But now

good-night, my dear Savage. Whenever you think I can help you, come.

You will always be welcome. And--this last word at parting--do your

possible to keep that little horror away from her. In him Modernity

finds a most malign embodiment. Farewell."

CHAPTER VI

RECORDING THE VIGIL OF A SCARLET HOMUNCULUS AND

ARISTIDES THE JUST

The gray lemur sat before the fire in a baby's scarlet-painted cane

chair. He kept his knees well apart, so that the comfortable warmth,

given off by the burning logs and bed of glowing ashes, might reach his

furry concave stomach and the inside of his furry thighs. His long,

ringed tail, slipped neatly under the arm of the little scarlet chair,

lay, like a thick gray note of interrogation, upon the surface of the

black Aubusson carpet. Now and again he leaned his slender,

small-waisted body forward, grasping the chair-arms with his two

hands--which resembled a baby's leather gloves with fur backs to

them--and advanced a sensitive, inquisitive, pointed muzzle toward the

blaze, his nose being cold. His movements were attractive in their

composure and restraint. For this quadrumanous exile from sub-tropic

Madagascan forests was a dignified little personage, not in the least

addicted, as the vulgar phrase has it, to giving himself away.

At first sight the lemur, sitting thus before the fire, appeared to be

the sole inhabitant of the bare white-walled studio. Then, as the eye

became accustomed to the dusky light, shed by hanging electric lamps

with dark smoked-glass shades to them, other queer living creatures

disclosed their presence.

At the end of the great room farthest from the door, where it narrowed

in two oblique angles under high, shelving skylights, in a glass

tank--some five feet by three and about two feet deep--set on a square

of mosaic pavement, goldfish swam lazily to and fro. In the center of

the tank, about the rockwork built up around the jet of a little

tinkling fountain, small, dull-hued tortoises with skinny necks and

slimy carapaces and black-blotched, orange-bellied, crested tritons

crawled. While all round the room, forming a sort of dado to the

height of above five feet, ran an arabesque of scenes and figures, some

life-size, some even colossal, some minute and exquisitely finished,

some blurred and half obliterated, in places superimposed, sketched one

over the other to the production of madly nightmarish effects of heads,

limbs, trunks, and features attached, divided, flung broadcast, heaped

together in horrible promiscuosity. All were drawn boldly, showing an

astonishing vivacity of line and mastery of attitude and expression, in

charcoal or red and black chalk, or were washed in with the brush in

Indian ink and light red. In the dusky lamplight and scintillating

firelight this amazing decoration seemed endowed with life and

movement, so that shamelessly, in unholy mirth, hideousness, and

depravity it stalked and pranced, beckoned, squirmed, and flaunted upon

those austerely snow-white walls.

For the rest, chairs, tables, easels, even the model's movable

platform, were, like the carpet, dead black. Two low, wide divans

upholstered in black brocade stood on either side of the deep

outstanding chimney-breast; and upon the farther one, masked by a

red-lacquer folding screen, amid a huddle of soft, black pillows, flat

on its back, a human form reposed--but whether of living man or of

cleverly disposed lay figure remained debatable, since it was shrouded

from head to heel in a black silk _resai_, even the face being covered,

and its immobility complete.

On taking leave of Anastasia Beauchamp, Adrian Savage had found himself

in no humor either for work or for sleep. His search for the further

reason had led him a longer journey than he anticipated. And in some

of its stages that journey offered disquieting episodes. He admitted

he was still puzzled, still anxious; more than ever determined as to

the final result, yet hardly more clear as to how the result in

question might be obtained. There were points which needed thinking

out, but to think them out profitably he must regain his normal

attitude of mind and self-possession. So, reckoning it useless to go

home to his well-found bachelor apartments in the _rue de

l'Université_, he decided to walk till such time as physical exercise

had regulated both his bodily and mental circulation.

It happened to be the moment of the turn-out of theaters and other

places of entertainment, and, as the young man made his way down toward

the _Place de l'Opéra_, the aspect of the town struck him as

conspicuously animated and brilliant. His eyes, still focused to the

quiet English atmosphere and landscape, were quick to note the contrast

to these presented by his existing surroundings. He invited

impressions, looking at the scene sympathetically, yet idly, as at the

pages of a picture-book. Strong effects of light and color held the

ground plan, above which the tall, many-windowed houses rose as some

pale striated cliff-face toward the strip of infinitely remote,

star-pierced sky. It was sharply cold, and through the exciting tumult

of the streets he could detect a shrill singing of wind in telegraph

and telephone wires and amid the branches of the leafless trees. In

like manner, passing from the material to the moral plane, through the

accentuated vivacity of the amusement-seeking crowd, he seemed to

detect, as so often in Paris--is not that, indeed, half the secret of

her magic and her charm?--a certain instability and menace, a shrill

singing of possible social upheaval, of Revolution always there close

at hand awaiting her surely recurrent hour of opportunity.

To Adrian, after precedent-ridden, firmly planted, middle-class England

and the English, that effect of instability, that shrill singing of

social upheaval, proved stimulating. He breathed it in with conscious

enjoyment while negotiating thickly peopled pavements or madly tram-

and- motor-rushed crossings. For these dear Parisians, as he told

himself, alike in mind and in appearance, are both individual and

individualists with a positive vengeance, possessing not only the

courage of their physical types--and making, for beauty or the reverse,

the very most of them--and the courage of their convictions; but the

courage of their emotions likewise. And how refreshingly many are

those emotions, how variegated, how incalculable, how explosive! How

articulate, too, ready at a moment's notice to justify their existence

by the discharge of salvos of impassioned rhetoric! If the English

might fairly be called a nation of pedants, these might, with at least

equal fairness, be called a nation of comedians; not in the sense of

pretending, of intentionally playing a part--to that affectation the

English were far more addicted--but in the sense of regarding

themselves and life from a permanently dramatic standpoint. Wasn't it

worth while to have been away for a time, since absence had so

heightened his appreciation of racial contrasts and power of

recognizing them?

And there he paused in his pæan. For on second thoughts, were these

psychologic determinations so well worth the practical cost of them?

Is gain of the abstract ever worth loss in the concrete? His thought

turned with impatience to Stourmouth, to the Tower House and its

inhabitants, and to the loss of precious time which devotion to their

affairs had, in point of fact, caused him. Resultant appreciation of

psychologic phenomena seemed but a meager recompense for such

expenditure. For this absence had made him lose ground in relation to

Madame St. Leger. Miss Beauchamp intimated as much; intimated, too,

that while he lost ground others had gained it, had done their best to

jump his claim, so to speak, and had, in a measure at least,

succeeded--take Mademoiselle Zélie de Gand, for example.

Whereupon Adrian ceased to take any interest, philosophic or otherwise,

in the wonderful midnight streets and midnight people; becoming himself

actively, even aggressively, individualist, as he brushed his way

through the throng, his expression the reverse of urbane and his pace

almost headlong.

For who, in the devil's name, had dared give that much-discussed,

plausible, very astute and clever, also very much discredited arrivist

and novelist--Zélie de Gand--an introduction to Madame St. Leger? Miss

Beauchamp owned to a suspicion. And then, yes, of course he remembered

last year meeting the great Zélie at René Dax's studio! Remembered,

too, how René had pressed a short story of hers upon him for

publication in the Review; and had sulked for a week afterward

when--not without laughter--he had pronounced the said story quite

clearly unprintable. Did René, after all, represent the further

reason, not as aspirant to _la belle Gabrielle's_ thrice-sacred hand

indeed; but as her mental director, inciting her to throw in her lot

with agitators and extremists, Feminists, Futurists, and such-like

pestilent persons--enemies of marriage and of the family, of moral and

spiritual authority, of all sane canons of art, music and literature,

reckless anarchists in thought and purpose if not, through defective

courage, in actual deed? Was this what Anastasia Beauchamp hinted at?

Was it against risk of such abominable stabling of swine in his own

particular Holy of Holies--for the young man's anger and alarm, now

thoroughly aroused, tended to express themselves in no measured

language--she did her best to warn him?

Again, as earlier that day, a necessity for immediate and practical

action laid hold on him. Delay became not only intolerable, but

unpardonable. He must know, and he must also prevent this campaign of

defilement and outrage going further. Wherefore he bolted into the

first empty cab, had himself whirled to the _Boulevard du

Montparnasse_, and projected himself, bomb-like, bursting with protest

and indignation, into René Dax's great, dusky, white-walled studio; to

find, in the stillness, nothing more pertinent to the matter in hand

than the gentle, gray lemur sitting in its scarlet-painted baby's chair

before the fire, the orange-and-black blotched newts and small ancient

tortoises crawling upon the rock-work of the little fountain, while in

the glass tank the gleaming fishes swam lazily to and fro. Of the

owner of this quaint menagerie no signs were visible.

But neither René's absence nor the presence of his queer associates

held Adrian's attention more than a few seconds; for, upon an easel

facing him as he entered, placed where the light of the hanging lamps

fell strongest, was a drawing in red chalk, which at once fed his anger

by its subject and commanded his unqualified admiration by its

consummate beauty and art.

Nearly half life-size, the figure poised, the head slightly inclined,

proudly yet lovingly, toward the delicious child she carried on her

arm, Gabrielle St. Leger stepped toward him, as on air, from off the

tall panel of ivory-tinted cartridge paper. The attitude was precisely

that in which he had seen her this afternoon, when she told René Dax

the "door should remain open since little Bette wished it." The two

figures were rendered with a suavity, yet precision, of treatment, a

noble assurance of line and faithfulness of detail, little short of

miraculous considering the time in which the drawing must have been

executed.--Yes, it was _la belle Gabrielle_ to the life; and alive--how

wonderfully alive! The tears came into the young man's eyes, so deeply

did this counterfeit presentment of her move him, and so very deeply

did he love her. He noted, in growing amazement, little details, even

little blemishes, dear to his heart as a lover, since these

differentiated her beauty from that of other beautiful women, giving

the original, the intimate and finely personal note.

And then anger shook him more sharply than ever, for how dare any man,

save himself, note these infinitely precious, because exclusively

personal, touches? How dare René observe, still more how dare he

record them? His offense was rank; since to do so constituted an

unpardonable liberty, a gross intrusion upon her individuality. René

knew too much, quite too much, and, for the moment, Adrian was assailed

by a very simple and comprehensive desire to kill him.

But now a wave of humiliation, salt and bitter, submerged this unhappy

lover. For not only was that little devil of a Tadpole's drawing a

masterpiece in its realization of the outward aspect of Gabrielle St.

Leger, but of insight into the present workings of her mind and heart.

Had not he apprehended and set forth here, with the clarity and force

of undeniable genius, just all that which Anastasia Beauchamp had tried

to tell him--Adrian Savage--about her? What he, Adrian,

notwithstanding the greatness of his devotion, fumbled over and

misinterpreted, René grasped unaided, and thus superbly chronicled!

For, here indeed, to quote Anastasia, Gabrielle's eyes were turned

toward the future and the strange unrestful wind--the wind of

Modernity--which blows from out the future, was upon her face; with the

result that her expression and bearing were exalted, a noble going

forth to meet fate in them, she herself as one consecrated, at once the

embodiment and exponent of some compelling idea, the leader of some

momentous movement, the elect spokeswoman of a new and tremendous age.

Beholding all which, poor Adrian's spirits descended with most

disintegrating velocity into his boots, and miserably camped at that

abject level. For though he might declare, and very honestly believe,

the idea in question, the movement in question, to be so much

moonshine, and the Spirit of the Age a rank impostor, how did he

propose to convince Madame St. Leger of that? The inquiry brought him

up as against a brick wall. Yes, Miss Beauchamp had been rather

cruelly right when she told him his work was cut out for him and would

prove a mighty tough job. For what, calmly considered, had he, after

all, to offer as against those alluring and immense

perspectives?--Really, when he came to ask himself, it made him

blush.--Only an agreeable, fairly talented and well-conditioned young

man--that was all; and marriage--marriage, an old story to Gabrielle, a

commonplace affair about which she already knew everything that there

is to know. Of course she didn't know everything about it, he went on,

plucking up a little spirit again. Hers had been a marriage of

convenience; a marriage of reason. Poor Horace was by a whole

generation her senior. Whereas, in the present case, it all would be

so different--a great and exclusive passion, et cetera, et cetera. He

would have liked to wax eloquent, descanting upon that difference and

its resultant illuminating values. But his eloquence stuck in his

throat somehow. Himself as a husband--humor compelled him to own, with

a pretty sharp stab of mortification, this a rather stale and meager

programme as alternative to cloudy splendors of self-consecration to

the mighty purposes of Modernity and the Spirit of the Age.

"She is very beautiful, is she not, my Madonna of the Future?"

René Dax asked the question in soft, confidential accents. He stood at

Adrian's elbow, clothed in a scarlet Japanese silk smoking-suit. Upon

his neat bare feet he wore a pair of black Afghan sandals. Uttering

little loving, crooning cries, the gray lemur balanced itself upon his

shoulders, clasping his great domed head with thin furry arms and

furry-backed, black-palmed hands, the finger-tips of which just met

upon the center of his forehead.

"I have been watching, from behind the screen, the effect she produced

on you. I have given up going to bed, you see. I wrap myself in

blankets and quilts and sleep here--when I do sleep--upon one of the

divans. It is more artistic. It is simpler. The bed, when you come

to consider it, is, like the umbrella, the mark of the bourgeois, of

the bourgeoise and of all their infected progeny. It represents, as

you may say, the battle-cry of middle-class civilization. The domestic

hearth? No, no. The domestic bed. How far more scientific and

philosophic a definition! Therefore I abjure it.--So I was lying there

on the divan in meditation. I am preparing illustrations for an

_édition de luxe of Les Contes Drolatiques_. It is not designed for

family reading. It will probably be printed in Belgium and sold at

Port Said. I lie on my back. I cover my face, thus isolating myself

from contemplation of surrounding objects, so that my imagination may

play freely around those agreeable tales. In the midst of my

meditation I heard you burst in. At first I felt annoyed. Then I

arose silently and watched the effect this portrait produced on you. I

was rewarded; for it knocked the bluster pretty effectually out of you,

eh, _mon vieux_? I saw you droop, grow dejected, pull your beard, wipe

your eyes, eh? And you deserved all that, for your manner was

offensive this afternoon. You treated me disrespectfully. Have you

now come to apologize? It would be only decent you should do so. But

I do not press the point. I can afford to be magnanimous, since, in

any case, I am even with you. My Madonna is my revenge."

"I did not come to apologize, but to demand explanation," Adrian began,

hotly. Then his tone changed. Truly he was very unhappy, very heavy

of heart. "You are right," he added. "This drawing is your revenge."

"You do not like my drawing."

"On the contrary, I find it glorious, wonderful."

"And it hurts you?"

"Yes, it hurts me," he answered hoarsely, backing away. "I hate it."

"I am so glad," René said, sweetly. He put his hand behind his scarlet

back, and tweaked the tip of the lemur's long furry tail affectionately.

"You hear, you rejoice with me, oh, venerable Aristides!" he murmured.

To which the little creature replied by clasping his head more tightly

and making strange, coaxing noises.

"But there,--for the moment my Madonna has done precisely what I asked

of her, so now let us talk about something else, _mon vieux_, something

less controversial. Why not? For here, after all, she is fixed, my

Madonna. She can't run away, happily. We can always return and,

though she is mine, I will permit you to take another look at her.

So--well--do you remark how I have changed my decorative scheme since

you last visited me? Is it original, startling, eh? That is what I

intended. Again I felt the need to simplify. I called for plasterers,

painters, upholsterers. When they will be paid I haven't a conception;

but that is a contemptible detail. I rushed them. I harried them. I

drove them before me like a flock of geese, a troop of asses. 'Work,'

I screamed, 'work. Delay is suffocation to my imagination. This

transformation must be effected instantly.' For suddenly color

sickened me. I comprehended what a fraud, what a subterfuge and

inanity it is. Form alone matters, alone is permanent and essential.

Color bears to form the same relation which emotion bears to reason,

which sensation bears to intellect. It represents an attitude rather

than an entity. I recognized it as adventitious, accidental,

unscientific, hysterical. So I had them all washed out, ripped off,

obliterated, my tender, tearful blues and greens, my caressing pinks,

my luscious mauves and purples, my rapturously bilious, sugar-sweet

yellows, all my adorably morbid florescence of putrifaction in

neutral-tinted semi-tones, and limited my scheme to this harshly

symbolic triad. See everywhere, everywhere, black, white, red--these

three always and only--beating upon my brain, feeding my eyes with

thoughts of darkness, night, death, the bottomless pit, despair,

iniquity; of light, day, snow, the colorless ether, virtue, the child's

blank soul, immaculate sterility. And then red--red, the horrid

whipper-in and huntsman of us all, meaning life, fire, lust, pain,

carnage, sex, revolution and war, scarlet-lipped scorn and mockery--the

raw, gaping, ever-bleeding, ever-breeding wound, in short, upon the

body of the Cosmos which we call Humanity."

The young man's affectation of imperturbability for once deserted him.

He was shaken by the force of his own speech. His voice rose,

vibrating with passion, taking on, indeed, an almost maniacal quality,

highly distressing to Adrian and altogether terrifying to the lemur,

which moaned audibly and shivered as it clutched at his forehead.

"Get down, Aristides," he cried with sudden childish petulance.

"Unclasp your hands. You scratch. You hurt me. Go back to your

little chair. I am tired. I have worked too hard. The back of my

head stabs with pain. I suffer, I suffer so badly."

He came close to Adrian, who, his nerves too very much on edge, still

stood before the noble drawing of Gabrielle St. Leger.

"I am not well," he said, plaintively. "Certainly I have overworked,

and it is all your fault. Yet listen, _mon vieux_. Your affection is

necessary to me. Therefore do not let us quarrel. I own you enraged

me this afternoon. I did not want you just then."

"Nor I you," Adrian returned, with some asperity.

"And your manner was at once insufferably brusque and insufferably

possessive. I could not let it pass. I felt it incumbent upon me to

administer correction. But I would not descend to anything commonplace

in the way of chastisement. I would lay an ingenious trap for you. I

came straight home. I seated myself here. I set up this panel, and I

drew, and drew, and drew, without pause, without food, in a tense

frenzy of concentration, of recollection, till I had completed this

portrait. I was possessed, inspired. Never have I worked with such

fury, such torment and ecstasy. For I had, at once, to assure myself

of your sentiments toward the subject of that picture, and to read you

a lesson. I had to prove to you that I, too, amount to something which

has to be reckoned with; that I, too, have power."

"You have commanding power," Adrian answered, bitterly. "The power of

genius."

"Then, then," René Dax cried, "since you acknowledge my power, will you

consent to leave my Madonna alone? Will you consent not to make any

further attempt to interfere between her and me, to pay court to and

marry her?"

The attack in its directness proved, for the moment, staggering.

Adrian stood, his eyes staring, his mouth half open, actually

recovering his breath, which seemed fairly knocked out of him by the

amazing impudence of this proposition. Yet wasn't it perfectly in the

part? Wasn't it just exactly the egregious Tadpole all over? His mind

swung back instinctively to scenes of years ago in play-ground,

class-room, dormitory, when--while though himself exasperated--he had

intervened to protect René, a boy brilliant as he was infuriating, from

the consequences of some colossal impertinence in word or deed. And

that swing back to recollection of their school-days produced in Adrian

a salutary lessening of nervous excitement, restoring his

self-confidence, focusing his outlook, both on events and persons to a

normal perspective.

"So that I may leave the stage conveniently clear for you, _mon

petit_?" he inquired, quite good-temperedly. "No, I am sorry, but I'm

afraid I cannot consent to do anything of the kind."

And then he moved away across the studio, leaving the egregious Tadpole

to digest his refusal. For he did not want to quarrel, either. Far

from it. That instinctive throw-back into their school-boy friendship

brought home to him how very much attached to this wayward being he

actually was. So that, of all things, he wanted to avoid a quarrel, if

such avoidance were consonant with restraint of René's influence in a

certain dear direction and development of his own.

"Nothing will turn me from my purpose, _mon petit_," he said, gently,

even gaily, over his shoulder. "Nothing--make sure of that--nothing,

nobody, past, present, or to come."

He proceeded, with slightly ostentatious composure, to study the dado

of pictured figures rioting along the surface of the white distempered

walls. He had delivered his ultimatum. Very soon he meant to depart,

for it was no use attempting to hold further intercourse with René

to-night. Once you brought him up short, like this, for a greater or

lesser period he was certain to sulk. It was wisest to let him have

his sulk out. And--his eyes growing accustomed to the dusky

light--good heavens, how superbly clever, how grossly humorous those

pictured figures were! Was there any draftsman living who could

compare with René Dax? No, decidedly he didn't want to quarrel with

the creature. He only wanted to prevent his confusing certain issues

and doing harm. Yet, as he passed from group to group, from one

outrageous witticism to another, the difficulty of maintaining an

equable attitude increased upon him. For it was hateful to remember

that the same hand and brain which had projected that heroic portrait

of Madame St. Leger was responsible for these indecencies as well.

Looking at some of these, thinking of that, he could have found it in

his heart, he feared, to take Master René by the throat and put an end

to his drawing for ever, so atrocious a profanity did such coexistence,

such, in a sense, correlation appear.

And then, moving on again, he started and drew back in absolute

consternation. For there, right in front of him, covering the wall for

a space of two yards or more, he came on a series of sketches--some

dashed in in charcoal, some carefully finished in red and black

chalk--of Joanna Smyrthwaite.--Joanna, arrayed in man's clothing, a

slovenly, ragged jacket suit, sagging from her thin limbs and angular

shoulders; she bareheaded, moreover, her hair cropped, her face telling

of drink and dissipation, loose-lipped, repulsive to the point of

disgust in its weakness and profligate misery, her attitudes degraded,

almost bestial as she cringed on all fours or lay heaped together like

so much shot rubbish.

Adrian put his hands over his eyes. Looked again. Turned indignantly

to demand an answer to this hideous riddle. But his host had

disappeared. Only the gray lemur sat in its scarlet-painted baby's

chair before the fire; and from off the tall white panel Gabrielle St.

Leger, carrying her child on her arm, stepped forth to meet the Future,

while the unrestful wind which blows from out the Future--the fateful

wind of Modernity--played upon her beloved face.

III

THE OTHER SIDE

CHAPTER I

RECORDING A BRAVE MAN'S EFFORT TO CULTIVATE HIS

PRIVATE GARDEN

Joseph Challoner telephoned up to Heatherleigh from his office in

Stourmouth that, being detained by business, he should dine in town

to-night. This seemed to him the safest way to manage it, since you

never could be quite sure how far your servants didn't shadow you.

