“I can’t tell you that,” she said. “It came to me suddenly. I think your

asking me to meet you in such an extraordinary place had something to do

with it.”

“I beg your pardon for that,” he said at once. “Honestly and sincerely I

am ashamed of that. Only it is fair to say that I meant no possible

disrespect to you. I couldn’t well meet you in your own house. The

weather was beastly—I thought we could discuss our plans—and might as

well do it under a glass cover as under umbrellas. We might have been

there five minutes. Really, I can’t admit that the base is broad enough

to hold all the superstructure.”

“It was nothing,” she admitted; “I was only offended for a moment—and

of course if I had still been nursery governess I should have gone,

without a question. I should have been flattered, I am sure. But—ah,

surely you can be honest with yourself, surely you know what it is you

want of me. Why, if I could bring myself—would it be worthy of you

to—?” She broke off, impatient at the hopelessness of convincing him.

“Mr. Duplessis,” she said, and he frowned at the style, “I have been

wicked, I think—at least, I have been so foolish that I can hardly

believe it was I. I am sure you won’t be so ungenerous as to pin me down

to a mistake. I beg you to take what I say now—as I mean it.”

Looking up at him, she saw that she had made no way. The more she said,

she could see, the greater the fire in the man. He stooped right over

her, and she could hear the fever in his voice.

“My love, my adorable love—I shall never give you up—never—never——”

She cowered. “Ah, be merciful——”

He said, “My mercy shall be my love and service”—and took her hands.

She strained away—she turned her head—“No, no,” she murmured, “I

implore you.” But he drew her in—“My beloved—my darling——”

The street knocker clamoured—a double call—and as he started she

sprang back to the wall, and gained the door. She went down the passage

and met her mother with a telegram in her hand. “For you, Mary. No bad

news, I hope.”

Mary read. “Think it would be well if you could come to-day.—Constantia

Germain.”

She had not heard from Hill-street for three days. Yes, certainly she

must go.

“Mother, I must go home immediately. Mr. Duplessis will take me. I’ll

tell him to wait.”

She returned to the kitchen; Duplessis was biting his cheek leaning

against the table with folded arms. His breath was still quick.

“Mr. Duplessis,” said she, “I have had a telegram from home—from Mrs.

James. My husband is ill and I must go to him. Will you take me,

please?”

He jumped forward. “Of course. I’m very sorry. I’ll do everything. Go

and get ready—I’ll find a cab.”

XIV

VIGIL

A shadow, not hers, which moved, kept Mary silently employed. She was

watching it. She was not conscious of having spoken a single word from

the moment of farewell to her mother until her arrival at Hill-street.

Duplessis had accompanied her from door to door. She cannot have been

aware of it, or she would have dismissed him at Victoria.

Not that he had been obtrusive—far otherwise. He saw to everything, and

what conversation there had been, he had made it. She might have been

grateful to him for all this, had she observed it. Once only had a cry

escaped her. “He is dying. He will die thinking me wicked. What shall I

do?”

He had answered her. “No. He is a just man. You have nothing you need

fear to tell him.”

“He is dying,” she repeated, her eyes fixed upon the dun waste of houses

and chimney-stacks. Duplessis could not doubt this. It seemed as certain

to him as to her. He, too, discerned the moving shadow.

As he helped her out of the cab in Hill-street the carriage came quickly

up and the Rector of Misperton in it. He and she met on the pavement.

Duplessis lifted his hat, re-entered the cab and departed—seen,

therefore, by the Rector, by Musters, and the carriage-groom, and by the

stately butler and his familiar at the open door. She and James Germain

went up the steps without greeting. As she went straightforward to the

stairs she heard the Rector’s inquiry, “Well, Greatorex?” and

Greatorex’s reply, “The doctors are there, Sir. There is no change.”

She went lightly up the stair, to the door of her husband’s room; she

knocked lightly. A nurse opened. “Who is it, please! I don’t think——”

“I am Mrs. Germain. I must come in.”

Mrs. James, the doctrine of the Soul’s immortality lambent upon her

features, stood by the window talking in whispers to a great physician.

Another, equally imposing, was by the bed, his hand on the sick man’s

pulse. At Mary’s entry the lady broke away and came towards her. The

light of conflict was in her eyes, tight upon her lips; she was prepared

for reproof in any form—but none came. Mary did not see her. She walked

past her on tiptoe, to the edge of the bed, and sat herself in a chair

which stood there, and looked at the shadow which was not her own. It

hovered, now, moved no more. Sir Lambton Tweedale, his investigation

ended, joined his colleague by the window.

Mary thought that he was dead. He lay on his back with nearly closed

eyes, and she could discern no movement for breath. His face was

colourless, and so frail, so diaphanous did he look, she thought that

she could see the colour of his eyes through the lids, a haunting

thought. He seemed to be watching her through them, as if they were a

thin veil—to be reading her, whether guilty or not. Of pity for him

lying there so noble, so patient, and so fordone; of awe before his

remoteness from her lot, his immortal indifference; of remorse for what

had been, or a shudder for what might have been—she had none. But her

eyes watched him intently, with a new power in them, a fierce and

feverish light—as if she had the will and the means to draw the dead

back to life. For one half-hour only, to fulfil one need. He must hear

her tell him her story; and then he might die in peace.

One of the great pair came to where she sat on the watch, and bowed.

“Mrs. Germain, I think?”

She nodded sharply, without turning her eyes.

“I could—we could—have wished that you had received earlier notice of

this serious turn. It seems to have been Mr. Germain’s express desire

that you should not be needlessly alarmed. He was perfectly conscious

and master of himself twenty-four hours ago. But a great change took

place yesterday afternoon, it appears. Neither Sir Lambton nor myself

can be held answerable for——”

She stopped him by an impatient movement of her head. “Do you think he

is—in danger?”

“Undoubtedly. It is right that you should know that it is serious.”

“He will die?”

“Ah, we must not say that.”

She looked him through and through. “Then he is not dead?”

“No, no.”

“Thank you. That is all I want to know.”

The learned pair went out together and Mrs. James with them. The nurse

remained—to drink her tea and hover. She was very ready with whispers;

but Mary sat, with fixed, intense eyes, willing her husband to live, and

asked for no details. By-and-by the Rector came in on noiseless feet and

stood by her. Between these two there had always been sympathy;

generosity on his part repaid with gratitude on hers. But now she would

not turn her head. Nor even, when she felt his hand touch gently on her

shoulder and stay there, could she bring herself to acknowledge the

kindly act.

He remained by her so for a long time. Then, “My child,” he said, “have

you had any tea?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I don’t want any.”

“It could be brought you here.”

“No, thank you.”

“You must be brave, Mary.”

Ah, she knew that! “I must, indeed,” she said.

“Remember, please, that I knew of this no sooner than you did.”

She started, she flushed. What did this mean, then? Was it possible that

Mrs. James—for reasons—Ah, and if it was, did it matter? Did anything

matter? Only one thing—and that was of her provision. She resumed her

hungry, patient watch.

The Rector still stood by her, his hand on her shoulder.

“Be patient, my dear. Trust the future to the good God.”

She said, “I do. But he will not die yet. I am sure.”

“Ah, my dear—” he began, in his despair. But she spoke on vehemently.

“He cannot—he will not. He will know me again presently—and speak to

me. That is necessary for us both. We have things to talk about. Then he

will die.”

The Rector shrank. “You talk strangely. What do we know? My dear old

brother! . . . Will you not come and rest—after your—?” He stopped

there, and she understood his reason.

“I’m not at all tired,” she told him. “I shall sit here until he wakes,

and knows me. I can rest here quite well. I don’t want any food or

anything.” The Rector urged her no more, and presently left her.

She sat on through the dinner-hour, the change of nurses, motionless and

absorbed. Once the patient stirred, sighed, muttered with his lips.

Listening to him, breathless herself, she could now hear his breath—so

short and light it was that she must have overlooked it all these hours.

From this time onwards through the ministrations of the night-nurse,

through visits of the Rector, through ominous absence of visits from the

Rector’s wife, through the bustling entry of Dr. Goodlake and his

voluble explanations—double pneumonia—absence of will-effort—and the

like—she was in a fever of hope and anticipation, waiting, like one

tense at the starting-post, for the signal.

At midnight Mr. Germain stirred and began to moan, regularly,

hopelessly, in a way to break your heart. This, too, her certainty gave

her the heart to endure. Such nourishment as he could be given set him

wandering. He spoke ramblingly—often of her—cited scripture—“My

darling from the lions,” she caught; and “the lion and the dragon shalt

thou tread under thy feet.” Once he cried aloud, “Ha! Tell Wilbraham I

will not see him—” and again, moaning, “No, no, it is untrue—it cannot

be true.” There followed a time of broken sleep—at three o’clock, with

a grey line of light between the curtains, she saw his open eyes fixed

earnestly upon her.

She was on her knees by the bed in a moment. “I am here,” she said. “Do

you know me?”

His lips moved, “Yes.”

“I was at home when I heard of your illness—but I did not go home when

I left you. I went to the north to consult a friend—about myself. Do

you hear me? Can you hear me?”

Again he sighed “Yes.” His eyes were fixed upon hers—with interest, she

thought—but without any judgment. The night-nurse discreetly left the

room.

She asked his patience, and plunged into her story—her story and his

own, with Tristram’s part interwoven. “There was one who used to see

me,” was her way of bringing in Duplessis, and after that Tristram was

“he” throughout. She would not use his name; felt she could not, and

knew that she need not. Full understanding lay behind those unwinking,

charged eyes, terribly watchful and indifferent to anything but

curiosity. She saw them as the patient eyes of an investigator,

expectant of a final experiment. “I have studied this case for three

years—now, at last, I am to have it.” He knew everything—had known

everything from the beginning: she had no news for him; “how she would

put it,” was what he was waiting for—for that only she had drawn him

back to life.

This knowledge, this realization drove her to candour past belief. She

felt as if she was stripping herself for public exhibition—found

herself talking in a dry voice of lovers’ intimacies and of still more

secret things—of things which women feel but do not even think. She had

to examine herself unflinchingly during this confession, which reduced

itself, for lack of matter, to one of motives. In the course of it she

had to face a fact never faced before only felt. She could not love

Tristram, she did not love Germain—whom, then, did she love? The fine

colour flushed her cheeks, the true light flamed in her eyes as she told

herself—and then told her husband.

