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diff --git a/29766.txt b/29766.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cb9c1d9 --- /dev/null +++ b/29766.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9092 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Audrey Craven, by May Sinclair + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Audrey Craven + +Author: May Sinclair + +Release Date: August 23, 2009 [EBook #29766] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUDREY CRAVEN *** + + + + +Produced by Woodie4, Suzanne Shell, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + + + + + + + + + AUDREY CRAVEN + + + BY + + MAY SINCLAIR + + AUTHOR OF "THE DIVINE FIRE," ETC. + + + "Made subject to vanity" + + + + NEW YORK + + HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY + + 1906 + + + _AUTHOR'S EDITION_ + + + _TO_ + + _MY MOTHER_ + + + + +AUDREY CRAVEN + + + + +CHAPTER I + + +Everybody knew that Miss Audrey Craven was the original of "Laura," the +heroine of Langley Wyndham's masterpiece. She first attracted the +attention of that student of human nature at Oxford, at a dinner given +by her guardian, the Dean of St. Benedict's, ostensibly in honour of the +new Master of Lazarus, in reality for his ward's entertainment and +instruction in the bewildering art of life. + +It was thunder-weather. Out of doors, a hot and sleepy air hung over the +city; indoors, the forecast was no less heavy and depressing. Not so, +however, to Miss Audrey Craven. The party was large and mixed; and to +the fresh, untutored mind of a tyro, this in itself was promising. The +Dean pursued the ruinous policy of being all things to all men; and +to-night, together with nonentities and Oxonians of European renown, +there was a sprinkling of celebrities from the outside world. Among +these were Mr. Langley Wyndham, the eminent novelist, and his friend +Mr. Percival Knowles, the critic who had helped him to his eminence. +Having collected these discordant elements around him, the Dean withdrew +from the unequal contest, and hovered, smiling ineffectually, on the +outskirts of his little chaos. Perhaps he tried to find comfort in a +conscience satisfied for a party spoiled. But for Audrey this wild +confusion was rich in possibility. However baffling to those officially +responsible, it offered a wider field for individual enterprise; and if +she did not possess that fine flow of animal spirits which sometimes +supports lesser minds under such circumstances, she had other qualities +which stood her in good stead. Conspicuous amongst these was an +indomitable moral courage. She prepared to hurl herself into the breach. + +Wyndham was standing a little apart from the herd, leaning against the +wall, as if overcome by an atmosphere too oppressive for endurance, when +he saw his friend approaching him. Knowles was looking about him with +eyes alert, and that furtive but uncontrollable smile which made ladies +say, "Yes; but Mr. Knowles is so dreadfully cynical, you know." + +"By the way, Wyndham--I don't want to startle you, but there is a lady +here who particularly wants me to introduce you to her." + +Wyndham turned on him a look terrible in its dignified reproach. + +"Anything but that, my dear fellow. No more introductions to-night, +please. I've just suffered torture from an unspeakable youth from +Aberdeen, who expected me to rejoice with him because Oxford is at last +recognising the 'exeestence of a metapheesical principle in the wur-r-ld +and mon----'" + +"I admit that the party is dull, from a mere worldling's point of view. +But it's a glorious field for the student of human nature. And here's an +opportunity for exceptional research--something quite off the beaten +track. The admirer of you and all your works is the lovely Miss Craven, +and I assure you she's creating a sensation at the other end of the +room." + +"Which is she?" + +"There, the girl with the copper-coloured hair, talking to Broadbent." + +"Ah, that one. No, thanks. I know what you're going to tell me--she +_writes_." + +"She doesn't, but she's pretty enough to do that or anything else she +chooses. Scandal says she's looking for a religion. She must be a simple +soul if she thinks she can pick up the article in Oxford." + +"Oh, I don't know. Religions are cheap everywhere nowadays, the supply +being so remarkably in excess of the demand, and Miss Craven's soul may +be immortal (we'll give it the benefit of the doubt), but its simplicity +is _un grand peut-etre_. What's the matter?" + +"It makes me ill to see the way these fellows go about leading captive +silly women. Do look at Broadbent cramming his spiritual pabulum into +that girl's mouth. Moral platitudes--all the old crusts he can lay his +hands on, soaked in the milk-and-water of sentiment." + +"And a little new wine--with the alcohol extracted by the latest +process; no possible risk of injury to the bottles. Don't be uneasy; +I've been watching her all evening, ever since I found her in a corner +with the unspeakable youth, talking transcendentalism. A woman who can +look you in the face and ask you if you have ever doubted your own +existence, and if it isn't a very weird and unaccountable sensation, +would be capable of anything. Five minutes afterwards she was +complimenting Flaxman Reed on the splendid logic of the Roman Faith, and +now I've no doubt she's contributing valuable material to Broadbent's +great work on the Fourth Gospel." + +He was wrong. At that moment the earnest seeker after truth was gazing +abstractedly in his direction, and had left the Canon lecturing to empty +benches, balancing himself on his toes, while he defined his theological +position with convincing emphasis of finger and thumb. What he said is +neither here nor there. Then Wyndham repented of his rudeness. He waited +till Knowles was looking another way, and made for the Dean in a +bee-line, approaching him from the rear to find him introducing a late +arrival to his niece. He heard the name Mr. Jackson, and noted the faint +shade of annoyance on the girl's face, as the interloper sat down beside +her with a smile of dreamy content. It was enough to quench Wyndham's +languid ardour. He was not going to take any more trouble to get an +introduction to Miss Audrey Craven. + +He saw her once more that evening as he turned to take leave of his +host. She was still sitting beside Mr. Jackson, and Wyndham watched them +furtively. Mr. Jackson was a heavy, flaxen-haired young man, with a +large eye-glass and no profile to speak of. To judge by Miss Craven's +expression, his conversation was not very interesting, though he was +evidently exerting himself to give it a humorous turn. Wyndham smiled in +spite of himself. + +"Hard lines, wasn't it?" said Knowles at his elbow. "Brilliant idea of +the Dean's, though--introduce the biggest bore in the county to the +prettiest girl in the room." + +The unconscious Mr. Jackson burst into laughter, and Audrey raised her +eyebrows; she looked from Mr. Jackson to Wyndham, and from Wyndham to +Mr. Jackson, and laughed a low musical laugh, without any humour in it, +which echoed unmusically in the memory. Wyndham turned abruptly away, +and Audrey looked after him as he turned. Her face was that of one who +sees her last hope disappearing. Poor Audrey! Who would not have pitied +her? After hovering all evening on the verge of an introduction to his +Eminence, it was hard to bear the irony of this decline, unsustained by +any sense of its comedy. He had avoided her in the most marked manner; +but all the same, she wondered whether he was thinking about her, and +if so, what he was thinking. + +What he thought that night, and the next, and the next after that, was +something like this: "My dear lady, you think yourself remarkably +clever. But really there is nothing striking about you except the colour +of your hair. Biggest bore in the county--prettiest girl in the room? If +it weren't for your prettiness--well, as yet that may have saved you +from being a bore." After that he laughed whenever he caught himself +trying to piece together the image which his memory persistently +presented to him in fragments: now an oval face tinged with a childlike +bloom, now grey eyes ringed with black, under dark eyebrows and lashes; +or a little Roman nose with a sensitive tip, or a mouth that to the best +of his recollection curled up at the corners, making a perpetual dimple +in each cheek. They were frivolous details, but for weeks he carried +them about with him along with his more valuable property. + + + + +CHAPTER II + + +Scandal was mistaken. Miss Audrey Craven was not in search of a +religion, but she had passed all her life looking for a revelation. She +had no idea of the precise form it was to take, but had never wavered in +her belief that it was there, waiting for her, as it were, round a dark +corner. Hitherto the ideal had shown a provoking reticence; the +perfectly unique sensation had failed to turn up at the critical moment. +Audrey had reached the ripe age of ten before the death of her father +and mother, and this event could not be expected to provide her with a +wholly new emotion. She had been familiarised with sorrow through fine +gradations of funereal tragedy, having witnessed the passing of her +canary, her dormouse, and her rabbit. The end of these engaging +creatures had been peculiarly distressing, hastened as it was by +starvation, under most insanitary conditions. + +The age of ten is the age of disenchantment--for those of us who can +take a hint. For Audrey disenchantment never wholly came. She went on +making the same extravagant demands, without a suspicion of the limited +resources of life. It was the way of the Cravens. Up to the last her +father never lost his blind confidence in a world which had provided him +with a great deal of irregular amusement. But the late Mr. Craven could +be wise for others, though not for himself, and he had taken a singular +precaution with regard to his daughter. Not counting the wife whom he +had too soon ceased to care for, he had a low opinion of all women, and +he distrusted Audrey's temperament, judging it probably by his own and +that of his more intimate acquaintance. By a special clause in his will, +she had to wait for her majority four years longer than the term by law +appointed. Further, until she reached her majority she was to spend six +months of the year at Oxford, near her guardian, for the forming and +informing of her mind--always supposing that she had a mind to form. And +now, at the age of five-and-twenty, being the mistress of her own +person, her own income, and her own house in Chelsea, she was still +looking out for a revelation. + +Her cousin, Mr. Vincent Hardy, believed that he had been providentially +invented to supply it. But in the nature of things a cousin whom you +have known familiarly from childhood cannot strike you as a revelation. +He is really little better than a more or less animated platitude. + +Vincent Hardy would have been unaffectedly surprised if you had told him +so. To himself he seemed the very incarnation of distinguished paradox. +This simply meant that he was one of those who innocently imagine that +they can defy the minor conventions with a rarer grace than other men. + +Certainly his was not exactly the sort of figure that convention expects +to find in its drawing-rooms at nine o'clock in the evening. It was in +Audrey's house in Chelsea, the little brown house with discreet white +storm-shutters, that stands back from the Embankment, screened by the +narrow strip of railed plantation known as Chelsea Gardens. Here or +hereabouts Hardy was to be met with at any hour of the day; and late one +July evening he had settled himself, as usual, near a certain "cosy +corner" in the big drawing-room. His face, and especially his nose, was +bronzed with recent exercise in sun and wind, his hair was limp with the +steam of his own speed, and on his forehead his hat had left its mark in +a deep red cincture. His loose shooting jacket, worn open, displayed a +flannel shirt, white, but not too white. This much of Hardy was raised +and supported on his elbow; the rest of him, encased in knickerbockers, +stockings, and exceedingly muddy boots, sprawled with a naive +abandonment at the feet of the owner of the drawing-room. Lying in this +easy attitude, he delivered himself of the following address-- + +"Life in London is a life for lunatics. And life in England generally is +a glorious life for clergymen and counter-hoppers, but it's not the life +for a man. It was all very well in the last century, you know, when +Englishmen were men first, and lunatics, if they chose, or clergymen or +counter-hoppers, afterwards. Ah! if that wasn't exactly our golden age, +it was the age of our maturity, of our manhood. If you doubt it, read +the literature of the eighteenth century. Take Fielding--no, don't take +Fielding. Anyhow, since then we have added nothing to the fabric of +life. To pile it on above, we've simply been digging away like mad from +below, and at last our top-heavy civilisation is nodding to its fall; +and its fall will sweep us all back into barbarism again. Then, when we +are forced back into natural conditions, the new race will be born. No +more of your big-headed, spindle-shanked manikins: we shall have a +chance then of seeing a _man_--that is, a perfect animal. You may turn +up your nose, my superfine lady: let me tell you that this glorious +animalism means sanity, and sanity means strength, and strength means +virtue. _Vis--vir--virtus_, ma'am." + +Hardy sat up and caressed the calves of his legs with thoughtful +emotion, as if he recognised them as the sources of the moral law within +him. His cousin had not followed his precipitate logic. With woman's +well-known aversion from the abstract, she was concentrating her +attention on the concrete case, the glorious animal before her. Now it +would be very wrong to suppose that Hardy was in the least tainted with +socialism, anarchism, or any such pestilent heresies, or that he had +read "Emile" and "Walden." He had never heard of either of these works, +and had no desire whatever for the restoration of society on a primitive +basis of animalism, modified by light literature, clothing, and the +moral law. For all modern theories he had a withering contempt, his own +simple creed being that in the beginning God made man a Tory squire. His +quarrel with the social order was a purely private and particular one. +In our modern mythology, Custom, Circumstance, and Heredity are the +three Fates that weave the web of human life. Hardy did not wholly +sympathise with this belief. He had too profound a respect for his own +pedigree to lay his sins at his great-grandfather's door. As the nephew +of a Tory squire, he was but two degrees removed from original +righteousness. In spite of this consideration, he was wont to describe +himself with engaging candour as a "bad hat." In doing so he recognised +that he was a dependent part of a vast and complicated system. If he, +Vincent Hardy, was a bad hat, who was to blame for it? Obviously, +civilisation for providing him with temptation, and society for +supplying encouragement. As a consequence he owed both civilisation and +society a grudge. + +"Therefore I say that a return to barbarism will be our salvation. You +and I mayn't live to see the day, but----" + +Here the impassioned orator, who had been making charges at his boots +with the point of his walking-stick, succeeded in detaching a large +cake of mud, which he immediately ground to powder on the carpet. +Civilisation personified in Audrey Craven gazed at him in polite +reproach. + +"My new carpet will certainly not live to see it. It may be part of the +detestable social order, but it is not responsible for it, any more than +I am." + +"Never mind, Audrey. It's honest Hertfordshire mud--clean from the +country as God made it, if I hadn't had to cross your filthy London in +order to get here." + +Audrey smiled, though she knew that brown streaks of the honest +Hertfordshire mud marked the hero's passage from the doorway to her +feet. She was naturally long-suffering, and seldom repulsed any one, +save a few of the more impertinent of her own sex. She lay back in her +cosy corner, outwardly contemplating the unusual length of muscular +humanity extended before her, inwardly admiring her own smile, a smile +of indulgent lips and arch eyebrows, in which the eyes preserved a +languid neutrality. + +Being thus pleasantly preoccupied, she may be supposed ignorant of her +cousin's broad gaze of unreflecting admiration, and totally unprepared +for his rapid change of theme. + +"Audrey," he began, with alarming suddenness, "some people would lead up +to the subject cautiously. That would only waste time, and time's +everything now. Is Miss Craven at home?" + +"Miss Craven is always at home when I am. Would you like to see her?" + +"See her? Good heavens, no! Do you know positively where she is +secreting herself, or must I lock the door?" + +"That is unnecessary. She will not come in--she never does." + +A suspicious look darted from the corners of Hardy's eyes. + +"Except when I ask her," added Audrey, sweetly. + +"Well, then, if you can ensure me against the sort of interruption that +annoyed me before, we will return to the question we were discussing +when----" + +"Please don't go over any old ground. That would bore me." + +"It would bore _me_. I will begin where we left off. The problem, if you +remember, was this--to put it baldly--do you care for me, or do you +not?" + +"Didn't we get any farther than that?" + +"No, we didn't." + +"Do I--or--do I not? Really I cannot tell you, Vincent, for I don't know +myself." + +"Nonsense! there's no logical dilemma. You can't go on for ever treating +it as an open question." + +"Well--you draw such absurdly hard-and-fast lines." + +"Audrey, do you honestly suppose that I've walked here thirty miles, +parboiled between sun and rain, in order to be made a fool of?" (in his +excitement Hardy forgot that twenty miles was the precise distance, and +that he had much better have taken the train). "How much longer are you +going to keep up this fiendish cat-and-mouse sort of game?" + +"What do you mean?" + +"I mean that ten years is a devil of a time to keep a man waiting for +his answer." + +"Ten years?--ten days, you mean." + +"Excuse me, I broached this subject for the first time ten years ago." + +"Oh, I daresay, when we were both children." + +"We are neither of us children now, Audrey." + +"Speak for yourself. I was an infant in the eyes of the law till the +other day." + +"You are--let me see--five-and-twenty. If you have any mind at all, you +must have made it up by this time." + +"The case would be much easier if you were not such a mass of +inconsistency yourself." + +"I've been consistent enough in one respect. Do you remember the first +time you stayed with us at Woodford, when you weren't much higher than +that table, and how you and I set off together for Wanstead Woods?" + +"Yes--before breakfast. I have never forgotten it." + +"Nor I. You did rile me that day, Audrey. You waited till we came within +a stone's-throw of the woods, and then you sat down in a turnip field +and cried because you couldn't go any farther." + +"After running at your heels for two miles, like a dog." + +"Yes--and, with the irresponsibility of the inferior animal, eating up +the whole of the cake I provided for us both." + +"It was perfectly fair; you dragged me out against my will." + +"So you argued at the time, but I couldn't follow your reasoning. +Perhaps you have forgotten how I carried you on my back to Woodford, and +then gave the milkman sixpence to drive us the rest of the way home. And +you were such a contemptible little snob that you cried again because +you had to sit next the milkman." + +"I remember perfectly. You only carried me as far as Red Bridge, in a +position the most comfortable for yourself and the most undignified for +me. You borrowed that sixpence from me and never paid me again; and we +were _both_ punished with dry bread for breakfast, because we were seen +in the milk-cart." + +"The abominable injustice of my parents was of a piece with the whole +system I complain of. You will observe that we were punished, not for +disobedience, but for riding in a milk-cart, and not so much for being +in it as for being seen in it." + +"Exactly, otherwise the reminiscence would be slightly irrelevant." + +"Not at all. It illustrates my thorough-going consistency. I loved you +then, in spite of your detestable conduct in the matter of that cake, +and I have loved you ever since in spite of your other faults." + +"Thank you." + +"I suppose you would prefer some hypocrite who told you that you had +none?" + +"On the contrary, I enjoy being told of my faults." + +This was true. If it came to the point, Audrey would boldly offer her +own character for dissection rather than suffer conversation to be +diverted to a less interesting topic. Hardy had rather neglected these +opportunities for psychological study, and herein lay the secret of his +failure. He continued, adopting a more practical line of argument +suggested by the episode of the sixpence-- + +"It's not as if you were a millionaire and I a grovelling pauper. I +shall have Lavernac and two thousand a-year when my uncle, Sir +Theophilus Parker, dies." Hardy rolled out the title with a certain +proprietary unction; his cousin had no share in this enviable +relationship. "I give the old bird five years at the very worst, and +it's a moral impossibility that he should leave me in the lurch. But I +don't count on that. My own property has kept me idle all my life; but +I've sold it at last, and, as I said just now, I am going out to Canada +to farm." + +Audrey blushed, and punished her blush with a frown. If she had been +playing the amusing game that Hardy suggested, it was one thing to give +the mouse a little run in order to renew the pleasures of the chase, +another thing to let him escape altogether from her paws. Hardy saw his +advantage and followed it up. + +"When I told you that I had done with civilisation, I suppose you +thought it was a joke?" + +"I did. Only I couldn't see the point." + +"The point is this, that I'm going down to Liverpool to-morrow, and +shall sail for Canada this day week. I can't stand it any longer. I +can't breathe here. Town or country, it's all the same--the air chokes +me, it's teeming with moral bacilli. You never thought I was so +particular? No more did I----". He paused, knitting his brows. "I admit +frankly that I'm a bad hat. This place has been my ruin, as it has of +many a better man than me. Perhaps, if it hadn't been for you, +Audrey--but I won't press that point; it wouldn't be generous, however +just. Anyhow, whatever my past has been, my future lies in your hands. I +would say your love was life or death to me, but that wouldn't be +anywhere near the truth. It's not so much a question of death as a +question of damnation." + +Hardy was desperately in earnest, but not so much so as to be careless +of rhetorical effect. In his desire to represent himself as a fallen +angel he had done himself no little injustice, as well as grossly +exaggerated the power of Audrey's regenerative influence. + +She was evidently moved. She took no pains to restrain the trembling of +her lips, more than was necessary to preserve their delicate outline. +Hardy had paid homage to her as the superior being. + +It marked an epoch in the history of his passion. + +He rose to his feet and looked down on her as from a height. A fallen +angel is not without his epic sublimity. + +The lady hesitated. She pulled out the tremolo stop, and then spoke. + +"You say that if it hadn't been for me--I don't quite understand you, +but you are mistaken if you think I never cared for you--never cared, I +mean to say, for your good." She also rose, with an air of having made a +statement as final as it was clear and convincing. He laid his hand on +her shoulder and looked steadily in her face. There was no evasion in +her eyes, but her eyelids quivered. + +"It's all right, Audrey; you never have denied that you love me, and you +can't for the life of you deny it now." + +She did not attempt to; for the entrance of the footman with coffee made +denial indecent at the moment, if not impossible. That _deus ex machina_ +from below the stage retired, unconscious of the imminent catastrophe he +had averted. But he had brought into the little drama a certain prosaic +element. Coffee and romantic passion do not go hand in hand. + +Then it seemed to Audrey that the welcome interval of commonplace lapsed +into a dream, in which Hardy's voice went sounding on in interminable +monologue. + +"I shall hear the wind, Audrey, rushing over prairies infinite as the +sea; I shall see the great wall of the Rockies rising sky-high. And +England will seem like a little piece of patchwork, with a pattern of +mole-hills for mountains, and brooks for rivers. And when I've set our +Canadian farm going, I shall hunt big game. And when I've exterminated +the last bison off the face of the boundless prairie, I shall devote +myself to literature." + +"Literature?" she echoed faintly. It was all so grotesquely strange that +even this announcement brought only a dreamlike surprise. + +"Yes, literature. Do you think literature is only produced by the +miserable noodles who sit in their studies at home, till their muscles +wither and their hearts get flabby? _My_ book will be a man's book, with +a man's blood and a man's brains in it. It will be a book that will make +posterity sit up. And when you have enjoyed the fame of it a little, +we'll go out again together. In Canada we shall find a new heaven and a +new earth." + +She sat silent and passive. The situation had a charm which she was +powerless to break. It seemed as if the mere brute force through which +Hardy had dominated her intellect hitherto, had become refined by some +extraordinary process, and was exerting a moral influence over her. In +order to assert herself against the intolerable fascination she rose +hastily and crossed the room to where her piano stood open in the +corner. + +She played loud and long,--wild Polish music, alive with the beating +pulses of love and frenzy and despair. It would have roused another man +to sublime enthusiasm or delirious rapture. + +It sent Hardy to sleep. + +Stretched on the hearthrug, with slackened jaw, and great chest heaving +with regular rise and fall, he slept like a tired dog. She played on, +and as she played he dreamed that he stood with her in the midst of the +burning prairie, they two on a little ring of charred black earth, an +island in a roaring sea of fire. The ring grew smaller and smaller, till +they could only find standing-room by clinging close together. As he +turned to her she thrust him from her into the sea of fire, crying, +"It's perfectly fair, Vincent, for you dragged me here against my will!" + +He woke with a snort as the music suddenly ceased. It was midnight. He +had to start from home early next morning, and if he delayed longer he +would lose the last train out. + +He parted from Audrey as only the traveller outward bound parts from his +betrothed. In fact, as she remarked afterwards, "For the fuss he made +about it he might have been going to the North Pole with his life in his +hands. So like Vincent!" As for Hardy, he felt already the wind of the +new heaven and the sweetness of the new earth. + +Audrey was staring abstractedly into the looking-glass, when she heard +the front-door shut with a violent bang, and the sound of his quick +footsteps on the pavement below. She came to herself with a cold shiver. + +What had she done? Surely she had not gone and engaged herself to +Vincent? bound herself in the first year of her liberty to a man she had +known all her life, and her own cousin too? + +It was impossible; for, you see, it would have argued great weakness of +mind and a total want of originality. + + + + +CHAPTER III + + +Whether Audrey did or did not understand herself, she was a mystery to +all about her, and to none more than her father's cousin and her own +chaperon, Miss Craven. This unfortunate lady, under stress of +circumstances, had accepted the charge of Audrey after her parents' +death, and had never ceased to watch her movements with bewildered +interest and surprise. The most familiar phenomena are often the least +understood, and Miss Craven's intelligence was daily baffled by the +problem of Audrey. Daily she renewed her researches, with enthusiasm +which would have done credit to a natural philosopher, but hitherto she +had found no hypothesis to cover all the facts. The girl was either a +rule for herself, or the exception that proved other people's rules; and +Miss Craven was obliged to rest satisfied in the vague conclusion that +she had a great deal of "character." Strange to say, that is how Audrey +struck most of her acquaintance, though as yet no one had been known to +venture on further definition. Miss Craven was repaid for her +affectionate solicitude by an indifference none the less galling because +evidently unstudied. Audrey rather liked her chaperon than otherwise. +The "poor old thing," as she called her, never got in her way, never +questioned her will, and made no claims whatsoever on her valuable time; +besides relieving her of all those little duties that make us wonder +whether life be worth living. + +Under the present dispensation chaperons were a necessary evil; and +Audrey was not one to fly heedlessly in the face of her Providence, +Society. + +All the same, Miss Craven had her drawbacks. If you, being young and +vivacious, take a highly nervous old lady and keep her in a state of +perpetual repression, shutting her out from all your little confidences, +you will find that the curiosity so natural to her age will be sure to +burst out, after such bottling, in alarming effervescence. As soon as +Hardy's unmistakable footsteps were heard on the stairs, she had left +the drawing-room on a hint from Audrey. In her room above she had heard +the alternate booming and buzzing of their voices prolonged far into the +night, but could make out no intelligible sounds. To ears tingling with +prophetic apprehension the provocation was intense. + +The old lady passed a restless night, and came down to breakfast the +next morning quivering with suppressed excitement. Audrey's face did not +inspire confidence; and it was not until she had touched lightly on the +state of the weather, and other topics of general interest, that Miss +Craven darted irrelevantly to her point. + +"My dear, is there anything between you and your--er--cousin Mr. Hardy?" + +The awful question hung in the air without a context, while Audrey went +on making tea. This she did with a graceful and deliberate precision, +completing the delicate operation before answering. + +"Yes, there is a great deal between me and my cousin Mr. Hardy, which +neither of us can get over." + +There was a freezing finality in the manner of the reply, in spite of +the smile which accompanied it; and even Miss Craven could not fail to +understand. She bridled a little, wrapping herself closer in her soft +shawl as in an impenetrable husk of reserve, and began nervously +buttering toast. The whole thing was very odd; but then the ways of +Audrey were inscrutable. + +Audrey herself felt an unspeakable relief after that question and her +own inspired answer. Last night she had possibly been ambiguous; to-day, +at any rate, her words had a trenchant force which severed one of the +thousand little threads that bound her to Hardy. After all, when it came +to the point, there was an immense amount of decision in her character. +And as the days went on, and Hardy with them, leaving league after +league of the Atlantic behind him, the load at her heart grew lighter; +and when at last the letter came which told her that he had crossed the +Rocky Mountains, she felt with a little tremor of delight that she was a +free woman once more. Her world was all before her, vaguely alluring, +as it had been a month ago. + +The letters which Hardy sent from time to time had no power to destroy +this agreeable illusion; for of course letters were bound to come, and +she answered them all with cousinly affection, as she would have +answered them in any case. At last one came which roused her from her +indifference, for it had a postscript:-- + + "By the way, there's a Miss Katherine Haviland living near you, at + 12 Devon Street, Pimlico. She's a sort of little half-sister of + mine, so I'd be glad if you'd go and look her up some day and be + kind to her. There's a brother knocking about somewhere, but he + doesn't count, he's only a baby. Ripping sport--shot a moose and two + wapiti this morning." + +Audrey read the letter with languid attention. She was not in the least +interested to hear that he had taken up land and put it into the hands +of an agent to farm. She was tired of the long highly-coloured +descriptions of Canadian scenery and the tales of Vincent's adventures, +and she had got into the way of skipping his vain repetitions of all the +absurd things he had said to her on the night of his departure; but the +postscript stirred strange feelings in her breast. His mother was +married a second time, but to Audrey's certain knowledge Vincent had no +little half-sisters; it followed that for some reason he had used a +figure of speech. She was not in the least in love with him, but at the +same time she felt all the dignity of her position as empress of his +heart, and could bear no little half-sisters near the throne. She would +certainly look Miss Haviland up. She would go and be kind to her that +afternoon; and she put on her best clothes for the occasion. + +A few minutes' walk brought her to No. 12 Devon Street, one of a row of +gloomy little houses--"full of dreadful city clerks and dressmakers," +she said to herself in a flight of imagination. + +She lifted the knocker gingerly in her white gloved hand, and felt by no +means reassured when she was shown in, and followed the servant up the +narrow staircases to the attics. As she neared the top she heard a voice +above her sounding in passionate remonstrance. + +"Three baths in the one blessed dy, a-splashin' and a-sloogin' somethin' +orful--'e didn't ought for to do it, m'm, not if it was ever so!" + +Here the voice was cut short by a mingled roar and ripple of laughter, +and Miss Audrey Craven paused before announcing herself. Through the +half-open doorway she saw a girl standing before an easel. She had laid +down her palette and brushes, and with bold sure strokes of the pencil +was sketching against time, leaning a little backwards, with her head in +a critically observant pose. The voice reasserted itself in crushing +peroration-- + +"I tell you wot it is, Mr. 'Aviland--_you're no gentleman_." + +And Audrey's entrance coincided with the retreat of a stout woman, +moving slowly with an unnatural calm. + +The girl doubled back her sketch-book and came forward, apologising for +the confusion. Face to face with the object of her curiosity, Audrey's +first feeling was one of surprised and reluctant admiration. Miss +Haviland was dark, and pale, and thin; she was also a little too tall, +and Audrey did not know whether she quite liked the airy masses of black +hair that curled high up from her forehead and low down on it, in crisp +tendrils like fine wire. Yet, but for her nose, which was a shade too +long, a thought too _retrousse_, Miss Haviland would have been beautiful +after the Greek type. (Audrey's own type, as she had once described it +in a moment of introspection, was the "Roman _piquante_," therefore she +made that admission the more readily.) There was a touch of classic +grace, too, in the girl's figure and her dress. She had rolled up the +sleeves of her long blue overall, and bound it below her breasts and +waist with a girdle of tape--not for the sake of effect, as Audrey +supposed, but to give her greater freedom as she worked and moved about +the studio. At this point Audrey found out that all Miss Haviland's +beauty lay in the shape of her head and neck. With "that nose" she might +be "interesting," but could never be beautiful; in fact, her mouth was +too firm and her chin stuck out too much even for moderate prettiness. + +Audrey did not arrive at these conclusions in the gradual manner here +set forth. The total impression was photographed on her sensitive +feminine brain by the instantaneous process; and with the same +comprehensive rapidity she began to take in the details of her +surroundings. The attic was long, and had one window to the west, and +another to the north under the roof, looking over the leads. At the far +end were a plain square table and a corner cupboard. That was the +dining-room and the pantry. Before the fireplace were a small Persian +rug bounded by a revolving book-case, a bamboo couch, a palm fern, a +tea-table. That was the library and drawing-room. All the remaining +space was the studio; and amongst easels, stacks of canvases, draperies, +and general litter, a few life-size casts from the antique gleamed from +their corners. + +From these rapid observations Audrey concluded that Miss Haviland was +poor. + +"You were busy when I came in?" she asked sweetly. + +"No; I was only taking a hurried sketch from the life. It's not often +that our landlady exhibits herself in that sublime mood; so I seized the +opportunity." + +"And I interrupted you." + +"No; you interrupted Mrs. Rogers, for which we were much obliged--she +might have sat for us longer than we liked. I am very pleased to see +you." + +Certainly Audrey was a pleasant sight. There was no critical +afterthought in the admiring look which Miss Haviland turned on her +visitor, and Audrey felt to her finger-tips this large-hearted feminine +homage. To compel another woman to admire you is always a triumph; +besides, Miss Haviland was an artist, and her admiration was worth +something--it was like having the opinion of an expert. Audrey pondered +for a moment, with her head at a becoming angle, for she had not yet +accounted for herself. + +"My cousin Vincent Hardy asked me to call on you. I believe he is a very +old friend of yours?" + +"Yes; we have known each other since we were children." + +"What do you think of his going out to Canada to farm?" + +"I didn't know he had gone." + +(Then Vincent had not thought it worth while to say good-bye to his +"little half-sister." So far, so good.) + +"Oh, didn't you? He went six weeks ago." + +"I never heard. It's an unlikely thing for him to do, but that's the +sort of thing he always did do." + +"He hated going, poor fellow. He came to say good-bye to me the night +before he went, and he was in a dreadful state. I've heard from him +every week since he sailed, and he's promised to send me some +bearskins. Isn't it nice of him?" ("She won't like _that_!") + +Miss Haviland assented gravely, but her eyes smiled. + +"I suppose you've seen a good deal of Vincent? He wrote to me about you +from the Rocky Mountains." + +"Did he? We used to be a good deal together when we were little. Since +then we have been the best of friends, which means that we ignore each +other's existence with the most perfect understanding in the world. I +always liked Vincent." + +This was reassuring. Miss Haviland's manner was candour itself; and +depend upon it, if there had been any self-consciousness about her, +Audrey would have found it out at once. She dropped the subject, and +looked about her for another. The suggestions of the place were obvious. + +"I see you are a great artist. My cousin didn't prepare me for that." + +Miss Haviland laughed. + +"Vincent is probably unaware of the interesting fact, like the rest of +the world." + +"That picture is very beautiful; may I look at it?" said Audrey, going +up to the easel. + +"Certainly. It's hardly finished yet, and I don't think it will be +particularly beautiful when it is. I can't choose my subjects." + +"It looks--interesting," murmured Audrey, fatuously. (What _was_ the +subject, after all?) "Have you done many others?" + +"Yes, a good many." + +"May I----?" she hesitated, wondering whether her request might not be a +social solecism, like asking a professional to play. + +"If you care about pictures, I will show you some of my brother's some +day. His are better than mine--more original, at least." + +"Your brother? Oh, of course. Vincent told me you had a brother, a baby +brother. Surely----" + +Miss Haviland laughed again. + +"How like Vincent! He is unconscious of the flight of time. I suppose he +told you I was about ten years old. But you must really see the baby; he +will be delighted with your description of him." She called through the +skylight, and Audrey remembered the gentleman who was "no gentleman," +and who must have been responsible for half the laughter she had +overheard. + +"You see," Miss Haviland explained, "we've only one room for everything; +so Ted always climbs on to the leads when we hear people coming--he's +bound to meet them on the stairs, if he makes a rush for the bedrooms. +If any bores come, I let him stay up there; and if it's any one likely +to be interesting, I call him down." + +"He must have great confidence in your judgment." + +"He has. Here he comes." + +Audrey looked up in time to see the baby lowering himself through the +skylight. With his spine curved well back, his legs hanging within the +room, and his head and the upper part of his body laid flat on the leads +outside it, he balanced himself for a second of time. It was a most +undignified position; but he triumphed over it, as, with one supple +undulation, he shot himself on to the floor, saving his forehead from +the window by a hair's-breath. + +After this fashion Ted Haviland was revealed to Audrey. She was, if +anything, more surprised by his personal appearance than by the unusual +manner of his entrance. The baby could not have been more than nineteen +or twenty, and there could be no dispute as to his beauty. Nature had +cast his features in the same mould as his sister's, and produced a very +striking effect by giving him the same dark eyebrows and lashes, with +blue eyes and a mass of light brown hair. Detractors complained that the +type was too feminine for their taste; but when challenged to show a +single weak line in his face, they evaded the point and laid stress on +the delicate pallor of his complexion. Not that it mattered, for Ted +soon made you think as little of his good looks as he did himself. But +Audrey never forgot him as she first saw him, glowing with exercise and +the midday bath which had roused his landlady's indignation. + +"I'm extremely sorry," he began airily, "for disappearing in that rude +way." + +"Perhaps I ought to apologise," said Audrey, "for I frightened you +away." + +"Not at all, though I was desperately frightened too. I was flying +before Mrs. Rogers when you came in. You'll probably think I ought to +have braved it out, just for the look of the thing--especially after her +reflections on my social position--but unfortunately my sister has +imbued that terrible woman with the belief that art can't possibly +flourish anywhere outside this attic of hers. Ever since then she's kept +us in the most humiliating subjection. I don't want you to think badly +of Mrs. Rogers: there's no malice about her; she wouldn't raise your +rent suddenly, or leave pails of water on the stairs, or anything of +that kind, and she's capable of really deep feeling when it's a question +of dinner." + +"Ted--if you _can_ forget Mrs. Rogers for a minute--I told Miss Craven +that you would show her some of your sketches and things some day." + +"All right; we'll have the exhibition to-day, if Miss Craven cares to +stop. Plenty of time before the light goes." + +Audrey hesitated: but Miss Haviland had moved aside her own easel to +make room for her brother's; she seconded his invitation, and Miss +Craven stopped. + +Three months ago, in an Oxford drawing-room, she had found herself +absorbing metaphysics, as it were through the pores of her skin, without +any previous discipline in that exacting science; now, in a London +studio, she became aware of a similarly miraculous influx of power. +Yesterday she would have told you that she knew nothing about art, and +cared less. To-day it seemed that she had lived in its atmosphere from +her cradle, and learned its language at her nurse's knee. But, though +familiar with art, she was not prepared for the behaviour of the artist. +Ted treated his works as if he were the last person concerned with them. +He would pass scathing judgment on those which pleased Audrey best; or +he would stand, like a self-complacent deity, aloof from his own +creations, beholding them to be very good, and not hesitating to say so. + +"Well," said Audrey at last, "you've shown me a great many lovely +things, but which is your masterpiece?" + +"They were all masterpieces when I first finished them." + +"Yes; but seriously, which do you consider your best? I want to know." + +Ted hesitated, and then turned to a stack of larger canvases. + +"I wonder," she murmured, "if _I_ shall think it your best." + +"Probably not." + +"Why not?" + +Ted did not answer: he hardly liked to say, "Because hitherto you have +persistently admired my worst." + +"This," he said, laughing, as he lifted a large canvas on to the easel, +"is the only masterpiece that has withstood the test of time." + +"He means," struck in his sister, "that he finished it a week ago, and +that in another week he'll want to stick a knife into it." + +With all its faults the picture had a poetic audacity that defied the +criticism it provoked. If you looked long enough, you saw that a youth +and a maiden were lying in a trance that was half sleep, half death; +while their souls, diaphanous forms with indefinite legs, hovered above +them in mid-air, each leaning towards the other's body. The souls +described two curves that crossed like the intersecting of rainbows; and +where they met, their wings mingled in a confused iridescence. Eros, in +a flame-coloured tunic, looked on with an air of studied indifference +that might or might not have been intended by the painter. + +Audrey looked helplessly at the picture. She could not understand it, +and with things that she could not understand she always felt a vague +impotent displeasure. + +"What--what is the subject?" she gasped at length. + +"A metempsychosis." + +She knitted her brows and said nothing. + +"Transmigration of souls--why didn't I say so at first?" returned Ted, +in cheerful response to the frown. + +"So I see; but what's Apollo doing there with his bow and arrows, and +why is he all in red?" + +"It's not meant for Apollo--it's an Eros." + +"I beg your pardon?" + +"An Eros--Love, a very inferior order of deity." + +"Why is he in red?" + +"I don't know, I'm sure. His taste in dress always was a little loud." + +"But why is he there at all?" + +"Love! Can't you see? I can't explain if it's not obvious. He--er--he +_must_ be there." + +Audrey looked up, but the baby was not looking at her; he was absorbed +in his masterpiece. She flushed, and pressed one little pointed boot +firmly to the ground. + +"Yes, yes, I see that; but I can't make out the rest of it." + +Ted shook his head helplessly, while his sister laughed at his +discomfiture. + +"Please don't mind my sister," said he, nervously flourishing his +maul-stick. "The picture represents two people exchanging souls"--Audrey +raised her eyebrows: "those are the souls, and these are the people--do +be quiet, Katherine! It's a perfectly conceivable transaction, though I +own it might be a very bad bargain for some. I wouldn't like to swop +souls with my sister, for instance--she hasn't any imagination." + +Audrey gave a little shudder. + +"What a curious idea! It makes me feel quite creepy. But I'm sure I +never _could_ lose my sense, of personal identity. My individuality is +too strong--or something. And then, what _has_ Love got to do with it? +What does it all mean?" + +"Obviously, that Love is Master of the Ceremonies at every +well-regulated metempsychosis," said Katherine. + +"I see." Audrey lay back in her chair and gazed dreamily at the +painting, while the painter gazed at her. Was he trying to find out the +secret of that individuality? + +Audrey turned to Katherine with her radiant smile. + +"Do you paint like this, too?" + +"No, I'm a portrait-painter." + +"Ah! that means that you'd rather paint what you see?" + +"It means that I have to paint a great deal that I'd rather not see." + +"But your brother is an idealist--aren't you, Mr. Haviland?" + +"Probably. I've always noticed that when people call you an idealist, +it's a polite way of saying you're a failure. I may be an idealist; I +don't know, and I'm afraid I don't much care." + +"I'm sure you do care; and you _must_ have your ideals." + +"Oh, as for that, I've kept as many as seven of them at a time. But I +never could tame them, and when it comes to taking their portraits the +things don't know how to sit properly. Look at that woman's soul, for +instance"--and Ted pointed to his masterpiece with disgust. + +"Why, what's wrong with it? It's beautiful." + +"Yes; I got on all right with the upper half, but, as you see, I've been +a little unfortunate with the feet and legs." + +"Of course!" interrupted Katherine, "because you got tired of the whole +thing. That's what a man's idealism comes to!" + +Audrey looked up with a quick sidelong glance. + +"And what does a woman's idealism come to?" + +"Generally to this--that she's tried to paint her own portrait large, +with a big brush, and made a mess of the canvas." + +There was a sad inflection in the girl's voice, and she looked away as +she spoke. The look and the tone were details that lay beyond the range +of Audrey's observation, and she felt hurt, though she hardly knew why. +She rose, carefully adjusting her veil and the lace about her throat. + +"I adore idealists--I can't help it; I'm made that way, you see." + +She shrugged her shoulders, in delicate deprecation of the decrees of +Fate. + +Katherine did not see, but she went down with Miss Craven to the door. +Ted had proposed tea on the leads, and Audrey had agreed that it would +have been charming--idyllic--if she could have stayed. But she had +looked at the skylight, and then at her own closely fitting gown, and +Propriety, her guardian angel, had suggested that she had better not. + +"Ted," said Katherine an hour later, "I've got an idea. What a +magnificent model Miss Craven would make!" + +Ted made no answer; but he flung his sketch-book to the other end of the +room, where it took Apollo neatly in the eye. + +"I've failed miserably in my Mrs. Rogers," said he, and went off for +solitary contemplation on the leads. + +Katherine picked up the book and looked at it. + +He _had_ failed in his Mrs. Rogers; but in a corner of a fresh page he +had made a little sketch of a face and figure which were not those of +Mrs. Rogers. And that was a failure too. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + + +There was a certain truth in Hardy's description of Ted Haviland. Ted +had all a baby's fascination, a baby's irresponsibility, and a baby's +rigid tenacity of purpose. There perhaps the likeness ended. At any +rate, Ted had contrived to plan a career for himself at the age of +seven, had said nothing about it for ten years, and then quietly carried +it through in spite of circumstances and the influential members of his +family. These powers had been against him from the first. His mother had +died in giving him birth; and as his father chose to hold him directly +responsible for the tragedy, his early years were passed somewhat under +a cloud. Katherine was his only comfort and stay. The girl had five +years the start of him, which gave her an enormous advantage in dealing +with the uncertain details of life. Her method was simplicity itself. It +was summed up in the golden rule: Take your own way first, and then let +other people take theirs. It was in this spirit that, mounted on a +table, she painted the great battle-piece that covered the north wall of +the nursery; and with equal heroism she met the unrighteous Nemesis that +waits upon mortal success, and skipped off to bed at three o'clock in +the afternoon as if to a tea-party. Ted worshipped his sister, because +of her courage and resource, because of her fuzzy black hair cut short +like a boy's, for the strength of her long limbs, and for a hundred +other reasons. And Katherine loved Ted with a passion all the more +intense because he was the only creature she knew that would let itself +be loved comfortably; for "Papa" was an abstraction, and "Nurse" erred +on the opposite extreme, being a terribly concrete reality, with a great +many acute angles about her, which was a drawback to demonstrations of +affection. + +One day Katherine mixed some colours for Ted and taught him how to +manage a pencil and paint-brush. That was just before she went to +school, and then Ted said to himself, "I too will paint battle-pieces"; +and he painted them in season and out of season, and was obliged to hide +them away in drawers and cupboards and places, for there was no one to +care for them now that Kathy was gone. As for that headstrong young +person, her method was so far successful that when she was eighteen it +began to be rumoured in the family that Katherine would do great things, +but that Ted was an idle young beggar. The boy had shown no talent for +anything in particular, and nobody had thought of his future: not +Katherine--she was too busy with her own--and certainly not his father, +who at the best of times lived piously in the past with the memory of +his dead wife, and was day by day loosening his hold upon the present. +For Ted "Papa" became more and more an abstraction, until a higher Power +withdrew him altogether from earthly affairs. + +Mr. Haviland had lived in a melancholy gentility on a pension which died +with him, and at his death the children were left with nothing but the +pittance they inherited from their mother. When the family met in solemn +conclave to decide the fate of Katherine and Ted, it learned that +Katherine, true to her old principles, had taken the decision into her +own hands. She meant to live for art and by art, and Uncle James was +much mistaken if he thought that an expensive training was to be flung +away upon a "niggling amateur." At any rate, she had taken a studio in +Pimlico and furnished it, and as she had come of age yesterday, there +was really no more to be said. Ted, of course, would live with her, and +choose his own profession. But Ted's profession was not so easily +chosen. The boy had brought a perfectly open mind to the subject, and +discussed the reasons for and against the Church, the Bar, the Bank, and +a trade, with admirable clearness and impartiality; but when invited to +make a selection from among the four, he betrayed no enthusiasm. Finally +he was asked if he had any objection to the medical profession, and +replied that he had none, having, indeed, never thought about it. On the +whole, he considered that the idea was not a bad one, and he would try +it. He tried it for a year and a half, but not altogether with success. +He had been advised to take up surgery, for a great man had noticed his +long sensitive fingers, and told him that he had the hands of a born +surgeon. He managed to get through the hours in the dissecting-room, +standing on his head from time to time as a precaution against +faintness; but his heroism gave way before the horrors of the theatre. +Soon, with indignation naturally mingled with pleasure at this +fulfilment of its own predictions, the family heard that Ted had flung +up the medical profession. That the boy had the hands of a born surgeon +was considered to be an aggravation of his offence; it constituted it +flying in the face of Providence. When Ted drew attention to the fact +that he had passed first in Comparative Anatomy, his uncle James told +him that stupidity was excusable, and that his abilities only proved him +a lazy good-for-nothing fellow. He then offered him a berth in his +office, with board and lodging in his own house; and as Ted was in low +water, there was nothing for it but to accept. Mr. James Pigott remained +master of the situation, without a suspicion of its pathetic irony. Ted, +whose intellect was incapable of adding two and two together, had to sit +on a high stool and work endless sums in arithmetic. Ted, whose soul was +married _sub rosa_ to ideal beauty, had to live in a house where every +object had the same unwinking self-complacent ugliness, and where the +cook was the only artist whose genius was appreciated. Ted was a little +bit of a Stoic, and he could have borne the long impressive dinners and +the unstudied malice of the furniture, if only his uncle would have let +him alone. But Mr. Pigott was nothing if not conscientious; and now that +he had him under his thumb, he made superhuman efforts to understand his +nephew's character and to win his confidence. The poor gentleman might +just as well have tried to understand the character of an asymptote, or +to win the confidence of a Will-o'-the-wisp; and nothing but misery can +come of it when a middle-aged city merchant, born without even a +rudimentary sense of humour, suddenly determines to cultivate that gift +for the benefit of a boy who can detect humour in the wording of an +invoice. + +Well, he never knew how it happened--his mind might have been running on +an illustrated edition of the cash accounts of Messrs. Pigott & Co.--but +at last Ted made an arithmetical blunder so unprecedented, so +astounding, that a commercial career was closed to him for ever. +"Stupidity is excusable," said Uncle James. "If you had been stupid, I +would have forgiven you; but you have ability enough, sir, and it +follows that you are careless--criminally careless--and I wash my hands +of you." And, like Pilate, he suited the action to the word. + +So it happened that as Katherine was putting the last touches to her +great picture "The Witch of Atlas," and to her sketch of an elaborate +future, Fate stepped in and altered all her arrangements. She called it +Fate, for she never could bring herself to say it was Ted. For months +she had been living in a dream, in which she was no longer a poor artist +toiling in a London garret: she was on the highest peak of Atlas, in the +land where, as you know, dreams last forever, where the light comes down +unfiltered through the transcendental air, and where, owing to the +unmelting ice and snow, the shadows are always colours. To live for art +and by art--she had not yet realised the incompatibility of these two +aims; for Katherine was as uncompromising in this as in everything else, +and refused to work in a liberal and enlightened spirit. She believed +that beauty is the only right or possible or conceivable aim of the +artist, and she was ready to sacrifice a great deal for this belief. For +this she slept and worked in one room, which she left bare of all but +necessary furniture--under which head, in defiance of all laws of +political economy, she included a small Pantheon of plaster deities: for +this she stinted herself in everything except air and exercise, which +were cheap; and for this she refused to join housekeeping with her +cousin Nettie, thereby giving lasting offence to an influential branch +of the family. At the end of three years she had begun to hope, and to +feel the quickening of new powers; and as her nature expanded, her art +took on a subtler quality, a subdued and delicate sensuousness, which, +it must be owned, had very little in common with the flesh and blood of +ordinary humanity. + +She was painting steadily, in a pallid fervour of concentrated +excitement, the ease of her pliant hands contrasting with her firm lips +and knitted brows, when Ted burst into the studio, with a thin Gladstone +bag in one hand and a fat portfolio in the other. His face told her of a +crisis in his history; it was humorous, pathetic, deprecating, and +determined, all at once,--not the face of a boy dropping in casually at +tea-time. When asked if anything had gone wrong at the office, he +replied, "Probably--by this time. They lost their brightest ornament +this morning. You see they said--among other things--that it wasn't the +least use my stopping, as I hadn't any head for figures,--which was odd, +considering that it's just with figures I've been most successful." But +Katherine was to judge for herself. He sat down leisurely and began +untying his portfolio. Then he caught sight of "The Witch of Atlas." +"That's going to be a stunning picture, Kathy," said he. He stood before +the canvas for a moment, and then turned abruptly away. When he looked +at Katherine again, his face was set and a little flushed. He seemed to +be making a calculation--a thing he had always some difficulty in doing. +"You've been at it practically all your life; but it took +you--one--two--three--five years' real hard work, didn't it, before you +could paint like that?" + +"Yes, Ted, five years' hard labour, with costs." + +"It'll take me four. Thank heaven, I've learnt anatomy!" + +Katherine said nothing: she had opened the portfolio and spread out the +drawings, and was hanging over them in amazement. How, when, and where +the boy had done the things, she could not imagine. There were finished +studies in anatomy, of heads and limbs in every conceivable attitude. +There were shilling drawing-books crammed with illustrations of most +possible subjects and some impossible ones; loose sketches done on the +backs of envelopes, the fly-leaves of books, and (fearful revelation of +artistic depravity!) the ruled pages of ledgers. And in every one of +them there was power and wild exuberant vitality. It was genius, rampant +and undisciplined, but unmistakable; and she told him so. Her first +feeling sent the blood to her cheeks for pure joy; her second drove it +back to her heart again. Katherine was one of those people who can see a +thing instantly, in all its possible bearings; and at the present moment +she saw clearly, not only that Ted was a genius, but that his genius had +everything to learn, and that it would take the whole of his tiny income +to teach it, while the necessities of his board and lodging in the +meanwhile would more than double her own expenses. She saw herself +doomed to the production of an unbroken succession of pot-boilers, and +for the next few years at least Ted's career was only possible at the +sacrifice of her own. "Yes," she said at last, sitting down and tying +the strings of the portfolio tenderly, "you'll have to work hard for +four or five years or so; and then you'll have to wait. Art is long, you +know, and high art's the longest of all." And when she told him that it +would be a great help to her if they clubbed together, Ted actually +believed her, so unaware was he of the complexities of life. + +Katherine understood why Ted had gone to Guy's Hospital; but when she +asked him--idiot!--why he had wasted a year at his uncle Pigott's +office, he said that he wanted to prove to his uncle Pigott's limited +capacity that he was utterly incapable of managing anybody's business +but his own. Katherine asked no more questions, for she was trying to +think. Then when she had done thinking, she took the Witch and turned +her with her face to the wall. And when she looked at Ted again it was +with a choking sensation, and for the first time for three years she was +aware that she had a heart beating under the blue overall. She had come +down from Atlas faster than she had gone up. After all, the climate +there is frightfully cold, and there are passes on that lonely mountain +which overhang the bottomless pit, where some have perished very +miserably. Katherine had escaped the abyss, and left behind her the +dreams and the golden mists and the starry peaks of ice. It was dark in +the studio, and a voice was heard inquiring whether the young gentleman +was going to stay for supper, "_Because_, if a bysin of hoatmeal +porridge yn't enuff for one----" + +Mrs. Rogers was great in the argument _a fortiori_. + + + + +CHAPTER V + + +Audrey had never been able to enjoy the friendship of her own sex for +more than ten minutes at a time. Her own society bored her +inexpressibly, and that of the women she had known hitherto was +uninteresting because it was like her own. But Katherine was unlike all +other women, and she had taken Audrey's fancy. Audrey was always +devising pretty little excuses for calling, always bringing in hothouse +flowers, or the last hothouse novel, which Katherine positively _must_ +read; until, by dint of a naive persistency, she won the right to come +and go as she pleased. As for Katherine, she considered that a beautiful +woman is exempt from criticism; and so long as she could watch Audrey +moving about, arranging flowers with dainty fastidious touches, or lying +back on the couch in some reckless but perfect pose, she reserved her +judgment. She rejoiced in her presence for its beauty's sake. She loved +the curves of her limbs, the play of her dimples, the shifting lights in +her hair. But she had to pay for the pleasure these things afforded her, +and "man's time" became a frequent item in the account. Katherine had +set her heart on Ted's studying in Paris for six months, and was trying +hard to make enough money to send him there. With this absorbing object +in view, she herself worked equally well whether Audrey were in the +studio or out of it; but it seemed that Ted's powers were either +paralysed or diverted into another channel from the moment she came in. +The baby was trying to solve a problem which had puzzled wiser heads +than his. But he had no clue to the labyrinth of Audrey's soul; he was +not even certain whether she was an intelligent being, though to doubt +it was blasphemy against the divine spirit of beauty. + +His researches took him very often to Chelsea Gardens, and most of his +spare time not spent there was employed in running errands to and fro. +Owing to these distractions his nerves became quite unhinged, and for +the first time in his life he began to show signs of a temper. He had +been full of the Paris scheme at first, but he had not spoken of it now +for at least a month. + +He had just sat down for the twentieth time to a study of Katherine's +head as "Sappho," and had thrown down his palette in disgust, +exclaiming-- + +"What's the use of keeping your mouth still, if your confounded eyes +giggle?" when a note arrived from Miss Craven. + +You can't step out of a violent passion all in a minute, and perhaps +that was the reason why Ted's hands trembled a little as he tore open +the envelope and read-- + + + "DEAR MR. HAVILAND,--Do come over at once. I'm in a dreadful fix, + and want your advice and help badly. I would ask your sister, only + I know she is always busy.--Sincerely yours, + + "AUDREY CRAVEN." + +Audrey wrote on rough-edged paper, in the bold round hand they teach in +schools. She had modelled hers on another girl's, and she signed her +name with an enormous A and a flourish. People said there was a great +deal of character in her hand-writing. + +Ted crammed the note hastily into his pocket, and did his best to hide +the radiance of his smile. + +"It's only Miss Craven. I'm just going over for half an hour,--I'll be +back for tea." + +And before Katherine had time to answer he was gone. + +Ted's first thought as he entered Miss Craven's drawing-room was that +she was in the midst of a removal. The place was turned topsy-turvy. +Curtains had been taken down, ornaments removed from their shelves, +pictures from their hangings; and the grand piano stood where it had +never yet been allowed to stand, in a draught between the window and the +door. Tripping over a Persian rug, he saw that the floor was littered +with tapestries and rich stuffs of magnificent design. On his left was a +miscellaneous collection of brass and copper ware, on his right a heap +of shields and weapons of barbarous warfare. On all the tables and +cabinets there stood an array of Venetian glass, and statuettes in +bronze, marble, and terra-cotta. He was looking about for Miss Craven, +when that lady arose from a confused ocean of cushions and Oriental +drapery--Aphrodite in an "Art" tea-gown. She greeted him with childlike +effusion. + +"At last! I'm so glad you've come--I was afraid you mightn't. Help me +out of this somehow--I'm simply distracted." + +And she pointed to the floor with a gesture of despair. + +"Yes; but what do you want me to do?" + +"Why, to offer suggestions, advice, anything--only speak." + +Ted looked about him, and his eyes rested on the grand piano. "Is it a +ball, a bazaar, or an auction? And are we awake or dreaming, alive or +dead?" + +"Can't you see, Mr. Haviland?" + +"Yes, I see a great many things. But what does it all mean?" + +Audrey sank on to an ottoman, and answered slowly and incisively, +looking straight before her-- + +"It means that I'm sick of the hideousness of life, of the excruciating +lower middle-class arrangement of this room. I don't know how I've stood +it all these years. My soul must have been starved--stifled. I want to +live in another atmosphere, to be surrounded by beautiful things. Don't +laugh like that,--I know I'm not an artist; I couldn't paint a +picture--how could I? I haven't been taught. But I know that Art is the +only thing worth caring about. I want to cultivate my sense of beauty, +and I don't want my room to look like anybody else's." + +"It certainly doesn't at present." + +"Please be serious. You're not helping me one bit. Look at that pile of +things Liberty's have sent me! First of all, I want you to choose +between them. Then I want you to suggest a colour-scheme, and to tell me +the difference between Louis Quinze and Louis Quatorze (I _can't_ +remember), whether it'll do to mix Queen Anne with either. And whether +would you have old oak, real old oak, or Chippendale, for the furniture? +and must I do away with the cosy corner?" + +Ted felt his head going round and round. Artistic delight in Audrey's +beauty, pagan adoration of it, saintly belief in it, the first tremor of +crude unconscious passion, mingled with intense amusement, reduced him +to a state of utter bewilderment. But he had sufficient presence of mind +to take her last question first and to answer authoritatively-- + +"Certainly. A cosy corner is weak-minded and conventional." + +"Yes, it is. I'm not in the least conventional, and I don't think I'm +weak-minded. And I want my room to express my character, to be a bit of +myself. So give me some ideas. You don't mind my asking you, do you? +You're the only artist I know." + +"Am I really? And if you knew six or seven artists, what then?" + +"Why, then--I should ask you all the same, of course." + +Boy-like he laughed for pure pleasure, and boy-like he tried to +dissemble his emotion, and did her bidding under a faint show of +protest. He gave his vote in favour of Venetian glass and a small marble +Diana, against majolica and a French dancing-girl in terra-cotta; he +made an intelligent choice from amongst the various state-properties +around him, and avoided committing himself on the subject of Louis +Quatorze. On one point Audrey was firm. For what reasons nobody can say, +but some Malay creeses had caught her fancy, and no argument could +dissuade her from arranging them over the Neapolitan Psyche which she +had kept at Ted's suggestion. The gruesome weapons, on a background of +barbaric gold, hung above that pathetic torso, like a Fate responsible +for its mutilation. Audrey was pleased with the effect; she revelled in +strong contrasts and grotesque combinations, and if Liberty's had sent +her a stuffed monkey, she would have perched him on Psyche's pedestal. + +"I know a man," said Ted, when he had disposed the last bit of drapery +according to an ingenious colour-scheme, in which Audrey's hair sounded +a brilliant staccato note--"a first-rate artist--who was asked to +decorate a lady's room. What do you think he did? He made her take all +the pictures off the walls, and he covered them over with little +halfpenny Japanese fans, and stuck little halves and quarters of fans in +the corners and under the ceiling. Then he put a large Japanese umbrella +in the fireplace, and went away smiling." + +"Was the lady pleased?" + +"Immensely. She asked all her friends to a Japanese tea-party in Mr. +Robinson's room. The rest of the furniture was early Victorian." + +This anecdote was not altogether to Audrey's taste. She walked to a +shelf where Ted had put some bronzes, looked at them with a decided air +of criticism, and arranged them differently. Having asserted her +independence, she replied severely-- + +"Your friend's friend must have been an extremely silly woman." + +"Not at all; she was a most intelligent, well-informed person, +with--er--a deep sense of religion." + +"And now, Mr. Haviland, you're making matters worse. You care nothing +about her religion; you simply think her a fool, and you meant that I'm +like her. Else why did you tell such a pointless story?" + +"Forgive me; the association of ideas was irresistible. You _are_ like +her--in your utter simplicity and guileless devotion to an ideal." + +He looked all round the room again, and sank back on the sofa cushions +all limp with laughter. + +"I--I never saw anything so inexpressibly sad as this afternoon's work; +it's heartrending." + +His eye fell on the terra-cotta Parisienne dancing inanely on her +pedestal, and he moaned like one in pain. Audrey's mouth twitched and +her cheeks flamed for a second. She turned her back on Ted, until his +fit had spent itself, dying away among the cushions in low gurgles. Then +there was silence. + +Ted raised his head and looked up. She was still standing in the same +place, but one hand was moving slowly towards her pocket. + +He sprang to his feet and faced her. She walked to the window, +convulsively grasping her pocket-handkerchief. + +He followed her. + +"Miss Craven--dear Miss Craven--on my soul--I swear--I never----Can't +you--won't you believe me?" + +Still there was silence and an averted head. + +"Speak, can't you!" + +He leant against the window and began to giggle again. Audrey turned at +the sound, and looked at him through eyes veiled with tears; her lips +were trembling a little, and her fingers relaxed their convulsive grasp. +He darted forward, seized her hand, and kissed it an indefinite number +of times, exclaiming incoherently-- + +"Brute, hound, cur that I am! Forgive me--only say you'll forgive me! I +know I'm not fit to live! And yet, how could I tell? Good heavens! what +funny things women are?" Here he took possession of the little lace +pocket-handkerchief, and wiped her eyes very gently. Then he kissed her +once on the mouth, reverently but deliberately. + +To do Audrey justice, she had meant to sustain her part with maidenly +reserve, but she was totally unprepared for this acceleration of the +march of events. She said nothing, but went back submissively to her +sofa, hand in hand with Ted. There they sat for a minute looking rather +stupidly into each other's faces. + +The lady was the first to recover her self-possession. She raised her +hand with a benedictory air and let it rest lightly, ever so lightly, on +Ted's hair. + +"My dear boy," she murmured, "I forgave you all the time." + +Now there is nothing that will dwarf the proportions of the grand +passion and bring you to your sober senses sooner than being patted on +the head and called "My dear boy" by the lady of your love. Ted ducked +from under the delicate caress, and rose to his feet with dignity. His +emotion was spent, and he was chiefly conscious of the absurdity of the +situation. Every object in that ridiculous room accentuated the +distasteful humour of the thing. Psyche looked downcast virgin +disapproval from her pedestal under the Malay creeses, and the frivolous +little Parisienne flung her skirts abroad in the very abandonment of +derision. + +If only he hadn't made a fool of himself, if only he hadn't told that +drivelling story about the Japanese umbrella, if only he hadn't laughed +in that frantic manner, and if only----But no, he could not look back +on the last five minutes. The past was a grey blank, but the flaming +episode of the kiss had burnt a big black hole in his present +consciousness. He felt that by that rash, unpardonable act he had +desecrated the holy thing; and with it all, had forestalled, delayed, +perhaps for ever prevented, the sanction of some diviner opportunity. If +he had only waited another year, she could not have called him her dear +boy. + +"I'm fully aware," he said, ruefully, "that I've behaved like a +heaven-afflicted idiot, and I'd better go." + +"No, you shall not go. You shall stay. I wish it. Sit down--here." + +She patted the sofa beside her, and he obeyed mechanically. + +"Poor, poor Ted! I _do_ forgive you. We will never misunderstand each +other again--never. And now I want to talk to you. What distressed me so +much just now was not anything that you said or thought about _me_, but +the shocking way you treat yourself and what is best in you. Can't you +understand it? You know how I believe in you and hope for you, and it +was your affectation of indifference to things which are a religion to +me--as they are to you--that cut me to the heart." + +She had worked herself up till she believed firmly in this little +fiction. Yes, those tears were tears of pure altruism--tears not of +wounded vanity and self-love, but of compassion for an erring genius. + +She drew back her head proudly and looked him full in the face. Then she +continued, in a subdued voice, with a certain incisive tremor in it, the +voice that is usually expressive of the deeper emotions-- + +"You know, and I know, that there is nothing worth caring about except +art. Then why pretend to despise it as you do? And Katherine's every bit +as bad as you are,--she encourages you. I know--what perhaps she +doesn't--that you have great enthusiasms, great ideals; but you are +unfaithful to them. You laughed at me; you know you did----" + +("I didn't," from Ted.) + +"----because I'm trying to make my life beautiful. You're led away by +your strong sense of humour, till you see something ridiculous in the +loveliest and noblest things" (Ted's eyes wandered in spite of himself +to the little lady in terra-cotta). "I know why: you're afraid of being +sentimental. But if people have feelings, why should they be ashamed of +them? Why should they mind showing them? Now I want you to promise me +that, from this day forth, you'll take yourself and your art seriously; +that you'll work hard--you've been idling shamefully lately" (oh, +Audrey! whose fault was that?)--"and finish some great picture before +the year's out" (he had only five weeks to do it in, but that was a +detail). "Now promise." + +"I--I'll promise anything," stammered the miserable Ted, "if only +you'll look at me like that--sometimes, say between the hours of seven +and eight in the evening." + +"Ridiculous baby! Now we must see about the pictures; we've just time +before tea." + +The mention of tea was a master-stroke; it brought them both back to the +world of fact, and restored the familiar landmarks. + +Ted, solemnly penitent, gave his best attention to the pictures: there +was not a trace of his former abominable levity in the air with which he +passed sentence on each as Audrey brought them up for judgment. But when +he came to the family portraits he suspended his verdict, and Audrey was +obliged to take the matter into her own hands. + +She took up a small picture in a square frame and held it close to Ted's +face. + +"Portrait of my uncle, the Dean of St. Benedict's. What shall I do with +it?" + +"That depends entirely on the amount of affection you feel for the +original." + +"H'm--does it? He's a dear old thing, and I'm very fond of him, +but--what do you think of him?--from an artistic point of view?" + +She stood with her body curved a little backwards, holding the Dean up +high in a good light. Her attitude was so lovely that it was impossible +to disapprove of her. Ted's reason tottered on its throne, and he +laughed, which was perhaps the best thing he could have done. + +"He is not, strictly speaking, handsome." + +"No," said Audrey; "I'm afraid he'll have to go." + +She knelt down beside the portrait of a lady. It was evidently the work +of an inferior artist, but his most malignant efforts had failed to +disguise the beauty of the face. It bore a strong resemblance to Audrey, +but it was the face of an older woman, grave, intelligent, and refined +by suffering. + +"I've been obliged to take this down," she said, as if apologising more +to herself than Ted, "because I want to hang my large photo of the +Sistine Madonna in its place." + +"What is it?" + +"It's--my mother's portrait. She died when I was a very little girl, and +I hardly ever saw her, you know. I'm not a bit like her." + +He stood silent, watching her intently as she spoke. + +"Family portraits," she continued, "may be interesting, but they are not +decorative. Unless, of course," she added, hastily, being at a loss to +account for the peculiar expression of Ted's face, "they're very old +ones--Lelys and Sir Joshua Reynoldses." + +"That face does not look old, certainly." + +"No. She died young." + +She had not meant to say that; a little shiver went through her as the +words passed her lips, and she felt a desire to change the subject. But +the portrait of the late Mrs. Craven was turned to the wall along with +the Dean. + +"Hullo!" exclaimed Ted, taking up a photo in a glass frame, +hand-painted, "here's old Hardy! What on earth is he doing here?" + +Audrey blushed, but answered with unruffled calm. + +"Vincent? Oh, he's a family portrait too. He's my cousin--first cousin, +you know." + +"What are you going to do with _him_?" + +"I--I hardly know." + +She took the photo out of his hands and examined it carefully back and +front. Then she looked at Ted. + +"What _shall_ I do with him? Is he to go too?" + +"Well, I suppose he ought to. He's all very well in his own line, +but--from an artistic point of view--he's not exactly--decorative." + +"Poor old Vincent! No, he's not." + +And Vincent was turned face downward among the ruins of the cosy corner, +and Audrey and Ted rested from their labours. + +When Ted had gone, the very first thing Audrey did was to get a map and +to look out the Rocky Mountains. There they were, to be sure, just as +Vincent had described them, a great high wall dividing the continent. At +that moment Hardy was kneeling on the floor of his little shanty, busy +sorting bearskins and thinking of Audrey and bears. He had had splendid +sport--that is, he had succeeded in killing a grizzly just before the +grizzly killed him. How nervous Audrey would feel when she got the +letter describing that encounter! Then he chose the best and fluffiest +bearskin to make a nice warm cape for her, and amused himself by +picturing her small oval chin nestling in the brown fur. And then he +fell to wondering what she was doing now. + +He would have been delighted if he could have seen her poring over that +map with her pencilled eyebrows knit, while she traced the jagged +outlines of the Rockies with her finger-nail, congratulating herself on +the height of that magnificent range. + +Yes, there was a great deal between her and her cousin Mr. Hardy. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + + +One fine morning in latter spring, about four months after the day of +the transformation scene in Audrey's drawing-room, Ted Haviland was +lying on his back sunning himself on the leads. There are many lovelier +places even in London than the leads of No. 12 Devon Street, Pimlico, +but none more favourable to high and solitary thinking. Here the roar of +traffic is subdued to a murmur hardly greater than the stir of country +woods on a warm spring morning--a murmur less obtrusive, because more +monotonous. It is the place of all others for one absorbed in +metaphysical speculation, or cultivating the gift of detachment. The +very chimney-pots have a remote abstracted air; the slopes of the slates +rise up around you, shutting you in on three sides, and throwing you so +far back on yourself; while before you lies the vast, misty network of +roofs, stretching eastward towards the heart of the city, and above you +is the open sky. It is even pleasant here on a day like this, a day with +all the ardour of summer in it, and all the languor of spring, with the +sun warming the slates at your back, and a soft breeze from the river +fanning your face. You must go up on to the leads on such a day to feel +the beauty and infinity of blue sky, the only beautiful and boundless +thing here, where there is no green earth to rival heaven. + +Ted had certainly no taste for detachment, but he was so far advanced +towards metaphysical speculation that he was engaged in an analysis of +sensation. Off and on, ever since that day of unreasonable mirth and +subsequent madness, he had been a prey to remorse. He had kept away from +Audrey for a fortnight, during which time his imagination had run riot +through past, present, and future. Audrey had been sweet and confiding +from the first; she had believed in him with childlike simplicity, and +when she had trusted to his guidance in her innocent aestheticism, he, +like the coarse-minded villain that he was, had made fun of all her dear +little arrangements, those pathetic efforts to make her life beautiful. +He had made her cry, and then taken a brutal advantage of her tears. To +Ted's conscience, in the white-heat of his virgin passion, that +premature kiss, the kiss that transformed a boyish fancy into full-grown +love, was a crime. And yet she had forgiven him. All the time she had +been thinking, not of herself, but of him. Her words, hardly heeded at +the moment, came back to him like a dull sermon heard in some exalted +mood, and henceforth transfigured in memory. She had done well to +reproach him for his frivolity and want of purpose. She was so ready to +say pleasant things, that blame from her mouth was sweeter than its +praise. It showed that she cared more. By this time he had forgotten the +traits that had impressed him less pleasantly. + +Happily for him, his passion for Audrey was at first altogether bound up +with his art. We are not all geniuses, but to some of us, once perhaps +in a lifetime, genius comes in the form of love. To Ted love came in the +form of genius, quickening his whole nature, and bringing his highest +powers to a sudden birth. He had begun and almost finished the work +which Audrey had urged him to undertake, and nobody could say that he +had approached his subject in a frivolous spirit. It was a portrait of +herself. Ted had been rather inclined to affect the romantic antique: +Audrey had been a revelation of the artistic possibilities of modern +womanhood, and he turned in disgust from his languid studies of decadent +renaissance, or renaissant decadence, to this brilliant type. One corner +of the studio was stacked with sketches and little full-length portraits +of Audrey. Audrey from every point of view. Audrey in a black +Gainsborough hat, Audrey with brown fur about her throat, Audrey +half-smothered in billowy silk and chiffon, Audrey as she appeared at a +dance in a simple frock and sash, and Audrey in a tailor-made gown, in +the straight lines of which Ted professed to have discovered new +principles of beauty. In fact, he dreamed of founding a New Art on +portraits of Audrey alone. From which it would appear that he was +taking himself and his art very seriously indeed. + +Audrey had just left him after a protracted sitting, and up among the +dreamy chimney-pots he was reviving in fancy the sensations of the +morning. He was brought back from his ecstasy by Katherine's voice +calling, "Ted, come down this minute--I've got something to show you"; +and, rousing himself very much against the grain, he dropped languidly +into the room below. + +Katherine had come in all glowing with excitement. She pushed back her +broad-brimmed hat from her forehead, and thrust both hands into her +coat-pockets, bringing out two loose heaps of gold. + +"There!" she said, letting sovereigns and half-sovereigns drip on to the +table with an impressive chink, "aren't you thankful that I wasn't +murdered, walking through the great sinful city with all that capital +about me?" + +"What's up? Has our uncle climbed down, or have you been robbing a +till?" + +"Neither. I've been to the bank, cashing real live cheques. Five pounds +for my black-and-white for the Saint Abroad, I mean the "Woman at Home." +Fifteen pounds for Miss Maskelyne's prize bull-dog (I idealised him). +Twenty pounds for Lady Stodart's prize baby. Total, forty pounds." She +arranged the sovereigns in neat little piles on the table. "That's +enough to take you to Paris and set you going." Ted started, and his +face fell a little. "It's positively my only dream that ever came true. +Picture it, think of it, just on the brink of it. You can start next +week, to-morrow if you like!" + +Ted's face turned a deep crimson, and he was silent. + +"Then Audrey's promised me twenty for a copy of the Botticelli Madonna; +I began it yesterday. That'll be enough to keep you on another month, if +you want it, and bring you home again." + +Still Ted said nothing. He sat down and buried his face in his hands. +Katherine knelt down and put her arm tight round his neck. + +"Ted, you duffer, do you really care so much? I _am_ so glad. I didn't +know you'd take it that way." + +He drew back and looked her mournfully in the face. + +"Kathy, you're an angel; it's awfully good of you; but I--I can't take +it, you know." + +"Why not? Too proud?" + +"No--rubbish! It does seem an infernal shame not to, when you've scraped +it together with your dear little paws; but--well--don't think me a +brute--I don't know that I want to go to Paris now." + +"Not to go to Paris?" + +"No." + +"Idiot!" + +"Kathy, which Botticelli did she ask you to do for her?" + +"The one you got so excited about, with St. John and the +angel--right-hand side opposite you as you go in. Come, I can see +through that trick, and I'm not going to stand any nonsense." + +"It isn't nonsense." + +"It is. Why, you were raving about Meissonier last year." + +"Yes, last year; but----" + +"Well?" Katherine rose and gazed at him with the austerity of an +inquisitor. Ted gave an uneasy laugh. + +"I've been thinking that you and I between us could found a school of +our own this year. I've got the eccentricity, and you've got the cheek. +We should build ourselves an everlasting name." + +"Do be serious; I shall lose my temper in another minute. Is it the +wretched money you're thinking of?" + +"No, it isn't the money altogether." He got up and walked to his easel. + +"Then, oh Ted, you know that Paris--Paris in May--must be simply +divine!" + +"Why don't you go yourself?" + +"No, no; that's not the same thing at all. I don't want to go; besides, +I can't. I haven't the time." + +"Well, to tell you the truth, Kathy, no more can I. I haven't the time +either." He took up his palette and brushes and began carefully touching +up the canvas before him. + +"Oh--h!" She stared at him for a minute in silence. Ted looked up +suddenly; their eyes met, and he set his face like a flint. + +"Kathy," he said, slowly, "I've behaved in the most ungrateful and +abominable manner. I should like to go to Paris very much, and I--I +think I'll start next week." + +"Thank you, dear boy; it's the very least you can do." + +And they dropped the subject. Ted was the first to speak again. + +"By-the-bye, what's on to-morrow morning, Kathy?" + +"National Gallery for me." She looked up from her work and saw Ted +standing with his hands in his pockets, gazing with an agonised +expression at his portrait of Audrey. + +"I suppose _she_ is going to sit again?" + +"Well, yes; she may look in for another hour in the morning perhaps." + +Ted was not skillful in deceit, and something in his manner told +Katherine that the sitting somehow depended on her absence. She began to +see dimly why he had been so frightened at the idea of going to Paris. +She looked over her shoulder. + +"You haven't made the corners of her mouth turn up enough. It's just as +well, they turn up too much." + +"No, they don't; that's what makes her so pretty." + +Katherine went to her work next morning in anything but a cheerful +spirit. She had set her heart on Ted's studying abroad; and now Audrey +had come in between, frittering away his time, and making him restless +and unlike himself. To be sure, his powers had expanded enormously of +late; but she was not happy about him, and was half afraid to praise his +work. To her mind there was something feverish and unhealthy in its +vivid beauty. It suggested genius outgrowing its strength. If Audrey +really had anything to do with it, if she was coming in any way between +him and the end she dreamed for him, why, then, she could hate Audrey +with a deadly hatred. That was what she said to herself just before she +opened the front-door and found Audrey standing on the doorstep, looking +reprehensibly pretty in a gown of white lawn over green silk. Her wide +hat was trimmed with bunches of white tulle and pale green poppies, and +she had a little basket full of lilies of the valley hanging from her +wrist. + +"You wretch!" she cried, shaking a bunch of lilies at Katherine, as she +stood in the narrow passage; "you're always going out when I'm coming +in." + +"And you're always coming in when I'm going out. Isn't it funny?" + +Audrey said nothing to that, but she kissed Katherine on both cheeks, +and pinned a bunch of lilies at her throat with a little gold pin that +she took from her own dress. Then she tripped lightly upstairs, with a +swish, swish, of her silk skirts, wafting lilies of the valley as she +went. Katherine watched her up the first flight, and the hate died out +of her heart. After all, Audrey was so perfect from an artistic point of +view that moral disapproval seemed somehow beside the point.' + +"May I come in?" asked Audrey, tapping at the open door of the studio. +Ted rose with a reverent alacrity, very much as you rise to the musical +parts of a solemn service in church. He arranged her chair carefully, +with soft cushions for her back and feet. "If you don't mind," said he, +"we must work hard, for I want to finish you this morning, or perhaps +to-morrow, if you can give me another sitting," and he patted a cushion +and held it up for her head. + +"You can have any number of sittings," said Audrey, ignoring these +preparations for her comfort; "but first of all, I'm going to make your +room pretty." + +Ted dropped his cushion helplessly and followed her as she moved about +the room. First she took off her gloves in a leisurely manner and laid +them down among Ted's wet brushes. Then she began to arrange the lilies +of the valley in a little copper bowl she found on the chimneypiece. +Then she caught sight of her gloves and exclaimed, "Oh, look at my +beautiful new gloves, lying among your nasty paints! Why didn't you tell +me, you horrid boy?" Then Ted and she tried to clean them with +turpentine, and made them worse than ever, and between them they wasted +half an hour of the precious morning. After that, Audrey took off her +hat and settled herself comfortably among the cushions; she drew her +white fingers through her hair till it stood up in a great red aureole +round her head, and the sitting began. + +Ted's heart gave a bound as he set to work. He had learnt by this time +to control the trembling of his hands, otherwise the portrait would +never have reached its present perfection. He had painted from many +women in the life school, and always with the same emotions, the same +reverence for womanhood, and the same delight in his own power, tempered +by compassion for the model. But these were so many studies in still +life compared with the incarnate loveliness before him--Audrey: it made +him feel giddy to paint the edge of the ruffles about her throat, or the +tip of her shoe. Her beauty throbbed like pulses of light, it floated in +air and went to his head like the scent of her lilies. He had reproduced +this radiant, throbbing effect in his picture. It was a head, the +delicate oval of the full face relieved against a background of +atmospheric gold into which the golden surface tints of the hair faded +imperceptibly. The eyebrows were arched a little over the earnest, +unfathomable eyes; the lips were parted as if with impetuous breath; the +whole head leaned slightly forward, giving prominence to the chin, which +in reality retreated, a defect chiefly noticeable in profile. Ted had +painted what he saw. It might have been the head of a saint looking for +the Beatific Vision; it was only that of an ordinary pretty woman. + +As a rule, they both chattered freely during the sittings. This is, of +course, necessary, if the artist is to know his sitter's face with all +its varying expressions; and Audrey had given Ted a great many to choose +from. This morning, however, he worked steadily and in a silence which +she was the first to break. + +"What do you mean by talking about one more sitting in that way? You +said you'd want six yesterday." + +"I did, but----" He leaned back and began tilting his chair to and fro. +"The fact is--I'm awfully sorry, but I'm afraid I'm going to leave +England." The young rascal had chosen his words with a deliberate view +to effect, and Audrey's first thoughts flew to America, though not to +Hardy. She moved suddenly in her chair. + +"To emigrate? You, with your genius? Surely not!" + +"No, rather not; it's not as bad as all that. But--I'm afraid I have to +go to Paris for six months or so." + +"Whatever for?" + +"Well--I must, you see." + +"Must you? And for six months, too; why?" + +"Because I--that is--I want to study for a bit in the schools there." + +"Oh,"--she leaned back again among her cushions, and looked down at her +hands clasped demurely,--"if you want to go, that's another thing." + +"It isn't another thing; and I don't want to go, as it happens." + +"Then I am sure you needn't go and study; what can they teach you that +you don't know?" she leaned forward and looked into his face. "You're +not going in for that horrid French style, surely?" + +"Well, I'd some thoughts----" he hesitated, and Audrey took courage. + +"It can't be--it mustn't be! Oh, do, do give up the idea--for _my_ sake! +It'll be your ruin as an artist." She had risen to her feet, and was +gazing at him appealingly. + +"You dear little thing, what do you know about the French school or any +other?" + +"Everything. I take in 'Modern Art,' and I read all the magazines and +things, and--I know all about it." + +"You don't know anything about it. All the same----" he paused, biting +his lip. + +"All the same, what?" + +"If I thought you cared a straw whether I went or stayed----" + +"Haven't I shown you that I care?" + +"No, you haven't." + +"Ted!" Audrey made that little word eloquent of pleading, reproachful +pathos; but he went on-- + +"For heaven's sake, don't talk any more rot about art and my genius! +Anybody can do it. Do you think that's what I want to hear from you?" He +checked himself suddenly. "I beg your pardon. Now I think we'll go on, +if you don't mind sitting a little longer." + +"But I do mind. Either you're very rude, or--I can't understand you. Why +do you speak to me like this?" She had picked up her hat and begun +playing with its long pins. As she spoke she stabbed it savagely in the +crown. The nervous action of her hands contrasted oddly with the pensive +Madonna-like pose of her head, but the corners of her mouth were turned +up more than ever, and the tip of her little Roman nose was trembling. +Then she drew the pins slowly out of her hat, and made as if she would +put it on. Ted tried to reason, but he could only grasp two facts +clearly--that in another second she would be gone, and that if he left +things as they stood he would have to exchange London for Paris. He +leaned against the wall for support, and looked steadily at Audrey as he +spoke. + +"You think me a devil, and I can only prevent that by making you think +me a fool. I don't care. I'm insane enough to love you--my curious +behaviour must have made that quite obvious. If you'll say that you care +for me a little bit, I won't go to Paris. If you won't, I'll go +to-morrow and stay there." + +Audrey had known for some time that something like this would happen. +She had meant it to happen. From the day she first saw Ted Haviland, she +had made up her mind to be his destiny; and yet, now that it had +happened, though Ted's words made her heart beat uncomfortably fast, a +little voice in her brain kept on saying, "Not yet--not yet--not yet." +She sat down and tried to collect her thoughts. Ted would be sure to +begin again in another second. He did. + +"Or if you don't care now, if you'll only say that you might care some +day, if you'll say that it's not an utter impossibility, I won't go. +I'll wait five years--ten years--on the off chance, and hold my tongue +about it too, if you tell me to." + +Not yet--not yet--not yet. + +"Audrey!" + +She started as if a stranger had called her name suddenly, for the voice +was not like Ted's at all. Yet it was Ted, Ted in the shabby clothes she +had seen him in first, which never looked shabby somehow on him; but it +was not the baby as she knew him. He was looking at her almost +defiantly, a cloud had come over his eyes, and the muscles of his face +were set. Audrey saw the look of unrelenting determination, which is +only seen to perfection in the faces of the very young, but it seemed to +her that Ted had taken a sudden leap into manhood. + +"Audrey," he said again, and their eyes met. She tried to speak, but it +was too late. The boy had crouched down on the floor beside her, and was +clasping her knees like a suppliant before some marble divinity. + +"Don't--Ted, don't," she gasped under her breath. + +"I won't. I don't ask you to do it now, before I've made my name. It may +take years, but--I shall make it. And then, perhaps----" + +She tried to loosen his fingers one by one, and they closed on her hand +with a grip like a dying man's. Through the folds of her thin dress she +could feel his heart thumping obtrusively, and the air throbbed with the +beating of a thousand pulses. Her brain reeled, and the little voice +inside it left off saying "Not yet." She stooped down and whispered +hurriedly-- + +"I will--I will." + +The suppliant raised his head, and his fingers relaxed their hold. + +"You _will_, Audrey? So you don't--at the present moment?" + +"I do. It wasn't my fault. I didn't know what love was like. I know +now." + +Passion is absolutely sincere, but it is not bound to be either truthful +or consistent. What has it to do with trains of reasoning, or with the +sequence of events in time? Past and future history are nothing to it. +For Audrey it was now--now--now. All foreshadowings, all dateless +possibilities, were swept out of her fancy; or rather, they were crowded +into one burning point of time. Now was the moment for which all other +moments had lived and died. Life had owed her some great thing, and now +with every heart-beat it was paying back its long arrears. Henceforth +there would be no more monotony, no more measuring of existence by the +hands of the clock, no more weighing of emotion by the scruple. The +revelation had come. Now and for ever it was all the same; for sensation +that knows nothing about time is always sure of eternity. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + + +When Katherine came back from the National Gallery she found Ted alone: +he had drawn up the couch in front of his easel, and lay there gazing at +his portrait. The restless, hungry look had gone from his eyes. There +was no triumph there, only an absolute satisfaction and repose. Face and +attitude said plainly, "I have attained my heart's desire. I am young in +years, but old in wisdom. I know what faith and hope and love are, which +is more than you do. I am not in the least excited about them, as you +see; I can afford to wait, for these things last for ever. If you like, +you may come and worship with me before my heavenly lady's image; but if +you do, you must hold your tongue." And Katherine, being a sensible +woman, held her tongue. But she took up a tiny pair of white gloves, +stained with paint and turpentine, that lay folded on the easel's ledge, +and after examining them critically, laid them on Ted's feet without a +word. A faint smile flickered across his lips. That was all their +confession. + +After some inward debate, Katherine determined to go over and see +Audrey. She had no very clear notion of what had happened that morning; +but she could only think that the ridiculous boy had proposed to Audrey +and been accepted. The idea seemed preposterous; for though she had been +by no means blind to all that had been going on under her eyes for the +last few months, she had never for a moment taken Audrey seriously, or +supposed that Ted in his sober senses could do so either. This morning a +horrible misgiving had come over her, and she had gone to her work in a +tumult of mixed feelings. For the present she had made Ted's career the +end and aim of her existence. What she most dreaded for him, next to the +pain of a hopeless attachment, was the distraction of a successful one. +A premature engagement is the thing of all others to blast a man's +career at the outset. What good was it, she asked herself passionately, +for her to pinch and save, to put aside her own ambition, to do the +journeyman's work that brings pay, instead of the artist's work that +brings praise, if Ted was going to fling himself away on the first +pretty face that took his fancy? Again the feeling of hatred to Audrey +surged up in her heart, and again it died down at the first sight of its +object. + +Audrey was standing at the window singing a little song to herself. She +turned as the door opened, and when she saw Katherine she started ever +so slightly, and stood at gaze like a frightened fawn. She was attracted +by Katherine, as she was by every personality that she felt to be +stronger than her own. Among all artists there is a strain of manhood +in every woman, and of womanhood in every man. Katherine fascinated her +weaker sister by some such super-feminine charm. At the same time, +Audrey was afraid of her, as she had been afraid of Hardy in his +passion, or of Ted in his boisterous mirth. There were moments when she +thought that Katherine's direct unquestioning gaze must have seen what +she hid from her own eyes, must have penetrated the more or less +artistic disguises without which she would not have known herself. Now +her one anxiety was lest Katherine knew or guessed her treatment of +Vincent, and had come to reproach her with it. Owing to some slight +similarity of detail, the events of the morning had brought the +recollection of that last scene with Hardy uppermost in her mind. She +had persuaded herself that her love for Ted was her first experience of +passion, as it was his; but at the touch of one awkward memory the bloom +was somehow brushed off this little romance. For these reasons there was +fear in her grey eyes as she put up her face to Katherine's to be +kissed. + +"Do you know?" she half whispered. "Has he told you?" + +"No, he has told me nothing; but I know." + +There was silence as the two women sat down side by side and looked into +each other's faces. Katherine's instinct was to soothe and protect the +shy creatures that shrank from her, and Audrey in her doubt and timidity +appealed to her more than she had ever done in the self-conscious +triumph of her beauty. She took her hand, caressing it gently as she +spoke. + +"Audrey--you won't mind telling me frankly? Are you engaged to Ted?" + +True to her imitative instincts, Audrey could be frank with the frank. +"Yes, I am. But it's our own little secret, and we don't want anybody to +know yet." + +"Perhaps you are wise." She paused. How could she make Audrey understand +what she had to say? She was not going to ask her to break off her +engagement. In the first place, she had no right to do so; in the second +place, any interference in these cases is generally fatal to its own +ends. But she wanted to make Audrey realise the weight of her +responsibility. + +"Audrey," she said at last, "do you remember our first meeting, when you +thought Ted was a baby?" + +"Yes, of course I do. That was only six, seven months ago; and to think +that I should be engaged to him now! Isn't it funny?" + +"Very funny indeed. But you were perfectly right. He is a baby. He knows +no more than a baby does of the world, and of the men in it. Of the +women he knows rather less than an intelligent baby." + +"I wouldn't have him different. He needn't know anything about other +women, so long as he understands _me_." + +"Well, the question is, does he understand himself? What's more, are +you sure you understand him? Ted is two people rolled into one, and very +badly rolled too. The human part of him has hardly begun to grow yet; +he's got no practical common-sense to speak of, and only a rudimentary +heart." + +"Oh, Katherine!" + +"Quite true,--it's all I had at his age. But the ideal, the artistic +side of him is all but full-grown. That means that it's just at the +critical stage now." + +"Of course, I suppose it would be." Audrey always said "Of course" when +she especially failed to see the drift of what was said to her. + +"Yes; but do you realise all that the next few years will do for him? +That they will either make or ruin his career as an artist? They ought +to be years of downright hard work, of solitary hard work; he ought to +have them all to himself. Do you mean to let him have them?" + +Audrey lowered her eyes, and sat silent, playing with the ribbons of her +dress, while Katherine went on as if to herself-- + +"He is so young, so dreadfully young. It would have been soon enough in +another ten years' time. Oh, Audrey, why did you let it come to this?" + +"Well, really, Katherine, I couldn't help it. Besides, one has one's +feelings. You talk as if I was going to stand in Ted's way--as if I +didn't care a straw. Surely his career must mean more to his wife than +it can to his sister? I know you think that because I haven't been +trained like you, because I've lived a different life from yours, that I +can't love art as you do. You're mistaken. To begin with, I made up my +mind ten years ago that whatever I did when I grew up, I wouldn't marry +a nonentity. What do you suppose Ted's fascination was, if it wasn't his +genius, and his utter unlikeness to anybody else?" + +"Geniuses are common enough nowadays; there are plenty more where he +came from." + +"How cynical you are! You haven't met many people like Ted, have you?" + +"No, I haven't. Oh, Audrey, do you _really_ care like that? I wonder how +I should feel if I were you, and knew that Ted's future lay in my hands, +as it lies in yours." + +Audrey's cheeks reddened with pleasure. "It does! It does!" She clasped +her little hands passionately, as if they were holding Ted and his +future tight. "I know it. All I want is to inspire him, to keep him true +to himself. Haven't I done it? You know what his work was like before he +loved me. Can you say that he ever painted better than he does now, or +even one-half as well?" + +Katherine could not honestly say that he had; but she smiled as she +answered, "No; but for the last six months he has done nothing from +anybody but yourself. You make a very charming picture, Audrey, but you +can hardly want people to say that your husband can only paint one +type." + +"My husband can paint as many types as he pleases." Katherine still +looked dubious. "Anything more?" + +"Yes, one thing. You say you want to keep Ted true to himself, as you +put it. He made up his mind this morning to go to Paris to study hard +for six months. It means a lot of self-sacrifice for you both, to be +separated so soon; but it will be the making of him. You won't let him +change his mind? You won't say anything to keep him back, will you?" + +Audrey's face had suddenly grown hard, and she looked away from +Katherine as she answered, "You're not very consistent, I must say. You +can't think Ted such an utter baby if you trust him to go off to Paris +all by himself. As to his making up his mind this morning, our +engagement alters all that. After all, how can it affect Ted's career if +he goes now or three years hence?" + +"It makes all the difference." + +"I can't see it. And yet--and yet--I wouldn't spoil Ted's chances for +worlds." She rose and walked a few paces to and fro. "Let me think, let +me think!" She stood still, an image of abstract Justice, with one hand +folded over her eyes, and the other clenched as if it held the invisible +scales of destiny, weighing her present, overcharged with agreeable +sensations, against her lover's future. Apparently, after some shifting +of the weights, she had made the two balance, for she clapped her hands +suddenly, and exclaimed, with an emphasis on every other word-- + +"Katherine! An inspiration! We'll go to Paris for our honeymoon, and Ted +shall stay there six months--a year--for ever, if he likes. Paris is the +place I adore above all others. I shall simply live in that dear +Louvre!" She added in more matter-of-fact tones, "And I needn't order my +trousseau till I get there. That'll save no end of bother on this side. +I hate the way we do things here. For weeks before your wedding-day to +have to think of nothing but clothes, clothes, clothes--could anything +be more revolting?" + +"Yes," said Katherine, "to think of them before a funeral." + +Audrey looked offended. Death, like religion, is one of those subjects +which it is very bad taste to mention under some circumstances. + +Katherine went away more disheartened than ever, and more especially +weighed down by the consciousness that she had made a fool of herself. +She knew Audrey to be vain, she divined that she was selfish, but at +least she had believed that she could be generous. By letting her feel +that she held Ted's future in her hands, she had roused all her woman's +vague cupidity and passion for power, and henceforth any appeal to her +generosity would be worse than useless. With a little of her old +artistic egoism, Katherine valued her brother's career very much as a +thing of her own making, and the idea of another woman meddling with it +and spoiling it was insupportable. It was as if some reckless colourist +had taken the Witch of Atlas and daubed her all over with frightful +scarlet and magenta. But the trouble at her heart of hearts was the +certainty that Audrey, that creature of dubious intellect and fitful +emotions, would never be able to love Ted as his wife should love him. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +All true revelations soon seem as old as the hills and as obvious. +Yesterday they were not, to-day they have struck you dumb, to-morrow +they will have become commonplaces, and henceforth you will be incapable +of seeing anything else. So it was with Audrey. Her engagement was +barely a week old before she felt that it had lasted for ever. Not that +she was tired of it; on the contrary, she hoped everything from Ted's +eccentricity. She was sick to death of the polished conventional +type--the man who, if he came into her life at all, must be introduced +in the recognised way; while Ted, who had dropped into it literally +through a skylight, roused her unflagging interest and curiosity. She +was always longing to see what the boy would say and do next. Poor +Audrey! Her own character was mainly such a bundle of negations that you +described her best by saying what she was not; but other people's +positive qualities acted on her as a powerful stimulant, and it was one +for which she perpetually craved. She had found it in Hardy. In him it +was the almost physical charm of blind will, and she yielded to it +unwillingly. She had found it in Ted under the intoxicating form of +vivid emotion. Life with Vincent would have been an unbroken bondage. +Life with Ted would have no tyrannous continuity; it would be a series +of splendid episodes. At the same time, it seemed to her that she had +always lived this sort of life. Like the "souls" in Ted's ingenious +masterpiece, Audrey had suffered a metempsychosis, and her very memory +was changed. The change was not so much shown in the character of her +dress and her surroundings (Audrey was not the first woman who has tried +to be original by following the fashion); these things were only the +outward signs of an inward transformation. If her worship of the +beautiful was not natural, it was not altogether affected. She really +appreciated the things she saw, though she only saw them through as much +of Ted's mind as was transparent to her at the moment. It never occurred +to her to ask herself whether she would have chosen to stand quite so +often on the Embankment watching the sun go down behind Battersea +Bridge, or whether she would have sat quite so many hours in the +National Gallery looking at those white-faced grey-eyed Madonnas of +Botticelli that Ted was never tired of talking about. It was so natural +that he should be always with her when she did these things, that it was +impossible to disentangle her ideas and say what was her own and what +was his. She was not given to self-analysis. + +But there were limits to Audrey's capacity for receiving impressions. +Between her and the world where Katherine always lived, and which Ted +visited at intervals now becoming rarer and rarer, there was a great +gulf fixed. After all, Audrey had no grasp of the impersonal; she could +only care for any object as it gave her certain emotions, raised certain +associations, or drew attention to herself. She was at home in the dim +borderland between art and nature, the region of vanity and vague +sensation. Here she could meet Ted half-way and talk to him about ideals +for the hour together. But in the realm of pure art, as he had told her +when she once said that she liked all his pictures because they were +his, personalities count for nothing; you must have an eye for the thing +itself, and the thing itself was the one thing that Audrey could not +see. In that world she was a pilgrim and a stranger; it was peopled with +shadowy fantastic rivals, who left her with no field and no favour; +flesh and blood were powerless to contend against them. They excited no +jealousy--they were too intangible for that; but in their half-seen +presence she had a sense of helpless irritation and bewilderment--it +baffled, overpowered, and humiliated her. To a woman thirsting for a +great experience, it was hard to find that the best things lay always +just beyond her reach; that in Ted's life, after all of it that she had +absorbed and made her own, there was still an elusive something on which +she had no hold. Not that she allowed this reflection to trouble her +happiness long. As Katherine had said, Ted was two people very +imperfectly rolled into one. Consciously or unconsciously, it became +more and more Audrey's aim to separate them, to play off the one against +the other. This called for but little skill on her part. Ted's passion +at its white-heat had fused together the boy's soul and the artist's, +but at any temperature short of that its natural effect was +disintegration. Audrey had some cause to congratulate herself on the +result. It might or might not have been flattering to be called a +"clever puss" or an "imaginative minx" (Ted chose his epithets at +random), whenever she pointed out some novel effect of colour or +picturesque grouping; but it was now July, and Ted had not done a stroke +of work since he put the last touches to her portrait in April. + +It was now July, and from across the Atlantic came the first rumours of +Hardy's return. Within a month, or six weeks at the latest, he would be +in England, in London. The news set Audrey thinking, and think as she +would the question perpetually recurred, Whether would it be better to +announce her engagement to Ted, or still keep it a secret, still drift +on indefinitely as they had done for the last four months? If Audrey had +formed any idea of the future at all, it was as a confused mirage of +possibilities: visions of express trains in which she and Ted were +whirled on for ever through strange landscapes; visions of Parisian life +as she pictured it--a series of exquisite idyls, the long days of +quivering sunlight under blue skies, the brief languid nights dying into +dawn, coffee and rolls brought to you before you get up, strawberries +eaten with claret instead of cream because cream makes you ill in hot +climates, the Paris of fiction and the Paris of commonplace report; and +with it all, scene after scene in which she figured as doing a thousand +extravagant and interesting things, always dressed in appropriate +costumes, always making characteristic little speeches to Ted, who +invariably replied with some delicious absurdity. The peculiarity of +these scenes was, that though they succeeded each other through endless +time, yet neither she nor Ted ever appeared a day older in them. As +Audrey's imagination borrowed nothing from the past, it had no sense of +the demands made by the future. Now, although in publicly announcing her +engagement to Ted she would give a fixity to this floating +phantasmagoria which would rob it of half its charm, on the other hand +she felt the need of some such definite and stable tie to secure her +against Vincent's claim, the solidity of which she now realised for the +first time. Unable to come to any conclusion, she continued to think. + +The news from America had set old Miss Craven thinking too. She had at +first rejoiced at Audrey's intimacy with the Havilands, for various +reasons. She was glad to see her settling down--for the first time in +her volatile life--into a friendship with another girl; to hear of her +being interested in picture-galleries; to find a uniform gaiety taking +the place of the restless, captious moods which made others suffer +besides herself. As for the boy, he was a nice clever boy who would make +his way in the world; but he was only "the boy." Three months ago, if +anybody had told Miss Craven that there was a possibility of an +engagement between Audrey and Ted Haviland, she would have laughed them +to scorn. But when it gradually dawned on her that Katherine hardly ever +called at the house with her brother, that he and Audrey went everywhere +together, and Katherine never made a third in their expeditions, it +occurred to her that she really ought to speak a word in season. Her +only difficulty was to find the season. After much futile watching of +her opportunity, she resolved to trust to the inspiration of the moment. +Unfortunately, the moment of the inspiration happened to be that in +which Audrey came in dressed for a row up the river, and chafing with +anxiety because Ted was ten minutes behind time. This at once suggested +the subject in hand. But Miss Craven began cautiously-- + +"Audrey, my dear, do you think you've enough wraps with you? These +evenings on the river are treacherous." + +Audrey gave an impatient twitch to a sort of Elizabethan ruff she wore +round her neck. + +"How tiresome of Ted to be late, when I particularly told him to be +early!" + +"Is Miss Haviland going with you? Poor girl, she looks as if a blow on +the river would do her good." + +"N-no, she isn't." + +"H'm--you'd better wait and have some tea first?" + +"I've waited quite long enough already. We're going to drive to +Hammersmith, and we shall get tea there or at Kew." + +"I don't want to interfere with your amusements, but doesn't it strike +you as--er--a little imprudent to go about so much with 'Ted,' as you +call him?" + +"No, of course not. He's not going to throw me overboard. It's the most +natural thing in the world that I should go with him." + +"Yes--to you, my dear, and I daresay to the young man himself. But if +you are seen together, people are sure to talk." + +"Let them. I don't mind in the least--I rather like it." + +"_Like_ it?" + +"Yes. You must own it's flattering. People here wouldn't take the +trouble to talk if I were nobody. London isn't Oxford." + +"No; you may do many things in Oxford which you mayn't do in London. But +times have changed. I can't imagine your dear mother saying she would +'like' to be talked about." + +"Please don't speak about mother in that way; you know I never could +bear it. Oh, there's a ring at the front door! That's Ted." She stood +on tiptoe, bending forward, and held her ear to the half-open door. +"No, it isn't; it's some wretched visitor. Don't keep me, Cousin Bella, +or I shall be caught." + +"Really, Audrey, now we are on the subject, I must just tell you that +your conduct lately has given me a great deal of anxiety." + +"My conduct! What _do_ you mean? I haven't broken any of the seven +commandments. (Thank goodness, they've gone!)" + +"I mean that if you don't take care you'll be entangling yourself with +young Mr. Haviland, as you did----" + +"As I did with Vincent, I suppose. That _is_ so like you. You're always +thinking things, always putting that and that together, and doing it +quite wrong. You were hopelessly out of it about Vincent. Whether you're +wrong or right about Mr. Haviland, I simply shan't condescend to tell +you." And having lashed herself into a state of indignation, Audrey went +on warmly--"I'm not a child of ten. I won't have my actions criticised. +I won't have my motives spied into. I won't be ruled by your miserable +middle-class, provincial standard. What I do is nobody's business but my +own." + +"Very well, very well; go your own way, and take the consequences. If +it's not my business, don't blame me when you get into difficulties." + +Audrey turned round with a withering glance. + +"Cousin Bella, you are really _too_ stupid!" she said, with a movement +of her foot that was half rage, half sheer excitement. "Ah, there's Ted +at last!" She ran joyously away. Miss Craven sank back in her chair, +exhausted by her unusual moral effort, and too deeply hurt to return the +smile which Audrey flashed back at her, by way of apology, as she flew. + +The bitter little dialogue, at any rate, had the good effect of wakening +Audrey to the practical aspects of her problem. Before their engagement +could be announced, it was clear that Ted ought to be properly +introduced to her friends. However she might affect to brave it out, +Audrey was sensitive to the least breath of unfavourable opinion, and +she did not want it said that she had picked up her husband heavens +knows how, when, and where. If they had been talked about already, no +time should be lost before people realised that Ted was a genius with a +future before him, his sister a rising artist also, and so on. Audrey +was busy with these thoughts as she was being rowed up the river from +Hammersmith. At Kew the room where they had tea was full of people she +knew; and as she and Ted passed on to a table in a far corner, she felt, +rather than saw, that the men looked after them, and the women exchanged +glances. The same thing happened at Richmond, where they dined; and +there a little knot of people gathered about the river's bank and +watched their departure with more than friendly interest. If she had any +lingering doubts before, Audrey was ready now to make her engagement +known, for mere prudence' sake. And as they almost drifted down in the +quiet July evening, between the humid after-glow of the sunset and the +dawn of the moonlit night, Audrey felt a wholly new and delicate +sensation. It was as if she were penetrated for the first time by the +indefinable, tender influences of air and moonlight and running water. +The mood was vague and momentary--a mere fugitive reflection of the +rapture with which Ted, rowing lazily now with the current, drank in the +glory of life, and felt the heart of all nature beating with his. Yet +for that one instant, transient as it was, Audrey's decision was being +shaped for her by a motive finer than all prudence, stronger than all +sense of propriety. In its temporary transfiguration her love for Ted +was such that she would have been ready, if need were, to fix Siberia +for their honeymoon and to-morrow for their wedding-day. As they parted +on her doorstep at Chelsea, between ten and eleven o'clock, she +whispered, "Ted, that row down was like heaven! I've never, never been +so happy in all my life!" If she did not fix their wedding-day then and +there, she did the next best thing--she fixed the day for a dinner to be +given in Ted's honour. Not a tedious, large affair, of course. She was +only going to ask a few people who would appreciate Ted, and be useful +to him in "the future." + +As it was nearly the end of the season Audrey had no time to lose, and +the first thing she did after her arrival was to startle Miss Craven by +the sudden question-- + +"Cousin Bella, who was the man who rushed out of his bath into the +street shouting 'Eureka'?" + +"I never heard of any one doing so," said Cousin Bella, a little +testily; "and if he did, it was most improper of him." + +"Wasn't it? Never mind; he had an idea, so have I. I think I shall run +out on to the Embankment and shout 'Eureka' too. Aren't you dying to +know? I'm going to give a grand dinner for Te--for Mr. and Miss +Haviland; and I'm not going to ask one--single--nonentity,--there! First +of all, we must have Mr. Knowles--of course. Then--perhaps--Mr. Flaxman +Reed. H'm--yes; we haven't asked him since he came up to St. Teresa's. +If he isn't anybody in particular, you can't exactly call him nobody." +Having settled the question of Mr. Flaxman Reed, Audrey sat down and +sent off several invitations on the spot. + +Owing to some refusals, the dinner-party gradually shrank in size and +importance, and it was not until within four days of its date that +Audrey discovered to her dismay that she was "a man short." As good luck +would have it, she met Knowles that afternoon in Regent Street, and +confided to him her difficulty and her firm determination not to fill +the gap with any "nonentity" whatever. Audrey was a little bit afraid of +Mr. Percival Knowles, and nothing but real extremity would have driven +her to this desperate course. "If you could suggest any one I know, who +isn't a nonentity, and who wouldn't mind such ridiculously short notice: +it's really quite an informal little dinner, got up in a hurry, you +know, for Mr. Haviland, a very clever young artist, and his sister." + +Knowles smiled faintly: he had heard before of the very clever young +artist (though not of his sister). He was all sympathy. + +"Sorry. I can't think of any one you know--_not_ a nonentity--but I +should like to bring a friend, if I may. You don't know him, I think, +but I believe he very much wants to know you." + +"Bring him by all means, if he won't mind such a casual invitation." + +"I'll make that all right." + +Knowles lifted his hat, and was about to hurry away. + +"By-the-bye, you haven't told me your friend's name." + +He stopped, and answered with a sibilant incoherence, struggling as he +was with his amusement. But at that moment Audrey's attention was +diverted by the sight of Ted coming out of the New Gallery, and she +hardly heard what was being said to her. + +"I shall be delighted to see Mr. St. John," she called back, making a +random shot at the name, and went on her way with leisurely haste +towards the New Gallery. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + + +On the evening of her dinner Audrey had some difficulty in distributing +her guests. After all, eight had accepted. Besides the Havilands, with +Mr. Knowles and his friend Mr. St. John, there was Mr. Flaxman Reed, +who, as Audrey now discovered, greatly to her satisfaction, was causing +some excitement in the religious world by his interesting attitude +mid-way between High Anglicanism and Rome. There were Mr. Dixon Barnett, +the great Asiatic explorer, and his wife; and Miss Gladys Armstrong, the +daring authoress of "Sour Grapes" and "Through Fire to Moloch," two +novels dealing with the problem of heredity. Audrey had to contrive as +best she might to make herself the centre of attraction throughout the +evening, and at the same time do justice to each of her distinguished +guests. The question was, Who was to take her in to dinner? After +weighing impartially the claims of her three more or less intimate +acquaintances, Audrey decided in favour of the unknown. She felt unusual +complacence with this arrangement. Her fancies were beginning to cluster +round the idea of Mr. St. John with curiosity. It was to be herself and +Mr. St. John, then. Mr. Knowles and Miss Armstrong, of course: the +critic was so cynical and hard to please that she felt a little +triumphant in having secured some one whom he would surely be delighted +to meet. Mr. Flaxman Reed and Katherine--n-no, Mrs. Dixon Barnett, Mr. +Dixon Barnett falling to Katherine's share. For Ted, quite naturally, +there remained nobody but Cousin Bella. "Poor boy, he'll be terribly +bored, I'm afraid, but it can't be helped." + +The Havilands were the first to arrive. + +"How superb you look!" was Audrey's exclamation, as she kissed her +friend on both cheeks and stepped back to take a good look at her. +Katherine's appearance justified the epithet. Her gown, the work of her +own hands, was of some transparent black stuff, swathed about her +breasts, setting off the honey-like pallor of her skin; her slight +figure supplied any grace that was wanting in the draperies. That black +and white was a splendid foil for Audrey's burnished hair and her dress, +an ingenious medley of flesh-pink, apple-green, and ivory silk. + +"One moment, dear; just let me pin that chiffon up on your shoulder, to +make your sleeves look wider--there!" She hovered round Katherine, +spying out the weak points in her dress, and disguising them with quick, +skillful fingers. A woman never looks more charming than when doing +these little services for another. So Ted thought, as he watched Audrey +laying her white arms about his sister, and putting her head on one +side to survey the effect critically. To the boy, with his senses +sharpened to an almost feverish subtilty by the incessant stimulus of +his imagination, Audrey was the epitome of everything most completely +and joyously alive. Roses, sunlight, flame, with the shifting, waving +lines of all things most fluent and elusive, were in her face, her hair, +the movements of her limbs. Her body was like a soul to its clothes; it +animated, inspired the mass of silk and lace. He could not think of her +as she was--the creature of the day and the hour, modern from the +surface to the core. Yet never had she looked more modern than at this +moment; never had that vivid quality, that touch of artificial +distinction, appeared more stereotyped in its very perfection and +finish. But Ted, in the first religious fervour of his passion, had +painted her as the Saint of the Beatific Vision; and in the same way, to +Ted, ever since that evening on the river, she recalled none but +open-air images. She was linked by flowery chains of association to an +idyllic past--a past of four days ago. Her very caprices suggested the +shy approaches and withdrawals of some divinity of nature. It was by +these harmless fictions, each new one rising on the ruins of the old, +that Ted managed to keep his ideal of Audrey intact. + +There was a slight stir in the passage outside the half-open door. +Audrey, still busy about Katherine's dress, seemed not to hear it. + +"My dear Audrey!" protested Miss Craven from her corner. + +"There, that'll do!" said Katherine, laughing; "you've stuck quite +enough pins into me for one night." + +"Stand still, and don't wiggle!" cried Audrey, as the door opened wide. +For a second she was conscious of being watched by eyes that were not +Ted's or anything like them. At the same time the footman announced in a +firm, clear voice, "Mr. Knowles and Mr. Langley Wyndham!" + +She had heard this time. The look she had seen from the doorway was the +same look that had followed her in the Dean's drawing-room at Oxford. +All the emotions of that evening thronged back into her mind--the vague +fascination, the tense excitement, the mortification that resulted from +the wound to her self-love and pride. + +So this was Mr. St. John! + +A year ago he had refused an introduction to her, and now he wanted to +know her; his friend had said so. He was seeking the acquaintance of his +own accord, without encouragement. How odd it all was! Well, whether his +former discourtesy had been intentional or not, he knew how to apologise +for it gracefully. + +She had no time to think more about the matter, for her remaining guests +came in all together; and in another five minutes Audrey was suffering +from that kind of nightmare in which some grave issue--you don't know +precisely what--hangs on the adjustment of trifles, absurdly +disproportionate to the event, and which disarrange themselves +perversely at the dramatic moment. Everything seemed to go wrong. She +had relied on Knowles and Miss Gladys Armstrong for a brilliant display +of intellectual fireworks; but beyond the first casual remarks +absolutely required of them, they had not a word to say to each other. +Miss Armstrong managed cleverly enough to strike a little spark of +epigram from the flinty dialogue. It flickered and went out. Knowles +smiled politely at the abortive attempt; but at her first serious remark +he shook his head, as much as to say, "My dear lady, this is a +conundrum; I give it up," and finally turned to Katherine on his left. +In fact, he monopolised her during the rest of dinner, much to the +annoyance of Mr. Dixon Barnett, who spent himself in futile efforts to +win back her interest,--his behaviour in its turn rousing the uneasy +attention of Mrs. Dixon Barnett. She, again, was so preoccupied in +watching the movements of her lord, that she almost forgot the existence +of Mr. Flaxman Reed, who sat silent and depressed under her shadow. + +Wyndham gave Audrey credit for great perspicacity in pairing these two +off together. "Poor fellow," he said to himself; "to preserve him from +the temptations of the world and the flesh, she's considerately sent him +in with the devil." For his own part, he devoted himself to Audrey and +his dinner. From time to time he glanced across the table, and whenever +he did so the corners of Knowles's mouth twitched nervously and he began +to stroke his upper lip--a provoking habit of his, seeing that he had no +moustache to account for it. Evidently there was some secret +understanding between the two, and Wyndham was gravely and maliciously +amused. + +Katherine was enjoying herself too, but without malice. She had so few +acquaintances and lived so much in the studio, that it was all fresh +life to her. She was pleased with that unconscious irony of Audrey's +which had thrown Knowles and Miss Armstrong together; pleased with the +by-play between Knowles and Wyndham, and with the behaviour of the +married couple. It was always a delight to her to watch strange faces. +Mrs. Dixon Barnett was a big woman, with a long head, and she looked +something like a horse with its ears laid back, her hair being arranged +to carry out that idea. The great Asiatic explorer, whose round face +wore an expression of permanent surprise, suggested a man who has met +with some sudden shock from which he has never recovered. Katherine felt +sorry for the Asiatic explorer. She felt sorry for Miss Gladys Armstrong +too, a little pale woman with a large gaze that seemed to take you in +without looking at you. Her face, still young and childlike, was scored +with the marks of hard work and eager ambition, and there was bitterness +in the downward droop of her delicate mouth. Yet the authoress of "Sour +Grapes" was undeniably a successful woman. And Wyndham too, the +successful man--Wyndham's face attracted Katherine in spite of herself, +it was full of such curious inconsistencies. Altogether it was refined, +impressive, almost noble; yet each of the features contradicted itself, +the others, and the whole. The general outline was finely cut, but it +looked a little worn at the edges. The shaven lips were sensitive, but +they had hard curves at the corners; they were firm, without expressing +self-restraint. In the same way the nose was fine at the bridge, and +coarse towards the nostrils. The iris of the eyes was beautiful, with +its clear brown streaks on an orb of greenish grey; yet his eyes were +the most disagreeable feature in Wyndham's face. As for Knowles, he +interested her with his genial cynicism; but it was a relief to turn +from these restless types to Mr. Flaxman Reed. He had the face of the +ideal ascetic--sweet in its austerity, militant in its renunciation. +What in heaven's name was he doing at Audrey Craven's dinner-table? + +Katherine was not too much absorbed in these speculations to see that +Ted was behaving very prettily to old Miss Craven, and making himself +useful by filling up awkward pauses with irrelevant remarks. The boy +looked perfectly happy. Audrey's mere presence seemed to satisfy him, +though she had not spoken a dozen words to him that evening, and was +separated from him by the length of the table. At last she rose, and as +he held the door open for her to go out, she turned to him with arched +eyebrows and a smile that was meant to say, "You've been shamefully +neglected, I know, but I had to attend to these tiresome people." +Katherine saw Mr. Wyndham making a mental note of the look and the +smile. She had taken an instinctive dislike to that man. + +Upstairs in the drawing-room the five women settled down in a +confidential group, and with one accord fell to discussing Mr. Wyndham. +Miss Craven began it by mildly wondering whether he "looked so +disagreeable on purpose, or because he couldn't help it." On the whole, +she inclined to the more charitable view. + +"What do you say, Kathy?" asked Audrey, without looking up. + +"I agree with Miss Craven in thinking nature responsible for Mr. +Wyndham's manners." + +Mrs. Dixon Barnett disapproved of Katherine, but she joined in here with +a guttural assent. + +"Poor man," said Miss Gladys Armstrong, "he certainly hasn't improved +since that affair with Miss Fraser." + +Audrey looked up suddenly,--"What affair?" + +"Don't you know? They were engaged a long time, wedding-day fixed and +everything, when she broke it off suddenly, without a word of warning." + +"Why?" + +"Why indeed! She left her reasons to the imagination." + +"When did it happen?" + +"Just about this time last year. I can't think what made her do it, +unless she had a turn for psychical research--raking in the ashes of his +past, and that sort of thing." + +"Was he very much cut up about it?" + +"He didn't whine. But he's got an ugly wound somewhere about him. +Curious man, Langley Wyndham. I haven't got to the bottom of him yet; +and I flatter myself I know most men. My diagnosis is generally pretty +correct. He's a very interesting type." + +"Very," said Audrey below her breath. The novelist knitted her brows and +fell into a reverie. Her interest in Langley Wyndham was not a purely +professional one. Audrey reflected too. "Just about this time last year. +That might account for things." She would have liked to ask more; but +further discussion of his history was cut short by the entrance of +Wyndham himself, followed by the rest. + +Mr. Flaxman Reed was the first to take the empty seat by Audrey's side. +He remembered the talk he had with her at Oxford--that talk which had +provoked Wyndham's sarcastic comments. Himself a strange compound of +intellectual subtilty and broad simplicity of character, he had taken +Audrey's utterances in good faith. She had spoken to him of spiritual +things, in one of those moments of self-revelation which, he knew well, +come suddenly to those--especially to women--whose inner life is +troubled. But this was not the atmosphere to revive such themes in. He +had no part in Audrey's and in Wyndham's world,--the world which cared +nothing for the principles he represented, those two great ideals which +he served in his spirit and his body--the unity of the Church and the +celibacy of the priesthood. But Audrey interested him. He had first met, +last seen her, during a spiritual and intellectual crisis. He had stood +alone then, severed from those dearest to him by troubled seas of +controversy; and a word, a look, had passed which showed that she, this +woman, sympathised with him. It was enough; there still clung to her the +grave and tender associations of that time. + +To-night the woman was unable to give him her whole-hearted attention. +Audrey was disturbed and preoccupied. Ted was lounging at the back of +her chair, hanging on her words; Wyndham and Miss Armstrong were sitting +on the other side of her, and she felt herself straining every nerve to +catch what they were saying. + +"Yes," said Miss Armstrong in the tone of a proud parent, "'Through Fire +to Moloch' was my first. In that book I threw down the gauntlet to +Society. It shrugged its shoulders and took no notice. My second, 'Sour +Grapes,' was a back-hander in its face. It shrieked that time, but it +read 'Sour Grapes.'" + +"Which at once increased the demand for 'Through Fire to Moloch.' I +congratulate you." + +Miss Armstrong ignored the impertinent parenthesis. "The critics abused +me, but I expected that. They are men, and it was the men I exposed----" + +Knowles, who was standing near, smiled, and blushed when he caught +himself smiling. Wyndham laughed frankly at his confusion, and Audrey +grew hot and cold by turns. What was the dreadful joke those two had +about Miss Armstrong? She leaned back and looked up at Ted sweetly. + +"Ted, I should like to introduce you to Mr. Knowles. He'll tell you all +about that illustrated thing you wanted to get on to." + +"I'm afraid," said Knowles, "that's not in my line: I don't know +anything about any illustrated things." + +"Well, never mind; I want you to know something about Mr. Haviland, +anyhow." + +This was just what Knowles wanted himself. He was deeply interested in +the situation as far as he understood it, and he looked forward to its +development. This little diversion created, Miss Armstrong continued +with imperturbable calm. But Audrey, listening with one ear to Mr. +Flaxman Reed, only heard the livelier parts of the dialogue. + +"Life isn't all starched linen and eau-de-Cologne," said Miss Armstrong, +sententiously. + +"Did I ever say it was?" returned Wyndham. + +"Virtually you do. You turn your back on average humanity." + +"Pardon me, I do nothing of the kind. I use discrimination." + +"Nature has no discrimination." + +"Exactly. And Nature has no consideration for our feelings, and very +little maidenly reserve. Therefore we've invented Art." + +Audrey leaned forward eagerly. She felt an unusual exaltation. At last +she was in the centre of intellectual life, carried on by the whirl of +ideas. She answered her companion at random. + +"Yes," Mr. Flaxman Reed was saying, "my work _is_ disheartening. Half my +parish are animals, brutalised by starvation, degraded out of all +likeness to men and women." + +"How dreadful! What hard work it must be!" + +"Hard enough to find decent food and clothing for their bodies. But to +have to 'create a soul under those ribs of death'----" he paused. His +voice seemed suddenly to run dry. + +"Yes," said Audrey in her buoyant staccato, "I can't think how you +manage it." + +There was a moment of silence. Wyndham had turned from Miss Armstrong; +Knowles and Ted had long ago joined Miss Haviland at the other end of +the room, where Mr. Dixon Barnett, still irresistibly attracted by +Katherine, hovered round and round the little group, with the fatal +"desire of the moth for the star." Audrey stood up; Miss Armstrong was +holding out her hand and pleading a further engagement. The little woman +looked sour and ruffled: Wyndham's manner had acted on her like vinegar +on milk. She was followed by Mr. Flaxman Reed. Wyndham dropped into the +seat he left. + +"Dixon," said Mrs. Barnett in a low voice which the explorer knew and +obeyed. They were going on to a large "At Home." + +Audrey turned to Wyndham with a smile, "I hope you are not going to +follow them, Mr. Wyndham?" + +"No; I'm not a person of many engagements, I'm thankful to say. Barnett +hasn't much the cut of a great explorer, has he?" + +"No; but those wiry little men can go through a great deal." + +"A very great deal. Is Mrs. Barnett a friend of yours?" + +"No, not especially. Why?" + +"Mere curiosity. That mouth of hers ought to have a bit in it. It's +enough to send any man exploring in Central Asia. I can understand +Barnett's mania for regions untrodden by the foot of man--or woman." + +Audrey laughed a little nervously. "I made a mistake in introducing him +to Miss Haviland." + +"It was a little cruel of you. But not half so unkind as asking Miss +Armstrong to meet Knowles. That was a refinement of cruelty." + +"Why? What have I done? Tell me." + +"Didn't you know that Knowles went for Miss Armstrong in last week's +'Piccadilly'? Criticised, witticised, slaughtered, and utterly made game +of her?" + +"No? I'd no idea! I thought they'd be delighted to meet each other; and +I know so few really clever people, you know" (this rather plaintively). +"He does cut up people so dreadfully, too." + +"He cut her up into very small pieces. Knowles does these things +artistically. He's so urbane in his brutality; that's what makes it so +crushing. Are you an admirer of Miss Armstrong?" + +He looked her full in the face, and Audrey blushed. She had read Miss +Armstrong's works, and liked them, because it was the fashion; but not +for worlds would she have admitted the fact now. + +"I don't think I am. I've not read _all_ her books." + +"_Did_ you like them?" + +"I--I hardly know. She's written so many, and I can't understand +them--at least not all of them." + +Wyndham smiled. She had read all of them, then. + +"I'm glad to hear it. I can't understand them myself; but I detest them, +all the same." + +"I thought so. I saw you were having an argument with her." + +"Oh, as for that, I agreed with her--with her theory, that is, not with +her practice; that's execrable. But whatever she says I always want to +support the other side." + +He changed the subject, much to Audrey's relief. + +"I think you knew Mr. Flaxman Reed at Oxford?" + +"Yes, slightly. He's an old friend of my uncle's." + +"There's something infinitely pathetic about him. I've an immense +respect for him--probably because I don't understand him. I was +surprised to meet him here." + +"Really, you are very uncomplimentary to me." + +"Am I? Mr. Reed has renounced all the pleasant things of life--hence my +astonishment at seeing him here. Do you find him easy to get on with?" + +"Perfectly." She became absorbed in picking the broken feathers out of +her fan. She took no interest in Mr. Flaxman Reed. What she wanted was +to be roused, stimulated by contact with a great intellect; and the +precious opportunity was slipping minute by minute from her grasp. +Wyndham was wasting it in deliberate trivialities. She longed to draw +him into some subject, large and deep, where their sympathies could +touch, their thoughts expand and intermingle. She continued tentatively, +with a suggestion of self-restrained suffering in her voice, "I don't +think I have any right to discuss Mr. Reed. You know--I have no firm +faith, no settled opinions." + +It was an opening into the larger air, a very little one; she had no +knowledge or skill to make it bigger, but she was determined to show +herself a woman abreast of her time. Wyndham leaned back and looked at +her through half-opened eyelids. + +"You are no longer convinced of the splendid logic of the Roman faith?" + +She started. His words recalled vividly that evening at Oxford, though +she would not have recognised them as hers but for the quotation marks +indicated by Wyndham's tone. + +"No--that was a year ago. What did you know about me then?" + +"Nothing. I divined much." + +"You are right. How well you remember!" She leaned forward. Her face was +animated, eager, in its greed of sympathy, understanding, +acknowledgment. Clear and insistent, with a note as of delicate irony, +the little porcelain clock in the corner sounded eleven. Knowles and +others were making a move. Wyndham rose. + +"I remember most things worth remembering." + +Five minutes afterwards Audrey, wrapt in thought, was still standing +where Wyndham had left her. Miss Craven and Katherine had gone upstairs, +and she was alone with Ted. Suddenly she clenched her hands together, at +the full length of her white arms, and turned to him in an agony of +tenderness, clinging to him like an overwrought child, and lavishing +more sweetness on him than she had done since the day of their +engagement. Ted was touched with the unusual pathos of her manner. He +put it down to sorrow at their separation during the whole of