He had put off dealing with the matter in question from day to day, and

week to week, because, in plain English, he funked it. True, this was

not his first experience of the kind; but, looking back upon

other--never mind about the exact number of them--other experiences of

like nature, this struck him as very much the most unpleasant of the

lot. His own moral and social standpoint had changed; there

perhaps--he hoped so--was the reason. In more senses than one he had

"come up higher," so that anything even distantly approaching scandal

was actively alarming to him, giving him--as he expressed it--"the

goose-skin all over." Yet, funk or no funk, the thing had to be seen

to. Further shilly-shallying was not permissible. The by-election for

the Baughurst Park Ward, vacant through the impending retirement of Mr.

Pottinger, was imminent. Challoner had offered himself as a candidate.

The seat was well worth gaining, since the Baughurst Park Ward was the

richest and, in many respects, most influential in the borough. To

represent it was, with a little adroit manipulation, to control a very

large amount of capital available for public purposes. Moreover, in a

year or so it must inevitably lead to the mayoralty; and Joseph

Challoner fully intended one of these days to be Mayor of Stourmouth.

Not only did the mayoralty, in itself, confer much authority and local

distinction, but it offered collateral opportunities of

self-advancement. Upon these Challoner had long fixed his thoughts, so

that already he had fully considered what course of action, in the

present, promised the most profitable line of investment in view of

that coveted future.

Should he push the construction of the new under-cliff drive, for

instance? But, as he argued, at most you could invite a Duke or

Field-Marshal to perform the opening ceremony--the latter for choice,

since it gives legitimate excuse for the military display, always

productive of enthusiasm in a conspicuously non-combatant population

such as that of Stourmouth. Unfortunately Dukes and Field-Marshals,

though very useful when, socially speaking, you could not get anything

better, were not altogether up to Challoner's requirements. He

aspired, he in fact languished, to entertain Royalty. But under-cliff

drives were no use in that connection, only justifying a little

patriotic beating of drums to the tune of coast defense, and incidental

trotting-out of the hard-worked German invasion bogey. The first came

too near party politics, the second too near family relationships, to

be acceptable to the highest in the land. No, as he very well saw, you

must sail on some other tack, cloaking your designs with the

much-covering mantle of charity if you proposed successfully to exploit

princes.

And, after all, what simpler? Was not Stourmouth renowned as a health

resort, and are not hospitals the accredited highroad to royal favor?

A hospital, evidently; and, since it is always safest to

specialize--that enables you to make play with scare-inducing

statistics and impressive scientific formulæ, flavoring them here and

there with the sentimental anecdotal note--clearly a hospital for the

cure of tuberculosis--nothing just now more fashionable, nothing more

popular! Really, it suited him to a tee, for had not his own poor

little wife fallen a victim to the fell disease in question? And had

not he--here Challoner just managed not to put his tongue in his

cheek--had not he remained, through all these long, long years,

affectingly faithful to her memory? Therefore, not only upon the

platform, but during the private pocket-pickings he projected among the

wealthy residents of the Baughurst Park Ward, he could give a personal

turn to his appeal by alluding feelingly to the cutting short of his

own early married happiness, to the pathetic wreck of "love's young

dream" all through the operation of that terrible scourge, consumption.

Yes, quite undoubtedly, tuberculosis was, as he put it, "the ticket."

He remembered, with a movement of active gratitude toward his Maker--or

was it perhaps toward that quite other deity, the God of Chance, so

ardently worshiped by all arrivists?--the big stretch of common, Wytch

Heath, just beyond the new West Stourmouth Cemetery, recently thrown on

the market and certain to go at a low figure. Lying so high and dry,

the air up there must be remarkably bracing--fit to cut you in two,

indeed, when the wind was northerly. Clearly it was a crying shame to

waste so much salubrity upon the dead! True, Stourmouth already

bristled with sanatoria of sorts. But these were, for the most part,

defective in construction or obsolete in equipment; whereas his,

Challoner's, new Royal Hospital should be absolutely up to date,

furnished, regardless of expense, in accordance with the latest costly

fad of the latest pathological faddist. No extravagance should be

debarred, while, incidentally, handsome measure of commissions and

perquisites should be winked at so as to keep the staff, both above and

below stairs, in good humor. Salaries must be on the same extensive

scale as the rest. Later, when a certain personal end had been gained,

it would be plenty time enough to placate protesting subscribers by

discovering reprehensible waste, and preaching reform and retrenchment.

Finally, Royalty should be humbly prayed to declare the record-breaking

institution open, during his, Challoner's, tenure of office. He licked

his lips, not figuratively but literally, thinking of it. "Our

public-spirited and philanthropic Mayor, to whose generous expenditure

of both time and money, combined with his untiring zeal in the service

of his suffering fellow-creatures, we are mainly indebted for the

inception and completion of this truly magnificent charity," et cetera,

et cetera. Let them pile on the butter, bless them--he could put up

with any amount of that kind of basting--until Royalty, impressed alike

by the magnitude of his altruistic labors and touched by the tragedy of

his early sorrow--for the sentimental personal chord should here be

struck again softly--would feel constrained to bestow honors on so

deeply tried and meritorious a subject. "Sir Joseph Challoner."--He

turned the delicious phrase over in his mouth, as a small boy turns a

succulent lollipop, to get the full value and sweetness out of it. He

amplified the luscious morsel, almost blushingly. "Sir Joseph and Lady

Challoner"--not the poor little first wife, well understood, with the

fatal stamp of disease and still more fatal stamp of her father's shop

upon her, reminiscences of whose premature demise had contributed so

tactfully to the realization of his present splendor; but the second,

the coming wife, in the serious courting of whom he thirsted to embark

immediately, since she offered such conspicuous contrast to the said

poor little first one both in solid fortune and social opportunity.

Only, unluckily, before these bright unworldly dreams could even

approximately be translated into fact, there was a nasty awkward bit of

rooting up and clearing out to be done in, so to speak, Challoner's own

private back garden. And it was with a view to effecting such

clearance, quietly, unobserved and undisturbed, that he elected

to-night to eat a third-rate dinner at an obscure commercial tavern in

Stourmouth, where recognition was improbable, rather than a first-rate

one in his own comfortable dining-room at Heatherleigh.

After the consummation of that unattractive meal, he took a tram up

from The Square to the top of Hill Street, where this joins the

Barryport Road about three-quarters of a mile short of Baughurst Park

and the County Gates. Here, alighting, he turned into the maze of

roads, bordered by villas and small lodging-houses interspersed with

undeveloped plots of building land, which extends from the left of the

Barryport Road to the edge of the West Cliff. The late March evening

was fine and keen, and Challoner, whose large frame cried out for

exercise after a long day of sedentary employment, would have relished

the walk in the moist salt air had it not been for that disagreeable

bit of back-garden clearing work looming up as the ultimate purpose of

it.

In the recesses of his mind, moreover, lurked an uneasy suspicion that

he would really be very much less of a cur if he felt a good deal more

of one. This made him savage, since it appeared a reflection upon the

purity of his motives and the solid worth of his character. He stated

the case to himself, as he had stated it any number of times already,

and found it a convincingly clear one. Still that irritating suspicion

of insufficient self-disgust continued to haunt him. He ran through

the well-worn arguments again, pleading the justice of his own cause to

his own conscience. For, when all is said and done, how can any man

possessing an average allowance of susceptibility resist a pretty,

showy woman if she throws herself at his head? And Mrs. Gwynnie had

very much thrown herself at his head, pertinaciously coaxed, admired

and flattered him. Whatever had taken place was more than half her

doing--before God it was. He might have been weak, might have been a

confounded fool even; but then, hadn't every man, worth the name, a

soft side to him? Take all your famous heroes of history--weren't

there funny little tales about every one of them, from the Royal

Psalmist downward? If he, Challoner, had been a fool, he could quote

plenty of examples of that particular style of folly among the most

aristocratic company. And, looking at the actual facts, wasn't the

woman most to blame? Hadn't she run after him just all she knew how?

Hadn't she subjected him to a veritable persecution?

But now Challoner found himself at the turn into Silver Chine Road, the

long, yellow-gray web of which meandered away through the twilight,

small detached houses set in little gardens ranged on either side of it

shoulder to shoulder, the walls of them shrouded by creepers, and their

lower windows--where lights glowed faintly through muslin curtains and

drawn blinds--masked by luxuriant growth of arbutus, escallonia,

euonymus, myrtle and bay. Now and again a solitary Scotch fir, relic

of the former moorland, raised its dense crown, velvet black, against

the sulphur-stained crystal of the western sky. Stourmouth is nothing

if not well-groomed and neat, so that roads, fences, lawns and houses

looked brushed up, polished and dusted as some show-case exhibit. Only

a misanthropic imagination could suppose questionable doings or

primitive passions sheltering behind those tidy, clean-pinafored,

self-respecting gray and red house-fronts, in their setting of trim

turf, beds of just-opening snowdrops and crocuses, and fragrant

glossy-leaved shrubs.

Joseph Challoner drew up and stood, in large vexation and worry,

contemplating the pleasant, well-to-do prospect. The alert calm of an

early spring evening held the whole scene. Faintly, in the distance,

he could hear a long-drawn murmur of wind in the Baughurst woods and

the rhythmic plunge of the sea. And he was aware that--still to employ

his own not very graceful vernacular--he funked the business in hand,

consciously and very thoroughly funked it. He had all the mind in the

world to retrace his steps, board the tram again and get home to

Heatherleigh. He took off his hat, hoping the chill, moist air might

cool his tall brick-dust-red face and bare head, while he fenced thus

grimly with indecision. For it had come to that--he had grown so

ignominiously chicken-livered--had he the pluck to go on or should he

throw up the game? Let the whole show slide, in short--Baughurst Park

Ward, record-breaking hospital, probable mayoralty, possible

knighthood, wealthy second wife, whose standing and ample fortune would

lift him to the top of the best society Stourmouth could offer--and all

for the very inadequate reason that a flimsy, flirtatious, impecunious

little Anglo-Indian widow had elected to throw her bonnet over the

windmills for his sake? To Challoner it seemed hard, beastly hard, he

should be placed in such a fix. How could he be certain, moreover,

that it was for his sake, and not mainly for her own, she had sent that

precious bit of millinery flying? What assurance had he that it wasn't

a put-up job to entangle and land him, not for love of him himself, of

what he was, but for love of what he'd got?

Challoner dragged his handkerchief out of his shirt-cuff and wiped his

forehead. Of all his amatory experiences this one did, without

question, "take the cake" for all-round inconvenience and exasperation!

Of course, he went on again, picking up the thread of the argument, if

he could be convinced, could believe in the sincerity of her affection,

be certain it was he, himself, whom she really loved and wanted, not

just Heatherleigh and a decent income, that would make just all the

difference, put matters on an absolutely different footing and

radically alter his feeling toward her.

And then, with a horse-laugh, he spat on the ground, regardless of the

Stourmouth Borough Council's by-law prohibiting "expectoration in a

public place under penalty of a fine not exceeding twenty shillings."

The lie was so transparent, the hypocrisy so glaring, that, although no

stickler for truth where the truth told against him, he was obliged to

rid himself of this particular violation of it in some open and

practical manner. For he knew perfectly well that her love, whether

for the man or merely for his possessions, in no appreciable degree

affected the question. Not doubt as to the quality or object of Mrs.

Gwynnie's affections, but rank personal cowardice in face of the

situation, kept him standing here in this contemptible attitude of

indecision amid the chill sweetness of the spring dusk.

Yet that coarse outward repudiation of inward deceit, if failing to

make him a better man morally, had emotionally, and even physically, a

beneficial effect. It braced him somehow, so that he squared his

shoulders, while his native bullying pluck, his capacity of cynically

measuring himself against fact and taking the risks of the duel,

revived in him.

For this shilly-shallying didn't pay. And it wasn't like him. Every

man has a soft side to him--granted; but he'd be hung if he was going

to let himself turn a softie all over! The smart of his own gibes

stimulated him wonderfully, so that in the pride of his recovered

strength of mind, and consciousness of his brawny strength of body, he

found himself growing almost sentimentally sorry for the fate of his

puny adversary. Poor little soul, perhaps she really was in love with

him!--Challoner wiped his face again with a flourish. Well, plenty of

people did call him "a splendid-looking man"! All the same, she'd got

to go under. She must be rooted up and cleared out. He was sorry, for

it's always a nasty thing for a woman to be made to understand she is

only a side-show in a man's life. Only if he meant to stand for the

Baughurst Park Ward--and unquestionably he did now mean to do so--his

address to the electors must be printed and distributed and his canvass

started within the week. Yes, no doubt very, very sorry for her, still

he was bound to make short work with this rooting up and clearing out

of poor Mrs. Gwynnie.

Nor did his election supply the only reason against further

shilly-shally. Here Challoner cleared his throat, while the brick-dust

of his complexion deepened to crimson. It was funny how shy the

thought of Margaret Smyrthwaite always turned him! But when once the

winding up of old Montagu Smyrthwaite's estate was completed, he would

no longer have a legitimate excuse for dropping in at the Tower House

at odd hours, indulging in nice confidential little chats with Margaret

in the blue sitting-room or taking a _tête-à-tête_ stroll with her

around the gardens and through the conservatories. Miss Joanna did not

like him, he was sure of that. She certainly wouldn't give him

encouragement. So time pressed, for the completion of the winding up

of the estate could not be delayed much longer. Montagu Smyrthwaite

had left his affairs in quite vexatiously good order, from Challoner's

point of view, thereby obliging the latter to expend much ingenuity in

the invention of obstacles to the completion of business. His object

was to keep Adrian Savage out of England and away from his cousins as

long as possible. But the young man--with how much heartiness

Challoner consigned him and all his works and ways to regions

infernal!--might grow suspicious and run over from Paris just to hasten

matters. That would not suit Challoner's little game in the least. He

must make certain of his standing with Margaret before that most

unwelcome descent of the enemy.

For the whole matter of Adrian Savage had become to him as the

proverbial red rag to a bull. By its irritating associations it acted

very sensibly upon him now, causing him to charge down the road

headlong, with his heavy, lunging tread. Had Adrian proved a bad man

of business, ignorant, careless, or bungling, Challoner felt his

superiority in other departments might have been more easily stomached.

But to find this highly polished man of the world as smart a business

man as his somewhat unpolished and provincial self rubbed him very

shrewdly on the raw. When, with an eye to a not impossible future, he

essayed so to jockey affairs as to secure some advantage to Margaret

Smyrthwaite, in the disposition of her father's property, Adrian

invariably detected the attempted small swindle and promptly, though

politely, checkmated it.

Such encounters had occurred more than once; and both his own failure

and Adrian's adroitness in disposing of them rankled so much still that

Challoner walked nearly half the length of Silver Chine Road absorbed

in disagreeable remembrance. Then the name on a gate-post, which

happened to catch his eye, acquainted him with the hardly less

disagreeable fact that he neared the end of his journey.

Ferndale--and he went on repeating the names of the houses as he passed

them, mostly by rote, occasionally refreshing his memory where the

light permitted by a glance at gate or gate-post. Ferndale, then

Ambleside, The Hollies, St. Miguel, Killarney, followed by Castlebar,

The Moorings, Peshawar, Mon Repos, Clovelly. And next, after crossing

the end of St. Cuthbert's Road, Leicester Lodge, Fairlawn, Chatsworth,

Ben Nevis, Santander. Less than a year ago these same names had been

to him as mile-stones on love's pilgrimage, each one of which brought

him a few steps nearer to a hotly coveted goal. Now he waxed sarcastic

at the expense of their far-fetched, high-flown titles. Take

Chatsworth, for instance--a forty-five-pound-a-year house, rates and

taxes included, with, at the outside, an eighth of an acre of garden to

it--could snobbish silliness go much farther?

But here was Robin's Rest, capping the climax, in respect of its title,

by vulgar folly.

Challoner's large, stiff-jointed hands came down roughly on the top bar

of the little white gate. He waited a few seconds, breathing rather

stertorously.

"Robin's Rest--why not Joseph's Coat?" he snarled, "a coat of many

colors. Convenient, that, when you happen to want to turn it, perhaps!

Now, no more squish-squash. Straight ahead--go in and win, and my best

wishes to you, Sir Joseph Turncoat."

With that he swung the gate open and tramped up the path to the front

door, a certain bullying swagger in the carriage of his big person and

tall, upright head.

CHAPTER II

A STRATEGIC MOVEMENT WHICH SECURES VICTORY

WHILE SIMULATING RETREAT

Mrs. Spencer, the train of her mauve, cotton-back satin tea-gown thrown

negligently over her arm, held aside the strings of the beaded chick,

letting her guest pass into the inner hall. As she moved across to the

open door of the much be-frilled and be-palmed little drawing-room,

they rippled back into place behind her with a rattle of cane and

tinkle of glass. The familiar sound gave Challoner, who, heavily

deliberate, deposited gloves and hat on the hall table, a catch in his

throat. He found the first sight of Mrs. Gwynnie in her flimsy satin,

cream lace, and rather tired turquoise-blue ribbons, upsetting. She

was a straw-colored, insignificant-featured, fairly tall, fairly plump,

fairly graceful, uncomfortably small-waisted woman; looking, at a

distance, five-and-twenty, at close quarters, nearer five-and-thirty,

cheaply pretty and effective, though slightly washed out. And this

latter quality, or absence of quality, in her appearance took hold of

Challoner now with an appeal of pathos which he resented and made an

effort to ignore. It did not tend to the improvement of his manners or

of his temper.

"Since when have you taken to answering the front door yourself?" he

inquired, in tones of heavy banter. "Been having the periodic rumpus

with the maids again?"

"Oh no; the maids are quite good, thank you," she answered, punctuating

her speech with a little meaningless, neighing laugh habitual to her.

"I'm on excellent terms with both of them, for a wonder. But it's the

cook's evening out, and I gave Esther leave to go with her. I didn't

think we should have any particular use for them." Again she laughed.

"But didn't you get my note?"

"Yes, I got it right enough," Challoner said. He had followed her into

the drawing-room and stood with his hands behind him and his back to

the hissing gas-fire, looking down at his seal-brown frieze trousers.

The suit was almost new, yet the knees showed signs of bagging already.

This vexed him. "That is why I am here. You said you wanted to see

me. So I stayed and dined in town to save time, and came on just as I

was."

"So I perceive," she put in with meaning.

Challoner continued to contemplate the knees of his trousers. Yet he

was well aware that her eyes were fixed on another item of his

costume--namely, his waistcoat, crocheted in red and white quarter-inch

squares, and finished with a gray cloth border and flat white horn

buttons. Mrs. Spencer had worked it for him last year as a Christmas

present. He wished to goodness he had not happened to be wearing it

to-night!

"Yes," he repeated, without looking up, "I got your note right enough.

But, do you know, I begin to think I get rather too many of those

notes. You've fallen into the habit of writing too frequently.

Between ourselves, it worries me a lot."

"Why?" she asked.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Why? Because I have some regard for your reputation, I imagine. I

don't care a twopenny damn on my own account, of course. My back's

broad enough to bear the consequences of my own actions, even if they

are disagreeable. But it is quite another matter for you; and I must

say you're getting very reckless. That's not fair by me. I've been

awfully careful from the first. But where's the use of my taking

extensive precautions to shield you if you go and invite gossip like

this?"

"Don't be cross and scold me," Mrs. Spencer said, archly.

She had placed herself on the sofa at right angles to the fireplace,

drawing the train of her tea-gown aside so as to leave room for a

second occupant of this, the most solid seat in the room. The rest of

the furniture ran to wicker chairs, colored Madras muslin veiling their

original cretonne coverings, and tables, whatnots, cabinets, and

flower-pot stands with mottled brown-and-biscuit bamboo frames and

plaited straw tops, brackets, and shelves to them.

"I won't write so often if you really think it is dangerous," she added.

"It is dangerous," Challoner asserted, ignoring the invitation to share

the sofa. "Think for yourself. At Heatherleigh there are my servants.

At the office there are my clerks. Do you suppose they haven't tongues

in their mouths or eyes in their heads? If that does not constitute

danger, I'll thank you to tell me what does."

"But you forbid me to telephone, so how am I to communicate with you

unless I write? You call so seldom. I hardly ever see you now."

"Oh! come," he remonstrated, "I was here Sunday week."

"But that's Beattie's afternoon at home. You know I always give it up

to her friends. And a whole crowd of them was here Sunday week--Fred

Lawley, and the Busbridge boys, and Marion Chase. I didn't get three

words with you."

Challoner glanced at her in sharp anxiety.

"Fred Lawley come up to the scratch yet?" he asked.

"If you mean has he proposed, I am sure I can't tell you. I don't know

myself. I suppose if he had, Bee would have told me. He seems

tremendously gone on her. But you never can be sure of a man till your

engagement has been publicly announced."

It was Challoner who laughed a little this time.

"Not quite invariably even then," he said.

His chin settled into the V of the turned-back corners of his high

shirt-collar, while his eyes returned to contemplation of those

vexatiously baggy trousers. Mrs. Spencer began to speak, but he hulled

down her voice by asking, rather loudly:

"By the way, where is Miss Beattie?"

"Oh, she's gone over to Marychurch to the Quartermains. They asked her

to stop the night because the Progressive Whist Club meets at their

house. I think those club parties awfully slow, but Bee wouldn't miss

one on any account. They don't play for money, only prizes."

"China lucky pigs or a black velvet cat, home-made, with a pink ribbon

around its neck--I know the style," Challoner returned. "Fred Lawley's

the attraction, I imagine, rather than those high-class works of art."

"I don't think he'll be there. Bee said something about his having

gone to Southampton to join his ship. You seem very interested in Fred

Lawley. But I told you in my note Bee was away to-night?"

"Very likely you did--I really don't remember," he replied, hastily.

For he detected, or fancied he detected, a suggestion in her tone and

words eminently unwelcome and embarrassing. He felt the brick-dust red

of his face and neck deepening to crimson; and this both angered and

alarmed him. Notwithstanding repudiation of sentiment, was the soft

side still uppermost? That would not do. He must buckram himself more

resolutely against poor Mrs. Gwynnie's fascinations, and bring matters

to a head at once.

"But that reminds me--speaking of Beattie, I mean--what do you want

done about the lease of this house? It will be up at the end of the

half quarter."

So far Mrs. Spencer had lolled in attitudes of studied ease upon the

sofa. Now she sat bolt upright, clasping her small waist with both

hands and advancing her bust. The little neighing laugh preceded,

instead of punctuating, her speech. Challoner observed a nervous ring

in the quality of it.

"Oh! well that rests more with you than with me, doesn't it? Of course

I hadn't forgotten the lease is nearly up. It was

partly--partly"--with emphasis--"about the house I wanted to see you

to-night, and I think it awfully sweet of you to ask what I want done--"

She paused, while her auditor, in growing uneasiness, again shifted his

weight, dancing-bear fashion, from one to the other foot.

"Yes, it's awfully sweet of you to put it that way," she repeated.

"And I quite know I ought to make up my mind. I suppose, on the whole,

I had better ask you to renew the lease for a year, or six months,

unless--unless--"

"Unless what?" Challoner snapped.

