I
There was a hooligan knock on Georgie Malwood's bedroom door.
Saying "Aubrey" to herself without any sign either of irritation or
petulance, she put down her book, gathered herself together, and slid
off the bed. In a suit of boy's pajamas she looked as young and
undeveloped as when, at seventeen, she had married Clayburgh in the
first week of the War. Her bobbed hair went into points over her ears
like horns, and added to her juvenile appearance. She might have been a
schoolgirl peeping at life through the keyhole, instead of a woman of
twenty-four, older than Methuselah.
She unlocked the door. "Barge in," she said, standing clear.
And Aubrey Malwood, with his six foot two of brawn and muscle, his
yellow Viking hair, eyebrows and moustache, barged, as he always did.
"I've just dropped in to tell you," he said, going straight to the
looking-glass, "that Feo rang up an hour ago. She wants you to lunch
with her in Dover Street."
Perching herself on the window seat, like a pillow girl in Peter Pan,
Georgie gazed uninterestedly at that portion of the Park at
Knightsbridge which is between the barracks and the Hotel.
"Oh, damn," she said, "I wish she'd leave me alone." Young Malwood was
so astonished at this sentiment that he was drawn away from
self-admiration. He liked his type immensely.
"I never expected to hear you say that! What's the notion?"
His much-married wife's doglike worship of Feo Fallaray had, as a matter
of fact, immediately eliminated him from her daily pursuits and long ago
sent him after another form of amusement.
"Oh, I dunno," said Georgie. "She's been different lately; lost her
sense of humor, and become serious and sentimental,--the very things
she's always hated in other people. You're so fond of yourself that I
don't suppose you've ever noticed the shattering effect of having the
teacher you imitated go back suddenly to the sloppy state you were in at
the beginning of your lessons. I'll go this time and then fall away.
Feo's over."
Malwood went back to the glass and posed as a gladiator with an
imaginary sword and shield. His magnificent height and breadth and bone
made him capable of any gladiatorial effort. Only as to brain was he a
case of arrested development. At twenty-eight he was still only just fit
for Oxford. In any case, as things were, this desertion from her leader
would leave Georgie exactly what she was,--someone who had the legal
right to provide him with funds.
"Well," he said, "it's your funeral," and let it go. The fact that the
elaborate dressing table was covered with framed photographs of his
three equally young predecessors, as well as toilet things bearing their
crests and initials, left this perpetual undergraduate unmoved. He had
never been in love with Georgie. He had been somewhat attracted by her
tinyness and imperturbability, but what had made him ask her to be his
wife was the fact that everybody was talking about her as a creator of a
record,--three times a widow in five years,--and he was one of those
men, who, being unable to attract attention by anything that he could
do, felt the need of basking in reflected glory. He had been fatuously
satisfied to follow her into a public place and see people nudge each
other as she passed. It was a thousand to one that if he had not married
Georgie, he would have hunted London to find a girl who had won her way
into the _Tatler_ as a high diver or a swallower of knives. Why Georgie
had married him was the mystery. Having acquired the married habit, it
was probable that she had accepted him before she had had time to
discover that beneath his astonishing good looks and magnificent
physique there was the mind of a potato. He had turned out to be an
expensive hobby because when his father's business had been ruined by
the War, he possessed nothing but his pay as a second lieutenant. Peace
had removed even that and left him in her little house in Knightsbridge
with eight pairs of perfect riding boots, a collection of old civvies,
and an absolute incapability of earning a legitimate shilling. With
characteristic cold-bloodedness she had, however, immediately advertised
that she would not be responsible for his debts, and made him an
allowance of ten pounds a week, a fourth of her income after the
depredation of income tax. An invulnerable sponge, with a contagious
chuckle, a fairly good eye for tennis, and a homogeneous nature, he
managed to hang on by the skin of his teeth and was perfectly happy and
satisfied. But for Georgie, he must have been a farm laborer in Canada
or a salesman in a motor-car shop on the strength of his appearance. Or
he might have gone to Ireland in the Black and Tans.
"Well," he said, having delivered his message, "cheerio. I'm going to
Datchet for a week to stay on the Mullets' houseboat."
Georgie looked round at him, stirred to a slight curiosity.
"Mullet? New friends?"
"Yes. War profiteers. Rolling in the stuff. Great fun. Know everybody.
Champagne and diamonds for breakfast. Haven't got a loose fiver about
you, I suppose?"
With a faint smile Georgie pointed to her cigarette case on the dressing
table. And without a qualm Malwood opened it, removed his wife's last
night's bridge winnings, murmured, "Thanks most awfully," and barged
out, whistling a tune from "The League of Notions."
"All right, then. For the last time, lunch with Feo," thought Georgie,
moving from the window seat lazily. "She's over."
II
For the first time since Feo had lifted Georgie Malwood into her
intimacy, in that half-careless, half-cautious way that belongs usually
to the illegitimate offspring of kings, her small, unemotional friend
was late for her appointment. Always before, like every other member of
the gang, Georgie Malwood had reported on the early side of the
prescribed moment and killed time without impatience until it had
occurred to Feo to put in an appearance. That morning, which was without
word from Arrowsmith, as she had predicted with the uncanny intuition
that makes women suffer before as well as after they are hurt, Feo was
punctual. She entered her den with the expectation of finding Georgie
curled up on the sofa, halfway through a slim volume of new poems. The
room was empty and there had been no message of apology, no hastily
scribbled note of endearment and explanation.
During the longest forty-five minutes that she had ever spent, Feo
passed from astonishment to anger and finally into the chilly
realization that her uncharacteristic behavior of the last few weeks had
been discussed and criticized, and that the judgment of her friends was
unmistakably reflected in the new attitude of the hitherto faithful and
obsequious Georgie,--always the first to catch the color of her
surroundings. She, Feo, the Queen of Flippancy, the ringleader of
eroticism, had had the temerity to play serious, an unforgivable crime
in the estimation of the decadent set which had ignored the War and
emerged triumphantly into the chaos of peace. Well, there it was. A long
and successful innings was ended. She would be glad to withdraw from the
field.
She waited in her favorite place with her beautiful straight back to the
fireplace, both elbows on the low mantel board and one foot on the
fender. Her face was as white as a candle, her large violet eyes were
filled with grim amusement, and her wide, full-lipped mouth was a little
twisted. She wore a frock that was the color of seaweed, cut almost up
to her knees, with short sleeves, a loose belt, and a great blob of jade
attached to a thin gold chain lying between her breasts. Her thick, wiry
hair was out of curl and fell straight, like that of a page in the Court
of Cesare Borgia. For all her modernity there was something about her
that was peculiarly medieval, masculinely girlish rather than
effeminately boyish. She might have been the leading member of a famous
troupe of Russian ballet dancers, ready at a moment's notice to slip out
of her wrapper and spring with athletic grace high into the air.