“I know myself now. There is one man who could do with me as he pleased.

But he will do nothing with me. I trust him utterly; he has changed me.

He has given me a soul, I think. He has taught me the worth of things

which I never valued before; and what life is, and happiness, and truth.

It is through him that I went home and faced what I was afraid of—left

him and all the wonderful things he could make me see. I might never see

him again—but I left him. I am doing what he would wish now in telling

you all this. Untruth is impossible to him, and must never be possible

to me again. That is why I have waited here to tell you. I had to tell

you—I had to tell myself. Now I have told you everything——”

She stopped there because she felt that if she were to go on she would

have to be insincere. Contrition for what she had done and allowed to be

done in the days of her blank ignorance, prayers for forgiveness,

promises of amendment—such things, proper for bedside confession—what

would they imply, what involve? That she loved this poor watcher? Alas!

Pity might have urged her to deceive him so; but she dared not deceive

him—and, moreover, she was certain that he could not now be deceived.

The light of another world shone upon him, shone through him, and

enabled him to read hearts. She did not shrink from this supernatural

power of his—if it had been profitable she would have given him her

life-blood. It seemed to her as clear as daylight that the utmost she

could do for him had now been done—when she had discharged her

conscience before him, and cleared her honour. She believed that he

would feel himself honoured by that act; and as she stooped over him to

kiss him she told him as much.

“It is kind of you to have listened to me. You have done me so much

honour, so much kindness—but this is the greatest you have ever done

me. Do you understand that I feel it so?” For a moment his terrible

intelligence pored upon her as she hung over his bed. It searched her,

explored her, wondered, judged. A flicker of a smile—a momentary

relaxation of his rigid lips—a faint wavering of his attention; then he

signed, and closed his eyelids down. The strain was over, she had been

heard, assessed, acquitted. When the night-nurse came in she found the

patient at peace, and Mary Germain crouched on the floor asleep, her

head upon the edge of the bed.

XV

THE DEAD HAND

Her calmness, which was not the stupor of grief, from this point onwards

shocked her friend and disturbed her enemy in the house. The Rector

could not but feel it a slight upon his dead brother and an attitude

most unbecoming to so young a widow; but Mrs. James was made

uncomfortable by an attitude for which she had not been prepared.

Whatever the girl’s faults may have been, she had never been brazen.

Why, then, was she brazen now? Why almost—yes, indecent in her

indifference? Mary proposed nothing, objected to nothing; took no part

in the funeral arrangements, answered no letters, read none, allowed her

sister-in-law entire control, sank back, with evident contentment, to be

the cipher in her own house, which, of course, she ought to have been

from the first. There was something behind all this; Mrs. James was far

too intelligent to misread it. This did not mean that Mary was

over-whelmed—by grief, or shame, either; it did not mean that she felt

herself in disgrace. No. This was impudence—colossal.

The Rector, to whom this reading of the girl was propounded, could not

deny it colour. “She’s very young to have such troubles upon her, and of

course she’s still very ignorant. She can’t express herself. I don’t at

all agree with you, Constantia; but I own I should have preferred to see

her in tears.”

“Why should she cry, pray? She has all that she wants—a sure income and

her liberty. At least, that is what she supposes; but we shall see.”

“You paint your devils so impossibly black, my dear,” said the Rector,

“that really they refute themselves. I am sorry to have to say it, but

you are incapable of being just to this poor girl. However, as I own,

tears had been a sign of grace.”

Certainly she shed no tears, that any one could see. She was frequently

in her room alone, and may have cried there. The Rector made advances,

by look, by gesture, even by words. He was not an effusive man; would

sooner have died than have invited anybody to pray with him—but for all

that he did put himself in her way, heart in hand, so to speak—and when

she gently disregarded him he felt chilly.

She did not attend the funeral, nor did she choose, though she was

urged, to be present at the reading of the will. She told the Rector,

who pressed this duty upon her, that she couldn’t oblige him. “Please

don’t ask me to do that. I have nothing to expect—and if he had left me

anything I should have to think about it very seriously. He took me from

nothing; I brought him nothing; he has done more for me, and allowed me

to do more for my parents than I could ever have asked—even of him. I

make no claims at all, and have no expectations. I have never thought

about such things——”

“Naturally, my child, naturally not. But—after such a shock as

this—after the first pang of loss—it is wise to think of the future.

You had no settlement, you know.”

“How could I?” she asked simply. He smiled at the question.

“Well, my dear, well. Your parents might reasonably have looked—my dear

brother was very impulsive in some ways—I can’t doubt but that he

intended to make proper provision. But he kept his affairs very much to

himself—too much. However, at such a time—to judge the beloved dead—!

No, no. For the same reason I can’t press you——”

“No—please do not,” she said, and turned to the window. He left her.

The will, then, was read before the Rector and Mrs. James, Miss Germain,

and Miss Hester Germain, and produced its effect. It bore the date of a

month before the testator’s second marriage and was expressed to be made

in view of that coming ceremony, and to take the place of any

settlement. It left her Porchfield House in Farlingbridge, “otherwise

known as the Dowry House,” with all its furniture and household gear,

and three thousand pounds a year charged upon his Southover estate “so

long as she remain chaste and unmarried.” Mr. Dockwra, solicitor,

slurred his phrase, excusing it. Mrs. James liked it extremely. In the

case of remarriage, Mary was to have five hundred pounds. That was all,

said Mr. Dockwra, so far as Mrs. Germain was concerned; and he only said

this much because he was asked by Mrs. James Germain if there was no

further reference to her. For the rest the deceased gave handsome

legacies to his sisters, though they were otherwise provided for, and

liberal remembrances to his servants—annuities calculated upon their

years of service; and referred to the fact that the Southover property

and the London property alike were in strict settlement upon his own

children, should he have any, and, failing them, upon his brother James.

Mr. Dockwra then produced a small bundle of papers. “There was a

codicil,” he said, “which bore date the 26th of August—a week before

Mr. Germain’s wedding. By this document he left five hundred a year to

“my cousin Tristram Duplessis,” so long as he remained unmarried.” Thus

tersely expressed, the Rector started as if he had been shot, and his

wife compressed her lips.

“I think that I should explain,” said Mr. Dockwra, “that this codicil

was not drawn by me, and that I had no knowledge of its existence until

the day after Mr. Germain’s death. Mr. James Germain, however, as

executor, handed me then the sealed envelope containing it. That

envelope contained one other paper—a telegram, which (as it has no

obvious reference to the disposition) may have been put there by

oversight. I shall hand it now to Mr. Germain.”

The Rector took it, opened it, looked at it, and raised his eyebrows.

Presently he put it quietly on the table before him. Mrs. James, without

turning her head, read it. It was very short—_Middleham, Hill-street,

Berkeley-square_—_Look out_. Mrs. James smiled at her thoughts—and

presently left the room.

Mary must now be told what she had not cared to hear. The Rector broke

her the contents of the will but said nothing of the codicil. He had not

asked his wife the meaning of that second document, and did not mean to.

It pointed to a domestic mystery. Without being a prude, all such

matters were distasteful to him.

He was very kind, as he had always been. “You will be very comfortably

left, you see, Mary,” he said, “at any rate, let us say, while you are

looking about you.”

Mary had shown no more than a polite interest in his report. Three

thousand a year? Porchfield? She may have been dazed, but she certainly

was not dazzled. James Germain reflected to himself on the ease with

which one gets acclimatized. Little more than two years ago this child

was working hard for sixty pounds a year; now she hears that she is

secured three thousand—without moving a muscle.

“I need not tell you,” he went on, “that your home is here or at

Southover for any length of time convenient to you. Indeed, I am sure I

might include the Rectory in my general invitation. We have been so

nearly related; I could not bear to think the tie severed by my dear

brother’s death. Apart from that, we have learned to love each other, I

hope. I shall always look upon you as one of us—if you will let me; and

your settlement at Porchfield will be a reason the more to keep me at

Southover.”

“That is very kind of you, Mr. Germain,” Mary said—but without

enthusiasm. After a few more efforts, the worthy man left her alone.

It was then Mrs. James’s turn. She came in, after knocking, with the

telegram in her hand.

“This, I think, belongs to you,” she said.

Mary took it, read it, and remembered. A quick flush of colour showed

that she did.

“Yes,” she said, “but it is of no importance now.” And she tore it

across.

But Mrs. James was not to be balked. “You must allow me to explain its

importance. It was found in the envelope containing the codicil to my

dear brother’s will—a codicil which he made within two days of your

receiving it.”

Mary, still looking out of the window, commented idly. “A codicil? Was

there a codicil? That meant that you changed your mind, didn’t it?”

“In this case,” said Mrs. James, “it means, I think, that my dear

brother explained his mind. I thought that the Rector might have

informed you.”

“No,” said Mary. Mrs. James cleared her throat and began to enjoy

herself.

“By that he left five hundred a year to my cousin Tristram Duplessis—so

long as he remained unmarried.”

Mary was puzzled at first. She knew by the speaker’s tone that she was

in disgrace—and connected it with Duplessis at the mention of his name.

She stared at the bitterly incisive lady. “Mr. Duplessis—five

hundred—if he doesn’t marry? What has that to do with—?” She

stopped—her eyes widened and deepened—showed fathomless. “Ah!” she

said, and picked up the torn paper. She read the date, August 24th.

“What did you say was the date of the will?”

“It was a codicil,” said Mrs. James.

“The date, please, the date,” Mary asked her, fretfully.

“It was dated the 26th of August.”

Jinny’s birthday! Mary remembered it perfectly. He had had tea with the

two of them, and she had clung to him afterwards, with a confession on

the tip of her tongue. He had never been more loving to her than on that

afternoon—and he had Jinny’s telegram in his pocket—in his breast

pocket—while she had clung sobbing to his breast! And he had left her

that evening, full of love, as he had seemed to be, and gone home and

tied Tristram by the leg. Ah—so he had known everything—always! Before

that night at Exeter—he had known it from the beginning.

She sat very still—the telegram in her lap—and her eyes cast down, as

she played idly with the pieces, lifting them up and letting them fall.

The triumphant foe could see nothing but her heavy eyelids, and the

fringe of her lashes curving upwards as they brushed her cheeks. If she

expected victory she was to be disappointed.

