As they stepped into the garden, the first restlessness of morning was
in the air. The moon had vanished. Stars were going out. Along the low
level of sea-line dawn cast a sickly shadow. It was as though night were
an indigo curtain behind which silver forms were moving.
She led the way across the lawn, through a door in the wall, and out on
the short, crisp turf. She had thrown a cloak about her and pulled the
hood over her head. It made her look cowled and elfin. It was the hour
when everything is fantastic.
He had an oppressive sense of unreality, as though this were all a dream
from which he would shortly rouse. He stood aloof from recent happenings
and surveyed his share in them in an elderly, derisive fashion. What
were all these promises that he had been exchanging like a gallant?
He tried to recall his exact words. To what extent had he committed
himself? He had crossed the Atlantic that he might multiply his
fortune--for no other reason. He was neither an idealist nor a
sentimentalist; he had realized the chance that a bankrupt Europe
offered and had come to take advantage of it. What would these derelicts
of the catastrophe think of him if they guessed his real purpose? They
were willfully, even contemptibly, unpractical; yet their perverted
unselfishness troubled his conscience. To spend half one's years in
exile, like the Little Grandmother, might not correct injustice, but at
least it was a brave protest. To plan to die, like Varensky, because he
had failed to rescue humanity, was a counsel of despair, but it had its
gleam of nobility. To assassinate, like Santa, men whose statesmanship
you did not comprehend was the madness of a zealot, but she at least
staked her life against theirs. Into none of these undertakings did
profit enter. It was disquieting to find himself among people so
determined to convert the world to altruism. The world had been like
this always; it would be like this to the end. If they were once to
sense who he was, they would regard him as their enemy. He was walking
into danger with his eyes wide open. His wisest plan would be to sink
into the shadows and take the first train back to sanity. To do that he
would have to leave her.
And why not? What did he owe her? What was she to him? She belonged to
another man. Waiting for him to die, or to make sure of his death, might
prove a tedious business--a humiliating one, most certainly. And yet to
leave her now----
She had been going on ahead--or was it his steps that had been lagging?
She had halted. As he came up, he felt the firm surface of the road
beneath his tread.
In the gloom she laid her hand on his arm. “If you've promised too
much----”
That determined him. “I keep my promises,” he answered shortly.
Walking side by side, they struggled on against the mass of
all-surrounding vagueness. It seemed like a strong, gray tide pressing
on their breasts, against which they made no headway.
What was to be the upshot of it? She was guiding him to Santa. His
lips twisted. It would take more than Santa to inspire him with terror.
England wasn't the jungle. A man couldn't disappear unnoticed. Supposing
in the next half-hour Santa were to do away with him, what would she
gain by it? She would have silenced his testimony in the Rogo-vich
affair, but she would have added to the evidence. If she were the woman
she was painted, she would be too wary to do that. No, she would not
attempt to kill him. Then what was her urgency?
Gradually night was fading. The paleness from the sea was spreading.
It drove like smoke, in billowy banks of vapor, creeping low along
the ground. Live things were waking. In separate, plaintive warnings,
early-risen birds were calling. Across the road ahead rabbits scurried.
Against the formless vacancy of sky the rounded shoulders of the uplands
became discernible. He took notice of their direction. She was leading
him to the abandoned camp.
“Madame Varensky.”
She started. “Not that.”
“I'm sorry. It was the only name I knew to call you. What do they
usually----?”
“Anna.”
She came close like a child and stood gazing up at him.
He stooped and spoke gently. “You're a wild rose. Once more let me look
into your eyes. It's so strange that you should care for me.”
“More strange to me,” she said.
He placed his hands on her shoulders. “There's something that I want you
to remember. If harm comes to either of us, believe always that it was
only good that I intended.”
“Whatever you brought me would be good,” she murmured.
“I wish it might.” He tumbled the hood back so that he could see her
hair. “When a man loves a woman who's already married, it doesn't often
bring happiness. It wouldn't be right that it should. It isn't our fault
that this has happened, but it will be if we misuse it.”
“We shan't misuse it.”
“There's something else.” He groped after his words. “Before I came to
you, I'd been foolish. There's no sense in regretting; if I hadn't been
foolish, we shouldn't have met. I thought that I was following Santa;
you can guess----”
She inclined her head.
“And there's one thing more. If your husband comes back, promise me
you'll forget.”
She strained against him, so their lips were nearly touching. “Never.”
She spoke fiercely. And again, “Never. Though it's years and you
forget.”
His hands slipped from her shoulders, lower and lower, till his arms
closed about her. “Rest,” he whispered, “if it's only for a moment,
poor, tired little bird.”
Through the ghostly twilight of the autumn dawn they entered the
deserted camp. Before one of the hutments she halted and tapped. She
tapped again. There was no answer. Cautiously raising the latch,
she peered into the room. Beckoning to him, she slipped across the
threshold.