Her first remark upon Georgie's lazy entrance was Feoistic and
disconcerting.
"So I'm over, I see," she said, and waited ironically for its effect.
Not honest enough to say, "Yes, you are," Georgie hedged, with some
little confusion.
"What makes you think so, Feo?"
"Your infernal rudeness, my dear, which you wouldn't have dared to
indulge in a week ago. You've all sensed the fact that I'm sick to tears
of the games I've led you into, and would gladly have gone in for babies
if I'd had the luck to seem desirable to the right man." She made a long
arm and rang the bell. "I am ripe for repentance, you see, or perhaps it
might be more accurate, though less dramatic, to say eager for a new
sensation. It isn't coming off, but you can all go and hang yourselves
so far as I'm concerned. I'm out. I'm going to continue to be serious.
Bring lunch in here," she added, as a footman framed himself in the
doorway, "quickly. I'm starving."
Almost any other girl who had been the favorite of such a woman as Feo
would have found in this renunciation of leadership something to cause
emotion. Mere gratitude for many favors and much kindness seemed to
demand that. But this young phlegmatic thing was just as unmoved as she
had been on receipt of the various war office telegrams officially
regretting the deaths of Lord Clayburgh, Captain Graham Macoover, and
Sir Harry Pytchley. She lit the inevitable cigarette, chose the
much-cushioned divan, and stretched herself at full length.
"I can do with a little groundsel too," she said, as though the other
subject had been threshed out.
And so it had, for the time being. Feo, oddly enough, had no bricks to
throw. She could change her religion, it seemed, without pitching mud at
the church of her recent beliefs. It was not until lunch was finished
and the last trickle of resentment at Georgie's failure to apologize had
gone out of her system that she returned to the matter and began, in a
way, to think aloud. It was not as indiscreet as it might have been,
because Georgie Malwood was completely self-contained and had developed
concentration to such a degree, her first three husbands having been
given to arguing, that she could lie and follow her own train of thought
as easily in a room in which a mass of women were playing bridge as in a
monkey house. Her interest in Feo was dead. She was over.
And so Feo gave herself away to a little person whose ears were closed.
"I don't know what exactly to do," she said. "At the moment, I feel like
a fish out of water. If Arrowsmith had liked me and been ready to upset
the conventional ideas of his exemplary family, I'd have eloped with
him, however frightfully it would have put Edmund in the cart. I don't
mind owning that Arrowsmith is the only man I've ever met who could have
turned me into the Spartan mother and worthy _haus-frau_. I had dreams
of living with him behind the high walls of a nice old house and making
the place echo with the pattering feet of babes. It's the culminating
disappointment of several months of 'em,--the bad streak which all of us
have to go through at one time or another, I suppose. However, he
doesn't like me, worse luck, and so there it is. So I think I'd better
make the best of a bad job and cultivate Edmund. I think I'd better
study the life of Lady Randolph Churchill and make myself useful to my
husband. Politics are in a most interesting state just now, with Lloyd
George on the verge of collapse at last, and the brainy dishonesty of a
woman suddenly inspired with political ambition is exactly what Edmund
needs to push him to the top. He has been too long without a woman's
unscrupulous influence."
She began to pace the room with long swinging strides, eagerly,
clutching at this new idea like a drowning man to a spar. Her eyes began
to sparkle and the old ring came back to her voice. Here was a way to
use her superabundant energy and build up a new hobby.
"I'm no longer a flapping girl with everything to discover," she went
on, "I've had my share of love stuff. By Jove, I'll use my intelligence,
for a change. I'll get into the fight and develop strategy. Every one's
looking to Edmund as the one honest man in the political game, and I'll
buckle to and help him. He's an amazing creature. I've always admired
him, and there's something that suits my present state of mind in making
up to him for my perfectly rotten treatment all these years. If I can't
make a lover into a husband, by Jingo, I can set to work to make a
husband into a lover. There's an idea for you, Feo, my pet! There's a
mighty interesting scheme to dig your teeth into, my broad-shouldered
friend!"
She sent out an excited laugh and flung up her hand as though to welcome
a brain wave. Her amazing resilience stood her in good stead in this
crisis of her life,--to say nothing of her courage and queer sense of
humor. Her blood began to move again. Fed up with decadence, she would
plump whole-heartedly for usefulness now, be normal, go to work, get
into the good books of George Lytham and his party, surprise Fallaray by
her sudden allegiance to his cause and to him, and gradually break down
the door that she had slammed in his face.
"I'll let my hair grow," she continued gayly, working the vein that was
to rescue her from despondency and failure with pathetic eagerness.
"I'll chuck eccentric clothes. I'll turn up slang and blasphemy. I'll
teach myself manners and the language of old political hens. I'll keep
brilliance within speed limits. Yes, I'll do all that if I have to work
like a coolie. And I'll tell you what else I'll do. I'll bet you a
thousand pounds to sixpence that before the end of the year I'll be the
wife--I said the wife, Georgie--of the next Prime Minister. Will you
take it?"
She drew up short, alight and excited, her foot already on the beginning
of the new road, and paused for a reply.
Georgie stretched like a young Angora cat and yawned with perfect
frankness.
"I'll take whatever I can get, Feo," she said. "But what the devil are
you talking about? I haven't heard a blessed word."
And Feo's laugh must have carried into Bond Street.
III
And when Georgie had transferred herself from the many-cushioned divan
to her extremely smart car, in which, with an expressionless face and a
mind as calm as a cheese, she was going to drive to Hurlingham to be
present at, rather than to watch, the polo, Feo went upstairs.
She felt that she must walk, and walk quickly, in an endeavor to keep up
with her new line of thought, at the end of which she saw, more and more
clearly, a most worth-while goal. Before she could arrive at this, she
could see a vista of bunkers ahead of her to negotiate which all her
gifts of intrigue would have, happily, to be exercised. To give interest
and excitement to her plan of becoming Fallaray's wife in fact, as well
as by law, she required bunkers and needed difficulties. The more the
merrier. She knew that, at present, Fallaray was as far away from her as
though he were at the North Pole,--and as cold. She was dead certain of
the fact that she had been of no more account to him, from the first few
hours of their outrageous honeymoon, than a piece of furniture in one of
the rooms in his house of which he never made use. That being so, she
could see the constant and cunning employment of the brains that she had
allowed to lie fallow through all her rudimentary rioting,--brains that
she possessed in abundance, far above the average. In the use of these
lay her salvation, her one chance to swing herself out of the great
disappointment and its subsequent loose-endedness which had been brought
about by Arrowsmith's sudden deflection. Her passionate desire for this
man was not going easily to die. She knew that. Her dreams would be
filled with him for a considerable time, of course. She realized, also,
looking at that uncompleted episode with blunt honesty, that, but for
him, she would still be playing the fool, giving herself and her gifts
to the entertainment of all the half-witted members of the gang. To the
fastidious Arrowsmith and her unrequited love she owed her sudden
determination to make herself useful to Fallaray and finally to become,
moving Heaven and earth in the process, his wife. This was the
paradoxical way in which her curious mind worked. No tears and
lamentations for her. She had no use for them. On the contrary, she had
courage and pride, and by setting herself the most difficult task that
she could possibly have chosen, two things would result,--her sense of
adventure would be gratified to the hilt and Arrowsmith shown the stuff
of which she was made.