“I am glad you sent him my telegram,” she said. “I am glad he knew about

Mr. Duplessis and me.”

Mrs. James lifted her head. “It was certainly advisable that he should

be told. Personally, I could not interfere. I told him nothing that may

have presented itself to me——”

“No,” said Mary, “of course not. It was no business of yours.” Mrs.

James jumped.

“It seems to me that it was very much a business of _yours_, if you will

forgive me.”

“It was,” Mary said. “And I told him all about it.”

Mrs. James started. “I told him,” Mary said, “on the night he died. He

quite understood.”

“It is horrible to me,” cried Mrs. James, “that he was kept in the dark

so long.”

“He wasn’t at all in the dark,” Mary said. “That is plain now. I wish

that I had known it before.”

“You may well say so. Apart from candour, apart from sincerity, surely

it is the sacred duty of a married woman to have no secrets from her

husband.”

Mary looked up. She had the eyes of a woman acquainted with grief. “I am

not a married woman,” she said. “I fancy that you must know it.”

XVI

WINGS

The tale of Germain’s posthumous disposition of his chattels ran, as

such tales will, all about town, and lost nothing in the running. Women

took it complacently, after their kind. Of course it was odd; and yet,

in its way, was it not a tribute? One or two pretty young wives told

each other that it was touching; a Miss Lavender shed tears. In the

clubs they said plainly that Duplessis had been bought off. Palmer

Lovell, with his back to the fireplace, cried out in his strident boy’s

voice, “If that’s not compounding a felony, it’s compounding a felon.

But what the devil of a right has old Germain, alive or dead, to whip

his wife in public?” No clubman had an answer to this. The best thing of

all was said by Lord Kesteven in Paris: “God be good to us, what Turks

we all are! Here’s old Germain taking the harem-key into the grave with

him.”

That keen-faced old lord came to London and called on Mary in

Hill-street. He observed her pale in her black weeds, but with a haunted

kind of beauty upon her which she had never had before. Her eyes were

enormous, he said. She was very quiet in her manner, seemed dazed, but

not cowed—apprehensive, you might think. She looked up at him in a

mutely expectant way, as if she expected him momentarily to hit her, and

was too tired even to flinch at the impending blow. He felt deeply for

her—all sorts of things, and after his manner, therefore, was more

bluff and direct than usual. “Well, my young friend, and what are you

going to do with yourself? I should advise you to get out of this. No

woman can be expected to stand it.”

She flushed at the bold attack, but did not avoid it. “I hear nothing of

what is being said. I am sure he did not mean to be unkind. That is not

like him. I was to blame.”

“I won’t talk about it, or I shall get angry. Cant—in a man’s will—to

disguise something worse, and nastier—pouf! Look here, my dear, try

France—try Paris. My sister Margaret de Guiche would like you to pay

her a visit. She said so. She’s alone, and you need see nobody. De

Guiche is in Petersburg. You couldn’t have a better dueña than Margaret.

It will be a kindness to her—and a kindness to me. I wish you’d think

of it.”

She listened with hanging head, and veiled eyes. Her eyelids, always

heavy, seemed now as if they were of intolerable weight. She watched her

twisting fingers as she thanked him for the proposal. She would think of

it, she told him—she had everything to think of.

“I know that very well,” Kesteven said; “but there are some things which

I hope you need not consider. One of them is the great regard I have for

you.”

Oh, yes, she was sure of that. He had shown her so much kindness.

“I’m glad to hear it,” he continued; “and I’ll go as far as this. If you

decide to renounce your legacy—on reflection—I should claim the

privilege of helping you to do it. I can hardly go further—but so far I

am ready to go. Remember that. Remember that I am allowed to call myself

your friend. Remember, if you choose, that I am five-and-sixty, and take

heart—if you need heart.”

It was clear what was implied in this speech; but she did not feel equal

to quieting the anxiety which underlay it. She made no remark.

“At any rate,” said his lordship, “I tell you that you may command the

Hôtel de Guiche. Margaret may be trusted—and perhaps I need not add

that you may trust me, too.” But he couldn’t get her to say more than

she would think of it, so took his leave. He kissed her hand.

So far she had not seen Duplessis, nor heard from him; but the sense

that an interview with him was impending, was, as it were, swinging like

a sword over her head, fretted her nerves so badly that she was

incapable of thinking what she could say to him when he came to her—as

of course he would—with an offer of instant marriage. That would be, in

his view, the only possible answer to the public affront he had

received. But as the days went on and he made no sign she began to

wonder dimly whether, after all, she might not escape—and from such

faint sighings thrown out into the vague she came by degrees to

hopes—and from hopes to plans and shifts.

Everything in town conspired together to make her position impossible.

The chill reserve of Mrs. James—whose frozen civility was worse than

any rebuke; the letters of her parents from Blackheath, kind, repining,

half-informed letters which said in effect, We don’t know what is being

cried against you, but be sure that we are on your side; and the

terrible letters of Jinny (almost Mrs. Podmore by now, and vigorously on

the side of decorum)—“the disgrace which has been cast upon our family

. . . your unfortunate _liaison_, . . . One can only hope that you will

let them be a warning, child. . . . Let us be thankful that things are

no worse . . .”—all this made the poor girl so self-conscious that she

could hardly lift her head. She thought that the very servants were

judging her—as, no doubt, they were; she felt beaten to the earth; and

the fund of common-sense, the fund of charity, which she had at her

call—through mere panic—suspended payment.

If she had been left to herself she would have borne her husband no

grudge for seeking to tie her publicly to his name. She would have

pitied, not blamed him, for supposing that three thousand or thirty

thousand a year could have held her. And certainly that midnight

confession absolved her in her own conscience. If she had looked back

upon her dealings with Duplessis it would have been to see what a little

fool she had been—to blush at her ignorance, not at her shame. But now

her world insisted on her disgrace; she was made to stand in a sheet

like a Jane Shore; the straight, clinging, disgraceful robe imprisoned

her body and soul. She felt that she must die if she stayed where she

was, a public mock; but until Duplessis delayed so obviously his coming

she had felt bound in honour to see him.

To be just to Duplessis, he kept himself away by violence, obeying an

instinct—which was a true one. He had no doubt but that she would marry

him now—he could not for the life of him see how any two people could

otherwise reply to posthumous impudence of the sort. Indeed, he felt in

his heart of hearts that she owed him that. But his instinct told him

that that could not be put to her for the present, and that to be seen

in her society, to visit her, even to write to her, would make her

burden heavier to bear. He contented himself by renouncing his legacy in

the most precise terms—in a letter to Dockwra the lawyer, and in

another to James Germain. If this act came to Mary’s ears, as he hoped

it would, no harm would be done to his affair. Rather, she would see in

it a plain declaration of his feelings. But, unfortunately for him, it

did not. James Germain was at Misperton by this time, and Dockwra

communicated directly with him, not through his wife. James Germain,

true to his fastidious sense, thought it no business of Mary’s—and was

thankful it was none of his.

The delay of a week, ten days, a fortnight, gave her courage. Her

feverish dreams, hopes of a release, left her. She knew now that she was

to be free, and, once resolved, schemes began to gather in her brain, to

develop; her mind went to work, and she became happy. There was no doubt

at all where she would go. All her ideas of freedom were centred in one

place—Land’s End. The sea, the rocks, the birds—and the low white

cottage facing them all—open-doored to them all. Her dream of nearly

three years; now to come true! If Senhouse was at the back of her mind,

he was kept rigorously there. She felt virginal now when she thought of

Senhouse, found herself blushing, and put the image away as not lawful.

Freedom from the intolerable eyes about her—the butler’s—her

maid’s—Mrs. James’s—this ghastly mummery of clothes and ceremony—she

agonized to be quit of it all; but now she intended to be, and could not

afford time to agonize. She turned all her quick wits to the work,

applied method and deliberation to it, and could almost fix a day, so

plain did everything seem.

Method cautioned her to go slowly to work; the first thing to do was to

accustom Mrs. James to her walks abroad. She devoted a week to

this—went alone, deeply veiled, into the park every day, and spent

gradually increasing hours there, doing nothing more.

Then, one morning, she went circuitously to the Bank in

Burlington-gardens, and asked for her pass-book. There was some £300 to

her credit—the remains of her pin-money allowance. Two days later she

presented a cheque for £300—which left her a balance of £27 10s.—and

asked for the money in gold. The porter took the sack to her cab, and

she gave the direction “Hill-street”—but once out of hearing she put

her hand through the window at the top and gave another order—the Army

and Navy Stores.

Leaving her sack of money in the cab, she bought herself a Gladstone

bag. Perhaps it is evidence at once of the folly and fortune of women

that she was not robbed; she may well have deserved to be, for, being

full of her ingenious schemes, she had given no thought to the

matter—had neither taken the man’s number, nor told him what she was

entrusting to him. She had not so much as troubled to shut the cab door

after her. The man himself, with a “Well, I’m damned!” had done that,

and it may be that the very magnitude of his opportunities had bereft

him of the means of using them; for she found him smiling on the rank

when she came out. The bag was handed in to her—uncovered—she gave the

new direction “Paddington,” and _en route_ deposited her sack of

sovereigns and locked it in the bag.

At Paddington she dismissed the cab, not extravagantly, and disappeared

with a porter and the bag. She put it in the cloak-room, took a ticket

for it, then went back to Hill-street.

Two things must be done, two letters be written—one to her mother, one

to James Germain. He had always been her friend; she was really fond of

him, and liked to think that he would regret her loss, while she was

bound to guard against his trying to recover her. To her mother she

wrote very simply that she was suddenly called away on affairs connected

with her husband’s death, and might have to go abroad. It would be

difficult to write—but she would send an address as soon as she had one

of any permanence. She added, “Darling Mother, be as sure of my love for

you and father and all of you, as I am of yours. I promise to tell you

how I succeed in my business, or if I fail in it. You will never be out

of my thoughts, as you are never out of my prayers. Love me always, in

spite of anything that you may hear against me. I have been foolish,

very ignorant, and very blind—but no worse, Mother, upon my honour. I

am wiser now, and intend to be a good woman. Trust your Mary; who loves

you and kisses this paper.”

She wrote in the same strain to the Rector of Misperton. “I am not able

to bear the strain of London for the present, and intend to travel for

some time before making my plans. I feel the need of quiet, and shall

trust in you to do all you can to ensure it to me. After the comforting

words you gave me I am sure that you may rely upon my doing nothing

which should make me unworthy of them. I am resolved not to see Mr.

