In her first letters she coquetted with various forms of address:

_Meester Deek; Dear Meester Deek; My Dear_. This last seemed to please

her as a perch midway between the chilliness of friendship and too much

fervor. She settled down to it. Her endings were equally experimental:

_Your Friend Desire; Your Little Friend; Yours of the White Foxes; Yours

affectionately, the Princess_. Usually her signature was preceded

by some such sentiment as, “You know you always have my many

thoughts”--which might mean anything. She never committed herself.

His chief anxiety was to discover what she had meant by her promise that

they would meet very shortly. She refused to tell him. Worse still, as

time went on, he suspected that she was missing him less and less.

While to him no happiness was complete without her, she seemed to be

embarrassed by no such curtailment. Her good times were coming thick and

fast; her infatuation for Fluffy seemed to have strengthened. At last

word reached him in February that they were off to California; she was

too full of anticipation to express regret for the extra three thousand

miles that would part them. On the day before she started, he cabled

the florist at the Brevoort to send her flowers. In return he received

a line of genuine sentiment. “Meester Deek, you are thoughtful! I nearly

cried when I got them. You’ll never know what they meant. New York

hasn’t been New York without you. It was almost as though you yourself

had brought them. I wanted to run out and stop you, waving and waving to

you down the stairs.”

That was the climax. From that point on her correspondence grew jerky,

dealing more and more with trivial externals and less and less with the

poignant things of the past. In proportion as she withdrew from him,

he tried to call her back with his sincerity. When he complained of her

indifference, she told him mockingly, “I’m keeping all your letters.

They’ll give you away entirely when I bring my suit for breach of

promise.”

He could detect Fluffy’s influence, “Oh, these men!” He waited longer

and longer to hear from her. Sometimes three weeks elapsed. Then from

Santa Barbara she wrote, “I’m having such a gay time. Don’t you envy me?

I’m riding horseback and some one is teaching me to drive a car.”

He knew what that meant. How could she travel so far and freely without

attracting love? A man had appeared on the horizon.

For a day he was half-minded to go to her. It was no longer a question,

of whether she wanted him, but of whether he could live without her. He

answered in a fit of jealousy and self-scorn, “I wish I had your faculty

for happiness. I hope your good times are lasting.” And then the fatal

phrase, “I’m afraid you’re one of those lucky persons who feel nothing

very deeply.”

It was his first written criticism of her. She kept him waiting six

weeks for a reply; when it came it was cabled. He broke the seal

tremblingly, not daring to conjecture what he might expect. Her message

was contained in one line, “I hate you to be flippant” After keeping

him waiting so long, she had been in a great hurry to send him those

six words. After that dead silence. It dawned on him that everything was

ended.

He had completed his book. It was in the printer’s hands and he knew

that once more success had come to him. Money was in sight; nothing

kept her from him except her own wayward heart of thistledown. He still

believed the best of her. With the courage of despair he told himself

that, sooner or later, he was bound to marry her. Perhaps she was

keeping away from him out of a sense of justice, because she could not

yet care for him sufficiently. When his book had found her, she would

relent Glancing through his paper one June morning, his eye was arrested

by the head-lines of a motor-accident. It had happened to a party

of newly-landed Americans, two women and three men, on the road from

Liverpool to London. He caught sight of the name of Janice Audrey, and

then---- Dashing out into Eden Row, he ran to Orchid Lodge. Hal was

setting out for business, when he intercepted him. Thrusting the paper

into his hand, he pointed.

CHAPTER XX--SHE PROPOSES

He had not been allowed to see her. She had been at Orchid Lodge for

three days. No one was aware of his special reason for wanting to see

her. Not even to his mother had he let fall a hint that Desire was the

girl for whose sake he had stayed in America. His thoughtfulness

in making inquiries and in sending flowers was attributed to his

remembrance of their childhood’s friendship.

“Her bedroom’s a bower already,” Hal told him; “you really mustn’t send

her any more just yet.”

“Does she ask about me?” He awaited the answer breathlessly.

“Sometimes. I was telling her only this morning how you’d spent the

autumn in New York.”

“Did she say anything?”

“She was interested.”

He could imagine the mischief that had crept into her gray eyes as she

had listened to whatever Hal had told her. Why didn’t she send for him?

As far as he could learn, she wasn’t hurt--only shaken. He suspected

that Mrs. Sheerug was making her an excuse for a bout of nursing. The

house went on tiptoe. The door of the spare-room opened and closed

softly.

He had to see her. It was on the golden evening of the fourth day that

he waylaid Hal on the stairs. “Would you please give her this note? I’ll

wait. There’ll be an answer. I’m sure of it.”

Hal eyed him curiously. Up till now he had been too excited to notice

emotion in any one else. For the first time he seemed to become aware of

the eagerness with which Teddy mentioned her. He took the note without a

word.

For several minutes Teddy waited. They seemed more like hours. From

the Park across the river came the _ping_ of tennis and the laughter

of girls. A door opened. Mrs. Sheerug’s trotting footsteps were

approaching. As she came in sight, she lowered her head and blinked at

him above the rims of her spectacles.

“My grand-daughter says she wants to thank you for the flowers. She

insists on thanking you herself. I don’t know whether it’s right. She’s

in---- She’s an invalid, you know.”

Leaving her to decide this point of etiquette, he hurried along the

passage and tapped. He heard her voice and thrilled to the sound. “Now

don’t any of you disturb us till I call for you.--Promise?”

As Hal slipped out, he left the door open and nodded. “She’ll see you.”

Pushing aside the tapestry curtain of Absalom, he entered. A breeze

was ruffling the curtains. Against the wall outside ivy whispered. The

evening glow, pouring across tree-tops, gilded the faded gold of the

harp and filled the room with an amber vagueness.

She was sitting up in bed, propped on pillows, with a blue shawl wrapped

about her shoulders. She looked such a tiny Desire--such a girl. Her

bronze-black hair was braided in a plait and fell in a long coil across

the bedclothes. Their eyes met. He halted.

Slowly her face broke into a smile. “I wonder which of us has been the

worse.”

He knelt at her side, pressing her hand.

“Which is it, Meester Deek? D’you remember their names? It’s Miss

Independence. I wouldn’t kiss it if I were you; it’s an unkind, a

scratchy little hand.”

He raised his eyes. “Are you very much hurt?”

She gazed down at him mockingly. “By the accident or by your letter?--By

the accident, no. By your letter, yes. I do feel things deeply--I was

feeling them more than ordinarily deeply just then. I didn’t like you

when you wrote that.”

“But I wrote you so often. I told you how sorry I was. You never

answered.”

She crouched her chin against her shoulder. “Shall I tell you the

absolute truth? It’s silly of me to give away my secrets; a girl ought

always to be a mystery.” Her finger went up to her mouth and her eyes

twinkled. “It was because I knew that I was coming to England. I wanted

to see how patient you---- You understand?”

He jumped to his feet. “Then you hadn’t chucked me? All the time you

were intending to come to me?”

She winked at him. “Perhaps, and perhaps not. It would have depended on

my temper and how full I was with other engagements.--No, you’re not to

kiss me when I’m in bed; it isn’t done in the best families.”

He drew back from her, laughing. “How good it is to be mocked! And how

d’you like your family?” He seated himself on the edge of the bed.

“Not there,” she reproved him; “that isn’t done either. Bring a chair.”

When he had obeyed, she lay back with her face towards him and let him

take her hand.

“Meester Deek, it’s very sweet to have a father.”

When he nodded, she shook her head. “You needn’t look so wise. You don’t

know anything about it; you’ve had a father always. But to find a father

when you’re grown up--that’s what’s so sweet and wonderful.” She fell

silent. Then she said, “It’s like having a lover you don’t need to be

afraid of. We know nothing unhappy about each other; he’s never had to

whip me or be cross with me, the way he would have done if I’d always

been his little girl.--You do look funny, Meester Deek; I believe you’re

envying me and--and almost crying.”

“It was in this room,” he said, “that I first met your mother. I heard

her singing when I was lying in this very bed. She looked like you,

Princess; and in fun she asked me to marry her.”

Desire laughed softly. “I haven’t--not even in fun.” Then quickly, to

prevent what he was on the point of saying, “I would have liked to have

known you, Meester Deek, when you were quite, quite little. You’d never

guess what I and my father talk about.”

He had to try. At each fresh suggestion she shook her head.

“About my beautiful mother. Isn’t it wonderful of him to have remembered

and remembered? I believe if I wanted, I could help them to marry.

Only,” she looked away from him, “that would spoil the romance.”

“It wouldn’t spoil it Why do you always speak as if----”

She pursed her lips. “It would. Marriage may be very nice, but it

doesn’t do to let people know you too well. And then, there’s another

reason: Mrs. Sheerug’s a dear, but she doesn’t like my mother.”

“Doesn’t she?” He did his best to make his voice express surprise.

“You know she doesn’t. And she has her doubts about me, too. I can tell

that by the way she says, ’My dear, you laugh like your mother,’ as if

to laugh like my mother was a crime. She thinks it’s wrong to be gay. I

think in her heart she hates my mother.”

Suddenly she sat up. “All from you, and I haven’t thanked you yet!”

He looked round the room; the amber had faded to the silver of twilight.

In vases and bowls the flowers he had sent her glimmered like memories

and threw out fragrance.

Her fingers nestled closer in his hand. “I’m not good at thanking,

but---- Ever since I met you, all along the way there’s been nothing but

kindness. What have I given you in return?--Don’t tell me, because it

won’t be true.--You can kiss my cheek just once, Meester Deek, if you do

it quietly.”

She bent towards him. In that room, where so many things had happened,

with the perfumed English dusk steal ing in at the window, she seemed to

have become for the first time a part of his real world.

“Shall we tell them, Princess?”

“Tell them?”

“About New York?”

She laid her finger on his lips. “No. It’s the same with me now as it

was with you in New York. You never mentioned me in your letters to your

mother. Besides, don’t you think it’ll be more exciting if only you and

I know it?” Her voice sank. “I’m changed somehow. Perhaps it’s having a

father. I want to be good and little. And--and he wouldn’t be proud of

me if he knew----”

The door opened. Desire withdrew her hand swiftly. Mrs. Sheerug entered.

“Why, it’s nearly dark!” She struck a match and lit the gas. “I waited

for you to call me, and since you didn’t----”

Teddy rose. “I’ve stayed rather long.”

He shook Desire’s hand conventionally. At the door, as he lifted the

tapestry to pass out, he glanced back. Mrs. Sheerug was closing the

window. Desire kissed the tips of her fingers to him.

It seemed that at last all his dreams were coming true. During the

week that followed he spent many hours in the spare-room. She was soon

convalescent. Her trunks had been sent from Fluffy’s house and all her

pretty, decorative clothes unpacked. Mrs. Sheerug thought them vain and

actressy, but the spell of Desire was over her.

“She thinks I’ll come to a bad end,” Desire said. “Perhaps I shall.”

Usually he found her sitting by the window in a filmy peignoir and

boudoir-cap. Very often her father was beside her. Hal’s relations with

her were peculiarly tender. He was more like a lover than a father.

He had changed entirely; there was a brightness in his eyes and an

alertness in his step. He seemed to be re-finding her mother in her and

to be re-capturing his own lost youth.

Teddy rarely heard any of their conversations. When he appeared, they

grew silent. Even if Desire had not told him, he would have guessed

that it was of Vashti they had been talking. Presently Hal would make an

excuse to leave them. When the door had shut, Desire would slip her hand

into his. Demonstrations of affection rarely went beyond that now.

The place where they met and the continual possibility of interruption

restrained them. There was another reason as far as Teddy was concerned:

he realized that in New York he had cheapened his affection by forcing

it on her. She told him as much.