But on her way to her room, which was to be without Lola until the
following morning, she stopped in the corridor, turned and went to the
door of Fallaray's den. After a moment's hesitation she entered, feeling
that she was trespassing, never before having gone into it of her own
volition. She could not be caught there because Fallaray had escaped to
his beloved Chilton, she remembered. Her desire was to stand there alone
for a few moments, to merge herself into its atmosphere; to get from its
book-lined walls and faint odor of tobacco something of the sense of the
man who had unconsciously become her partner.
The vibrations of the room as they came to her were those of one which
had belonged to an ascetic, long dead and held in the sort of respect by
his country that is shown by the preservation of his work place. It was
museum-like and tidy, even prim. The desk was in perfect order and had
the cold appearance of not having been used for a century. The fireplace
was clean and empty. The waste-paper basket might never have been
employed. There was nothing personal to give the place warmth and life.
No photographs of women or children. No old pipes. And even in the cold
eyes of the bust of Dante that looked down upon her from the top of one
of the bookcases there was no expression, either of surprise or
resentment at her intrusion.
Most women would have been chilled, and a little frightened, there. It
would have been natural for them, in Feo's circumstances, had they
possessed imagination, to have been struck with a sense of remorse. It
should have been their business, if nothing else, to see that this room
lived and had personality, comfort and a little color,--flowers from
time to time, and at least one charming picture of a youngster on the
parental desk. And Feo did feel, as she looked about in her new mood, a
little shiver of shame and the red-hot needle of repentance pricking her
hitherto dormant conscience.
"Poor old Edmund," she said aloud, "what have I done to him? This place
is dry, bloodless, like a mausoleum. Well, I'll alter it all. I have a
job, thank God. Something to set my teeth into. Something to direct my
energy at,--if it isn't too late."
And as this startling afterthought struck her, she wheeled round, darted
across the room to the place where a narrow slip of looking-glass hung
in an old gold frame, and put herself through a searching examination.
"Mf! Still attractive in your own peculiar way," she said finally, with
relief. "The early bloom gone, of course; lines here and there,
especially round the eyes. Massage and the proper amount of sleep will
probably rub those away. But there's distinction about you, Feo dear,
and softness can be cultivated. You're as hard as an oil painting now,
you priceless rotter. However, hope springs eternal, and where there's a
will there's a way."
She laughed at herself for these nursery quotations and clenched her
fists for the fray. But as she turned, fairly well satisfied with the
result of her inspection, she heard steps in the corridor--Fallaray's
steps--and the blood rushed into her face. By George, she was going to
be caught, after all.
IV
Fallaray? This sun-tanned, smiling man with shoulders square, chin high,
and a song in his eyes, who came into the room like a southwest gale?
If he felt surprise at the unfamiliar sight of Feo in his den, he
allowed nothing of it to show. He held out a cordial hand and went to
her eagerly.
"I've come up to town to see you," he said. "You must have got my S. O.
S."
The manner provided the second shock. But Feo returned the pressure of
his hand and tried instantly to think of an answer that would be
suitable to her new role.
"I think I must have done so," she said quietly, returning his smile.
"Your holiday has worked wonders, Edmund."
"A miracle, an absolute miracle!"
A nearer look proved that his word was the right one. Here was almost
the young Fallaray of the tennis courts and the profile that she had set
herself impishly to acquire in those old days. Good Heavens, could it be
that she _was_ too late, and that another woman had brought about this
amazing change? She refused to permit the thought to take root. She told
herself that she had had her share of disappointments. He had needed
rest and his beloved Chilton, bathed in the most un-English sunlight,
had worked its magic. It must be so. Look at this friendliness. That
wasn't consistent with the influence of another woman. And yet, as an
expert in love, she recognized the unmistakable look.
"I'm only staying the night here," he said. "I'm off to Chilton again in
the morning. So there's no time to lose. Can you give me ten minutes?"
"Of course," she said. "And as many more as you care to ask for. I'm out
of the old game." She hurried to get that in, astonished at her
uncharacteristic womanliness.
But he was one-eyed, like a boy. What at any other time would have
brought an incredulous exclamation left him now incurious, without
surprise. He was driving hard for his own goal. Anything that affected
Feo, or any one else, except Lola, didn't matter. Her revolutionary
statement passed almost unheard. He pushed an armchair into place.
"Sit down," he said, "I want to talk to you."
And as she sat down it was with a sudden sense of fatalism. There was
something in all this that was predetermined, inevitable. That flame had
been set alight in him by love, and nothing else. She felt, sitting
there, like that most feeble of all figures, Canute. What was the use in
trying to persuade herself that what she dreaded to hear was not going
to be said? She was too late. She had let this man go.
He walked up and down for a moment, restless and wound up, passing and
repassing the white-faced woman who could have told him precisely what
he was about to say.
"I want to be set free," he said, with almost as little emotion as would
have been called up by the discussion of a change of butchers. "I want
you to let me arrange to be divorced. Something has happened that has
altered my entire scheme of life. I want to begin all over again. I have
come back this afternoon to put this to you and to ask you to help me. I
think I know that many times since we've been married you would have
asked me to do this, if I hadn't been in politics. I'm grateful to you,
as I'm sure you know, for having respected what was my career to that
extent. I am going out. My resignation is in my pocket. It is to be sent
to the P. M. to-night. When I go back to-morrow, it will be as a free
man, so far as Westminster is concerned. I want to return to Chilton,
having left instructions with your lawyers, with your permission, to
proceed with the action. The evidence necessary will be provided and the
case will be undefended. I shall try to have it brought forward at the
earliest possible moment. May I ask you to be kind enough to meet me in
this matter?"
He drew up in front of her and waited, with as little impatience as
breeding would permit.
If this question had been put to her a week ago, or yesterday, she would
have cried out, "Yes," with joy and seen herself able to face a future
with Arrowsmith, such as she had pictured in her dreams. It came upon
her now, on top of her determination to turn over a new leaf, like a
breaker, notwithstanding the fact that she had seen it coming. But she
got up, pride and courage and tradition in every line of her
eccentrically dressed body, and faced him.
"You may," she replied. "And I will help you in every possible way. It's
the least that I can do."
"Thank you," he said. "I am deeply grateful. I knew that you would say
just that." And he bowed before turning to go to his desk. "Who _are_
your lawyers?"
She hadn't any lawyers, but she remembered the name of the firm in which
one of the partners was the husband of a woman in the gang, and she gave
it to him.