Duplessis again. I could never be happy with him, nor make him happy

after what has passed. If he should inquire for me, pray tell him that

this is my sincere conviction, and ask him not to attempt to dissuade me

from it. I can never thank you enough for your invariable kindness to

me; that must always be one of my happy recollections of the life that I

have ended. If I have to begin again without it, it is because I cannot

ask you to continue it until I have proved myself more worthy to have

it. I am going away now by myself, to work and to learn, and to forget

much, but never to forget your kindness. I beg you to, remember

sometimes with charity your affectionate friend, =Mary S.

Germain=.”

It was on the tip of her pen to write to Tristram; as she sat hesitating

the phrases printed themselves, one after another in her head, and she

wrote them down. “You never loved me—but I was proud to be even in your

notice. I am greatly to blame for the renewal of what was idle on your

part and foolish vanity on mine in the beginning. I can only be glad

that my husband, though he knew everything, heard it all again from my

own lips—I told him the night he died. I hope that you will be happy

and famous, I know that both are in your power. Do not try to find me, I

beg of you. Forget me, and love a woman who is more suited to you by

birth and education. I know that if you try you can succeed in this. If

you have any feeling of regard for me you will do as I ask you

now.—MARY S. GERMAIN.”

Two of these letters she posted with her own hand that night. Tristram’s

she reserved.

Then she made her last preparations. She packed her jewel-case

carefully, tied and sealed it, and addressed it to the bank. She dined

in her boudoir and spent the rest of the evening with Bradshaw, planning

out her route. Love of secrecy, love of intricacy, which were both

characteristic of her, decided her against so simple a course as a

journey from Paddington to Penzance. She worked out a way more to her

taste: Waterloo to Basingstoke, thence to Swindon, and thence by the

Great Western to Exeter, where she would stay for a while. This

necessitated an early start in the morning, for she must go to

Paddington and recover her three hundred pounds. She would take no

luggage whatever, would buy what she wanted in Exeter. Loyalty to

Senhusian ethics decided her to this.

Meantime, it was necessary to be rid of her maid for an hour. That she

effected by the simple means of sending her with the note to Duplessis,

and with her jewel-box, to be taken to the bank, and a receipt obtained.

The moment she was alone she dressed herself as she intended to

appear—in black jacket and skirt and a grey silk blouse—in hat and

veil studiously plain. Then she left the house in Hill-street on foot,

got a cab in Davies-street, and was free.

All went well with her as far as Basingstoke; but there she was

imprudent. She asked at the office whether she could book through to

Penzance, and break her journey for a week, and being told, after some

delay, that she could not—“Then Exeter, please,” she said. “Second

single to Exeter,” and receiving it, holding it in her mouth, she half

turned to get a better light into her purse, and caught sight of Horace

Wing—the courtly Horace—who must have heard her. In the shock, as he

hastened forward, cap in one hand, golf-clubs dragging by the other, she

left her change on the counter, bowed and fairly ran. This was very

indiscreet; but she escaped, and the porter came after her with her bag.

Horace Wing, after gaping, had a shuddering fit. He did not follow her,

and was not able to smile at the encounter for some weeks.

Her carriage was empty: she was alone now, with all her life, like an

open sea, in front of her. She sat, looking out towards the West, her

hands quiet in her lap; she had no sense of high adventure, no bosom

full of hope—peace possessed her altogether. She felt that she could

lie her length upon some green bank, sheltered from the wind, and sleep

herself to death. Such a feeling as this was so foreign to her nature

that she was surprised at herself, asked herself whether some chord in

her had not been broken. She was sanguine by temperament and always

lived in the future; if on any morning of any week she could not wake up

with the sense of an excitement to come, to be waited for, to be felt

nearer—that day was so much dead weight, so much space of drab, to be

got through, in order that she might live to-morrow. She told herself

that she was mortally tired—that her present reward was to be able to

live unwatched and unjudged. That was enough for any girl surely—let

the morrow’s outlook provide for the morrow.

Even while she was thinking these thoughts she caught herself unawares.

She found herself watching the flying landscape anxiously, and smiling

as she watched. The open common, the duck-pond, and the white road—yes,

and the tilt-cart drawn by a white horse—plodding to the West! Three

years ago, almost to a day—she and the tilt-cart had taken that road.

And then she had been a bride of an hour—and now she was a widow of an

hour. She caught herself blushing, was confused, felt eyes upon her: the

carriage seemed full of eyes. For a while, she continued to watch, to

watch through the mist in her own eyes—and then she turned suddenly in

her place, opened her novel and read diligently in it until the train,

stopping at Taunton, showed her that the place of dangerous memories was

past.

She would not allow her thoughts to recur to that curious little drama

of the mind: in fact, she worked hard to avoid the temptation. She

abandoned her novel, opened her purse, and did her accounts. She made

lists of necessary purchases, and began to post up the diary with which

she had provided herself.

When she reached Exeter she stepped out—Miss Mary Middleham. Her bag

bore a label to that effect.

XVII

FIRST FLIGHT

Mrs. Merritt who had been housekeeper to the late Canon Blackrod and now

let lodgings in a house of her own, was amiable, and by the possession

of that quality was able to keep her curiosity within bounds: but it was

her daughter Polly, a Devon maid of apple cheeks and sloe-black eyes,

who taught her enthusiasm for her lodger. Polly Merritt adored the quiet

and pretty young lady who, though she wore such beautiful clothes, gave

herself none of the airs which were clearly within her rights; who would

wash her own blouses, trim her own hats, or sit below-stairs chatting

affably, while she trimmed one for Polly herself. In such familiar

intercourse all the necessary safeguards of landladies were proved to be

secure. Miss Middleham, it seemed, was an orphan, by profession a

teacher of languages, who had found it necessary to leave her London

employment to escape a gentleman’s attentions. Most reasonable, most

proper. The gentleman was one indeed, highly connected, in fact, cousin

of an Honourable; but impecunious and not very steady. Girls who are

orphans must look after themselves: there had been nothing for it but

flight. Admirable forethought! Nothing, certainly, but praise could be

given to Miss Middleham for conduct so discreet.

“It’ll bring him round, Miss, depend upon it,” Mrs. Merritt had

considered. “It’ll make him look nine ways. As good as a slap in the

face, any day.”

“Better, I hope,” Mary said.

“Some of ’em wants one thing, some another, Miss. Let him know that

you’re in earnest, whatever you do.”

“I am quite in earnest, Mrs. Merritt,” Mary told her; “and I think I

have made that plain.”

“Did you tell him so, or write it, Miss?” Polly must ask. “Writing’s

better—but it’s dull work.”

“I have done both, Polly. He doesn’t know where I am. I made it quite

clear to him that he could not.”

Mrs. Merritt, having observed her guest, passed the back of her hand

rapidly across her nose. “To be sure you could, Miss. It’s easy to be

seen that God Almighty never gave you that pair of eyes for nothing. To

call a man, or send him about his business—ah, I’ll warrant you.”

“Poor fellow,” mused the tender Polly. “I pity him.”

In private conversation afterwards Mrs. Merritt assured her daughter

that she need not. We should have the young gentleman here before the

swallows were away: let Polly mark her words. Our young lady was a snug

young lady—that was a certainty. She was not a girl who would go

without letters of a morning for long together. Letters! That sort live

on ’em, as a man on his eleven o’clock beer. No, no. She was used to

company, any one could see. She was meant to be somebody’s darling. How

else did she get her pretty ways—and why to goodness wear her pretty

frocks, but for that? Meantime, she had been used to the best, you could

see; and she should have it here.

What Mrs. Merritt, however, did not know, and Polly did know, was that

another gentleman stood in the background. Here lay the root of Polly’s

passionate interest in her friend: a constant appeal to her imagination

and judgment and wonder. A gentleman was to be expected; there was

always a gentleman. But two gentlemen! One more gentleman, and Polly

might have felt the responsibilities of Paris. In fact, she did feel

them as things were.

Mary had come to Exeter, meaning no more than a passage-bird’s rest

there—a night or two, and away. Her cottage at the Land’s End, solitary

vigil face to face with the sea and the rocks, tending of the hidden

garden there, a waiting and watching—and a great reward: that had been

her fixed intent. Nothing seemed to be in the way. She was free as air:

why should she wait?

It is very odd, though, how you cannot carry through these hot-blood

thoughts in the cold blood. That momentary shyness which had come upon

her in the train, when she had caught herself looking out for a

remembered village-green and had been abashed, came upon her the moment

she began to think of Cornwall with a view to going there. She found

herself trembling, found herself delaying, drawing back. Had she been

her old self, never sought and never mated, in this tremulous plight she

had remained; but she had learned to face such difficulties, and did not

shirk it. The more she thought of it the plainer it became that she

could not have the cottage, could not sit down there and wait for

Senhouse. Virgin as she was, and virginal as she was now become again,

the picture of herself in such an attitude, and in such an act, filled

her with shame. And if to picture it was dreadful, what would the

day-long reality be but unendurable? But where, then, was her sense of

comradeship, of perfect amity between him and her? She did not know. It

was gone. And what would he—wondrous, clear-seeing friend—say to her

for this prudery? That she did know: she could see him appeal for

laughter to the skies. Alas, it could not be helped. She was a maiden,

therefore might be wooed. She was a maiden, therefore could not go

a-wooing. So he and she might never meet again! Better so—oh,

infinitely better—than that they should meet by her act.

Thus it was that Polly Merritt came to learn about the other gentleman.

Mary’s perplexities had been stated, and Polly was thrilled.

“Oh, Miss! And he’s never spoken?”

“No,” said Mary. “At least—not about that.”

“What was the nearest he ever got to?”

Mary looked wise. “He told me to go away, once.”

“He did! Why were you to go then?”

“Because—oh, because he could see, I suppose, that I didn’t want to;

and——”

“Well?”

“Because—I sometimes fancy—he didn’t want me to. At least, I think he

didn’t. He said, ‘You had better go home. I’m a man, you know.’”

Polly opened her eyes wide. “That’s as plain as my nose. I should think

so! So, of course——”

“Yes, of course I had to go.” She looked down at her toes, just as if

Senhouse had been standing above her, bidding her go.