a long +evening. + + + + +CHAPTER X + + +It was the third week in August; summer was dying, as a London summer +dies, in days of feverish sunlight and breathless languor. Everywhere +there was the same torpor, the same wornout, desiccated life in death. +It was in the streets with their sultry pallor, in the parks and squares +where the dust lay like a grey blight on every green thing. Everywhere +the glare accentuated this toneless melancholy. It was the symbol of the +decadence following the brilliant efflorescence of the season, the +exhaustion after that supreme effort of Society to amuse itself. This +lassitude is felt most by those who have shared least in the amusement, +the workers who must stay behind in the great workshop because they are +too busy or too poor to leave it. + +There was one worker, however, who felt nothing of this depression. +Langley Wyndham had reasons for congratulating himself that everybody +was out of town, and that he was left to himself in his rooms in Dover +Street. For one thing, it gave him opportunity for cultivating Miss +Craven's acquaintance. For another, he had now a luxurious leisure in +which to polish up the proofs of his last novel, and to arrange his +ideas for its successor. Compared with this great work, all former +efforts would seem to the taste they had created as so much literary +trifling. Hitherto he had been merely trying his instrument, running his +fingers over the keys in his easy professional way; but these +preliminary flourishes gave no idea of the constructive harmonies to +follow. And now, on a dull evening, some three weeks after Audrey's +dinner-party, he was alone in his study, smoking, as he leaned back in +his easy-chair, in one of those dreamy moods which with him meant +fiction in the making, the tobacco-smoke curling round his head the +Pythian fumes of his inspiration. The study was curiously suggestive of +its owner's inconsistencies. With its silk cushions, Oriental rugs, and +velvet draperies, its lining of books, and writing-table heaped with +manuscripts and proofs, it witnessed to his impartial love of luxury and +hard work. It told other secrets too. The cigar-case on the table beside +him was embroidered by a woman's hand, the initials L. W. worked with +gold thread in a raised monogram. Two or three photographs of pretty +women were stuck by their corners behind the big looking-glass over the +fireplace, together with invitation cards, frivolous little notes, and +ball programmes. On one end of the mantel-board there was a photograph +of Knowles; on the other, the one nearest Wyndham's chair, an empty +frame of solid silver. The photograph and the frame represented the +friendship and the love of his life. + +To-night he had left his proofs untouched on the writing-table, and had +settled himself comfortably to his pipe, with the voluptuous +satisfaction of a man who has put off a disagreeable duty. He felt that +delicious turmoil of ideas which with him accompanied the building up of +a story round its central character. Not that he yet understood that +character. Wyndham had his intuitions, but he was not the man to trust +them as such; it was his habit to verify them by a subsequent logic. His +literary conscience allowed nothing to take the place of the +experimental method, the careful observation, and arranging of minute +facts, intimate analytical study from the life. No action was too small, +no emotion too insignificant, for his uncompromising realism. He had +applied the same method to his own experience. Whatever came in his way, +the tragedy or comedy of his daily life, his moods of passion and +apathy, the aspirations of his better moments, all underwent the same +disintegrating process. He had the power of standing aloof from himself, +of arresting the flight of his own sensations, and criticising his own +actions as a disinterested spectator. Thus he made no experiment on +others that he had not first tried on his own person. If any man ever +understood himself, that man was Langley Wyndham. He was by no means +vain of this distinction; on the contrary, he would have said that as a +man's inner consciousness is the only thing he has any direct knowledge +of, he must be a fool if he can live with himself--the closest of all +human relations--for thirty-five years without understanding his own +character. + +What he really prided himself on was his knowledge of other people, +especially of women. Unfortunately, for the first few years of his +literary life he knew no women intimately: he had many acquaintances +among them, a few enemies, but no friends; and the little he knew of +individuals had not tended to raise his opinion of women in general. +Consequently he drew them all, as he saw them, from the outside; the +best sort with a certain delicacy and clearness of outline, the result +of unerring eyesight and the gift of style; the worst sort with an +incisive, almost brutal touch that suggested the black lines bitten out +by some powerful acid. His work "took" because of its coarser qualities, +the accentuated bitterness, the startling irony, the vigorous, +characteristic phrase. Those black strokes were not introduced to throw +up the grey wash or pencilled shading; Wyndham's cynicism was no mere +literary affectation, it was engrained in his very nature. He had gone +through many phases of disillusionment (including disgust at his own +success) before that brief crisis of feeling which ended in his +engagement to Miss Fraser. Then, for the first time in his life, a +woman's nature had been given to him to know. It was a glorious +opportunity for the born analyst; and for the first time in his life he +let an opportunity go. He loved Alison Fraser, and he found that love +made understanding impossible. He never wanted to understand her; the +relentless passion for analysis was absorbed in a comprehensive +enthusiasm which embraced the whole of Alison and took no count of the +parts. To have pulled her to pieces, even with a view to reconstruction, +would have been a profanation of her and of his love. For a whole year +the student of the earthly and the visible lived on the substance of +things unseen--on faith in the goodness of Alison Fraser. By a peculiar +irony it was her very goodness--for she was a good woman--which made her +give up Wyndham. As Miss Gladys Armstrong had guessed (or as she would +have put it, diagnosed), a detail of Wyndham's past life had come to +Miss Fraser's knowledge, as these details always come, through a +well-meaning friend. It was one which made it difficult for her to +reconcile her marriage with Wyndham to her conscience. And because she +loved him, because the thought of him, so hard to other women, so tender +to herself, fascinated her reason and paralysed her will--flattering the +egoism inherent even in the very good--because she was weak and he was +irresistibly strong, she cut herself from him deliberately, open-eyed, +and with one stroke. She had just sufficient strength for the sudden +breaking off of their engagement, none for explanation, and none, alas! +to save her from regretting her act of supererogatory virtue. + +Wyndham gave no sign of suffering. He simply sank back into himself, and +became the man he had been before, plus his experience of feeling, and +minus the ingenuousness of his self-knowledge. He took instead to +self-mystification, trying to persuade himself that because he could not +have Alison, Alison was not worth having. After that, it was but a step +to palming off on his reason the monstrous syllogism that because Alison +was unworthy, and Alison was a woman, therefore all women were unworthy. +Except for purely literary purposes, he had done with the sex. He became +if anything more intently, more remorselessly analytical, more +absolutely the student of human nature. He lived now in and for his +work. + +He struck out into new paths; he was tired of his neutral washes, and +striking effects in black and white. He had begun to dream of glorious +subtilties of design and colour. Novels were lying in his head ten deep. +He had whole note-books full of germs and embryos, all neatly arranged +in their separate pigeon-holes. In some he had jotted down a name and a +date, or a word which stood for a whole train of ideas. In others he had +recorded some illustration as it occurred to him; or a single sentence +stood flanked by a dozen variants--Wyndham being a careful worker and +sensitive to niceties of language. To-night he was supremely happy. He +saw his way to a lovely little bit of psychological realism. All that +had been hitherto wanting to this particular development of his art had +been the woman. In Audrey Craven he had found the indispensable +thing--intimacy without love, or even, as he understood the word, +friendship. She was the type he had long desired, the feminine creature +artless in perpetual artifice, for ever revealing herself in a +succession of disguises. + +He was beginning to adjust his latest impressions to his earlier idea of +her. He recalled the evening when he had first seen her--the hot, +crowded drawing-room, the heavy atmosphere, the dull faces coming and +going, and the figure of Audrey flashing through it all. She had +irritated him then, for he had not yet classified her. He had tried not +to think of her. She dogged his thoughts with most unmaidenly +insistence; her image lay in wait for him at every cross-road of +association; it was something vivid yet elusive, protean yet persistent. +He recalled that other evening of her dinner-party--their first +recognised meeting. Her whole person, which at first sight had impressed +him with its emphatic individuality, now struck him as characterless and +conventional. And yet--what was she like? She was like a chameleon. No, +she wasn't; he recollected that the change of colour was a vital process +in that animal. She was like an opal--all sparkle when you move it, and +at rest dull, most undeniably dull. No, _that_ wasn't it exactly. She +was a looking-glass for other people's personalities (he hated the +horrid word, and apologised to himself for using it), formless and +colourless, reflecting form and colour. After a moment's satisfaction +with this last fancy, he became aware that he was being made the fool of +metaphor. That was not his way. To find out what lay at the bottom of +this shifting personality, what elemental thoughts and feelings, if any, +the real Audrey was composed of; to see for himself the play of +circumstances on her plastic nature, and know what reaction it was +capable of--in a word, to experimentalise in cold blood on the living +nerve and brain tissue, was his plan of work for the year 1896. + +Making a mental note of several of the above phrases for future use, +Wyndham knocked the ashes out of his pipe and went to bed, where he +dreamed that the Devil, in evening dress, was presenting him with +Audrey's soul--done up in a brown wrapper marked "MS. only"--for +dissection. + + + + +CHAPTER XI + + +It was in no direct accordance with his literary plans, though it may +have been preordained in some divine scheme of chances, that Wyndham +found himself next Sunday attending evensong at St. Teresa's, Lambeth. +It so happened that Audrey and the Havilands had chosen that very +evening to go and hear, or, as Ted expressed it, see Flaxman Reed. He +wanted Flaxman Reed's head for a study. Ted seldom condescended to enter +any church of later date than the fifteenth century, and, +architecturally speaking, he feared the worst from St. Teresa's. Indeed, +smoke, fog, and modern Gothic genius have made the outside of that +building one with the grimy street it stands in, and Ted was not +prepared for the golden beauty of the interior. His judgment halted as +if some magic effect of colour had blinded it to stunted form and +pitiful perspective. But the glory of St. Teresa's is its music. The +three late-comers were shown into seats in the chancel as the choir were +singing the _Magnificat_. Music was the one art to which Audrey's nature +responded spontaneously after its kind. She knelt down and covered her +face with her hands for a prayer's space, while the voices of the choir +and organ shook her on every side with a palpable vibration. She was +conscious then of a deep sense of religion merging in a faint +expectancy, a premonition of things to follow. She rose from her knees +and found an explanation of this in the fact that Langley Wyndham was +standing in the opposite seat below the choir. She was not surprised; +for her the unexpected was always about to happen. It had happened now. + +She tried not to see or think of him; but she felt him as something +illuminating and intensifying her consciousness. She heard the vicar's +voice like a fine music playing in the background. Then organ and choir +burst into the anthem. It was a fugue; the voices seemed to have +gathered together from the ends of the world, flying, pursuing and +flying, doubled, trebled, quadrupled in their flight, they met and +parted, they overtook and were overtaken. And now it was no longer a +fugue of sounds--it was a fugue of all sensations. The incense rose and +mingled with the music; the music fled and rose, up among the clustering +gas-jets, up to the chancel roof where it lost itself in a shimmering +labyrinth of gold and sapphire, and died in a diminuendo of light and +sound. Audrey looked up, and as her eyes met Wyndham's, it seemed as if +a new and passionate theme had crashed into her fugue, dominating its +harmonies, while the whole rushed on, more intricate, more tumultuous +than before. Her individuality that had swum with the stream became +fluent and coalesced with it now, soul flooded with sense, and sense +with soul. She came to herself exhausted and shivering with cold. +Flaxman Reed was in the pulpit. He stood motionless, with compressed +lips and flashing eyes, as he watched the last deserters softly filing +out through the side-aisles. The lights were turned low in nave and +chancel; Ted wriggled in his seat until he commanded a good view of the +fine head, in faint relief against a grey-white pillar, stone on stone; +and Flaxman Reed flung out his text like a challenge to the world: "The +things which are seen are temporal; but the things which are not seen +are eternal." The words suggested something piquantly metaphysical, +magnificently vague, and Audrey followed the sermon a little way. But +Flaxman Reed was in his austerest, most militant mood. He was a master +of antithesis, and to Audrey there was something repellent in his +steel-clad thoughts, his clear diamond-pointed sentences. No eloquence +had any charm for her that was not as water to reflect her image, or as +wind to lift and carry her along. Her fancy soon fluttered gently down +to earth, and she caught herself wondering whether Wyndham would walk +back to Piccadilly or go in a hansom. + +She was still pursuing this train of thought as they left the church, +when she proposed that they should go back to Chelsea by Westminster +instead of Lambeth Bridge. Wyndham overtook them as they turned down to +the river by St. Thomas's Hospital. He stopped while Audrey pointed out +the beauty of the scene with her little air of unique appreciation. +"Isn't it too lovely for words? The suggestion--the mystery of it!" Her +voice had a passionate impatience, as if she chafed at the limitations +of the language. "Who says London's cold and grey? It's blue. And yet +what would it be without the haze?" Wyndham smiled inscrutably: perhaps +he wondered what Miss Audrey Craven would be without the haze? + +"What did you think of the service?" she asked presently. By this time +she and Wyndham were walking together a little in advance of the others. + +"I didn't hear it. I was watching Flaxman Reed all the time." This +statement, as Audrey well knew, was not strictly correct. + +"So was I. My uncle says if he stays in the church he'll be the coming +man." + +"The coming man? H'm. He's been going back ever since I knew him. At +present he's got to the thirteenth century; he may arrive at the Nicene +age, but he'll never have a hold on his own. He's nothing but a holy +anachronism." + +"Oh? I thought you didn't understand him?" + +"In one way I do, in another I don't. You see I knew him at Oxford when +I was a happy undergraduate." (Audrey could not imagine Langley Wyndham +ever being an undergraduate; it seemed to her that he must always have +been a Master of Arts.) "I knew the real Flaxman Reed, and he was as +logical a sceptic as you or I. There was an epidemic of ideas in our +time, and the poor fellow was frightened, so he took it--badly. Of +course he made up his mind that he was going to die, and he was horribly +afraid of dying. So instead of talking about his interesting symptoms, +as you or I might do" ("You or I"--again that flattering association!), +"he quietly got rid of the disease by attacking its source." + +"How?" + +"Well, I forget the precise treatment, but I think he took equal parts +of St. Augustine and St. Thomas Aquinas, diluted with _aqua sacra_. He +gave me the prescription, but I preferred the disease." + +"At any rate he was in earnest." + +"Deadly earnest. That's the piety of the fraud." + +"You surely don't call him a fraud?" + +"Well--a self-deceiver. Isn't that the completest and most fatal form of +fraud? He fights and struggles to be what he isn't and calls it +renouncing self." + +"He renounces the world too--and everything that's pleasant." + +"I'm afraid that doesn't impress me. I can't forget that he renounced +reason because it was unpleasant. Rather than bear a little spiritual +neuralgia, he killed the nerve of thought." + +"How terrible!" said Audrey, though she had no very precise notion of +what was involved in that operation. + +"To us--not to him. Yet he talks about doing good work for his +generation." + +"Why shouldn't he? He works hard enough." + +"Unfortunately his generation doesn't want his work or him either. It's +too irrevocably pledged to reality. There's one thing about him +though--his magnificent personality. I believe he has unlimited +influence over some men and most women." + +Audrey ignored the last suggestion. "You seem to find him very +interesting." + +"He is profoundly interesting. Not in himself so much, but in his +associations. Do you know, when I saw you in church to-night it struck +me that he might possibly influence _you_." + +"Never! I should have to give up my intellect first, I suppose. I'm not +prepared to do _that_." Wyndham smiled again. "Why, what made you think +he would influence me?" + +"I'd no right to think anything at all about it, but I know some women +take him for a hierophant." + +"Some women? Do you think I'm like them?" + +"You are like nothing but yourself. I was only afraid that he might +persuade you to renounce yourself and become somebody else, which would +be a pity." + +"Don't be alarmed. I'm not so impressionable as you think." + +"Aren't you? Be frank. Didn't you feel to-night that he might have a +revelation for you?" + +"No. And yet it's odd you should say so. I have felt that, but--not with +him. I shall never come under that influence." + +"I hope not." (It was delightful to have Langley Wyndham "hoping" and +being "afraid" for her.) "He belongs to the dead--you to the living." + +What a thing it is to have a sense of style, to know the words that +consecrate a moment! They were crossing Westminster Bridge now, and +Audrey looked back. On the Lambeth end of the bridge Ted and Katherine +were leaning over the parapet; she looked at them as she might have +looked at two figures in a crowd. Lambeth and St. Teresa's seemed very +far away. She said so, and her tone implied that she had left illusion +behind her on the Surrey side. + +Wyndham said good-bye at Westminster. Audrey was not quite pleased with +his manner of hailing a hansom; it implied a conscious loss of valuable +time. + +"What fools we were to let him catch us up," said Ted as they walked +towards Pimlico. Audrey made no answer. She was saying to herself that +Langley Wyndham had read her, and--well, she hardly thought he would +take the trouble to read anything that was not interesting. + + + + +CHAPTER XII + + +Audrey had made a faint protest against Wyndham's realistic presentation +of Flaxman Reed. In doing so she was not guided by any insight into the +character of that divine, or by any sympathy with his aims. Indeed she +could not have understood him if she had tried. Her thoughts had never +travelled along that avenue of time down which Wyndham had tracked his +pathetic figure to the thirteenth century. She merely wanted to avoid a +slavish acquiescence in Wyndham's view, to guard a characteristic +intellectual attitude. Intellect has its responsibilities, and she was +anxious to show herself impartial. In all this Flaxman Reed counted for +nothing. It was intolerable to her that Wyndham should have classed her +even for a moment with those weak emotional creatures who submitted to +his influence. Why, he might just as well have said that she was +influenced by Ted Haviland; the fact being that no engaged woman ever +preserved her independence more completely than she had done. Had +devotion to Ted interfered with her appreciation of Wyndham? Then she +reflected that Wyndham did not know about her engagement any more than +other people. + +So when Mr. Flaxman Reed called, as he did on Monday afternoon, Audrey +met him with a mind secure against any malignant charm. His most +innocent remarks excited her suspicion. + +"I'm glad you've found your way to St. Teresa's. We don't often get such +a strong contingent from the other side." By "the other side" Mr. Reed +meant Middlesex, but to Audrey the phrase was insidiously controversial. +She determined to take her stand once and for all. + +"I'm afraid my heterodoxy is incorrigible. So I should say is Mr. +Langley Wyndham's." + +The vicar raised his eyebrows in mild surprise. "I don't know why _he_ +came--unless it was for old acquaintance' sake." + +"Ah! you knew him, didn't you? Do tell me about him. He's public +property, you know." + +"I daresay, but I have no right to discuss him. We hardly ever meet now; +if we did we shouldn't agree. We are enigmas to each other." + +"Yes," she said meditatively, and with a faint reproduction of Wyndham's +manner, "I should say you would be. He belongs so essentially to the +present, don't you think?" + +Flaxman Reed flushed painfully. "And I to the past--is that what you +mean?" + +"Yes, I think I do." + +"You may be right. I suppose he is very modern--a decadent who would +rather die with his day than live an hour behind it--who can't see that +the future may have more kindred with the past than with the present. +Mind you, I'm not talking of him, but of his school." + +"Then you read him? Of course--everybody reads him." + +"I've not much time for any reading that lies outside my work. But I +read his first book when it came out. Is it from him you get what you +call your heterodoxy?" + +"No. You have to think these things out for yourself." + +Audrey was led into making this statement simply by the desire to +please. That eternally feminine instinct told her that at the moment she +would be most interesting to Flaxman Reed in the character of a forlorn +sceptic. His face sharpened with a sudden distrust. + +"What, have _you_ got the malady of the century--the disease of thought? +Surely this is something new?" + +"It is. One can't go on for ever in the old grooves. One must think." + +"Yes; that curse is laid upon us for our sins." + +Audrey smiled a bitter smile, as much as to say that she must have +committed some awful crime to be so tormented with intellect as she was. + +"I suppose," he continued guilelessly, "every earnest mind must go +through this sooner or later." + +"Yes, but I've come out on what you call the other side. I can't go +back, can I?" + +"No; but you can go round." + +Audrey shook her head sadly, feeling all the time how nice it was to be +taken seriously. + +"Why not? Why not compromise? What is life but compromise? What else is +my own position as an Anglican priest? I daresay you know that my heart +is not altogether with the Church I serve?" He checked himself; he had +not meant to strike this personal note. And how could he explain the +yearning of his heart for the great heart of the Mother-church? This +would have been possible last year at Oxford, but not now. "I tell you +this because I feel that it might perhaps help you." + +"No; I know what you will say next. You will tell me to stop thinking +because it hurts me." + +"I won't. You will go on thinking in spite of me. But your intellect +will be feeding on itself. You will get no farther. Thought can never be +satisfied with thought." + +Flaxman Reed was only a simple pure-minded priest, but Wyndham himself +could not have chosen words more subtly calculated to establish the +"influence." To have two such champions battling for possession of her +soul was exciting enough in all conscience, but she was inexpressibly +flattered by that dramatic conception of herself as a restless intellect +struggling with the storms of doubt. It would be hard to say how Flaxman +Reed came to believe in any real passion of thought behind Audrey's +spiritual coquetry. His ministration to a living illusion was almost as +touching as his devotion to a dead ideal. But Audrey herself was too +completely the thrall of the illusion to feel compunction. + +There was no voice to warn him that his enthusiasm was the prey of the +eternal vanity. He leaned back in his meditative hieratic attitude, his +elbows resting on the arm of his chair, his thin hands joined at the +finger-tips, wondering what he should say to help her. After all, Audrey +had stated her case a little vaguely--there was a reticence as to +details. These, however, he easily supplied from his own experience, +supposing hers to have been more or less like it. He said he wished he +had known of this before, that he had spoken sooner, wincing perceptibly +as Audrey pointed out the inexpediency of discussing eternal things on +so temporal an occasion as her dinner-party. He did not mean that. His +time now was short; he had a stupid parish meeting at five o'clock. He +went rapidly over the ground, past immemorial stumbling-stones of +thought, refuting current theories, suggesting lines of reading; in his +excitement he even recommended some slight study of Patristics. There +was nothing like getting to the sources--Polycarp and Irenaeus were +important; or he could lend her Lightfoot. But he did not want to +overwhelm her with dogmas--mere matter for the intellect--he would +prefer her to accept some truths provisionally and see how they worked +out. After all, the working out was everything. He wanted her to see +that it was a question of will. In the crisis of his own life he had +helped himself most by helping others--practically, he meant--seeing +after his poor people, and so on. Didn't she think it might be the same +with her? + +Audrey looked grave. It was good to be taken seriously, but this was +going a little too far. + +Didn't she think she could "do something? Other ladies----" + +Flaxman Reed was doing well, very well indeed, but he had spoiled it all +by that hopelessly inartistic touch. Any man of the world could have +told him that to mention "other ladies" to Audrey--to take her out of +the circle of supreme intelligences in which he had placed her ten +minutes ago, and to confuse her with the rank and file of parochial +underlings and hangers-on--was death to the "influence." It was an +insult to her glorious womanhood. Some people might even have objected +that such crass ignorance of the world he renounced detracted from the +merit of the renunciation. Her voice was very cold and distant as she +answered him. "What do you suppose I could do? If you mean slumming, +I've never been down a slum in my life." No, he didn't mean slumming +exactly. To tell the truth, he could not fancy Audrey mingling with the +brutal side of life. He would have shrunk from giving her work that he +committed without a pang to his deaconesses and sisters. + +"Do you mean mothers' meetings then, and that sort of thing? I +_couldn't_." + +No, he didn't mean mothers' meetings either. But he thought she might +like to come sometimes to their social evenings. + +"Social evenings"--that was worse than all. He had plunged in his +nervousness to the lowermost bathos. Audrey saw that he looked puzzled +and disheartened. She crossed over to her writing-desk, wrote out a +cheque for five pounds, and gave it to him with the prettiest action in +the world. "I want you to take that for your poor people. I wish I could +help in some other way, but I can't. I am so sorry." The apology was +sweetness itself, but she had the air of having settled her account with +humanity--and him. He thanked her gravely and took his leave, reminding +her that whenever she needed his help, it would still be there. She +remained musing some time after he had gone. + +He little guessed how nearly he had won the victory. Perhaps he would +have scorned any advantage gained by an appeal to her sex, though he had +conceded much to it--more than he well knew. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII + + +August was a miserable month for Katherine in the hot attic, hard at +work on her own pictures, and too often finishing the various orders for +black and white which Knowles had after all managed to put in Ted's way. +She could have stood the hard work if she had not been more than ever +worried on Ted's account. With her feminine instinct sharpened by +affection, she foresaw trouble at hand--complications which it would +never have entered into the boy's head to consider. For reasons of her +own Audrey was still keeping her engagement a secret. She was less +regular, too, in making appointments, fixing days for Ted to go over and +see her; and more often than not he missed her if he happened to call at +Chelsea Gardens of his own accord. At the same time she came to Devon +Street as often as, or oftener than, ever, and there her manner to Ted +had all its old charm, with something added; it was more deeply, more +seriously affectionate than before. And yet it was just in these tender +passages that Katherine detected the change of key. That tenderness was +not remorse, as she might have supposed. It had nothing to do with the +past, being purely an emotion of the passing moment. Audrey was playing +a new part. Her mind was swayed by a fresh current of ideas; it had +suffered the invasion of a foreign personality. The evidence for this +was purely psychological, but it all pointed one way. A sudden display +of new interests, a startling phrase, a word hitherto unknown in +Audrey's vocabulary, her way of handling a book, the alternate +excitement and preoccupation of her manner, they were all unmistakable. +Katherine had noticed the same signs in the days of Audrey's first +absorption in Ted. She had caught his tricks, his idioms, his way of +thinking. She had even begun to see, like Ted, the humour of things, and +to make reckless speeches, not quite like Ted, that shocked cousin +Bella's sense of propriety. Katherine had smiled at her innocent +plagiarism, and wondered at the transforming power of love. And +now--Audrey was actually undergoing another metempsychosis. Under whose +influence? Here again Katherine's instinct was correct. It was Wyndham's +presence that in three weeks had brought about the change. Yes; in that +impressive affection, in the pleading tremor of her voice, in her smiles +and caresses, Audrey was acting a part before one invisible spectator. +She played as if Wyndham were standing by and looking on. Her love for +Ted had been a reality; therefore it served as a standard to measure all +emotions by--it made this new passion of the imagination a thing of +flesh and blood. No wonder that she would not announce her engagement. +At the best of times her fluent nature shrank from everything that was +fixed and irrevocable--above all from the act of will that trammelled +her wandering fancy, the finality that limited her outlook upon life. +And now it was impossible. The three weeks in which she had known +Wyndham had shown her that, compared with that complex character, that +finished intellect, Ted was indeed little better than a baby. Not that +she could have done without Ted--far from it. As yet Wyndham was still +the unknown, shadowy, far-off, and unapproachable. The touch of Ted's +hand seemed to make him living, to bring him nearer to her. Ted still +stood between her and the void where there is no more revelation, no +hope, no love--and Hardy would be in London in another week. + +Katherine had not guessed all the truth, any more than Audrey had +herself; but she had guessed enough to make her extremely anxious. +Audrey was not the wife she could have wished for Ted: she disapproved +of his marriage with her as a certain hindrance to his career; but, +above all, she dreaded for him the agony of disappointment which must +follow if Audrey gave him up. She had no very clear idea of what it +would mean to him; but judging his nature by what she had seen of it, +she feared some shock either to his moral system or to his artistic +powers. She longed to speak to him about it; but Ted and she were not +accustomed to handling their emotions, and of late they had avoided all +personal questions not susceptible of humorous treatment. After this +persistent choosing of the shallows, she shrank from a sudden plunge +into the depths. She felt strongly, and with her strong feeling was a +bar to utterance. + +At last an incident occurred which laid the subject open to frivolous +discussion. + +Katherine was painting one afternoon, and Ted was leaning out of the +window, which looked south-west to Chelsea, his thoughts travelling in a +bee-line towards the little brown house. Suddenly he drew his head in +with an exclamation. + +"Uncle James, by Jove! He'll be upon us in another minute. I'm off!" And +he made a rush for his bedroom. + +Katherine had only time to wipe the paint from her brush, to throw a +tablecloth over the Apollo and a mackintosh over the divine shoulders of +the Venus--Mr. Pigott was a purist in art, and Katherine respected his +prejudices--when her uncle arrived, panting and inarticulate. + +"Well, uncle, this is a surprise! How are you?" + +"No better for climbing up that precipice of yours. What on earth +possessed you to come to this out-of-the-way hole?" + +"It's a good room for painting, you see----" + +"_What's_ that? Couldn't you find a good room in West Kensington, +instead of planting yourself up here away from us all?" + +This was a standing grievance, as Katherine knew. + +"Well, you see, it's nicer here by the river, and it's cheaper too; +and--how's aunt Kate?" + +"Your aunt Kate has got a stye in her eye." + +"Dear me, I'm very sorry to hear it. And you, uncle?" + +"Poorly, very poorly. I ought not to have got out of my bed to-day. One +of my old attacks. My liver's never been the same since I caught that +bad chill at your father's funeral." + +Uncle James looked at Katherine severely, as if she had been to blame +for the calamity. His feeling was natural. One way or another, the +Havilands had been the cause of calamity in the family ever since they +came into it. Family worship and the worship of the Family were +different but equally indispensable forms of the one true religion. The +stigma of schism, if not of atheism, attached to the Havilands in +departing from the old traditions and forming a little sect by +themselves. Mr. Pigott meant well by them; at any time he would have +helped them substantially, in such a manner as he thought fit. But, one +and all, the Havilands had refused to be benefited in any way but their +own; their own way, in the Pigotts' opinion, being invariably a foolish +one--"between you and me, sir, they hadn't a sound business head among +them." As for Ted and Katherine, before the day when he had washed his +hands of Ted in the office lavatory, uncle James had tried to play the +part of an overruling Providence in their affairs, and the young +infidels had signified their utter disbelief in him. Since then he had +ceased to interfere with his creatures; and latterly his finger was only +to be seen at times of marked crisis or disturbance, as in the +arrangements for a marriage or a funeral. + +An astounding piece of news had come to his ears, which was the reason +of his present visitation. He hastened to the business in hand. + +"What's this that I hear about Ted, eh?" + +"I don't know," said Katherine, blushing violently. + +"I'm told that he's taken up with some woman, nobody knows who, and that +they're seen everywhere together----" + +"'Who told you this?" + +"Your cousin Nettie. She's seen them--constantly--in the National +Gallery and the British Museum, carrying on all the time they're +pretending to look at those heathen gods and goddesses"--Katherine +glanced nervously round the studio. "They actually make +assignations--they meet on the steps of public places. Nettie has +noticed her hanging about waiting for him, and some young friends of +hers saw them dining together alone at the Star and Garter. Now what's +the meaning of all this?" + +Katherine was too much amused to answer yet; she wanted to see what her +uncle would say next. He shook his head solemnly. + +"I knew what it would be when you two had it all your own way. As for +you, Katherine, you took a very grave responsibility on your shoulders +when you persuaded your young brother to live with you here, in this +neighbourhood, away from all your relations. Your influence has been for +anything but good." + +"My dear uncle, you are so funny; but you're mistaken. I know Miss +Craven, the lady you mean, perfectly well; she and Ted are great +friends, and it's all right, I assure you." + +"Do you mean to tell me he is engaged to this young lady he goes about +with?" + +Katherine hesitated: if she had felt inclined to gratify a curiosity +which she considered impertinent, she was not at liberty to betray their +secret. + +"I can't tell you that, for I'm not supposed to know." + +"Let me tell you, then, that it looks bad--very bad. To begin with, your +cousin Nettie strongly disapproves of the young woman's appearance, so +loud and over-dressed, evidently got up to attract. But it lies in a +nutshell. If he's not engaged to her, why is he seen everywhere with +her? If he is engaged to her, and she's a respectable woman--I say _if_ +she's respectable, why doesn't he introduce her to his family? Why +doesn't he ask your aunt Kate to call on her?" + +"Well, you see, supposing they are engaged, they wouldn't go and +proclaim it all at once; and in any case, that would depend more on Miss +Craven than Ted. I can't tell you any more than I have done; and I'd be +greatly obliged if you wouldn't allow Ted's affairs to be gossiped +about by cousin Nettie or anybody else." + +She was relieved for the moment by the entrance of Mrs. Rogers with the +tea-tray. + +"Tea, uncle?" + +"No, thank you, none of your cat-lap. I must see Ted himself. Where is +he?" + +"I'm not sure, but I _think_ he's gone out." + +Mrs. Rogers looked up from her tray, pleased to give valuable +information. + +"Mr. 'Aviland is in 'is bedroom, m'm; I 'eard 'im as I come up." + +"Oh, I'll go and tell him then." + +She found Ted dressing himself carefully before calling on Audrey. She +wasted five minutes in trying to persuade him to see his uncle. Ted was +firm. + +"Give him my very kindest regards, and tell him a pressing engagement +alone prevents my waiting on him." + +With that he ran merrily downstairs. His feet carried him very swiftly +towards Audrey. + +Katherine gave the message, with some modifications; and Mr. Pigott, +seeing that no good was to be gained by staying, took his leave. + +Ted came back sooner than his sister had expected. He smiled faintly at +the absurd appearance of the Venus in her mackintosh, but he was +evidently depressed. He looked mournfully at the tea-table. + +"I'm afraid the tea's poison, Ted, and it's cold." + +"It doesn't matter, I don't want any." + +"Had tea at Audrey's?" + +"No." + +He strode impatiently to the table and took up one of the illustrations +Katherine had been working at. + +"What's up?" said she. + +"Oh--er--for one thing, I've heard from the editor of the 'Sunday +Illustrated.' He's in a beastly bad temper, and says my last batch of +illustrations isn't funny enough. The old duffer's bringing out a +religious serial, and he must have humour to make it go down." + +Katherine was relieved. To divert him, she told him the family's opinion +as to his relations with Audrey. That raised his spirits so far that he +called his uncle a "fantastic old gander," and his cousin Nettie an +"evil-minded little beast." + +"After all, Ted," said Katherine, judicially, "why does Audrey go on +making a mystery of your engagement?" + +"I don't know and I don't care," said Ted, savagely. + +Surely it was not in the power of that harmless person, the editor of +the "Sunday Illustrated," to move him so? Something must have happened. + +What had happened was this. As Ted was going into the little brown house +at Chelsea he had met Mr. Langley Wyndham coming out of it; and for the +first time in his life he had found Audrey in a bad temper. She was +annoyed, in the first place, because the novelist had been unable to +stay to tea. She had provided a chocolate cake on purpose, the eminent +man having once approved of that delicacy. (It was a pretty way Audrey +had, this remembering the likings of her friends.) She was also annoyed +because Ted's coming had followed so immediately on Wyndham's going. It +was her habit now, whenever she had seen Wyndham, to pass from the +reality of his presence into a reverie which revived the sense of it, +and Ted's arrival had interfered with this pastime. The first thing the +boy did, too, was to wound her tenderest susceptibilities. He began +playing with the books that lay beside her. + +"What a literary cat it is!" + +She frowned and drew in her breath quickly, as if in pain. He went on +turning over the pages--it was Wyndham's "London Legends"--with +irreverent fingers. + +"I should very much like to know----" said Audrey to Ted, and stopped +short. + +"What would you very much like to know, Puss?" + +"What you saw in me, to begin with." + +"I haven't the remotest idea--unless it was your intellect." + +"I should also like to know," said Audrey to the teapot, "why people +fall in love?" + +"The taste is either natural or acquired. Some take to it because they +like it; some are driven to it by a hereditary tendency or an unhappy +home. I do it myself to drown care." + +"Will you have any tea?" asked Audrey, sternly. + +"No, thank you, I won't." + +She laughed, as she might have laughed at a greedy child for revenging +on its stomach the injury done to its heart. Poor Ted, he was fond of +chocolate cake too! She would have given anything at that moment if she +could have provoked him into quarrelling with her. + +Instead of quarrelling, he stroked her beautiful hair as if she had been +some soft but irritable animal. He said he was sure her dear little head +was aching because she was so bad-tempered; he implored her not to eat +too much cake, and promised to call again another day, when he hoped to +find her better. So he left her, and went home with a dead weight at his +heart. + +Towards evening his misery became so acute that he could no longer keep +it to himself. They were on the leads, in the long August twilight, +Katherine sitting with her back against the tall chimney, watching the +reflection of the sunset in the east, the boy lying at her feet, with +his heels in the air and his head in the nasturtiums. The time, the +place, the attitude were all favourable to confidences, and Ted wound up +his by asking Katherine what she thought of Audrey? Now was the moment +to rid herself of the burden that weighed on her; Ted might never be in +so favourable a mood again. She spoke very gently. + +"Ted, I am going to hurt your feelings. I don't quite know how to tell +you what I think of her. She's not good enough for you, to begin +with----" + +"I know she's not intelligent. She can't help that." + +"And she's not affectionate. Oh, Ted, forgive me! but she doesn't love +you--she can't, it's not in her. She loves no one but herself." + +"She _is_ a little selfish, but she can't help that either. It makes no +difference." + +"So I fear. And then she's years older than you are, and you can't marry +for ages; don't you see how impossible it all is?" + +Her voice thrilled with her longing to impress him with her own +conviction. His passion was wrestling with a ghastly doubt, but it was +of the kind that dies hard. + +"Of course it's quite impossible now"--neither he nor Katherine +considered the question of Audrey's money, they had never thought of +it--"but, as she said herself, in five years' time, when she's thirty +and I'm twenty-five, the difference in our ages won't be so marked." + +"It will be as marked as ever, even if your intellect grows at its +present rate of development." + +"I've admitted that she's a little deficient in parts; and, as you +justly observe, stupidity, like death, is levelling. We should suit +each other exactly in time." + +"Ah, if you can see that, why, oh why, did you fall in love with her?" + +"_She_ asked me that this afternoon. I said it was because she was so +clever. It was because I was a fool--stupidity came upon me like a +madness--I wish to heaven I'd never done it. It's played the devil with +my chances. I was sitting calmly on the highroad to success, with my +camp-stool and my little portable easel, not interfering in the least +with the traffic, when she came along like a steam-roller, knocked me +down, crushed me, and rolled me out flat. I shall never recover my +natural shape; and as for the camp-stool and the portable easel--these +things are an allegory. But I love her all the same." + +Katherine laughed in spite of herself, but she understood the allegory. +Would he ever recover his natural shape? To that end she was determined +to make him face the worst. + +"Ted, what would you do, supposing--only supposing--she were to fling +you over for--for some one else?" + +"I should blow my brains out, if I had any left. Verdict, suicide while +in a state of temporary insanity." + +"Suicide of a genius! That would be a fine feather in Audrey's cap." + +"She always had exquisite taste in dress. Besides, she's welcome to +it--or to any little trifle of the kind." + +It was useless attempting to make any impression on him. She gave it up. +Ted, however, was so charmed with the idea of suicide that he spent the +rest of the evening discussing ways and means. He was not going to blow +his brains out, or to take poison in his bedroom, or do anything +disagreeable that would depreciate Mrs. Rogers's property. On the whole, +drowning was the cheapest, and would suit him best, if he could summon +up spirits for it. Only he didn't want to spoil the river for _her_. It +must be somewhere below London Bridge, say Wapping Old Stairs. Here +Katherine suggested that he had better go to bed. + +He went, and lay awake all night in a half-fever. When Katherine went +into his room the next morning (ten o'clock had struck, and there was no +appearance of Ted), she found him lying in a deep sleep; one arm was +flung outside the counterpane, the hand had closed on a crumpled sheet +of paper. It was Audrey's last note of invitation--the baby had taken it +to bed with him. + +"Poor boy--poor, poor Ted!" + +But, for all her sympathy, love, the stupidity that comes on you like a +madness, was a thing incomprehensible to Katherine. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV + + +The next day Audrey's head was aching to some purpose. She had been +going through a course of Langley Wyndham. Yesterday he had brought her +his last book, "London Legends," and she had sat up half the night to +read it. She was to tell him what she thought of it, and her ideas were +in a whirl. + +She stayed in bed for breakfast, excused herself from lunch, left word +with the footman that she was not at home that afternoon, and sent down +another message five minutes afterwards that, if by any chance Mr. +Wyndham were to call, he might be admitted. "Not that he's in the least +likely to come after being here yesterday," she said to herself; and +yet, as she sat alone in the drawing room, she listened for the ringing +of bells, the opening of doors, and the sound of footsteps on the +stairs. Every five minutes she looked at the clock, and her heart kept +time to its ticking. Half-past two. In any case he wouldn't come before +three; and yet--surely that was the front-door bell. No. Three o'clock, +four o'clock--he would be more likely to drop in about tea-time. Five +o'clock; tea came in on the stroke of it, and still no Wyndham. +Half-past five--he had once called later than that when he wanted to +find her alone. Something told her that he would come to-day. He would +be anxious to know what she thought of his book. She was in that state +of mind when people trust in intuitions, failing positive evidence. +Surely in some past state of existence she had sat in that chair, +surrounded by the same objects, thinking the same thoughts, and that +train of ideas had been completed by the arrival of Wyndham. Science +accounts for this sensation by supposing that one half of the brain, +more agile than another, jumps to its conclusion before its tardier +fellow can arrive. To Audrey it was a prophecy certain of fulfilment. +And all the time her head kept on aching. The poor little brain went on +wandering in a maze of its own making. How truly she had, in cousin +Bella's phrase, "entangled herself" with Hardy, with Ted, and possibly, +nay probably, with Wyndham. She saw no escape from the dreadful +situation. And as a dark background to her thoughts there hung the +shadow of Hardy's return. She only realised it in these moods of +reaction that followed the exaltation of the last three weeks. And to +make matters worse, for the first time in her life she was dissatisfied +with herself. Not that she was in the least aware of the deterioration +of her character. She took no count of the endless little meannesses and +falsehoods which she was driven into by her position. Simple +straightforward action was impossible. This much was evident to her, +that whatever course she took now, she must end by forfeiting some one's +good opinion: Hardy's first--well, she could get over that; but Ted's? +Katherine's? Wyndham's?