He could have bitten his tongue out immediately after, perceiving how

woefully he had blundered. For, although he carefully abstained from

looking at her, he knew that the light leaped into Mrs. Spencer's eyes

and the pink into her cheek, while even her straw-colored hair, through

the intricate convolutions of which a wisp of turquoise chiffon was

twisted, took on a livelier tint. She blossomed, in short; her faded,

crumpled, played-out prettiness of person and manner transformed into

the younger, smarter, more convinced, and consequently more convincing,

prettiness which had raised an evil spirit of covetousness in him when

he first met her, and continued to provoke that covetousness

until--well, until something very much more profitable, socially and

financially, in the shape of possibly obtainable womanhood had risen

above his horizon. The moment was a very nasty one for Joseph

Challoner; since it could not but occur to him that, while responsible

for much existing damage, he was about to render himself liable for far

heavier damages in the near future. This taxed his courage. Again,

consciously, he "funked it"; so that for some few seconds Gwynneth

Spencer's fate hung in the balance. But only for a few seconds did her

fate so hang. Ambition, and a brute obstinacy in face of attempted

coercion, a certain animal necessity to prove to himself the fact of

his own strength, carried the day. Challoner turned his coat once and

for all, in as far as poor light-weight Gwynnie Spencer was concerned,

letting the underlying element of cruelty and cunning in his nature

have free play.

"Unless what?" she echoed, laughing thinly. "Why, unless you have any

other plan to propose, Joe; any arrangement which you'd like better and

which I should like better than just sticking on here indefinitely at

Robin's Rest."

Challoner had moved away to a rickety little bamboo table, set out with

cheap flower-vases and knick-knacks. Absently he picked up a

photograph, in dilapidated silver frame, from among these treasures and

stood fingering it. The coat of many colors was fairly turned; yet at

the sound of his pet name Challoner started, letting the object he held

fall to the ground, where, to his relief, silver, leather, glass,

cardboard and portrait incontinently parted company.

"I need not put it more plainly, need I?" she quavered, an upward break

in her voice. "But, of course, if you have any other plan to propose

there would be no occasion to bother about the renewal of the lease."

Challoner knelt on one knee, his large hands groping over the carpet as

he gathered up the _débris_.

"Bless me!" he said, "the wretched thing's smashed. What a nuisance!

I hope you haven't any special affection for it. I am awfully sorry.

Can't imagine how I came to drop it! Stupid of me, wasn't it? I must

get you a new one. I saw some uncommonly tasty silver frames in a shop

in the Marychurch Road to-day. I'll go in and buy you one the first

time I pass. Tell your girl to be careful when she sweeps in the

morning, though, for the glass has splintered all over the place."

He rose ponderously to his feet, and for the first time since his

arrival looked full at her.

"Peuh!" he went on, blowing out his breath and laying one hand across

the small of his back. "It strikes me I'm growing confoundedly stiff.

Old age comes on apace, eh, Mrs. Gwynnie? Not in your case, I don't

mean. You are one of the sort that wears well. I haven't seen you in

better looks for months. Some other plan to propose, did you say?

Yes, I have, otherwise I mightn't have been quite so ready to eat a

beastly bad dinner down-town, so as to be free to come on here early to

see you."

His manner had become almost boisterously jocose. Casting out the last

remnant of pity, he cast out the last remnant of fear of her even in

her present heightened prettiness. He came round behind the sofa and

perched himself on the back of it, sitting sideways, looking down at

her flushed, expectant, unimportant little face, and quite jauntily

swinging his leg.

"You'll not forget to tell them about the broken glass?" he queried,

parenthetically, "or you'll have somebody getting badly cut. As to my

alternative plan now, Mrs. Gwynnie, I have been thinking things over

too; and I feel, like you, they can't very well continue as they are.

This Robin's Rest arrangement, which served its purpose well enough at

first, is pretty thoroughly played out. We may regret that, but it is.

And, to tell you the truth, Mrs. Gwyn, I have been troubled by some

little qualms of conscience lately. Beattie's affairs have been on my

mind a lot."

"Beattie, Beattie?" she broke in, shrilly. "What on earth has Bee to

do with it?"

"The question is not so much what Beattie has to do with it"--laying

stress on the last word--"as what it has to do with Beattie," Challoner

returned, in a benevolent, heavy-father tone. "In my opinion she has

been a mighty good little sister to you, and she must be mortally tired

of keeping her eyes shut and playing gooseberry by this time. I see no

reason why her prospects should be sacrificed. She's a perfect right

to a look in of her own, poor girl."

The answer to the above might appear obvious. But Challoner gauged the

mental caliber of the person he dealt with. Mrs. Spencer's shallow,

trivial, fair-weather nature was ill-adapted to meet any great crisis.

Her small brain worked slowly, and with a permanent inclination toward

the irrelevant and indirect. He counted upon these defects of

perception and logic, and he was not disappointed.

"But--but, when I marry," she said, essaying not very successfully to

practise her little laugh, "I always meant to make it a condition that

Bee should share my home."

"Very nice and thoughtful. Quite right of you," Challoner replied,

still benevolently jocose. "Only I was talking about Beattie's

matrimonial projects just now, not about yours, you see. And you are

to blame, Mrs. Gwyn. You have been careless. I don't want to pile on

the agony, but you have been most awfully careless. There is ever so

much gossip going round. I am afraid people are beginning to look just

a little askance. And what reflects on you reflects on your sister. I

have taken the trouble to make inquiries, and, from all I hear, Fred

Lawley is a very decent young fellow and will come into some money when

his grandfather dies. He is second officer now, and stands well for

promotion. The pay is above the average, too, on that Cape line. His

people are in a good position; quite gentlefolk, a solid old clerical

family--one of his uncles a canon of some cathedral or other, I forget

which. It would be a first-class marriage for Beattie. But you cannot

expect people like that to be best pleased at his taking up with a girl

out of such a queer stable as--well, as this one, Mrs. Gwyn. Therefore

I do not think I should be acting in your sister's interests if I

renewed the lease of this house for you."

"I see that," she said, her aspect brightening. "I see what you are

coming round to. How you have thought it all out! I see--of

course--go on."

"I shall not renew the lease of this house," he repeated, slowly, "but

I propose you and Miss Beattie shall move, bag and baggage, to

Marychurch, where--"

"Marychurch? Why? I thought you meant Heatherleigh! Why? Do you

want to get rid of us? Oh!" she gasped, "oh!"

"Yes," Challoner said, jocosity waning somewhat. "Exactly, Mrs.

Gwynnie. How quick you are! I do want to get rid of you, for your own

good, and my good, and Beattie's good as well--principally for hers.

This gossip must be stopped. I cannot have it. It is unpleasant for

me, but for you it is disastrous. At Marychurch Beattie has the

Quartermains and plenty of other friends. It will be handy for her

young man, too, when his vessel is at Southampton. You would see ever

so much more society there than you do here. And I can give you an

uncommonly nice house, very superior in every respect to this

one--Sunnyside, the white house with a veranda, opposite the new

Borough Recreation Ground in Wilmer Road. Nominally it belongs to old

Manby, but actually it belongs to me. It has been standing empty since

Christmas, and Manby will think himself only too lucky to let it to any

client of mine at a low rent--which I pay, of course. No one need know

anything about that."

Challoner talked on, swinging his leg jauntily, though every nerve in

his big body was strained with the effort to apprehend and follow the

workings of his hearer's mind. So far, save for that passing outbreak,

she had received his admonitions and propositions more reasonably than

he had anticipated. So he must exercise patience, must not rush her;

but give the idea time to sink in.

"Manby's property is mortgaged up to the hilt," he went on, "and he is

more than half a year behind with the interest. If he doesn't come

into my terms I shall threaten to foreclose. He knows I have got him

between my finger and thumb, poor old chap, and he goes in terror of

the time I may begin to squeeze. I admit it does seem rather rough on

him, for he is in this hole through no fault of his own. His family

has owned the property for three generations. But his business has

dwindled to nothing, and that compelled him to raise money. The

co-operative stores at Stourmouth and Southampton are crushing him and

old-fashioned, jog-along, retail tradesmen like him out of existence.

The same thing is happening all over the country. Men of his type have

neither enterprise nor capital to compete with those large company

concerns."

She sat so still, listening with such apparent docility, that Challoner

judged it safe to quit generalities.

"Sunnyside shall be properly done up and the sanitation inspected," he

said. "I am willing to spend from seventy to a hundred on the place.

It is bound to be my own sooner or later, so any money I lay out on it

will come back to me in the end. Too, I want to do the thing

handsomely for you, Mrs. Gwyn. You and Beattie could go out by tram

to-morrow, or next day, and have a look at the place. I'll advise

Manby by telephone to-morrow, first thing, I have found him a very

desirable tenant, so that he may open the house. Better make a list of

any little odds and ends you may think need doing. If you like, you

can choose the wall-papers yourself."

"That's awfully sweet of you. But supposing I don't like the house

when I see it? I know I am rather fanciful and particular," she put

in, with her little neighing laugh.

"I'll guarantee you'll like it," he returned. "It's just the sort of

house to appeal to your taste. Really high class, nothing cheap or

tawdry about it, built somewhere in the early seventies, tip-top style

in its own line, quite a gentlewoman's house."

Mrs. Spencer fingered the lace and ribbons of her tea-gown negligently,

advanced her left foot, studied the pointed toe of her beaded slipper,

then looked up archly in Challoner's face.

"But supposing," she said, "I really don't want a house at Marychurch

at all--what then? Supposing I really prefer to remain at Stourmouth?

Supposing I am really determined to stay on here at our dear old

Robin's Rest?"

Challoner's expression darkened. He descended from his graceful perch

and stood behind the sofa, towering above her.

"Very sorry, Mrs. Gwyn," he replied, "but I regret to say it can't be

done. It doesn't suit me to have you stay on at Robin's Rest."

"But why?" she insisted.

Challoner hesitated for an instant, decided to make exact truth

subservient to expediency, and spoke.

"Why? Well, if you press the point, not only for the very good reasons

which I have already given you at some length, but because I want the

house for another tenant. Pewsey, my junior partner, has asked for it

for his mother. I am anxious to oblige Pewsey. I have promised him

possession some time in the June quarter."

"You have let Robin's Rest, let our house, Joe, our own dear little

house, without ever telling me? Let it over my head?"

Looking at her upturned face, pretty, scared, brainless, Challoner's

memory played a queer trick on him, harking back to scenes of long ago,

at which, as a schoolboy, he had more than once--to his

shame--assisted, on the Fairmead at Marychurch, the great, flat,

fifty-acre grass meadow which lies on the outskirts of the little town

between the River Wilmer and the Castle Moat. He saw, with startling

vividness of detail, the agonized leaping rush of the shrill-squealing

rabbits, wire-netting barrier in front of them and red-jawed,

hot-breathing dogs behind. Even then he had turned somewhat sick at

the hellish pastime, although excitement, and a natural disposition to

bully all creatures weaker than himself, made him yell and curse and

urge on the dogs with the roughest of the crowd. He sickened now,

watching this hapless, foolish, bewildered woman double and turn in

desperate effort to elude pursuing, self-created Fate, only to find

herself brought up short against the irrefragable logic of the

situation as demonstrated by his own relentless common-sense. Yet,

even while he sickened, excitement gained on him, and his bullying

instinct began to find satisfaction in the inhuman sport.

"Yes, Mrs. Gwynnie," he said, "I own I have done just that--let Robin's

Rest over your head. I saw it was the kindest thing, both by you and

by your sister, though it might strike you as a bit arbitrary at first.

My duty is to stop this infernal gossip at all costs. If you won't

take proper care of your own reputation I must take care of it for

you--isn't that as clear as mud?"

"But I don't want to go away," she cried, again missing the point. "I

refuse to be sent away. You have no right to interfere. It isn't your

place. You can't order me about and push me aside like that. I am a

lady, and I refuse to put up with such treatment. It is very rude of

you and quite unsuitable. Everybody would feel that. I shall appeal

to my friends. I shall tell every one I know about it."

"Oh! as you please, of course. But just what will you tell them?"

Challoner asked.

"Why, the whole story--the whole truth."

"As you please," he repeated. "Only I'm afraid it's not a story

likely, when told, to enlarge your local visiting-list."

Challoner perched on the back of the sofa again, domineering,

masterful, leaning down and looking her straight in the eyes.

"See here, Gwynnie," he said. "You're in a tight place. Listen to

reason. Don't be a fool and throw away your last chance in a pet."

"I mean to expose you. I will tell everybody, everybody," she cried.

"No," Challoner said, "you won't. I give you credit for more worldly

wisdom, more self-respect, more good feeling, than that. The injury

you might do me, by publishing this little love-passage of ours, would

not be a patch upon the injury you would do yourself. You don't want

to commit social suicide, do you, and find every door shut in your

face? Tell any of these friends of yours, the Woodfords, Mrs. Paull,

Marion Chase, and they'd avoid you as they would a leper, drop you like

a hot potato, cut you dead, whether they believed your charming little

tale or not. You are fond of company, Mrs. Gwynnie--a gregarious

being. You would not the least enjoy being left out in the cold all by

yourself. And there is another point. I am perfectly willing to pay

for my pleasure honestly, as a man should, but it is not wise to tax my

good nature too far. Doing your best to blast my reputation is not

exactly the way to make me feel kindly or act generously toward you.

There would be no more nice houses, rent free, Mrs. Gwyn, rates and

taxes paid; no more quarterly allowance, I am afraid. I should cut off

supplies, my dear. Your widow's pension is paid in rupees, remember,

not in sterling; and the value of the rupee is hardly likely to go up.

So you had better look at the question all round before you take the

neighborhood into your confidence. Listen here, I will give you a

hundred a year and the Marychurch house--"

"But if I tell everybody how you have treated me, public opinion will

force you to marry me," she cried, with an air of announcing an

annihilating truth.

Challoner swung his big body from side to side contemptuously.

"Faugh!" he said. "Public opinion will do nothing of the sort. You

forget it is a case of my word against yours, and that, considering our

relative positions, my word will count a jolly sight most."

"But you dare not deny--"

"Oh, indeed yes, I dare," Challoner broke out. "I can deny and shall

deny--or rather should, for it won't ever come to the test--that your

accusations have any foundation whatsoever in fact. If a woman is mad

enough to incriminate herself she must do so. But a man always denies,

at least every man of honor and proper feeling does. No, no; be

sensible. Think of Beattie. Think of yourself. Don't put all your

eggs in one basket. You are a taking woman still, Mrs. Gwyn. Give

yourself another chance. For remember, you haven't a shred of evidence

to offer in support of your attack. You have bombarded me with notes,

but, except as lawyer to client, I have never written you two lines in

my life." He paused. "No, thank goodness! even at my hottest I kept

my head screwed on sufficiently the right way to avoid the old

letter-writing trap."

"Then from the first, the very first," she gasped, "did you never mean

to marry me?"

Challoner had the grace to hesitate, look down at the floor, and lower

his voice as he answered.

"No, my dear girl, never--from the day I found I could get what I

wanted at the cheaper rate."

Gwynneth Spencer stared blankly in front of her. Then, as her small,

slow-working brain began to take in the measure of her own disgrace,

while the poor house of cards in which she trusted toppled and tumbled

flat, her silly, little, neighing laugh rose to a shriek. Beating the

air with both hands, she flung herself at full length on the sofa, her

body convulsed from head to foot and her throat torn by hysterical

cries and sobs. Challoner turned his back, put his hands over his

ears. The squealing of the mangled rabbits, on the Fairmead, had been

a lullaby compared with this! But he found it useless to try and shut

out the sounds. Piercing, discordant, rasping, they echoed through the

room. They must be heard next door. Heard out in the road. Heard, so

it seemed to Challoner, through the length and breadth of Stourmouth.

Must resound, startling the high respectabilities of the Baughurst Park

Ward. Must break in upon the dignified seclusion of the Tower House

itself, searing his name with infamy.

He turned round, leaned down over the back of the sofa. He felt the

greatest reluctance to touch the shrieking, struggling woman, but the

noise was unendurable. He caught both her wrists, in one hand, and

pinned them down among the ribbons and laces at her waist. The other

hand he laid upon her open and distorted mouth.

"Hush," he said. "Be quiet. Hush, you fool! Gwynnie, be a good girl.

Hush, Gwyn. For God's sake, don't go on like this! Hush--pull

yourself together. Try to control yourself. My dear little

woman--curse you, leave off your caterwauling, you damned hell-cat. Do

you hear, hold your infernal row! Gwynnie love, darling, chummy little

sweetheart! Leave off, will you, or you'll make me smother you. Leave

off.--Ah! my God! that's better.--Oh! Oh!--ouf!"

The next thing Challoner knew clearly was that he stood in the little

dining-room. Upon the dinner-table, under the dim light of the

turned-down-gas-jets, a square spirit decanter, a syphon of soda, and a

couple of glasses were set out on a round red-lacquer tray. He

remembered often to have seen them set out thus. But, for the moment,

he could not recall why he was there or what he came for. He felt very

tired. His hands shook, the veins stood out on his forehead, and great

drops of perspiration ran down his face. He would be uncommonly glad

of some brandy. Then he started with a sudden movement of disgust. He

might be brutal, cynical, callous, but there were depths to which he

could not descend. Never again could he eat or drink in this house.

He remembered what he came for. A sound away in the offices arrested

his attention. The maids had come in, he supposed. He was glad of

that. He poured some brandy into a glass, and, crossing the hall, went

back into the drawing-room, shutting the door softly behind him. Mrs.

Spencer lay quite still, the fit of hysteric violence spent. Her face

was clay-colored. Her lips blue. Her eyes closed. Her body limp and

inert. She cried a little weakly and quietly.

Challoner knelt down beside the sofa, slipped one hand under the back

of her head, with its elaborately dressed hair and wisp of turquoise

chiffon, and held the glass to her lips.

"Drink this," he said, in a thick whisper. "It will help to bring you

round. It will do you good."

Then, as she sipped it, drawing away now and then and spluttering a

little as the raw spirit burned her tongue and throat, he went on:

"You are going to be sensible and not throw away your chance?"

"No--I mean yes," she said.

"You will take Beattie over to Marychurch to look at the house?"

"Yes--oh! yes."

"I'll give you a hundred and fifty a year--fifty more than I promised.

You can do quite nicely on that?"

"Yes--thank you--yes."

"And as long as you keep your part of the bargain I'll keep mine. If

you play me false and talk--"

"I sha'n't talk," she said, feebly and fretfully. "Why should I talk

now it's no use?"

"Ah," Challoner returned, "I am very glad you have come to your senses,

Mrs. Gwyn. I believed, give it a little thought, you'd see it all in a

reasonable light. That's right."

He rose and went out into the hall again, carrying the glass; put it

down, took up his gloves and hat, crossed to the door leading to the

offices, opened it and called.

A young woman, in a trim black serge coat and skirt and pink sailor

hat, appeared in the kitchen doorway with a knowing and slightly

disconcerting smirk.

"Look here, Esther," Challoner said, "Mrs. Spencer has been extremely

unwell. It was most fortunate I happened to call in to-night. If I

hadn't, I don't quite know what would have become of her. She ought

not to be left alone in the house. Next time Miss Beattie is away,

mind both of you do not go out. It is not safe."

He felt among the loose coins in his trousers pocket; laid hold of a

sovereign, considered that it was too much--might have the flavor of a

bribe about it. Found a couple of half-crowns, drew them out and put

them into the young woman's hand.

"You understand what I say? Never let your mistress be alone in the

house."

Once outside in the road, Challoner took off his hat, walking slowly.

He was grateful for the freshness and the soothing half-dark. He had

gone about fifty yards when the blond road seemed to lurch. That

horrible shrieking laughter was in his ears--or was it only the

squealing of the tortured rabbits? He turned giddy, laid hold of the

top of some garden palings for support. A spasm contracted his throat.

He retched, vomited. And then passed onward, homeward, through the

chill, moist fragrance of the spring night.

CHAPTER III

IN WHICH EUTERPE IS CALLED UPON TO PLAY THE PART

OF INTERPRETER

The concert was over. Coming out of the Rotunda--a domed and pinnacled

building of glass and iron, half conservatory, half theater, set on the

hillside against a crown of evergreen-trees--the audience poured in a

dark stream down the steep garden walks to where, flanked by red and

yellow wooden kiosks, the turnstiles and entrance gates open on to the

public road.

Joanna Smyrthwaite was among the last to leave the auditorium. She did

so in a dazed and almost sleep-walking condition, exhausted and

enervated by the tumult of her own sensations. But that enervation was

singularly pleasant to her, since, by reducing the claims of her

overdeveloped intellectual and moral nature, it left the emotional

element in undisputed ascendancy. She was, indeed, jealous of any

interruption or curtailment of this condition. Therefore she lingered,

unwilling to leave the place where so much inward felicity had been

procured her, and fearing to meet any of her acquaintance. Dr. and

Mrs. Norbiton and Mrs. Paull had, she believed, occupied stalls a

couple of rows behind her. She wished to avoid conversation with them,

and still more to avoid offering--her carriage was waiting at the

entrance gates--to drive them to their respective homes. Their

comments upon the performance, however intelligent and appreciative,

must, she knew, jar upon her in her present frame of mind. Felicity

would be extinguished in irritation, and for such deplorable downfall

she should, she knew, hold her good neighbors responsible. It was

wiser to avoid occasion of offense since she so wanted, so really

needed, to be alone.

Her sister Margaret's musical requirements went no further than the

modern English ballad. For preference of the description in which

roses, personal pronouns, cheap erotic sentiment, endearing

diminutives, and tags of melody appropriated--without

acknowledgment--from the works of early masters go to make up so

remarkably meritricious a whole. Of this Joanna, while duly deploring

Margaret's artistic limitations, was really very glad. It enabled her

to attend the weekly Wednesday and Friday classical concerts, at the

Rotunda, by herself. She had always wished to attend these concerts,

but only since her father's demise had she felt free to gratify her

wishes in respect of them. Since that event, they had become first a

permitted pleasure, then an indulgence crying aloud for gratification,

and finally a duty of a semi-religious character on no account to be

omitted. To-day the religious sentiment was conspicuously present, as

the programme consisted of excerpts from Wagner's operas. Reared in a

creed which sublimates the deity to an inoperative abstraction,

Joanna's thought reacted just now toward an exaggerated

anthropomorphism. In her mind, as in those of many persons deficient

in the finer and more catholic musical instinct, the titanic quality of

so much of the great composer's work excited feelings of astonishment

and awe which resulted in an attitude closely akin to worship. The

elevation of primitive human passions--desire, remorse, anger, revenge,

blood-hunger--to regions of portent and prodigy, so that they stalk,

altogether phantasmal and gigantic clothed in rent garments of amazing

and tormented harmonies across the world stage, their heads threatening

the integrity of the constellations while their feet are made of, and

squarely planted upon, very common clay, is, undoubtedly, a spectacle

calculated at once to flatter human pride and provoke a species of

idolatry. For some reason, moreover, lust is less readily conceivable

in the neighborhood of the pole than in that of the equator; so that

the bleak Northern atmosphere, in which the Wagnerian dramas move,

procures for them an effect of austerity, not to say of chastity,

almost amusingly misleading.