“You thought that I was holding back; I wasn’t then, and I’m not now.

Only--I hardly know how to put it--the first time you do things they

thrill me; after that---- The second kiss is never as good as the first.

Every time we repeat something it becomes less important. So you see, if

we married, when we could do things always--I think that’s why I never

kissed you. I wasn’t holding off; I was saving the best.”

A new frankness sprang up between them. They discussed their problem

with a comic air of aloofness. Now that he gave her no opportunities to

repulse him, her fits of coldness became more rare. Sometimes she would

invite the old intimacies. “Meester Deek, I’m not sure that it’s so much

fun being only friends.”

He was amused by her naïveté. “Perhaps it isn’t But don’t let’s spoil

things by talking about it. Let’s be sensible.” In these days it was he

who said, “Let’s be sensible.” She pouted when he said it, and accused

him of strategy. “Be sweet to me, like you were.”

He steeled himself against her coquetry. Until she could tell him that

his love was returned, he must not let her feel her power. “When you can

do that,” he told her, “we’ll cease to be only friends.”

“And yet I do wish you’d pilfer sometimes.” She clasped her hands

against her throat. “I want you, and I don’t want you. I don’t want any.

one to have you; but if I had you always to myself, I shouldn’t know

what to do with you. You’d be awful strict, I expect” She sighed and

sank back in her chair. “It’s such a large order--marriage. I’m so

young. A girl mortgages her whole future.”

She always approached these discussions from the angle of doubt. “When

it was too late, you might see a girl you liked better.”

He assured her of the impossibility. She shook her head wisely. “It has

happened.”

He read in her distrust the influence of the people among whom her

girlhood had been spent, the Vashtis, Fluffys, and Mr. Daks--the slaves

of freedom who, having disdained the best in life, used pleasure as a

narcotic. He knew that it was not his inconstancy that she dreaded, but

the chance that after marriage she herself might be fascinated by some

man. The knowledge made him cautious. Nothing that he could say would

carry any weight; he would be a defendant witnessing in his own defense.

That she was willing to open her mind to him kept him hopeful. It was a

step forward.

He brought his mother to see her. When she had gone Desire said, “I

know now what you meant when you wanted me to be proud of you. I’d give

anything to feel that I was really needed by a man I loved.” And then,

“Meester Deek, you never talk to me about your work. Won’t you let me

see what you’ve been doing?”

He brought to her the book he had written for her that it might tell her

the things which his lips had left unsaid. After she had commenced it,

she refused to see him until she had reached the end.

She heard his footsteps in the passage; her eyes were watching before he

entered. Her lips moved, but she thought better of it. He drew a chair

to her side. “Well?”

She gazed out of the window. “It’s all about us.” Then, with a laughing

glance at him, “I don’t know whatever you’d do, if you didn’t have me to

write about.”

“I wrote it for you,” he whispered, “so that you might understand.”

She frowned. “And I was in California, having such good times.”

He waited.

“It’s very beautiful.” After an interval she repeated her words, “It’s

very beautiful.” Without looking at him, she took his hand. “But it

isn’t me. It’s the magic cloak--the girl you’d like me to become. I

never shall be like that. If that’s what you think I am, you’ll be

disappointed.” She turned to him appealingly. “Meester Deek, you make me

frightened. You expect so much; you’re willing to give so much yourself.

But I’m cold. I couldn’t return a grand passion. Wouldn’t you be content

with less? Couldn’t we be happy if----”

He wanted to lie to her.

“You couldn’t,” she said.

He met her honest eyes. “No, I couldn’t. If--if you feel no passion

after all these months, you’d feel less when we were married.”

She nodded sadly. “Yes, it would be the way it was in New York: I’d

always be only just allowing you--neither of us could bear that.--So, if

I were to tell you that I admired you--admired you more than any man I

ever met--and that I was willing to marry you, you wouldn’t?”

“It wouldn’t be fair--wouldn’t be fair to you, Princess.” His voice

trembled. “One day you yourself will want more than that.”

She no longer bargained for terms or set up her stage ambitions as a

barrier. His restraint proved to her that she was approaching the crisis

at which she must either accept or lose him. It was to postpone this

crisis that she took advantage of Mrs. Sheerug’s anxiety to prolong her

convalescence.

Towards the end of the second week of her visit Teddy got his car out.

One day they ran down to Ware, hoping to find the farm. It was as though

the country that they had known had vanished with their childhood.

Now that she began to get about, the glaring contrast between her

standards and those of Eden Row became more apparent. Her clothes, the

things she talked about, even her dancing way of walking pronounced her

different. She began to get restless under the censures which she read

in Mrs. Sheerug’s eyes.

“And what wouldn’t she say,” she asked Teddy, “if she knew that I’d

smoked a cigarette? I do so want to use a little powder--and I daren’t.”

One afternoon when he called, he found the house in commotion. She was

packing. Fluffy had been to see her; after she had gone the pent-up

storm of criticisms had burst Something had been said about Vashti--what

it was he couldn’t learn. He insisted on seeing her. She came down with

her face tear-stained and flushed. They walked out into the garden in

silence. Where the shrubbery hid them from the house--the shrubbery in

which he had first met Alonzo and Mr. Ooze--they sat down.

“Going?”

“Yes.”

“But do you think you ought to?”

“I’m not thinking. I’m angry. Mrs. Sheerug’s a dear; I know that as well

as you. But she wants to reform me. She makes me wild when she says,

‘You have your mother’s laugh,’ as though being like my mother damned

me. And she said something horrid about Fluffy and about the way I’ve

been brought up.”

“Are you going to Fluffy’s now?”

She shook her head. “Fluffy’s leaving for the continent.”

“Then where?”

Suddenly she laughed. “With you, if you like.”

He stared at her incredulously. “With me?”

“Yes.”

He seized her hands, “You mean that you’ll----”

All the hunger to touch and hold her which he had staved off, urged him

to passion. She turned her lips aside. He drew her to him, kissing her

eyes and hair. He was full of sympathy for the fierceness in her heart;

it was right that she should be angry in her mother’s defense.

“You queer Meester Deek, not marry you--I didn’t say that.” She tried to

free herself, but he clasped her to him. “You must let me go or I won’t

tell you.”

They sat closely, with locked hands.

“I’ve been thinking very carefully what to do. I’m not sure of myself.

We need to be more certain of each other.”

“But how? How can we be more certain now you’re going?”

She smiled at his despair. “The honeymoon ought to come first,” she

said. “Every marriage ought to be preceded by a honeymoon.” She spoke

slowly. “A--a quite proper affair; it would be almost the same as being

married. It’s only by being alone that two people have a chance to

find each other out If we could do that without quarreling or getting

tired---- What do you say? If you don’t say yes, you may never get

another chance.”

When she saw him hesitating, she added, “You’re thinking of me. No one

need know. We could meet in Paris.”

His last chance! Dared he trust himself?

“What day shall I meet you?” he questioned.

CHAPTER XXI--THE EXPERIMENTAL HONEYMOON

He caught the boat-train from Charing Cross. It was a sparkling morning

in the last week of June, the season of hay-making and roses. He had

received his instructions in a brief note. It bore no address; the

postmark showed that it had been dispatched from Rouen. When the train

was in motion he studied it afresh; he could have repeated it line for

line from memory:

_My dear,

Come Saturday. I’ll meet you in Paris at the Gare du Nord 445. Bring

only hand-baggage--evening dress not necessary.

Here are my terms. No kissing, no love-making, nothing like that till

I give permission. We’re just two friends who have met by accident and

have made up our minds to travel together. Don’t join me, if you can’t

live up to the contract.

Many thoughts,

Yours affectionately,

The Princess._

He had stared at the letter so long that they were panting through the

hop-fields of Kent by the time he put it back in his pocket. A breeze

silvered the backs of leaves, making them tremulous. The spires of

Canterbury floated up.

He knew the way she traveled, with mountainous trunks and more gowns

than she could wear. Why had she been so explicit that he should bring

only hand-baggage? Was it because their time together was to be short,

or because she knew that at the last minute she might turn coward? She

had left herself another loop-hole: she had sent him no address. Even if

she were there to meet him, he might miss her on the crowded platform.

And if he did---- His fears lest he might miss her battled with his

scruples.

Dover and the flash of the sea! Scruples dwindled in importance; the

goal of his anticipations grew nearer.

On the boat there was a bridal couple. He watched them, trying to

discover with how much discretion honeymoon people were supposed to act.

On French soil the gayety of his adventure caught him. One day they

would repeat it; she would travel with him openly from London, and it

wouldn’t be an experiment From Calais he would have liked to send a

telegram--but to where? She was still elusive. The train was delayed in

starting. He fumed and fretted; if it arrived late he might lose her.

For the last hour, as he was nearing Paris, he sat with his watch in his

hand.

Before they were at a standstill, he had leapt to the platform, glancing

this way and that. He had begun to despair, when a slight figure in a

muslin dress emerged from the crowd. He stared hard at the simplicity of

her appearance, trying to fathom its meaning.

Disguising her emotion with mockery, she caught him by both hands. “What

luck! I’ve been so lonely. Fancy meeting you here!” She laughed at him

slyly through her lashes. She looked at his suit-case. “That all? Good.

I wondered if you’d take me at my word.”

She moved round to the side on which he carried it, so that they had

to walk a little apart In the courtyard, from among the gesticulating

_cochers_, he selected a _fiacre_. As he helped her in he asked, “Where

are we staying?”

“In the Rue St. Honoré at _The Oxford and Cambridge_; close by there are

heaps of other hotels. You can easily find a good one.”

Again she surprised him; a fashionable hotel in the Place Vendôme was

what he had expected.

They jingled off down sunlit boulevards. On tree-shadowed pavements

tables were arranged in rows before cafés. Great buses lumbered by,

drawn by stallions. Every sight and sound was noticeable and exciting.

It was a world at whose meaning they could only guess; between it and

themselves rose the barrier of language. Already the foreignness of

their surroundings was forcing them together. They both felt it--felt

it gladly; yet they sat restrained and awkward. None of their former

unconventions gave them the least clews as to how they should act.

She turned inquisitive eyes on him. “Quite overcome, aren’t you? You

didn’t expect to find such a modest little girl.--Tell me, Meester Deek,

do you like the way I’m dressed?”

“Better than ever. But why----”

She clapped her hands. “For you. I’ll tell you later.”

She looked away as if she feared she had encouraged him too much. Again

the silence settled down.

He watched her: the slope of her throat, the wistful drooping of her

face, the folded patience of her hands.

“When does a honeymoon like ours commence?” he whispered.

She shrugged her shoulders and became interested in the traffic.

“Well, then if you won’t tell me that, answer me this question. How long

does it last?”

She pursed her mouth and began to do a sum on her fingers. When she had

counted up to ten, she peeped at him from under her broad-brimmed hat.

“Until it ends.” Then, patting his hand quickly, “But it’s only just

started. Don’t let’s think about the end---- Here, this hotel will do.

Dig the _cocher_ in the back. I’ll sit in the _fiacre_ till you return;

then there’ll be no explanations.”

He took the first _room_ that was offered him, and regained his place

beside her. All the time he had been gone, he had been haunted by the

dread that she might drive off without him.

“What next?”

She smiled. “The old New York question. Anywhere---- I don’t care.” She

slipped her arm into his and then withdrew it. “It is fun to be alone

with you.”

He told the man to drive them through the Tuileries and over the river

to the Luxembourg Gardens.

He touched her. She frowned. “Not here. It’s too full of Americans. We

might be recognized.” Huddling herself into her corner, she tried to

look as if he were not there.