“I dream sometimes,” she said, “that he comes to me in the night, and

looks at me—never speaks, but just looks. Not at me, you know, but

through me—right through to the pillow. That’s enough. Then he turns

and goes away, and I follow him out of door, into the warm dark—and he

turns sharply upon me and is dreadfully angry. I’ve never known him

angry; but dreams are like that. I see his face quite changed—wild and

cold at once, and terribly stern. And I run away into the empty house,

and wish that I were dead. No, no. I could never bear that—to seek him

and be spurned. I would sooner never see him again.”

Polly was deeply moved, but practical. A girl must look ahead—far

beyond dreams. “You had best not, Miss,” she said, “if that’s likely to

be the way of it. Is he that sort—your hot-and-cold?”

“Oh, I don’t know—how can I tell? That has never been between us, save

that once, when he told me to go away. He’s a wonderful talker about all

sorts of things; he can make them all extraordinary. I feel, after

listening to him, that I understand all life, all experience. Everything

seems reasonable. But when it comes to—us—he won’t speak. I believe he

can’t. And I understand him better when he doesn’t.”

“So would any one, I should think,” said Polly Merritt. “But how’s he

going to look at you if he never sees you, and don’t know where you

are?”

“Ah,” said Mary with far-sighted eyes, “I don’t know.”

“You might write to him, I suppose—and slip in your address, by

accident like.”

Mary shook her head. “I couldn’t. Besides, he has no address. He just

comes and goes—like the wind.”

“Has he no house of his own?”

“No. He lives in a tent—in a cart.”

“What! Like a gipsy? Oh, Miss!” This would never, never do.

But Mary admitted it, thoughtfully. “Yes. I think he might be a sort of

gipsy.”

This, to Polly, was final. “I do think you’re better here, Miss

Middleham, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Perhaps I am,” said Mary.

Polly had veered. “I’ll warrant the other gentleman would have a house

to offer you.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so. But——”

“Ah, that’s just it—that’s just it.”

Mary admitted it. “I suppose it is. But he says that he will never

marry. He doesn’t believe in marriage.”

“Ho, indeed!” cried Polly. “Then pray what does he believe in?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

Polly tossed her young head. “It wouldn’t take long for me to be sure.”

Then Mary showed her face, and her eyes shone clear. “I am sure of this,

that if he called me I should follow him over the world, however he

chose me to be. But I know he never will. He is unlike anybody else—he

comes and goes like the wind.”

“Let him, for me,” said Polly, “’specially when he’s going.”

The summer waned and fainted; autumn mists crept about, and found her

still in Exeter. Pupils came slowly, but she got one or two, and there

was promise of more. The Vicar of the parish helped her. She taught in

his Sunday school, did him some visiting, danced with his boys and sang

with his girls. Through him she got an engagement in September, in a

young ladies’ academy—to teach Italian two days a week. She got to know

a few people. There was a gentlemanly young man called Bloxam, who

escorted her home from choral evenings; then there was a curate—_quod

semper, quod ubique_—who lent her books and professed himself ready to

discuss them afterwards, by correspondence or otherwise.

These things faintly amused her; the simplicity of such devices, for

instance, the little buildings-up of the little architects! She felt

herself, ruefully, slipping back into the parochial, losing touch with

her wide horizons. The tonic properties of freedom, which at first had

been as delightful as the mere ease of it, were now staling by use. She

began to find herself grow dull. The one fact upon which she could build

was that she was again earning her living.

XVIII

ENTER A BIRD-CATCHER

October was in, mild and languorous; the trees dripped all day, the mist

seemed unable to lift itself from the low-lying city. Mary grew restless

and discontented. The usual things happened, but had ceased to

entertain. Mr. Bloxam, after taking her for excursions by water, had one

day proposed that she should take tea with his people, prosperous

hucksters in the town. She agreed—to find out very soon that she was on

exhibition, on approval, you might say. Mrs. Bloxam, the mother,

addressed her particular inquiries, Mr. Bloxam, the father, gave her a

carnation out of the conservatory. Shortly afterwards Mr. Bloxam, the

son, made her another proposition, and was exceedingly surprised that

she did not jump at it. Can such things be? he inquired, looking about.

She had shaken her head at him very gently when she told him that really

she couldn’t. It was charmingly done, with kindness, but complete

finality. That he saw.

He told her that his heart was broken, that she saw before her a man

beaten down. “It is dreadful,” he said. “My mother liked you so much.

She is hard to please. I suppose you wouldn’t care to think it over?”

Again she shook her head. A Mr. Bloxam of Exeter! If he only knew, or

could be made to know! “No, no,” she said. “I sha’n’t alter. But I hope

we are not to be bad friends.”

Mr. Bloxam had bowed, and said, “I should be most happy”—and one sees

what he meant. “My mother, you know, won’t like it. Naturally she is

partial. She will say that you led me on.”

“Then she will say what is very untrue,” cried Mary, with flashing eyes,

“and I hope you will tell her so. It is very hard if I may not have

friends without being accused of ridiculous things.”

“Girls do them, you know,” said Mr. Bloxam dubiously. “I’ve met with

several cases.”

“If you are likely to include this among them, I must ask you to let me

go,” she said with spirit; “but perhaps you would like to give me some

tea first.”

Mr. Bloxam, murmuring about the sacred rites of hospitality, assured her

that he would; and they parted on good terms. He told her that he

intended to travel; and indeed he did afterwards go to Weston-super-Mare

for a month.

The unfortunate but absurd episode taught her to be circumspect with the

literary curate. He, however, was of a more cautious temperament, and

went away for his holiday with no more pronounced symptom than a promise

to send her picture postcards from the Cathedral cities which he

purposed visiting. “You may like to have these afterwards,” he darkly

said, and then took himself away on a bicycle.

The year was come to a critical point for her. About this time Halfway

House would be plodding its way to the West, its owner, loose-limbed and

leisurely, smoking on the tilt. Almost any day now it might pass by

Exeter, or through it; almost any day she might come plump upon it—and

what was to happen to her then? Could she endure the year’s round, or

know him by her Cornish sea, in her white cottage on the cliff, and stay

here nursing her wound, feeling the throb and the ache? It seemed

impossible—and yet women do such things. It was almost the worst of her

plight that she knew she could do it. It was in her blood to do it. The

poor were like that: dumb beasts.

And now the delicacy which she had felt at first, and which had kept her

away from Land’s End, became a tyrant, as the temptations grew upon her.

It prevented her riding afield by any road leading into Exeter from the

East. She had a bicycle; more, she had a certain way of bringing him

directly to her side. He had taught her. The _patteran_. But no! She

couldn’t. So she worked on doggedly, with the fret and fever in her

bones; and day by day October slipped into November; the days slipped

off as the wet leaves fell.

Early in November, on a day of sunny weather, Polly Merritt announced a

visitor, who followed her immediately into the room, his straw hat under

his left arm, his right hand held out.

“A gentleman to see Miss Middleham, if you please,” says Polly Merritt,

and Mary had sprung up, with her hand to her side.

“It’s the tall one, mother, not the windy one,” was explained in the

kitchen, but Mrs. Merritt, sniffing, had declared they were all the

same.

“I don’t know anything about that,” said Polly. “But this gentleman

talks like asking and having, if you want my opinion.”

The riot in her breast was betrayed by her shining eyes and the quick

flood of colour from neck to brows; but he played the man of the world

so well that she was able to recover herself.

He made his excuses for breaking in upon her. He had been going through

Exeter in any case. It was hardly to be resisted, she would allow. He

owned that Horace Wing had given him the clue. “Poor Horace, you hurt

him. It took two months’ hard talking in town and at least a month of

surmise in Scotland before Horace could find strength enough to own up

to the fact that he had met you, that you had bowed—and bolted. He

mentioned it with tears in his eyes, as an extreme case. He had heard

you book to Exeter—second single.” Then he looked at her and smiled.

“But why Miss Middleham?”

“Why not?” she echoed him bravely. “I had to be somebody.”

“Weren’t you person enough?”

“Ah, yes, I was too much of a person, I was almost a personage. I was

never happy in that disguise. My clothes never fitted me.”

“You should let other people judge of that. If you would like my opinion

of your clothes, for instance——”

She shook her head, without speaking. He tried a more direct attack.

“You forgive me for coming?”

She suspected a tenderness. “Oh, it is very kind of you. I don’t have

many visitors. I am glad to see you.”

“That’s good. May I see you again, then, while I can?”

She inquired: “Are you likely to be here long?”

A light hand was necessary now. “Oh, dear no—unfortunately. A day or

two at the outside; time to buy cartridges. You remember the Ogmores? I

am due at Wraybrook on the seventh. Pheasants. But until then——”

This was the fourth, you see. He would be horribly in the way. “I am

occupied a good part of the day,” she told him. “I have pupils.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Really! Have you—” he flushed, and leaned

forward. “Have you renounced your——?”

“Not in so many words,” she said. “I have simply dropped it. Nobody

knows where I am.”

“You knew that I had formally renounced mine?”

She had not known that. There was an implication in it—which she had

run here to avoid; and here it was. “Did you?” she said shortly. “I’m

not surprised.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “You could not expect me to do anything

else. And you have done precisely the same. That, also, I took leave to

expect.” He saw concern gather in her eyes, broke off abruptly, and

plunged into gossip. “Does your late world interest you still? Do you

want to hear the news? Palmer Lovell’s engagement, for instance? A

princess of Italy, I give you my word—a Donna Teresa Scalchi, rather a

beauty, and a great shrew. Palmer can bite a bit, too. That will end in

tears. And Hertha de Speyne marries abroad. Morosov, an anarchist of

sort. They can collect plants in Siberia—” he broke off again,

remembering that others had collected plants in Siberia. Watching her,

he saw that she remembered it, too. “Oh, and old Constantine and I have

kissed; we are fast friends. Once more I write speeches, which he

mangles. He’s to be at Wraybrook, waiting for me. He can’t bear me out

of his sight—he’s like an elderly wife. Frightful nuisance, of

course—but I hope you are pleased.”

She looked at him for a moment. “Of course I am pleased. I always wanted

you to succeed.”

He rattled on. She had never seen him in such good spirits or manners.

When he left her after an hour she was quite at her ease. He said that,

if he might, he would come in the evening, and take her for a walk. It

would do her good; and as for him she might have pity upon a fellow at a

loose end, with nothing on earth to do but buy cartridges.