Humor, however, is indispensable to the recognition of the above little

truths, and Joanna's composition was innocent of the smallest admixture

of that merrily nose-pulling ingredient. She took her emotions quite

seriously; not only nursing them when present, but finding in them

later assurance of the reality of certain fond dreams, vehement hopes

and longings, which possessed her. Therefore, standing under the

glazed marquise of the Rotunda she watched, with strained face and

pale, anxious eyes, until the little company of her acquaintance--she

could distinguish Dr. Norbiton by his height and the green felt hat,

cleft in the crown, which he wore--reached the turnstiles and passed

out toward the animated open space of The Square.

This last, like the flat of the valley, lay in shadow; faint pearl-gray

mist veiling the modest stream whence Stourmouth derives its name, and

the lawns and borders--now gay with spring flowers--of the well-kept

ornamental grounds through which it flows. But, across the valley, the

fir plantation upon the opposite slope, and the houses and big

hotels--the streaming flags of which supplied a welcome note of crude

color in the landscape--rising behind the dark bar of it, along with

the upward curve of shops and offices in Marychurch Road, and the three

tall church spires--two of buff-gray stone, the third red-tiled and

elegantly slender--were flooded with steady sunshine. Thrushes sang

loud in the grove at the back of the Rotunda. Perched on the

outstanding ironwork of the dome, starlings creaked and whistled. A

grind of tram wheels, hooting of motor horns, barking of dogs, and

sound of voices, borne on the easterly breeze, arose from The Square.

The bell of an Anglican church called to evensong. From the bandstand,

situated at the far end of the public gardens, came the strains of a

popular march; while with these, in a soft undertone, mingled the

murmur of the many trees and hush of the sea.

Seeing and hearing all of which, in her present highly sensitized

condition, realization of the inherent beauty of things, the inherent

wonder and delight of Being, pierced Joanna Smyrthwaite's understanding

and heart. Her whole nature was fused by the fires of a limitless

tenderness and sympathy. And, being thus delivered from the tyranny of

words and empty phrases, from the false standards of thought and

conduct engendered by her upbringing, and from ever-present

consciousness of her own circumscribed and discordant personality, for

the first time in her experience she tasted the strong wine of life,

pure and undiluted. During a few splendid moments she knew the joy of

genius' sixth sense--becoming one with the soul and purpose of all that

which she looked upon. Hot tears rose to her eyes. She was broken by

a mute ecstasy of thanksgiving.

But it was impossible this happy state should continue. The malady of

introspection was too deeply ingrained in her. Tormenting fears and

scruples again arose. Innate pessimism laid its paralyzing influence

upon her. She felt as one in whose hands a gift of great value has

been placed; but whose muscles being too weak to grasp it, the precious

lovely thing falls to the ground and is shattered. Whereat tears of

enraptured sensibility turned to tears of bitter humiliation. Drawing

a black-bordered handkerchief from the silver-mounted bag hanging at

her waist, she pressed it against her wet, yet burning, face and

hurried down the hill.

At the gates the well-appointed barouche and pair of fine brown horses

awaited her--Johnson, the coachman, rotund and respectful, in his black

livery, upon the box; Edwin the footman, elongated and respectful, her

rugs and wraps over his arm, at the carriage door. The spring evenings

still grew chill toward sundown; and Joanna's circulation was never of

the best. She stood silent and abstracted while Edwin put her cloak--a

costly garment of Persian lamb lined with ermine--about her thin

shoulders; nor, until she was seated in the carriage, the fur rug

warmly tucked round her, had her agitation subsided sufficiently for

her to speak. She would not go the short way home by Barryport Road.

She disliked the traffic. The trams made her nervous. She would go by

the new drive along the West Cliff, and across Tantivy Common.

Obediently the carriage turned to the left through the shadow, up the

steep hill behind the Rotunda. The horses climbed, straining at the

collar. Then, the top of the ascent being reached, they bowled along

the broad, even road, snorting in the sparkle of the upland air and

recovered sunshine. Joanna sat stiffly upright, shivering a little and

blinking in the strong light. She still held her handkerchief in her

hand, and it was through a blur of again up-welling tears that she saw

the uninviting red and gray terraces and large, straggling

boarding-houses, set in a sparse fringe of fir-trees, on either side

the road. This quarter of Stourmouth, declining from fashion, is given

over to cheap _pensions_, nursing-homes, and schools. The footwalks

were infested by hospital nurses and bath-chairs, while long files of

girls, marching two and two, meandered home and seaward. Some of these

maidens stared enviously at the young lady, wrapped in furs, driving

along in her smart carriage, and sighed for the glorious days when

mistresses and lessons would have no more dominion over them. But

Joanna remained unconscious of the interest she excited. Her thoughts

had returned upon a subject which now constantly and all too

exclusively occupied them--a subject to which even the admirable

playing of the Rotunda orchestra and noble singing of the young

dramatic soprano--though she had listened to both in a fervor of

reverential emotion--supplied, after all, little more than a humble

accompaniment.

In the silver-mounted velvet bag hanging at her waist, neatly filed and

dated, encircled by elastic bands to keep them perfectly flat and

prevent their edges from crumpling, were all the letters she had

received from Adrian Savage. Even the thin French envelopes,

cross-hatched with blue inside to secure opacity, had been carefully

preserved. Even the telegram she had received from Adrian, in response

to the announcement of her father's death, found a place there. The

letters in question were discreet, even ceremonious epistles, dealing

with business and plans, expressing regret at the delays in his return

to England caused by "our good Challoner's" slowness in preparing

documents and accounts, and making civil inquiries as to Joanna and her

sister's health and well-being. Quaint turns of phrase and vivacity of

diction gave these letters a flavor of originality; but, taken as a

whole, less intimate or more uncompromising effusions it would be

difficult to conceive. By this fact, however, Joanna was in no wise

daunted. As all his many friends agreed, Adrian Savage was a dear,

delightful, and very clever fellow, who would assuredly make a name for

himself. But Joanna went far beyond that, endowing him with enough

virtues, graces, and talents to people this naughty old earth with

sages and stock all heaven with saints. Consequently in the graceful

lightness and polite restraint of his letters, alike, she found food

for admiration and security of hope--namely, consideration for the

difficulties of her unprotected position, delicacy in face of her

recent bereavement, a high-minded determination in no way to hurry her

to a decision.

At night Joanna placed the slender packet in a Russia-leather wallet

beneath her pillow. By day she carried it in the bag at her waist.

Often, when alone, she drew it forth from its hiding-place and fondled

it tremulously. She had done so this afternoon during the concert more

than once. It was unnecessary for her to re-read the letters. She

knew their contents by heart. Adrian had touched them. He thought of

her when writing them, when folding the thin sheets of paper, when

stamping and addressing the envelopes. Thus they constituted a direct

material, as well as mental, link between herself and him. Perpetually

she dwelt on this fact, finding in it a pleasure almost painful in its

intensity. Only for a few minutes at a time, indeed, could she dare to

hold or look at the packet. Then, replacing it in the wallet or bag,

she struggled to regain her composure, merely to take it out at the

first favorable opportunity, and repeat the whole process again.

In the same way, although longing for the young man's return, to the

point of passion, she hailed each obstacle which postponed that return.

To see him, to hear his voice and footsteps, meet his gallant and

kindly eyes, to watch him come and go about the house, to listen to his

clever and sympathetic talk, would constitute rapture, but a rapture

from which she shrank in terror. She felt that she could hardly endure

his presence. It would drain her of vitality.

Now, sitting upright in the carriage, while the horses carried her

forward at a spanking pace through the sea and moorland freshness and

the delights of the spring sunshine, a new form of these fears tortured

her. Adrian's love, constant association with him, participation in

the varied interests and activities of his daily life and in that of

the brilliant society in which he moved--this, and nothing less than

this, in sum and in detail, constituted the lovely precious gift placed

in her, till now, so sad and empty hands by a strange turn of Fortune's

wheel. Were those poor hungry hands strong enough to close upon and

hold it? Or would they, weakly faltering and failing, let it fall to

the ground and be shattered? The shame of such prospective failure

agonized her. To renounce a crown may be heroic, but to have it

incontinently tumble off, when you are straining every nerve, exerting

every faculty, to keep it safely balanced on your head, is feeble, as

she felt, to the point of ignominy.

At last the schools, _pensions_, nursing-homes, and lodging-houses were

left behind. The carriage reached the open common. Tracts of gorse,

thick-set with apricot-yellow blossom, broke up the silvery brown

expanse of heather. In sharply green, grass-grown hollows ancient

hawthorns, their tops clipped by the sea wind into quaint shapes,

compact and ruddy, were dusted over by opening leaf-buds. High in air

screaming gulls circled. The shadows were long, for the sun drew down

toward its setting. Then, as once before to-day, the happy appeal of

outward things--in which, as in glass, man may, if he will, catch some

faint reflection of God's glory--made its voice heard, awakening Joanna

Smyrthwaite from the fever-dreams of her almost maniacal egoism.

Obeying a sudden impulse, she stopped the carriage, alighted, and

walked out on to the little promontory the neck of which the road

crosses. Here the sand cliffs, dyed all shades from deepest rusty

orange to palest lemon-yellow and glistening white, descend, almost

perpendicularly in narrow water-worn shelves and ledges to the beach

nearly a hundred feet below. Looking eastward, up the wind, the sea

horizon, Stourmouth, its many buildings and its pier, and all the

curving coastline away to Stonehorse Head--the dark mass of which

guards the entrance to Marychurch Haven--showed through a film of fine

gray mist. Westward, the colors of both land and sea, though opaque,

were warmer. Across the golden gorse of the common in the immediate

foreground Joanna saw the great amphitheater of the Baughurst Park

Woods extending far inland, the rich blue-purple of the pines and firs

pierced here and there by the living sunlight of a larch plantation.

Beyond Barryport Harbor, only the farthest coves and inlets of whose

gleaming waters were visible, the quiet, rounded outlines of the Slepe

Hills pushed seaward in blunt-nosed headland after headland, softening

from heliotrope to ethereal lavender in the extreme distance, under a

sky resembling the tint and texture of a pink pearl.

Joanna, her fur cloak gathered closely about her, stood a lonely black

figure amid the splendor of the scented gorse. There is an exciting

quality in the east wind. The harsh tang of it galvanized her into an

unusual physical well-being, making her chest expand and her blood

circulate more rapidly.

A new thought came to her. To doubt her power of meeting the demands

of Adrian's affection and of rising to his level was really to doubt

the vivifying power of that affection, to doubt his ability to raise

her to his own level. Her doubt of her own worthiness was, in point of

fact, an accusation against his intelligence and his judgment.

Joanna slipped one hand inside the velvet bag under her cloak and

clasped the thin packet of letters. With the other she momentarily

covered her eyes, as though in apology and penitence.

"Ah! how miserably faithless I am," she murmured in her flat, toneless

voice. "How wickedly ungrateful it is not to trust him. As though he

were not capable of supplying all that is wanting in me--as though he

did not know so far, far best!"

CHAPTER IV

SOME PASSAGES FROM JOANNA SYMRTHWAITE'S LOCKED BOOK

That evening Joanna went to her room early. She permitted Mrs.

Isherwood to help her off with her evening dress and on with a purple

lamb's-wool kimono, the color and cut of which were singularly

ill-suited to her pasty complexion and narrow-chested figure. She then

rather summarily dismissed the good woman, who retired accompanied by

black silk rustlings indicative of respectful displeasure and protest.

These Joanna refused to let affect her. The experiences of the day had

aroused an inherited, though until now latent, arrogance. She regarded

herself as sealed to that altogether-otherwise-engaged young gentleman,

Adrian Savage, and set apart. Yet ingrained habits of obedience and

self-repression still stirred within her, making her timid in the

presence of any sort of established authority, even in that of her old

nurse. She needed solitude to enable her to enjoy the luxury of such

"sealing" to the full. Therefore, when the door shut upon those

remonstrant rustlings, she followed almost stealthily and locked it,

stood for a moment listening to make sure of Isherwood's final

departure, then extended both arms with a voiceless cry of

satisfaction, crossed to her satinwood bureau, opened it and took the

current volume of her diary from a pigeon-hole, fetched lighted candles

and the silver-mounted bag containing Adrian's letters from off her

dressing-table, and sat down to write.

"_April 20, 190-_

"I have neglected my diary for many weeks. But I have feared I might

set down that which I should afterward regret. Indeed, all my

accustomed occupations and employments have been neglected. They have

appeared to me tedious and trivial. My mind has been strangely

disordered. But to-night I feel this state is passed. I see my duty

clearly, and shall not allow anything to interfere with it or deflect

me from the pursuit of it. I owe this to the person who has so

wonderfully chosen me."

At this point the small, neat, scholarly writing became irregular and

almost illegible. Joanna rose and paced the room, pressing her hands

against her high forehead. Presently she returned and sat down again.

"It is unwise to dwell too much on this. As yet I am unequal to any

adequate expression of my feelings. When rearranging the books in

library last week I happened to open a volume of Mrs. Browning's poems

containing her 'Sonnets from the Portuguese.' They appeared to me

singularly appropriate to my own case. I have, indeed, been weakly

jealous that any other woman should have felt, and so exactly

expressed, my own thoughts and emotions. Yet I read and re-read the

sonnets daily. They speak for me not only more eloquently, but more

truthfully, than I can speak for myself. But, unhappily, I have less,

terribly less, to offer in return than the poetess had. This has

racked me with distress, annihilating my peace of mind, and in great

measure dimming my gratitude, until to-day. I see how very wrong this

has been. It has its root in pride. For, as I now understand,

distrust of myself is nothing less than distrust of him. I am resolved

to exterminate my pride and submit to be nothing, so that he may give

everything. Already I feel relief and a growing repose of mind from

this resolve. Already I feel my pride yielding. Soon, I believe, I

shall almost rejoice in my own absence of gifts and attractions, since

it enlarges his opportunity for generosity."

The chatter of young women upon the gallery, accompanied by smothered

laughter, not to say giggling. Joanna ceased writing, blotted the

page, and returned the diary to its pigeonhole. She moved into the

center of the room and stood anxiously listening. But to her relief no

knock came at the door. The two voices grew faint along the corridor,

and ceased. Joanna could not, however, immediately settle to her diary

again. The giggling had brought her down, from high poetic regions to

common earth, with a bump. Pride, cast out in one direction, pranced

in another unrestrained--as is pride's wont. When Joanna resumed her

writing subject and treatment alike were changed.

"Marion Chase is staying here, as usual," she wrote. "In some ways I

am glad of this. It relieves me of any obligation to be constantly

with Margaret. To be constantly with her would be very irksome to me.

I no longer pretend that she and I have much in common. Since papa's

authority has been removed the radical divergence between Margaret's

character and mine becomes more and more evident. Marion Chase has no

intellectual life. Her pleasures are active and practical. These

Margaret appears increasingly to enjoy sharing. To-day she and Marion

have been to Southampton and back in a new motor-car Margaret has on

trial. Mr. Challoner selected it for her in London. It came down

yesterday. Margaret is very much excited about it. She is, of course,

at liberty to buy a motor-car if she pleases, though I think it would

have been better taste to wait until the business connected with our

inheritance was finally settled before making any such costly purchase.

I prefer Johnson and the horses. Motoring would, I feel sure, cause me

nervousness. Mr. Challoner, I heard this evening, met them in

Stourmouth, and, under plea of seeing how the car worked before

advising Margaret to keep it, accompanied them to Southampton and back.

This appears to me quite unnecessary. I could not make out from Marion

whether his going was by previous arrangement or merely the result of a

sudden thought and invitation. In either case I cannot but disapprove

of his joining the party. He is still here very frequently, and

Margaret quotes his opinions on every occasion. Those opinions are

prejudiced and insular, as one might expect from a man who has enjoyed

few social and educational advantages. Papa used to say the worst

enemies of patriotism were patriots. This is certainly true in the

case of Mr. Challoner in as far as the effect of his conversation upon

me is concerned. He knows nothing of foreign countries and foreign

politics, and yet speaks contemptuously of whatever and whoever is not

English. Margaret has taken to echoing him until I grow weary and

irritable. Surely it might occur to her that reiterated depreciation

of everything foreign must be displeasing to me. But Margaret has no

perception. Argument is lost upon her, so I am constrained to remain

silent. Yet I cannot disguise from myself that her constant

association with Mr. Challoner and the influence he undoubtedly has

obtained over her may lead to great difficulties in the

future--particularly in the event of my own marriage."

Here, once again, the neat writing became erratic. Emotion gained upon

Joanna, compelling her to lay down her pen, rise, and pace the room.

"My own marriage--my own marriage," she repeated, her head thrown back,

her eyes shut, her arms hanging straight at her sides, while her hands

worked, opening and closing in nervous, purposeless clutchings.

Presently she walked back to the bureau and took Adrian's letters out

of the velvet bag. Resting her left hand, her fingers outstretched,

upon the flat slab of the bureau for support, she held the letters in

her right. Their contact made her wince and shrink, as though she held

white-hot metal instead of innocent bluey-white note-paper. Only by

degrees could she muster sufficient composure to look at the slim

little packet upon which encircling elastic bands conferred a

distinctly prosaic and even bill-like appearance.

"'And yet because thou overcomest so,

Because thou art more noble and like a king,

Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling

Thy purple round me, till my heart--'"

Her voice failed, dying in her throat, leaving the quotation

incomplete. Hastily she pushed the packet of letters back into the

bag, snapped to the silver catch, and, again pressing her hands to her

forehead, paced the room till such time as her agitation had

sufficiently subsided for her to resume her writing.

"I must resist the temptation to dwell upon a certain subject, save in

silence. To refer to it in words moves me too deeply. That subject is

the life of my life. Of this I am so utterly sure, so utterly

convinced, that I can surely afford to keep silence. Just in

proportion as I know that my heart is beating, it becomes unnecessary

to count the heart-beats. I had better write of practical things. To

do so has lessened the worry they too often caused me in the past. I

trust it may do so again. I mean this specially in connection with the

anxiety Margaret's association with Mr. Challoner occasions me. I fear

Margaret is disingenuous. Mamma used to deplore a tendency to deceit

in her, deceit in little things, even when she was a child. Margaret

enjoys concealment. It amuses her and gives her an idea of her own

astuteness and superiority. I do not wish to be unjust, but I cannot

help fearing this tendency to slyness is increased by her intercourse

with Mr. Challoner and with Marion.

"In addition to the fact of Mr. Challoner's drive with them to

Southampton something else came out at dinner, to-night, which

disturbed me. On my way home to-day, after crossing Tantivy Common,

Johnson turned along Silver Chine Road. A pantechnicon van stood

before one of the small houses which I recognized as that which

Margaret once pointed out to me as belonging to Mrs. Spencer. As the

carriage passed, I saw Mrs. Spencer herself and her young sister, Miss

Beatrice Stacey, directing the men who were carrying out the furniture.

I thought they both looked hard at me, but I did not bow. I sent cards

to Mrs. Spencer, as to every one else who called here to inquire after

papa's death, but I do not desire her acquaintance. On the few

occasions when I have met her she appeared to me a frivolous, dressy

person, whose influence upon Margaret would not be for good. I do not

wish to be uncharitable, but her manners struck me as unladylike. At

dinner I mentioned the circumstances under which I saw her this

afternoon. Marion glanced at Margaret with a singular expression of

face.

"'I heard Mrs. Spencer and Bee were leaving soon,' she said. 'I

believe they have taken a house at Marychurch.'

"I observed Margaret flushed, but she did not speak.

"'Of course I don't believe there is any real harm in her,' Marion

added, again looking at Margaret, 'or I should not have gone there so

often. But I do think whatever talk there has been is entirely her own

fault.'

"Then Margaret began to speak of the car, and Mr. Challoner's advice to

her about buying it, in a rather loud tone. She hardly spoke to me

during the rest of the evening. I certainly had no intention of

annoying her by mentioning Mrs. Spencer, but she was evidently very

angry with me. I cannot help being anxious--yet I know my own great

happiness should make me patient and tolerant, even when vulgar and

trivial matters are pressed upon my attention. I am very weak. I

ought to rise above all such things and rest calmly in the one

wonderful thought that I am no longer alone, that I no longer belong to

myself."

Joanna put her hand over her eyes.

"'Thou canst prevail against my fears and fling thy purple round me,'"

she again quoted half aloud. Then once more she wrote.

"I am glad that I am rich. I have never felt glad of this till to-day.

We have always been rich, and, though papa inculcated economy as a

duty, I have taken riches for granted as a natural part of my own

position. Now I recognize their value. I have at least that to

give--I mean, a not despicable amount of wealth, and the dignified ease

which wealth obtains. In this respect at least I can make some slight

return. Since there has been time to look into affairs, we find papa's

estate considerably larger than we supposed. Margaret and I shall each

have between seven and eight thousand a year. Yes, I am very, very

glad. At least I do not go to him an empty-handed beggar in material

things."

She sat awhile looking up, both hands resting on the edge of the slab.

Her mouth was half open, her eyes fixed, her face irradiated by an

expression of ecstasy painful in its strained intensity. A little more

and ecstasy might decline to idiocy. Joanna doted; and always--though

particularly under such circumstances as Joanna's--it is a mistake to

dote.

CHAPTER V

IN WHICH ADRIAN'S KNOWLEDGE OF SOME INHABITANTS

OF THE TOWER HOUSE IS SENSIBLY INCREASED

A week of the burning mid-May weather, such as often comes in the fir

and heather country. The Baughurst woods and all the coast-line from

Marychurch to Barryport basked in the strong, still heat. Over open

spaces the heat became visible, dancing and swirling like the vapors

off a lime-kiln as it baked all residue of moisture out of the light

surface soil. Aromatic scents given off by the lush foliage and lately

risen sap filled the air. The furze-pods crackled and snapped.

Fir-cones fell, softly thudding, on to the deep, dry beds of

fir-needles, and films of bark scaling off the red upper branches made

small, ticking noises in the sun-scorch. All day long in the heart of

the woodland turtle doves repeated their cozy, crooning lament.

Wandering cuckoos called. In the gardens blackbirds and thrushes,

though silent at mid-day, sang early and late. Great blue and green

dragonflies hawked over the lawns, darting back and forth from the warm

dappled shade of the fir plantations, where their enameled bodies and

transparent wings glinted across long slanting shafts of sunlight. In

the shrubberies rhododendrons, azaleas, pink thorns, and crab-trees

were in flower. Lilac and syringa blossom was about to break. The

sky, high and unclouded, showed a deep, hot blue above the dark-plumed

pines and fir-trees and against the red-tiled roofs and sextagonal

red-brick tower--surmounted by a gilt weather-vane--of the Tower House

from sunrise to sunset.