--if he came to know everything? It was there, in +that last possibility, that she suffered most. + +Half-past six. She had given up Wyndham and her belief in psychical +prophecy, and was trying to find relief from unpleasant reflections in a +book, when Wyndham actually appeared. He came in with the confident +smile of the friend sure of a welcome at all hours. + +"Forgive my calling at this unholy time. I knew if I came earlier I +should find you surrounded by an admiring crowd. I wanted to see you +alone." + +"Quite right. I am always at home to friends." + +They dropped into one of those trivial dialogues which were Audrey's +despair in her intercourse with Wyndham. + +Suddenly his tone changed. He took up "London Legends." + +"As you've already guessed, my egregious vanity brings me here. I don't +know whether you've had time to look at the thing----" + +"I sat up to finish it last night." + +"Indeed. What did you think of it?" + +"Don't ask me. I didn't criticise--sympathy comes first." + +"Excuse me, it doesn't. Criticism comes first with all of us. Sympathy +comes last of all--when we know the whole of life, and understand it." + +"What would my poor little opinion be worth?" + +"Everything. A really unbiassed judgment is the rarest thing in the +world, and there's always a charm about naive criticism." + +"I couldn't put the book down. Can I say more?" + +"Yes, of course you can say more. You can tell me which legend you +disliked least; you can criticise my hero's conduct, and find fault with +my heroine's manners; you can object to my plot, pick holes in my style. +No, thank goodness, you can't do that; but you can take exception to my +morality." + +She sat silent, waiting for her cue, and trying to collect her thoughts, +which were fluttering all abroad in generalities. + +He went on with a touch of bitterness in his voice-- + +"I thought so. It's the old stumbling-block--my morality. If it hadn't +been for that, you would have told me, wouldn't you? that my figures +breathe and move, that every touch is true to life. But you daren't. You +are afraid of reality; facts are so immoral." + +It would be impossible to describe the accent of scorn which Wyndham +threw into this last word. + +"I thought your book very clever--in spite of the facts." + +"Facts or no facts, you'd rather have your beliefs, wouldn't you?" + +"No, no; I lost them all long ago!" cried Audrey, indignantly. + +"I don't mean the old vulgar dogmas, of course, but the dear little +ideals that shed such a rosy light on things in general, you know. Ah! +that's what you want; and when an artist paints the real thing for you, +you say, 'Thank you; yes, it's very clever, I see; but I prefer the +pretty magic-lantern views, and the limelight of life.'" + +"Not at all. I've much too great a regard for truth." + +"I know. You're always looking for Truth, with a capital T; but, when it +comes to the point, you'd rather have two miserable little half-truths +than one honest whole truth about anything. That's why you disliked my +book." + +"I didn't." + +"Oh, yes, you did. What you disliked about it was this. It made you see +men and women, not as you imagined them, but as God made them. You saw, +that is, the naked human soul, stripped of the clumsy draperies that +Puritanism wraps round it. You saw below the surface--below the +top-dressing of education, below the solid layer of traditional +morality--deep down to the primitive passions, the fire of the clay +we're all made of. You saw love and hate, forces which are older than +all religions and all laws, older than man and woman, and which make +men and women what they are. And they seemed to you not commonplaces, +which they are--but something worse. You don't know that these _facts_ +are the stuff of art, because they are the stuff of nature; that it +takes multitudes of such facts, not just one or two picked out because +of their 'moral beauty'--for you purists believe in the beauty of +morality as well as in the immorality of beauty--to make up a faithful +picture of life. And you shuddered, didn't you? as you laid down the +book you sat up half the night to read, and you said it was ugly, +revolting; you couldn't see any perfect characters in it--only character +in the making, only wretched men and women acting according to certain +disagreeable laws, which are none the less immutable because one half of +the world professes to ignore their existence. You said, 'Take away the +whole world of nature, take away logic and science and art, but leave +me--leave me my ideals!' Isn't that it?" + +The torrent of his rhetoric swept her away, she knew not whither. But in +his last words she had caught her cue. If she was ever to be an +influence in Wyndham's life, encouraging, inspiring his best work, she +must not suffer him to speak lightly of "ideals." It seemed to her that +her methods with Ted were crude compared with her management of Wyndham. + +"Oh, don't, don't! It's dreadful! But you are right. I can't live +without ideals. All the great artists had them. You have them yourself, +or at least you _had_ them. I don't know what to think about your +book--I can't think, I can only feel; and I read between the lines. +Surely you feel with me that there's nothing worth living for except +morality? Surely you believe in purity and goodness?" + +Her face was flushed, her hands were clasped tightly together in her +intensity. So strong was the illusion her manner produced, that for one +second Wyndham could have been convinced of her absolute sincerity. Not +long--no, not long afterwards, her words were to come back to him with +irony. + +"Morality? I've the greatest respect for it. But after all, its rules +only mark off one little corner from the plain of life. Out there, in +the open, are the fine landscapes and the great highroads of thought. +And if you are to travel at all, you must go by those ways. There's dust +on them, and there's mud--plenty of mud; but--there are no others." + +"I would be very careful where I put my feet, though. I don't like muddy +boots." + +"I daresay not; who does? But the traveller is not always thinking about +his boots." + +"Don't let's talk about boots." She made a little movement with her +mouth, simulating disgust. + +"Your own metaphor; but never mind. _A propos des bottes_, I should +like----" he broke off and added in a deep, hieratic voice, "To the pure +all things are pure, but to the Puritan most things are impure. I wish +I could make you see that; but it's a large subject. And besides, I want +to talk about you." + +"Me?" + +"Yes, you. With all your beliefs, there was a time, if I'm not much +mistaken, when you were pleased to doubt the existence of your charming +self?" + +She looked up with a smile of pleasure and of perfect comprehension. He +could hardly have said anything more delicately caressing to her +self-love. It seemed, then, that every word she had uttered in his +hearing had been weighed and treasured up. She could hardly be supposed +to know that this power of noticing and preserving such little personal +details was one of the functions of the literary organism. If a woman +like Miss Fraser had been flattered by it, what must have been its +effect on the susceptible Audrey? + +"So you remember that too?" she said, softly. + +"Yes; it impressed me at the time. Now I know you better I don't wonder +at it. It's the fault of your very lovely and feminine idealism, but you +seem to me to have hardly any hold on the fact of existence, to be +unable to realise it. If I could only give you the sense of life--make +you feel the movement, the passion, the drama of it! My books have a +little of that; they've got the right atmosphere, the _smell_ of life. +But never mind my books. I don't want you to have another literary +craze--I beg your pardon, I mean phase; you seem to have had an artistic +one lately." + +He rose to go. + +"I've always cared for the great things of life," said she. + +"Ah yes--the great things, stamped with other people's approval. I want +you to love life itself, so that you may be yourself, and feel yourself +being." + +Her whole nature responded as the strings of the violin to the bow of +the master. "Life" was one of those words which specially stirred her +sensibility. As Wyndham had foreseen, it was a word to conjure with; and +now, as he had willed, the idea of it possessed her. She repeated +mechanically-- + +"Life--to love life for itself----" + +"And first--you must know life in order to love it." + +She sighed slightly, as if she had taken in a little more breath to say +good-bye. The ideal was flown. She had received the stamp of Wyndham's +spirit, as if it had been iron upon wax. It was her way of being herself +and feeling herself being. + +The same evening she wrote a little note to Ted that ran thus:-- + + "DEAREST TED,--I have been thinking it all over, ever since + yesterday, and I am convinced that my only right course is to break + off our engagement. It has all been a mistake--mine and yours. Why + should we not recognise it, instead of each persisting in making the + other miserable? I release you from your promise to me, and will + always remain very affectionately yours, AUDREY CRAVEN." + +She had just sent the note to the post, when a servant came in with a +telegram. It was from Hardy, announcing his arrival at Queenstown. And +she had trusted to her engagement to Ted for protection against +Vincent's claim. + +If she had only waited! + + + + +CHAPTER XV + + +"Great strength and safety with heaviest charges." "Absolute immunity +from all risk of blowing open." "The combination of a perfect trigger +action with a perfect cocking action." Ted Haviland was standing outside +the window of a gunsmith's shop in the King's Road, Chelsea, reading the +enticing legends in which Mr. Webley sets forth the superiority of his +wares above those of all other makers. It was the second day after he +had got Audrey's letter. In his least hopeful moods he had never +expected that blow; and when it fell, as a bolt from the blue, he was +stunned and could not realise that he was struck. He imagined all kinds +of explanations to account for Audrey's conduct. It was a +misunderstanding, a sudden freak; there was some mystery waiting to be +solved; some one--his cousin Nettie probably--had spread some story +about him which had reached Audrey. The scandal already spread in the +family would have been enough; she could hardly have identified its +loudly dressed heroine as herself. It only remained for him to clear his +character. Anything, anything rather than believe in what all healthy +youth revolts against--the irrevocable, the end. + +He had tried three times to see Audrey, and she was "not at home"; +though the third time he had seen her go into the house not two minutes +before. That instant he had turned away with a stinging mist in his eyes +and the blood surging in his brain. His thoughts now leaped to the end +as blindly as they had shrunk from it before. He had no definite idea of +shooting himself when he turned into the King's Road--his one object was +to go in any direction rather than home; but the shop window, with its +stacks of rifles and cards displaying "Mark I." revolvers, arranged on +them like the spokes of a wheel, caught his attention. He was possessed +with the desire to have a revolver of his own, no matter for what +purpose. + +He had just chosen a "Mark I.," and was going into the shop to buy it, +when he heard his name called in a loud hearty voice, "Ted, you bounder! +stop!" and his arm was pulled with a grip that drew him backward from +the doorstep. + +"Hardy!" + +He knew the voice, but it was hard to recognise the man. A thick black +beard, a face that might have been tanned with bark, trousers tucked +into high boots, and tightened with a belt like a horse-girth, an old +Norfolk jacket stained with travel and the chase, a canvas shirt laced +with a red cord and tassels, and a plate-like hat of grey felt flapping +about his ears, made Hardy look something like a cowboy or a bandit. So +singular was the apparition that had plucked Ted back from the abyss, +that the Furies and the infernal phantoms vanished into smoke before it. +It brought with it a breath of Atlantic seas and of winds from the far +West. + +"You young rascal! so it's you, is it? I didn't know you from Satan, +till I saw you turn round after flattening your nose against +what's-his-name's plate-glass. I wish I were in your shoes." + +"Do you?" said Ted, with a grimace. "H'm. Why?" + +"Because your whole expression suggests--partridges!" + +"Does it? As it happens, I was thinking about a revolver." + +"Potting burglars, eh? About all the sport you poor devils of Cockneys +will get on the First." + +"Look here, Hardy, this is uncanny. Where did you spring from?" + +"Straight from Euston this afternoon, from Queenstown yesterday morning, +before that from the other side of the Rockies." + +"That accounts for your amazing get-up." + +"Yes; and, by Jove! after a year in a log-hut on the wrong side of a +precipice, you're glad to get your feet on London pavement, and smell +London smells again. And look there, Ted! There isn't a lovelier sight +on God's earth than a well-dressed Englishwoman. Where are we going? How +about that revolver?" + +Ted had forgotten all about it. Hardy's sane, open-air spirits had +infected him so far that he had let himself be dragged at a rapid pace +up the King's Road, where their progress attracted considerable +attention. As Hardy strode on, with his long swinging legs, he appeared +to be scattering the crowd before him. + +"Never mind the thing now; it'll keep. How that girl stares! Does she +take us for banditti?" + +"Not you, you puppy, in that coat and topper. No mistaking you for +anything but what you are--the sickly product of an effete civilisation. +Don't be frightened, you haven't gone off in the least; you're a little +pale, but prettier than you were, if anything." + +"I say _you_ ought to be in the bosom of your family." + +"I haven't got a family." + +"Well, what brings you here of all places in the world?" + +"My cousin Audrey Craven." + +There was no reserve about Hardy. At the name, so unexpectedly spoken, +the under-world opened again for Ted, with all its Furies. They walked +on for some minutes in silence, then Hardy began again-- + +"I called to see her. Of course she was out. Hard lines, wasn't it?" + +Ted forced himself to speak. "Oh yes, beastly hard." + +"You must have met her lately. How is she looking?" + +"Oh, remarkably cheerful, when I last saw her." + +"When was that?" Hardy asked, a little anxiously. + +"The day before yesterday." + +"Ah! She'd got my telegram then." + +Ted bit his lip. They were too much absorbed, he in his misery and Hardy +in his joy, for either to be conscious of the other's feeling. + +"Old boy," said Hardy, as they turned out of the King's Road, "what have +you got to do?" + +"Nothing." + +"Then come and help me to hunt up some diggings. How about Devon +Street?" + +"I don't know; but I suppose we can look," said Ted, dismally. Hardy's +spirits were beginning to pall on him. + +"I may as well go and look up Katherine, while I'm about it. Dear old +Sis, I suppose she'll be out too." + +"Not she--she's too busy for that." + +"Not too busy to see her old playfellow, you bet your boots." + +He was so glad to see everybody again that he was sure everybody must be +glad to see him. In his rapture at being in London, the place he loathed +and execrated a year ago, he could have embraced the stranger in the +street. Those miles of pavement, those towering walls that seemed to +make streets of the sky as he looked up, all that world of brick and +mortar was Audrey's world, the ground for her feet, the scene of all her +doings. The women that went by wore the fashions she would be wearing +now. At any moment she herself might turn out of some shop-door, round +some corner. A faint hope that he might find her with Katherine had led +him to Devon Street. + +But Ted's, not Audrey's, were the first hands that touched his; and it +was not Audrey, but his "little half-sister," that gave Hardy his first +welcome home. + +"Well, Sis?" + +"Vincent! is it you?" + +There was nothing in the words but the glad courtesy of the woman who +had been his playfellow in the days when he was a boy and she a tomboy, +but they went to Hardy's heart and dried up his speech. They were the +first kind words he had heard since he left England. + +Katherine put away her work and made him sit in the one comfortable +chair the studio afforded; Mrs. Rogers was sent for cakes and cream at a +moment's notice; and the resources of the tiny household were taxed to +their utmost to do honour to the returned emigrant. Even Ted forgot his +gloom for the time being, and took his part in these hospitable rites. +Then came the question of Hardy's lodgings. Mrs. Rogers was consulted, +and, being unable to name any landlady of greater respectability than +herself, and her ground-floor happening to be to let--the rarest thing +in the world for her--she suggested that "the gentleman should try it +for a week or two, till 'e could suit 'isself elsewhere. But, though I +sy it as shouldn't, when a gentleman comes to me, sir, 'e wants to sty. +My larst gentleman, 'e'd a styd with me till 'e was took awy in 'is +coffin if I'd a kep' 'im; but Lor' bless you, my dear, 'e was that +pertic'ler I couldn't do with 'is fads, not at fancy prices, I couldn't. +I 'ad to tell 'im to gow, for Mussy's syke, where 'e'd git 'is own +French cook, and 'is own butler to black 'is 'arf-doz'n pyre o' boots +all at once for 'im." This was the recognised fiction by which Mrs. +Rogers accounted for the departure of any of her lodgers. Lest it should +seem to speak badly for her willingness and for the quality of the +attendance at No. 12, she invariably added, "Not but wot I'd work my +'ead orf to please any gentleman that _is_ a gentleman; and when you've +eaten one of my dinners, sir, you won't want nobody else to cook and do +for you no more." And though Ted had pointed out to her the sinister +ambiguity of this formula, she had never invented any other. + +The ground-floor was seen; and after Mrs. Rogers, on her part, had +stipulated for cold lunches three days in the week, and not more than +one bath in the one day; and after Katherine, on Hardy's part, had +suggested sundry innovations, involving the condemnation of all the +pictures and ornaments she could lay her hands on,--a piece of +sacrilege which Mrs. Rogers regarded more in sorrow than in anger, as +indicating a pitiable aberration of intellect,--the rooms were taken +from that date. + +Was it Chance, or Necessity, or Providence, that caused Ted and Hardy to +meet at the parting of the ways?--that waked Ted from the dream of +self-destruction, and lodged Hardy under the same roof with Katherine +Haviland? + +His arrangements completed, Hardy hurried off again to Chelsea. Audrey, +he thought, had expected him by a later train, and would be back by six +o'clock, waiting for him. This time the footman met him with a little +note from his mistress. Audrey had never dreamed that Vincent could get +up to town so quickly. She was so sorry she had missed him; especially +as she had had to go to bed with a feverish cold and a splitting +headache. She would be delighted to see him if he could call to-morrow +afternoon, between three and four. And she was always very +affectionately his. + +He was bitterly disappointed, but his disappointment was nothing to his +trouble about Audrey's illness. Feverish colds contracted in August +often prove fatal. But he was not utterly cast down. There was still +to-morrow. + +He went back to Devon Street slowly, for he felt tired, out of all +proportion to his muscular exertions that day. During the evening, which +he spent in the Havilands' studio, his depression gave way before the +prospect of seeing Audrey to-morrow. He looked at Katherine's pictures, +gave her a great deal of advice, and expressed the utmost astonishment +at the progress she had made. He considered "The Witch of Atlas" +particularly fine. + +"It was painted four years ago, and as a matter of fact I haven't made a +bit of progress since. But never mind, you're quite right. It isn't half +bad." + +She bent over her picture lovingly, brushed away the dust from the +canvas, and turned it resolutely with its face to the wall. She had not +looked at it since the day of renunciation. Her work led Hardy on to +talk of his, and he grew eloquent about the book, "Sport West of the +Rockies," which, as he had once told Audrey, was "to make posterity sit +up." He had the manuscript downstairs in his bag. Some day he would read +them a chapter or two; it would give them some idea of wild virgin +Nature, of what a sportsman's life really was--the best life, perhaps, +take it all round, to be lived on this earth; it was to be the +Pioneer-book of its subject. Hardy was always at his ease with Ted and +Katherine. Self-restraint was superfluous in their company; they knew +him too well, and liked him in spite of their knowledge. They were used +to his tempestuous bursts of narrative, and would laugh frankly in his +face, while he joined in the laugh with the greatest enjoyment. With him +ornamental story-telling was an amusing game, in which, if you were +clever enough to catch him lying, you had won and he had lost, that was +all. + +To-night he lay back in his chair and expanded gloriously. He told tales +of perilous adventure by flood and field, by mountain and forest; of the +wild chase of moose and wapiti among the snows of the Rockies; of the +fierce delight of single-handed combat with grizzly bears, the deadliest +of their kind; of how he, Hardy, had been rolled down a canyon, locked in +the embrace of a furry fiend that he had stabbed in the throat one +second before the fatal hug. He told of the melting of the snows in +forest rivers; of the flood that swept away the lonely traveller's +encampment, and bore him, astride on a log of driftwood, five miles amid +wrack and boulders on its whirling current; of deliverance through a +pious Indian and his canoe, which he entered as by a miracle in +mid-stream, and without upsetting any of the three. He told of long +wanderings in the twilight solitudes of Canadian forests; of dangers +from wolves and the wild coyotes, half-dog, half-wolf, heard nightly +howling round the Indian camp-fires; and from the intangible malice of +the skunk, a beautiful but dreadful power, to be propitiated with bated +breath and muffled footstep. He told, too, of the chip-munks, with their +sharp twittering bark; and he contrived to invest even these tiny +creatures with an atmosphere of terror--for it is well known that their +temper is atrocious, and that a colony of them will set upon the +unfortunate traveller who happens to offend one, and leave nothing of +him but his bones and the indigestible portions of his clothing. And +over all he cast the glamour of his fancy, as if it had been the red +light of the prairie sunsets; in it he appeared transfigured, a +half-mythical personage, heroic, if not indeed divine. The whole of it +had appeared word for word in the pages of the Pioneer-book. + +"Ah, Sis," he observed complacently at the end of it, "that's all copy +for 'Sport West of the Rockies.' When that comes out you'll soon see me +at the top of the tree. Why aren't you an artist in words? Why don't you +use the pen instead of the brush?" + +He implied that if her ambition had been literary he would have raised +her to a position just below him, on the highest pinnacle of earthly +fame. Then he passed, by a gentle transition, to another subject. + +"By-the-bye, have you two seen much of my cousin Audrey?" + +This second utterance of the name was too much for Ted's overstrained +nerves. He got up, stifled a yawn, and held out his hand to Hardy. + +"I say, do you mind if I go to bed now? I can't for the life of me keep +awake." + +"Good-night, old fellow; I'm afraid I've sent you to sleep with my +yarns." + +"Not a bit. We'll have some more to-morrow." + +To-morrow? + +"What's the matter with the boy, Kathy? He looks seedy." + +"Oh, nothing. He's not over-strong, perhaps, but he's all right." + +"What's he doing with himself here?" + +"Painting. Oh, Vincent, I should like you to see some of his things, now +he's gone!" + +All her pride in her brother was roused, perhaps by Vincent's boasting. +She lifted the white linen cloth that covered one of Ted's easels, and +revealed the portrait of Audrey. She had not guessed the truth; if she +had, she would not have looked at Vincent just then. The effect she had +produced was unmistakable. The blood rose to his face in a wave that +died suddenly away, leaving a yellowish pallor under its sunburn. + +"How beautiful!" he said softly, more to himself than Katherine. + +He gazed at the portrait as if his eyes would never be satisfied with +seeing. The pathos in his face gave it a sort of spirituality; and +Katherine noticed his hand trembling as he helped her to cover the +picture again. + +"It's like her--as only genius could make it." + +Only genius? Did he think that only genius had wrought that work of +transfiguration, in which Katherine found it hard to see any likeness to +the woman as she knew her now? She had read the secret of Vincent's +hope. Ought she to let him believe a lie? Did not she, Ted's sister, of +all people owe him the truth? No. Vincent's eyes looked as if they +wanted sleep before everything. Sufficient unto the night is the evil +thereof. And perhaps, after all, she had been mistaken. Hardy held out +his hand, said a short good-night, and was gone before she could say +more. + +There flashed back on her the memory of Audrey's first visit to her. She +recalled her little self-conscious air of possession in speaking of her +cousin. She was morally certain that Audrey had treated Vincent as she +had treated Ted. + +"Beware of the woman who kisses you on both cheeks; it's too much for +friendship, and too little for love!" + +Hardy went out of doors, turned on to the Embankment, and so on to +Chelsea, for the third time that day. He wanted to assure himself of +Audrey's nearness by one more sight of the brown brick shrine that held +her. The house stood as he had seen it once before, asleep in the yellow +gaslight, shut in from the road by the trees, screened from the lamps on +the Embankment by the storm-shutters folded over its windows, guarding +its secrets well, all but two windows on the second floor, which were +open to the night. That was Audrey's room, he knew. Little fool! Ill +with a feverish cold, and sleeping with open windows! For about half an +hour he walked up and down on the Embankment opposite, like a sentry on +duty, his long shadow blackening and fading as he passed from light to +light. + +When he got back to his rooms, he felt a sensation that had sometimes +come upon him after a long day's hunting, a feeling of deadly fatigue +and stifling emptiness, as if the rest of his body were drained of the +blood that choked his heart. He opened his travelling-bag, took out a +large silver flask, looked at it, sighed, shuddered slightly, poured +about two tablespoonfuls of brandy down his throat; and then, with a +gesture of indescribable disgust, emptied the remainder out of the +window into the yard below. He undressed and got into bed quickly, +turned over on his right side for greater ease, and was soon asleep and +dreaming of to-morrow. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI + + +There was no sleep for Ted that night. Towards morning he fell into a +doze, broken by unpleasant dreams, and woke with a confused +consciousness of trouble. It had been connected in his dreams with +Hardy's return, and, once awake, the knowledge that he was in the same +house with him was insupportable. Not that he had yet guessed how +Vincent stood to Audrey; he had simply a nervous dread of hearing him +talk about her. The casual utterance of her name went through him like a +sword, and in his present mood Vincent's boisterous spirit disturbed and +irritated him. More to get away from him than with any definite idea of +work, he spent his morning at the National Gallery, touching up the copy +of the Botticelli Madonna which Katherine had begun long ago for Audrey. +He had set to work almost mechanically, with a sense that whatever he +did at the present moment was only provisional,--only a staving off of +the intolerable future; but soon the technical difficulties of his task +absorbed him, and he became interested in spite of himself. He was so +passive to the spiritual influences of line and colour, that perhaps the +beauty of the grey-eyed girl Madonna may have given him something of its +own tranquillity. + +Unfortunately the good effects of his morning's industry were undone +when he got home, by finding Hardy alone in the studio, sitting before +Audrey's portrait. He had dragged the easel to the light, and had been +studying the canvas for some minutes before Ted came in. The boy stifled +an angry exclamation. + +"Ted," said Hardy, "what do you want for this picture?" + +"I don't want anything for it." + +"Nonsense! Every good picture has its price." + +"This one hasn't, anyway." + +"Look here, and don't be a young fool. This is the best thing you've +done in your life or ever will do. I'm in rather low water at present, +but wait till I've heard from my British Columbian agent, or, better +still, wait till the Pioneer-book comes out, and I'll give you a hundred +for it, honour bright, if you'll let me have it at once." + +"I can't let you have it at once, and I won't let you have it at all." + +"The deuce you won't! Come, fix your own price." + +"I'm not a swindling dealer, and I'm not a liar, though you mightn't +think it. I told you I wasn't going to let you have it at any price." + +"H'm. Do you mind telling me one thing? Are you going to sell it to any +one else?" + +"I'm not going to sell it to any one. I'm going to keep it myself." + +They looked at each other with steady eyes, each understanding and each +defying the other's thought. Hardy's face was the first to soften. He +put his hand on Ted's shoulders. "All right, old boy. We've hit each +other hard this time. The least we can do is to hold our tongues about +it." And he left him. + +Hardy spoke with the magnanimity of imperfect comprehension. He had been +defeated in his purpose of buying Audrey's portrait; but however great +his discomfiture, he, being the successful lover, could afford a little +pity for Ted as the victim of a hopeless passion. To Ted, on the other +hand, the revelation of Hardy's feelings threw light on Audrey's +conduct. It accounted for everything that was most inexplicable in it. +It must have been the news of Hardy's return that made her break off her +engagement so suddenly. His instinct told him that she had probably +given her word to her cousin before he left England; jealousy suggested +that she had cared for him all the time. He tried to reason it out, but +stopped short of the obvious conclusion that, if these things were +altogether as he supposed, her engagement to himself must have been +merely an amusement hit upon by Audrey to fill up a dull interval. He +preferred to regard it as a mystery. And now all reasoning gave way +before the desire to see her again, and know the truth from herself once +for all. + +To Audrey, as the fountain of truth, he accordingly went, choosing a +time between half-past two and three when she was most likely to be in. +As he reached her door, it was being held open for her to go out, and +she was standing in the outer hall buttoning her gloves. She drew back +when she saw Ted, but escape was impossible. He saw the movement and the +flash of her little white teeth as she bit her lip with annoyance. + +She came forward smiling. + +"Oh, is it you, Ted? As you see, I'm just going out." + +"You will see me before you go?" + +"I can't possibly. I've got to go and call on an uncle and aunt at the +Hotel Metropole." + +"I'm very sorry. But I won't keep you more than ten minutes." + +"I can't spare ten minutes. I'm late as it is, and I have to be back by +half-past three. I've got an appointment." + +"You've not time to get there and back. You'd better put it off." + +"I can't, Ted. They're only up from Friday till Monday. Dean Craven has +to preach at the Abbey to-morrow. Come again." + +"I can't come again." + +"Well, then----" she hesitated. "You may walk part of the way with me." + +He went with her down the short flagged path that led to the gate. Once +out of the servant's hearing, he stopped, and looked firmly in her face. + +"I must see you now, and it had better be in the house. I've only one +question to ask you. Five minutes will be enough for that--at least it +won't be my fault if it isn't." + +She had laid her hand on the gate, which Ted held shut, and her mouth +was obstinately set. Something in his voice conquered her self-will. She +turned and led the way to the house. + +"You had better come into the morning-room." + +He followed her; she closed the door, and they stood facing each other a +moment without speaking. + +"Well, Ted?" Her voice went to his heart with its piercing sweetness. + +"Audrey, why did you write that letter?" + +"Because it was easier to write what I did than to say it. Do you want +to hold me to my word?" + +"No. I want to know your reasons for breaking it. You haven't given me +any yet." + +"I did, Ted. I told you it had all been a mistake--yours and mine." + +"Speak for yourself. Where was my mistake?" + +"The mistake was in our ever getting engaged at all--in our thinking +that we cared for each other." + +"I cared enough for you, didn't I?" + +"No, you didn't. You only thought you did. Katherine told me----" + +"What did Katherine tell you?" + +"That you hadn't any feelings, that you really cared for nothing but +your painting, that you'd only a ru--rudimentary heart." + +"Really? That is interesting. When did she tell you that?" + +"The very day we were engaged." + +"And you believed her?" + +"Not then. I did afterwards." + +"How long afterwards--the other day?" + +"Ye-yes; I think so." + +"I see--when you wanted to believe it. Not before." + +She was trembling, but she gathered together all her feeble forces for +the defence. + +"No, no; don't you remember? At the very first--the day of our +engagement--we were both so miserable at the idea of your going away--we +did it all so recklessly--before either of us thought. You see, Ted, you +were so very young." + +"It's a pity that didn't strike you before." + +"It did, it did; but I wouldn't think of it. I blinded myself. The fact +is, we were both as mad as hatters. You know people can't get married in +that state. We should have had to wait for a--a lucid interval." + +Ted recognised the miserable pleasantry; it was what he had said to her +himself a day or two after their engagement. The phrase had amused +Audrey at the time and lodged in her memory. She borrowed it now in her +hour of need, and laughed, unconscious of her plagiarism. + +"I understand perfectly. You want to get rid of me as a proof of your +own sanity. Is that it?" + +She looked up in the utmost surprise. "Not to get rid of you, Ted, of +course not. I shall still keep you as my best friend." + +"Thanks. You had better not try to do that. I'm told I've no talent for +friendship." + +"Then I suppose, after this, you'd rather I cut you, if we meet?" + +"You can please yourself about that." + +"You may be sure I shall. Oh, Ted, I didn't expect that from you! But +it's quite right. Hit hard, I can't defend myself." + +"Please don't attempt it, there's no occasion to. Only tell me one +thing." + +"Well?" She sat down as if wearied with this unnecessary trifling. + +He paused. + +"It's evident that you don't care about _me_. Do you care for any one +else?" + +"You've no right to ask me that." + +"Haven't I? I thought I had; and, if you'll only think a minute, you'll +agree with me." + +She put her head on one side as if gravely considering the question. + +"No. You've no right to ask me that." + +"Let me put it differently--since your feelings are sacred, you needn't +tell me anything about _them_. Were you engaged to Hardy before you knew +me?" + +"That question is even more impertinent than the last." + +"I beg your pardon then. Don't answer it, if you don't like to." + +He turned away. + +"Don't go yet, Ted. I haven't done. Listen. I was thoughtless, I was +mistaken" (Audrey was anxious to escape the imputation of a big fault by +the graceful confession of a little one), "but I'm not as bad as you +think me. You think I cared for Vincent. I didn't. I never cared a straw +about him--never. You were the first." + +"Was I? Not the last though, it seems." + +"Perhaps not. But I deceived myself before I deceived you." + +"Well, you took me in completely, if it's any satisfaction to you. Never +mind, Audrey; you've done your best to remedy that now." + +He had turned, and his hand was on the door to go, when he heard her +calling him back softly. + +"Ted----" She had followed him to the door, he felt the touch of her +little gloved hand on his coat-sleeve; under the black meshes of her +veil he saw her eyes shining with tears that could not fall. He +hesitated. + +"Forgive me," she whispered. + +"Not till you have answered my question." + +"Which question, Ted?" + +"The impertinent one." + +"About Vincent?" + +"Yes." + +Her eyes had been fixed on the ground, now they glanced up quickly. + +"Did Vincent tell you I was engaged to him?" + +"No." + +Her eyelids drooped again; then, urged to desperation by her own +cowardice, she raised them and looked in his face to answer. And as she +looked, she saw for the first time how changed it was. Its bloom was +gone, the lines were set and hard: Ted looked years older than his age. + +"Don't believe him if he ever says so. I am not engaged to him, and I +never was." + +"Thanks. That was all I wanted to know." + +He turned on his heel and left her. He knew that she had lied. + +He left her in a state of vague consternation. She had been prepared for +an outburst of feeling on Ted's part, in which case she would have +remained mistress of the field without loss of dignity. As it had +happened, the victory was certainly not with her. This was contrary to +all her expectations. She had looked for protestations, emotions--in +short, a scene; but not for cold, dispassionate cross-examination. It +was so unlike Ted--Ted, who was always giving himself away; it was more +the sort of thing she could have fancied Wyndham saying under the same +circumstances. She had seen something of this impersonal manner once or +twice before, in those rare moments when they had discussed some +picture, or Ted had talked to her about his work or Katherine's. It had +annoyed her then; she thought it showed a want of enthusiasm. Now the +boy's heartless self-possession amazed and overpowered her. Audrey was +incapable of imagining what she had not seen, and she had never got to +the bottom of the Haviland character; never divined its gravity under +the mask of frivolity; never proved its will, nor reckoned with its +pride. Three days ago she would have laughed at the idea of referring +any moral question to Ted's judgment, for she had taken no pains to hide +her faults from him; she had been selfish, reckless, vain, capricious, +by turns and altogether, and it had made no difference then. Now she +felt that he had condemned her. To be sure, she had told him a lie; but +what was that in the catalogue of her offences? + +It was everything. He could have forgiven anything but that. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII + + +But Ted's notion of morality was a question Audrey had no time to go +into. A violent ring at the front-door bell recalled her to herself, and +made her glance at the clock. It was a quarter-past three. She had +wasted half an hour in fruitless discussion with Ted, and it left her +ill-prepared for the stormy interview to follow. Her nerve gave way +before the prospect of that hour with Hardy. She might have escaped it +if it had not been for Ted, for she had meant to call early on her uncle +and aunt, and bring them back with her to Chelsea, so that it would be +impossible for Vincent to see her alone. Ted's coming had made that +scheme useless. She listened. Yes, it was Vincent; she had heard his +voice in the hall. + +"I told him between three and four. Anybody else would have known that +meant half-past four." + +She spent ten minutes after Hardy was announced gathering herself +together to meet him. She would have thought of sending for Miss Craven, +an old device of hers when she wanted to avoid explanations; but Miss +Craven was away. Her only hope was in some casual caller. + +Meanwhile Hardy was striding up and down the drawing-room, waiting +impatiently for Audrey. He was a little hurt at being shown into an +empty room; he had expected to find the small thing sitting there to +welcome him. That ten minutes was the longest he had ever spent,--it was +the meeting-point in time for two eternities. As his thought leaped +forward to the future it was thrown back upon the past. Then, as he +gazed about him half mechanically, he was aware that his eyes were +looking for the things they had been used to, and could not find them. +Everything was changed in that room he had run in and out of as a boy. +The familiar furniture, the signs and tokens of Audrey's daily presence, +the old-fashioned knick-knacks which had delighted her mother's heart, +all were gone. His aunt's portrait was no longer there; in its place +hung the photogravure of the Madonna di San Sisto. Instead of the cosy +corner where he had lain at Audrey's feet his last night in England, +there stood a polished rosewood secretary, thrown open, showing its +empty pigeon-holes. Everywhere he looked it was the same; there were new +things all around him. If he could have read their secret he would have +seen that that room was the picture of Audrey's soul; the persons who +had by turns taken possession of it had left there each one the traces +of his power. If you could have cut a vertical section through Audrey's +soul, you would have found it built up in successive layers of soul. +When you had dug through Wyndham, you came to Ted; when you had got +through Ted, you came upon Hardy, the oldest formation of all. The room +was instructive as a museum filled with the records of these changes. +But the specimens were badly arranged, recent deposits lying side by +side with relics of an earlier period: thus the floor was covered with +the bearskin given by Hardy and the Persian rugs laid down during the +Art age. The rosewood secretary and a little revolving book-case by +Audrey's chair marked the change wrought by Wyndham. They were part of +modern history and the memory of man. Hardy, in the midst of these +curiosities of natural science, was like a lay visitor without a guide: +he admired, he wondered, he recognised an object here and there, but of +what it all meant he had not the ghost of an idea. + +He left off wondering, and waited, listening for the feet that used to +fall so lightly on the stairs. + +At last the door opened softly, and Audrey stood before him. But she +stood still, looking at him as if uncertain whether to go or stay. + +"Audrey!" His face lit up with joy, his heart bounded. + +"How do you do, Vincent?" + +He held out his arms, and she came to him slowly, without a word. She +let him hold her for an instant, closing her eyes to hide the fear in +them; let him lift her veil and kiss her cheeks and mouth. Then she +turned her face away, put out her hands against his chest, and pushed +him from her. + +"Audrey! What have I done?" + +"Oh! I don't know, I don't know!" + +She walked away to the looking-glass over the chimneypiece, and took off +her gloves and veil. She wanted to gain time. Hardy followed her to the +opposite side of the fireplace. + +"Whatever possessed you, Vincent, to grow that horrid beard?" + +He had forgotten the change in his personal appearance. He looked in the +glass and was startled by his own reflection. Owing to the agony of the +shock she had given him, his face was still grey and drawn. The poor +fellow tried to smile, and that made matters worse. + +"I daresay it was a nasty shock. Did it make you feel as if I was +somebody else?" + +"Oh no; it has not altered you much. It's not that. But--I hate beards, +as you know." + +There was silence. Hardy was struggling with the old stifling sensation +in his heart. Emotion was bad for him. + +"Is this all you've got to say to me, after being a year away?" + +She looked at him, shook her head, and played with the ornaments on the +mantel-board. + +"Why can't you speak to me? Has anything happened? Is anybody dead?" + +"No; but I wish I was." + +"Why do you say that?" + +"Because----" She was trying to wring the neck off a little china image +now. "Oh, Vincent, don't think me very unkind! but I--I'd rather, +another time, you didn't show your cousinly affection quite in that way. +That's all." + +He covered his eyes with one hand to shut out the sight of Audrey. + +"No, that's not all, I see. There's something else behind that,--there +must be. _Has_ anything happened?" + +She bowed her head and sighed, a long shivering sigh. The china image +slipped through her fingers, and was broken to bits on the hearthstone. + +"Audrey--what is it?" + +He took her by the wrists and drew her gently to him. As he touched her +he saw her face whiten and her eyes dilate. + +"Do you remember last year when you said you loved me?--when you +promised to be my wife? Do you remember how you said good-bye to me +then? Now you won't speak to me. What have you been doing to make you +hate me? Or what stupid idea have you got into your head about me?" + +"Nothing--nothing. Only--I want you to understand that what you said +just now is out of the question. It can't be." + +"Why not? You promised; so it could be once, why not now?" + +"Because--because--I never really promised, you know." + +"You never promised! You little liar! You may want to break your +promise, but you can hardly say you didn't make it." + +"I never made it--not of my own free will. You took advantage of me; you +forced me into it. You teased me till I said I cared for you, and--I +didn't." + +"So, then, you told me a lie? You wrote lie after lie to me in your +letters for a year?" + +She writhed away from him, but he still held her by the wrists, face to +face with him, the length of their arms apart. + +"Let me go, Vincent! You've no right to hold me in this way. You're +hurting my arm!" + +Unconsciously his grasp had tightened till the diamond mounted on one of +her thread-like bracelets was pressed into her flesh and made it bleed. + +"See there!" + +He let her go. She sat down and put her pocket-handkerchief to her +wrist. + +"If you tell lies, Audrey, what am I to believe? What you said then, or +what you say now?" + +"I'm telling the truth now, because I don't want this wretched +misunderstanding to go any further." + +"Can't you speak plainly? Do you mean this, that you don't love me?" + +"Yes. It's true. I don't love you; I can't--at least, not like that." + +"I can't believe it! It's impossible! As long as I can remember, +whatever you said or did, you made me think you loved me. You said last +year you'd be my wife; but that's nothing. Long before that, you let me +live on the hope of it, year after year. It's inconceivable that you +could have done these things if you didn't care for me. Even you +couldn't be such an unfeeling little fiend." + +"No, no; you worked on my feelings. You wouldn't let me have any will of +my own. And now you want me to marry you whether I like it or not. +Whatever happens, I can't do that, Vincent." + +"Why not?" + +"Must I tell you?" + +"Isn't that the very least you can do?" + +"Well--you know, Vincent, you've been very wild; you've told me so +yourself a thousand times." + +"Is it that? You knew that long ago." + +"I never realised it till now. Now I know that I can only really love +some one strong and good, whose goodness would help me and make me good +too." + +Audrey's infantile irony made Hardy laugh. That laugh frightened her. + +"Do you think I don't know that?" he said. "What do you suppose I went +out of England for? It wasn't to shoot, or to farm either. It was to get +away out of the reach of temptation, to live in a pure air, and make +myself pure for your sake. Do you know, Audrey, I was out there, without +a soul to speak to, a year, one horrible long year, fighting the devil, +waiting till I could come back and tell you that I was fit to love you. +God knows I'm not all I ought to be,--who is? At least, I'm not ashamed +now to ask you to be my wife. Will you never forget the past?" + +She had hesitated before, but now Hardy's humility put her in the +position of the superior, and his piteous confession gave her the words +she wanted. + +"No. It's no use. Once for all, I do not love you; and if I did, I could +not marry any man who had led the life you have." + +"Very well. Remember, Audrey, if I wasn't good enough for you, I was +good enough as men go. Now, I'll go to the devil, and give my whole mind +to it. But I've a great deal to say to you before I go. You object to my +life. Good or bad, it's your own work. It's women like you who make men +like me. You knew my weakness, and played on it. You could have helped +me, if you'd only given me up honestly at first, as another woman would +have done; but you didn't want to do that. I'd have left England long +before, if you'd let me go: you knew it, and you kept me here, though +you saw me going to the bad. Oh, you were an artist in your own line! +You knew the effect of every word, every touch, every movement of yours, +and you went out of your way to--to make goodness impossible for me. God +knows why, but you liked--you _liked_ to see me longing for what you +never meant to give me. And because I didn't come out of that ordeal +quite clean, you talk to me about my life, and tell me you are too good +and pure to marry me. Are you really so very much better than I am, +after all?" + +She sat still at first, with her eyes half closed, afraid to look up, +afraid to move or speak, waiting for something to happen, for some one +to come and stop Vincent. But the scourging voice went on with a +relentless brutality, laying bare the secret places of her soul, its +unconscious hypocrisy, its vanity, its latent capacity for evil. She +answered the closing question with an inarticulate sound like a sob. It +might have softened him, if he had not been deaf to everything but his +own passion. + +"Don't suppose I flatter myself I'm the only victim. How about that +young fool Ted Haviland?" + +She sprang to her feet. Fear, that had made her lie to Ted, made her +tell the truth to Hardy. That fear was deep-rooted; it dated from the +days when they were children and Vincent had the mastery in all their +play. + +"Oh, Vincent, promise me, promise me, you won't do anything to Ted! It's +all true about our engagement, but it was more my fault than his." + +"I can't believe that, Audrey. I'm very far from blaming him. I've no +doubt you treated him as you did me." + +He sat down exhausted. Audrey, seeing the change of position, not the +sudden collapse that prompted it, was in despair. + +"Won't you leave me alone now, Vincent? Haven't you said enough?" + +"Not yet. Let me think a bit." + +He leaned back and closed his eyes. He had so much to say, and now he +had no words to say it with. + +Audrey looked at the clock; it was half-past four. Would he begin again? +She almost wished he would; it would be better than this silence--better +than that frowning forehead, with the terrible accusing thoughts behind +it. Would no one come? Would he never go? + +Hardy had found words and was beginning to rouse himself, when in answer +to her prayer the door was thrown open. Her deliverance had come in the +shape of Langley Wyndham. + +Hardy's eyes followed her. A moment before she had sat white and +trembling, shrunk up into herself before the storm of his accusation; +now, for that instant, her face became beautiful as he had never seen it +before. There was something dramatic in her movement as she rose and +went forward to meet Wyndham. There was no mistaking her manner and the +tremor of her voice as she spoke to him. Hardy knew his rival before he +saw him. + +"My cousin Mr. Hardy; Mr. Langley Wyndham." + +The men looked at each other and bowed stiffly. Wyndham wondered. The +scene they had just gone through had left its mark on Hardy's face and +Audrey's. The student of human nature congratulated himself on the +inspiration which had prompted him to call at this crisis. The cousin +suggested interesting complications in his heroine's life: judging by +the set of his lower jaw, she must have had a bad quarter of an hour +with him. He would have to reconstruct that drama from the fragments +preserved. + +When Wyndham sat down, Hardy sat down too. He suspected Audrey of having +invited this man in order to get rid of himself. She wanted him to go. A +savage jealousy made him determined to stay and spoil her pleasure. But +Audrey, with Wyndham beside her, had recovered her presence of mind. +Unable to endure the situation longer, she was about to risk a bold +stroke, by which she would at once revenge herself on Vincent, escape +from the torture of his society, and assure herself of Wyndham's +friendship. + +After the preliminary commonplaces, she watched her opportunity till she +could arrest Wyndham's eyes with hers, throwing into their expression +all that she knew of pathos and appeal. Then she rose and held out her +hand to Hardy, saying with distinct deliberation-- + +"I'm afraid you must excuse me now, Vincent; I have to take Mr. Wyndham +to call on my uncle Dean Craven." + +The look that she turned on Wyndham said plainly, "You see I'm +desperate. If you haven't enough chivalry to back that up, I'm done +for." + +Happily for her, this time Wyndham's chivalry was equal to his +intelligence. He answered in the most natural manner possible-- + +"If Miss Craven is ready, I am. As I'm rather late, I think we'd better +take a hansom." + +They left Hardy stupefied with astonishment. + +As they drove towards Charing Cross, she turned to Wyndham and said-- + +"Forgive my making use of you. Had you any other engagement?" + +"I have no engagements." + +"I am glad. It was the only thing I could think of to get rid of him. If +you had left me, he would have stayed; if I had gone out by myself, he +would have followed. But it was good of you to stand by me like that." + +"Not at all. I'm delighted to call on Dean Craven, still more delighted +to be of service to you." + +"Thank you." + +They said no more till, as they came in sight of the Hotel Metropole, he +turned to her with a smile-- + +"Do you remember Mr. Jackson?" + +"Mr. Jackson?