As they came out on the quays, the river blazed golden, shining flash

upon flash beneath its intercepting bridges. The sun was setting,

gilding domes and spires. The sky was plumed and saffron with the smoke

of clouds. Bareheaded work-girls were boarding trams; mischievous-eyed

artisans in blue blouses jostled them. Eyes flung back glances. Chatter

and a sense of release were in the air. The heart of Paris began to

expand with the ecstasy of youth and passion. Her hand slipped from her

lap and rested on the cushion. His covered it; by unspoken consent they

closed up the space between them.

“Are you giving me permission?”

“Not exactly. Can you guess why I planned this? I--I wanted to be fair.”

“The strangest reason!” He laughed softly.

“But I did.” She spoke with pouting emphasis. “I’ve given you an awful

lot of worry.”

“Don’t know about that. If you have, it’s been worth it.”

“Has it?” She shook her head doubtfully. “It might have been worth it,

if----” A slow smile crept about her mouth. “Whatever happens, you’ll

have had your honeymoon. People say it’s the best part of marriage.”

He didn’t know what she meant by a honeymoon. It wasn’t much like a

honeymoon at present--it wasn’t so very different from the ride to Long

Beach. He dared not question. Without warning, in the quick shifting of

her moods, she might send him packing back to London.

They were crossing the Pont Neuf; her attention was held by a line of

barges. When they had reached the farther bank, he reminded her, “You

were going to tell me----”

He glanced at her dress. “Was it really for me that you did it?”

She nodded. “For you. I’m so artificial; I’m not ashamed of it. But

until I saw you in Eden Row, I didn’t realize how different I am. In New

York--well, I was in the majority. It was you who felt strange there.

But in Eden Row I saw my father. He’s like you and--and it came over me

that perhaps I’m not as nice as I fancy--not as much to be envied. There

may even be something in what Mrs. Sheerug says.”

“But you are nice.” His voice was hot in her defense. “I can’t make out

why you’re always running yourself down.”

She thought for a moment, brushing him with her shoulder. “Because I can

stand it, and to hear you defend me, perhaps.--But it _was_ for you that

I bought this dress, Mees-ter Deek. I tried to think how you’d like me

to look if--if we were always going to be together. And so I’ve given up

my beauty-patch. And I won’t smoke a single cigarette unless you ask

me. I’m going to live in your kind of a world and,” she bit her lip,

inviting his pity, “and I’m going to travel without trunks, and I’ll try

not to be an expense. I think I’m splendid.”

They drew up at the Luxembourg Gardens and dismissed the _fiacre._

A band was playing. The splash of fountains and fluttering of pigeons

mingled with the music. Seen from a distance, the statues of dryads

and athletes seemed to stoop from their pedestals and to move with

the promenading crowd. They watched the eager types by which they

were surrounded: artists’ models, work-girls, cocottes; tired-eyed,

long-haired, Daudetesque young men; Zouaves, chasseurs, Svengalis--they

were people of a fiction world. Some walked in pairs--others solitary.

Here two lovers embraced unabashed. There they met for the first time,

and made the moment an eternity. Romance, the brevity of life, the

warning against foolish caution were in the air. For all these people

there was only one quest.

They had been walking separately, divided by _shyness_. In passing,

a grisette swept against him, and glanced into his eyes in friendly

fashion.

“Here, I won’t have that.” Desire spoke with a hint of jealousy. She

drew nearer so that their shoulders were touching. “Nobody’ll know us.

Don’t let’s be misers. I’ll take your arm,” she whispered.

“The second time you’ve done it.”

“When was the first?”

“That night at the Knickerbocker after we’d quarreled and I’d given you

the bracelet.”

She smiled in amused contentment “How you do keep count!”

The band had ceased playing; only the music of the fountains was

heard. Shadows beneath trees deepened. Constellations of street-lamps

lengthened. Twilight came tiptoeing softly, like a young-faced woman

with silver hair.

She hung upon his arm more heavily. “Oh, it’s good to be alone with

you! You don’t mind if I don’t talk? One can talk with anybody.” And, a

little later, “Meester Deek, I feel so safe alone with you.”

When they were back in thoroughfares, “Where shall we dine?” he asked

her.

“In your world,” she said. “No, don’t let’s drive. This isn’t New York.

We’d miss all the adventure. I’d rather walk now.”

After wandering the Boule Michel, losing their way half-a-dozen times

and making inquiries in their guide-book French, they found the Café

d’Harcourt. Its walls were decorated with student-drawings by artists

long since famous. At a table in the open they seated themselves.

Romance was all about them. It danced in the eyes of men and girls.

Through the orange-tinted dusk it lisped along the pavement It winked at

them through the blinds of pyramided houses.

She bent towards him. “You’ve become _very_ respectful--not at all

the Meester Deek that you were--more like a little boy on his best

behavior.”

He rested his chin in his hand. “Naturally.”

“Why?”

“Your contract. I’m here on approval.”

“Let’s forget it,” she said. “I’m learning. I’ve learnt so much about

life since we met.”

Through the meal she amused him by speaking in broken English and

misunderstanding whatever he said. When it was ended he offered her a

cigarette. “No. You’re only trying to be polite, and tempting me.”

They drove across the river and up the Champs-Elysées to a theatre where

they had seen Polaire announced. The performance had hardly commenced,

when she tugged at his arm. “Meester Deek, it’s summer outside. We’ve

spent so much time in seeing things and people. I want to talk.” From

under the shadow of trees he hailed a _fiacre_. “Where?”

“Anywhere.” When he had taken his place at her side, “You may put your

arm about me,” she murmured drowsily.

They lay back gazing up at the star-strewn sky. Their rubber-tires on

the asphalt made hardly any sound. They seemed disembodied, drifting

through a pageant of dreams. The summer air blew softly on their faces;

sometimes it bore with it the breath of flowers. The night world of

Paris went flashing by, swift in its pursuit of pleasure. They scarcely

noticed it; it was something unreal that they had left.

“What’s going on in your mind?”

She didn’t stir. She hung listless in his embrace. “I was thinking of

growing old--growing old with nobody to care.--You care now; I know that

But if I let you go, in five years’ time you’d----” He felt the shrug

she gave her shoulders. “Mother’s the only friend I have. You might be

the second if---- But mothers are more patient; they’re always waiting

for you when you come back.”

“And I shall be always waiting. Haven’t I always told you that?”

“You’ve told me.” Then, in an altered tone, “Did you ever think you knew

what happened in California?”

“I guessed.”

She freed herself and sat erect. “There was a man.” She waited, and

when he remained silent, “You’d taught me to like to be loved. I didn’t

notice it while you were with me, but I missed it terribly after you’d

left. I used to cry. And then, out there--after he’d kissed me, I lay

awake all night and shivered. I wanted to wash away the touch of his

mouth. It was my fault; I’d given him chances and tried to fascinate

him. I’d been so stingy with you--that made it worse; and he was a man

for whom I didn’t care. I felt I couldn’t write. And it was when I was

feeling’ so unhappy that your letter arrived.--Can’t you understand how

a girl may like to flirt and yet not be bad?--I’m not saying that I love

you, Meester Deek--perhaps I haven’t got it in me to love; only--only

that of all men in the world, I like to be loved by you the best.”

He drew her closer to his side. “You dear kiddy.”

“You forgive me?”

It was late when they parted at the door of her hotel.

“I’ll try to be up early,” she promised. “We might even breakfast

together. It’s the only meal we haven’t shared.”

He turned back to the streets. Passing shrouded churches, he came to

the fire-crowned hill of Montmartre. He wandered on, not greatly caring

where he went. From one of the bridges, when the vagueness of dawn was

in the sky, he found himself gazing down at the black despair of the

silent-flowing river. Wherever he had been, love that could be purchased

had smiled into his eyes. The old fear took possession of him: he

was different from other men. Why couldn’t he rouse her? Was it his

fault--or because there was nothing to arouse?

She wore a troubled look when he met her next morning.

“Shall we breakfast here or at my hotel?”

“At yours,” she said sharply.

When she spoke like that she created the effect of being more distant

than an utter stranger. It wasn’t until some minutes later, when they

were seated at table, that he addressed her.

“There’s something that I want to say; I may as well say it now. When a

man’s in love with a girl and she doesn’t care for him particularly, she

has him at an ungenerous disadvantage: she can make a fool of him any

minute she chooses. I don’t think it’s quite sporting of her to do it.”

Her graciousness came back. “But I do care for you particularly. Poor

you! Did I speak crossly? Here’s why: we’ve got to leave Paris. There’s

a man at my hotel who knows me. I wouldn’t have him see us together for

the world.”

“So that was all? I was afraid I’d done something to offend.”

She made eyes at him above her cup of coffee. “You’re all right,

Meester Deek. You don’t need to get nervous.--But where’ll we go for our

honeymoon?”

“I’m waiting for it to commence.” He smiled ruefully. “You’re just the

same as you always were.”

“But where’ll we go?” she repeated. “We’ve got all the world to choose

from.”

He told the waiter to bring a Cook’s Time Table. Turning to the index,

he began to read out the names alphabetically. “Aden?”

“Too hot,” she said.

“Algiers?”

“Same reason, and fleas as well.”

“Athens?”

“Too informing, and we don’t want any scandals--I’d be sure to meet a

boy who shone my shoes in New York.--Here, give me the old book.--What

about Avignon? We can start this evening and get there to-morrow.”

Through the gayety of the sabbath morning they made their way to Cook’s.

While purchasing their tickets they almost came to words. He insisted

that she would need a berth for the journey; she insisted that she

wouldn’t.

“But you’re not used to sitting up all night. You’ll be good for nothing

next morning. Do be reasonable.”

“I’m not used to a good many of the things we’re doing. I’m trying to

save you expense. And I don’t think it’s at all nice of you to lose your

temper.”

“I didn’t,” he protested.

“A matter of opinion,” she said.

When he had bought a guide-book on Provence, they walked out into the

sunlight in silence. They reached the Pont de la Concorde; neither of

them had uttered a word. With a gap of about a foot between them, they

leant against the parapet, watching steamers puff in to the landing to

take aboard the holiday crowd. She kept her face turned away from him,

with her chin held at a haughty angle. In an attempt to pave the way to

conversation, he commenced to read about Avignon in his guide-book.

Suddenly she snatched it from him and tossed it into the river. He

watched it fall; then stared at her quietly. Like a naughty child,

appalled by her own impishness, she returned his stare.

“Two francs fifty banged for nothing!” She closed up the distance

between them, snuggling against him like a puppy asking his forgiveness.

“Meester Deek, you can be provoking. I got up this morning intending to

be so fascinating. Everything goes wrong.--And as for that berth,” she

made her voice small and repentant, “I was only trying to be sweet to

you.”

“I, too, was trying to be decent.” He covered her hand. “How is it? I

counted so much on this--this experiment, or whatever you call it. We’re

not getting on very well.”

“We’re not.” She lifted her face sadly. In an instant the cloud

vanished. The gray seas in her eyes splashed over with merriment. “It’ll

be all right when we get out of Paris. You see if it isn’t! Quite soon

now my niceness will commence.”

“Then let’s get out now.”

They ran down to the landing and caught a steamer setting out for

Sèvres. From Sèvres they took a tram to Versailles. It was late in the

afternoon when they got back to Paris with scarcely sufficient time to

dine and pack.

All day he had been wondering whether, in her opinion, her niceness had

commenced. They had enjoyed themselves. She had taken his arm. She

had treated him as though she claimed him. But they had broken no new

ground. He felt increasingly that the old familiarities had lost

their meaning while the new familiarities were withheld. She was still

passionless. She allowed and she incited, but she never responded. When

they had arrived at the farthest point that they had reached in their

New York experience, she either halted or turned back. She played at a

thing which to him was as earnest as life and death. He had once found a

dedication which read about as follows: “To the woman with the dead soul

and the beautiful white body.” There were times when the words seemed to

have been written for her.