He wrote it down eagerly. "I'm afraid it will be necessary for you to
see these people in the morning. Is that perfectly convenient?"
"Perfectly," she said. "I have no engagements, as it happens."
"Then I will write a statement of the facts," he said, "at once. The
papers can be served upon me at Chilton."
It was easy to get out of marriage as it had been to get into it.
"Is that all?" she asked, with a touch of her old lightness.
He rose. "Yes, thank you," he said, and went to the door to open it for
her. There were youth and elasticity and happiness all about him.
But as she watched him cross the room, something flashed in front of her
eyes, a vivid ball of foolish years which broke into a thousand pieces
at her feet, among the jagged ends of which she could see the ruins of a
great career, the broken figure of a St. Anthony, with roses pinned to
the cross upon his chest.
He stopped her as she was going and held out his hand again.
"I am very grateful, Feo."
And she smiled and returned his grasp. "The best of luck," she said. "I
hope you'll be very happy, for a change."
V
Having now no incentive to go either to her room or anywhere else, her
new plan dying at its birth, Feo remained in the corridor, standing with
her back against one of the pieces of Flemish tapestry which Simpkins
had pointed out to Lola. She folded her arms, crossed one foot over the
other, and dipped her chin, not frowning, not with any sort of
self-pity, but with elevated eyebrows and her mouth half open,
incredulous.
"Of course I'm not surprised at Edmund's being smashed on a girl," she
told herself. "How the Dickens he's gone on so long is beyond belief. I
hope she's a nice child,--she must be young; he's forty; I hope he's not
been bird-limed by one of the afterwar virgins who are prowling the
earth for prey. I'm very ready to make way gracefully and have a dash at
something else, probably hospital work, sitting on charity boards with
the dowagers who wish to goodness they had dared to be as loose as I've
been. But--but what I want to know is, who's shuffling the cards? Why
the devil am I getting this long run of Yarboroughs? I can't hold
anything,--anything at all, except an occasional knave like Macquarie.
Why this run of bad luck now? Why not last year, next year, next week?
Why should Edmund deliberately choose to-day, of all days, to come back,
with no warning, and put a heavy foot bang in the middle of my scheme of
retribution? Is it--meant? I mean it's too beautifully neat to be an
accident. Is it the good old upper cut one always gets for playing the
giddy ox, I wonder?--Mf! Interesting. Very. More to come, too, probably,
seeing that I'm still on my feet. I've got to get it in the solar plexus
and slide under the ropes, I suppose, now they're after me. 'Every
guilty deed holds in itself the seed of retribution and undying pain.'
Well, I'm a little nervous, like some poor creature on the way to the
operating table; and--and I'll tell you what else I am, by George! I'm
eaten up with curiosity to know who the girl is, and how she managed to
get into the line of vision of this girl-blind man,--and I don't quite
know how I shall be able to contain myself until I satisfy this
longing.--Oh, hullo, Lola. This is good. I didn't expect you till the
morning. But I don't mind saying that I've never been so pleased to see
anybody as you, my dear. Had a good time?"
She went to the top of the stairs and waited for Lola to come up,
smiling and very friendly. She was fond of this girl. She had missed her
beyond words,--not only for her services, which were so deft, so
sure-fingered, but also for her smile, her admiration. Good little Lola;
clever little Lola too, by George. That Carlton episode,--most amusing.
And this recent business, which, she remembered, was touched with a sort
of--what? Was ecstasy the word? Good fun to know what had happened.
Thank the Lord there was going to be a pause between knock-outs, after
all.
Dressed in her perfectly plain ready-made walking frock, her own shoes
and a neat little hat that she had bought in Queen's Road, Bayswater,
Lola came upstairs quickly with her eyes on Feo's face. She seemed
hardly to be able to hold back the words that were trembling on her
lips. It was obvious that she had been crying; her lids were red and
swollen. But she didn't look unhappy or miserable, as a girl might if
everything had gone wrong; nor in the least self-conscious. She wore
neither her expression as lady's maid, nor that of the young widow to
whom some one had given London; but of a mother whose boy was in trouble
and must be got out of it, at once, _please_, and helped back to his
place among other good boys.
"Will you come down to your room, Lady Feo?" she asked. "Mr. Lytham will
be here in a few minutes and I want you to see him."
Lytham--young Lochinvar! How priceless if he were the man for whom she
had dressed this child up.
"Why, of course. But what's the matter, Lola? You've been crying. You
look fey."
Lola put her hand on Feo's arm, urgently. "Please come down," she said.
"I want to tell you something before Mr. Lytham comes."
Well, this seemed to be her favor-granting day, as well as one of those
during which Fate had recognized her as being on his book. First Edmund
and then Lola,--there was not much to choose between their undisguised
egotism. And the lady's maid business,--that was all over, plainly.
George Lytham,--who'd have thought it? If Lola were in trouble, she had
a friend in that house.
And so, without any more questions, she went back to her futuristic den
which, after her brief talk with Fallaray, seemed to belong to a very
distant past. But before Lola could begin to tell her story, a footman
made his appearance and said that Mr. Lytham was in the hall.
"Show him in here," said Feo and turned to watch the door.
She wondered if she would be able to tell from his expression what was
the meaning of her being brought into this,--a disinclination on his
part to take the blame, or an earnest desire to do what was right under
the circumstances? She never imagined the possibility of his not knowing
that Lola was a lady's maid dressed in the feathers of the jay. Unlike
Peter Chalfont, who accepted without question, Lytham held things up to
the light and examined their marks.
There was, however, nothing uncomfortable in his eyes. On the contrary,
he looked more than ever like the captain, Feo thought, of a County
Cricket Club, healthy, confident and fully alive to his enormous
responsibility. He wore a suit of thin blue flannels, the M. C. C. tie
under a soft low collar, and brown shoes that had become almost red from
long and expert treatment. He didn't shake hands like a German, with a
stiff deference contradicted by a mackerel eye, or with the tender
effusion of an actor who imagines that women have only to come under his
magnetism to offer themselves in sacrifice. Bolt upright, with his head
thrown back, he shook hands with an honest grip, without deference and
without familiarity, like a good cricketer.
"How do you do, Lady Feo," he said, in his most masculine voice. "It's
kind of you to see us." Then he turned to Lola with a friendly smile.
"Your telephone message caught me just as I was going to dash off for a
game of tennis after a hard day, Madame de Breze," he added.
Oh, so this was another of the de Breze episodes, was it, like the one
with Beauty Chalfont. Curiosity came hugely to Feo's rescue. Here, at
any rate, was a break in her run of bad luck, very welcome. What on
earth could be the meaning of this quaint meeting,--George Lytham, the
earnest worker pledged to reconstruction, and this enigmatic child, who
might have stood for Joan of Arc? If Lola had caught Lytham and brought
him to Dover Street to receive substantiation, Feo was quite prepared to
lie on her behalf. What a joke to palm off the daughter of a Queen's
Road jeweler on the early-Victorian mother of the worthy George!