Adrian Savage lay back in a long cane chair set upon the veranda,

around the fluted terra-cotta pillars of which trumpet-flowered

honeysuckle, jasmine, and climbing roses flourished. He found the

English heat heavy and somewhat enervating, clear though the atmosphere

was. It made him lazy, inclined to dream and disinclined to act or

think. He laid The Times down on the wicker table beside him, put his

Panama hat on the top of it, returned a small illustrated French

newspaper, of questionable modesty, to the breast-pocket of his jacket,

stretched, stifled a yawn, and lighted his third cigarette. Then,

reclining in the chair again, he contemplated the perspective of his

own person--clad in a suit of white flannel with a faint four-thread

black stripe--to where the said perspective ended in a pair of tan

boots. He had bought the boots in London. He knew they represented

the last word of the right thing. So he ought to like them.--He

crossed and re-crossed his feet.--But he wasn't sure he did like them.

On the whole he thought not. Therefore he sighed meditatively, pulled

the tip of his close-cut black beard and pushed up the rather fly-away

ends of his mustache. Stared sadly at the tan boots, raised his

eyebrows and shoulders just perceptibly, and mournfully shook his

close-cropped black head. Sighed again, and then looked away, across

the gravel terrace and flower-beds immediately below it crowded with

pink, mauve, and pale-yellow tulips, to where, on the sunk court at the

far end of the long, wide lawn, four agile, ruddy-faced, white-clothed

young people very vigorously played tennis.

In the last three months Adrian had lost weight. _La belle Gabrielle_

had not been kind; not at all kind. More than ever did she appear

elusive and baffling. More than ever was the mysterious element of her

complex and enchanting personality in evidence. She frequented

drawing-room meetings at which Feminists, male as well as female, held

forth. She received Zélie de Gand and other such vermin--the term is

Adrian's--at her thrice-sacred flat. Finally, her attitude was

altogether too maternal and beneficent toward M. René Dax. These

things caused Adrian rage and unhappiness. He lost flesh. In his eyes

was a permanently pathetic and orphaned look. Happily, his nose

retained its native pugnacity of outline, testifying to the fact that,

although he might voluminously sigh as a lover, as a high-spirited and

perfectly healthy young gentleman he could still very handsomely spoil

for a fight.

But no legitimate fight presented itself--that was exactly where, from

Adrian's point of view, the worry came in. He might haunt _la belle

Gabrielle's_ staircase, spend hours in consultation with wise and witty

Anastasia Beauchamp, exert all his ingenuity to achieve persuasion or

excision of René Dax, but without practicable result. About as useful

to try to bottle a shadow, play leap-frog with an echo, tie up the wind

in a sack! Really he felt quite glad to go away to England for a time,

out of the vexatiously profitless wear and tear of it all.

The sun, sloping westward, slanted in under the round-headed

terra-cotta arches supporting the roof of the veranda. Adrian drew his

feet back out of the scorch, and in so doing sat more upright, thereby

gaining a fuller view of the tennis players.

Marion Chase happened to be serving. She interested him as a type

produced by current English methods of mental and physical culture

practically unknown in France. She stood--so she informed him with the

utmost frankness--five feet ten in her stockings, took eight and a half

in shoes, measured forty inches round the chest and twenty-nine and

three-quarters round the waist. To these communicated details he could

add from personal observation that she had the complexion of a Channel

pilot, owned a sensible, good-tempered, very managing face, and spoke

in a full barytone voice. He accredited her with being very fairly

honorable, irreproachably virtuous, and conspicuously devoid of either

the religious or artistic sense--though she frequented concerts,

picture galleries, and church services with praiseworthy regularity and

persistence. He liked her rather, and wondered at her much--being

unaccustomed to the society of such large-boned, athletic, and sexless

persons, petticoated, yet conspicuously deficient in haunches and busts.

Miss Chase, he further remarked, was permanently in waiting upon

Margaret Smyrthwaite, while a tail of youths and maidens was almost as

permanently in waiting upon Miss Chase. Their relation to her was

gregarious rather than sentimental, a mere herding of children who

follow a leader at play. The said tail to-day consisted of the

Busbridge boys and Amy Woodford--the former two lanky, sandy-headed,

quite innocuous young fellows in immaculate flannels, their nether

garments sustained by green and orange silk handkerchiefs

knotted--Adrian trusted securely--about their waists; the latter a

rather stout, dark-haired young lady, arrayed in white linen, who would

have been very passably pretty had not her mouth been too small, her

nose too long, and her bright, boot-button-black eyes set

insufficiently far apart.

Idly he watched the quartette as the members of it ran, leaped, backed,

called, stood breathing after a long rally, with, apparently, as little

soul or mind in their active young bodies as a mob of colts and

fillies. Then his eyes traveled to Margaret Smyrthwaite sitting

outside the larch-built, heather-thatched tennis pavilion beyond the

court in the shade of a grove of tall fir and beech trees.

If Marion Chase caused him wonder, Margaret caused him very much more,

though from a different angle. Her development in the last three

months struck him as phenomenal--a startling example of the

adaptability to environment inherent in the feminine nature. From a

rather negative and invertebrate being, with little to say and a manner

alternately peevish and silly, she had grown into a self-possessed

young woman, capable of making her presence, pleasure, and displeasure,

definitely felt. The likeness and the unlikeness she bore to Joanna

had from the first appeared to Adrian both pathetic and singular. Now,

on seeing the twin sisters again, this likeness and unlikeness passed

the bounds of pathos and became, to his eyes, quite actively cruel.

For they bore to each other--it was thus he put it--the same relation

that the _édition de luxe_ of a book bears to its original rough

copy--Joanna, naturally, representing the rough copy. All the

ungracious and ungrateful aspects of Joanna's appearance were nicely

corrected in her sister, fined down or filled out--heavy, yellowish

auburn hair, improved to crisp copper; a pasty complexion giving place

to a fair though freckled skin and bright color; blue eyes no longer

prominent or anxious, but clear, self-content, and possibly a trifle

sly.

At forty Adrian could imagine her fat and a little coarse-looking, but

now her figure was graceful, and she dressed well, though with perhaps

too great elaboration for impeccable taste. Adrian trembled as to the

flights of decorative fancy which might present themselves when her

period of mourning was passed! To-day she wore a black muslin dress

and a wide-brimmed, black chip hat, trimmed with four enormous black

silk and gauze roses, the whole of rather studied candor of effect.

Yes, she was quite an agreeable object to look upon; but Joanna, oh!

poor, poor Joanna!

Adrian lit a fourth cigarette, stretched himself in his chair again,

crossing his legs and gazing up at the roof rafters. Joanna afforded

him an uncomfortable subject of thought, and one which he tried to

avoid in so far as possible. He respected her. More than ever he felt

a chivalrous pity toward her. But he did not like her, somehow.

Ridiculous though it might sound, he was a wee bit afraid of her,

conscious of self-protective instincts, of an inclination to erect

small barricades and throw up small earthworks behind which to shelter

when alone with her. He was ashamed of his own sensations, but--and

more particularly since he had seen those degraded drawings upon the

wall of René's studio which so dreadfully resembled her--she, to use a

childish expression, gave him the creeps.

Then, suddenly penetrated by a conviction that her pale eyes were at

that very moment fixed upon him, Adrian whipped out of his chair and

wheeled round, very alert and upright in his tan boots and light

flannel suit.

"Ah! my dear cousin, it is you! I thought so," he said, quickly. "At

last you come out to enjoy this ideal afternoon. That is well. Is it

not ravishing?"

For quite a perceptible space of time Joanna made no reply. She stood

on the stone step of one of the large French windows opening on to the

veranda. Her lips were parted and upon her face was a singular

expression, midway--so it struck Adrian--between driveling folly and

rapture. This recalled to him with such vividness those evil drawings

upon the studio wall that had the likeness been completed by her

sporting masculine attire it would hardly have surprised him. She, in

point of fact, however, wore nothing more peculiar than a modest,

slightly limp, black alpaca coat and skirt. Adrian was aware of

developing an unreasoning detestation of that innocent and very

serviceable material.

"I am so sorry," she said, at last, in a sort of hurried whisper. "I

ought not to have come out unexpectedly thus, by the window. I have

disturbed you. It was thoughtless of me and inconsiderate."

"But--no--no--not in the least," he assured her. "I was doing

absolutely nothing. The hot weather disposes one to idleness. I tried

to read The Times. I found it a monument of dullness. I looked into a

little French paper I have here." He patted the breast-pocket of his

jacket. "I found it quite too lively."

The corners of his mouth gave slightly; for oh! how very far away from

poor Joanna's was the outlook upon things in general of that naughty

little print!

"Have no fear," he added. "It shall remain safely stowed away. It is

not, I admit, exactly designed for what you call family

reading--unsuited, for example, to the ingenuous minds of those

excellent young tennis players! Ah, the energy they display! It puts

me to shame."

Joanna came forward slowly, touching chairs, flower-stands, tables, in

passing, as though blindly feeling her way.

"I have wanted so much to speak to you alone," she said.

"Yes--yes?" Adrian answered inquiringly, with a hasty mental looking

around for suitable barricade-building material.

"Ever since you told me you had lately suffered anxiety and trouble,"

she continued.

"Ah! my dear cousin, you are too sympathetic, too kind. Who among us

is free from anxieties and troubles--_des ennuis_? One accepts them as

an integral part of one's existence upon this astonishing planet. One

even cherishes a certain affection for them, perhaps one's own dear

little personal _ennuis_."

Joanna sank into a chair. Her lips worked with emotion.

"I wish I could feel as you do," she said. "But I am weak. I rebel

against that which pains me or causes me anxiety. I have no large

tolerance of philosophy. But, therefore, all the more do I admire it

in you. Now, when I allude to your trouble you try to put the matter

aside gracefully out of consideration for me. Indeed, I appreciate

that consideration, but while it causes me gratitude, it increases my

regret.--You will not think me officious or intrusive? But I cannot

tell you how it distresses me that you should endure any mental

suffering, that you should have troubles or anxieties. I had never

thought of the possibility of anything unhappy in your life or

circumstances. Since you told me I think of it continually. Forgive

me if I appear presumptuous, but you have done so incalculably much

for--for us--Margaret, I mean, and me--especially, I know"--her voice

faded to a mere thread--"I know, of course, for me--that I have

wondered whether there was not anything in which I could be of some

slight use to you, in which I could help you, in return?"

Adrian had subsided into his long chair again. He leaned sideways, his

legs crossed, his right arm extended to its full length across the arm

of the chair, holding his cigarette between his first and second

fingers, as far from his companion as possible lest the smoke of it

should be unpleasant to her. His lean, shapely hand and wrist showed

brown against the hard white of his shirt-cuff, and the blue smoke from

the smoldering cigarette curled delicately upward in the hot, fragrant

air. And Joanna watched his every movement; watched with the fixed

intentness, the beatified idiocy, of those who dote.

Outwardly the young man remained charmingly debonair. Inwardly he

labored at the erection of barricades and the strengthening of

earthworks with positive frenzy, distractedly apprehensive of what

might be coming next.

"Sympathy so generously given as yours can never be otherwise than

helpful, dear cousin," he said. "Believe me, I am deeply touched by

the interest you take in me. But the trouble I have on my mind--and

which it was foolish and selfish of me ever to allude to--"

"Oh no," Joanna interrupted, breathlessly. "Do not say that. Pray

don't. It was entirely my doing. Both Margaret and I observed that

you--you looked sad, that you had grown thinner. I questioned you.

Perhaps it was intrusive of me to do so. Yet how could I remain silent

when all which affects you necessarily concerns me so profoundly?"

Notwithstanding the high temperature, Adrian felt something queerly

like a trickle of iced water down the length of his spine. He just

managed not to change his position, but remained leaning sideways

toward her.

"You are more than kind to me, dear cousin," he said. "Really, more

than kind and good. But I am sure your ready sympathy will make you

comprehend there is a stage of most _ennuis_, private worries and

bothers, when it is only discreet, only, indeed, honorable, to maintain

silence. Yet, believe me, I shall never forget your amiable solicitude

for my happiness. Some day in the future it may become possible for me

to explain--"

"Yes--oh! yes--in the future--thank you--I know--in the future," Joanna

whispered, pressing her hands over her eyes.

And Adrian shrank away from her. He couldn't help it. Mercifully, she

wasn't looking. He uncrossed his legs, sat upright. Then, leaning

forward with bent head, he stared at the red and purple quarries of the

pavement, resting his wrists upon his knees. He was about to reply,

but Joanna's toneless speech rushed onward.

"Pray, pray do not suppose that I wish to cross-question you or force

myself into your confidence. Nothing could be further from my

intention than that. I am so sure you know far best what to tell and

what to withhold from me. I could never question your judgment for an

instant. In this, as in everything--yes, everything--I am ready and

contented to wait. Only sometimes there are practical ways of being

helpful. I have lived among business people all my life, and I could

not help thinking that if there was any scheme--connected with your

Review, for instance--forgive me if I am presumptuous--but any business

affair in which you were interested and which might require capital,

might need financing--"

Adrian raised his head slightly. His face was drawn and very pale.

His nostrils quivered. He had sufficient self-control to keep his eyes

steadily upon the white, capering forms of the tennis players there on

the other side of the sunny lawn. Was it conceivable that she,

Joanna--of all created women--was trying to buy him? The degradation,

the infinite disgust of it!--But no, that really was too vile a

thought. With all the cleanness, all the chivalry of his nature,

Adrian thrust it aside, refusing to dishonor her so much. Again he

nerved himself to speak, and again her speech rushed onward like--so it

seemed to him--some toneless hissing of wind over a barren, treeless,

seedless waste.

"Pray, pray do not be displeased with me," she pleaded. "I may be

acting unconventionally in touching thus upon matters apparently

outside my province. But, as I think you will admit, I am at most only

forestalling the right, the privilege rather--for to me no privilege

could be greater--which will be mine later on, in the future of which

you just now spoke. Please think of it thus. And if my action is

premature, a little unbecoming or unusual, you--who understand

everything--will most surely forgive. No--Cousin Adrian, do not answer

me, I implore you--not just yet. I have longed so earnestly for this

opportunity of talking alone with you. Give me time. Let me finish.

I know I do not express myself well. But be patient with me. When we

are together I am only conscious of your presence. I become miserably

deficient in courage and resource. Words fail me. I am so sensible of

my own shortcomings. Therefore I cannot consent to lose this

opportunity. There is something I so intensely need to tell you,

because I cannot help hoping it may lighten the anxieties which have

been troubling you--"

During this extraordinary address Adrian held himself rigidly still,

his head again bent, while he stared at the red and purple quarries.

He could not trust himself to move by so much as an inch lest he should

betray the repulsion with which she inspired him. Meanwhile his mind

worked like some high-powered engine at full pressure, for, indeed, the

situation was extravagant in its unpleasantness. How to say anything

conclusive without assuming too much passed human wit. Yet what more

fatuous, what more execrably bad taste than to assume just that too

much? He wanted to spare the poor woman, and act toward her with as

perfect charity, as perfect good breeding, as he might.

"This is what I have so wanted to tell you, Adrian," Joanna went on.

"Lately I have felt quite differently about my unfortunate brother,

about poor Bibby, of whose unhappy career I spoke to you when you were

here before. I have learned to think differently upon many subjects in

the last three months--"

Joanna paused, pressing her hands against her forehead.

"Yes--upon many, many subjects," she said. "That is natural,

inevitable, with the wonderful prospect which lies before me."

The young man braced himself, each muscle growing taut, as a man braces

himself for a life-and-death fight. But he did not alter his position.

"When we talked of my brother before, I told you--I thought it right to

do so--that I proposed to put aside the larger portion of my fortune

for his benefit. I believed it my duty to do my utmost to make amends

for papa's harshness toward him. But since then I have come to see the

matter in a different light. I no longer feel that my brother has the

first claim upon me. I no longer believe my first duty is to Bibby.

It is to some one else. And I have ceased to believe he is still

living. A strange and deepening conviction has grown upon me that he

is dead."

Adrian's muscles relaxed. He threw back his head and looked into the

sky, into the strong, steady sunlight. For hearing Joanna's last

words, he hailed salvation--salvation coming, be it added, from the

very queerest and most unexpected quarter.

"Consequently I have decided to alter my will," Joanna continued. "I

scrutinized my own motives carefully. I have earnestly tried not to be

unduly influenced by my own inclinations, but to do what is just and

right. I have not yet spoken to Margaret about it, but I intend to

make a redistribution of my property, devoting that portion of it which

I held in reserve for my brother to another person--I mean another

purpose. Under my altered circumstances I feel not only that I am

justified in doing this, but that it has become an imperative

obligation. Were my poor brother still living the news of papa's death

must have reached him by this time and he would have communicated

either with Andrew Merriman or with me. As he has not communicated

with either of us, I am free to assume the fact of his death. You

agree with me, Adrian? I am at liberty to make this redistribution of

my property? You--you assent?"

"Since you are good enough to ask my advice, dear cousin," Adrian said,

looking upon the ground and speaking quietly and distinctly, "I am

compelled to answer you truthfully. You are not free at the present

time, in my opinion, to make any alteration in your will which affects

your bequest to your brother."

"But," Joanna protested, with a smoldering violence, "but if I am

certain, morally certain, that my unfortunate brother is dead?"

Putting a strong force upon himself, Adrian leaned sideways in his

chair, again crossing his legs, turning his face toward Joanna, and

looking gravely and kindly at her.

"Dear cousin," he said, "perhaps I should have acted more wisely had I

written or spoken to you before now of a certain discovery which I

happened, accidentally, to make immediately after my return to France.

I hesitated after the exhausting experiences you had recently passed

through to subject you to further anxiety and suspense or to raise

hopes which might be fated to disappointment. But I possess

evidence--to myself conclusive--that your brother was living as lately

as three months ago; that in February last he was in Paris. Yes, I

know, I sympathize--I readily comprehend," he went on, feelingly, "how

greatly this information is calculated to surprise you. On that

account I have withheld it, and I grieve it is not possible to soften

the shock of it by giving a happy account of your brother's state of

mind or of his circumstances."

Here the speaker stopped, for Joanna raised her hand with an almost

menacing gesture.

"Wait, Adrian," she cried, "wait! I cannot bear any more at present.

I must accustom myself to this idea. It means so much, so dreadfully

much. I must have time to think."

CHAPTER VI

WHICH PLAYS SEESAW BETWEEN A GAME OF

LAWN-TENNIS AND A PRODIGAL SON

Coming in by the wicket gate from the carriage-drive, Challoner

sauntered with a deliberate and even proprietary tread along the

shrubbery path skirting the eastern side of the lawn. He was clothed,

with a view to sports and pastimes, in a loosely fitting gray Norfolk

jacket, white trousers, and a hard, white straw hat, the low crown of

it encircled by a band of purple-and-scarlet-striped ribbon. The said

hat, set on the top of his tall, upright head and neck, and straight,

solid figure, gave him--in outline--an appearance remarkably suggestive

of a large medicine bottle with the cork rammed well in. Over his

shoulder he carried a racket, from which dangled a pair of by no means

diminutive tennis shoes.

Only recently had Challoner received invitations to the Tower House of

this purely social character. They gave him the warmest satisfaction,

as marking progress toward the goal of his ambitions. He had been

elected to the Baughurst Park Ward; by a narrow majority, it is true,

still he had been elected--and that was the main thing, since it

supplied a secure basis from which to manoeuver. Before the next

election, if all went well--and he would compel all, never fear, to go

well--he would be in a position to ride rough-shod over the Baughurst

Park Ward, herding its voters to the poll like so many obedient sheep.

His wits and professional standing plus Margaret Smyrthwaite's fortune

and social standing would make him master not only of the Baughurst

Park Ward, but of all Stourmouth. Yes, Sir Joseph and Lady Challoner,

sons, perhaps, at Eton, daughters presented at Court and marrying into

the peerage! Such beatific visions floated before him, and Challoner

felt then, indeed, he would not have lived in vain. The job of

uprooting and deporting Mrs. Gwynnie had been a nasty one. It hit him

very hard at the time. There were moments of it he didn't care to

remember very clearly even now. But, as he sauntered slowly in the

still afternoon heat through the aromatic atmosphere of the radiant

garden, and glanced up at the imposing mass of the big red house, its

gilt weather-vane cutting into the blazing blue, he thanked Almighty

God from his heart, piously, that he had had the pluck, and

forethought, and resolution to go through with that nasty job of

uprooting and deportation. Only weak men let women wreck them; and,

thank God, he, Joseph Challoner, wasn't weak. Meanwhile--here piety

had the grace to walk out and let honest cynicism walk in,

winking--meanwhile Margaret Smyrthwaite grew better-looking and more

accessible every day. Yes, unquestionably Providence is on the side of

the clear-headed, helping those who help themselves, who know the

chance of their lives when it comes along and don't allow sentimental

scruples to prevent their fixing right on to it. Only the unfit go

under--such, for instance, as that flimsy little baggage, Mrs. Gwynnie.

And, if you look at things all round calmly and scientifically, how

very much better for everybody concerned, public morals included, that

under such very unfit little feminine baggages should very completely

and finally go!

Chewing the cud of which philosophic reflections, Challoner pursued his

prosperous and contented way. From the tennis court the players waved

and called their greetings as he approached them. Margaret

Smyrthwaite, leaving her seat in front of the pavilion, came forward to

meet him, her smart black figure and enormous hat backed by a bank of

crimson and pink rhododendron in full blossom. She moved with the

rather studied grace of a girl who expects, and is altogether ready, to

be admired. Challoner had no quarrel with this. For his taste she

could not be too ornate. He appraised her appearance, her costume, the

general effect of her, as he might a fine piece of plate for his table.

Well, didn't he propose she should be, in a sense, just that--his

domestic and social centerpiece? The more glory to him, then, the more

expensive she looked! And she could afford to look expensive, thank

God!--here piety stepped in again momentarily.--And he could afford to

let her look so; for once that handsome fortune of hers in his keeping,

be d----d if he would not double or treble it.

He raised his hat and stood with it in his hand. His eyes covered her

covetously. If she wanted admiration, it was hers to order. He could

supply a perfectly genuine article in unlimited quantity. And, though

his countenance was not an expressive one, he contrived to convey the

above information to her quite clearly. The young lady responded. She

talked of the weather, the heat, the game, and such-like inanities; but

she displayed her fine plumage and trailed her wings all the while.

Challoner began to think of a game of tennis as a wholesome corrective.

The temperature became high in more senses than the meteorologic one.

Presently she made a gesture calling his attention to her sister and

Adrian Savage sitting on the veranda; smiled slyly, looking up at him,

and then turned and sauntered a few steps beside him back along the

path.