--Mr. Jackson?" She shook her head. "Oh yes, of course I +do. At Oxford, that night? Whatever put him into your head, of all +people?" + +"Dean Craven, I suppose. Ridiculous association of ideas." + +"Mr. Jackson--I wonder why such people exist." + +"So do I. Do you know, I've hated Mr. Jackson with a deadly hatred for +the last month." + +"Why, whatever has he done?" + +"Nothing. But if it hadn't been for him I should have known you a year +ago." + +The hansom drew up. She sank back into her corner and held out her hand. + +"I'll say good-bye now. I'm not equal to seeing them, after all. You can +tell them you've seen me, and that I meant to call." + +"Very well. Is he to drive you straight home?" + +"Yes, please. But tell him to go the longest way round, by Fulham--or +anywhere." + +He said good-bye, got out, and gave the order to the driver. As the +hansom turned up Northumberland Avenue, he caught a side view of the +pathetic little face through the window. Then she was whirled away from +him, towards Fulham--or anywhere. He stood looking after her till the +sound of the horse's bells was lost in the roar of Charing Cross. + +Then he remembered that he had once said she would be "capable of +anything." + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + + +Hardy left the house five minutes after Audrey and Wyndham. In the +doorway of the dining-room he stepped on a small muslin +pocket-handkerchief. It was stained here and there with specks of blood. +He picked it up, kissed it, and put it in his pocket. + +For a long time after that he had no clear sense of anything, except, at +times, of the misery that made the only difference between being drunk +and sober. + +Yes; Hardy was carrying out the threat he had made to Audrey, with a +passionate deliberation. He was "giving his whole mind to it," as he had +said. He had been used to speak of the sins of his past life with that +exaggeration which was part of his character; they had been slight, +considering the extent of his temptation. Then he was, as it were, an +amateur in evil. Now he had an object in view--he was sinning for the +wages of sin. + +After all, there was a boyish simplicity about Hardy; otherwise the idea +of living for a year alone on the Rockies, to make himself "fit to love +Audrey," would hardly have occurred to him. As it was, that guileless +scheme proved fatal in its results. The loneliness, the privation, the +excitement and fatigue of his sportsman's life--for with all his +boasting he was a true sportsman--had roused some old hereditary impulse +in his blood, and he found himself worsted by the craving for drink +before he was aware of its existence in him. But the thought of Audrey +was always present with him; and it kept him up. He fought himself hand +to hand, and won the fight ten times for once that he was beaten. He was +literally saved by hope. Happily for him, when he had finished the +stores he brought out with him, it was almost as difficult to satisfy +his craving as it was to annihilate it. When he came home the tendency +was sleeping in him still; and though, as long as he had hope, it might +have slept for ever, when hope was gone it was there, ready to take +possession of him. His love for Audrey was the strongest passion in his +nature. It filled the horizon of his life. He looked before and after, +and could see nothing else but it. It was of the kind that deepens +through its own monotony. Now that Audrey had cast him off, there was no +reason for the struggle, because there was nothing more to struggle for, +and nothing to live for unless it were to kill life in the act of +living. That indeed was something. + +After the first month or so of it, he had no further interest in his +present course. He chose it now as the form of suicide least likely to +be recognised as such. + +Perhaps--who knows?--if he had had any friends who would have given him +a helping hand, it might never have come to this. But, in the first +place, Hardy had no home that could be called a home. His mother was +fond of him in her way; but she was now a hysterical invalid, abject +under the influence of her second husband, and year by year his +step-father's jealousy (the jealousy of a childless man) had driven the +mother and son further apart. Of the Havilands, whom he would naturally +have turned to, he had seen nothing for the last few months. Ted +disliked meeting him, and he on his part was equally anxious to avoid +Ted. That was how Katherine remained ignorant of the truth until she was +enlightened by Mrs. Rogers. + +"It yn't _my_ business," said that excellent woman, as she began to dust +the studio one morning, in the leisurely manner that Katherine dreaded, +it being the invariable forerunner of conversation, "and I don't know +who's business it is, but somebody ought to look after that Mr. 'Ardy. +'Is friends ought to be written to, m'm." + +Katherine felt a pang of remorse. + +"Why? Is Mr. Hardy ill?" + +"I didn't say he was ill. But if I was to tell _you_, miss----" + +Here Mrs. Rogers pursed her lips, not so much to impress Katherine with +her incorruptible discretion, as to excite interest in the disclosures +she meant to make. + +"Between you and me, m'm, if somebody don't stop 'im, 'ell drink +'imself to death down there some o' these days." + +"What do you mean? It's quite impossible--I've known Mr. Hardy all my +life." + +"I've known 'im three months; and if I wasn't that soft-'earted, I +wouldn't keep 'im a day longer, not a day I wouldn't. 'E won't sleep in +'is bed like a Christian--lies on top all of a heap like. Last week, +when I was a-cleanin' out his bottom cupboard, the brandy bottles was +standin' up like a row o' ninepins. This mornin' they was lyin' down +flat as your fyce--empty, m'm, every one of 'em. It did give me a turn. +And 'e'll order 'is dinner for eight o'clock, and not come 'ome till two +in the mornin'--if 'e comes 'ome at all. 'E's out now Lord knows where." + +"I don't want to hear any more. You're very likely mistaken." + +"I wish I was, miss. But you'll not deceive me, I'm that upset with it +all. And my fear is, miss, 'e'll drive away my old lydy on the first +floor, with 'is goings on." + +Katherine left the room, too deeply grieved to bear Mrs. Rogers's +professional loquacity. + +That night she was able to realise the truth of what she had been told. +She had gone out to dine with some new acquaintance; Ted had called for +her to take her home, and they were walking back along the Embankment, +when they came suddenly upon Hardy. He was standing under a gas-lamp, +talking to somebody, or rather listening to somebody talking. He turned +his back on them as they passed, but there was no mistaking his figure +in the glare of the false daylight. As for his companion, Katherine was +aware of something in satin skirts which the gaslight ran over like +water--something that smelt of musk and had hair the colour of brass. +She walked on without a word, sick at heart. This was the first time she +had been brought face to face with the hideous side of life. Like many +good women, she thoroughly realised the existence of evil in the +abstract; but evil incarnate in a person--it was hard to associate that +with any one she knew as she had known Vincent. Her artistic nature was +morbidly sensitive to impressions taken in through the eye, and nothing +could have so forced home the truth as that little scene, suddenly +flashed on her out of the London night. But now that she had seen, it +was not the horror that she felt, but the pity of it. She remembered +Vincent's face when she had shown him Audrey's picture. Her thoughts +went further back. She remembered him a boy, playing with her in a +lordly manner, as befitted his sex; or a young man, coming and going in +her father's home with frank, brotherly ways. She remembered how she had +grudged the time she gave him, and the relief she felt when he left off +coming. But she could not remember anywhere the least sign of what he +had become. + +Something ought to be done--she could not clearly say what. Writing to +his people, as Mrs. Rogers had suggested, was out of the question. She +knew too well the state of things in his home. To be sure, there was his +uncle, Sir Theophilus Parker, whom he had expectations from; but for +that very reason the old gentleman was the last person whom it would be +advisable to inform of Vincent's conduct. Relations failing, there +remained his friends; and she only knew two of these--herself and Ted. + +All that was most fine and sensitive in her nature cried out against the +burden she knew she would have to lay on it. But her humanity was so +deeply moved by the tragedy she had twice been an unwilling spectator +of, that she never so much as dreamed of asking, "Am _I_ my brother's +keeper?" Doubtless she could have found plenty of excellent people to +tell her she was not. Her only difficulty was with Ted. Nothing could be +done till he had got over his nervous dread of meeting Vincent. + +Katherine had no precise idea of what had passed between her brother and +Audrey, and how far Vincent had been connected with it; but she had +gathered from Ted's silence all that she wanted to know. Whatever Audrey +had said or done, there was an end of her as far as he was concerned. It +was from the boy's silence, too, that she realised the extent of his +suffering. Before the inevitable thing had happened, he had done nothing +but talk of Audrey, sometimes with melancholy, more often in the jocular +strain adopted by self-conscious persons to carry off some ridiculous +fatality. Anger following suspense had driven him to think of suicide; +but now that it was all over with him, he had no idea of killing +himself. Katherine had never been much afraid of that, and as yet none +of the other things she had dreaded had happened; but it was evident +that the boy's nature had been deeply affected, and that the shock was a +moral one. It was not Audrey's unfaithfulness that had hurt him so much +as her untruthfulness. Ted thought so little of himself in some ways +that he could have understood the one, and therefore forgiven it. The +other was the unpardonable sin; it injured what he loved better than +himself--his idea of Audrey. Katherine did not know this, but she saw +that the present time was the moral turning-point in his life, and that +his pain was the sort that shapes character for good or for evil. But, +after all, she knew very little of the elements that went to make up +Ted's character. His imagination, as she had pointed out to Audrey on a +memorable occasion, had been developed long before his heart, and out of +all proportion to it. It had so happened that all at once the passionate +part of his nature had been roused and shaken before it was half-formed. +She asked herself what line would be taken now by those forces of +feeling set free so violently and so abruptly checked? + +Well, at any rate Audrey's conduct had not had the effect of driving +brother and sister apart. It had drawn them closer together if +anything. Ted seemed to find relief in Katherine's society from the +torment of his own thoughts, and he had shown no desire to look for +distraction abroad; indeed the difficulty was to make him go out of +doors at all for necessary exercise. He would have fits of work, when +nothing would induce him to stir from the easel. Another time, he would +spend whole mornings lying on the floor, with his arms clasped above his +head, or sitting with a book in his hands, a book which he never seemed +to read. He hardly ever spoke; he was always thinking. And worse than +all, he had lost his appetite and his sense of humour. + +Mrs. Rogers had her own theory on the subject, which she imparted to +Katherine. + +"Miss, it's them baths as has done it. Anythin' in reason and I'll not +sy no, but cold water to that igstent, m'm, it's against nature. It's my +belief Mr. 'Aviland would 'ave slept and 'ad 'is dinner in 'is bath, if +I 'adn't put my foot down. 'E's chilled 'is blood, depend upon it, m'm." +And indeed that seemed very likely. + +Katherine said nothing about Hardy at the time; but the next night, when +she and Ted were sitting over the fire, she began. + +"Ted, that was Vincent we saw on the Embankment last night." + +"Yes, I saw him. + +"Do you know, I believe he's killing himself with drinking." + +"I know he is." + +"Do you think we could do anything to help him before it's too late?" + +He shook his head. + +"Oh, Ted, we might! He never used to be like this. He's got no one to +speak to; we've left him by himself all this time in those horrid rooms. +The wall-paper alone is enough to send anybody to the bad. We might have +thought of him." + +"I've done nothing else but think of him for the last two months. We +can't do anything. He's bound to go on like that; I don't see how he can +help it. As for drinking, nothing can stop _that_; I've seen fellows +like him before; and Vincent never did anything by halves." + +"It's terrible. But we ought to try--it's the least we can do." + +"The least _I_ can do is to keep out of his way. He hates the sight of +me." + +"Why?" + +"Don't you know? Didn't it ever strike you that Audrey was engaged to +Vincent all the time?" + +"No. I thought he liked her, but--what makes you think that?" + +"I can't tell you. But any sort of affectionate advances would come +rather badly from me. How's Vincent to know that I never knew?" + +"You may be sure he knows. He knows Audrey." + +Ted sighed, but he said nothing; there was nothing to be said. + +"Would you very much mind asking him to supper to-morrow night?" + +"No. He won't come. But you'd better write to him yourself, or else +he'll think you don't want him." + +She wrote a note, and Ted took it downstairs, to be ready for Vincent at +such time as he should come in. The boy turned into his own room without +going up again to say good-night. + +He had left Katherine thinking. She had been struck with his words; they +had thrown a new light on his character. His tone was bitter when he +told her he had been thinking of nothing but Vincent; but it was not the +bitterness of selfish resentment. A shuddering hope went through her. +Either there always had been things in Ted's nature which she had never +suspected, or he had just begun his education by suffering--by having +felt. The latter was the more probable explanation; she knew him to be +capable of such absorption in pleasant sensations, that, if all had gone +well with him, he might from sheer light-heartedness have remained +indifferent to other people's woes. And all along he had been such an +irresponsible person, but now he was actually growing a conscience, and +a peculiarly delicate one too. Without any fault of his own, he had +behaved dishonourably to Vincent; and apart from the blow to his own +honour, it was evident that what stung him now was remorse for his +infinitesimal share in the causes that had led to Vincent's ruin. + +In all that he had said there was no trace of any lingering love for +Audrey. Was it possible that the tragic spectacle of Vincent's fate had +moved him too with pity and terror, for the purging of his passion? + + * * * * * + +Hardy did not find Katherine's note till late next morning. He read it +twice over with an incredulous air, and put it into the fire. He wrote a +short but grateful refusal, saying truly that he was very seedy, and not +pleasant company for any one at present. + +Not long after, he was alone, as usual, in his dingy ground-floor +sitting-room. It was about five o'clock; but he had not lit his lamp +yet, and he had let his fire go out, though it was cold and rainy. A +gas-lamp from the street shone through the dripping window-panes, +bringing a dreary twilight into the room, making it one with the +melancholy of the rain-swept streets. + +He sat by the table, with his head in his hands, a prey to the appalling +depression which was his mood when sober. + +For the last three months he had had a curious double consciousness: of +himself as an actor in a phantom world, lost in some night of dreams, +where the same thoughts--always, the same thoughts--thoughts that were +sins--came to him in sickening recurrence; the horror of it being that +the act followed instantaneously on the thought: of himself as a +spectator, separate from that other self, yet bound to it; looking on +at all it did, ashamed and loathing, yet powerless to interfere. And, as +happens in nightmares, his very dread suggested the thing he dreaded, +and changed his dream to something more hideous than before--horror upon +horror, still foreseen, and still foredoomed in the senseless sequence +of the dream. Now these two states of mind were divided by a little +clear space. The passive self was free for a while and could think. It +could think--that was all. + +He was waked from his thoughts by a knock and a voice at the door. He +answered gruffly, and as he looked up he saw Katherine standing in the +open doorway, letting in a stream of light from the lamp she carried in +her hand. + +He stared at her stupidly, blinking at the light, and hid his face in +his hands again. + +"I beg your pardon, Vincent. I knocked, and I thought you said 'Come +in.' I came to see how you were; I was afraid you were worse." + +"I am worse. What's more, I shall never be better." + +She put her lamp on the chimneypiece and stood beside him. + +"Don't say that; of course you'll be better. Can we do anything for +you?" + +"No; nothing--thanks." + +She moved back a little, and shaded the lamp with her hands. She was +afraid to disturb him, but she did not like to leave him in his misery. +How ill and wretched he looked in that abominable room! The lamplight +showed her all its repulsive details. She had done her best for it; but +in the last two months it had sunk back into something worse than its +former ugliness, degraded in its owner's degradation. There was no trace +now of the clever alterations and contrivances which she had devised for +his comfort. The muslin curtains she had lent him were dark with smoke; +the rug had slipped from the horsehair sofa; there were stains on the +shabby tablecloth and carpet; and on the sideboard there was a sordid +litter of bottles and glasses, pipes, tobacco-ash, and Hardy's hats. The +floor was strewn with the crumpled papers and shoes that he had flung +away from him in his fits of irritation. In the midst of it all she +noticed that Mrs. Rogers had brought back all her terrible household +goods, the pink vases, the paper screens, and the antimacassars--"To +cheer him up, I suppose, poor fellow!" + +Hardy looked round as if he had read her thoughts. + +"You'd better leave me. This isn't a nice place for you." + +"It isn't a very nice place for anybody. You've let your fire go out. +Come upstairs and get warm; we haven't seen you for ages." + +He shook his head sadly. + +"I can't, Sis, I'm much too seedy." + +"Nonsense! You will be, if you sit down here catching cold." She took +up her lamp, and laid a hand on his shoulder. + +"Come; don't keep me waiting, or I shall catch cold too." + +His will was in abeyance, and to her intense relief he got up and +followed her. + +She was shocked at the change in his appearance when she saw him in the +full lamplight of the studio. He was pitifully thin; his fingers, as he +held out his hands to the blaze, were pale, even with the red glow of +the fire through them. His eyes had lost their dog-like pathos, and had +the hard look of the human animal. She got ready some strong coffee, and +made him drink it. That, with the warmth and the unaccustomed kindness, +revived him. Then she sat down in a low chair opposite him, with some +sewing in her lap, so that he might talk to her or not, as he pleased. +At first he evidently preferred to think; and when he did speak, it was +as if he were thinking aloud. + +"I was cut by two men I know to-day. I wonder how many women there are +in London who would do what you've done for me to-night?" + +"What have I done? I walked into your room without an invitation--I +don't suppose many women in London would have done that. But is there +any woman in London who has known you as long as I have?" + +He winced perceptibly, and she remembered that there was one. + +"Ah, if you really knew me, Kathy, you'd cut me dead!" + +"My dear Vincent, don't talk rubbish. I do know--a good deal--and I'm +very sorry; that's all. I should be sorrier if I thought it was going to +last for ever; but I don't." + +"You are too good to me; but--if you only knew!" + +He sat silent, watching as she sewed. Something in his attitude reminded +her of that other evening, three months ago, when he had lain back in +that chair boasting gloriously, full of hope and the pride of life. He +appealed to her more now in his illness and degradation than he had ever +done in his splendid sanity. For he had seemed so strong; there was no +outward sign of weakness then about that long-limbed athlete. + +"Vincent," she said presently, "what's become of the Pioneer-book? You +promised to read me some of it--don't you remember?" + +"Yes. I shall never do anything with it now." + +"Oh, Vincent, what a pity! But if it's not to be printed, do you mind my +seeing the manuscript?" + +"No; I'll let you have it some day, Sis, and you shall do what you like +with it." He sank into silence again. + +"Where's Ted?" he asked suddenly. + +"He'll be in soon; he wants to see you." + +"Does he? How do you know that?" There was a look of suspicion in +Hardy's eyes as they glanced up. It was a symptom of his miserable +condition that he was apt to imagine slights. + +"I've only his word for it, of course." + +"Kathy----" he hesitated. + +"Well?" + +"There's something I wanted to tell him; but the fact is, I don't think +I've the pluck to do it." + +"Never mind, then. Tell me if you can; though I think I know, and it's +all right." + +"No, it isn't all right. I suppose you know he was pretty well off his +head about--that cousin of mine? I rather think he owed me one for being +before him, as he thought. At any rate, he cut me ever since--before I +took to the flowing bowl, too. You might tell him, if you think it would +be any satisfaction to him to know it, that she cared rather less for me +than she did for him; in fact, I believe there was some unhappy devil +that she preferred to either of us. At least a third man came into it +somewhere. There may be a fourth now, for anything I know." + +There was a brutality about his calmness which surprised Katherine; she +could not realise the effect of the means he used for blunting his +sensibilities. + +"You're quite mistaken. Ted hasn't any feeling of the sort. He simply +kept out of your way because he was afraid you'd think he had behaved +dishonourably; and of course he couldn't explain because of--Audrey. But +it wasn't his fault. He knew nothing." + +"I never thought he did know. Do you suppose I blamed _him_, poor +beggar?" + +All the same, Hardy slunk away soon after Ted came in. When Mrs. Rogers +came up with supper, she informed them that it was fine now--if you +could but trust it. And "Mr. 'Ardy 'ad gorn orf like a mad thing. +Temptin' Providence, I call it, without an umbrella." + +Ted remarked, as they sat down to supper, that he thought "Providence +would have sufficient strength of mind to resist temptation; but he was +not so sure about Hardy." + +And indeed Katherine had to own that her first experiment with Vincent +was a failure. But she struggled on, experience having taught her that +it is easier to do good original work of your own than to patch up what +other people have spoiled. One week, drawn by some yearning for human +sympathy, Hardy would come nearly every evening to the studio; then they +would see no more of him for ten days or so. At times she felt that the +strain of it was greater than she could bear. She had learnt to manage +Vincent in his various moods, varying from humorous irascibility to +hysterical penitence; but when he was out of her sight her influence was +powerless. Now indeed she asked herself-- + +"Why am I wasting my precious time and making myself miserable in this +way? I've no sense of religion, and I don't love Vincent--he's simply a +nuisance. It must be sheer obstinacy." + +It was with a feeling little short of despair that she sat down to the +pages of the Pioneer-book. She had determined at any cost to read the +manuscript through; but she soon became fascinated in spite of herself. +"Be tender to it, Sis, it's a part of myself," he had said when he +handed it over to her. She thought she had detected a gleam of interest +in his face, and felt that she was on the right tack. But Vincent's book +was more than a part of himself, it was a fair transcript of the whole. +His weakness and his strength were in it. She saw his vanity, his +exaggeration; but also his sincerity, his manliness, his simple delight +in simple things. Scenery on a large scale stirred a strain of rude +poetry in him this was akin to the first rhythmic utterances of man. To +be sure, the thing had its faults; for poor Vincent had been anxious +that his book should be recognised as the work of a scholar and a +gentleman. At times a spirit of unbridled quotation would seize him, and +you came upon familiar gems from the classics imbedded in the text. At +times, after some coarse but graphic touch, his style became suddenly +refined, almost to sickliness. When he was not pointing his moral with a +hatchet, he was adorning his tale with verbiage gathered from the worst +authors. But if Hardy the literary artist made her laugh till she cried +again, Hardy the unconscious child of Nature won her heart. If only she +could make him finish what he had begun! + +She determined to illustrate the book: that might inflame Vincent's +ambition, and would certainly require his co-operation. So now, every +evening, in the spare time after supper, she set to work on the +drawings, aided by some photographs and rough sketches made by Hardy. +After a little stratagem she got him to come up and help her with +suggestions, or to sit for her while she sketched him in all the +attitudes of the sportsman. + +He was enthusiastic over the first few drawings. Perhaps his simple +remarks, "H'm, that's clever!" or, "By Jove, that's not half bad!" gave +her a purer pleasure than she could have derived from the most +discriminating criticism. When his interest showed signs of flagging, +she hit on a new means of rousing it. She began to find out that so long +as she drew correctly, he looked on with a melancholy indifference, but +that when she made any mistake he was always delighted to put her right. +So she went on making mistakes, and then Vincent got impatient. + +"Look here, Sis, that's all wrong. You don't carry a rifle with the +muzzle pointing towards your left ear. Here, give the thing to me!" + +Katherine gravely handed him another sketch-- + +"How's that?" + +"That's worse. Why, you little duffer, you don't suppose I'm going to +send a bullet into that bear taking aim at _that_ angle? I should blow +my boots off. I thought you could draw?" + +She smiled in secret. "So I can, if you'll show me which way up the +things go." + +Then they put their heads together over it, and between them they turned +out some work worthy of the Pioneer-book. Ted joined in too, and began a +black-and-white series of his own, parodying the acts of the +distinguished sportsman: Vincent attacked by a skunk; Vincent swarming +up a pine tree with a bear hanging on to his trousers' legs; Vincent +shooting the rapids in his canoe--canoe uppermost; and so on. Ted was so +much entertained with his own performances that he was actually heard to +laugh. And when the boy laughed, the man laughed too. As for Katherine, +she could have cried, knowing that a returning sense of humour is often +the surest sign of hope in these cases. + +Laughter, flattery, and feminine wiles may not be the methods most +commended by moralists and divines for the conversion of poor sinners; +but Katherine seldom consulted authorities--she had the courage of her +convictions. + +One fine morning in February she appeared in her hat and jacket at the +door of the ground-floor sitting-room. + +"Vincent, will you come with me to the Zoo? I'm going to do some +grizzlies and wapiti--from the life--for the Pioneer-book, and I want +you to help me." + +He agreed, and they started almost gaily, with Mrs. Rogers peering up at +them from the front area-window, putting that and that together with the +ingenuity of her kind. It was the first of many walks they had +together. Ted generally went with them, but now and again he was left +behind. At these times Katherine was touched by Vincent's pride in being +allowed to take her about alone. He was grateful for it; he knew it was +her way of showing that she trusted him. + +At last the series of illustrations came to an end. The two artists had +raced each other: Katherine, having had the start, came in first at the +finish with a magnificent design for the cover. She brought the drawings +to Vincent, together with his manuscript, and showed them to him +triumphantly. He remarked-- + +"Well, they ought to print the thing, if only as a footnote to your +drawings, Sis." + +"Will you sit down and finish it, if I undertake to find a publisher?" + +He promised, and he kept his word. In the mornings now he might be found +working slowly and painfully at his last chapter, she helping him. + +So the winter wore on into spring; and Katherine, burdened with arrears +of work, said to herself, "I perceive that this is going to be an +expensive undertaking." But she looked back gladly on the time lost. At +last, after many failures, they had succeeded in wakening Vincent to a +sense of distant kinship with the life of boys and maidens. Down at the +bottom of his nature there had always been an intense craving for +affection, and his heart went out to Ted and Katherine. Not that he +considered himself fit for their blameless society. Together with the +vices he had acquired there had sprung up humility, that strange virtue, +which has its deepest roots in the soil of shame. But all his old +yearning after goodness revived in their presence. When he was with them +he felt that the cloud of foul experience was lifted for a moment from +his mind; they gave him sweet thoughts instead of bitter for a day +perhaps, or a night. + +And what of the days and the nights when he was not with them? Then, as +a rule, he fell, nine times, it may be, out of every ten--who knows? And +who knows whether Perfect Justice, measuring our forces with the force +of our temptations, may not count as victory what the world calls +defeat? + + + + +CHAPTER XIX + + +In her appeal to Wyndham Audrey had played a bold stroke, and it seemed +that she had won it. She had amply revenged herself on Hardy, and more +than assured herself of Wyndham's friendship. All the same, ever since +she had left him at the doors of the Hotel Metropole, a certain +constraint had crept into their intercourse. Wyndham was not easily +deceived, and he rightly interpreted her abrupt dismissal of him as a +final effort to assert herself before the onset of the inevitable. Even +if he at times suspected her of playing a part, she had chosen the right +part to play, and he respected her for it. He himself was leading a +curious double life. He was working hard at his novel, which promised to +surpass everything that he had yet done. He was so much absorbed in +observing, studying, shaping, and touching up, that it never occurred to +him to ask himself if he were indeed creating. The thing had been +growing under his hands through the autumn; in the winter it seemed to +advance by bounds; but in the spring his work came to a sudden +standstill. He did not know what Laura, his heroine, was going to do +next. He had drawn her as the creature of impulse, but dragging the +dead weight of all the conventions at her back--a woman variously +dramatic when stirred by influences from without, but incapable of +decisive action from within. How would such a woman behave under stress +of conflicting circumstances?--if it came, say, to a fight for +possession between the force of traditional inertia and the feeling of +the moment? On the one hand the problem was as old as the hills, on the +other it was new with every man and woman born into the world. What he +called his literary conscience told him that it had to be solved; +another conscience in him shrank from the solution. At this point +Wyndham did what, as a conscientious artist, he had never done before; +he put his work away for a season, and tried not to think about it, +devoting himself to Audrey Craven instead. Even he was not always able +to preserve the critical attitude with regard to her. As he had told +her, criticism comes first, sympathy last of all. And with him--last of +all--it had come. He could not go on from day to day, seeing, hearing, +and understanding more and more, without acquiring a curious sympathy +with the thing he studied. And when the artist tired of her art, the man +felt all the influence of her natural magic. He was prepared for that, +and had no illusions on the subject. + +He tested his present feelings by comparing them with those he had had +for Alison Fraser. He had not the least intention of setting up Audrey +Craven anywhere near his idol's ancient place,--he would have shuddered +at the bare idea of it. This, though he expressed it differently, was +what he meant when he resolved once for all that he would never marry, +never put himself in any woman's power again. And in the plenitude of +his self-knowledge he knew exactly how far he could let himself go +without either of these evil results following. + +Unfortunately, in these cases the woman is seldom so well equipped for +self-defence as the man. Owing to her invincible ignorance of her own +nature, she must be more or less at a disadvantage. And if this is true +of women in general, it was doubly true of any one so specially prone to +illusion as Audrey Craven, who would have had difficulty in recognising +any part of her true self under its numerous disguises. She was +therefore unaware of the action and reaction which had been going on +within her during the last year. Whatever its precise quality may have +been, her love for Ted Haviland was of a different quality from her +feeling for Langley Wyndham. Under that earlier influence, whatever +intelligence she possessed had been roused from its torpor by the tumult +of her senses; her mind had been opened and made ready for the attack of +a finer intellectual passion, which again in its turn brought her under +the tyranny of the senses. For though her worst enemies could not call +Audrey clever, it was Wyndham's intellectual eminence which had +fascinated her from the first. Herein lay her danger and her excuse. She +was aware--hence her late access of reserve--that she was being carried +away by her feelings; but how, when, and whither, she neither knew nor +apparently cared to know. In the meanwhile, in Wyndham's friendship she +not only triumphed over Vincent's scorn, but she felt secure against his +infatuation. For she imagined the scorn and the infatuation as still +existing together. She knew that he was still in London, presumably +unable to tear himself away from her neighbourhood; and the sense of his +presence, of his power over her, had been so long a habit of her mind +that she could not lose it now. Otherwise she hardly gave him a thought; +and having cut herself off from all communication with Devon Street, she +did not certainly know what had become of him. + +She had yet to learn. + +Towards the end of February she received a letter from Vincent's mother +which left no doubt on the subject. The news of his downfall had reached +his home at last. Mrs. Hardy knew of her son's attachment to his cousin, +and had always had fixed ideas on that point. On being told that he had +"gone" irretrievably "to the bad," she jumped to a conclusion: it was +the right one, as it happened, though she had managed to cover a great +deal of ground in that jump. She at once wrote off a long and violent +letter to her niece, taxing her with cruelty, fickleness, and +ingratitude, laying Vincent's misdeeds on her shoulders, and ending +thus: "They tell me you are engaged. I pray God you may not have to go +through what you have made my darling boy suffer." + +Now, either the poor hysterical lady was an unconscious instrument in +the hands of Destiny, or her prayer may have been meant as a modified +and lady-like curse; at any rate, if it had not entered into her head to +write that letter, it would have saved the writing of one chapter in her +niece's history. But, in the first place, the communication had the +effect of making Audrey cry a great deal, for her; in the second, it +came by an afternoon post, so that Langley Wyndham, calling at his usual +hour, found her crying. + +He was a little taken aback by the sight, as indeed any man would have +been, for most women of his acquaintance arranged things so as not to do +their crying in calling hours. + +However, he judged it the truest kindness to sit down and talk as if +nothing had happened. But it requires considerable self-possession and +command of language to sit still and talk about the weather with a +woman's tears falling before you like rain; and even Langley Wyndham, +that studious cultivator of phrases, found it hard. Audrey herself +relieved him from his embarrassment by frankly drying her eyes and +saying-- + +"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean that to happen; but----" + +He glanced at the letter open in her lap. + +"Not bad news, I hope?" + +"N-no," she answered, with a sob verging on the hysterical. + +Wyndham looked frightened at that, and she checked herself in time. + +"No, it's nothing. At least I can't speak about it. And yet--if I did, I +believe I should feel better. I am so miserable." + +"I am truly sorry. I wish I could be of some use. If you thought you +could speak about it to me, you know you can trust me." + +"I know I can. Oh, if I could only tell you! But I can't." + +"Why not? Would it be so very hard? I _might_ be able to help you." + +"You might. I do want somebody's advice--so much." + +"You are always welcome to mine. You needn't take it, you know." + +She smiled through her tears, for she had acquired a faint sense of +humour under Ted's influence, and had not yet lost it. + +"Well, it's about Vinc--my cousin Mr. Hardy. You remember meeting him +here once?" + +"I do indeed." + +"You may remember something I told you about him then. Perhaps I ought +not to have told you." + +"Never mind that. Yes, I remember perfectly. Has he been persecuting you +again?" + +"Ye-yes. Well, no. I haven't seen him for ages, but I live in dread of +seeing him every day. I know, sooner or later, he will come." + +She paused. "I wonder if I really could tell you everything." + +"Please do, or tell me as much as you care to. I'd like to help you if +you would let me." + +She went on in a low voice, rather suggestive, Wyndham thought, of the +confessional: "I was engaged to him once--long ago--he forced me into +it. It began when we were children. He always made me do everything he +wanted. Then--he went away immediately after--for a year. When he came +back--I don't know how it was--I suppose it was because he had been away +so long--but I was stronger. He seemed to have lost his hold over me, +and I--I broke it off." + +She looked away from Wyndham as she spoke. + +He wondered, "Is she acting all the time? If so, how admirably she does +it! She must be a cleverer woman than I thought. But she isn't a clever +woman. Therefore----" But Audrey went on before he could draw a +conclusion. + +"But I know some day he will come back and make it begin all over again, +and I shall have no power. And the thought of it is horrible!" + +There was no mistaking the passion in her voice this time. He said to +himself, "This is nature," and he felt the same cold shiver of sympathy +that sometimes ran through him at the performance of some splendid +actress. But before he could presume to sympathise he must judge. + +"Do you mind telling me one thing? Had you any graver reasons for +breaking it off than what you have told me?" + +"Yes. He drinks." + +"Brute! That's enough. But--supposing he didn't drink?" + +"It would make no difference. I never cared for him. He thought I did. I +couldn't help that, could I? And then afterwards so many things +happened--I was not the same person. If he had not begun to--do that, +still it would have been impossible. But he won't believe it, or else he +doesn't care. He'll persecute me again, and perhaps make me marry him." + +"My dear Miss Craven, he won't do that. People don't do those things in +the nineteenth century. You've only got to state clearly that you won't +have anything to say to him, and he can't do anything. If he tries to, +there are measures that can be taken." + +She shook her head dismally. + +"Now comes the advice. Shall I tell you the truth? You've been worrying +your brain over that wretched animal till your nerves are all upset. +You're ill practically, or you couldn't take this morbid view of it. You +ought to leave town and go away for a change." + +"Where could I go to?" + +"The south coast for choice. It's bracing." + +"If I only could! No, I can't leave London." + +"Why not? There's an excellent service of trains----" + +"Because--because I love London." + +"So do I for many reasons. There's no place like it, to my mind. But if +I'd overworked myself in it, I should tear myself away. You can have too +much of a good thing." + +"No, not of the only place on earth you care to be in." + +"Well, I've given my valuable advice. You're not going to take it--I +never thought you would. Personally I hate the people who give me +advice. What I should like to give you would be help. But the question +is, Am I able to give it? Have I even the right to offer it?" + +She looked up at him. Some lyric voice, whether of hope or joy, or both, +had called the soul for an instant to her face--a poor little fluttering +soul, that gazed out through her grey eyes at Wyndham--for an instant +only, and was seen no more. When he spoke, he spoke not to it, but to +the woman he had known. + +"You don't answer." (She had answered, and he knew it.) "It all comes +back to what I said long ago. The most elementary knowledge of life +would have saved you all this: if you'd had it, you could not have let +these fatuities worry you to this extent. Do you remember my telling you +that you ought to love life for its own sake?" + +The moment he had said the words, he would have given anything to recall +them, but it was too late; she remembered only too well. However she had +disguised the truth, Wyndham's passionate defence of realism was not +altogether an appeal to her intellect. He ought not to have reminded her +of that now. + +"Yes," she answered; "how could I forget?" + +"I said at the time that you must know life in order to love it, and I +say so now. But, Audrey"--she started and flushed--"if I were another +man I should not say that." + +"What would you say?" + +"That you must love in order to know." + +"Is there any need to tell me that _now_?" + +"Perhaps not. It's what I would have told you then--if I had been +another man." + +Her lip quivered slightly, and she held one hand with the other to give +herself the feeling of a human touch. He went on without the least idea +whether he were talking sense or nonsense, interrupted sometimes by his +own conscience, sometimes by Audrey's changes of expression. + +"Bear with my egoism a moment--several moments, for I'm going to be +tediously autobiographical. Once, when I was a young man, I was offered +some journalistic work. It was at the very start; I had barely tasted +print. Remember, I was ambitious, and it meant the beginning of a +career; I was poor, and it meant a good salary. But it meant the +production of a column of 'copy' a-day, whether I was in the vein for it +or no. I wanted it badly, and--I refused it. I could _not_ be tied down. +Since then I have never bound myself to any publisher or editor. This +anecdote is not in the least interesting, but it is characteristic of my +whole nature, which is my reason for inflicting it on you. That nature +may be an unfortunate one, but I didn't invent it myself. Anyhow, +knowing it as thoroughly as I do, I've made up my mind never to do +certain things--never, for instance, to ask any woman to be my wife. +Marriage is the one impossible thing. It involves duty, or, worse still, +duties. Now, as it happens, I consider duty to be the very lowest of +moral motives. In fact--don't be shocked--it isn't moral at all. It is +to conduct what authority is to belief--that is, it has nothing whatever +to do with it. No. Goodness no more depends on duty than truth depends +on authority. Forgive me; I know you are a metaphysician and a moral +philosopher, and you'll appreciate this. You're going to make a +quotation; please don't. It's perfectly useless to tell me that +Wordsworth calls duty 'stern daughter of the voice of God.' It may be; I +don't know. I only know that if I believed it was my _duty_ to live, I'd +commit suicide to-morrow. I don't like stern daughters. But granted that +Wordsworth had the facts at his finger-ends, God's voice is freedom, +whatever its daughters may be. That's not a doctrine I'd preach to every +one; but for me, and those like me, freedom, absolute freedom, is the +condition of all sane thinking and feeling. Fancy loving any one because +it was your duty! Take a case. Supposing I married: the more I loved my +wife, the less a free agent I should be; and when I once realised that I +wasn't free, there would be an end of my love. I deplore this state of +things, but I can't alter it. So you see, when I most want to give you +love and protection, I can only offer you friendship, which you don't +want perhaps, and--er--good advice, which you won't take." + +But she was looking beyond him, far away. + +"As I can't possibly ask you to--accept my conditions, perhaps the +cleverest thing I could do would be to go away and never see you again. +There's no other alternative." + +Her lips parted as if she would have spoken, but no words came. They +searched each other's faces, the woman thirsting for life, for love; the +man thirsting too--for knowledge. And he knew. + +It was his turn to look away from her; and as he fixed his eyes absently +on the corner where the Psyche stood motionless on her pedestal, he +noticed, as people will notice at these moments, the ironical suggestion +of the torso, with the nasty Malay creese hanging over its head. Psyche +and--the sword of Damocles. + +"I don't want you to go away," she said at last. + +"I am going, all the same. For a little while--a fortnight perhaps. I +want you to have time to think." He was not by any means sure what he +meant by that. He had solved his problem, though not quite as he had +intended to, and that was enough for him. And yet his conscience (not +the literary one, but the other) would not altogether acquit him of +treachery to Audrey. Instead of going away, as he ought to have done, he +sat on talking, in the hope of silencing the reproachful voice inside +him, of setting things on their ordinary footing again. But this was +impossible at the moment. They were talking now across some thin barrier +woven of trivialities, as it were some half-transparent Japanese screen, +with all sorts of frivolous figures painted on it in an absurd +perspective. And behind this flimsy partition their human life went on, +each soul playing its part more or less earnestly in a little tragedy of +temptation. Each knew all the time what the other was doing; though +Wyndham had still the advantage of Audrey in this respect. Which