"Well?" she said, looking from one to the other with a return of her
impish delight in human experimentation.
"Mr. Lytham can explain this better than I can," said Lola quietly.
"I'm not so sure about that, but I'll do my best."
He drew a chair forward and sat down. Under ordinary circumstances,
where there was the normal amount of happiness, or even the mutual
agreement to give and take that goes with the average marriage, his task
would have been a difficult one. But in the case of Feo and his chief he
felt able to deal with the matter entirely without self-consciousness,
or delicacy in the choice of words.
"I needn't worry you with any of the details of the new political
situation, Lady Feo. You know them, probably, as well as I do. But what
you don't know, because the moment isn't yet ripe for the publication of
our plans, is that Mr. Fallaray has been chosen to lead the Anti-waste
Party, which is concentrating its forces to rout the old gang out of
politics at the next General Election, give Parliament back its lost
prestige, and do away with the pernicious influence of the Press Lords.
A big job, by Jove, which Fallaray alone can achieve."
"Well?" repeated Feo, wondering what in the world this preamble had to
do with the case in question.
"Well, at the end of the meeting of my party yesterday, I was sent down
to Chilton Park to tell Mr. Fallaray our plans. I was stultified to be
told that he had decided to chuck politics."
"And go in for love. Yes, I know. But what has this got to do with
Lola,--with Madame de Breze?"
That was the point that beat Feo, the thing that filled her with a sort
of impatient astonishment. Was this uncommunicative girl, who seemed to
her to be so essentially feminine, whose metier in life was obviously to
purr under the touch of a masculine hand, who had been given a holiday
to go on a love chase with Chalfont, presumably, somehow connected with
politics? It was incredible.
"Oh, you've seen Fallaray."
"Yes, my dear man, yes! He broke the news to me the moment he came in,"
"Did he ask you to give him a divorce?"
"He did, without a single stutter."
"And you said----"
"But--my dear young Lochinvar, may I make so bold as to ask why this
perfectly personal matter has to be discussed in the open, so to speak?"
She made her meaning unmistakably clear. This girl was not so close a
friend as he might have been led to suppose.
"What did you say to Mr. Fallaray?" asked Lola, leaning forward eagerly.
And Lytham waited with equal anxiety for an answer.
It did not come for an extraordinary moment and only then in the form of
a tangent. Feo turned slowly round to the girl who was in the habit of
dressing her and putting her to bed. With raised eyebrows and an air of
amused amazement, she ran her eyes over every inch of her, as though
trying very hard to find something to palliate the insufferable cheek
that she was apparently expected to swallow.
"My good Lola," she said finally, "what the devil has this got to do
with you?"
"Madame de Breze is the _dea ex machina_," said Lytham, evenly.
It didn't seem to him to be necessary to lead up to this announcement
like a cat on hot bricks, considering that Lady Feo had openly flouted
his chief from the first. She had no feelings to respect.
"_What did you say?_"
He repeated his remark, a little surprised at the gaping astonishment
which was caused by it.
"Madame de Breze--Lola--the woman for whom I am to be asked to step
aside?--Is this a joke?"
"No," he said. "Far from a joke."
"Ye Gods!" said Feo. And she sat for a moment, holding her breath, with
her large intelligent mouth open, her dark Italian eyes fixed on
Lytham's face, and one of her long thin capable hands suspended in
mid-air. She might have been struck by lightning, or turned into salt
like Lot's inquisitive wife.
It was plain enough to Lola that her mistress was reviewing in her mind
all the small points of their connection,--the engagement in the
housekeeper's room, the knowledge of her parentage, the generous
presents of those clothes for her beautification, the half-jealous,
half-sympathetic interest that had been shown in her love affair with
Chalfont, as she had allowed Lady Feo to imagine. She had come to Dover
Street, not to take this woman's husband away, but to give him back, to
beg that he should be retained by all the hollow ties of Church and law;
bound, held, controlled, rendered completely unable to break away,--not
for Feo's sake, and not for his, but for his country's. And so, having
committed no theft because Fallaray was morally free, and being
unashamed of her scheme which had been merely to give a lonely man the
rustle of silk, she hung upon an answer to her question.
Once more Feo turned to look at Lola, leaning forward, and for a moment
something flooded her eyes that was like blood, and a rush of unformed
words of blasphemous anger crowded to her lips. With distended nostrils
and widening fingers, she took on the appearance, briefly, of a figure,
half man, half woman, stirred to its vitals with a desire to kill in
punishment of treachery, suffering under the sort of humiliation that
makes pride collapse like a toy balloon. And then a sense of humor came
to the rescue. She sprang to her feet and burst into peal after peal of
laughter so loud and irresistible and prolonged, that it brought on
physical weakness and streaming tears. Finally, standing in her favorite
place with her back to the fireplace, dabbing her eyes and steadying her
voice, she began to talk huskily, with anger, and sarcasm, and
looseness, puncturing her sometimes pedantic choice of words with one
that was appropriate to a cab driver.
"Well, I'll be damned," she said, "Lola--purring little Lola, and in
those clothes, too! I don't mind confessing that I would never have
believed it possible. I mean for you to have had the courage to aim so
high. It's easy to understand _his_ end of it. The greater the ascetic,
the smaller the distance to fall. Ha!--And you, you busy patriot, you
earnest, self-confident young Lochinvar, if only I could make clear to
you the whole ludicrous aspect of this bitter farce, this mordant slice
of satire. You wouldn't enjoy it, because you're a hero-worshipper, with
one foot in the Albert period. And in any case I can't let you into it
because my inherited instinct of sportsmanship is with me still, even in
this. And so you'll miss the point of the orgy of laughter that gave me
the stitch. But I don't mind telling you that it's a scream, and would
make a lovely chapter in the history of statesmen's love affairs."
That Fallaray should have turned from her to pick up this bourgeois
little person, a servant in his house,--that was what rankled, in spite
of her saying that she understood his end of it. Good God!
But to Lytham, who knew Lola as Madame de Breze, and had found her to be
willing to make a great sacrifice for love, the inner meaning of Feo's
outburst was lost. He told himself, as he had often done before, that
Feo was an extraordinary creature, queer and erotic, and came back to
the main road bluntly.
"May I ask you to be so kind as to tell me," he said, "what answer you
gave to Mr. Fallaray when he asked you to give him a divorce? A great
deal depends upon that."
"You mean because of his career and the success of your political
plans?"
"Yes."
"And why do you want to know, pray?" Feo shot the question at Lola.
"Because of Mr. Fallaray's career," Lola replied simply, "and the
success of these political plans."