At the station he searched in vain for an empty carriage. At last he had

to enter one which was already occupied. Their companion was a French

naval officer, who had a slight acquaintance with English, of which he

was exceedingly proud. He informed them that he was going to Marseilles

to join his ship; since Marseilles was several hours beyond Avignon, all

hope that they would have any privacy was at an end. They had been in

crowds and public places ever since they had met; now this stranger

insisted on joining in their conversation. He addressed himself almost

exclusively to Desire; under the flattering battery of his attentions

she grew animated. Finding himself excluded, Teddy looked out of the

window at the pollarded trees and flying country. He felt like the dull

and superseded husband of a Guy de Maupassant story.

Night fell. When it was time to hood the lamp, the stranger still kept

them separate by his gallantry in inviting her to change comers with

him, that she might steady herself while she slept by slipping her arms

through the loops which he had hung from the baggage-rack.

In the darkness Teddy drowsed occasionally; but he never entirely lost

consciousness. With tantalization his love grew furious. It was tinged

with hatred now. He glanced across at the quiet girl with the shadows

lying deep beneath her lashes. Her eyes were always shuttered; every

time he hoped that he might surprise her watching him. The only person

he surprised was the naval officer who feigned sleep the moment he knew

he was observed. Did she really feel far more than she expressed? She

gave him few proofs of it.

She had removed her hat for comfort. Once a fire-fly blew in at the

window and settled in her hair. It wandered across her face, lighting up

her brows, her lips--each memorized perfection. She raised her hand and

brushed it aside. It flew back into the night, leaving behind it a trail

of phosphorescence. His need of her was growing cruel.

He gave up his attempt at sleeping. Going out into the corridor, he

opened a window and smoked a cigarette. Dawn was breaking. As the light

flared and spread, he found that they were traveling a mountainous

country. White towns, more Italian than French, gleamed on the crests of

sun-baked hills. Roads were white. Rivers looked white. The sky was blue

as a sapphire, and smooth as a silken curtain. The fragrance of roses

hung in the air. Above the roar of the engine he could hear the cicalas

chirping.

At six-thirty, as the train panted into Avignon, she awoke. “Hulloa! Are

we there?”

She was so excited that in stepping from the carriage she would have

left her hat behind if the naval officer hadn’t reminded her.

They drove through the town to the tinkling of water flowing down the

gutters. The streets were narrow, with grated medieval houses rising

gray and fortress-like on either side. Great two-wheeled wagons were

coming in from the country; their drivers ran beside them, cracking

their whips and uttering hoarse cries. All the way she chattered,

catching at his lapels and sleeves to attract his attention. She

was full of high spirits as a child. She kept repeating scraps of

information which she had gathered from the naval officer. “He was quite

a gentleman,” she said. And then, when she received no answer, “Didn’t

you think that he was very kind?”

In the centre of the town they alighted in a wide square, the Place de

la Republique, tree-shadowed, sun-swept, surrounded by public buildings

and crooked houses. Carrying their bags, they sat themselves down at a

table beneath an awning, and ordered rolls and chocolate.

Frowning over them, a little to their left, was a huge precipice of

architecture, rising tower upon tower, embattled against the burning

sky. Desire began to retail to him the information she had picked up

in the train: how it was the palace of the popes, built by them in the

fourteenth century while they were in exile. The source of her knowledge

made it distasteful to him. He had difficulty in concealing his

irritation. He felt as if he had sand at the back of his eyes. His

gaze wandered from her to the women going back and forth through the

sunlight, balancing loads on their heads and fetching long loaves of

bread from the bakers. Hauntingly at intervals he heard a flute-like

music; it was a tune commencing, which at the end of five notes fell

silent. A wild-looking herdsman entered the square, followed by twelve

black goats. He stood Pan-like and played; advanced a few steps; raised

his pipe to his lips and played again. A woman approached him; he called

to one of the goats, and squatting on his heels, drew the milk into the

woman’s bowl. Through a tunnel leading out of the square, he vanished.

Like faery music, his five notes grew fainter, to the accompaniment of

sabots clapping across the pavement.

All the while that Desire had been talking, handing on what the stranger

had told her about Avignon, he had watched the soul of Avignon wander

by, dreamy-eyed and sculptured by the sunlight.

She fell silent. Pushing back her chair, she frowned at him. “I’m doing

my best.--I don’t understand you. You’re chilly this morning.”

“Am I?”

“Where’s the good of saying ‘Am I?’ You know you are. What’s the matter?

Jealous?”

“Jealous! Hardly.” He stifled a yawn. “I scarcely got a wink of sleep

last night. I was keeping an eye on your friend. He was watching you all

the time.”

“Then you were jealous.” She leant forward and spoke slowly. “You were

rude; you acted like a spoilt child. Why on earth did you go off and

glue your nose against the window? You left me to do all the talking.”

Suddenly his anger flamed; he knew that his face had gone set and white.

“You didn’t need to talk to him. When are you going to stop playing fast

and loose with me? I’ll tell you what it is, Desire: you haven’t any

passion.”

He was sorry the moment he had said it. A spark of his resentment caught

fire in her eyes. He watched it flicker out. She smiled wearily, “So you

think I haven’t any passion!--Oh, well, we’re going to have fine times,

now that you’ve begun to criticize.--I’m sleepy. I think I’ll go to

bed.”

She rose and strolled away. Leaving his own suit-case at the cafe, he

picked up hers and followed. They found a quaint hotel with a courtyard

full of blossoming rhododendrons. Running round it, outside the

second-story, was a balcony on to which the bedrooms opened. While he

was arranging terms in the office, she went to inspect the room that

was offered. In a few minutes she sent for her suitcase. He waited

half-an-hour; she did not rejoin him.

At the far end of the square he had noticed an old-fashioned hostel.

He claimed his baggage at the café, and took a room at the wine-tavern.

Having bought a sketching-book, pencils and water-colors, he found the

bridge which spans the Rhone between Avignon and Villeneuve. All morning

he amused himself making drawings. About every half-hour a ramshackle

bus passed him, going and returning. It was no more than boards spread

across wheels, with an orange-colored canopy stretched over it. It was

drawn by two lean horses, harnessed in with ropes and driven by a girl.

He didn’t notice her much at first; the blue river, the white banks,

the blue sky, the jagged, vineyard covered hills, and the darting of

swallows claimed his attention. It was the bus that he noticed; it

creaked and groaned as though it would fall to pieces. Then he saw the

girl; she was young and bronzed and laughing. He traced a resemblance

in her to Desire--to Desire when she was lenient and happy. She was

bare-armed, bare-headed, full-breasted; her hair was black as ebony. She

was always singing. About the fifth time in passing him, she smiled. He

began to tell himself stories; in Desire’s absence, he watched for her

as Desire’s proxy.

At mid-day he went to find Desire; he was told that she was still

sleeping. He had _déjeuner_ by himself at the café in the square from

which the bus started. When the meal was ended, as he finished his

carafe of wine, he made sketches of the girl. When he presented her with

one of them, she accepted it from him shyly. His Anglicized French was

scarcely intelligible; but after that when she passed him, she smiled

more openly.

During the afternoon he called three times at the hotel. Each time he

received the same reply, that Mademoiselle was sleeping.

The sky was like an open furnace. Streets were empty. While sketching he

had noticed a bathing-house, tethered against the bank below the bridge.

He went there to get cool He tried the diving-boards; none of them were

high enough. Presently he climbed on to the scorching roof and went off

from there. People crossing the bridge stopped to watch him. Once as he

was preparing to take the plunge, he saw the orange streak of the old

bus creeping across the blue between the girders. He waited till it was

just above him. It pulled up. The girl leant out and waved. After that,

when he saw the orange streak approaching he waited until it had stopped

above him.

The quiet of evening was falling when he again went in search of Desire.

This time he was told she had gone out. He left word that he was going

to the old Papal Garden, on the rock above the palace, to watch the

sunset.

As he climbed the hundred steps of the Escalier de Sainte Anne, which

wind round the face of the precipice, the romance of the view that

opened out before him took away his breath. He felt injured and angry

that she was not there to share it. He went over the details of the

first day in Paris. It had been a fiasco; this day had been worse.

If ever he were to marry her---- For the first time he realized that

winning her was not everything.

Near the top of the ascent, where a gateway spanned the path, he halted.

A fig-tree leant across the wall, heavy with fruit that was green and

purple. Behind him from a rock a spring rushed and gurgled. He stooped

across the parapet, gazing down into the town. It wasn’t aloof like New

York, nor sullen like London. It was a woman lifting her arms behind her

head and laughing lazily through eyes half-shut.

Against the sweep of encircling distance, mountains lay blue and

smoking. A faint pinkness spread across the country like a blush. White

walls and hillsides were tinted to salmon-color. The sunset drained

the red from the tiles of house-tops. Plane-trees, peeping above gray

masonry, looked clear and deep as wells. The Rhone wound about the city

walls like a gold and silver spell.

Now that coolness had come, shutters began to open. The murmur of

innumerable sounds floated up. A breeze whispered through the valley

like the voice of yearning. It seemed that behind those windows girls

were preparing to meet their lovers. And the other women, the women who

were too old or too cold to love! He thought of them.

Suddenly his eyes were covered from behind by two hands. He struggled to

remove them; then he felt that they were slender and young.

“Who are you?”

Silence.

He repeated his question in French.

The hands slipped from his eyes to his shoulders. “Well, you’re a

nice one! Who should it be? It’s the last time I allow you to play by

yourself.”

He swung round and caught her fiercely, shaking her as he pressed her to

him.

“Don’t, Meester Deek. You hurt.”

His lips were within an inch of hers; he didn’t try to kiss her. “You

leave me alone all day,” he panted; “and then you make a joke of it.”

She drew her fingers down his face. “I was very tired, and--and we

weren’t good-tempered. I’ve been lonely, too.” She laid her cheek

against his mouth. “Come, kiss me, Meester Deek. You look as though you

weren’t ever going to.--I’m glad, so glad that----”

“That what?”

She held her hand against her mouth and laughed into his eyes. “That you

haven’t enjoyed yourself without me.”

They climbed to the top of the rock. In the sun-baked warmness of the

garden _cicalas_ were still singing. In the town lights were springing

up. The after-glow lingered on the mountains. Beneath trees the evening

lay silver as moonlight. From a fountain in the middle of a pool rose

the statue of Venus aux Hirondelles.

His arm was still about her. Every few paces he stopped to kiss her.

She patted his face and drew it close to hers. “You’re foolish,” she

whispered. “You spoil me. You’re always nicest when I’ve been my worst.”

Then she commenced to ask him questions. “Do you really think that I’ve

not got any passion?--If I’d been scarred in that motor-car accident,

would you still love me?--Mrs. Theodore Gurney! It does sound funny. I

wonder if I’ll ever be called that.”

It was during the descent to the town that she made him say that he was

glad she had quarreled with him.

“Well, I do make it up to you afterwards, don’t I? If we hadn’t

quarreled, you wouldn’t be doing what you are now. No, you wouldn’t I

shouldn’t allow it. And please don’t try to kiss me just here; it’s so

joggly. Last time you caught the brim of my hat.”

They had dinner in the courtyard of her hotel, in the sweet, earthy dusk

of the rhododendrons. It was like a stage-setting: the canopy of the

sky with the stars sailing over them; the golden panes of windows; the

shadows of people passing and re-passing; the murmur of voices;

the breathless whisper of far-off footsteps. At another table a

black-bearded Frenchman sat and watched them.