When he had gone she sat still, looking at her hands in her lap. Could

she maintain herself for three days? Already she felt the fences closing

in—she had felt them, as they moved, though never once had she been

able to hold up her hand or say, Stop: that you may not assume. Tristram

was master of implication, and her master there. Throughout his airy

monologue he had taken her for granted—her and her origin, her

humility, her subservience to his nod, her false position with Germain,

her false position now. Why, his very amiability, his deference to her

opinion, his tentative approach—what were these but implications of his

passion for her, a passion so strong that it could bend his arrogant

back, and show a Tristram Duplessis at the feet of a Mary Middleham? She

writhed, she burned to feel these things, and to be powerless against

such attack. And he was to come again this evening, and every day for

three days he was to come—and no help for her, she must fall without a

cry. Yes, without a cry; for she was cut off from her friend, by the

very need she had of him. What was she to do? What could she do—but

fall?

She struggled. At three o’clock in the afternoon she told Polly Merritt

that if the gentleman called again he was to be told that Miss Middleham

was not well and had gone to bed. Polly wondered, but obeyed. “Lovers’

tricks!” quoth Mrs. Merritt. “That’ll bring him to the scratch.” It did.

He received the news at the door, with an impassive face—all but for

his eyes, which, keen and coldly blue, pierced Polly’s sloe-blacks to

the brain, and extracted what might be useful to him. “Many thanks, Miss

Polly,” he had said presently. “You’re a good friend, I see. Look here,

I’ll tell you what to do. I’ll bring some flowers round presently, and

you shall put ’em in her room, and say nothing about it. Do you see?”

Polly saw.

The next day was a busy one for her, and she saw nothing of Tristram

until the evening. Then, to her dismay, she found him waiting for her

outside the gates of Rosemount Academy, where her Italian lesson had

been given. If she bit her lip, she blushed also; and if he remarked but

one of these signals it was not her fault. Cavaliers had attended at

those gates before—not for her only, but for her among others. Such a

cavalier, however, so evidently of the great world, had never yet been

looked upon by the young ladies of Rosemount.

“Oh,” cried Mary, startled, “who told you——?”

“Your amiable friend, Miss Polly, betrayed you. I hope you’ll forgive

her.”

“I suppose I must. Probably you frightened her out of her wits.” But he

swore that they were very good friends indeed. He thought that Miss

Polly liked him, upon his word; and Mary could not deny that. Polly

undoubtedly did.

His admirable behaviour inspired confidence; inquiries after her health,

no reference to ambiguous exotics, no assumptions, no plans for evening

walks. He went with her to her door, and left her there with a salute.

But before she could get in, while she stood with her hand on the

knocker, as if by an after-thought he came back to her from the gate.

Jess had summoned him to Wraybrook, he said. He knew that there was

something to tell her. Positively he must go the day after to-morrow.

Now, was she free to-morrow?

She was; but she hesitated to say so. Well, then, would she give him a

great pleasure? Would she come with him to Powderham—explore the park

and the shore, have a picnic luncheon and all that sort of thing? Would

she? As he stood down there below her, with flushed face and smiling,

obsequious eyes, she thought that she really might trust herself, if not

him. Polly, opening the door, was nodded to, and told that she need not

wait. Polly needed no telling.

“Come, Mrs. Mary,” he urged her, “what do you say? Will you let me look

after you for this once? Will you please to remember that never once

since we have known each other—how many years?—have we had a whole day

together? Extraordinary fact.”

“It’s quite true,” she reflected, “we never have. Once we very nearly

did, though.”

“Twice,” he corrected her; but she could not admit that. Well, which was

her instance?

It was long ago, when she had been at Misperton—had been some six

months there. One Midsummer Day—surely he remembered! He had promised

to take her to Glastonbury; the dog-cart was to meet them at Clewgate

station——

“Ah, yes,” he cried—“And I called for you—and you were ready—in a

brown holland frock——”

“Had I a brown holland? I remember that I was quite ready. And then a

note came down from Mrs. James——”

“Beloved Mrs. James——”

“And you pretended to be angry——”

“Pretended! Oh, my dearest friend—I swore.”

“I know you did. And I——”

“You pretended to cry——”

“No, no, there was no pretence. I did cry.”

“Mary,” he said, “why did you cry?”

She recovered herself. “Because I was very young, and very stupid.”

“Now for _my_ instance,” he said. “Not so very long ago, you were to go

to Blackheath—by train; and I went to Charing Cross station.” But, with

a flaming face, and real trouble in her eyes, she stopped him.

“Please, don’t—you hurt me. I think that you forget.”

He begged her pardon so sincerely that she could not refuse the morrow’s

appointment.

They met at the station—she in a straw hat and linen frock—for the

weather was wonderful; he in flannels. The perils of adventure glittered

in her eyes; he played the courtier, sure now of his game. She begged

for third-class tickets, but he compromised for second—and flagrantly

bribed the guard to keep the carriage. It was impossible that she should

avoid the knowledge that she was practically in possession—impossible

that she should not see the approving smiles of the bystanders. “A

pretty girl and her sweetheart”; simple comedy, of never-ending charm.

Abhorrent to the Senhouses of this world, but not to be extirpated until

Birnam come to Dunsinane.

Softly the knowledge brooded upon her, softly virginal she sat, very

much aware. The epicure returned to Master Tristram, who by a whisper

could have had her, but refrained. He sat by her, but respectfully—he

discoursed at large. Powderham Castle—he spoke of that. It was a pity

that the fine place could not be seen; but the Courteneys had let it,

and he didn’t know the people. It was full, he happened to have heard.

He believed that Bramleigh was staying there. He forgot if she knew

Bramleigh; a quaint little man. But probably she wouldn’t want to be

bothered with a lot of people; so they must be contented with the park.

Thus Tristram discoursed; and at his discretion sat she, saying little,

looking at him never, heeding every shade of inflection, and every

hair’s breadth of movement of his. They reached the station; he helped

her to descend.

All seemed well with Tristram’s wooing. His lady was in a pensive mood,

softly receptive of his implications. The temptation to paint in bolder

masses was not resisted, nor that more subtle form of art—the silent

art. Speechless they loitered together; and sometimes their hands

touched, and sometimes he hovered over her, as if protecting her with

wings. Her eyes were veiled; she appeared sleek as a dove under his

hand. Once he breathed her name—“Mary, oh, Mary—”; but he saw her

shiver and stiffen, and knew that she was still to be won. So be it! But

he could not give over the delicious chase. To have her thus wide-eyed,

quivering, straining beside him—like a greyhound taut at his leash; he

was beside himself with longing, and like a fool gave way.

“My dearest—” he began, but she checked him with a fierce cry—“No,

no!—Not that—” and though he could see nothing but the sharp outline

of her cheek and chin he knew that she was watching something. He looked

about him vaguely. What on earth—? The sea—a narrow strip of blue

tumbling water, spuming where it touched the yellow sands—the flecked,

pale sky—the gorse—larks above it—in a far corner a gipsy’s tent, and

a white horse foraging—. What on earth—?

He drew back. She seemed to start forwards as if to escape from him—but

then she turned suddenly, and he saw that she was pale, that she

trembled, and that there was real trouble in her eyes.

“I am tired,” she said, “very tired. May we go home now?”

“Of course—what a brute I am. But I thought that you— Won’t you tell

me what has tired you all at once?”

“I don’t know—it came over me—suddenly. But I do want to go home,

please—immediately.” Her eyes were full—brimming. He was touched.

“Come then, we’ll go to the station. It’s no great distance. Unless you

would rather sit——”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly! No, no, indeed, I must go home. My head

aches dreadfully. I think a sunstroke—perhaps. I can hardly stand

up——”

He saw that that was true. “Come,” he said, “take my arm. We’ll go at

once.”

When they had turned back she seemed to recover. She walked, at any

rate, as fast as he did—set the pace. But she would not talk any more.

In the train she sat apart, looking out of the window—and after a time

he let her alone.

At Exeter when he put her in the fly and would have followed her, she

put her hand on his arm. “Please don’t come with me. I shall be myself

directly. I beg you not to come. And don’t think me ungrateful—indeed,

you have been kindness itself. I’m very much ashamed of myself——”

“I’ll see you to-morrow—to say good-bye. You will let me do that? I

must know how you are, you see.”

“Yes—come to-morrow if you will. Good-bye. I am much better. I shall be

quite well. But come, of course, if you had rather.”

“Of course I shall come.” He lifted his hat, bowed, and turned away. She

watched him walk towards his hotel. Then, with a face of flame, she

turned to her own affair.

This was to be her last bid for freedom; her last chance. If she was to

be the crying shame of her sex, it must be so. Come what might, she must

call for help.

She stayed the fly at the door, paid the man, and watched him turn and

go galloping down the hill. Then she turned to her affair—across Exeter

it took her, to the Honiton road.

She walked the whole way, some two miles out of the city, beyond the

suburbs to where the open country began. And here she laid her

_patteran_, with branches of crimson maple, torn from the sunny side of

the hedge. At the corners of two by-roads she laid them—one to the

South, one to the North. Not satisfied with that, she went North herself

to the Cullompton road, and laid two _patterans_ more. Her cheeks burned

like fire, and in her heart was a bitter pain; she felt that she had

unsexed herself, was bedraggled and bemired. But her need had racked

her—you can’t blame the wretch writhing there if he call upon his God.

XIX

HEARTACHE AND THE PHILOSOPHER

Love, which had given her heart wings to soar, clogged Senhouse about

the feet, hobbled him and caused him to limp. If she had never loved

before, she had played with love; but to him the woe was new. One need

not inquire into his relations with women, or believe him immune, to

understand that. It was so entirely new to him that he refused to

believe in it. She was present with him, though with her face veiled,

night and day; the thought of her was joy; his ledge of calochortus took

a value in his eyes because she had looked at them, knelt among them,

stroked and fondled one, at least. He mocked at himself for searching

out and cherishing the marks of her feet, for stooping to touch what

seemed to be the printings of her knees; and yet, when he went down the

Pillar and stood among other precious growths of his, he saw them a

huddle of wet weeds.