But this was something much too large to be swallowed, much too good to
be true. Regarding Lola as a deceitful minx, a most cunning little
schemer, Feo took the liberty to disbelieve this statement utterly,
although on the face of it Lola appeared to have thrown in her lot with
Lytham. Why?--What was she up to now?--An impish desire to keep these
two on tenterhooks and get a little fun out of all this--it was the only
thing that she could get--suddenly seized Feo strongly. Here was a
gorgeous chance for drama. Here was an epoch-making opportunity
unexpectedly to force Lytham and the young vamp, as she called her, to
ask Fallaray himself for an answer to this question, and watch the
scene. It was probably the only opportunity to satisfy an avid curiosity
to see how Fallaray would behave when faced with his "affinity," and
find out what game the girl who had been her servant was playing. This
high-faluting attitude of Lola's was all nonsense, of course. She had
caught Fallaray with her extraordinary sexiness and meant to cling to
him like a limpet. To become the second Mrs. Fallaray was naturally the
acme of her ambition, even although she succeeded to a man who must
place himself on the shelf in order to indulge in an amorous adventure.
A great idea! But it would have to be carried out carefully, so that no
inkling of it might escape.
"Excuse me for a moment," said Feo, and marched out of the room with a
perfectly expressionless face.
Shutting the door behind her, she caught the eye of a man servant who
was on duty in the hall. He came smartly forward.
"Go up to Mr. Fallaray and say that I shall be greatly obliged if he
will come to my den at once on an important matter." And then, having
taken two or three excited turns up and down the hall, she controlled
her face and went back into the room.
"Saint Anthony, Young Lochinvar, the lady's maid," she said to herself,
"and the ex-leader of the erotics. A heterogeneous company, if ever
there was one."
Once more, standing with her back to the fireplace, her elbows on the
low mantel board, Feo looked down at Lola, whose eyes were very large
and like those of a child who had cried herself out of tears.
"Where have you been?" she asked.
"At Whitecross, with Lady Cheyne," replied Lola.
"Oh!--The little fat woman who has the house near the gate in the wall?
I see. And you came back this afternoon?"
"Yes," said Lola.
"With my husband?"
"No," said Lola.
"Does he know that you intended to give me the pleasure of seeing you
here with our mutual friend?"
"No," said Lola.
Was that a lie or not? The girl had been crying, that was obvious.
Something had evidently gone wrong with her scheme. But why this
surreptitious meeting, this bringing in of Lytham? It was easy, of
course, to appreciate _his_ anxiety. He needed an impeccable Fallaray.
He was working for his party, his political campaign, and in the long
run, being an earnest patriot, for his country.--She had a few questions
to put to him too.
"Where did you meet Lola de Breze, Young Lochinvar?" she asked.
"At Chilton Park," said Lytham, who had begun to be somewhat mystified
at the way in which things were going; and, if the truth were told,
impatient. All he had come to know was whether he had an ally in Lady
Feo or an enemy, and make his plans accordingly. He could see no reason
for her to dodge the issue. His game of tennis looked hopeless. What
curious creatures women were.
"When?"
There was the sound of quick steps in the hall.
"Last night."
The door opened and Fallaray walked in.
With a gleeful smile Feo spoke through his exclamation of surprise.
"Edmund, I would like you to tell your friends what my answer was to
your request for a divorce."
Hating to be caught in what was obviously an endeavor to influence his
chief's wife against a decision to unhitch himself from marriage and
politics, Lytham sprang to his feet, feeling as disconcerted as he
looked.
Lola made no movement except to stiffen in her chair.
Watching Fallaray closely, Feo saw first a flare of passion light up his
eyes at the sight of Lola, and then an expression of resentment come
into them at not being able, others being present, to catch her in his
arms. An impetuous movement had taken him to the middle of the room,
where he drew up short and stood irresolute and self-conscious and
looking rather absurd under the gaze of Lytham and his wife.
"What is all this?" he asked, after an awkward pause, during which he
began to suspect that he had been tricked by Feo and was faced by a
combination of objection.
"Don't ask me," said Feo, waving her hand towards Lytham and Lola.
"Then I must ask you, George," said Fallaray, making an effort to
disguise his anger. He could see that he had been made the subject of
discussion, as if he were some one to be coerced and who did not know
his own business.
"This is not quite fair," said Lytham. "Our intention was to see Lady
Feo, get her views and cooperation, and then, to-night or to-morrow,
come to you and beg you to do the sane thing in this affair. We had no
hand in your being dragged into this private meeting."
He too was angry. Feo had cheated and brought about the sort of crisis
that should have been avoided. Any one who knew Fallaray's detestation
of personalities must have seen what this breaking down of his fourth
wall would bring about.
"Who do you mean by 'we'?" demanded Fallaray.
"Madame de Breze and myself," said Lytham.
"What! You ask me to believe that Madame de Breze has come here with you
to persuade my wife to go back on her promise to set me free? What do
you take me for?" He laughed at the utter absurdity of the idea and in
doing so, broke the tension and the stiltedness of the scene, as he
realized that Feo had deliberately intended it to become. And then, with
a certain boyishness that went oddly with his monk-like face, he went
over to Lola and put his hand on her shoulder.
"All right," he added. "Let's have this out and come to a final
understanding. It will save all further arguments. Just before you
brought Lola here, having, as I can see, worked on her feelings by
talking about your party and telling her that her coming into my life
would ruin my career--I know your dogged enthusiasm, George--I saw my
wife. I put my case to her at once and she agreed very generously to
release me. A messenger will be here in ten minutes to take my statement
to her lawyers and my resignation to the Prime Minister. I shall return
to Chilton to-morrow to wait there, or wherever else it may suit me,
until the end of the divorce proceedings. You won't agree with me, but
that is what I call doing the sane thing. Finally, all going well, as
please God it may, this lady and I will get married and live happily
ever after."
He spoke lightly, even jauntily, but with an undercurrent of emotion
that it was impossible for him to disguise.
And then, to Feo's complete amazement, Lola, who had been so quiet and
unobtrusive, rose and backed away from Fallaray, her face as white as
the stone figures at Chilton under moonlight, her hands clasped together
to give her strength, her eyes as dry as an empty well. She was bereft
of tears.
"But I am not going to marry you," she said, "because if I do everything
will go badly."
Fallaray sprang forward to take her in his arms and kiss her into love
and life and acquiescence, as he had done before,--once at the gate and
once again last night under the stars.
But she backed away and ranged herself with Lytham.
"I love Fallaray," she said. "Fallaray the leader, the man who is
needed, the man who has made himself necessary. If I were to marry
Fallaray the deserter, there would be no such thing as happiness for me
or for him."