“I wish he wouldn’t look at us,” Desire said. “I wonder why he does.”

They took a final walk before going to bed. In the courtyard where the

bushes grew densest, they parted. When he kissed her, she drooped her

face against his shoulder. “Give me your lips.”

She shook her head.

A tone of impatience crept into his voice. “Why not? You’ve done it

before. Why not now?”

He tried to turn her lips towards him; she took away his hand.

“I don’t know. I’m odd. I don’t feel like it.”

He let her go. Again the flame of anger swept through him. “Will you

ever feel like it?”

“How can I tell--now?”

“You’ve never once kissed me. Any other girl----”

“I’m not any other girl.” And then, “We’re alone. I’ve got to be wise for

both of us.”

She ran from him. In the doorway of the hotel she turned and kissed the

tips of her fingers.

He seated himself at a table, watching for the light to spring up in

her window. It was just possible that she might relent and come back,

or that she might lean over the balcony and wave to him While he waited,

the bearded Frenchman slipped out from the shadow. He approached and

raised his hat formally.

“Monsieur, I understand that you are not stopping at this hotel.”

“No, but I have a friend----”

“Mademoiselle, who has just gone from you?’

“Yes.”

“Then let me tell you, Monsieur, that there is a place near here that

will cure you of the illness from which you suffer.” The man took a card

from his pocket and commenced to scribble on it.

“But I’m not suffering from any----”

“Ah, then, it will cure mademoiselle.”

The man laid his card on the table, and again raised his hat

By the time Teddy had recovered from his surprise, the stranger had

vanished. He hurried into the street and gazed up and down. When he

returned to the courtyard. Desire’s window was in darkness. Picking up

the card, he struck a match and read the words, “_Les Baux_.” What was

Les Baux? Where was it? He fell asleep thinking of the miracle that had

been promised; when he awoke next morning he was still thinking of it.

As he dressed he heard the five faint notes of the goatman. Life had

become fantastic. Perhaps----

He set about making inquiries. It was a ruined city in the hills he

discovered. Oh, yes, there had been several books written about it and

innumerable poems. It had been a nest of human eagles once--the home of

troubadours. It was the place where the Queens of Beauty and the Courts

of Love had started. It was said that if a lover could persuade a

reluctant girl to go there with him, she would prove no longer reluctant

It was only a superstition; of course Monsieur understood that

Monsieur hurried to purchase a guide-book to Les Baux. While he waited

among the rhododendrons for Desire, he read it Then he looked up

time-tables and found that the pleasantest way to go was from Arles, and

that from there one had to drive a half day’s journey.

Desire surprised him at his investigations. She was all in white, with a

pink sash about her waist, her dress turned bade deeply at the neck for

coolness and her arms bare to die elbow. She looked extremely young and

pretty.

“’Ulloa, old dear!” she cried, bursting into Cockney. She peered over

his shoulder. “What are you doing?”

“Looking up routes.”

“Routes!” She raised her brows.

“Yes. To Les Baux.”

“You’re not going to get me out of here, old dear. Don’t you think it

We’ve not seen Avignon yet.”

“But Les Baux----”

Quoting from the guide-book, he commenced to explain to her its

excellences and beauties. She smiled, obstinately repeating, “We’ve not

seen Avignon yet.”

It was after they had breakfasted, when they were crossing the square,

that the bus-girl nodded to him.

“Who’s she?”

“A girl. Don’t you think she’s like you?”

Desire tossed her head haughtily, but slipped her arm into his to show

that she owned him. “Like me, indeed! You’re flattering!”

Presently she asked, “What did you do all yesterday, while I was

horrid?”

“Sat on the bridge and sketched.”

“Sketched! I never saw you sketch. If you’ll buy me a parasol to match

my sash, I’ll sit beside you to-day and watch you.”

On the bridge he set to work upon a water-color of the Rhone as it

flowed past Villeneuve. She was going over his drawings. Suddenly she

stopped. She had come across three of the same person. Just then the

orange-bus lumbered by; again the girl laughed at him.

“Look here, Meester Deek, you’ve got to tell me everything that you did

when I wasn’t with you.”

He was too absorbed in his work to notice what had provoked her

curiosity. When he came to the account of his bathing, she interrupted

him. “I want to see you bathe.”

“All right, presently.”

“No. Now.”

He rather liked her childish way of ordering him. He spoke lazily. “I

don’t mind, if you’ll take care of---- I say, this is like Long Beach,

isn’t it? You made me bathe there. But promise you won’t slip off while

I’m gone.”

“Honest Injun, I promise.”

He had climbed to the roof of the bathing-house and was straightening

himself for the plunge, when he heard the creaking of the bus

approaching. He looked up. The bus-girl had alighted and was leaning

down from the bridge, waving to him. Before diving, he waved back. When

he had climbed to the roof again, he searched round for Desire. She was

nowhere to be found.

He dressed quickly. At the hotel he was informed that she was packing.

He called up to her window from the courtyard. She came out on to the

balcony.

“They tell me you’re packing. What----”

“Going to Les Baux,” she said, “or any other old place. I won’t stay

another hour in Avignon.”

“But this morning at breakfast----”

“I know.” She frowned. As she reentered her window, she glanced back

across her shoulder. “I didn’t know as much about Avignon then.”

Arles was little more than an hour’s journey. It was noon when they left

Avignon. He had been fortunate in getting an empty compartment Without

any coaxing, she came and sat herself beside him. When the train had

started, she took off her hat and leant her head against his shoulder.

“Did you do that on purpose to make me mad?”

“Do what on purpose?”

She played with his hand. “You know, Meester Deck. Don’t pretend. You

did it first with the grisette in the Luxembourg, and now here with

that horrid bus-girl. If you do it a third time, you’ll have me making a

little fool of myself.”

He burst out laughing. She was jealous; she cared for him. He had

infected her with his own uncertainty.

“A nasty, masterful laugh,” she pouted.

He at once became repentant. “I only noticed her when I was lonely,” he

excused himself; “I thought she was like you.”

Desire screwed up her mouth thoughtfully. “Then I’ll have to keep you

from being lonely.”

She tilted up her face. He pressed her lips gently at first; then

fiercely. They did not stir. “That’s enough.” She strained back from

him. “Be careful Remember what you told me--that I haven’t any passion.”

“You have.”

“But you said I hadn’t.”

Her strength went from her and he drew her to him. “The fourth time,” he

whispered.

“When were the others?”

“That day up the Hudson when I asked you to marry me.”

“And the next?”

“At the apartment, when we said good-by across the stairs.”

“How long ago it all sounds! And the third?”

“On Christmas Eve. Princess, I’m going to kiss your lips whenever I like

now.”

She slanted her eyes at him. “Are you? See if you can.”

Her cheeks were flushed. Slipping her finger into her mouth, she

pretended to thwart him. She lay in his arms, happy and unresisting--a

little amused.

“When are you going to kiss me back?”

She laughed into his eyes like a witch woman. “Ah, when? You’re

greedy--never contented. I’ve given you so much.”

“I shall never be contented till----”

She flattened her palm against his lips to silence him.

“Didn’t I tell you that my niceness would commence quite suddenly? I can

be nicer than this.” She nodded. “I can. And I can be a little pig

again presently--especially if we meet another naval officer. I’m always

liable to--”

“Not if you’re in love with any one,” he pleaded.

She sighed. “I’m afraid I am, Meester--Meester Teddy.” She barricaded

her lips with her hand. “No more. Do be good. I’ve got to be wise for

both of us. I suppose you think I was jealous? I wasn’t.”

As the train drew near Arles, she made him release her. His heart was

beating fast. Producing a pocket-mirror, she inspected herself. For the

moment she seemed entirely forgetful of him. Then, “Tell me about this

old Les Baux place,” she commanded.

The engine halted. He helped her out. “It’s a surprise. You’ll see for

yourself.”

On making inquiries, they found that the drive was so long that they

would have to start at once to arrive by evening. To save time, they

took their lunch with them--grapes, wine and cakes. When the town was

left behind, they commenced to picnic in the carriage. They had only

one bottle, from which they had to drink in turns. She played a game of

feeding him, slipping grapes into his mouth. They had to keep a sharp

eye on the _cocher_, who was very particular that they should miss none

of the landmarks. When he turned to attract their attention, pointing

with his whip, they straightened their faces and became very proper.

After he had twice caught them, Desire said, “He’ll think we’re married

now, so we may as well deceive him.”

Teddy was allowed to place an arm about her, while she held the parasol

over them.

“If we were really married, d’you think you’d let me smoke a cigarette?”

He lit one and, having drawn a few puffs, edged it between her lips.

“You are good to me,” she murmured; “you save me so much trouble.”

The fierce sun of Provence blazed down on them. A haze hung over the

country, making everything tremble. Cicalas chirped more drowsily. The

white straight road looked molten. Plane-trees, stretching on in an

endless line, seemed to crouch beneath their shadows. The air was full

of the fragrance of wild lavender. Farmhouses which they passed were

silent and shuttered. No life moved between the osier partitions of

their gardens. Even birds were in hiding. Only lizards were awake and

darted like a flash across rocks which would have scorched the hand.

Beneath a wild fig-tree a mule-driver slumbered, his face buried in his

arms and his bare feet thrust outward. It was a land enchanted.

Desire grew silent. Her head drooped nearer to his shoulder. Beads of

moisture began to glisten on her throat and forehead. Once or twice she

opened her eyes, smiling dreamily up at him; then her breath came softly

and she slept.

At Saint Rémy they stopped to water the horse. The first coolness of

evening was spreading. As the breeze fluttered down the hills, trees

shuddered, like people rising from their beds. Shutters were being

pushed back from windows. Faces peered out Loiterers gazed curiously at

the carriage, with the unconscious girl drooping like a flower in the

arms of the gravely defiant young man. Saint Rémy had been left behind;

the ascent into the mountains had commenced before she wakened.

She rubbed her eyes and sat up. “What! Still holding me? I do think

you’re the most patient man---- Do you still love me, Meester Deek?”

He stooped to kiss her yawning mouth. “More every hour. But why?”

“Because if a man can still love a woman after seeing her asleep----

When I’m asleep, I don’t look my prettiest.”

The scenery was becoming momentarily more wild. The horse was laboring

in its steps. On either side white bowlders hung as if about to tumble.

The narrow road wound up through the loneliness in sweeping curves.

Hawks were dipping against the sky. Not a tree was in sight--only wild

lavender and straggling furze.

She clutched his arm. “It’s frightening.”

“Let’s walk ahead and not think about it,” he suggested. “We’ll talk and

forget.”

But the scenery proved silencing.

“Do say something,” she whispered. “Can’t we quarrel? We’ll talk if

we’re angry.”

He thought. “What kind of a beast was that man in California?”

“He wasn’t a beast. He was quite nice. You came near seeing him.”

“I did! When?”

“He was the man who was stopping in Paris at my hotel.--There, now

you’re really angry! That’s the worst of telling anything. A woman

should keep all her faults to herself.”

“And he saw us?”

She stared at him, surprised at his intuition. “How long have you known

that?”

They were entering a tunnel hewn between rocks; they rose up scarred and

forbidding, nearly meeting overhead.

She shuddered. “I wish we hadn’t come. It’s----”

Suddenly, like a guilty conscience left behind, the tunnel opened on to

a platform. Far below lay a valley, trumpet-shaped and widening as it

faded into the distance. It was snow-white with lime-stone, and flecked

here and there with blood-red earth. The sides of the hills were

monstrous cemeteries, honeycombed with troglodyte dwellings. In the

plain, like naked dancing girls with flying hair, olive-trees fluttered.