The outlook was a bad one. He tried to paint, and smeared out everything

he tried; to write, and had nothing to say. He slept badly. And yet he

could not leave the north; for he had an appointment in October which

would take him to Penrith. A learned man from Baden was coming out to

meet him, with proposals in his pocket of Grand Ducal dimensions; two

years’ plant-hunting in the Caucasus, and three years’ gardening—with

the Schwarzwald for his garden. So far the Grand Ducal Government was

prepared to go upon report. The thing had been a year coming to a head,

for Senhouse was a difficult man to inoculate with other people’s ideas;

but to such a head it was now brought, and he felt that, whatever else

he did, he must by all means meet Herr Doktor Löffner.

What was he to do, then, between June and October? Characteristically,

with the south calling him, he went north. He shipped at Leith and went

to Iceland with Bingo and a saddle-bag for all his luggage. He traversed

that island from end to end; and though he could not tire himself, he

got his sleeping powers back, began to paint and to believe in his

painting, to botanize and to be sure it was worth while. He knew next to

nothing of Danish, and was driven in upon himself for company. Upon that

fare he throve. He moped no more, forgot Mary for whole hours together,

and believed himself cured. In September he returned to Leith and went

afoot down to Penrith to meet the Herr Doktor.

Their greeting was cordial. “Oh, man of silences, oh, thou unlettered

one, do I find thee in truth?”

“My dear Doctor Löffner, you do indeed. Come into the yard and I’ll show

you some things worth having.”

“Where have you been, my friend?”

“Iceland.”

“Iceland! Ach, then you haf—? No, you haf not—? Never in the worlt!”

“I’m not sure. But I rather think that I have.” What he had was some

earth and broken limestone in a sponge-bag—so far as could be seen. But

there was enough beside to occupy the pair of them until dinner. Before

that meal was ready the Doctor had fallen weeping on Senhouse’s neck,

had clasped him to his breast. “Thou hast it—thou hast it—oh,

wonder-child!”—and then, as he wiped the dew from his glasses, with a

startling lapse into idiom—“I say! Dot was cholly.”

The dinner was very gay; Bingo had an indigestion.

Next morning, the great man was taken out and about to view the various

fields of tillage; the ledge where calochortus had been fair in Mary’s

eyes, the larkspur slope, and what could be done with Alpines upon a

Cumberland moraine. He was more than amazed, he was convinced. “You are

chust the man for us. We pick you up cheap, I consider, for ten thousand

mark.” Senhouse was not concerned to affirm or deny; but he insisted

upon it that he was selling his liberty very cheaply indeed. “And I

wouldn’t do it, you know, for a hundred thousand,” he said, “if it

weren’t for the two years in the Caucasus. You have me there, I own.

I’ve hungered after that for years, and now I’ll take it as it comes to

me. There must be irises there which neither Leichtlin nor Korolkov have

spotted—I’m certain of it.”

“And you are the man to spod them,” said Herr Löffner with deep feeling.

“Bod, mind you, we haf them wid you in Schwarzwald.”

“Honour among thieves,” said Senhouse. “Depend upon me.”

Herr Löffner passed by the proposal that he should be taken to the

Dukeries to see the cyclamen, or to Wales for the peonies, or to

Cornwall for the Ramondias; but he could not resist the promise of

Syrian irises growing wild on Dartmoor. That he must see before he died;

and he would take Kew and necessary business there on the way. Agreed;

they would start in the morning by the express from Carlisle.

This they did; Löffner, Senhouse, and Bingo journeyed to London, and put

up at the Grand Hotel, which was chosen by the _savant_ solely on

account of its name. “I feel grand to haf got you my Senhouse,” said he;

“let us therefore go to the grandest hotel we can find.” It was not in

his friend’s power to correct this simplicity; and the Grand Hotel was

too grand for him.

In the “lounge” of this palace—“all looking-glasses and whisky,” as he

described it—it was necessary for him to spend certain moments while

Herr Löffner briskly inspected rooms, _menus_, and lists of wines.

Briskly, but with method, he went to work. Senhouse, having discovered

that most of the plants were imitation and the others dying, flung

himself upon a plush settee and picked up journal after journal, in the

hope of finding one which did not contain either photographs of ladies

or advertisements. He was grumbling over an evening sheet when his

friend joined him and, sighing his content at a good dinner ahead of

him, produced and lighted a cigar. Senhouse found himself reading for a

second time a paragraph of a leading article which began thus:—

“Ever since the by-election in Farlingbridge, caused by the death of Mr.

Germain, the Government has been losing seats with a steadiness as

reasonable as reason can require.” Midway through his second reading he

stiffened and sat up.

“Excuse me, Löffner,” he said, “but I must leave you for an hour or so.”

Herr Löffner beamed and bowed. “I am sorry, but submit. Only—you must

promise me to come back, or I lose you, _du wilder Mann_.”

Senhouse was not vague; on the contrary, he was remarkably collected.

“Yes, I’ll come back. But this is a matter of losing myself—or the

reverse, as the case may be.” He nodded, and walked straight out of the

hotel into the street. Bingo, stepping delicately, with ears set back

and muzzle to earth, followed close to his right heel. He shared his

master’s contempt of London, but added fear.

The hour was late for callers, since it was now half-past seven, but he

knew nothing of hours. He went directly to Hill-street and rang the

bell. After a long interval a caretaker released many a bolt and peered

round the edge of the door. A respectable, grey-haired lady, very

anxious.

“Mrs. Germain?” said Senhouse. He almost heard her sigh.

“Out of town, sir.”

“So I see. But where is she?” Bingo lifted his head high, snuffed the

air, misliked it, and yawned.

The elderly lady had no more doubts. “She would be at Southover House,

Sir. The family is expected on the 15th for a few days, on their way

abroad.”

Senhouse jerked away all this surplusage. “The family? What family? It

is Mrs. John Germain, I mean.”

Whatever caution may have lingered in the caretaker now disappeared, in

the occasion of a treasured wonder to be revealed. “Oh, Sir, we don’t

know anything about her. It’s all a mystery, Sir, and has been since Mr.

John—passed away.”

“What do you mean by that?” she was asked.

Her cue! “She’s not been seen or heard of, Sir—not by her own family

nor by ours. She went away by herself in July—after the event. Sir—and

here’s October come round, and never heard of yet.”

Senhouse betrayed nothing; but his mind moved like lightning. “Tell me

exactly what you mean,” he bade her; and she did, omitting nothing. He

listened, made no comments, and gave no chances.

Then he asked her, “Do you know Mr. Duplessis’s address?”

She did not.

“His club?” She said she would call her husband.

The husband in his shirt-sleeves was all for speculation upon the

affair—speculation at large, illustrated by reminiscences. Duplessis

was a good gambit; but the moment he had opened by saying that many a

time had he stood behind Mr. Duplessis’s chair at the Reform he found

himself rehearsing to his wife things that she had heard but an hour

ago. Senhouse had snapped out his “Reform! Thanks,” and gone his way.

At the Reform—Bingo coiled on the steps, with one eye wary for

peril—he learned that Duplessis was in Devonshire. “Wraybrook Park,

near Honiton,” was his address. He returned to the hotel and found Herr

Löffner immovable in his place, and still with a cigar. But he was

deplorably hungry, and leapt to his feet the moment he saw Senhouse.

“Thank God for you,” he warmly said. “Come and dine.”

“I can’t dine, Löffner. You must hoard your thanksgiving. I’m going down

to Devonshire.” The _savant_ gazed at him.

“To Devonshire—without dinner! That is not possible, my friend. To

begin, it is bad for you—secondly, it is late.”

“Oh,” said Senhouse, “I’m a night-bird, you know. I don’t want you to

come with me—in fact, I’d rather you didn’t. You’ve got lots to do at

Kew, and can meet me there. But I must be off in half an hour. I shall

catch the 9.25.”

Herr Löffner looked at his watch, then at his friend’s dog, then at his

friend. Smiles played about his face and eyes. “What mischief do you

meditate? What dark work?” he said; and you could hear the enthusiasm

gurgling beneath, like flood water in a drain. But Senhouse was

unfathomable, and for once not smiling.

“It’s serious work I’m after. Life-and-death work, I believe. My trip to

the Caucasus hangs on it—and all my trips to come.”

“Herr Je! Du lieber——!”

“I know. It’s a queer thing. Nothing seemed to hang upon anything this

morning, and now everything upon one thing. It’s no good, my dear man, I

can’t explain. Trust me, I’ll telegraph to you from Exeter and wait for

you there.”

“Bod—” said Herr Löffner out of his chest. “If you haf here a

life-and-death-works—I cannot understand. If you make of it life-works,

you telegraph and I come. But if it is a death-works—what then?”

“It won’t be,” said Senhouse. “It can’t be. Good-bye.” Herr Löffner went

to his dinner.

At Wraybrook Park his lean face was announced to Duplessis at half-past

ten in the morning, at the breakfast-table, by a respectful butler. It

was not told him that it had awaited him since eight o’clock.

“Some one to see me—in the drive?” he had asked, suspecting nothing.

“Why in the drive?”

“The gentleman preferred to be outside, Sir. He had a dog with him.”

Duplessis stared at his plate. “All right. I’ll come in a minute,” he

said, and resumed his meal.

At eleven he came out of the front door, cigar in mouth, and saw

immediately what was in store for him. The carriage drive at Wraybrook

sweeps round the lake, which is the great feature of the place. On the

edge of that he had seen in a moment the tall man in grey, bareheaded,

talking with one of the gardeners, and had flushed. His eyes narrowed,

and glittered; he paused perceptibly, then drew a breath and went down

over the lawn.

Bingo, sitting up on his haunches, gave a short yap of warning, then

apologized to his master. Senhouse finished what he had to say to the

gardener, nodded and went up to meet his man.

They encountered without recognition: Bingo, with lifted forefoot,

reserved his judgment. His custom was to run in and apply the test of

nose to calf; but in this case he stayed behind.

“You wish to see me, I’m told.” Duplessis spoke first.

“Yes,” said Senhouse, “I do. I have to trouble you. I have just heard of

John Germain’s death.”

In some sort Duplessis had been prepared for this—but in no way which

could have been explained. He was able to take it quietly.

“News travels slowly your way,” he said. “Germain died in July.”

“So I have learned; but it must have been sudden. I happen to know that

he was quite well at the beginning of that month; and had not the least

reason to expect any such thing.”

“Why should you?” Duplessis was rather famous for impertinence.