Witnessing all which suggestive pantomime from his distant station,

Adrian had much ado to maintain an attitude of circumspection and

restraint. For was it conceivable that those two--Margaret and

Challoner--in any degree shared, or affected to share, poor Joanna's

infatuated delusion? Was ever man landed in so false a position! An

atmosphere of intrigue surrounded him. He felt as though walking among

treacherous quicksands, where every step spells danger of being sucked

under and engulfed. Inwardly he tore and plunged, cursing against the

hateful, the dishonoring silence imposed upon him by circumstance. He

was tempted to rush out on to the sun-bathed lawn, regardless of all

mercy, of all decorum, and shout to the four winds of heaven his

unique, inextinguishable devotion to Gabrielle St. Leger, his sole

desire and love! Only by some such public loud-tongued demonstration

did he feel he could regain safe foothold and cleanse his honor from

the detestable and insidious duplicity fathered upon him through no act

or lapse of his.

But here Joanna's voice once more claimed his attention. It still

hissed and whispered, causing him shrinking and repulsion. Yet he

detected a change in the spirit of it. Some finer, more wholesome

chord had been struck. She no longer cringed.

"I am ready now, Cousin Adrian," she said, "to hear that which you have

to tell me about my brother."

And the young man, finding relief to his pent-up feelings in voluminous

and rapid speech, told her how, calling late one night upon an old

school-fellow, a widely known draftsman and caricaturist, he had seen

certain drawings--here Adrian picked his phrases a little--representing

a young man of six or seven and twenty--"Who," he said, "bore such a

striking resemblance to you, my dear cousin, and to Margaret, that I

was transfixed with veritable amazement. I do not disguise from you

that I was also pained, that for the moment I was furious. For these

pictures were objectionable in character, in many respects odious. It

appeared to me my friend had been guilty of an outrage for which it was

my duty to administer sharp chastisement. But I could demand no

immediate satisfaction, because he and I had already quarreled that

evening, and he concealed himself from me, thereby rendering it

impracticable that I should question him. This, perhaps, was as well,

since I was heated and it gave me space for reflection. I realized the

extreme improbability of his ever having seen either you or your

sister--the absolute impossibility of his having done so recently, as

you had been at home in England for some years. Then I recalled the

pathetic history of your brother which you had confided to me. I

grasped the situation. I understood. I called upon my friend next

day. Still he was rancorous. He flew into a passion and refused to

admit me. I restrained my resentment. I wrote to him explaining the

gravity and urgency of the case. I appealed to his better nature,

entreated him to be reasonable and to give me information. Indeed, I

conducted myself with praiseworthy reticence, while he remained

obstinate to the point of exasperation. Upon more than one count, I

fear, I should have derived the very warmest satisfaction from wringing

his neck."

Adrian's handsome eyes danced and glittered. His teeth showed white

and wicked under his fly-away mustache.

"Yes, I, on my side, also possibly harbored a trifle of rancor," he

said. "But I suppressed my legitimate annoyance. I ignored his

provocations. I insisted. At last I elicited this much."

"That was very noble of you; still it distresses me that, indirectly, I

should have caused you this trouble. Though I am grateful--some day I

may find words in which to tell you how grateful," Joanna whispered,

leaning forward and working her hands together nervously in her black

alpaca lap.

All of which served to bring Adrian, who had grown quite comparatively

at ease and happy in his subjective belaborings of The Unspeakable

Tadpole, back to the entanglements and distractions of the immediate

present, with a bounce.

"Upon my word, my dear Joanna," he replied almost brusquely, "I am

afraid it very much remains to be proved whether I deserve your

gratitude or not. I labor under the ungracious necessity of

communicating much to you that is painful, that is sad. Yet, having

gone thus far it becomes imperative, for many reasons, that I should

put you in possession of all the facts. Then it will be for you to

decide what further steps are to be taken next."

"You will know best--far best," she murmured.

The young man set his teeth. Never before had he come so near being

cruel to a woman. Instinctively he crossed himself. _Sancta Maria,

Mater Dei_, in mercy preserve him from the guilt of so dastardly a sin!

He turned to Joanna and spoke, dealing out his words slowly, so that

the full meaning of them might reach her beclouded, love-sick brain.

"My friend, René Dax, found this young man, whose likeness to you and

your sister is so indisputable, so intimate, in the act of attempting

his life."

"Ah! Bibby, Bibby!" Joanna cried harshly, throwing back her head.

"Yes," Adrian continued, pursuing his advantage, "unnerved by the

horror of his friendless and destitute condition, the unhappy boy was

about to throw himself from one of the bridges into the Seine. At his

age one must have suffered very greatly to take refuge in that! But

from the drawings of which I have spoken one can form only too forcible

a conception of his desperation. They supply a human document of a

deplorably convincing order. René, who, notwithstanding his

eccentricity, possesses admirable instincts, struggled with him and

succeeded in preventing the accomplishment of his fatal design. Then,

forcing him into a passing cab--kidnapping him, in short--carried him

off with him home."

"Oh, wait, wait!" Joanna broke in. "This is all so very dreadful. It

is so remote from my experience, from all I am accustomed to, from all

the habits and purposes of my life. I do not wish to be self-indulgent

and shirk my duty. I wish to hear the whole, Cousin Adrian; but I must

pause. I must recover and collect myself, if I am to follow your

narrative intelligently."

Just then Joseph Challoner, having laid aside hat and jacket and put on

tennis shoes, came out of the pavilion and joined the group, gathered

around Margaret Smyrthwaite, on the terraced grass bank of the court.

Challoner had the reputation of being a formidable player, his height,

and reach, and sureness of eye more than counterbalancing any lack of

agility. It may be added that, along with a losing game, he had the

reputation of too often mislaying his manners and losing his temper.

But this afternoon no question presented itself of losing either game

or temper. He had practised regularly lately. He felt in fine form.

He felt in high good humor. While both sense and senses called for

strong physical exercise as a wholesome outlet to emotion.

Amid discussion and laughter, Marion Chase tossed for partners. The

elder of the Busbridge boys fell to her lot, the younger to

Challoner's, and the set began. Margaret returned to her chair, and

Amy Woodford lolled on the pavilion step, in the shadow close beside

her, fanning a very pink face with a large palm-leaf fan. As the game

progressed the two girls commented and applauded, with clapping of

hands and derisive or encouraging titterings and cries. Against this

gaily explosive feminine duet, the rapid thud of balls, and sharp

calling of the score, Joanna's voice asserted itself, with--to her

hearer--a consuming dreariness of interminable and fruitless moral

effort, a grayness of perpetual non-arrival, perpetual frustration,

misconception and mistake.

"I am composed now, Adrian," she said. "My will again controls my

feelings. Please tell me the rest."

"I am afraid there is disappointingly little more to tell," he replied.

"For two days the unfortunate boy remained with my friend as his guest.

René clothed him properly, fed and cared for him, and paid him

liberally for his services as a model. But on the third morning, under

plea of requiring to obtain some particular drug from a neighboring

pharmacy, the young man left my friend's studio. He did not return."

"Where did he go?"

"That is what I have asked myself a thousand times, and made every

effort to discover. I have friends at the Prefecture of Police. I

consulted them. They were generous in their readiness to put their

knowledge at my disposal and aid me in my research. Unluckily I could

only give them a verbal description of the missing man, for René

refused me all assistance, refused to allow any police agent to view

the drawings, refused even to allow photographs of them to be taken.

To do so, he declared, would constitute an unpardonable act of

treachery, a violation of hospitality and crime against his own good

faith. The unhappy fellow had trusted him on the understanding that no

inquiry would be made regarding his family or his name. Now the

episode was closed. René did not want it reopened. He had other

things to think about. Rather than have the drawings employed for

purposes of identification, he would destroy them, obliterate them with

a coat of paint. When it became evident, however, the young man had

disappeared for good René's valet, less scrupulous than his master,

carefully examined the wretched clothes he had left behind. Between

the lining and stuff of the jacket he found a small photograph. It

must have worked through from a rent in the breast-pocket. Though

creased and defaced, the subject of it was still in a degree

distinguishable. I did not wish to agitate you, my dear cousin, by

communicating this matter to you until I had made further efforts to

discover the truth. I sent the photograph to Mr. Merriman. He tells

me it represents the garden front of your old house, Highdene, near

Leeds."

Joanna neither moved nor spoke, though her breath sighed and caught.

The sounds from the tennis court, meanwhile, increased both in volume

and in animation, causing Adrian to look up.

Challoner stood as near to the net as is permissible, volleying or

smashing down ball after ball, until his opponents began to lose heart

and science and grow harried and spent. And Adrian, watching, found

himself, though unwillingly, impressed by and admiring the force, not

only the great brute strength but determination of the man, which

bestowed a certain dignity upon the game, raising it from the level of

a mere amusement to that of a serious duel. And across the intervening

space Challoner became sensible of that unwilling admiration--the

admiration of a quasi-enemy, curiously supplementing another admiration

of which he was also conscious--namely, that of Margaret Smyrthwaite,

of the woman who craves to be justified, by public exhibition of his

skill and prowess, of the man to whom she meditates intrusting her

person and her fate. This excited Challoner, flattering his pride,

stimulating his ambition and belief in himself.--Yes, he would show

them all what he was made of, show them all what he could do, what he

was worth! So that now he no longer played simply to win a set at

tennis from a harmless, lanky Busbridge boy and amazon-like Marion

Chase; but to revenge himself for Adrian Savage's past distrust of him,

detection and prevention of his shady little business tricks, played to

revenge himself for the younger man's superiority in breeding,

knowledge of the world, culture, talents, charm of manner and of looks.

He gave himself to the paying off of old scores in that game of tennis,

all his bullying instinct, his necessity to beat down and trample

Opposition under foot, actively militant. Yet since Margaret

Smyrthwaite's approval, not to mention her goodly fortune, came into

reckoning, the bullying instinct made him deadly cool and cunning

rather than headlong or reckless in his play.

Presently Joanna silently motioned Adrian once again to take up his

sordid story. And with a feeling of rather hopeless weariness he

obeyed, recounting his scouring of Paris, accompanied by a private

detective. Told her of clues found, or apparently found, only again to

be lost. Told her, incidentally, a little about the haunts of

vagabondage and crime and vice, of the seething, foul-smelling,

festering under-world which there, as in every great city, lies below

the genial surface of things, ready to drag down and absorb the

friendless and the weak. So doing--while he still watched Challoner,

and divined much of the human drama--finding expression in his

masterful manipulation of racket and ball--Adrian's imagination took

fire. He forgot his companion, gave reign to his natural eloquence and

described certain scenes, certain episodes, with only too telling

effect.

"But you must have been exposed to great danger," she broke in

breathlessly at last.

"Ah! like that!" he cried, shrugging his shoulders and laughing a

little fiercely. "Danger is, after all, an excellent sauce to meat. I

had entire confidence in the loyalty and discretion of my companion,

and we were armed."

Joanna got up, pushing away her chair, which scrooped upon the quarries.

"And you did all this for me--for my sake, because Bibby is my

brother!" she exclaimed. "You risked contracting some illness,

receiving some injury! For me, because of Bibby's relation to me, you

endangered your life!"

"But in point of fact, I didn't suffer in the least, my dear Joanna,"

he replied, rising also. "I enlarged my acquaintance with a city of

which I am quite incorrigibly fond; which, even at her dirtiest and

naughtiest, I very heartily love. And here I am, as you see, in

excellent health, perfectly intact, ready to start on my voyage of

discovery again to-morrow, if there should seem any reasonable hope of

its being crowned with success. Common humanity demands that much of

me. One cannot let a fellow-creature, especially one who has the claim

of kinship, perish in degradation and misery without making every

rational effort to rescue and rehabilitate him."

Joanna hardly appeared to listen. She moved to and fro, her arms

hanging straight at her sides, her hands opening and closing in

nervous, purposeless clutchings.

"No," she declared violently, "no! When I think of the risks which you

have exposed yourself, and the shocking and cruel things which might

have happened to you, I cannot control my indignation. When I think

that Bibby might have been the cause of your death no vestige of

affection for him is left in me. None--none--I cast him out of my

heart. Yes, it is dreadful. Looking back, all the anguish of which my

brother has been the cause is present to me--the constant anxiety which

his conduct gave rise to, the concealments mamma and I had to practise

to shield him from papa's anger, the atmosphere of nervousness and

unrest which, owing to him, embittered my girlhood. He was the cause

of estrangement between my parents; between papa and myself. He was

the cause of the break-up of our home at Leeds, of the severing of old

friendships and associations, of the sense of disgrace which for so

many years lay upon our whole establishment. It destroyed my mother's

health. It emphasized the unsympathetic tendencies of my father's

character. And now, now, when so much has happened to redress the

unhappiness of the past, to glorify and enlarge my life, when my future

is so inexpressibly full of hope and promise, it is too much, too much,

that my brother should reappear, that he should intervene between us,

Adrian, between you and me--endangering your actual existence. And he

will come back--I know it, I feel it," she added wildly. "I believed

him dead because I wished him dead. I still wish it. But that is

useless--useless."

And, as though in ironic applause of Joanna's passionate denunciation,

the two young ladies watching the game of tennis broke into

enthusiastic hand-clapping.

"Well played--good--good--splendid--played indeed!" they cried, their

voices ringing out through the still, hot air.

Marion Chase flung herself down on the terraced grass-bank.

"You're out of sight too strong for us," she gasped, laughingly. "We

didn't have the ghost of a chance."

Challoner stood wiping his face and neck with his handkerchief. He was

puffed up with pride, almost boisterously exultant. Ah! yes, let the

hen-bird display her fine plumage and trail her wings ever so prettily,

when it came to a fight the cock-bird had his innings, and could show

he wasn't lacking in virility or spunk! He'd given them all a taste of

his metal this afternoon, he flattered himself; taught them Joseph

Challoner was something more than a common low-caste, office-bred,

country attorney, half sharper, half lick-spittle sneak!

"The gray mare isn't the better horse yet awhile, eh, Miss Marion, your

friends the suffragettes notwithstanding?" he said, jocosely. "All the

same, I congratulate you. You and your partner made a plucky stand."

The elder Busbridge boy lay on his back, panting and tightening the

supporting silk handkerchief about his lean young waist.

"My hat! that last rally was a breather though," he grunted. "I got

regularly fed up with the way you kept me bargeing from side to side of

that back court, Challoner. Double-demon, all-round champion

terrifier--that's about the name to suit you, my good chap."

Joanna had come close to Adrian. Her prominent eyes were strained and

clouded. Seam-like lines showed in her forehead and cheeks. Her poor

mouth looked bruised, the outline of her lips frayed and discolored.

Her likeness to the drawings upon the wall was phenomenal just then.

It shocked Adrian, and it caused him to think.

"They have finished playing," she said. "They will come in to tea

directly. I cannot remain and meet them. I must show some respect for

my own dignity. They are all Margaret's friends. I do not care for

them. I cannot expose myself to their observation. She must entertain

them herself. I will go to my room. I must be alone until I have had

time to regain my composure, until I know my own thought about this

cruel, cruel event; until I have recovered in some degree from the

shock I have suffered, and begin to see what my duty is."

CHAPTER VII

PISTOLS OR POLITENESS--FOR TWO

"This is the last of the documents, Mr. Challoner?"

"Yes, that is the last of the lot. You noted the contents of Schedule

D, covering the period from the end of the December quarter to the date

of Mr. Smyrthwaite's death, among the Priestly Mills statement of

accounts? The typed one--quite right. Yes, that's the lot."

"We may consider the whole of our business concluded?"

"That is so," Challoner said.

He stood in an easy attitude resting his elbow on the shelf of the red

porphyry-mantelpiece of the smoking-room at Heatherleigh--a heavily

furnished apartment, the walls hung with chocolate-colored imitation

leather, in a raised self-colored pattern of lozenge-shaped medallions,

each centered with a Tudor rose. The successes of the afternoon still

inflated him. In addition to his triumphs in sports and pastimes, he

had managed to say five words to Margaret Smyrthwaite. And, though the

crucial question had neither been asked nor answered, he felt sure of

her at last. His humor was hilarious and expansive--of the sort which

chucks young women under the chin, digs old gentlemen in the ribs or

slaps them familiarly upon the back. There was a covert sneer in the

tail of Challoner's eye and a braggart tang in his talk. He swaggered,

every inch of his big body pleased with living, almost brutally

self-congratulatory and content.

"I am really under considerable obligation to you for giving up your

evening to me, and letting me finish our business after office-hours

thus. It will enable me to catch the night cross-Channel boat from

Dover to-morrow. I shall be particularly glad to do so."

As he spoke, Adrian swung round the revolving chair, in which he sat

before the large writing-table--loaded with bundles of folded papers,

and legal documents engrossed on vellum tied round with pink tape. In

turning, the light from the shaded incandescent gas-lamp, hanging

directly above the table, brought his black hair and beard and white

face into the high relief of some Rembrandt portrait.

"What's up with young Master Highty Tighty?" Challoner asked himself.

"Looks off color, somehow, as if he'd had an uncommon nasty blow below

the belt."

The windows and glass door stood open on to the garden, and the pungent

scents of the great fir woods drawn forth by the day's sunshine mingled

with that of Challoner's cigar and Adrian's cigarette.

"Oh! so you're off at once then, are you?" the former said. "That's

something new, isn't it? I understood from the ladies you thought of

stopping on here a bit. And when may we hope for the pleasure of

seeing you again on this side of the silver strip?"

Adrian leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs and crossing

his feet.

"At the present time I really have no idea," he replied.

Challoner could hardly conceal his glee. For an instant he debated.

Concluded he would venture on a reconnaissance. Flicked the end off

his cigar into the fireplace.

"Miss Joanna will be sorry," he said.

"Both my cousins have been perfect in their amiability, in their

hospitality, in their generous appreciation of any small services it

has been in my power to render them," Adrian declared, rolling his r's

and speaking with the hint of a foreign accent common to him when tired

or vexed. "My cousins know that they can command my co-operation at a

moment's notice should they require counsel or advice. But my own

affairs, as they kindly and readily comprehend, cannot be too long

neglected. My interests and my work are necessarily abroad--in France.

It becomes imperative that I should return to my work."

"Not a doubt about it," Challoner said. "Work stands first. Though I

own I'm glad my work doesn't oblige me to expatriate myself. I

shouldn't relish that. Not a bit. Poor old England's good enough for

me."

"Precisely--your interests and your work are here."

Challoner fitted the toe of his boot into the pattern of the

hearth-rug, looking down and permitting himself a quiet laugh.

"Oh! Lord, yes," he said, "to be sure. My work and my interests are

here right enough--very much here. I'm not ashamed of the word

'local,' or of the word 'provincial' either, Mr. Savage. My father

invented Stourmouth, as you may say, and I've patented his invention.

Stourmouth owes a good deal to the two Joseph Challoners, father and

son; and I propose it should owe a long sight more, one way and

another, before I join my poor old daddy 'under the churchyard sod.'"

"It is an act of piety to devote one's talents and energies to the

welfare of one's native place," Adrian returned.

And therewith, judging he had made sufficient concession to the

exigencies of the position in the matter of general conversation, he

rose to depart. But Challoner stopped him.

"Just half a minute, will you please, Mr. Savage," he said. "It occurs

to me if we're not likely to meet for some time there's one matter I

ought to mention to you. I don't exactly care to take the whole onus

of the thing upon my own shoulders. Of course, if you're cognizant of

it, there's the beginning and end of the story as far as my

responsibility goes. I may have my own opinion as to the wisdom,

and--not to mince matters--the honesty of the arrangement. But, if you

are aware of it and approve, my mouth, of course, is shut. Has Miss

Smyrthwaite told you of the alteration she proposes making in her will?"

"Yes, she spoke of it to-day; and I dissuaded her from making it."

Challoner sucked in his breath with a soft whistle.

"Indeed?" he said. "That's a self-denying ordinance."

Adrian held himself extremely erect. His eyebrows were raised and the

tip of his pugnacious nose was very much in the air.

"Pardon me, but I do not quite follow you," he said.

"Miss Smyrthwaite didn't explain the nature of the alterations very

fully then, I take it?"

"My cousin informed me that she proposed to revoke certain gifts and

bequests she had made to her brother, William Smyrthwaite--supposing

him still to be living. Of this I disapproved. I told her so, giving

her the reasons for my disapproval."

Challoner looked down and fitted the toe of his boot into the

hearth-rug pattern once more.

"You hold the property should remain in the family--go to the direct

heirs, the next of kin? A very sound principle; but one, if you'll

excuse my saying so, few persons stick to where their personal

advantage is involved."

"I repeat, I fail to follow you," Adrian returned, shrugging his

shoulders and spreading out his hands with an impatient movement.

"Perhaps Miss Smyrthwaite omitted to explain that this redistribution

of her property was exclusively in your favor; all she mulcted her

precious specimen of a brother of was to go not to her direct heir--her

sister--but to yourself."

Whereupon, it must be conceded, the younger man's bearing became not a

little insolent.

"Preposterous, my dear Challoner, utterly preposterous!" he cried.

"For once your professional acumen must have quite scandalously

deserted you, or you could not have so misunderstood my cousin's

instructions."

It was not Challoner's cue to lose his temper. He had too many causes

for self-congratulation to-night. And then, whether Adrian was

bluffing or not, he believed--though it was annoying to find the young

man so unmercenary--this repudiation of the proffered inheritance to be

sincere.

"Joanna--Miss Smyrthwaite, I mean, I beg her pardon--is too good a

woman of business to trust to verbal instructions. I have got the

whole thing on paper, in black and white, there"--he pointed to the

table. "I can lay my hand on it in half a minute. Possibly you'd like

to look at it yourself, as you appear to doubt my word."

But for the moment Adrian was incapable of reply. This was what Joanna

had meant! It was even worse than he had feared. He felt humiliated,

hot with shame. And then, in spirit, he clasped those infamous

drawings upon the wall and the subject of them, Bibby, the miserable

wastrel Bibby, to his breast.

"Do you wish to look at Miss Smyrthwaite's instructions as to the

transfer of her property, Mr. Savage?" Challoner repeated, a sneer in

his voice.

But the young man had recovered his native adroitness.

"Clearly it would be superfluous for me to do so; because, as I have

already informed you, Miss Smyrthwaite, recognizing the validity of my

arguments, decides to cancel those instructions, to make no alteration

in the disposition of her property. Happily I was in a position to

convince her that it is premature to assume the fact of her brother's

death. I have comparatively recent news of him."

Challoner's jaw dropped.

"The devil you have," he said, under his breath.

"Yes--'the devil,' quite possibly--as you so delicately put it," Adrian

returned, lightly. "I have been tempted, at moments, to put it myself

so, my dear Mr. Challoner. At others I have seemed to trace a really

providential element in this strange affair. Directly the facts of

William Smyrthwaite's reappearance came to my knowledge I placed Mr.

Andrew Merriman in full possession of them."

"Oh, you did, did you?" Challoner commented.

"Yes. I considered this the correct course to pursue. Mr. Merriman

was formerly employed by Mr. Smyrthwaite as the channel of

communication between himself and his son."

"Graceless young hound!" Challoner snarled, caution swamped by anger

and chagrin. It made him mad to think Adrian Savage had had this

eminently disconcerting piece of information up his sleeve all along!