Rocks, strewn through the greenness, seemed hides stretched out to

dry. Men, white as lepers, were crawling to and fro in the lime-stone

quarries. Straight ahead, cleaving the valley with its shadow, rose a

sheer column--a tower of Babel, splintered by the sunset. As they gazed

across the gulf to its summit, they made out roofs and ivy-spattered

ramparts. It looked deserted. Then across the distance from the ethereal

height the chiming of bells sounded.

He drew her to him. It was as though with one last question, he was

putting all their doubts behind. “Was it true about that man?”

“Quite true. Fluffy gave him my address. Let’s forget him now, and--and

everything.”

As he stooped above her, she whispered, “Meester Deek, our quarrels have

brought us nearer.”

They heard the rattle of the carriage in the tunnel. Joining hands,

they set out down the steep decline. In the valley they found themselves

among laurel-roses, pink with bloom and heavy with fragrance. Then they

commenced the climb to Les Baux, through cypresses standing stiffly as

sentinels. Beady-eyed, half-naked children watched them and hid behind

rocks when they beckoned.

Beneath a battered gateway they entered the ancient home of the Courts

of Love. Near the gateway, built flush with the precipice, stood a

little house which announced that it was the Hôtel de la Reine Jeanne.

An old gentleman with eyes like live coals and long white hair, stepped

out to greet them. He informed them that he was the folk-lore poet of

Les Baux and its inn-keeper. They engaged rooms; while doing so they

noticed that many of the walls were covered with frescoes.

“Ah, yes,” said the poet inn-keeper, “an English artist did them in

payment for his board when he had spent all his money. He came here

like you, you understand; intending to stay for one night; but he stayed

forever. It has happened before in Les Baux, this becoming enchanted.

He was a very famous artist, but he works in the vineyards now and has

married one of our Saracen girls.”

Then he explained that Les Baux was like a pool front which the tides of

Time had receded. Its inhabitants were descendants of Roman legionaries

and of the Saracens who had conquered it later. That was why there were

no blue eyes in Les Baux, though it stood so near to heaven.

They wandered out into the charmed silence. There was no wheel-traffic.

The toy streets could be spanned by the arms outstretched. There were no

shops--only deserted palaces, with defaced escutcheons and wall-flowers

nestling in their crannies. Only women and children were in sight;

they looked like camp-followers of a lost army. Old imperial splendors

moldered in this sepulchre of the clouds, as out of mind as the Queens

of Beauty asleep in their leaden coffins.

They came to the part that was Roman. _Cicalas_ and darting swallows

were its sole tenants. From the huge structure of the crag houses had

been carved and hollowed. The pavement was still grooved by the wheels

of chariots.

In Paris it had been the foreignness of their surroundings that had

forced them together; now it was the antiquity--the brooding sense of

the eventlessness of life and the eternal tedium of expectant death.

“A doll’s house of the gods,” he said.

“No, a faery land waiting for its princess to waken.”

He folded her hands together and held them against his breast. “She will

never waken till her lips have kissed a man.”

She peered up at him shyly. Her face quivered. She had a hunted

indecision in her eyes. The clamor, as of feet pounding through her

body, communicated itself through her hands. She tore them from him.

“Don’t touch me.” She ran from him wildly, and did not stop till streets

where people lived commenced.

When he had come up with her, she tried to cover her confusion with

laughter. “You remember what he said about becoming enchanted? It nearly

happened to us.”

“And why not?”

“Because----” She shrugged her shoulders.

In their absence a table had been spread on the terrace and a lamp

placed on it as a beacon. By reaching out from where they sat, they

could gaze sheer down through the twilight. Night, like a blue vapor,

was steaming up from the valley. In the shadows behind, they were

vaguely aware that the town had assembled to watch them. Bare feet

pattered. A girl laughed. Now and then a mandolin tinkled, and a

love-song of Provence drifted up like a perfume flung into the poignant

dusk. At intervals the sentinel in the church-tower gave warning how

time was forever passing.

“You were afraid of me; that was why you ran.”

She lowered her eyes. “I was more afraid of myself.--Meester Deek,

you’ve never tried to understand what sort of a girl I am. Everything

that I’ve seen of life, right from the very start, has taught me to be a

coward--to believe that the world is bad. Don’t you see how I’d drag you

down? It’s because of that---- When I feel anything big and terrible I

run from it. It--it seems safer.”

“But you can’t run away forever.” He leant across the table and took her

hand. “One day you’ll want those big and terrible things and--and a man

to protect you. They won’t come to you then, perhaps.”

She lifted her face and gazed at him. “You mean you wouldn’t wait

always? Of course you wouldn’t. You don’t know it, but if I were to go

away to-morrow, your waiting would end.”

“It wouldn’t.”

“It would. A girl’s instinct tells her. And I ought to go.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m not the wife for you. I’ve given you far more misery than

happiness.”

He laughed quietly. “Little sweetheart, if you were to go, I should

follow you and follow you.”

She shook her head. “Not far.--Meester Deek, some day you may learn to

hate me, so I want to tell you: until I met you, I believed the worst

of every man. I was a little stream in a wilderness; I wanted so to find

the sea, and it seemed that I never should. But now----”

His clasp on her hand tightened. “But now?”

She looked at him sadly. “I should spoil your whole life. Would you

spoil your whole life for the kind of girl I am?”

“Gladly.”

She smiled wistfully. “I wonder how many women have been loved like

that.”

They rose. “Shall we go in?”

“Not yet,” he pleaded.

“It would be better.”

As they were crossing the terrace, the _cocher_ approached them. He

wanted to know at what hour they proposed to leave next morning. He was

anxious to start early, before the heat of the day had commenced.

“I don’t think we’re leaving.” Teddy glanced at Desire. Then, with a

rush of decision: “We’re planning to stay a day or two longer. It’ll be

all the same to you; I’ll pay for the return journey.”

Saying that he would be gone before they were out of bed, the man bade

them farewell.

When they had entered the darkness of the narrow streets, he put his

arm about her. She came to him reluctantly; then surrendered and leant

against him heavily. They sauntered silently as in a dream. All the

steps which had led up to this moment passed before him: her evasions

and retractions. She was no longer a slave of freedom. For the first

time he felt certain of her; with the certainty came an overwhelming

sense of gratitude and tranquillity. He feared lest by word or action he

should disturb it, and it should go from him.

They passed by the old palaces perfumed with wallflowers; in a window an

occasional light winked at them. They reached the Roman part of the town

and hurried their steps. By contrast it seemed evil and ghost-haunted;

through the caves that had been houses, bats flew in and out A soft wind

met them. They felt the turf beneath their tread and stepped out on to

the ruined battlements. Wild thyme mingled with the smell of lavender.

The memory of forsaken gardens and forgotten ecstasies was in the air.

Three towers, Roman, Saracen and French, pointed mutilated fingers at

eternity. They halted, drinking in the silence, and lifted their eyes to

the stars wheeling overhead. Far away, through mists across the plain,

Marseilles struck sparks on the horizon and the moon rose red.

She turned in his embrace. “I’m not half as sweet as you would make me

out, I’m not. Oh, won’t you believe me?”

His tranquillity gave way; he caught her to him, raining kisses on her

throat, her eyes, her mouth.

“You’re crushing me!” Her breath came stifled and sobbing.

Tenderness stamped out his passion. As his grip relaxed, she slipped

from him. She was running; he followed. On the edge of the precipice,

the red moon swinging behind her like a lantern, she halted. Her hands

were held ready to thrust him back.

“It would be better for you that I should throw myself down

than--than----”

He seized her angrily and drew her roughly to him. “You little fool,” he

panted.

With a sudden abandon she urged herself against him. As he bent over

her, her arms reached up and her lips fell warm against his mouth.

“I do love you. I _do_. I _do_,” she whispered. “Take care of me. Be

good to me. I daren’t trust myself.”

The hotel was asleep when they got back. They fumbled their way up

the crooked stairs. Outside her room, as in the darkness they clung

together, she took his face between her hands. “And you said I hadn’t

any passion!--You’re good, Meester Deck. God bless you.”

Her door closed. He waited. He heard the lock turn.

“When I kiss you without your asking me, you’ll know then,” she had

said. His heart sang. All night, in his dreaming and waking, he was

making plans.

When he came down next morning, he found the table spread on the

terrace. He walked over to it, intending while he waited for her, to sit

down and smoke a cigarette. One place had been already used. He hadn’t

known that another guest had been staying at the hotel. Calling the

inn-keeper, he asked him to have the place reset.

“But for whom?”

“For Mademoiselle.”

“Mademoiselle! But Mademoiselle----” The man looked blank. “But

Mademoiselle, a six hours she left this morning with the carriage.”

CHAPTER XXII--SHE RECALLS HIM

Now that she had gone from him, he realized how mistaken he had been

in his chivalry. From the first, instead of begging, he ought to have

commanded. She was a girl with whom it paid to be rough. It was only

on the precipice, when he had seized her savagely, that her passion had

responded. In the light of what had happened, her last words seemed a

taunt--an echo of her childish despising of King Arthurs: “And you said

I hadn’t any passion I--You’re good, Meester Deek.” Had he been less

honorable in her hour of weakness, he would still have had her.

“That ends it!” he told himself. Nevertheless he set out hot-footed for

Arles. There he hunted up the _cocher_ who had driven them to Les Baux,

and learnt that she had taken train for Paris. In Paris he inquired at

_The Oxford and Cambridge._ He searched the registers of a dozen hotels.

Tramping the boulevards of the city of lovers, he revisited all the

places where they had been together; he hoped that a whim of sentiment

might lead her on the same errand.

A new thought struck him: she had written to Eden Row and his mother

didn’t know his address. All the time that he had been wasting in this

intolerable aloneness her explanation had been waiting for him. He

returned posthaste, only to be met with her unconquerable silence. He

hurried to Orchid Lodge; her father might know her whereabouts. There

he was told that Hal had sailed for New York--with what motive he could

guess. This lent the final derisive touch to his tragedy.

It was the end of July, nearly a year to the day since he had made his

great discovery at Glastonbury. He had spent a month of torture. Since

the key had turned in her lock at the Hôtel de la Reine Jeanne, he had

had no sign of her. He came down to breakfast one sunshiny morning;

lying beside his plate was a letter in her hand. He slipped it into

his pocket with feigned carelessness, till he should be alone; then he

opened it and read:

Dearest Teddy:

I need you.

_Savoy Hotel,

The Strand.

Come at once.

Your foolish Desire._

She needed him! It was the first time she had owned as much. From her

that admission in three words was more eloquent than many pages. Had her

slavery to freedom become irksome? Had it got her into trouble?

He reached the Savoy within the hour. As he passed his card across the

desk he was a-tremble. It was a relief when the clerk gave him no bad

news but, having phoned up, turned and said, “The lady will see you in

her room, sir.”

The passage outside her door was piled with trunks; painted on them,

like an advertisement, in conspicuous white letters, was Janice Audrey.

He tapped. As he waited he heard laughter. In his high-wrought state of

nerves the sound was an offense.

The handle turned. “Hulloa, Teddy! I’ve heard about you. I’m going to

leave you two scatter-brains to yourselves.”

Fluffy was in her street-attire--young, eager and caparisoned for

conquest. She seemed entirely unrelated to the shuddering Diana in the

Tyrolese huntsman’s costume, whom he had last seen breaking her heart in

the dressing-room of _The Belshazzar_. He stepped aside to let her pass;

then he entered.

He found himself in a large sunlit room in a riot of disorder--whether

with packing or unpacking it was difficult to tell. Evidently some

one had gone through a storm of shopping. Frocks were strewn in every

direction; opera-cloaks and evening-gowns lay on the floor, on the bed,

on the backs of chairs. Hats were half out of milliners’ boxes. Shoes

and slippers lay jumbled in a pile in a suit-case. It was fitting that

he and Desire should meet again in a hired privacy, like transients.