Senhouse said, “I’ll tell you. I saw Mrs. Germain early in

July”—Duplessis grew red—“In fact, she must have gone directly from

the North, where I met her, to her husband’s bedside.”

“I think I’ll interrupt you for one moment,” Duplessis said. “You are

probably as interested in saving time as I am. Therefore the sooner I

know how I can serve you the better for both of us.” Bingo who had been

looking with gloomy interest at the root of his tail, here attacked it

with ferocity. Senhouse laughed.

“I’ll tell you. Mrs. Germain has disappeared.”

Duplessis asked, “Do you want me to find her for you?”

“I want you,” said Senhouse, “to tell me where she is.”

Duplessis looked him full in the face. “Really, I don’t know what

business you have to ask me that.”

“Then I’ll tell you, if you please,” said Senhouse. “When she left the

North she did not, I believe, go directly to London. She went to

Blackheath, to her people. There she saw you.”

“Who told you that, Sir?” Duplessis was angry.

“She told me that she should see you there. It had not been her

intention; but she changed her mind.”

“Then I have to thank you, Mr. Senhouse, for an insufferable

interference in my affairs,” said Duplessis.

“I advised her to see you—yes. Come, now,” he said with a change of

tone which Duplessis found hard to bear, “you have had your innings, I

was careful not to touch on that. You have had more than one, if I don’t

mistake you. I think now that I go in.”

Duplessis was not the man to give candour for candour. His eyes were

steady on his enemy. “I don’t give ladies’ addresses without their

leave, you know.”

“You may assume it here. When I saw Mrs. Germain in Cumberland she gave

me to understand that she might wish to see me again.”

“If she had wished it,” said Duplessis, “I suppose she would have told

you where she was. Apparently she does not wish it.”

“Obviously you do not,” Senhouse replied; “and I have reasons for

putting your wish and her action together. And, as a matter of fact, she

could not let me know anything, because I have no certain address.”

“Your addresses are nothing whatever to me,” said Duplessis. “I decline

to tell you anything.”

“Very well,” said Senhouse slowly. “Then you must get what good you can

out of that.”

Duplessis turned on his heel and walked away. Bingo, sleek and swift,

ran after him and sniffed daintily at his calves. Curiosity, so to

speak, was behind him, drove his tail in between his legs. It wanted but

a spark to kindle the smouldering young man, and here it was. He turned

again, blazing. “Call in your cur, will you? They don’t allow dogs

here.”

“Bingo, heel,” said Senhouse, and watched him, smiling quietly.

XX

IN WHICH BINGO IS UNANSWERABLE

Swinging along his miles from Honiton back into Exeter he saw the

_patteran_ just within the two-mile-stone. “She wants me. She’s here.

Bless her wild heart.” Then he walked into the city, sat in the

tree-shaded alley of the inn by Exebridge, and breakfasted, as well he

might. He had eaten nothing since yesterday’s noon.

At two o’clock, as he leaned, smoking his pipe and looking at the river,

he saw Duplessis in a dog-cart drive over the bridge. This was precisely

what he had expected the moment he saw the _patteran_ in the road.

“He’ll lunch before he moves; he’ll treat himself handsomely. I’ll give

him till half-past three. Then we go together—the three of us.” Bingo

lowered his ears. Senhouse and he were too old friends for eye-service

or tail-signals. Together they crossed the bridge and strolled up the

curving street. The second inn-yard they visited showed them the

Wraybrook dog-cart, high and yellow-wheeled. “He’s put up. He goes back

to-night. He’s lunching. Now what shall we do? I think, a walk.”

He addressed himself to the wooded heights which look down on Exeter.

His spirits were high to meet the evening’s battle; he urged Bingo to

extend himself, infected him with the fray to come. “My friend, do you

know who lives in this town? Do you know whom we are to see by-and-by? A

gentle-handed acquaintance, my friend—a lover of yours, whose troubles

have been told you and me by signs. Not by words, Bingo, my boy; for

words have not been made fine enough to voice her thoughts,

half-thoughts and quarter-thoughts: no, but by a sigh scarcely heard, or

a hand on your head, by caresses, and lingering touches, and suchlike

pretty talk. That’s how we know her, and what we love her for, Bingo;

because she’s timid and full of alarms—all on the edge of the real

thing, hovering on the threshold of the cage.”

Bingo pricked up his ears, then whined. He moved his head to acknowledge

a friendly speech, but he was trembling and looking up the road.

“Bingo, come in,” said Senhouse, and trembled, too. He saw Mary coming

up the road, books under her arm. She was rosy with breasting the hill;

and he could see that her eyes were very bright. He could see, from the

gate at which he leaned, that she was charged with excitement; that her

lips were never still, that she looked sideways for events. He had to

put his hand on Bingo’s head to keep him back—and to keep himself back.

“I’ll give him one more chance,” he told himself, and stayed where he

was. Mary passed him, all unconscious, went quickly up the road, stopped

at a white gate, and slowly pushed it open. As she went in he saw her

pause and look down the road by which she had come. Then she went in,

and the gate swung to and fro, and clicked as the latch caught.

Senhouse inspected the gate, then his watch. “Rosemount Academy for

Young Ladies—three o’clock. She’s teaching till four. She expects him.”

He retired to his trees; but had to call Bingo twice. He was halfway up

the drive, nosing out his friend.

Duplessis came up the hill at five minutes to four, and smoked three

cigarettes one after another. He looked at his watch incessantly, as he

walked up and down the road. Senhouse watched him calmly, not making any

effort at concealment—but concealed, because, it was obvious, Duplessis

had no notion of his whereabouts. Ladies—young ladies in straw

hats—came out of Rosemount Academy in twos and threes and vanished up

or down the road, as the case might be. Some rode bicycles, and waved

the prouder farewells to their friends afoot. One was fetched in a

brougham by a furred matron; two had a maid; and one joined a brother in

a cricket cap. Ladies of severer mien, tightly jacketed and in black,

came presently; a long-haired music-master—and Mary.

As she stood beyond the gate she saw Duplessis. Senhouse knew that by

her look. She had a trick, when she was at a pass, of driving all

expression from her eyes. They showed then as masks of black: it was her

way of defence. You could not tell whether she was glad or afraid of

you.

But she addressed herself to her task; completed, or allowed the young

musician to complete, the conversation, bade him a smiling farewell

which sent him happily on his way, and then waited, blankly, but with

colour, for Duplessis. The road was now empty but for these two.

He came up, lifting his hat; he took her hand, and held it while he bent

to speak to her. Senhouse saw her so held, but with averted face; saw

that she was listening, that she was serious—too serious to be

frightened. Once he saw her look up at the man, and frame No with her

grave lips; once again look up and frame Yes. At that second answer

Duplessis took her hand again—her left hand which had been idle by her

side—and held it while he continued to talk vehemently, in low tones.

He watched her now intently, as she fought these long odds; and had

Bingo by the scruff—Bingo on his hind legs, shivering and whining in

whispers—“Steady, boy; hold yourself——.”

Mary was now pale, and in her eyes was the light of distress. They

beaconed across the way: but no help came. As she listened she began to

breathe quickly; he could see her bosom’s unrest. Her hand was caught up

to Tristram’s lips—but she sprang away then, and her “Oh, no, no!

Never, never—I could not do it,” gave Senhouse the cue for which he

shook. He loosed Bingo, who, like a streak of grey light, shot across

the road.

Duplessis started violently; but a low glad cry came from Mary’s heart.

“Bingo! Oh, my dearest friend! Oh, Bingo!” She stooped in the road, and

the two were one. Then she rose vividly bright and waited for Senhouse.

He crossed the road leisurely—with no looks for Duplessis. He held out

the maple-branch. “My excuse,” he said. She took it from him, and kept

it in her hand. But she could not speak. In the presence of the two men

she showed nothing common or mean—no consciousness. She was perhaps at

her best: her colour high, but not painful, her eyes serious, but not

veiled. Modesty had been jarring affectation here: modesty was not

possible. Her left hand still held Bingo’s head to her side: Bingo on

his hind legs, revelling in her hand.

The two men, each in his way, put their fate to the touch. Neither took

his eyes off her, neither gave an inch. Duplessis would not have

compromised if he could. His sullen rage was patent: he let it smoulder.

Senhouse smiled—all the faun showed in him: the stored secret

knowledge, the power of the adept, of the seer into the dark, of him who

would mock if he were not full of pity.

He spoke first. “It seems that you are to choose,” he said. “I can ask

you to do that.”

Her soft eyes beamed, and her smile met his in the way. “Halfway House?”

she said, asking.

He nodded. “Halfway House, we’ll put it still.”

Duplessis said nothing at all; but fixed her with his knit brows. A good

ear might have heard three hearts beating. I think that Bingo’s did, for

he nozzled in Mary’s hand.

She let him gently down, stooped over him, kissed his head, whispered in

his ear. Then, rising to her assize, with a look divinely mild and a

gesture of confidence which brought tears into one pair of eyes, she put

her hand in Senhouse’s, and stood by his side.

Duplessis stiffened and looked at the pair of them. “I take your

answer,” he said, bowed to her, and walked down the hill. Bingo, sitting

sagely on his haunches, suddenly yawned.

Shyly they turned to each other, shyly kissed. Senhouse kissed her

twice, then threw his head back and laughed his joy to the skies. “Oh,

wonder of the world!” he cried, and took her to his heart.

* * * * *

Here’s for the last of her. In the train, on their way to London and

Löffner, Senhouse was commenting upon what lay before them: the

Caucasus, the Schwarzwald. What would she do in the Caucasus, for

example? That was easy. “I shall sit in the door of the tent, waiting

for you,” she told him. In the Black Forest? What else?

He believed her. “We are to leave Halfway House, then?” and then he

looked out of the window at the rolling hills of Wilts. “At any rate,

here I am a bondslave—yoked by Baden for five years. Make what you will

of it.”

She said nothing; she was always slow of speech with her betters when

they talked above her head. But she pondered the saying, it was clear,

for presently she picked up his hand, stooped to it, and kissed it;

then, lowering her head, put his arm over her neck, and looked at him

from below it. It was a pretty act, one of her prettiest. He saw the

beauty of her gentle rebuke.

It sent him to his knees. Bingo, sitting on her skirt, looked pityingly

at his master, for a few seconds, and then up into her face.

THE END

Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious printing errors have been silently corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation have been

preserved.