Fallaray's eager hands fell suddenly to his sides. The word that had
come to Lola as an inspiration, though it broke her heart to use it, hit
him like a well-aimed stone. Deserter!--A man who turned and ran, who
slunk away from the fight at its moment of crisis, who absconded from
duty in violation of all traditions of service, thinking of no one but
himself. Deserter! It was the right word, the damnable right word that
rears itself up for every man to read at the crossroads of life.--And he
stood looking at this girl who had brought him back to a momentary youth
through a glamor that gave way to the cold light of duty. His was a
pitiful figure, middle-aged, love-hungry, doomed to be sacrificed upon
the altar of public service.
Lytham didn't rejoice at the sight, having sympathy and imagination.
Neither did Feo, who had just lost her own grasp upon a dream.
"Is it possible that you love me so much?" he asked.
And Lola said, "Yes, yes!"
It was on Lytham's tongue to say, "My dear man, don't you gather what I
mean by the 'sane thing'? There's no need to take this in the spirit of
a Knight Crusader. A little nest somewhere, discreetly guarded."
And it was on Feo's tongue to add, also completely modern, "Of course.
Why not? Isn't it done every day? No one need know, and if it's ever
found out, isn't it the unwritten law to protect the reputations of
public men so long as there is no irate husband to stir up our
hypocritical moral sense by bringing the thing into the open?"
But neither spoke. There was something in the way in which Lola stood,
brave but trembling, that kept them silent; something in Fallaray's
expression of adoration and respect that made them feel ashamed of their
materialism. They were ignorant of all that had gone to the making of
Lola's apprenticeship to give that lonely man the rustle of silk, and of
the fact that he had grown to love this girl not as a mistress, but as a
wife.
And after a silence that held them breathless, Fallaray spoke again. "I
must be worthy of you, my little Lola," he said, "and not desert. I will
go on with the glory of your love as a banner--and if I die first, I
will wait for you on the other side of the Bridge."
"I will be faithful," she said.
He held out his arms, and she rushed into them with a great cry, pressed
herself to his heart, and took her last living kiss.
"Till then," said Fallaray finally, letting her go.
But nothing more came from Lola except a groping movement of her hands.
At the door, square of shoulder, Fallaray beckoned to Lytham and went
out and up to his room.
It was Feo who wept.
VI
Leaving his cubby-hole behind the screen and taking the inevitable glass
out of his eye, John Breezy waddled through the shop to the parlor to
enjoy a cup of tea. It was good to see the new brightness and daintiness
assumed by the whole of that little place since Lola had come back and
put her touch upon everything. It was good also to break away from the
mechanism of unhealthy watches for a quarter of an hour and get into
contact with humanity that was cheerful and well.
"Hurray!" he said, "what should I do without my cupper tea?"
With one eye on the shop door and the other on the teapot, Mrs. Breezy
presided at the chaotic table. The tea tray had cleared an opening among
the heterogeneous mass of accumulation. It was the ritual of week-day
afternoons, faithfully performed year in and year out,--and of late,
since Lola had been helping in the shop, more frequently interrupted
than ever before. Now that she had fallen into the steady habit of
sitting behind the counter near the window, business had perked up
noticeably and it was astonishing how many young men were discovering
the need of safety-razor blades, Waterman's fountain pens, silver
cigarette cases, and the like. Was it astonishing?
"Nice weather for Lola's afternoon off," said Breezy, emptying his cup
into his saucer, cabman's fashion. Tea cooled the sooner like that and
went down with a more succulent sound. "Hampton Court again?"
"Yes, dear," replied Mrs. Breezy, "with Ernest. Wonderful how much
better he looks since Lola came back,--cleaner, more self-respecting. He
had another poem in the paper yesterday. Did you read it?"
"Um. I scanned it over. Pretty good coming from behind a face like that.
Somehow, I always think of a poet as a man with big eyes, a velvet coat,
hair all over his face, who was born with a dictionary in his hand.
Funny thing, breaking out in a lad like Ernest. Caused by the War,
p'raps. It's left a lot of queer things behind it. He'd make more money
if he tried to turn out stories like Garvice wrote. I think I shall
speak to him about it and get him to be practical."
"No, don't," said Mrs. Breezy, "you'd upset Lola. She believes in Ernest
and wants him to make a name."
"What's the good of a name without money? However, I won't interfere.
You--you don't suppose that Lola's thinking of marrying that boy some
day, do you?" It was a most uncomfortable thought. His little girl must
do better than that.
Mrs. Breezy was silent for a moment and her face wore a look of the most
curious puzzlement.
"I don't know what she thinks, John. To tell you the truth, dear, I
don't know anything about her, and I never did. I don't know why she
went to Dover Street or why she came back. She's never told me and I've
never asked her. When I catch her face sometimes, I can see in it
something that makes my heart miss a beat. I can't describe it. It may
be pain, it may be joy,--I don't know. I can't tell. But it isn't regret
and it isn't sorrow. It lights her up like, as though there was
something burning in her heart. John, our little girl's miles away from
us, although she's never been nearer. She dreams, I think, and walks in
another world with some one. We've got to be very kind to her, old man.
She's--she's a strange, strange child."
Breezy pushed himself out of the sofa as a rather heavily laden boat is
oozed out of mud. He was irritable and perhaps a little frightened.
"I don't find her strange," he said. "Strange! What a word! She's a good
girl, that's what she is,--as open as a book, with nothing to hide. And
she's our girl, and she's doing her job without grumbling, and she's
doubling the business. And what's more, she's cheerful and happy and
loving. I'm damned if I can see anything strange about her. You
certainly have a knack of saying queer things about Lola, one way 'n'
another, you have!" And he marched out of the parlor in a kind of fat
huff, only to march back again immediately to put his arm round the
little woman's neck and give her an apologetic kiss. He was one of these
men who loved peace at any price and erected high barriers round himself
in order that he shouldn't see anything to disturb his ease of mind. It
was the same form of brain anaemia, the same lack of moral courage from
which the Liberal Government had suffered in the face of the warning of
Lord Roberts. In other words, the policy of the ostrich. Knowing very
well that his wife had all the brains of the partnership and never said
anything for the mere sake of saying it, he was quite sure that she was
right as to Lola, and he had himself almost swallowed one of the little
screws that played so large a part in the interior of his watches on
seeing the look that Mrs. Breezy had described on the face of his little
girl as she sat perched up on a high stool waiting for the next
customer, with her eyes on something very far away. And because this
gave him a jar and frightened him a little, he persuaded himself that
what he had seen he had not seen, because it was uncomfortable to see
it. It is a form of mental dope and it suits all sorts of
constitutions,--like religion.
And so, blotting out of his mind the little conversation which had taken
place over the teapot, Breezy returned to his job, his fat hands working
on the intricate mechanisms of his Swiss and American invalids with
astonishing delicacy of touch; and all the while he whistled softly
through his teeth. He was never at a loss for a tune because the flotsam
and jetsam that came in and went out of Queen's Road, Bayswater, with
their tired pianos, their squeaky fiddles, and their throaty baritones
provided him with all the sentimental ballads of yesterday and to-day.