She stood against a wide window, looking down on the Embankment She

was wearing a soft green peignoir trimmed with daisies. It was almost

transparent, so that in the strong sunlight her slight figure showed

through it It was low-cut and clinging--a match in color to the

Guinevere costume which she had been wearing when he had discovered her

at Glastonbury. Had she intended that it should waken memories? As he

watched he was certain that that had been her intention, for she was

adorned with another reminder: a false curl had usurped the place of the

old one she had given him. It danced against her neck, quivering with

excitement, and seemed to beckon.

Her back was towards him. She must have heard Fluffy speaking to him.

She must know that he was on the threshold. He closed the door quietly

and halted.

“Meester Deek, are you glad to see me?” She spoke without turning. \

Her question went unanswered. In the silence it seemed to repeat

itself maddeningly. She drummed with her fingers on the pane, as though

insisting that until he had answered he should not see her face.

At last her patience gave out She glanced across her shoulder. Something

in his expression warned her. Running to him, she caught his hands and

pressed against him, laughing into his eyes. She waited submissively

for his arms to enfold her. When he remained unmoved, she whispered

luringly, “I’m as amiable as I ever shall be.”

“Are you?”

She pouted. “Once if I’d told you that----

“Are you!”

“Is that all after a whole month?”

“A whole month!” His face seemed set in a mask. “To me it has seemed a

century.”

For the first time she dimly realized what he had suffered. She drew her

fingers across his cheek. Her hands ran over him like white mice. The

weariness in his way of talking frightened her. “I’m--I’m sorry that I’m

not always nice. It wasn’t quite nice of me to leave you, was it?”

His lips grew crooked at her understatement “From my point of view it

wasn’t.”

She thought for a moment; she was determined not to acknowledge that he

was altered. Slipping her arm into his comfortably, she led him across

the room. “Let’s sit down. I’ve so much to tell you.”

He helped her to push a couch to the window that they might shut out the

sight of the room’s disorder. When she had seated herself in a corner,

she patted the place beside her. He sat himself at the other end and

gazed out at the gray-gold stretch of river, where steamers churned back

and forth between Greenwich and Westminster.

“Fluffy’s going to America; we ran over from Paris to get some clothes.

It’s all rubbish to get one’s clothes in Paris; London’s just as good

and not one-half as expensive. She has to return to Paris in a day or

two to see a play. Simon Freelevy thinks it will suit her. After that

she sails from Cherbourg.--Meester Deek, are you interested in Fluffy’s

doings?”

“I was looking at the river. I scarcely heard what you were saying.”

“Well, then, perhaps this will interest you. She says that, if I like,

she’ll see that I get a place in her company at _The Belshassar_.--Still

admiring the view?--I wish you’d answer me sometimes, Teddy.”

“So you’re going to become another Fluffy?”

Her tone sank to a honeyed sweetness. “You’re most awfully far away. If

you don’t come nearer, we might just as well----”

“As I came along the passage,” he said, “I heard you laughing. I haven’t

done much laughing lately.”

A frown crept into her eyes. “That was because I was going to see you.”

He wished he could believe her.

In a desperate effort to win him to pleasantness, she closed up the

space that separated them. His coldness piqued her. Through her filmy

garment her body touched him; it was burning. “And I--I haven’t done

much laughing lately, either; but one can’t be always tragic.” Her voice

was tremulous and sultry. She brushed against him and peered into his

face reproachfully. “You aren’t very sympathetic.”

“Not very.”

She tried the effect of irritation. “I wish you wouldn’t keep on

catching at what I say.” Then, with a return to her sweetness: “Do be

kind, Meester Deck. You don’t know how badly I need you.”

Something deep and emotional stirred within him. Perhaps it was

memory--perhaps habit All his life he had been waiting for just

that--for her to need him; it had begun years ago when Hal had told him

of the price that she would have to pay. Perhaps it was love struggling

in the prison that her indifference had created for it It might be

merely the sex response to her closeness.

“I came because you wrote that you needed me. But your laughing and the

way you met me----”

“I was nervous and--and you don’t know why.”

He shook his head. “After all that’s happened, after all the loneliness

and all the silence---- My dear, I don’t know what’s the matter with me;

I think you’ve killed something. I’m not trying to be unkind.”

She crouched her face in her hands. At last she became earnest “And just

when I need you!”

“Tell me,” he urged gravely; “I’ll do anything.”

“You promise--really anything?”

“Anything.”

She smiled mysteriously, making bars of her fingers before her eyes. She

knew that, however he might deny it, he was again surrendering to her

power. “Even if I were to ask you to marry me?”

“Anything,” he repeated, without fervor.

“Then I’ll ask a little thing first.” She hesitated. “It would help if

you put your arm about me.”

He carried out her request perfunctorily.

“Ask me questions,” she whispered; “it will be easier to begin like

that.”

“Where did you go when you left me?”

“To Paris.”

“I know. I followed you.”

She started. “But you didn’t see me?”

He kept her in suspense, while he groped after the reason for her

excitement. “No. I didn’t see you. Whom were you with?”

“Fluffy.”

“Any one else?”

“Yes.” She caught at his hands, as though already he had made a sign to

leave her. “I didn’t know he was to be there.”

“Ah!” He knew whom she meant: the man with whom she had flirted in

California and whom a strange chance had led to her hotel in Paris. He

would have withdrawn his arm if she had not held it.

“But none of this explains your leaving me and then not writing.”

A hardness had crept into his tones. His jealousy had sprung into a

flame. He remembered those photographs of Tom in her bedroom. There had

always been other men at the back of her life. How did he know whom she

met or what she did, when he was away from her?

“Meester Deek,” she clutched at him, “don’t You--you frighten me. I’ve

done nothing wrong. I haven’t I’ve spent every moment with Fluffy.”

“That didn’t keep you from writing.”

“No.” She laid her face against his pleadingly. “That didn’t prevent It

was---- Oh, Meester Deek, won’t you understand--you’ve always been so

unjudging? At Les Baux that night you wakened something--something that

I’d never felt. I didn’t dare to trust myself. It wasn’t you that I

distrusted. I wanted to go somewhere alone--somewhere where I could

think and come to myself. If I’d written to you, or received letters

from you----”

“Desire, let’s speak the truth. We promised always to be honest You say

you went with Fluffy to be alone; you know you didn’t. Fluffy’s never

alone--she’s a queen bee with the drones always buzzing round her. You

went away to get rid of me, and for the fun of seeing whether you could

recall me.”

“Not that. Truly not that” She paused and drew a long breath, like a

diver getting ready for a deep plunge. “It was because I was afraid

that, if I stopped longer, we might have to marry. A girl may be

cold--she mayn’t even love a man, but if she trifles too long with

his affections, she herself sometimes catches fire. That was how my

mother--with my father.”

“Then why did you send for me?” His tone was stern and puzzled.

For a time she was silent. It seemed to him that she was searching for a

plausible motive. Then, “I think because I wanted to see a good man.”

He tried to smile cynically. She had fooled him too many times for him

to allow himself to be caught so easily as that. The scales had fallen

from his eyes. She had always made whatever uprightness he possessed a

reproach to him.

“You don’t believe me?” She scanned his face wistfully. “You never did

understand me or--or any girls.”

The new argument which her accusation suggested was tempting; no man,

however inexperienced, likes to be told that he is ignorant of women.

That he refused to allow himself to be diverted was proof to her of her

loss of power.

“I believe you in a sense,” he said. “I don’t doubt that at this moment

you imagine that you want to see a good man--not that I’m especially

good; I’m just decent and ordinary. But you’re not really interested in

good men; you don’t find them exciting. Long ago, as children, you told

me that. Don’t you remember--I like Sir Launcelot best?”

She twisted her hands. Her face had gone white. When she spoke her voice

was earnest and tired. “You force me to tell you.--I did want to see a

good man--a good man who loved me. You’ll never guess why. It was to get

back my self-respect That man--that man whom I led on in California, he

saw us together in Paris. He misunderstood. He thought vile things.

After I’d left you and joined Fluffy, I met him again and he asked me to

be---- I can’t say it; but when a man like that misunderstands things

about a girl----” Self-scorn consumed her. “It wasn’t only because he’d

seen us together--it wasn’t only that.” Her voice sank to a bitter

whisper. “I’m the daughter of a woman who was never married--he found

that out; so he asked me to become his----”

“My God! Don’t say it.”

He tried to draw her to him. Tears blinded his eyes. She scoffed

at herself rebelliously. “It’s true. I deserved it That’s the way I

act--like a man’s mistress. I don’t act like other girls. That’s why

you never mentioned me in your letters from New York to your mother. You

made excuses for me in your own mind, and you tried not to be ashamed of

me and, because you were chivalrous, you were sorry for me. I hated you

for being sorry. But men, like that man in Paris--all they see in me is

an opportunity----”

“The swine!” He clenched his hands and sat staring at the carpet.

“No.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m fair game. I see it all now. I used

to think I was only modern, and used to laugh at you for being

old-fashioned. You were always trying to tell me. I’m taking back

everything unkind that I ever did or said. D’you hear me, Teddy? It’s

the way I’ve been brought up. I’m what Horace calls ‘a Slave of

freedom.’ I fascinate and I don’t play fair. I’m rotten and I’m

virtuous. I accept and accept with my greedy little hands. I lead men

on to expect, and I give nothing.”

She waited for him to say something--something healing and

generous--perhaps that he would marry her. He was filled with pity and

with doubt--and with another emotion. What she had told him had roused

his passion. In memory he could feel the warmth of her body. Why had

she dressed like this to meet him? Why did she touch him so frequently?

Passion wasn’t love; it would burn itself out He knew that, if he

stayed, he would shatter the idol she had created of him. He would

become like that man whom he had been despising.

His silence disappointed her. She ceased from caressing him. She had

come to an end of all her arts and blandishments. In trying to be

sincere, she had made her very sincerity sound like coquetry. She

realized that this man, who had been absolutely hers at a time when she

had not valued him, had grown reserved and cautious at this crisis when

she needed him more than anything in the world. A desperate longing came

into her eyes. Struggling with her pride, in one last effort to win

him back, she stretched out her arms timidly, resting her hands on his

shoulders with a tugging pressure. “I guess,” her voice came brokenly,

“I guess you’re the only living man who would ever have dreamt of

marrying me.”

Jumping up, he seized his hat

“You’re going?”

He faced her furiously. It seemed to him that he was gazing into a

furnace. “If I stay, you’ll have me kissing you.”

She scarcely knew whether she loved or hated him, yet she held out her

arms to him languorously. For a moment he hesitated. Then he hurried

past her. As his hand was on the door, he heard a thud. She had fallen

to her knees beside the couch in the sunlight Her face was buried in her

hands.

Slowly he came back. Stooping over her, he brushed his lips against her

hair.

She lifted her sad eyes. “I tried to be fair to you; I warned you. You

should have stuck to your dream of me. You were never in love with the

reality.”

“I was.” He denied her vehemently.

She smiled wearily. “The past tense! Will you ever be kind to me again,

I wonder? I--I never had a father, Teddy.”

The old excuse--the truest of all her excuses! It struck the chord of

memory. He picked her up gently, holding her so closely that he could

feel the shuddering of her breath.

“In spite of everything,” she whispered, “would you still marry me?”

He faltered. “Yes, I’d still marry you. But, Desire, we’ve forgotten:

you haven’t told me truly why you sent for me.”

She slipped from his arms and put the couch between them. “I sent for

you to tell you that--that I’m that, though I’ve tried, I can’t live

without you.”

He leant out to touch her. She avoided him. “First tell me that you love

me.”