Once more he'd been checkmated.

"Mr. Merriman generously accepts all responsibility in the conduct of

this matter," Adrian went on. "And, I am sure you will feel with me,

that his long and intimate connection with my cousins' family renders

him quite the most suitable person to deal with it. Therefore, until

further developments declare themselves--I beg your pardon? You

express a pious hope further developments never will declare

themselves? Possibly that might save trouble; but I fear the saving of

trouble is hardly the main point in the present case. Therefore, until

they do declare themselves, you will, I feel sure, agree that it is

most undesirable this subject should be spoken about. Discussion of it

can only cause my cousins agitation and heighten their suspense. This

I am naturally most anxious they should be spared. Nothing, meanwhile,

will be neglected. I shall do my part. Mr. Merriman will do his. I

will ask you therefore to consider this conversation as strictly

confidential."

"Oh! you needn't be afraid I shall blab," Challoner said. "Poor girl,"

he went on presently, pronouncing that dangerous catch-word as though

it rhymed with _curl_--"poor girl, poor Miss Margaret! It'll be an

awful blow to her. She is so sensitive. She's given me to

understand--indirectly, of course--when we've been talking over

business, what an out-and-out rotter this precious brother of hers was.

To my mind, you know, Mr. Savage, it's not a nice thing to turn such

vermin as young Smyrthwaite loose on two defenseless women. I don't

like it. Honestly I don't. So you needn't be afraid of my blabbing.

My whole object, out of respect for the ladies and for poor old

Smyrthwaite's memory, will be to keep matters dark. At the same time I

note what you say about Merriman; which, I take it, is equivalent to

telling me to keep my hands off. Very good, Mr. Savage. What I have

just said proves I think that I am more than willing to keep my hands

very much off this very dirty job. Still, there is one question which,

even so, I imagine I am at liberty to ask. Are you sure of your facts?"

To Adrian Savage it appeared only two alternatives were open to

him--namely, to treat his host with studied politeness or call him out.

And England, perhaps unfortunately, is no longer a dueling country.

Adrian's manner became elaborately sweet.

"As far as they go," he said, "I am, dear Mr. Challoner, absolutely

sure of my facts."

"As far as they go? Well, there's room for hope they mayn't go very

far, then--may be something of the nature of a scare, in short. And,

if I may be allowed one question more, has this very edifying piece of

family news been communicated to Margaret?"

"To--to whom?" Adrian said, with a civil interrogatory face, raised

eyebrows, and a slightly elongated neck.

"Sorry I didn't speak plainly enough," Challoner snarled back.

"Communicated to your cousin, Mr. Savage, Miss Margaret Smyrthwaite?"

"Not by me," the other returned, smiling affably. "And now, my dear

Mr. Challoner," he went on, "since these labors in which we have been

associated are at an end, let me thank you warmly for your able

concurrence and for the priceless assistance you have given me in the

administration of Mr. Smyrthwaite's estate. Accept, also, my thanks

for your courtesy in permitting me to come here to your charming house

to-night."

Adrian glanced around the forbidding apartment.

"I carry away with me so many interesting and instructive impressions,"

he said. "But now I really must trespass upon your time and indulgence

no longer. Again thanks--and, since I leave at a comparatively early

hour to-morrow, good-by, Mr. Challoner--good-by, good-night."

CHAPTER VIII

"NUIT DE MAI"

Some half-hour later Adrian turned into the garden of the Tower House

by the wicket gate opening off the carriage-drive. And so doing, the

tranquil beauty of the night made itself felt. During his walk from

Heatherleigh his preoccupation had been too great to admit of the

bestowal of intelligent attention upon outward things, however poetic

their aspect. He possessed the comfortable assurance, it is true, of

having worsted the animal Challoner in the only way possible, swords

and pistols being forbidden. He also possessed the comfortable

assurance of having scrupulously and successfully regulated the

_affaire_ Smyrthwaite, in as far as business was concerned, and taken

his discharge in respect of it. But the events of the afternoon had

proved to him, beyond all shadow of doubt and denial, the existence of

a second _affaire_ Smyrthwaite, compared with which regulation of

hundreds of thousands of pounds worth of property was, from his

personal standpoint, but the veriest bagatelle! Now the question of

how to deal with this second _affaire_, alike scrupulously and

successfully, racked his brain, usually so direct in decision, so

prompt in honorable instinct and thought. And it was to the young

man's credit that, while fully measuring the abominable nature of the

hole in which the unhappy Joanna had put him, he remained just and

temperate in his judgment of Joanna herself. The more to his credit,

because, as a native of a country where certain subjects are treated in

a spirit of merry common-sense--which, if it makes in some degree for

license, also makes for absence of hypocrisy and much wholesome delight

in life--Joanna's attitude offered an obscure problem. Were she a

vicious woman his position would be a comparatively simple one. But

Joanna and vice were, he felt, far as the poles asunder. Even that

ugly matter of "trying to buy him"--as in his first overwhelming

disgust he had defined it--proved, on calmer inspection, innocent of

any intention of offense. She didn't know, poor, dear woman, she

didn't know. In her virtuous ignorance of certain fundamental

tendencies of human nature, of the correlative action of body and

spirit, she had not a conception of the atrocities she was in process

of committing! For she was essentially high-minded, deep-hearted,

sincere; a positive slave to the demands of her own overdeveloped moral

sense. But, heavens and earth, if only those responsible for her

education had taught her a little more about the nature of the _genus

homo_--male and female--and the physiology of her own emotions, and a

little less about quite supererogatory theoretic ethics! The burning,

though veiled, passion from which he recoiled was, he believed, in

great measure the result of the narrow intellectualism on which she had

been nurtured working upon a naturally ardent temperament. What she

must have suffered! What she would suffer in the coming days!

For it was that last which hit Adrian hardest, in all this distracting

imbroglio, giving him that "uncommon nasty blow below the belt" the

effects of which Joseph Challoner had noted. The more he analyzed,

and, analyzing, excused, Joanna's attitude the more odiously

distasteful did his own position become. In how far was he to blame?

What had he done, by word, act, or look, to provoke or to foster

Joanna's most lamentable infatuation? He explored his memory, and, to

his rather bitter amusement, found it an absolute blank. He had not

flirted with her, even within the most restrained of the limits

sanctioned by ordinary social intercourse. For this he did not commend

himself. On the contrary, he felt almost penitent; since--there hadn't

been any temptation to flirt. Positively not any--though Adrian knew

himself to be by no means insensible to feminine influence. He loved

Madame St. Leger. She constituted, so to speak, the religion of his

heart. But he found dozens of other women charming, and did not

scruple to--as good as--tell them so.--Why not? Are not such tellings

the delightful and perfectly legitimate small change of a gallant man's

affections? And out of the farthings and half-farthings, the very

fractions of half-farthings, indeed--of such small change, Joanna had

constructed a great and serious romance terminating in matrimony! The

young man could have beat his breast, torn his hair, poured ashes upon

his thus forcibly denuded scalp, and rent his up-to-date and

particularly well-tailored garments. He, Adrian Savage, the husband of

Joanna!--From this his lively Gallic imagination galloped away,

blushing in humorous horror, utterly refusing to contemplate the

picture. At the same time his pity for her was immense. And how, oh!

how, without gross and really sickening cruelty, to dispel her

disastrous delusion?

With the above question upon his lips, Adrian turned by the wicket gate

into the garden, where the tranquil beauty surrounding him compelled

his observation.

High above the dark-feathered crests of the firs, the moon, two days

short of the full, rode in the south-eastern sky, obliterating all

stars in the vicinity of her pathway. She showed to-night not as a

flat disk plastered against the solid vault, but as a mammoth,

delicately tarnished silver ball, traveling in stateliest fashion the

steel-blue fields of space. The roofs and façade of the house, its

multiplicity of glinting window-panes, the lawns and shrubberies, and

all-encircling woodland, were alike overlaid with the searching

whiteness of her light. The air was dry and very mellow, rich with a

blending of forest and garden scents. Faintly to northward Adrian's

ear could detect the rattle and grind of a belated tram on the

Barryport Road, and, southward, the continuous wistful murmur of the

mile-distant sea!

Now, as often before, he was sensible of the subtle charm produced by

this conjunction of a highly finished, material civilization with

gently savage and unsubjugated Nature. England is, in so great

measure, a sylvan country even yet; a country of close-coming,

abounding, and invading trees. And when, as now, just upon midnight,

its transitory human populations--which in silly pride suppose

themselves proprietors of the soil and all that grows upon it--are

herded safe indoors, abed and asleep, the trees resume their primitive

sovereignty, making their presence proudly evident. They had no voice

to-night, it is true. They stood becalmed and silent. Yet the genius

of them, both in their woodland unity and endless individual diversity

of form and growth, declared itself nevertheless. For this last the

infiltration of moonlight was partly accountable, since it lent each

stem, branch, and twig, each differing species of foliage--the large

leaves of laurel and rhododendron, the semi-transparent, fringed and

fluted leaves of the beech, the finely spiked tufts of fir-needles--a

definiteness and separateness such as hoar-frost might. Each tree and

bush stood apart from its fellows in charming completeness and relief,

challenging the eye by a certain sprightly independence of mien and

aspect. Had they moved from their fixed places, the big trees mingling

in some stately procession or dance, while the shrubs and bushes

frisked upon the greensward, Adrian would hardly have been surprised.

A spirit of phantasy was abroad--here in the Baughurst Park Ward, local

municipal government notwithstanding--entrancing to his poetic sense.

Therefore he lingered, walking slowly along the path leading to the

garden entrance of the house, here shaded by a broken line of tall

Scotch firs, their smooth stems rising like pillars, bare of branches

for some twenty or thirty feet. Now and again he stopped, held captive

by the tranquil yet disquieting beauty of the scene. It reminded him

strangely of Gabrielle St. Leger's beauty, and the something elusive,

delicately malicious and ironic, in the character of it. Her smiling,

unclosed lips, the dimple in her left cheek; those mysterious oblique

glances from beneath her long-shaped, half-closed eyelids, full at once

of invitation and reserve; the untamed, deliciously tricksy spirit he

apprehended in her; and a something majestic, too, as of those vast,

calm, steel-blue fields of space,--these, all and severally, he,

lover-like, found mirrored in the loveliness of this May night.

On his left the lawns, flooded by moonlight, stretched away to the

tennis court and the terrace walk in front of the pavilion. On his

right, backed by the line of Scotch firs aforesaid, a thick wall of

deciduous shrubs--allspice, lilac, syringa, hydrangea, sweetbrier, and

laburnum--shut out the carriage-drive. The quaint leathery flowers of

the allspice gave off a powerful and luscious sweetness as of

sun-ripened fruit. Adrian paused, inhaling it, gazing meanwhile in

fond imagination into _la belle Gabrielle's_ golden-brown eyes,

refreshingly forgetful of the distracting perplexities of the _affaire_

Smyrthwaite No. 2.

It was a good moment, at once chaste and voluptuous, wherein the very

finest flame of ideal love burned upon his heart's altar. But it was

broken up by an arresting apparition. For a white owl swept,

phantom-like, out of the plantation behind the pavilion and beat over

the moonlit turf in swift and absolutely noiseless flight. A soft

thistle-down could hardly have passed more lightly or silently than the

great wide-winged bird. Beneath it, its shadow, skimming the close-cut

surface of the grass, seemed as much alive and more substantial than

itself. Twice, while Adrian watched, moved and a little startled, it

quartered the lawn in search of prey; then flung itself up, high in

air, vanishing among the tree-tops, with a long-drawn hoo-hoo-hooing of

hollow laughter. And in the space of a few seconds, from the recesses

of the woodland, its mate answered with a far-off elfin echo of its

sinister note. Then Adrian heard a window open. And, on to the far

end of the red-balustraded balcony--extending along the first floor of

the house, in the recess above the veranda--a woman came.

She was dressed in a white _négligé_ of some soft, woolen material,

which hung straight in knife-edge pleatings from her shoulders to her

feet, covering them--as the young man could see between the wide-spaced

balusters--and lying outspread for some inches around her upon the

floor. Over this she wore a black cloak, straight-hanging too, made of

some fine and supple fur. The fronts of it, which were thrown open,

leaving her arms free, appeared to be lined with ermine. Her peculiar

garb and the perceptible angularity of her form and action suggested

some crabbed medieval figure of church wood-carving or memorial brass.

The woman looked so tall standing there as in a mural pulpit, high

against the house-front, that at first sight Adrian, took her to be

Marion Chase. But medieval and ecclesiastical associations were a

little too glaringly out of place in connection with that remarkably

healthy young amazon and athlete. Adrian dismissed them, with a

sensible sinking of the heart. Instinctively he moved aside, seeking

the deepest of the shadows cast by the fir-trees, pressing himself back

among the bushes of sweet-flowered allspice. Of two evils one must

choose the least. Concealment was repugnant to him; but, to go forward

meant to be recognized and compelled to speak. And, to play the part

of hero in some grim travesty of the Garden Scene from "Romeo and

Juliet," was of the two vastly the more repugnant.

Becoming aware of a movement in the garden below, the woman leaned

forward and gazed fixedly in his direction, showing in the bleaching

moonlight Joanna Smyrthwaite's heavy, upturned hair, strained,

prominent eyes and almost terrible face, so ravaged was it by emotion.

The night traffics in exaggerations; and Adrian's senses and

sensibilities were already somewhat over-stimulated. Perhaps,

therefore, it followed that, looking up at Joanna, she appeared to him

clothed in hieratic garments as the elect exponent and high-priestess

of all lovelorn, unmated, childless womanhood throughout the world. To

him, just then, her aspect gathered up and embodied the fiercely

disguised sufferings of all the barren, the ugly, the ungifted, the

undesired and unsought; of that disfranchised multitude of women whose

ears have never listened to recitation of a certain Song of Songs. Her

youth--she was as young as he--her wealth, the ease, leisure, solid

luxury which surrounded her, her possession of those material

advantages which make for gaiety and security, for pleasant vanities,

for participation in all the light-hearted activities of modern life,

only deepened the tragedy. Denied by man and--since she was without

religion--denying God, she did indeed offer a piteous spectacle. The

more so, that he apprehended a toughness of fiber in her, arguing a

power of protracted and obstinate resistance. Happier for her, surely,

had she been made of weaker stuff, like her wretched brother of the

vile drawings upon René Dax's studio wall!

Adrian's own personal share in this second and tragic _affaire_

Smyrthwaite came home to him with added poignancy as he stood thus, in

hiding, amid the luscious sweetness of the flowering allspice. For one

intolerable moment he questioned whether he could, whether he should,

sacrifice himself, transmuting Joanna's besotted delusion into fact and

truth. But reason, honor, love, the demands of his own rich vitality,

his keen value of life and of the delights of living, his poetic and

his artistic sense, the splendid call of all the coming years, his

shrewdness, his caution, his English humor and his Gallic wit, arose in

hot and clamorous rebellion, shouting refusal final and absolute. He

couldn't do it. Death itself would be preferable. It came very simply

to this--he could not.

Just then he saw Joanna draw her costly cloak about her neck and

shoulders, as though struck by sudden and sharp cold. Again the

sinister note of the owls in greeting and in answer came from the

recesses of the great woodland. And again Joanna, leaning forward,

scrutinized the shadows of the garden path with pale, strained eyes.

Then raising both hands and pressing them against her forehead as

though in physical pain, she turned and went indoors, closing the

window behind her.

Both pity and policy kept the young man for another, far from

agreeable, five minutes in the shelter of the allspice bushes before

venturing into the open. Upon the veranda he waited again, conscious

of intense reluctance to enter the house. He knew his decision to be

sane and right, the only one possible, in respect of Joanna; yet he

felt like a criminal, a betrayer, a profligate trader in women's

affections. He called himself hard names, knowing them all the while

to be inapplicable and unjust; but his sympathies were excited, his

imagination horror-struck by that lately witnessed vision of feminine

disfranchisement and distress.

At his request the men-servants had left the door opening from the

veranda unlocked. Passing along the corridor into the hall, he became

very sensible of the silence and suspended animation of the sleeping

house. The curtains of the five-light, twenty-foot staircase window

were drawn back. Through the leaded panes of thickened clouded glass

moonlight filtered, stamping misty diaper-work upon walls and floor,

painting polished edges and surfaces of woodwork with lines and patches

of shining white. On a small table at the foot of the stairs decanters

and glasses, a cut-glass jug of iced water, a box of cigars, silver

candlestick and matchbox had been placed against his return. But the

young man was in no humor just now for superfluous drinks or

superfluous lights. He felt apprehensive, childishly distrustful of

the quiet reigning in the house, as though, behind it, some evil lay in

wait to leap upon and capture him He felt nervous. This at once

annoyed him and made him keenly observant and alert. He stood a moment

listening, then ran up the wide, shallow tread of the stairs lightly,

three steps at a time. On the level of the half-flight, under the

great window, he paused. The air was hot and heavy. His heart beat.

A door opened from the right on to the gallery above. Some one came

forward, with a soft dragging of draperies over the thick carpet,

through the dim checkerings of the moonlight.

"Adrian," Joanna called, whisperingly, "Adrian, is that you?"

The young man took a long breath. His nerves grew steady. He came

calmly up the remaining half-flight, his head carried high, his face

serious, his eyes a little hard and very bright. Childish fears,

exaggerations of self-condemnation, left him at the sound of Joanna's

voice; but he was sorry, very sorry, both for her and--for himself.

"Yes, Cousin Joanna," he answered, and his speech, to his own hearing,

had a somewhat metallic ring in it.

If there must be an interview at this highly indiscreet hour of the

night it should at least be open and above-board, conducted in tones

which the entire household could, if it chose, hear plainly enough.

Both for his own honor and Joanna's this was best.

"I have just come back from Heatherleigh," he continued. "You will be

glad to know that Mr. Challoner and I have finished the business

connected with your father's property. All outstanding accounts and

all duties upon the estate are now paid. All documents are signed,

receipted, and in order."

Joanna made an impatient gesture as though thrusting aside some foolish

obstruction.

"Yes," she said, "no doubt; but it is not about the property I need to

speak to you, Adrian. My mind is quite at ease about that. It is

about something else. It is about myself."

"Ah, yes?" the young man inquired, gravely.

"I did not come down to dinner to-night. I felt sure you would

understand and excuse me. I could not. I could not have borne to be

with Margaret and Marion Chase and to listen to their trivial talk in

your presence, after our conversation of this afternoon. I had to be

alone that I might think, that I might bring my temper into subjection

to my will. Isherwood told me you had gone out after dinner. But I

felt I could not rest without seeing you again to-night. I felt I must

speak to you, must ask your forgiveness, must try to explain. So I

waited up. The owls startled me, and I went on to the balcony. I

fancied you were in the garden. But I could not see you. Later I

heard your footsteps"--Joanna paused breathlessly--"your footsteps,"

she repeated, "upon the pavement of the veranda. My courage failed. I

felt ashamed to meet you. But it would be so very dreadful to have you

think harshly of me--so, so I came."

Owing to the vague quality of the light Adrian failed to see her face

distinctly, and for this he was thankful. But he knew that her arms

hung straight at her sides, and that, under cover of her costly cloak,

her poor hands clutched and clutched against the white knife-pleatings

of her dress.

"Dear cousin," he said, "I have no cause to think harshly of you.

Indeed, my thought has been occupied with sympathy for the trials that

you have already undergone, and with regret that I should be

instrumental in recalling distressing events to your mind."

"Ah! I deserve no sympathy," she declared, vehemently, turning aside

and moving restlessly to and fro. "I do not deserve that excuses

should be made for me. This afternoon I showed my character in a

shocking light. Perhaps it was the true light. Perhaps my character

is objectionable. I both felt and said what was cruel and intemperate.

I was selfish. I only considered my own happiness. I repudiated my

duty toward my brother. I wished him dead, because his return, and all

the anxiety and thought the probability of that return necessarily

occasions, interfered with my own plans, with my own beautiful

prospects and hopes."

She came close, standing before the young man, her hands clasped, her

body visibly shuddering beneath her hieratic garments.

"Now I have come to myself, Adrian. I realize--indeed I realize--the

enormity of my own callousness, my own selfishness. I realize, too,

the dreadful impression of my nature which you must have received. If

you repudiated me I should have no valid cause for complaint. My

reason forces me to acknowledge that I deserve your censure; that if

you turn from me--dreadful, dreadful as it would be--I shall have

brought that misery upon myself. Dreadful, dreadful," she moaned, "too

dreadful to contemplate--yet deserved, invited by the exhibition of my

own ungovernable temper--deserved--there is the sting of it."

"But--but, my dear Joanna," Adrian broke forth, carried out of himself

by the spectacle of her grief, "you are fighting with shadows. You are

torturing yourself with non-existent iniquities. Calm yourself, dear

cousin. Look at things quietly and in a reasonable spirit. Your

brother is, unfortunately, unsatisfactory and troublesome, a difficult

person to deal with. His errors of conduct have caused his family

grave inconvenience and sorrow. Let us be honest. Let us freely admit

all that. He is not a young man to be proud of. What more natural

then than that you should recoil from the idea of his return? That, in

the first shock of the idea being presented to you, you should strongly

express your alarm, your distaste? It is only human. Who but a

hypocrite or pedant would condemn you for that! Calm yourself, dear

cousin. Be just to yourself. I could not permit you to revoke your

gifts to your brother. My own honor was a little involved there

perhaps--"

Adrian smiled at her reassuringly, putting some force upon himself.

"Let us be sensible," he continued. "Let us be moderate. At the

present time we have no reliable information as to where your brother

is. We may not discover him. He may never come back. Meanwhile, I

implore you, dismiss this painful subject from your mind. Be merciful

to your own nerves, dear Joanna. Remember Andrew Merriman and I engage

to do our best, to exercise all care, all delicacy, in the prosecution

of our inquiries. When necessary we will consult with you"--he spread

out his hands, his head a little on one side, consolatory, debonair,

charming.--"Ah! dear cousin, be advised--do not agitate yourself

further. Leave it all at that."

Joanna sighed once or twice. Put up her hands, pressing them against

her forehead. Her body swayed slightly as she stood. Her hands

dropped at her side again. She looked fixedly, intently, at Adrian

Savage. Her mouth was a little open. The ecstatic expression, so

nearly touching upon idiocy, had come back.

"Then nothing is changed--nothing is altered between us?" she whispered.

The young man took her hand, and bowing low over it, kissed it. As he

raised himself he looked her full in the face.

"No, nothing, my dear cousin," he said.

There were tears in his eyes, and his voice shook. He was filled with

apology, with immeasurable concern and regret, with an immeasurable

craving for her forgiveness, in that he spoke actual and literal truth.

For nothing was changed--no, nothing.--He never had loved, he did not

love, he never could love Joanna Smyrthwaite.