It was seven o'clock when he looked up and saw Lola enter with Ernest
Treadwell,--the girl with a reflection of all the flowers of Hampton
Court in her eyes and the boy with love and adoration in his. It was
true that all about him there was a great improvement, a more healthy
appearance, a look of honest sleep and clean thinking. But he was still
the same ugly duckling with obstreperous hair and unfortunate teeth and
a half-precocious, half-timid manner. All the same, the fairies had
touched him at his birth and endowed him with that strange thing that is
called genius. He had the soul of a poet.
"Come up," said Lola, "you're not doing anything to-night, so you may as
well stay to dinner. I've found something I want to read to you."
She waved her hand to her father, smiled at her mother who was selling
note-paper to a housemaid from Inverness Terrace for love letters--and
so the paper was pink--and led the way upstairs to the drawing-room
which had been opened up and put in daily use. Its Sabbath look and
Sabbath smell, its antimacassars had disappeared. There were books
about, many books; sevenpenny editions of novels that hadn't fallen
quite stillborn from the press, and one or two by Wells and Lawrence and
Somerset Maugham.
"Sit down for a moment, Ernie," she said, "and make yourself happy. I'll
be with you again in five minutes." And he looked after her with a dog's
eyes and sat down to watch the door with a dog's patience.
In her own room she went to her desk, unlocked a drawer and took out a
page cut from _The Tatler_ on which was reproduced a photograph of
Fallaray. She had framed it and kept it hidden away under lock and key,
and always when she came home from her walks, and several times a day
when she could slip up and shut herself in for a moment or two, she took
it out to gaze at it and press it to her breast. It was her last link,
her last and everlasting link with the foolish dreams with which that
room was so intimately associated,--a room no longer made up to
represent that of a courtesan; a normal room now, suitable to the
daughter of a watchmaker in Queen's Road, Bayswater.
The evening sun gilded the commonplace line of the roofs opposite as she
stood in the window with Fallaray's face against her heart.
"I love you," she said, "I love you. I shall always love you, and if I
die first, I shall wait for you on the other side of the Bridge."
She returned it to its hiding place, took off her hat, tidied her hair,
picked up a little book and went back to the drawing-room.
"Listen," she said, "this is for you.
"'I shall see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive,--what time, what circuit first,
I ask not; but unless God send His hail
Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, His good time, I shall arrive;
He guides me and the bird. In His good time.'"
And as the boy watched her and saw her light up as though there were
something burning in her heart, he knew that those lines were as much
for herself as for him.
THE END
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long stories of equal interest.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
FLORENCE L. BARCLAY'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
THE WHITE LADIES OF WORCESTER
A novel of the 12th Century. The heroine, believing she had lost her
lover, enters a convent. He returns, and interesting developments
follow.
THE UPAS TREE
A love story of rare charm. It deals with a successful author and his
wife.
THROUGH THE POSTERN GATE
The story of a seven day courtship, in which the discrepancy in ages
vanished into insignificance before the convincing demonstration of
abiding love.
THE ROSARY
The story of a young artist who is reputed to love beauty above all else
in the world, but who, when blinded through an accident, gains life's
greatest happiness. A rare story of the great passion of two real people
superbly capable of love, its sacrifices and its exceeding reward.
THE MISTRESS OF SHENSTONE
The lovely young Lady Ingleby, recently widowed by the death of a
husband who never understood her, meets a fine, clean young chap who is
ignorant of her title and they fall deeply in love with each other. When
he learns her real identity a situation of singular power is developed.
THE BROKEN HALO
The story of a young man whose religious belief was shattered in
childhood and restored to him by the little white lady, many years older
than himself, to whom he is passionately devoted.
THE FOLLOWING OF THE STAR
The story of a young missionary, who, about to start for Africa, marries
wealthy Diana Rivers, in order to help her fulfill the conditions of her
uncle's will, and how they finally come to love each other and are
reunited after experiences that soften and purify.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
SEVENTEEN. Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.
No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed the immortal young
people of this story. Its humor is irresistible and reminiscent of the
time when the reader was Seventeen.
PENROD. Illustrated by Gordon Grant.
This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous,
tragic things which are locked secrets to most older folks. It is a
finished, exquisite work.
PENROD AND SAM. Illustrated by Worth Brehm.
Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains some remarkable phases
of real boyhood and some of the best stories of juvenile prankishness
that have ever been written.
THE TURMOIL. Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.
Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts against his
father's plans for him to be a servitor of big business. The love of a
fine girl turns Bibb's life from failure to success.
THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA. Frontispiece.
A story of love and politics,--more especially a picture of a country
editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book lies in the love
interest.
THE FLIRT. Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.
The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's engagement,
drives one man to suicide, causes the murder of another, leads another
to lose his fortune, and in the end marries a stupid and unpromising
suitor, leaving the really worthy one to marry her sister.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D, Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
KATHLEEN NORRIS' STORIES
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask far Grosset & Dunlap's list
SISTERS. Frontispiece by Frank Street.
The California Redwoods furnish the background for this beautiful story
of sisterly devotion and sacrifice.
POOR, DEAR, MARGARET KIRBY. Frontispiece by George Gibbs.
A collection of delightful stories, including "Bridging the Years" and
"The Tide-Marsh." This story is now shown in moving pictures.
JOSSELYN'S WIFE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.
The story of a beautiful woman who fought a bitter fight for happiness
and love.
MARTIE, THE UNCONQUERED. Illustrated by Charles E. Chambers.
The triumph of a dauntless spirit over adverse conditions.
THE HEART OF RACHAEL. Frontispiece by Charles E. Chambers.
An interesting story of divorce and the problems that come with a second
marriage.
THE STORY OF JULIA PAGE. Frontispiece by C. Allan Gilbert.
A sympathetic portrayal of the quest of a normal girl, obscure and
lonely, for the happiness of life.
SATURDAY'S CHILD. Frontispiece by F. Graham Cootes.
Can a girl, born in rather sordid conditions, lift herself through sheer
determination to the better things for which her soul hungered?
MOTHER. Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
A story of the big mother heart that beats in the background of every
girl's life, and some dreams which came true.
Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York
STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY GENE STRATTON-PORTER
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.
MICHAEL O'HALLORAN, Illustrated by Frances Rogers.
Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern
Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes
the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and
onward.
LADDIE. Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The story
is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it
is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs
of older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie and
the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in the neighborhood
and about whose family there hangs a mystery.
THE HARVESTER. Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.
"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had
nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable.
But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," there begins a romance
of the rarest idyllic quality.
FRECKLES. Illustrated.
Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he
takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great
Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to
the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "The
Angel" are full of real sentiment.
A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST. Illustrated.
The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of
the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindness
towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty of
her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and
unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.
AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW. Illustrations in colors.
The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. The
story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.
The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and
its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.
THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL. Profusely illustrated.
A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and
humor.
Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York