“I do.”

Her gray eyes brimmed over. “You don’t. You’re lying. I’ve never lied to

you--with all my faults I’ve never done that.”

His arms fell to his side. When confronted by her truth his passion went

from him. “But I shall. I shall love you, Desire. It’ll all come back.”

She shook her head. “It might never. And without it---- You told me that

I’d killed something. I believe I have.”

“If you would only let me kiss you,” he pleaded.

She darted across the room and flinging wide the door, waited for him

in the passage.

She took his hands in hers. They gazed at each other inarticulately.

“I can’t tell you--can’t tell you,” he panted. “All the time I may be

loving you.”

“And just when I needed you, Meester Deek,” she whispered, “just when I

want to be good so badly!”

She broke from him. Again, as at Les Baux, he heard the key in her lock

turning.

No sooner was he without her than the change commenced. During his

month of intolerable waiting, when he had thought that he had lost her

forever, he had tried to heal the affront to his pride with a dozen

hostile arguments. He had persuaded himself that the break with her was

for the best. He had told himself that carelessness towards men was

in her blood--a taint of sexlessness inherited from her mother. He had

assured himself repeatedly that he could live without her. He had

fixed in his mind as a goal to be envied his old pursuits, with their

unfevered touch of bachelor austerity. This had been his mood till he

had received her message: “I need you. Come at once.”

Having seen her, his yearning had returned like a lean wolf the more

famished by reason of its respite. Was it love? If he lied to her, she

would detect him. Until he could convince her that he loved her, he was

exiled by her honesty. He knew now that throughout the weeks of waiting

his suffering had been dulled by its own intensity. His false self-poise

had been a symptom of the malady.

All day he tramped the streets of London in the scorching heat of

midsummer. He went up the Strand and back by the Embankment, round and

round, taking no time for food or rest. He felt throughout his body a

continual vibration, an eager trembling. He dared not go far from her.

In spirit she was never absent She rose up crouching her chin against

her shoulder and barricading her lips with her hand. He relived their

many partings--the ecstasies, kisses, wavings down the stairs--those

prolonged poignant moments when her tenderness had atoned for hours of

coldness. She had become a habit with him--a part of him. His physical

self cried out for her. It was knit with hers.

A year almost to the day since she had said so lightly, “Come to

America”! And now she was so near, and he could not go to her.

Evening. He sat wearily on the Embankment, gazing up at the back of her

hotel, trying to guess which window was hers. In the coolness of

the golden twilight he had arrived at the first stage in his exact

self-knowledge: that waiting for her had become his mission--without her

his future would be purposeless. If he made her his wife, he might live

to regret it Her faults went too deep for even love to cure. Any emotion

of shame which she had owned to was only for the moment. Whether he lost

her or won her, he was bound to suffer. Marriage with her might spell

intellectual ruin; but to shirk the risk because of that would be to

shatter his idealism forever. To save her from herself and to shelter

her in so far as she would allow, had become his religion and the

inspiration of his work. And wasn’t that the highest sort of love?

He determined to set himself a test He walked to Charing Cross Station,

entered a telephone-booth and called up the Savoy.

“Miss Jodrell, please. No, I don’t know the number of the room.”

The trepidation with which he waited brought all his New York memories

back.

Her voice. “Hulloa! Yes. This is Miss Jodrell.”

He was at a loss for words. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her across

the wire. While he hesitated, he heard her receiver hung up.

He was certain of himself now. He was shaking like a leaf. If her voice

could thrill and unnerve him when her body was absent, this must be more

than passion.

He sat down till he had grown quiet, then jumping into a taxi he told

the man to drive quickly. He could have walked the distance in little

over five minutes; but after so much delay, every second saved was an

atonement. As he whirled out of the Strand into the courtyard of the

Savoy, Big Ben was booming for nine.

For the second time that day he passed his card across the desk. “I want

Miss Jodrell.”

The clerk handed him back his card. “She’s left.”

“But she can’t have. I’ve had her on the phone within half an hour.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I wonder she didn’t tell you. You must have spokes

with her the last minute before she left. She caught the nine o’clock

boat-train from Charing Cross to Dover.”

He went faint and reached out to steady himself. “From Charing Cross!

Why, I’ve just come from there. We must have passed. We----”

The man saw that something serious was the matter. He dropped his

perfunctory manner. “She’s sure to have left an address for the

forwarding of her letters. I’ll look it up if you’ll wait a moment.”

He returned. “Her letters were to be addressed _Poste Restante_ to the

General Post-office, Paris. I don’t know whether that will help you.”

Before leaving the hotel he sat down and wrote her. Then he went out and

sent her a telegram:

_“Yours exclusively. Telegraph your address. Will come at once and fetch

you.”_

He hurried home to Eden Row and packed his bag. He was up early next

morning, waiting for her reply. In the evening he sent her a more urgent

telegram and another letter. No answer. He thought that she must have

received his messages, for he had marked his letters to be returned

within a day if not called for. He cursed himself for his ill-timed

coldness.

CHAPTER XXIII--HIS WAITING ENDS

A week of silence, and then---- It was eight in the evening. He was

at the top of the house in his bedroom-study--the room in which he had

woven so many gold optimisms. Down the blue oblong of sky, framed by his

window, the red billiard-ball of the sun rolled smoothly, bound for the

pocket of night.

A sharp rat-a-tat. Its meaning was unmistakable. He went leaping down

the stairs, three at a time. He reached the hall just as Jane was

appearing from the basement Forestalling her at the front-door, he

grabbed the pinkish-brown envelope from the telegraph-boy. Ripping it

open, he read:

_“Sorry delay. Been Lucerne. Just returned Paris. Received all yours.

Meet me to-morrow Cherbourg on board ‘Wilhelm der Grosse.’ Please start

immediately.”_

She had forgotten to put her address. He pulled out his watch. Five

minutes past eight! He had no time to consult railway-guides--no time

even to pack. All he knew was that the boat-train left Charing-Cross

for Dover in less than an hour; he could just catch it Returning to his

bedroom, he gathered together what cash he could find In three minutes

he was in the hall again.

“Tell mother when she comes back that I’m off to Paris. Tell her I’ll

write.”

Jane gaped at him. As he hurried down the steps, she began to ask

questions. He shook his head, “No time.”

Throwing dignity to the winds, he set off at a run. As he passed Orchid

Lodge, Mr. Sheerug was coming out. He cannoned into him and left him

gasping. At the top of Eden Row he saw a taxi and hailed it. He knew now

that he was safe to catch his train.

On the drive to the station he unfolded her telegram and re-read it

Irresponsible as ever, yet lovable! What risks she took! He might have

been out; as it was he could barely make the connections that would

get him to Cherbourg in time. No address to which he could reply! He

couldn’t let her know that he was coming. Doubtless she took that for

granted. No information concerning her plans! She had always told him

that wise women kept men guessing. No hint as to why she had sent

for him! Twenty-four hours of conjecturing would keep him humble and

increase his ardor. Then the motive of all this vagueness dawned on

him. She was putting him to the test If he came in spite of the

irresponsibility of her message, it would be proof to her that he loved

her. If ever a girl needed a man’s love, Desire was that girl.

During the tedious night journey fears began to arise. Why was she going

to Cherbourg? He read her words again, “Meet me to-morrow Cherbourg on

board _Wilhelm der Grosse_” What would she be doing on board an Atlantic

liner if she wasn’t sailing? She shouldn’t sail if he could prevent her.

If she reached New York, she would go on the stage and commit herself

irrevocably to Fluffyism.

He steamed into the Gare du Nord at a quarter to seven and learnt, on

making inquiries, that the trains for Cherbourg left from the St Lazare.

He jumped into an autotaxi--no leisurely _fiacre_ this time--and raced

through the gleaming early morning. He found at the St Lazare that the

first express that he could catch, departed in three-quarters of an

hour. There was another which left later, but it ran to meet the steamer

and was reserved exclusively for transatlantic voyagers. The second

train would be the one by which she would travel. He debated whether he

should try to intercept her on the platform. Too risky.

He might miss her. He preferred to take the chance which she herself

had chosen. There would be less than an hour between his arrival in

Cherbourg and the time when the steamship sailed.

Having snatched some breakfast, he found a florist’s and purchased an

extravagant sheaf of roses.

As soon as Paris was left behind, he was consumed with impotent

impatience. It seemed to him that the engine pulled up at every poky

little town in Normandy. He got it on his mind that every railroad

official was conspiring to make him late. He had one moment of exquisite

torture. They had been at a standstill in a station for an interminable

time. He got out and, in his scarcely intelligible French, asked the

meaning of the delay. The man whom he had questioned pointed; at that

moment the non-stop boat-express from Paris overtook them and thundered

by. At it passed, he glanced anxiously at the carriage-windows, hoping

against hope that he might catch sight of her.

The last exasperation came when they broke down at Rayeux and wasted

nearly an hour. He arrived at his destination at the exact moment at

which the _Wilhelm der Grosse_ was scheduled to sail.

Picking up the flowers he had purchased for her, he dashed out of the

station and shouldered his way to where some _fiacres_ were standing.

Thrusting a twenty-franc note into the nearest cocker’s hand, he

startled the man into energy.

What a drive! Of the streets through which they galloped he saw nothing.

He was only conscious of people escaping to the pavement and of threats

shouted through the sunshine.

When they arrived at the quay, the horse was in a lather. Far off, at

the mouth of the harbor in a blue-gold haze, the liner lay black, her

smoke-stacks smudging the sky. Snuggled against her were the two tugs

which had taken out the passengers. An official-looking person in a

peaked cap was standing near to where they had halted.

Did he understand English? Certainly. To the question that followed he

answered imperturbably: “Too late, monsieur. It is impossible.”

He gazed round wildly. He must get to her. He must at least let Desire

know that he had made the journey.

Above the wall of the quay a head in a yachting-cap appeared. He ran

towards it. Stone steps led down to the water’s edge. Against the lowest

step a power-boat lay rocking gently with the engine still running.

No time to ask permission or to make explanations! He sprang down the

steps, flung his roses into the boat, turned on the power and was away.

Shouting behind him grew fainter. Now he heard only the panting of the

engine and the swirl of waves. The liner stood up taller. He steered

for it straight as an arrow. If he could only get there! The tugs were

casting loose. Now they were returning. He wasn’t a quarter of a mile

away. He cleared the harbor. The steamer was swinging her nose round.

He could see her screws churning. His only chance of stopping her was to

cut across her bows.

From crowded decks faces were staring down. Some were laughing; some

were pale at his foolhardiness. An officer with a thick German accent

was cursing him. He could only hear the accent; he couldn’t make out

what the man was saying. What did he care? He had forced them to wait

for him. From all that blur of faces he was trying to pick out one face.

Making a megaphone of his hands, he shouted. His words were lost in the

pounding of the engines and the lapping of the waves. Then he saw a face

which he recognized--Fluffy’s. She was saying something to the officer;

she was explaining the situation. Leaning across the rail, laughing, she

shook her head. The news of the reason for his extraordinary behavior

was passing from mouth to mouth along the decks. The laugh was taken up.

The whole ship seemed to hold its sides and jeer at him.

The liner gathered way. The last thing he saw distinctly was Fluffy,

still laughing and shaking her golden head. She was keeping Desire from

him; he knew that she had lied.

The boat rose and fell in the churned-up wake. Like a man whose soul has

suddenly died, he sat very silent.

Slowly he came to himself. Evening was falling. He felt old. It was all

true, then--the lesson that her mother had taught him in his childhood!

There were women in the world whom love could not conquer.

He flung the roses he had bought for her into the sea. Turning the head

of the boat, he reentered the harbor.

FINIS