He stayed for no further word or look. Practically he ran away. But

there is just one thing, on the face of the earth, from which a brave

man may run without smallest accusation of cowardice--namely, a woman

who loves him and whom he does not love! Once in his room Adrian

bolted the door on the inside as well as locking it, and began to pack.

He would take the mid-day rather than the night cross-Channel boat

to-morrow. Then, with relief, he remembered that it was already

to-morrow. In a few hours the servants would be about.

Twice before dawn he fancied he heard footsteps and a soft dragging of

draperies over the carpet of the corridor. He opened the windows wide,

and let in the singing of birds greeting the morning from the woodland.

For the sound of those footsteps and softly dragging draperies cut him

to the heart with sorrow for womanhood unfulfilled--womanhood denied by

man, and, not having religion, denying God.

IV

THE FOLLY OF THE WISE

CHAPTER I

RE-ENTER A WAYFARING GOSSIP

The last of Miss Beauchamp's receptions for the season drew to a

vivacious close. Sunday would witness the running of the _Grand Prix_.

Then the world would begin to scatter, leaving Paris to the inquiring

foreigner, the staggering sunshine, some few millions of the governing

classes--new style--the smells, the sparrows, and the dust.

As a woman consciously looking threescore and ten in the face Anastasia

felt very tired. Her throat was husky and her back ached. But, as a

hostess, she felt elate, gratified, even touched. For everybody had

come. Had worn their smartest new summer clothes. Had been animated,

complimentary, appreciative. Had drunk China tea or iced coffee; eaten

strawberries and cream, sweetmeats, ices, and wonderful little cakes,

and declared "Mademoiselle Beauchamp's ravishing 'five-o'clock'" to be

entirely different from and superior to any other "five-o'clock" of the

whole of their united and separate experience.

Art and letters were, of course, fully represented; but politics and

diplomacy made a fair show as well. Anastasia greeted three members of

the Chamber, two of the Senate, a Cabinet Minister, and a contingent

from the personnel of both the English and the Italian embassies. The

coveted red ribbon was conspicuous by its presence. And all these

delightful people had the good sense to arrive in relays; so that the

rooms--the furniture of them disposed against the walls--had never

throughout the afternoon been too crowded for circulation, had never

been too hot.

Delicious Nanny Legrenzi, of the _Opéra Comique_, sang--and

looked--like an impudent angel. Ludovico Müller played like a

whirlwind, a zephyr, a lost soul, a quite rampantly saved soul--what

you will! And every one talked. Heavenly powers, how they had

talked!--their voices rising from a gentle adagio, through a tripping

capriccioso, to the magnificently sustained fortissimo so welcome, so

indescribably satisfying, to the ear of the practised hostess. Yes,

all had gone well, excellently well, and now they were in act of

departing.

Anastasia, weary, but genial and amused, on capital terms with her

fellow-creatures and with herself, stood in the embrasure of one of the

windows in the second room of the suite. Behind her red and pink

rambler roses and ferns, in pots, formed a living screen against the

glass, pleasantly tempering the light. Ludovico Müller had just made

his bow and exit, leaving the music-room empty; while in the first and

largest room Madame St. Leger, who helped her to receive to-day, bade

farewell to the guests as they passed on into the cool, lofty hall.

"I have entertained him the best I know, Miss Beauchamp," Lewis

Byewater said. "But he did not appear keen to converse on general

topics. Seemed to need to specialize. Wanted to have me tell him just

who every one present was."

"His talent always lay in the direction of biographical

research--modern biography, well understood. And so, like a dear, kind

young man, you told him who everybody was?"

"Within the limits of my own acquaintance, I did so. But, you see, in

this crowd quite a number of persons were unknown to me," Byewater--a

clean, fair, ingenuous and slightly unfinished-looking youth, with a

candid, shining forehead, carefully tooled and gilded teeth, a meager

allowance of hair, a permanent pince-nez, and a pronounced

transatlantic accent--explained conscientiously. "I did my best, and

when I got through with my facts I started out to invent. I believe I

thickened up the ranks of the French aristocracy to a perfectly

scandalous extent. But the Colonel appeared thirsty on titles."

"A form of thirst entirely unknown to your side of the Atlantic!"

Anastasia retorted. "Never mind. If you have done violence to the

purity of your republican principles by a promiscuous ennobling of my

guests you have sinned in the cause of friendship, my dear Byewater,

and I am infinitely obliged to you. But where is Colonel Haig now?"

"In the outer parlor, I believe, watching Madame St. Leger wish the

rear-guard good-day. He proposes to remain to the bitter end of this

reception, Miss Beauchamp. He confided as much to me. He is sensible

of having the time of his life _re_ Parisian society people, so he

proposes to stick. But you must be pretty well through with any wish

for entertaining by this," the kindly fellow went on--"so you just tell

me truly if you would prefer to have me go off right now, or have me

wait awhile till the Colonel shows signs of getting more satiated and

take him along too? I intended proposing to dine him somewhere,

anyway, to-night."

"You are the very nicest of all nice young men, and unquestionably I

shall meet you in heaven," Anastasia asserted, heartily. "And as I

shall arrive there so long before you, you may count on my saying all

manner of handsome things to St. Peter about you. Oh yes, stay, my

dear boy, and carry the title-thirsty Colonel away with you. By all

manner of means, stay."

Byewater flushed up to the top of his shining forehead. He looked at

her shyly out of his clear, guileless eyes.

"I do not feel to worry any wearing amount over the Apostle, Miss

Beauchamp," he said, slowly. "I believe it is more Mr. Adrian Savage

at the present who stands to break up my rest. If you could say some

favorable things about me to him, I own it would be a let up. He

accepted my articles upon the Eighteenth-Century Stage; but I do not

seem any forwarder with getting them positively published. I suppose

he is holding them over for the dead season. Well, I presume there is

appropriateness in that; for, seeing the time it has lain in his

office, the manuscript must be very fairly moth-eaten by this."

"Oh, trust me!" Anastasia cried, genially. "I'll jog his memory

directly I see him--which I shall do as soon as he returns from

England. Never fear, I'll hustle him to some purpose if you'll stay

now and deliver me from this military genealogical incubus. Look--how

precious a contrast!--here they come."

Madame St. Leger entered the room, talking, smiling, while Rentoul

Haig, short, but valiantly making the most of his inches, his chest

well forward, neat as a new pin, his countenance rosy, furiously

pleased and furiously busy, with something between a marching and a

dancing step, paraded proudly beside her.

_La belle Gabrielle_ had discarded black garments, and blossomed

delicately into oyster-gray chiffon and a silk netted tunic to match,

finished with self-colored silk embroideries and deep, sweeping knotted

fringe. The crown of her wide-brimmed gray hat was massed with soft,

drooping ostrich plumes of the same reposeful tint, which lifted a

little, waving slightly as she advanced. A scarlet tinge showed in the

round of her charming cheeks. Mischief looked out of her eyes and

tipped the corners of her smiling mouth. She was, indeed, much

diverted by the small and pompous British warrior strutting at her

side. He offered example of a type hitherto unknown to her. She

relished him greatly. She also relished the afternoon's experiences.

They were exhilarating. She felt deliciously mistress of herself and

deliciously light-hearted. It is comparatively easy to despise the

world when you are out of it. But now, the seclusion of her mourning

being over, returning to the world, she could not but admit it a vastly

pleasant place. This afternoon it had broadly smiled upon her; and she

found herself smiling back without any mental reservation in respect of

ideas and causes. At seven and twenty, though you may hesitate to

circumscribe your personal liberty by marriage with one man, the homage

of many men--if respectfully offered--is by no manner of means a thing

to be sneezed at. Gabrielle St. Leger did not sneeze at it. On the

contrary she gathered admiring looks, nicely turned compliments,

emulous attentions, veiled ardors of manner and of speech, into a

bouquet, so to speak, to tuck gaily into her waistband. The sense of

her own beauty, and of the power conferred by that beauty, was joyful

to her. Under the stimulus of success her tongue waxed merry, so that

she came off with flying colors from more than one battle of wit. And,

for some reason, all this went to make her think with unusual

kindliness of her absent lover. In this vivacious, mundane atmosphere,

Adrian Savage would be so eminently at home and in place! His

presence, moreover, would give just that touch of romance, that touch

of sentiment, to the sparkling present which--and there Gabrielle

thought it safest to stop.

"Ah! it has been so very, very agreeable, your party, most dear

friend," she said in her pretty careful English, taking her hostess's

hand in both hers. "I find myself quite sorrowful that it should be at

an end. I could say 'and please how soon may we begin all over again'

like my little Bette when she too is happy."

"Dear child, dear child," Anastasia returned affectionately, almost

wistfully, for nostalgia of youth is great in those who, though bravely

acquiescent, are no longer young.

Gray hair happened to be the fashion in Paris this season. About a

week previously Miss Beauchamp had mysteriously closed her door to all

comers. To-day she emerged gray-headed. This transformation at once

perplexed and pleased her many friends. If it admitted her age, and by

lessening the eccentricity of her appearance made her less conspicuous,

it gave her an added dignity, strangely softening and refining the

expression of her large-featured, slightly masculine face. Just now,

in a highly ornate black lace and white silk gown, and suite of ruby

ornaments set in diamonds--whereby hung a tale not unknown to a certain

hidden garden--Anastasia Beauchamp, in the younger woman's opinion,

showed not only as an impressive but as a noble figure.

"Ah yes, and you should know, Colonel 'Aig," the latter continued, the

aspirate going under badly in her eagerness, "since you have not for so

long a time seen her, that it is always thus with Mademoiselle

Beauchamp at her parties. She produces a mutual sympathy between her

guests so that, while in her presence, they adore one another. It is

her secret. She makes all of us at our happiest, at our best. We

laugh, but we are also gentle-hearted. We desire to do good."

"That is so," Byewater put in nasally. "I indorse your sentiments,

Madame St. Leger. When I came over I believed I should find I had left

the finest specimens of modern woman behind in America. But I was

mistaken. Miss Beauchamp is positively great."

"And--and me, Mr. Byewater?" Gabrielle asked with a naughty mouth.

"Oh! well, you--Madame St. Leger," the poor youth faltered, turning

away modestly, his countenance flaming very bright red.

"I require no assurances regarding our hostess's brilliant social

gifts," Rentoul Haig declared, mouthing his words so as to make himself

intelligible to this foreign, or semi-foreign, audience. "My memory

carries me back to--"

"The year one, my dear Colonel, the year one," Anastasia

interrupted--"the old days at Beauchamp Sulgrave. Great changes there,

alas, since my poor brother's death. Between Death Duties and Land

Taxes, my cousin can't afford to keep the place up, or thinks he can't,

which amounts to much the same thing. He is trying to sell a lot of

the farms at Beauchamp St. Anne's hear.

"England is being ruined by those iniquitous Land Taxes, I give you my

word, Miss Beauchamp, simply ruined. Take Beauchamp Sulgrave, for

instance. Perfect example of an English country-house, amply large

enough yet not too large for comfort, and really lovely grounds. Just

the type of place that always has appealed to me. I remember every

stick and stone of it. I give you my word, I find it difficult to

speak with moderation of these Radical nobodies, whose thieving

propensities endanger the preservation of such places on the old

hospitable and stately basis. I remember my regiment was in camp at

Beauchamp St. Anne's--I am afraid it was in the seventies--and your

party from Sulgrave used kindly to drive over to tea, regimental

sports, and impromptu gymkhanas. Charming summer! How it all comes

back to me, Miss Beauchamp!"

He cleared his throat, pursing up his lips and nodding his head quite

sentimentally.

"Really, I cannot say what a resuscitation of pleasant memories it gave

me, when our mutual friend Savage mentioned your name one day at my

cousin, the Smyrthwaites' house, at Stourmouth, this winter. Directly

my doctor ordered me to Aix-les-Bains.--A touch of gout, nothing more

serious. My health is, and always has been, excellent, I am thankful

to say.--I determined to remain a few days in Paris on my way out, in

the hope of renewing our acquaintance. Savage told me--"

Gabrielle had dropped her friend's hand.

"Ah! these climbing roses, are they not ravishing?" she exclaimed,

advancing her nose to the pink clusters daintily. "See then, M.

Byewater, if you please, can you tell me the name of them? I think I

will buy some to decorate my own drawing-room. The colors would

sympathize--'armonize--is it that, yes?--so prettily with my

carpet.--You recall the tone of my carpet?--And of my curtains. Though

whether it is worth while, since I so soon leave Paris!"

"Is that so, Madame St. Leger?" Byewater asked rather blankly.

"Savage is a delightful fellow, a really delightful fellow," Rentoul

Haig asserted largely.

"For the summer, oh yes," _la belle Gabrielle_ almost gabbled. "I take

my mother and my little girl to the--how do you say?--to the

sea-bathings. On the Norman coast I have rented a _chalet_. The

climate is invigorating. It will benefit my mother, whose health

causes me anxieties. And my little girl will enjoy the society of some

little friends, whose parents rent for this season a neighboring villa."

"Ah! precisely that is what I want to talk to you about. Come and sit

down, Colonel Haig."

Anastasia raised her voice slightly.

"Here--yes--on the settee. And now about Adrian Savage. I confess I

begin to look upon this executorship as an imposition. It is not quite

fair on him, poor dear fellow. It occupies time and thought which

would be expended much more profitably elsewhere. He is as good as

gold about it all, but I know he feels it a most inconvenient tie. It

interferes with his literary work, which is serious, and with his

social life here--with his friendships."

"Yes, I do not usually go to the coast. I accompany my mother to her

native province--to Savoy"--Madame St. Leger's voice had also risen.

"To Chambéry, where we have relations. You are not acquainted with

Chambéry, M. Byewater? Ah! but you make a mistake. You should be. It

is quite the old France, very original, quite of the past ages. I love

it; but this year--"

"In my opinion it is quite time Savage was set free." Anastasia's tone

waxed increasingly emphatic. "You must forgive my saying the

Smyrthwaite ladies are very exacting, Colonel Haig. They appear to

trade upon his chivalry and forbearance to a remarkable extent.

Doesn't it occur to them that a young man, in his position, has affairs

of his own in plenty to attend to?"

"This year the sea-bathing will certainly be more efficacious. No

doubt the mountain air in Savoy is also invigorating; but the changes

of climate are so rapid, so injurious--"

"Perhaps there are other attractions, of a not strictly business

character. One cannot help hearing rumors, you know. And recently I

have been a good deal at the Miss Smyrthwaites' myself. As a

connection of their mother's, in their rather unprotected condition, I

have felt it incumbent upon me to keep my eye on matters."

Rentoul Haig settled himself comfortably upon the settee beside his

hostess, inclining sideways, a little toward her. He spoke low,

confidentially, as one communicating state secrets, his nose

inquisitive, his mouth puckered, his whole dapper person irradiated by

a positive rapture of gossip. He simmered, he bubbled, he only just

managed not to boil over, in his luxury of enjoyment. Anastasia

listened, now fanning herself, now punctuating his discourse with

incredulous ejaculations and gestures descriptive of the liveliest

dissent.

"Incredible! my dear Colonel," she cried. "You must be misinformed.

Savage is regarded as a most desirable _parti_ here in Paris. He can

marry whom he pleases. Impossible! I know better."

"Then do you tell me it is unhappily quite true that M. René Dax is

ill, M. Byewater?" Gabrielle St. Leger inquired in unnecessarily loud,

clear accents.

"Well, I would hesitate to make you feel too badly about him, Madame

St. Leger," the conscientious youth returned cautiously. "I cannot

speak from first-hand knowledge, since I would not presume to give

myself out as among M. Dax's intimates. He has been a made man this

long time, while I am only now starting out on schemes for arriving at

fame myself way off in the far by and by."

"Never in life!" Anastasia cried, in response to further confidential

bubblings. "You misread our friend Savage altogether if you suppose

his heart could be influenced by the lady's wealth. He is the least

mercenary person I know. The modern fortune-hunting madness has not

touched him, I am delighted to say. Then, he is really quite

comfortably off already. He has every reasonable prospect of being

rich eventually. He is very shrewd in money matters; and he has

friends whom, I can undertake to say, will not forget him when the

final disposition of their worldly goods is in question. He is a man

of sensibility, of deep feeling, capable of a profound and lasting

attachment."

She paused, glancing at _la belle Gabrielle_.

"I would not like to have you think I underrate Mr. Dax's talent."

This from Byewater. "I recognize he is just as clever as anything.

But I am from a country where the standards are different, and much of

Mr. Dax's art is way over the curve of the world where my sympathy

fails to follow. This being so, I have never made any special effort

to get into direct personal contact--"

"You may take it from me, my dear Colonel, that profound and lasting

attachment is already in existence."

"But I was lunching with Lenty B. Stacpole, our leading black-and-white

artist, yesterday. Maybe you are not acquainted with his work, Madame

St. Leger? Most of the time he puts it right on the American market,

and does not show here. And, Lenty told me Mr. Dax is so badly broken

up with neurasthenia that if he does not quit work and exercise more,

and cultivate normal habits generally, he risks soon being just as sick

a man as any but a coroner's jury can have use for."

"It is a matter of fact, I may almost say of common knowledge"--fatigue

and huskiness notwithstanding, Anastasia's voice rang out in a

veritable war-cry. "All his friends are aware that for years he has

been devoted--honorably and honestly devoted--to a most lovely woman,

here, in Paris."

She paused, again looking the bubbling little warrior hard in the eye.

"Here," she repeated.

"But that pains me so much"--Gabrielle also spoke for the benefit of

all and any hearers. "Without doubt I did know that M. René Dax was

ailing; but that he was so very ill--no--no."

Miss Beauchamp laid her fan lightly upon Colonel Haig's coat-cuff,

silently drawing his attention to the somewhat unfinished American

youth and the perfectly finished young Frenchwoman, standing together

in the embrasure of the window backed by the trellis of red and pink

rambler roses. Again she looked him hard in the eye.

"Now does it occur to you why any other affair of the heart, in Mr.

Savage's case, is preposterous and unthinkable?" she inquired. He

swallowed, nodded: "Upon my word--indeed! Most interesting."

"And most convincing?"

"My dear lady, is it necessary to ask that question, in face of such

remarkable charm and beauty? Enviable fellow! Upon my word, is it

convincing?"

But here _la belle Gabrielle_, conscious alike of their scrutiny and

the purport of their partly heard conversation, advanced from the

window. The ostrich plumes upon her hat lifted and waved as she moved.

The scarlet tinge in her cheeks had deepened, and her eyes were at once

troubled and daring.

Rentoul Haig got upon his feet in a twinkling.

"Enviable fellow!" he repeated feelingly. Then added, "I--I am at

liberty to mention this very interesting piece of information, Miss

Beauchamp?"

"Cry it aloud from the housetops if you will. I vouch for the truth of

it," Anastasia replied, rising also. "All her friends wish him

success. I say advisedly friends. In such a case, as you can readily

imagine, there are others"--she turned to Madame St. Leger. "Why, _ma

toute belle_, is anything wrong? You appear a little disturbed,

disquieted."

"M. Byewater has just communicated a very unhappy news to me," she

replied.

"Heartless young man! As punishment let us send him packing instantly."

Anastasia smiled at the perplexed youth in the kindest and most

encouraging fashion.

"I am ever so mortified to have caused Madame St. Leger to feel badly,"

he said.

"Oh! She will get over it. In time she will forgive you. Leave her

to me! I will reason with her. You must be going, too, Colonel Haig?"

Anastasia held out her hand, cheerfully enforcing farewell. "Ah! well,

it has been very nice, very nice indeed, to see you and talk over old

times and so on. Don't fail to look me up whenever you pass through

Paris. I give you a standing invitation. You're sure to find me. I

am as much a fixture as the _Bois_ or the river."

As the two men passed from the outer room into the hall Anastasia sank

down on the settee again.

"Just Heaven!" she said, "but I expire with fatigue, simply expire."

Gabrielle looked at her mutinously. Then, sitting down beside her, she

kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"You are malicious," she said; "you are very obstinate. Perhaps I too

am obstinate. You will not succeed in driving me into--into marriage."

"Never a bit! I trust your own heart, dearest child, to do the

driving."

"Ah! my heart--have I any left? Save where my mother and Bette are

concerned, I sometimes wonder!"

"You don't give your heart the chance to speak. You are afraid of it,

because you know beforehand what it would say, what it is already

saying."

Madame St. Leger rose, shaking her head, big hat, waving plumes and

all, with captivating petulance.

"How can I tell, how can I tell?" she exclaimed. "Is not marriage for

me ancient history? Did I not read it all years ago, when I was still

but an infant?"

"That is exactly the reason why you should read it again, now that you

are no longer an infant--conceivably."

"But I do not care to read again that which I have already read. I

have learned all the lessons that particular ancient history has to

teach." Her tone and expression were not without a point of

bitterness. "I want to go forward, to learn a new science, rather than

to repeat discredited fables."

Anastasia sighed, raising her shoulders, smiling keenly and sadly.

"Ah! you are still a baby," she said; "very much a baby, stretching out

soft, eager fingers toward any and every untried thing which sparkles,

or jiggets, or rattles. Poor enough stuff, my dear, for the most part,

when you do contrive to grasp it! Not new at all, either, save for the

high-sounding modern names with which it is labeled--only old clothes

made over to ape new fashions! Believe me, the love of a clever and

handsome young man is a thousand times more satisfying, more

entertaining, than any such sartorial reconstructions from the

world-old rag-bag of social experiment. Ah! vastly more entertaining,"

she added, placing her fan against her lips, and looking at the younger

woman over the top of it with meaning.

"M. Byewater informs me that M. René Dax is really, really ill,"

Gabrielle remarked rather hastily, her eyes turned upon the roses.

"Umph--and pray what, my dear, has that precious piece of information

to do with it?"

"He may perhaps even die."

"I, for one, should survive his loss with conspicuous resignation and

fortitude."

"But for the past week he has written to me almost daily."

"An impertinence which makes me the more resigned to his speedy demise."

"Yes--piteous, eloquent little letters, telling me how he suffers. And

I have not answered."

"I take that for granted, _ma toute belle_."

"I did not reply because--I am sorry now--I did not quite believe him.

His eloquence was affecting. But it was also misleading. I thought it

improbable any person would write so very well if he were so very ill.

I lament my suspicions. I have added to his sufferings. He implores

me, in each letter, since it is impossible he should at present visit

me, that I should go, if only for a few moments, to see him."

"Out of all question--a monstrous and infamous proposal!"

"So I myself thought at first. But if it is true that he may die?

Listen, dear friend, tell me--"

With a rapid, sweeping movement Gabrielle again sat down beside her

friend. Again kissed her lightly on the cheek, manoeuvering the

wide-brimmed hat skilfully, so as to avoid scrapings and collisions.

"Listen," she repeated coaxingly--"for really I find myself in a

dilemma. I cannot consult my mother. She is timid and diffident

before questions such as these, of what is and is not socially

permissible. Her charity, dear, sainted being, is limitless. It

conflicts with her natural timidity. Between the two she becomes

incapable of exercising clear judgment. She does not comprehend modern