of them +would first have the courage to pull down the screen and face the solid, +impenetrable truth? + +Neither of them attempted it,--they dared not. After half an hour's +commonplaces Wyndham left her to think. He too had some matter for +reflection. He was not inhuman, and if at times he seemed so, he had +ways of reconciling his inhumanity to his conscience. He told himself +that his strictly impartial attitude as the student of human nature +enabled him to do these things. He was as a higher intelligence, looking +down on the crowd of struggling, suffering men and women beneath him, +forgiving, tolerating all, because he understood all. He who saw life so +whole, who knew the hidden motives and far-off causes of human action, +could make allowances for everything. There was something divine in his +literary charity. What matter, then, if he now and then looked into some +girl's expressive face, and found out the secret she thought she was +hiding so cleverly from everybody,--if he knew the sources of +So-and-so's mysterious illness, which had puzzled the doctors so long? +And what if he had obtained something more than a passing glimpse into +the nature of the woman who had trusted him? It would have been base, +impossible, in any other man, of course: the impersonal point of view, +you see, made all the difference. + + + + +CHAPTER XX + + +From that afternoon Wyndham kept away from Chelsea Gardens; in fact, he +had left town. To do him justice, he honestly thought he was doing "the +cleverest thing" for Audrey in leaving her--to think. It would have been +the cleverest thing if he could have kept away altogether; but as long +as she had the certainty of his return, it was about the stupidest. If +he had stayed, they would have resumed their ordinary relations; all +might have blown over like a mood, and whatever he knew about her, +Audrey herself would never have known it. As it was, he had emphasised +the situation by going. And what was more, he had thrown Audrey back on +her uninteresting self--the very worst company she could have had at +present. She had been used to seeing him almost daily through a whole +winter; he had made her dependent on his society for all her interests +and pleasures; and when she was suddenly deprived of it, instead of +being able to think, she spent her time in miserable longing. She could +not think and feel at the same time. Feeling such as hers was +incompatible with any form of thinking; it was feeling in a vacuum--the +most dangerous kind of all. The emptiness of her life, now that Wyndham +was gone, made her say to herself that she could bear anything--anything +but that. It made her realise what the years, the long unspeakable +years, would be like when she had given him up. She looked behind and +around her, and there were the grey levels of ordinary existence; she +looked below her, and there was the deep; she was going into the +darkness of it, swiftly, helplessly, blown on by the wind of vanity. She +saw no darkness for the light before her--a nebulous light; but it +dazzled her like the sun shining through a fog. + +Once, at the fiercest point of her temptation, she felt an impulse to +confession--that mysterious instinct which lies somewhere at the heart +of all humanity; she had wild thoughts of going to Katherine and telling +her all, asking her what she ought to do. Katherine was large-minded, +she would not blame her--much; perhaps she would tell her she ought not +to give Wyndham up, that she ought to think of him, to be ready to +sacrifice the world for his sake. Yes, Katherine was so "clever," she +would be a good judge; and Audrey would abide by her judgment. +Unhappily, when it came to the point, she was afraid of her +judgment--she had always been a little afraid of Katherine. Once she +even thought of going to Mr. Flaxman Reed, that "holy anachronism," as +she had once heard Wyndham call him. But his judgment was a foregone +conclusion; Mr. Flaxman Reed was not large-minded. + +Once, too, a gleam of reason came to her. She loved dearly the +admiration and good opinion of her world; and she reflected that the +step she contemplated meant no congratulations, no wedding-dress, no +presents, and no callers. Wedding indeed! As she had read of a similar +case in "London Legends," it would be a "social funeral, with no flowers +by request." But these considerations had no weight after an evening +spent with cousin Bella. And though she played on her piano till the +lace butterflies on Miss Craven's cap fluttered again (why would cousin +Bella wear caps in defiance of the fashion?), it was no good. If she had +had a fine voice, she would have sung at the top of it; failing that +medium of expression, she longed to put her fingers in her own ears and +scream into cousin Bella's. And as they yawned in each other's faces, +and she realised that something like this might be the programme for an +indefinite time, she remembered how Langley had called her a +metaphysician and a moral philosopher. It was on statements like these, +apparently borne out by the fact of his friendship, that she based the +flattering fiction of her own intellectuality. Without that fiction +Audrey could not have supported life in the rare atmosphere she had +accustomed herself to breathe. The conclusion of it all was that, come +what might come, she could not give Langley up. + +One afternoon she crossed the river for a walk in Battersea Park. It was +a warm spring, and down the long avenue the trees were tipped with the +flame of bursting buds, like so many green lights turned low. The beds +and borders were gay with crocuses and hyacinths, and the open spaces +were beginning to look green again. Audrey cared little for these +things, but to-day she was somehow aware of them; she felt in her the +new life of the spring, as she had felt it a year ago. She walked +rapidly from sheer excitement, till she had tired herself out; then she +sat down on one of the benches, overlooking the waste ground where the +children played. Except for a bright fringe under the iron railings, it +was still untouched by spring, and the sallow grass had long been +trodden into the dust. Some ragged little cricketers were shouting not +far off, and near her, by the railings, was a family group--a young +father and mother, with their children, from two years old and upwards, +crawling around them. They were enjoying a picnic tea in the sunshine, +with the voluptuous carelessness of outward show that marks the children +of the people. Audrey looked at it all with a faint disgust, but she was +too tired to move on to a more cheerful spot. She turned her back on the +picnic party, and began to think about Wyndham. He had been away ten +days; he said he was going for a fortnight; in another week at the +longest she would see him. She was roused by a tug at her petticoats. +The two-year-old, attracted like some wild animal by her stillness, had +scrambled through the railings, and was trying to pull its fat little +body up by one hand on to the bench beside her. Its other hand grasped +firmly a sheaf of fresh grass. It was clean and pretty, and something in +its baby face sent a pang to Audrey's heart. She loosened its chubby +fingers, hoping it would toddle away; but it gave a wilful chuckle, and +stood still, staring at her, reproaching, accusing, in the unconscious +cruelty of its innocence. And yet surely the Divine Charity had chosen +the tenderest and most delicate means of stirring into life her unborn +conscience. Moved by who knows what better impulse, she stooped suddenly +down and touched its face with the tips of her gloved fingers. Startled +at the strange caress, like some animal stroked too lightly, the little +thing made its face swell, and asserted its humanity by a howl. Then it +fled from her with a passionate waddle, scattering blades of grass +behind it as it went. + +Even so do we chase away from us the ministers of grace. + +She leaned back, overcome by a sort of moral exhaustion. Her self-love +was hurt, as it would have been if a dog had shrunk from her advances; +for Audrey was not accustomed to have her favours rejected. She was +further irritated by the ostentatious affection of the child's mother as +she helped it through the railings with shrill cries of "There then, +blessums! Did she then, the naughty lydy!" And when baby echoed "Naughty +lydy!" it was as if the two-year-old had judged her. + +She sat a little while longer, and then went away. As she rose she +looked sadly back at the family group. The man was lying on his back and +letting the children walk about on the top of him. Baby had found peace +in sucking an orange and stamping on her father's waist. The woman was +strewing paper bags and orange-peel around her in a fine disorder, while +she thriftily packed the remains of their meal in a basket. Audrey +shuddered; their arrangements were all so ugly and unpleasant. And +yet--they were married, they were respectable, they were happy, these +terrible people; while she--she was miserable. She had no sense of +justice; and she rebelled against the policy of Nature, who leaves her +coarser children free, and levies her taxes on the aristocracy of +feeling. + +The sordid domesticity of the scene had glorified by contrast her own +dramatic mood. Poor Audrey! She hated vulgarity, and yet she was trying +to lay hold on "the great things of life" through the vulgarest of all +life's tragedies. + + * * * * * + +Langley would be in town again in a week. He would ask if she had made +up her mind; and she knew now too well the answer she would give him. + +But Langley was not in town again in a week, nor yet in a fortnight. And +when, at the end of six weeks, he did come back, he came back +married--to Miss Alison Fraser. + +Nobody ever knew how that came about. Miss Gladys Armstrong, who may be +considered an authority, maintained that as Wyndham had the pride which +is supposed to be the peculiar property of the Evil One, he could never +have proposed to the same woman twice. Consequently Miss Fraser must +have proposed to him. Perhaps she had; there are ways of doing these +things, and whatever Alison Fraser did she did gracefully. As for her +private conscience, in refusing him with conscious magnanimity she had +done no good to anybody, not even herself; in marrying him finally she +had saved the situation, without knowing that there was a situation to +be saved. + +The news threw Audrey into what she imagined to be the beginning of a +brain fever, but which proved to be a state of nervous collapse, +lasting, with some intermissions, for a fortnight. At the end of that +time--whether it was that she was so fickle a creature that even Fate +could make no abiding impression on her, or that she was no longer +burdened with the decision of a momentous question--to all appearances +she recovered. So much so that, when some one sent her an invitation to +the private view at the New Gallery, she put on her best clothes (not +without a pang) and went. + +Alas! the place was full of associations, melancholy with the sheeted +ghosts of the past. This time last year she had been to the private view +with Ted. They had amused themselves with laughing at the pictures, and +wondering how long it would be before one of his would be hanging +there. And as she listlessly turned the pages of her catalogue, the +first names that caught her attention were, "Haviland, Katherine, 232"; +"Haviland, Edward, 296." She turned back the pages hastily to No. 232 +and read, "The Witch of Atlas." That picture she knew. No. 296 gave her +"Sappho: A Study of a Head." + +Of a head? Whose head? + +She found the picture (not exactly in the place of honour, but agreeably +well hung and with a small crowd before it), and recognised Katherine's +striking profile raised in the attitude of a suppliant who implores, the +cloud of her dark hair flaming into bronze against a sunset sky. Ted was +rather too fond of that trick; but the study was not a mere vulgar +success--he had achieved expression in it. It was marked "Sold." There +were some lines of verse on the square panel at the base of the frame. +Ted could not have afforded such a setting for his picture, but the +frame was contributed by Mr. Percival Knowles, the purchaser of the +canvas. The same gentleman was also the author of the verse, specially +written for the portrait. Knowles, by-the-bye, was an occasional +poet--that is to say, he could burst into poetry occasionally; and +Audrey read:-- + + "Oh Aphrodite, queen of dread desire! + By all the dreams that throng Love's golden ways, + By all the honied vows thy votary pays, + By sacrificial wine, and holy fire! + Thou who hast made my heart thy living lyre, + Hast thou no gift for me, nor any grace? + Why hast thou turned the light of Love's sweet face + From me, the sweetest singer of Love's choir?" + + "For songs that charm the long ambrosial years + The gods bring many gifts, and mine shall be-- + Immortal life in mortal agony-- + Vain longing, fanned by winged hopes and fears + To inextinguishable flame--and tears + Bitter as death, salt as the Lesbian Sea." + +Her breast rose and fell with the lines; by this time she was educated +up to their feeling. + +"Who was Sappho, and what did she do?--I know, but I've forgotten," +asked a voice in the crowd. + +"Oh, the woman who threw herself at the other fellow's head, you know, +who naturally didn't appreciate the compliment." + +Audrey was not intelligent enough to refrain from the inward comment, +"How singularly inappropriate! I should have said Katherine was about +the last person in the world to----" She turned round and found herself +face to face with the poet. Knowles had been wandering through the crowd +with evasive eyes, successfully dodging the ladies of his acquaintance, +while his air of abstraction took all quality of offence from the +unerring precision of his movements. But when he saw Miss Craven he +stopped. He had an inkling of the truth, and respected her feelings too +much to slight her while Wyndham's marriage was still a topic of the +hour. + +"Not bad for the boy, that!" said he, smiling gently at Sappho. "He's +coming out, isn't he?" + +"So are you, I think--in a new line too!" + +"Ah--er--not quite a new one. I've been taken that way before." + +She was about to make some pretty speech when they were joined by Ted, +who had not noticed Audrey. His forehead puckered slightly when he saw +her, but that was no doubt from sympathy with her probable +embarrassment. For the first time in their acquaintance he was +indifferent to the touch of the small hand that had tried to mould his +destiny. If the truth must be told, in the flush of his success Ted had +found out that his passion for Audrey was only the flickering of the +flame on the altar dedicated to eternal Art. He listened to her +compliments without that sense of apotheosis which (however low he rated +it) her criticism had been wont to produce. + +"Don't let's be seen looking at it any longer," he said at last; "let's +go and pretend to get excited about some other fellow's work." + +So they left Audrey to herself. She turned back and went down the room +to see "The Witch of Atlas," the lady robed in her "subtle veil" of +starbeams and mist. Her view of this picture was somewhat obstructed by +a stout gentleman who, together with a thin lady, was taking up the +whole of the available space before it. His companion, a badly-dressed +young woman with a double eye-glass, was trying to decipher the lines +quoted in her catalogue. As Audrey paused she looked up and stared, as +only a woman with a double eye-glass can stare, at the same time +attracting the stout gentleman's attention by a movement of her elbow. + +"Look, uncle, quick! That's her! That's the person!" + +"What's that, Nettie?" (The stout gentleman swung round as if on a +pivot, as Audrey moved gracefully by.) "You don't mean to say so? +Where's Ted?" + +She walked on through the rooms, depressed by the meeting with +Knowles--it suggested Wyndham. She would be meeting _him_ next. And +indeed she met him in the first gallery, where her aimless wanderings +had brought her again. + +His wife was with him. Audrey knew that she must meet her some time, and +she had expected to see in Alison Fraser an enlarged edition of herself; +she had even feared an _edition de luxe_, which would have been +intolerable. She was prepared for distinction; but she saw with a finer +agony the slight figure, the sweet proud face with its setting of pale +gold hair, and worse than all, the indefinable air of remoteness and +reserve which made Mrs. Langley Wyndham more than a "distinguished" +woman. Wyndham lifted his hat and would have passed on; but Audrey, to +show her perfect self-possession, stopped and held out her hand. He felt +it trembling as he took it in a preoccupied manner; and Mrs. Langley +Wyndham became instantly absorbed in picture No. 1. + +"Have you seen young Haviland's performance?" asked Wyndham. (He had to +say something.) + +"Yes; it's a very fine study." + +"So Knowles tells me. But everything's a fine study in this collection. +There ought to be 'a fine' for the abuse of that expression." + +"But it really is; go and see for yourself." + +"It's his sister, isn't it?" + +"Yes." + +"Ah, that accounts for it. He could give his mind to it in that case." +Wyndham was surprised at his own fatuity; his remarks sounded like the +weird inanities that pass for witticisms in dreams. + +"Perhaps. But never mind Mr. Haviland; I want you to introduce me to +your wife." + +Wyndham looked round; his wife had turned an unconscious back. + +"Oh--er--thank you, you're very kind, but--er--we're just going." + +He had not meant them so, but his words were like a whip laid across +Audrey's shoulders. He moved on, and his wife joined him. + +Audrey came across them half an hour later, stooping over some designs +in black and white. She saw Mrs. Langley Wyndham look up in her +husband's face with a smile, raising her golden eyebrows. The look was +one of those intimate trifles that have no meaning beyond the two +persons concerned in it. For Audrey, smarting from Wyndham's insult, it +was the flick of the lash in her face. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI + + +In the autumn of that year Audrey woke and found herself the classic of +the hour, a literary queen without a rival. Wyndham's great work was +finished, and it stood alone. Not another heroine of fiction could lift +her head beside Laura, the leading character of "An Idyll of +Piccadilly." He himself owned, almost with emotion, that it was the best +thing he had ever done. He had not touched the surface this time; he had +gone deep down to the springs of human nature. He had not merely +analysed the woman till her character lay in ruins around him, but he +had built her up again out of the psychic atoms, and Laura was alive. +She showed the hand of the master by her own nullity. In her splendid +vanity she was like some piece of elaborate golden fretwork, from which +the substance had been refined by excess of workmanship. + +The voice of criticism was one voice; there arose a unanimous hymn of +praise from every literary "organ" in the country. It was Mr. Langley +Wyndham's masterpiece, a work that left the excellence of "London +Legends" far behind it on a lower plane. Though there was no falling off +in point of style, the author had found something better to do this +time than to cultivate the flowers of perfect speech. "Laura" was a +triumph of intimate characterisation. And the brutal touches that +disfigured his former work were absent from this; he had shown us that +the boldest, most inflexible realism is compatible with a delicacy +worthy of the daintiest of esoteric ideals. + +The book, dedicated "To my Wife," appeared early in October. By November +the question of the sources was opened out, and it began to be whispered +(a whisper that could be traced to the private utterances of Miss Gladys +Armstrong) that the prototype of Laura was a Miss Audrey Craven. In the +person of her ubiquitous double, Miss Audrey Craven became a leading +figure in London society. Then bit by bit the news got into the papers, +and Wyndham's _succes d'estime_ was followed by _succes de scandale_ +which promised to treble his editions. + +Thus Audrey, unable to achieve greatness, had greatness thrust upon her; +and the weight of it bowed her to the earth. The earth? As she read on, +the earth seemed to crumble away from under her feet, leaving her +baseless and alone before that terrifying apocalypse. Wyndham had +trained her intelligence till it could appreciate the force of every +chapter in his book of revelations. At last she saw herself as she was. +And yet--could that be she? That mixture of vanity, stupidity, and +passion? To be sure, he had been careful to give her brown hair instead +of tell-tale red, and skillfully to alter the plot of her life with all +details of time and place; but--what had he said? "Light as air, fluent +as water, a being mingled of fire and a little earth; fickle as the wind +that blew her in a wavering line across the surface of things." "Modern, +and of stuff so fine that it chafed under the very breath of +disapproval; and yet with a little malleable heart in it compounded of +the most primeval of affections." She turned over the pages; everywhere +she came upon the same thing. Now the phrases were spun out fine, they +were subtle, they seemed to cling round her and stifle her; now they +were short and keen, and they cut like knives. "Women may be divided +into three classes--the virtuous, the flirtuous, and the non-virtuous. +The middle class is by far the largest. It shades off finely into the +two extremes. Laura belonged to it." "The moon was up, and Diana, divine +sportswoman, was abroad, hunting big game." "Laura had made a virtue of +necessity. She said that proved the necessity of virtue." + +Oh, the cruelty of it! Would Ted, would Vincent, have done this if they +had had it in their power? True, they had reproached her; but it was to +her face, alone in her own drawing-room, where she had a chance of +defending herself. _They_ would not have held her up to public scorn. +And they had some right to blame her,--she saw that now. But what had +she done to deserve this from Langley? How had he found it in his heart +to speak against her? She had loved him. Yes, she had known many a +passing pain, but she had never really suffered until now. That was a +part of her education that had been neglected hitherto. Only an +accomplished student of human nature could have coached her through the +highest branches of it. + +Having set the scandal successfully afloat, the society papers began to +utter a feeble protest against it--thus increasing their own reputation +for a refined morality. But they had no power to turn the tide, and the +scandal floated on. In society itself judgment was divided. Whether +"Laura" was or was not a work of the highest art, was a question you +might have heard discussed at every other dinner-table. Perhaps the +criticism that was most to the point was that of Miss Gladys Armstrong, +who proclaimed publicly that Langley Wyndham laboured under the +disadvantage of not being a woman, and having no imagination to make up +for it. Meanwhile the tone of the larger reviews remained unchanged. The +reviewers, to a man, had committed themselves to the position that the +book was Wyndham's masterpiece; and nobody could be found to go back on +that opinion. + +But in all that concert of adulation one voice was silent--the only +voice that Wyndham cared to hear, that of Percival Knowles. The others +might howl in chorus, and it would not be worth his while even to +listen; he was looking forward to Knowles's long impressive solo. But +that solo never came, neither could the note of Knowles be detected in +the intricate chorus. It was strange. Knowles had been the high priest +of the new Wyndham worship, and to him the eminent novelist had looked +for sympathy and appreciation. But Knowles had made no sign. They had +avoided the subject whenever they met; Wyndham was not so hardened by +authorship as to have lost the instinctive delicacy felt by the creator +at the birth of his book. Knowles seemed only too much inclined to +respect that delicacy. Finally, Wyndham resolved to go and see his +friend alone, and tentatively sound him on the subject of "Laura." He +proposed to himself a pleasant evening's chat, in which that lady would +be discussed in all her bearings, and he would enjoy a foretaste of the +praise ere long to be dealt out to him before an admiring public. On his +way to Knowles's rooms he heard in fancy the congratulation, the +temperate flattery, the fine discriminating phrase. + +He found Knowles amusing himself with a blue pencil and Miss Armstrong's +last novel. "Laura: An Idyll of Piccadilly" lay on the table beside him, +its pages cut, but with none of those slips of paper between them which +marked the other books put aside for review. Knowles greeted his friend +with an embarrassed laugh, and they fell to discussing every question of +the hour except the burning one for Wyndham. By the rapidity of his +conversational manoeuvres, it was evident that the critic wanted to +steer clear of that topic. Wyndham, however, after ambling round and +round it for some time with no effect, suddenly brought up straight in +front of it with-- + +"By-the-bye, have you condescended to read my last fairy-tale?" + +"What, the Mayfairy tale?" said Knowles, with deft pleasantry. "Yes, of +course I've read it." + +"What do you think of it?" + +Knowles suddenly looked grave. "Well, at the moment, I had much rather +not tell you." + +"Really? Well, I suppose I shall know some day." + +Knowles looked as if he were struggling with an unpleasant duty, and it +were getting the better of him. + +"Not from me, I'm afraid. It will be the first work of yours I have left +unnoticed. As I can't review it favourably, I prefer not to notice it at +all." + +"You surely don't suppose that I came here to fish for a review?" + +"I do not." + +"Thanks. I don't deny that I should have appreciated the public +expression of your opinion, favourable or unfavourable. But I respect +your scruples as far as I understand them. The only thing is----" + +He paused; it was his turn to feel uncomfortable. + +"Is what?" + +"Well, after the way you've delivered yourself on my other books, which +are feebleness itself compared with this one, I must say your present +attitude astonishes me." + +"I've given you my reasons for it." + +"No; that's what you've not done. Surely we've known each other too long +for this foolishness. Of course, it's considerate of you not to damn me +for the entertainment of the British public; but you know you're the +only man in England whose judgment I care about, and I confess I'd like +to have your private opinion--the usual honest and candid thing, you +know. I'm not talking of gods, men, and columns." + +Knowles sat silent, frowning. + +"Oh, well, of course, if you'd rather not, there's nothing more to be +said." + +"Not much." + +But Wyndham's palpitating egoism was martyred by this silence beyond +endurance, and he burst out in spite of himself-- + +"But it's inconceivable to me, after the way you've treated my first +crude work. You must have set up some new canons of art since then. +Otherwise I should say you were inconsistent." + +But Knowles was not to be drawn out, if he could possibly help it. + +"Do you mind telling me one thing--have you anything to say against its +form?" + +"Not a word. I admit that in form it's about as perfect as it well could +be. I--er--" (he was beginning to feel that he could not help it) +"object to your use of your matter." + +"What on earth do you mean?" + +"I mean what I say." + +"Please explain." + +"Very well. Since you so earnestly desire my honest and candid opinion, +you shall have it. You remind me that I praised your earlier work, and +suggest my inconsistency in not approving of your latest. My praise was +sincere. I thought, and I have never changed my opinion, that the +originality of your first books amounted to genius. Your last, however +great its other qualities, has not that merit. It is, _I_ think, +conspicuously destitute of imagination." + +"Do you deny its vitality--its faithfulness to nature?" + +"Certainly not. I object to it as a barefaced plagiarism from nature." + +"Then at least you'll admit that my heroine lives?" + +"She does, unfortunately. Wouldn't it have been better taste to wait +till she was decently dead?" + +"Oh--I see. You mean _that_." + +"Yes; I mean that. If you had no respect for your own reputation, you +might have thought of Miss Craven's." + +"Excuse me, this is simply irrelevant nonsense, and most unworthy of +you. Miss Craven, as you perfectly well know, is one manifestation of +the eternal flirt. I seized on the type she belongs to, and +individualised it." + +"You did nothing of the sort. You seized on the individual and put her +into type--a very different thing. Do you imagine that life will ever be +the same to that poor woman again? I never liked Miss Craven, but she +was harmless, even nice, before you got hold of her and spoilt her, by +making her think herself clever. Isn't that what happens to Laura?" + +"That--among other things." + +"Other things, also slavishly copied from Miss Craven. I recognise the +faithfulness of your portraiture in all its details; so does she and +everybody else." + +"Knowles, you talk like the lay fool. Surely you know how all fiction, +worthy of the name, is made? I took what lay nearest at hand, as +hundreds of novelists have done before me; though as for that, there's +not an incident in the book that is not the purest fiction. You don't +give me credit--I won't say for originality, but--for ordinary +reconstructive ability." + +"I give you credit for having made the most of quite exceptional +advantages. You best know how you obtained them." + +Wyndham reflected a moment, then looked Knowles in the face. + +"I assure you solemnly there was never any question of Miss Craven's +honour." + +Knowles raised his eyebrows. "I didn't suppose for a moment there was. +How about your own, though? Your notions of honour strike me as being +quaintly original--rather more original than your Piccadyllic heroine." + +Knowles was not bad-tempered, but he was a frequent cause of bad temper +in other people. It was with the utmost difficulty that Wyndham +controlled himself for a final effort to evade the personal, and set the +question at large on general grounds. + +"Then I suppose you would deny the right of any artist to make use of +living material?" + +Knowles yawned. "I don't attempt to deny anything. I'm debating another +question." + +"What is that?" Wyndham smiled an uneasy muscular smile. + +"Whether it isn't my duty to kick you, or rather to _try_ to kick you, +out of this room." + +"Really; and what for? For the crime of writing a successful story?" + +"For the perpetration of the most consummate piece of literary +scoundrelism on record." + +As that statement was accompanied by a nervous twitching of the lips +which Wyndham was at liberty to take for a smile, he held out his hand +to Knowles before saying good-night. + +"My dear Knowles, if _your_ notions of literary honour held good, there +would be an end of realism." + +"The end of realism, my dear Wyndham, is the thing of all others I most +desire to see." + +They had shaken hands; but Wyndham understood his friend, and he knew +as certainly as if Knowles had told him so that Audrey Craven, the woman +whom neither of them loved, had avenged herself. She had struck, through +Laura, at the friendship of his life. He was also informed of one or two +facts about himself which had not as yet come within the range of his +observation. He consoled himself with the reflection that the +temptations of genius are not those of other men. And perhaps he was +right. + +Knowles sat down to his review of Miss Armstrong's book with unruffled +urbanity. He wrote: "This authoress belongs to a select but rapidly +increasing band of thinkers. There may be schisms in the new school with +regard to details, but on the whole it is a united one. The members are +unanimous in their fearless optimism. One and all they preach the same +hopeful doctrine, that the attainment of a high standard of immodesty by +woman will in time make morality possible for man." + +He went to bed vowing that of all professions that chosen by the man of +letters is the most detestable. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII + + +That winter was a hard one for the Havilands; they were at the very +lowest ebb of their resources, short of being actually in debt. The +reclaiming of Hardy had been an expensive undertaking for Katherine in +more ways than one. And naturally the more successful her efforts were +the more time they consumed. She had been so busy all summer finishing +off old work that she had not been able to take up anything fresh. She +had even been obliged to send away sitters, and they had betaken +themselves elsewhere. The "Witch" had not sold, though she had won a big +paragraph all to herself in "Modern Art." In her first enthusiasm over +Ted's success Katherine had encouraged him to give up his pot-boilers. +She had taken over some of his black-and-white work herself. And in the +midst of it all she was engaged on a portrait of Vincent. They were so +dependent on what they earned that these serious interruptions to work +threatened an inroad on their small capital. Now, they might any day +have applied to Mr. Pigott for a loan, and rejoiced that worthy +gentleman's heart; but such a step was the last indignity, not even to +be contemplated by Ted and Katherine. And even if their pride had not +stood in their way, that source of revenue seemed closed to them now. +Ted and his uncle had had an unfortunate encounter in the New Gallery. +The fact that he was indebted to Katherine for an invitation to the +private view had not prevented Mr. Pigott from speaking his mind freely +to her brother on the subject of the Witch. He said he could have +forgiven Ted for painting such a picture. He could have forgiven +Katherine too, if it had not been for her ability--that made her doubly +responsible. Ted tried to soothe him; he led him gently away from the +spot; he promised to do all he could to induce Katherine to cultivate +the grace of stupidity; but it was useless. The old gentleman stood to +his ground, and Ted left him there. He received a letter from him the +next morning:-- + + "DEAR EDWARD,--I parted from you yesterday more in sorrow than in + anger. I need not tell you how deeply shocked and grieved I was to + learn from a literary young friend that the subject of your sister's + picture is taken from the works of the atheist Shelley--a man whose + unprincipled life, I am told, is an all-sufficient commentary on his + opinions. + + "Your cousin Nettie is earning a modest competence by poker-work, + and the painting of flowers, birds, and other innocent and beautiful + objects. Why cannot Katherine do the same? + + "When she is willing to give up her present pursuits for some + becoming occupation, let her be assured of my ready encouragement + and help. Till then, no more.--From your affectionate uncle, + + "JAMES PIGOTT." + +Mr. Pigott had written his last sentence advisedly. "Some day," he said +to himself, "those young people will have to put their pride in their +pocket." He might have known that the Haviland pride was not of the kind +that goes conveniently into any pocket, even an empty one. + +But Katherine worked her hardest, and gave little heed to these things. +She saw her own chances of success dwindling farther into the distance, +and was surprised to see how little she cared, for a curious callousness +had come over her of late. Selfish ambition--selfish, because it often +persists in living when all other things are dead--seemed to have died +in her at last. Had she overcome it? Or was it that she had really +ceased to care? She had too much to think of to be able to settle that +question just now. + +After all, she had another source of pride. Vincent had begun by looking +to her as a protection against his worst self; and when his mother died +suddenly that winter, his last link with home being broken, he became +more and more dependent on Katherine. And now, though the tie of +comradeship between them was closer than ever, he had no longer any need +of her. He could go alone. His will was free, his intellect was awake. +He read hard now. All his old ardours and enthusiasms returned to him; +he worked on the Pioneer-book, recasting his favourite parts, beating +the whole into shape, and hunting down the superfluous adjective with a +manly delight in the new sport. Katherine had shown the revised +manuscript to Knowles, and he had found her a publisher and worked him +into the right frame of mind. Katherine had suppressed part of that +publisher's verdict: it was to the effect that, though the text was up +to the average merit of its kind, the illustrations would form the most +valuable portion of the work. + +Hardy had submitted the final revision of his proofs to Katherine. But +on one point he was resolute: "I want the dedication to stand as it is, +Sis." And Katherine nodded her head and was silent. + +He often talked about Audrey now. He was no longer bitter and +vindictive, as he had been in the days of his degradation. His old +feeling for her had returned to him, unchanged, except for the refining +process he himself had undergone. His love was ennobled now by an +infinite pity. Not that he had lost sight of what she had done for him; +but now that his eyes were clearer, he saw her as she was, and felt to +the full the pathos of her vanity. + +Wyndham's book was severely criticised in Devon Street. One day, about +four months after its appearance, Hardy had returned to the subject +nearest his heart, and was discussing it with Katherine as he sat to +her for his portrait, now nearly finished. He had just pleasantly told +her that he wished he had managed to fall in love with her instead of +with Audrey; she would have made something very different of him--a +remark to which Katherine made no answer, treating it, as Hardy thought, +with the contempt it deserved. Then he broke out, as he had done many a +time before. + +"I don't know how it is. When I was away from her, I used to think of +her as a sort of amateur angel leading me on." (Katherine smiled; it was +very evident that Audrey had "led him on.") "When I was with her she +seemed to be a little devil, encouraging everything that was bad in me. +I don't know how she did it; but she did. And yet, Kathy, whatever they +may say, I don't believe she's bad. I don't swear, of course, that she's +a paragon of goodness----" + +"Isn't there a medium?" + +"But she was a sweet little thing before she met that scoundrel Wyndham. +Wasn't she?" + +But Katherine was giving the whole of her attention to Vincent's nose. + +"Putting Audrey out of the question, I don't think much of Mr. Langley +Wyndham. I don't like his books; I can't breathe in his stuffy +drawing-rooms. Why can't the fellow open his windows sometimes and let +in a little of God's fresh air? As you know, I believe he's even a +shadier character than I am." + +"He hasn't got a character; it's all run to literature." + +"H'm--I'm not so sure about that." + +Katherine had laid down her brushes, and was examining her work with her +head on one side. "Well, he can't draw a character, anyhow; Laura's +simply impossible." + +"I don't know. Laura is Audrey, and Audrey's a funny person." + +"I used to think that Audrey wasn't a person--that she was made up of +little bits of people stuck together." + +"That's not bad, Sis. She _is_ made up of bits of people stuck +together." + +"Yes; but the thing is, what makes them stick? Mr. Wyndham doesn't go +into that, and _that's_ Audrey. His work is clever--too clever by +half--but it's terribly superficial." + +Hardy meditated on that saying; then he began again. + +"You've done a great deal for me, Kathy. I sometimes think that if you'd +given your mind to it, you could have made something of Audrey. You +know, poor little thing, she used to think she was very strong-minded; +but she was more easily twisted about than any woman I know. That's what +made her so fickle. If there's any truth in that stupid story of +Wyndham's, she must have been like a piece of putty in her hands. I +believe, if you could have got hold of her, you could have done her some +good." + +"I don't believe in doing people good." + +"I do. I'm a case in point." + +"No, you're not." + +"I am. You did _me_ good." + +"I'm very glad to hear it. If I did, it's because I never thought about +it. Now, if I tried my hand on Audrey, I should set to work with the +fixed intention of doing her good; therefore I should fail miserably. +It's a different thing altogether." + +"I see no difference myself." + +Katherine was silent. Her charity had covered the multitude of Vincent's +sins. Why had she not been able to spare a corner of it for Audrey's? + +"Come," said Hardy, "it's not as if she was really very bad." + +"No, it's not; there'd be some chance then. There is a medium, and the +medium is hopeless. The wonder is you never found that out." + +"I did. I knew it all the time; yet I loved her. It made no +difference--nothing ever will. I've tried to kill my feeling for her, +but it's no use--I can't. I should have to kill myself first; and even +then I believe I should find it waiting for me in Hades when I got +there." + +"After all, why should you try to kill it, Vincent?" + +"It's the shame of it, Sis." + +Katherine might have thought that on the contrary he seemed rather proud +of the permanence of his affections, but she was too much preoccupied to +be aware of his moral absurdity. + +"Well, I don't know much about these things; but it seems to me that +even if she doesn't love you, even if she isn't everything you thought +she was, there's no reason to be ashamed of loving her." + +"Ah, Kathy, you never loved any one like that." + +Her colour changed. "No. It isn't every one who can love like that." + +"What would you do if you were in my case--if you'd given yourself away +like me? Supposing you went and lost your little heart to some man-fiend +who was, we'll say, about as bad a lot as I am, and who had the +execrable taste not to care a rap for you,--wouldn't you feel ashamed of +him and yourself too?" + +Katherine's white face flushed; she looked away from him, and answered +steadily-- + +"No, I wouldn't." + +He thought he had hurt her feelings, and was about to change the subject +when she turned a beaming face to him. + +"But then, you see, I don't love anything much." + +"Good as you are, you'd be a better woman if you did." + +"Of course there are exceptions. I've some sort of affection for the +Witch and Ted." + +"Ted is a very fine boy, and the Witch is a very fine picture, +but--well, some day you'll have an affection for something else; it +won't be a boy, and it won't be a picture. Then, Sis, you'll know what +it is to feel, and your art will go pop." + +"Oh, I hope not. But it's not true; look at Ted." + +"Ted's a man, and you are a woman. Ten to one, a really great passion +improves a man's art: it plays the deuce with a woman's." + +"I don't believe it!" said Katherine, with rather more warmth than the +occasion demanded. + +"Shall I tell you what you've been doing, Sis? First of all, you've +tried to live two lives and get the best out of each. That was tempting +Providence, as Mrs. Rogers would say. You found that wouldn't work, so +you said to yourself, 'I give it up. Here goes; I'll be a woman at all +costs. I'll know what it is to love.'" + +Katherine took up her brushes again, and in spite of herself moved one +foot impatiently. Hardy went on, well pleased with his own lucidity. + +"And you gave up the only thing you really cared about, and played at +being the slave of duty, the devoted sister." + +She sighed (was it a sigh of relief?). + +"You're wrong. I'm anything but a devoted sister." + +"Yes, you're anything but a devoted sister. I'm going to claim one of +the privileges of friendship--that of speaking unpleasant truths in the +unpleasantest way possible." + +"Go on. This is getting interesting." + +"I repeat, then, you're not a truly devoted sister. A truly devoted +sister would give her brother a chance of developing some moral fibre on +his own account. Ever since you two lived together you've been making +noble sacrifices. Now two can't play at that game, and the boy hasn't +had a chance. The consequence is, he won't work; he prefers taking it +easy." + +"That was Audrey's fault, not mine." + +"Yes, but you encouraged him; and now he does what he likes, young +monkey, and you do all the pot-boilers. And you're making yourself ill +over them. So much for Ted. I've given him a hint, and he took it very +well. Now for the Witch. I believe in your heart of hearts you love her +better than everybody else put together. And now you're off on the other +tack; you're trying to sit on the artist in you that you may develop the +woman. I mean the other way about; you're sitting on the woman that you +may develop the artist." + +"Aren't you getting a little mixed?" + +"That plan works worse than all. Let me implore you not to go on with +it. If you only knew it, there's nothing that you will ever do that's +lovelier than your own womanhood. Whatever you do, don't kill that. +Don't go on hardening your heart to everything human till there's no +sweetness left in your nature, Kathy. I want my little sister to make +the best of her life. Some day some good man will ask you to be his +wife. If, when that day comes, you don't know how to love, little woman, +all the success in the world won't make up to you for the happiness you +have missed." + +"Oh, Vincent, if you only knew how funny you are!" She laughed the laugh +that Vincent loved to hear, and when she looked at him her eyelashes +were all wet with it. + +"All right, Sis. Some day you'll own that your elder brother wasn't such +a fool as you think him." + +"I--I don't think you a fool. I only wish you knew how frightfully funny +you are! No, I don't, though," she added below her breath. + +But Vincent was quite unable to see wherein lay the humour of his +excellent remarks. He considered that his experience gave him a right to +speak with authority on questions of feeling. But it had not made him +understand everything. + + * * * * * + +The next morning Katherine was sitting before her easel, waiting for +Vincent to come up for the last sitting. It was a raw, cold day, and her +fingers felt numbed as they took up the brushes. Ted had made a promise +to Hardy to do his fair share of the more remunerative work. Before +keeping it, he was giving a few final touches to one of the figures in +his Dante study of Paolo and Francesca, swept like leaves on the wind of +hell. He was in high good humour, and as he worked he talked +incessantly, quoting from an imaginary review. "In the genius of Mr. +Edward Haviland we have a new Avatar of the spirit of Art. Mr. Haviland +is the disciple of no school. He owes no debt either to the past or to +the present. He works in a noble freedom from prejudice and +preconception, uncorrupted by custom as he is untrammelled by tradition. +If we may classify what is above and beyond classification, we should +say that in matter Mr. Haviland is an idealist, while in form he is an +ultra-realist. We dare to prophesy that he will become the founder of a +new romantico-classical school in the near future----" + +"Oh, Ted, do be quiet, and let me think for a minute." + +"What's the matter, Kathy?" + +"I don't know. I think I'm tired, or else it's the cold." + +Ted looked at her earnestly (for him) and then came over to her and +stroked her hair. "There's something wrong. Won't you confide in your +brother?" + +"I'm all right--only lazy." + +"Can't--can't I do anything?" + +"Well, perhaps. I don't want you to give up much of your time to it; but +if you'd finish some of those black-and-white things--I don't feel equal +to tackling them all single-handed." + +"Oh," said the boy, turning very red, "why didn't you say so before?" He +sat down and began at once on the pile of manuscripts waiting to be +illustrated. But he continued to talk. "I saw Vincent the other day, and +he told me his opinion of you pretty plainly." + +"What did he say?" + +"Why, that you've sacrificed your poor brother to your desire to cut a +moral figure; that you've been cultivating all sorts of extravagant +virtues at my expense. I might have been playing the most heroic parts, +and getting any amount of applause, if you hadn't selfishly bagged all +the best ones for yourself. You've taken up the whole of the stage, so +that I haven't had room even to exercise the minor virtues. Just reach +me that sheaf of crayons, there's a good girl. Thanks." Ted put on a +judical air, and chose a crayon. "Look there! you've taken the most +uncomfortable chair and the worst light in the studio, when I might have +been posing in them all the time. I haven't had half a chance. Vincent +said so. No wonder he's disgusted with you. Ah! that's not so bad for a +mere tyro. No, Kathy, he's quite right. You're an angel, and I've been a +lazy scoundrel. But you'll admit that during my painful mental +affliction I wasn't quite responsible. And afterwards--well, how was I +to know? I thought we were getting on very nicely." + +"So we were, Ted--up till now." + +Her last words were so charged with feeling that Ted looked up +surprised. But he said nothing, being a person of tact. + +The sitting that morning was not a long one. Hardy seemed tired and +depressed. After posing patiently for half an hour, he gave it up. + +"It's no good this morning. I must go out and get a little warmth into +me. You people had better come too." + +"It's such a horrid day," pleaded Katherine. "You'll get exceedingly +wet, and come back no warmer. It's going to rain or snow, or something." +As she spoke, the first drops of a cold sleet rattled on the skylight. + +But Vincent was obstinate and restless. + +"I must go, if it's only for a turn on the Embankment. What with my book +and your picture, I haven't stretched my legs all week. Come along, Ted. +You'll die, Kathy, if you persist in wallowing in oil-paint like that, +and taking no exercise." + +They set out before a cutting north-easter and a sharp shower of rain +that froze as it fell. Katherine watched them as they crossed the street +and turned on to the Embankment. The wind came round the corner, as a +north-easter will, and through the window-sash, chilling her as she +stood. "There's nobody more surprised than myself," she said. "And yet I +might have known that if I went in for this sort of thing, I should make +a mess of it." She went back to the fire, and settled herself in the +attitude of thought. There was no end to her thinking now. Perhaps that +was the reason why she was always tired. Hitherto she had triumphed over +fatigue and privation by a power which seemed inexhaustible, and was +certainly mysterious. Much of it was due to sheer youth and health, and +to the exercise which gave her a steady hand and a cool head--much, +doubtless, to her unflinching will; but Katherine was hardly aware how +far her strength had lain in the absence of temptation to any feminine +weakness. Hitherto she had seen her object always in a clear untroubled +air, and her work had gained something of her life's austere and +passionless serenity. Now it was all different, and she was thinking of +what had made that difference. + +Ted came back glowing from his walk; but Vincent was colder than ever. +He sat shivering over the Havilands' fire all afternoon, and went to bed +early. + +"We'll finish that sitting to-morrow, Sis," he said, wearily. Ted went +out again to dine with Knowles, and Katherine was left alone. + +It might have been her own mood, or the shadow of Vincent's, but she was +depressed with vague presentiments of trouble. They gathered like the +formless winter clouds, without falling in any rain. Then she realised +that she was very tired. She wrapped herself in a rug and lay down on +the couch to rest. And rest came as it comes after a sleepless night, +not in sleep deep and restorative, but in a gentle numbing of the brain. +She woke out of her stupor refreshed. The cloud had rolled away, and she +could work again. She sat down to the last pile of Vincent's proofs. + +When she had finished them, she turned over the pages again. The reading +had brought back to her the last eighteen months, with all the meaning +that they had for her now. She looked back and thought of the years when +she had first worked for Ted, of the precious time that Audrey had +wasted. The fatalism that was her mood so often now told her that these +things _had to be_. And it was better, infinitely better, for Ted to +have had that experience. She looked back on the year that Vincent had +wasted out of his own life, and saw that that too had to be. There had +been vicarious salvation even there. Ted had once told her that there +was a time when, as he expressed it, he would have walked calmly to +perdition, if Vincent had not gone before him and shown him what was +there. She looked back on that year of her own life, "wasted," as she +had once thought--the year she had given up so grudgingly at the +beginning, so freely at the end--and she was content. + +And now she was giving up, not time alone, and thought, and labour, but +love--love that could have no certain reward but pain. And she was still +content. At first she had been astonished and indignant at her own +capacity for emotion; it was as if her nature had suddenly revealed +itself in a new and unpleasant light. Then she had grown accustomed to +it. Yesterday she was even amused at the strangeness and the fatuity of +it all. She described herself as a bungling amateur wandering out of her +own line and attempting the impossible. Clearly she should have left +this sort of thing to people like Audrey, to whose genius it was suited, +and who might hope to attain some success in it; but for her the love of +art was quite incompatible with the art of love. She could have imagined +herself entertaining these feelings for some one like Percival Knowles, +for instance, who was clever and had an educated sense of humour, who +wrote verses for her and flattered her artistic vanity; but to have +fixed upon Vincent of all people in the world! She must have done it +because it was impossible. That was what she had said yesterday; but +to-day she understood. Had she not helped to make Vincent a man that she +could love without shame? He was the work of her hands, that which her +own fingers had made. It was natural that she should love her own work. +Was she not an artist before everything, as he had said? Her tears came, +and after her tears a calm, in which she heard the beating of a heart +that was not her own, and felt the pulse of the divine Fate that moves +through human things. + +Then she asked herself--Was Vincent right? What effect had this curious +experience really had on her painting? She felt no personal interest in +the answer, but she got up and went to the easel. Her portrait of +Vincent was finished--all but the right hand, that was still in outline. +It was strange. Ted's best work had begun with his head of Audrey. What +about her own? She saw through her tears that in all her long and +hateful apprenticeship to portrait-painting, nothing that she had ever +done could compare with this last. There was a new quality in it, +something that she had once despaired of attaining. And that was +character. She had painted the man himself, as she saw him. Not the +Vincent of any particular hour, but Vincent with the memory of the past, +and the hope of the future in his face. All the infinite suggestion and +pathos, the complex expression that life had left on it, was there. If +she had not loved Vincent--loved him not only as he was, but as he might +have been--would she have known how to paint like that? Although her +womanhood would never receive the full reward of its devotion, that debt +had been paid back to her art with interest. The artistic voice told her +that Vincent was wrong; that for her what women call love had meant +knowledge; that her strength would henceforth lie in the visible +rendering of character; and that work of such a high order would command +immediate success. + +And the voice of her womanhood cried out in anguish--"All the success in +the world won't make up to you for the happiness you have missed." + +There was no sitting the next day; for Vincent was in bed, ill, with +congestion of the lungs. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + + +There is a little village in North Devon, sheltered from the sea by a +low range of sand-hills that stretches for miles on each side of it. The +coast turns westward here, and no cliff breaks that line of billowy +sand; northward and southward it goes, with the rhythmic monotony of the +sea. The sand-hills are dotted with tufts of the long star-grass, where +the rabbits sit; inland they are covered with fine blades bitten short +by the sheep. Seaward lies the hard ribbed sand, glistening with salt, +and fringed with the white surf of the Atlantic. + +On the coast, about a mile from the village, there is a long one-storyed +bungalow, built on the sand-hills. The sand is in the garden, where no +flowers grow but sea-pinks and the wild horn-poppy; it lies in drifts +about the verandah, and is whirled by the Atlantic storms on to the low +thatched roof. The house stands alone but for a few fishermen's huts +beside it, huddled close together for neighbourhood. + +Here, because it was the most man-forsaken spot she knew, Audrey had +come, exchanging the roar of London for the roar of the Atlantic. She +thought she would find consolation in the presence of Nature. London had +become intolerable to her. Everywhere she turned she was reminded of the +hateful Laura. Laura stood open in the window of every book-shop; Laura +lay on every drawing-room table; there was no getting away from her. And +yet Audrey's notoriety had won her more friends than she had ever had +before. Everywhere people were kind to her; they made much of her; they +said it was "hard lines," it was "a shame," "execrable," "unpardonable," +and they assured her that nobody thought a bit the worse of her for all +that. Some even went so far as to declare that they saw not the remotest +resemblance between her and the popular heroine. But it was no use. +Nothing could raise her in her own esteem. She fled. She longed to be +alone with Nature. She took the bungalow for the winter; and once there, +she wished she had never come. + +She arrived in a storm that lasted some days. She thought she would have +gone mad simply with hearing the mad wind and sea. It was the same +whether she sat indoors listening to them, or she walked out, battling +with the wreaths of whirling sand. After the storm came the dull, grey, +heaving calm,--always the rolling clouds, the rolling sand-hills, and +the rolling sea. That was infinitely worse. And to add to her +depression, Audrey had never been so rigidly confined to the society of +her chaperon; there was nobody else to see or hear, and the boundaries +of the poor lady's intellect were conspicuous in the melancholy waste. +There was no escape from her except into the cold monotony without. + +Then February set in warm though grey. One morning Audrey was able to +sit out in a sunny hollow of the sand-hills, where the rabbits had +flattened a nest for her. Then she could think. + +She was in the presence of Nature. Art was nothing to this. Art, +in the time of her brief acquaintance with it, had baffled her, and +given her a hint of her own feebleness; but Nature was the great +Incomprehensible--and she was alone with it. Alone, in a lonely land, +peopled mostly by the wild creatures of sea and shore, by peasants and +fishermen, men and women who looked at her with strange eyes and spoke a +strange language; whose ways were dark to her, and their thoughts +unfathomable. She was face to face not only with primitive human beings, +but with the primeval forces of the world--the stern, implacable will of +the wind and sea. Not that she could feel these things thus, for they +lay beyond the range of her emotions; but at the same time they tortured +her. At first it was only by a dull sense of their presence, +annihilating her own. Then, because they were things too great for her +to grasp, they cruelly flung her back upon herself. They had no +revelation for her. But left to herself, bit by bit her own character +was revealed to her,--not as it had appeared to her before--not even as +Wyndham had revealed it to her--but in the nothingness that was its +being. It was stripped bare of all that had clothed it, and ruled it, +and made it seem beautiful in her eyes. Left to herself, all the +influences that had lent colour and consistency to this blank, unstable +nature, had passed out of her life. The men whose destiny she had tried +to mould, who had ended by moulding hers, twisting it now into one +shape, now into another, had done with it at last; they had flung it +from them unshapen as before. There was no permanence even in destiny. +Vincent, whose will had dominated her own; Ted, whose boyish passion had +touched her heart and made her feel; Langley, whose intellect had +kindled hers, and made her able to think,--they were all gone, and she +was alone. That was Langley's doing--Langley, whom alone of the three +she had really loved--ah, she hated him for it now. And hating him, she +remembered the many virtues of the two whom she had not loved well. +Vincent--that was a revelation of love--why had she shut her eyes to it? +Ted too, poor boy, he might have been hers still if she had chosen. She +might have been moulding his destiny at this moment--instead of which, +his destiny was doubtless moulding itself admirably without her. + +Then her mood changed. She revolted against the cruelty of her lot. Her +sex was the original, the unpardonable injustice. If she had only been a +man, she could have taken her life into her own hands, and shaped it +according to her will. But woman, even modern woman, is the slave of +circumstances and the fool of fate. + +"Audrey, Audrey, my dear!" called a wind-blown voice across the +sand-hills. Solitude had frightened Miss Craven out of the bungalow, and +she was picking her way in and out among the rabbit holes. + +North Devon was hateful to cousin Bella. She hated the wastes of sand +and sea, the discomforts of the bungalow, the slow hours uncertainly +measured by meal-times that seemed as if they would never come. Her +brain was wild with unsatisfied curiosity. Yet she had tact in the +presence of real suffering. She had forborne to question Audrey about +the past, and their present life was not fruitful in topics. She did +nothing but wonder. "I wonder when it will be tea-time? I wonder if +there was anything between Audrey and her cousin? I wonder which of +those three gentlemen it was? I wonder when it will be tea-time?" That +was the monotonous rondo of her thoughts to which the sea kept time. + +"Audrey, my dear, come in! I think it must be lunch-time," she wailed. +But no answer came from the hollow. She meekly turned, and picked her +way back again across the sand-hills. + +Audrey lay hidden till the forlorn little figure was out of sight; then +she got up and looked around her. She shuddered. Her life was as bleak +as the bleak landscape smitten by the salt wind--cold and grey and +formless as the winter sea. + +What was that black silhouette on the sands? She strained her eyes to +see. Another figure was making its way towards her from the bungalow. +When it came near she recognised the unofficial rustic who brought +telegrams from the nearest post-town. She waited. The man approached her +with an inane smile on his face. + +"Teleegram vur yue, Mizz," he drawled. + +She tore open the cover, and read: "Come at once. Vincent dying. Wire +what train you come by.--Katherine." + +She crumpled the paper in her clenched hand. The landscape was blotted +out; she saw nothing but the envelope lying at her feet, a dull orange +patch against the greyish sand. + +"Any awnzur, Mizz?" + +"No." She shut her eyes and tried to realise it. "Yes--yes, there is! +Wait--I must look out my trains first." + +She made out that by driving to Barnstaple, and catching the two-o'clock +train, she would reach Waterloo about eight. She sent the man back with +a telegram saying that she would be in Devon Street by nine that evening +at the latest. + +It was past one then, and she had yet to pack. It was hopeless--she +could never catch that train. It did not matter; there was another to +Paddington an hour later: it was a slow train, but she would be with +Vincent by eleven. + +But she was faint, and had to have some luncheon before she could do +anything; and there was so much to do. She flew hither and thither, +trying to collect her clothes and her thoughts. Her grey cloak and her +bearskins--she would want them, it would be cold in the train. And her +best hat--where was her best hat? Cousin Bella had hidden her best hat. +Ah! she _must_ think, or everything would go wrong. What was it all +about? Vincent dying--dying? Audrey knew little about dying, except that +it was a habit people had of plunging you suddenly into mourning when +you had just ordered a new dress. Death was another of those things she +could not understand. + +By the time she had had luncheon, and decided what clothes she would +take, and packed them; by the time the one old fly in the village had +been ordered, and had made its way at a funereal pace to +Barnstaple,--Audrey was just in time to see the three-o'clock train +steaming out of the station. By taking the next train and travelling all +night, she would only reach Paddington at four in the morning. + +As she was at last borne on towards London, lying back on the cushions +and trying to sleep, the facts became more clear to her. Vincent was +dying; and he had sent for her. She was exalted once more in her own +eyes. + +It seemed to her then that her love for Vincent had been the one stable +and enduring thing in her nature, the link that bound her to a +transfigured past, that gave coherence to a life of episodes. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + + +Vincent had been ill for six weeks before Katherine sent off her +telegram. For a month of that time he had been struggling with death. +Then, when the mild weather set in, he had taken a sudden turn for the +better, and it seemed to himself and the Havilands that he had won the +victory. Only the doctor and Mrs. Rogers looked grave,--the doctor +because of his science, which taught him to be cautious in raising +people's hopes; Mrs. Rogers, because of a deep theological pessimism. +She unburdened herself to Katherine. + +"I knew 'ow it 'ud be when 'e gave up them 'abits of 'is, miss. 'E's +been as good as gold for the last year. 'E 'yn't given me no trouble nor +anybody; a goin' about so soft, and bilin' of 'is corffee in 'is little +Hetna. I said to _myself_ then, 'e's going to be took. It was the same +with my pore 'usban', miss." + +"Don't talk nonsense, Mrs. Rogers. Mr. Hardy hasn't the least intention +of dying; he's getting better as fast as ever he can." + +"Oh, miss! don't you sy so! It gives me a turn to 'ear anybody talk so +presumptuous. Don't you do it, m'm. If 'e is a little better, it's enuff +to make the Almighty tyke 'im, jest to 'ear you, miss." + +Katherine forgave Mrs. Rogers, for the affectionate woman had helped to +nurse Vincent with a zeal out of all proportion to her knowledge. +Katherine had engaged a night-nurse during the crisis of his illness; +after that, she and Ted nursed him themselves by turns--one sitting up +all night, while the other slept on a bed made up in the sitting-room, +to be within call. Katherine learned to know Ted better in those six +weeks than in all his life before. The boy seemed to be possessed by a +passion of remorse. He was as quiet as Katherine in Vincent's room, and +could do anything that had to be done there with the gentleness and +devotion of a woman. She would willingly have kept on the trained nurse, +in order to give Vincent every advantage in the fight for recovery; but +it was impossible. + +For all three of them had come to the end of their resources at the same +time. The Havilands were in debt at last. Vincent had sunk nearly all +his capital in his British Columbian farm, where the agent, in whose +integrity he had guilelessly trusted, worked the land for his own +benefit, and cheated him out of the returns. His mother had left +everything to her second husband. Worse than all was the reprehensible +conduct of Sir Theophilus Parker. The old gentleman had died well within +the term his nephew had given him, but had made no mention of him in his +will, and "Lavernac and three thousand a-year" went to a kinsman of +irreproachable morals, but a Radical, and many degrees more distant +than Vincent from the blood of a Tory squire. + +So, after the struggle with death, came the struggle with poverty. Work +was impossible for hands busy with service in the sick-room, and young +brains worn out with watching and anxiety. The most expensive luxuries +were poor Vincent's necessities; for everything depended now on keeping +up his strength. + +One morning, after a long night's watching, instead of turning into the +next room to sleep, Katherine put on her hat and cloak and went up to +the deserted studio. She left the house with the "Witch of Atlas" under +her cloak, and carried her to every picture-dealer in Piccadilly and New +Bond Street. It was all in vain. Everywhere the Witch was pronounced to +be beautiful, but unsalable. She was bowed out of every shop-door with +polite regret, expressed in one formula: "The demand for this kind of +work is really so small that we could only offer you a nominal sum, +madam." Finally, Katherine turned into a small shop in Westminster, only +to receive the same answer. But this time she was desperate. "What do +you call a nominal sum?" The dealer looked the picture up and down; he +noted, too, the shabby cloak and worn face of the artist. + +"Frame included, five guineas. Not a shilling more, miss." + +"I'll take that," she said, almost greedily. And the Witch was handed +over the counter in exchange for the tenth part of her value. + +But five guineas were a mere drop in the ocean of their necessities. + +Two days later Katherine set out again, no longer alert and eager, but +with a white face, a firm mouth, and a bearing so emphatically resolute +that it suggested a previous agony of indecision. She took a 'bus from +Lupus Street to the City. Getting out at Leadenhall Street, she walked +on till she came to a building where an arrow painted on the doorway +guided her to the offices of Messrs. Pigott & Co., on the third floor. +On and on she went, up the broad stone stairs, with a sick heart and +trembling knees, the steepest, weariest climb she had ever made in a +life of climbing. When she reached the third floor she almost turned +back at the sight of the closed door marked "Private." Then the thought +of Vincent lying in his wretched room, a sudden blinding vision of his +white face laid back on the pillows, overcame the last rebellion of her +pride. She knocked; a well-regulated voice answered, "Who is there?" She +brushed her eyelashes with her hand and walked in. + +"It's me, uncle." + +Mr. Pigott almost started from his seat. "You, Katherine? Bless me! Dear +me, dear me!" He put on his spectacles, and examined her as if she had +been some curious animal. And he, too, noticed not only her frayed skirt +and the worn edges of the fur about her cloak, but the sharp lines of +her face and the black shadows under her eyes. + +"Sit down, my dear." + +She obeyed, putting her elbow on the office table and resting her head +in her hand. She looked defiantly, almost fiercely, before her, and +spoke in a cold, hard voice-- + +"I've come to ask you if you'll lend us some money. We're in debt----" + +"In debt? Tt-t-t-tt--that's bad." + +"I know it is. But we've had illness in the house, and expenses that we +had to meet." + +"Bless me! Is the boy ill?" + +"No; it's not Ted----" But as she tried to explain who it was she broke +down utterly, and burst into tears. Then uncle James took off his +spectacles and wiped them. He waited till she could speak coherently; +and when he had heard, he took his cheque-book out of his drawer, asking +no questions and making no comments--for which Katherine respected him. + +"How much will clear you, Katherine, and see you to the end of this +business?" + +"Twenty pounds would clear us; but----" + +Uncle James looked very grave, and he wrote with a slow and terrible +deliberation. But he smiled lavishly as he handed her a cheque for a +hundred guineas. He had made it guineas. + +"Remember, there's plenty more where that came from." + +"I--I don't know how to thank you, uncle; we'll repay it gradually, with +the interest." + +"Interest, indeed; you'll do nothing of the kind. And we won't say +anything about repayment either, this time. Only keep out of debt--keep +out of debt, and don't make a fool of yourself, Katherine." + +Katherine hesitated, and her voice trembled. "I--I'm not----" + +"No, I don't say you are. I ask no questions; and, Katherine!" he looked +up, but she was still standing beside him. + +"Yes." + +"Always come to me at once when you want money; and go to your aunt Kate +when you want advice. She'll help you better than I can, my dear." + +"Thank you--thank you very much indeed. You are too good to me." She +stooped down and kissed him on the forehead, pressing his hand in hers, +and was gone before he could see her tears. Perhaps they would have +gratified him. But he was amply rewarded by her kiss and the compliment +paid him by his own conscience, which told him that he had not forced +his niece's confidence, as he might have done, nor yet chuckled, as he +might have done, over her fallen pride. It was a remarkable fulfilment +of prophecy, too. + +When she got back to Devon Street, Vincent was asleep, with Mrs. Rogers +watching over him, and Ted was waiting for her to come to lunch. He +looked terribly depressed. + +She showed him her cheque in silence. + +"You never asked _him_, that stern old Puritan father?" + +"Don't, Ted. Yes, I did. I thought it would kill me; but it didn't. Oh, +Ted, we _have_ done him an injustice. He was kindness itself. I had to +tell him about Vincent, too, and he never said a word--only gave me the +cheque, and said we weren't to pay it back." + +"H'm, that wasn't half bad of him, poor old thing." That admission meant +a great deal from Ted. + +"There's a letter there for you,--from Knowles, I think." + +"What's he writing about?" She tore open the envelope. To her intense +surprise she found a cheque for fifty guineas in it, and this note:-- + + "DEAR MISS HAVILAND,--Forgive my saying so, but when you want to + sell your pictures, why don't you consult your friends instead of + going to a thieving dealer? I found the Witch in the hands of such + an one, and rescued her, for I won't say how little. As I could not + possibly keep my ill-gotten gains on any other terms, please accept + the enclosed, which with what you probably received will make up + something like her real value. I need not tell you how delighted I + am to possess so exquisite a specimen of your best work." + +"Ted, what am I to do? Send it back again?" + +"No, you little fool! Keep it, and never do _that_ again--for any one." + +For any one? What was there that she would not do for Vincent? But Ted, +having said that, looked more depressed than ever. He went to the +fireplace, and leaned against the chimneypiece, shading his face with +his hand. + +"What is it, Ted?" + +He made no answer. A terrible fear clutched at her heart, and he saw it +in her eyes. + +"He's all right now; he's sleeping. But----" + +"But _what_? Tell me, Ted." + +"Well, Crashawe was here this morning, and he says he isn't really +better." + +"But he _is_ better. He said so himself when he examined him yesterday." + +"Yes, so he is, in a way. That is, you see, his lungs are all right. +It's his heart that's bad now. Crashawe says it must always have been +more or less weak. And now----" He stopped short. + +"Ted----" she implored. + +"It may stop beating any minute." + +She said nothing; she only took off her hat and cloak and put on her +artist's overall,--it was her nurse's apron now. She must go to Vincent. +But a thought struck her before she reached the door. + +"Does he know?" + +"No; but I think he has some idea. He told Crashawe this morning not to +interfere with the course of nature." Ted smiled a dreary smile at the +recollection. + +Katherine dismissed Mrs. Rogers and took up her post at Vincent's +bedside. He was still sleeping, with his face turned towards hers as she +sat. And as she looked at him she had hope. She was still young, and it +was inconceivable to her that anything she loved so much should die. It +was not, she pleaded, as if she had been happy, as if her love had any +chance of a return, or had asked for anything better than to spend +itself like this continually. + +And as she sat on watching, it seemed to her that it was better as it +was. Better that love should live by immortal things, by things +intangible, invisible, by pity, by faith, by hope, breaking little by +little every link with earth. She tried to make herself believe this +pleasant theory, as she had tried many a day and many a night before, +her heart having nothing else to warm it but the fire of its own +sacrifice. It was better as it was. + +And yet, she said again, in this last six weeks he had been hers in a +way in which he could be no other woman's, not even Audrey's. He was +hers by her days of service, her nights of watching, by all that had +gone before, by her part in his new life. After all, that could never be +undone. She was almost happy. + +Ted took her place for an hour in the evening, but that was all the rest +she gave herself. She meant to sit up with Vincent again to-night. + +"Do you know, Kathy, your eyes are very pretty." + +It had struck midnight, and Vincent had been awake and looking at her +for the last two minutes. She smiled and blushed, and that made her +whole face look pretty too. And as he looked into her eyes the blindness +fell from his own, and he saw as a dying man sometimes does see. + +"Come here, Sis." He stretched out his arm on the counterpane, and as +she knelt beside him he put back her hair from her forehead. + +"I wonder if I was wrong when I thought you couldn't love anybody?" + +Then she knew that he was dying. + +"Yes, very wrong indeed. For--I loved you then, Vincent." Her face was +transfigured as she spoke. He had to be spared all sudden emotions, but +she knew that _her_ confession would do him no harm. And indeed he took +it quite calmly, without the least change of pulse. + +"I'm not ungrateful----" + +"There's nothing to be grateful for. I couldn't help it." + +"I would have loved you more, Kathy, if it hadn't been for Audrey." + +He spoke without emotion, in the tone of a man stating a simple matter +of fact. Then he remarked in the same matter-of-fact voice that, as it +happened, he was dying, so it made no difference. Perhaps he wanted her +to know that a grave was ready for the secret she had just told him. +There was no need to remind her of that,--she was sure of it before she +spoke. + +Her kneeling attitude, and hands outstretched on the counterpane, +suggested an order of ideas that had never been very far from him during +his illness. For Vincent had been wide awake and thinking difficult +thoughts many a time when he lay with his eyes closed, and Katherine had +thought he was asleep. + +"I want you to read to me," he said at last. + +"What would you like?" + +"Well--the New Testament, I think, if it's all the same to you." + +She rose from her knees and looked helplessly round the room. There was +a Bible somewhere upstairs, but-- + +"You'll find one in the drawer there, where my handkerchiefs are." + +She looked, rummaging gently among his poor things. She came on a small +muslin pocket-handkerchief, stained with blood, also a loop of black +ribbon of the kind that little girls tie their hair with. Some fine +reddish hairs were still tangled in the knot. At last she found a small +pocket Testament mixed up with some of his neckties. It was old and +worn. Katherine wondered at that, though she could hardly have said why. +Then she saw written on the fly-leaf, in a sprawling girl's hand, +"Vincent, with Audrey's best love," and a date that went back to their +childhood. It was the only present that Audrey had ever made him, and +one that had cost her nothing. + +"What part shall I read?" + +She was afraid that Vincent would lay the burden of choice on her. + +But he did not--he had very decided ideas of his own. + +"The eighth of Romans, if you don't mind." + +An eagle's feather floated out from between the pages at the eighth of +Romans. It had been picked up on the snows of the Rocky Mountains. If +she had wondered at first, she soon saw why Vincent had chosen that +chapter of all others. + +"Therefore, brethren, we are debtors, not to the flesh, to live after +the flesh. + +"For if ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the +Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live." Vincent was +dying. + +She read on, and as she read she saw behind the edges of the veil that +divides the seen from the unseen. + +"For the creature was made subject to vanity, not willingly, but by +reason of him who hath subjected the same in hope; + +"Because the creature itself also shall be delivered from the bondage of +corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God." + +Her heart beat faster and her breast heaved, but the words lifted her +above pathos and tears, and prepared her for the consolation of the +close. + +"Do you believe all that?" he asked suddenly, when she had finished. She +had not expected that. + +"I didn't, but I do now." + +"Why?" His eyes were fixed on hers, scrutinising, pathetic. + +"Because I _must_." + +That reason seemed to be hardly enough for Vincent. He was still +hesitating and uncertain, as if he were looking for something that she +could not give him. Then he lay back again with his eyes closed. + +It was Katherine's turn to think. But Vincent's peace of mind was of +more importance to her than the truth or falsehood of a creed. She had +realised that there were things that even her love could not do for him. +With a sudden flash of recollection she thought of the young priest she +had once met at Audrey's house. If any one could help Vincent now, it +might be Mr. Flaxman Reed. She was probably mistaken (nobody is very +wise between twelve and one in the morning), but at least she could try. + +"Vincent," she whispered, "would you like to see a clergyman?" + +She smiled, for after all it might be the very last thing that he +wanted. He smiled too, a little consciously. His mood had changed for +the time being--he had come back again to earth. + +"No; thank you, Sis. But I should like----" + +"What? Tell me." + +"To see--Audrey." + +The three words gave her a shock, but they told her nothing new. + +"You shall. I'll send for her first thing in the morning." + +He turned round with his face away from her, and settled himself again +to sleep. And Katherine watched. He would be Audrey's to-morrow. He was +hers at least for that one night. + +No--never, never again. To-morrow had come, and the image of Audrey was +between them. It always had been there. + +Was it better so? + +The next day Audrey had to be found. Ted went to Chelsea Gardens early +in the morning, supposing her to be there. The house was shut up, and +the caretaker had mislaid her address. He went back to Devon Street. +Katherine and Ted were in despair; Vincent alone was equal to the +emergency. His mind was on the alert--it had grasped all the necessary +details. He gave them Dean Craven's address, and told Ted to wire to +Oxford for Audrey's. That was how Audrey never got the telegram till one +o'clock. + +That morning the doctor pronounced Vincent decidedly better. The change, +he said, was something miraculous. He took Katherine out of the room to +tell her so. + +"Keep him quiet, and he _may_ pull through yet. I don't say he will, +but he may. Only--he mustn't have any excitement." + +"He's had a great deal this morning. If it lasts all day, and if--he has +any more of it to-night, will it hurt him? It's pleasant excitement, you +know." + +The doctor looked keenly at her. To judge by her white face she was not +sharing in the pleasant excitement. + +"Well, I can't say. Pleasure does less harm than pain, sometimes. Don't +let him have any suspense, though. Suspense will kill him." + +But suspense was what he had to bear. + +Katherine knew that he was living on in the hope of Audrey's coming. +Well, she would be with him by nine at the latest, as she had said. + +At half-past eight Vincent began to listen for every bell. At nine he +asked to have the door set ajar, that he might hear the wheels of her +cab in the street. But though many cabs went by, none stopped. + +"She's missed her train. We didn't give her much time. Look out the +next, Kathy." + +Katherine looked it out. "She'll be here by eleven if she catches the +three-o'clock. It gets to Paddington at ten." + +Vincent closed his eyes and waited patiently till ten. Then he became +excited again, the nervous tension increasing with every quarter of an +hour. By eleven the street was still, and Vincent strained his ears for +every sound. But no sounds were to be heard. + +It was half-past eleven. A look of fear had come over his face. + +Katherine could bear it no longer. She went into the next room, where +Ted was standing at the window. She laid her hands on his shoulder, +clinging to him. + +"Oh Ted, Ted," she whispered, fiercely. "She'll kill him. He'll _die_ if +she doesn't come. And--she isn't coming." + +Ted had never known his sister do that before. It was horrible, like +seeing a man cry. He put his arms round her (he had almost to hold her +up), and comforted her as best he could. But she put him from her +gently, and went back to her post. + +"She'll come to-morrow, Vincent," she said. + +"No. If she were coming, she would have wired." + +But that was just what Audrey had forgotten to do. By the time she had +reached Barnstaple, she was too much taken up with her own tragic +importance to think of any small detail of the kind. + +Vincent had turned over on his side. He had no more hope, and nothing +mattered now. He had done his best, but was not going to carry on a +trivial dispute with death. + +But though his spirit had given up the struggle, his body still fought +on with its own blind will, a long, weary fight that seemed as if it +would never end. Towards morning he became to all appearance +unconscious. + +At seven o'clock the front-door bell rang; there was a stir in the hall +and the sound of Mrs. Rogers' voice whispering. + +Then the door opened and closed softly. Audrey was standing there, a +strange figure in the dim white room, wrapped in her bearskins, and +glowing with life and the fresh morning air. + +At first she could distinguish nothing in the shaded light. Then she +made out Ted, sitting with his back to her at the foot of the bed, and +Katherine standing at the head of it. But when she saw the motionless +figure raised by pillows, and vaguely defined under the disordered +bedclothes, a terror seized her, and she hid her face in her hands. + +"Come here, Audrey," said Katherine, gently. And she came--gliding, +trembling, as she had come to him that afternoon at Chelsea, a year and +a half ago. But she kept her eyes fixed on Katherine. She was afraid to +look _there_. + +"Take his hand. Speak to him." + +Audrey looked round, but Ted had left the room. Her small white hand +slid out of her muff, warm with the warm fur, and rested on Vincent's +hand; but no words came. She was sick with fear. + +The touch was enough. Warm and caressing, the little fingers curled into +the hollow of his hand and Vincent woke from his stupor. He opened his +eyes, but their look was vague and wondering; he was not conscious yet. +Katherine moved aside and drew up the blind, and the faint daylight fell +on Audrey's face, as her eyes still followed Katherine. + +For one instant his brain seemed to fill suddenly with light. It +streamed from his brain into the room, and he saw her standing in the +midst of it. + +"Audrey!" The loud hoarse voice startled Katherine, and made Audrey +shake with fright. His hand closed tightly on hers, and he sank back +into unconsciousness. + +For two hours the two women kept watch together by his bed: Katherine at +the head, holding Vincent in her strong arms; Audrey sitting at the foot +with her back turned to him, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth. At +nine o'clock she shivered and looked round, as Vincent's head sank +forward on his breast. + +Katherine, standing at the back of the bed, first saw what had happened +by the change on Audrey's face. The corners of her mouth had suddenly +straightened, and she started up, white and rigid. + +"He's dead! Take me away, Katherine--take me away!" + +But this time Katherine neither saw nor heard her. + + * * * * * + +"No; he was bound to die. What else could you expect after the life he +led, poor fellow?" + +It was all over. Audrey had dragged herself out of the room, she +scarcely knew how--dragged herself up to Katherine's room and thrown +herself on the bed in a passion of weeping; and Katherine, kneeling for +the second time by Vincent's side, could hear the verdict of science +through the half-open door. Dr. Crashawe was talking to Ted. + +Neither Audrey nor Katherine knew how they got through the next three +days. Audrey was afraid to sleep alone, and Katherine had her with her +night and day. Audrey would have gone back to Chelsea but for her fear, +and for a feeling that to leave Devon Street would be a miserable +abandonment of a great situation. All those three days Katherine was +tender to her for Vincent's sake. Happily for her, Audrey disliked going +into his room; she was afraid of the long figure under the straight +white sheet. Katherine could keep her watch with him again alone; she +had no rival there. + +Once indeed they stood by his bed together, when Katherine drew back the +sheet from his face, and Audrey laid above his heart a wreath of +eucharis lilies, the symbol of purity. + +They stood beside him, the woman who loved him and the woman he had +loved; and they envied him, one the peace, the other the glory of +death. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV + + +It was early one morning about a week after the funeral. Hardy had gone +to his grave, followed last by his friends, and first by his next of +kin, Audrey, and the man who had Lavernac. Audrey was still (as she +always had been) his affectionate cousin. The fact was expressly stated +on the visiting-card attached to the flowers wherewith she had covered +his coffin. + +It was in Katherine's bedroom. Katherine was still in bed, waiting for +Audrey to be dressed before her. Audrey was sitting at the +dressing-table brushing her hair, twisting it into the big coil that +shone like copper on the surface, with a dull dark red at the heart of +it. She had on Katherine's white dressing-gown and Katherine's slippers. +She had laughed when she put them on, they were so ridiculously large +for her tiny feet. + +Audrey was rebounding after the pressure that had been put on her during +the last ten days. The weight was lifted now. After all, she had not +felt herself an important actor in that drama of death. Death himself +had come and waived her coldly aside. She had been nothing in that +household filled with his presence. Here again she had been overpowered +by one of those unseen, incomprehensible things that she could not +grasp, but that crushed her and made her of no account. At times, in her +misery, she had even felt a vague, faint jealousy of the dead. But since +the day of the funeral her supple nature had unbent. She could talk now, +and she talked incessantly, generally about Vincent. + +She had begun by monopolising his memory, making it a sacred possession +of her own, till not even that consolation was left to Katherine. Audrey +stood between her and every scene connected in her mind with Vincent; +the figure of Audrey seemed to draw nearer and grow larger, until it +covered everything else. Her stream of talk was blotting out the +impressions that Katherine most longed to keep, giving to the past a +transient character of its own. She was killing remembrance; and there +came upon Katherine a fear of the forgetfulness where all things end. + +And now, as she lay there watching Audrey, she recalled the truth that +she had lost sight of since Vincent's death--the truth that he had told +her. He would have loved her--if it had not been for Audrey. She had +begun to realise the intensity of the duel which had been between Audrey +and her from the first. + +It had begun in the days when Audrey had stood in the way of Ted's +career; it had gone on afterwards, when it was to be feared that she had +done him still more grievous harm; and it had ended in separating +Katherine from Vincent, and even from his memory. Rather, that duel had +neither beginning nor end. There was something foregone and inevitable +about it, something that had its roots deep down in their opposite +natures. It had to be. It had been from the hour when she first met +Audrey until now, when the two women were again thrown together in a +detestable mockery of friendship, forced into each other's arms, lying +by each other's side. + +Audrey had been quiet for some time, and Katherine was nervously +wondering when she would begin. + +"Katherine," she said at last, "I want you to come back with me to +Chelsea to-day." The fact was, Miss Craven was in Devonshire, and Audrey +was still afraid to be in the house by herself. + +"I couldn't, possibly. I can't leave Ted." + +"That doesn't matter. Ted can come too." + +What _was_ Audrey's mind like? Had it no memory? + +"I think not, Audrey." + +Audrey said no more. She gave the last touches to her hair, put on her +black dress, and turned herself slowly round before the looking-glass. +She was satisfied with the result. + +It was her last day in Devon Street, so the Havilands had to be nice to +her. Ted went out soon after breakfast; he was incapable of any +sustained effort. Audrey did not know it, but the boy hated the house +now that she was in it. Katherine had dreaded being left alone with her +that morning. She knew that last words would come. And they came. + +They were sitting together by the studio fire, talking about indifferent +subjects, when suddenly Audrey left her seat and knelt down by +Katherine's knees in at attitude of confession. + +"Katherine," she began, and her grey eyes filled with tears, "before I +go, I want to tell you something----" + +"What is it?" + +"I want you to know that I really loved Vincent all the time." + +She waited to see the effect of her words, but Katherine set her teeth +firmly and said nothing. Audrey went on, still kneeling. "I don't know +what made me get engaged to Ted,--I liked him, you know, dear boy, +but--I think it was because Vincent would not understand me; and he +wanted to hurry things so. And you see I didn't know then how much I +loved him. Then afterwards----" She stopped; she had come to the +difficult part of her confession. + +"Well?" + +"Then, you see, I knew Mr. Wyndham, and he----" Another pause. + +"What did Mr. Wyndham do?" It was better that she should talk about Mr. +Wyndham than about Vincent. + +"I don't know what he did, but he made me mad; he made me think I cared +for him. He was so clever. You know I always adored clever people; and, +well--nobody could call poor Vincent clever, _could_ they?" + +In spite of herself, Katherine's lip curled with scorn. But Audrey was +too much absorbed in her confession to see it. + +"I suppose that fascinated me. Then afterwards when Vincent took to +those dreadful ways--whatever my feelings were, you _know_, Katherine, +it was impossible." + +Katherine could bear it no longer, but she managed to control her voice +in answering. "Why do you tell me these things? Do you suppose I care to +hear about your 'feelings'?--if you do feel." + +"If I _do_ feel? Kathy!" + +"Well, why can't you keep quiet, now it's too late?" + +"Because--because I wanted you to know that I loved him." + +There was silence. Presently Audrey put one hand on Katherine's knee. + +"Kathy----" + +"I'd rather you didn't call me that, if you don't mind." + +"Why?" Audrey stared with large, incomprehensive eyes. + +"I can't tell you why." + +"Katherine, then--it _is_ prettier. Do you know, I sometimes think it's +better, oh, infinitely better, that he should have died." + +Katherine rose from her seat, to end it, looking down on the kneeling +figure, as she answered bitterly-- + +"It was indeed--infinitely better." + +But irony, like so many other things of the kind, was beyond Audrey. + +"I suppose I ought to go now," she said, rising. Katherine made no +answer. + +Audrey went away to get ready, a little reluctantly, for she had so much +more to say. It had never occurred to her to be jealous of Katherine. +That may have been either because she did not know, or because she did +not care. She had been so sure of Vincent. + +Presently she came back with her hat on. She carried her bearskins in +her hand, and under the shade of the broad black beaver her face wore an +expression of anxious thought. + +"Katherine,"--she held out her cape and muff, and Katherine remembered +that they were those which Vincent had given her,--"I suppose I can wear +my furs still, even if I _am_ in mourning?" + +There was neither scorn nor irony in the look that Katherine turned on +her, and Audrey understood this time. As plainly as looks can speak, it +condemned her as altogether lighter than vanity itself; and while +condemning, it forgave her. + +"_He_ gave them to me, you know," she said at last. Audrey's pathos +generally came too late. + +She drove away, wrapped in her furs, and for once unconscious of her +own beauty, so dissatisfied was she with the part she had played in the +great tragedy. Somehow her parts seemed always to dwindle this way in +retrospect. + +That afternoon a parcel arrived, addressed to Hardy by his publishers. +Katherine opened it. It contained early copies of the Pioneer-book, the +book that after all Vincent was never to see. + +She saw with a pang her own design blazing in gold on the cover, and her +frontispiece sketch of the author. Then she turned to the dedication +page, and read-- + + TO HER + WHO HAS INSPIRED + ALL THAT THERE MAY BE OF GOOD IN IT + THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED + BY HER AFFECTIONATE COUSIN, + VINCENT HARDY. + +It was an epitaph. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI + + +One day's work among the poor of St. Teresa's, Lambeth, is enough to +exhaust you, if you are at all sensitive and highly strung, and Audrey +had had three days of it. No wonder, then, that as she leaned back in a +particularly hard wooden chair in the vicar's study every nerve in her +body was on edge. + +It was a year after Vincent's death. With lapse of time that event had +lost much of its oppressive magnificence, and it affected Audrey more in +looking back than it had done in reality. Time, too, had thrown her +relations with Wyndham into relief; and as she realised more and more +their true nature, the conscience that had been so long quiescent began +to stir in her. Its voice seemed to be seconding Wyndham's and +Katherine's verdict. She became uneasy about herself. Once more, this +time in serious sincerity, she felt the need of a stronger personality +upholding and pervading her own. Absolute dependence on somebody else's +character had become a habit of her nature: she could no more live now +without some burning stimulus to thought and feeling than the drunkard +can satisfy his thirst with plain water. Naturally she thought of Mr. +Flaxman Reed, as Katherine had thought of him the midnight before +Vincent's death, or as she had thought of him herself in the day of her +temptation. This time she had ended by going to him, as many a woman had +gone before, with her empty life in her hands, begging that it might be +filled. For all cases of the kind Mr. Flaxman Reed had one remedy--work +in the parish of St. Teresa's; as a rule it either killed or cured them. +But he had spared Audrey hitherto, as he would have spared some sick +child a medicine too strong and bitter for it. Finally, much to his +surprise, she asked him for the work of her own accord, and he gave it +to her. + +And now she had had three days of it. It was enough. It made her head +ache yet to think of all she had gone through. For the first two days +she had been sustained by a new and wholly delightful sensation, the +consciousness of her own goodness; on the third day that support had +suddenly given way. A woman's coarse word, the way a man had looked at +her as she lifted her silk petticoats out of the mud, some bit of crude +criticism such as Demos publishes at street corners in the expressive +vernacular, had been sufficient to destroy all the bright illusions that +gilded the gutters of Lambeth--reflections of a day that was not hers. +And yet, she had come into a new world with new ideas and new emotions; +if not the best of all possible worlds, it was better than any which had +once seemed probable, and she wanted to stay in it. She was dazzled by +the splendour of religion. The curtain had risen on the great +miracle-play of the soul; she, too, longed to dance in the masque of the +virtues and the graces. Every fresh phase of life had presented itself +to Audrey in spectacular magnificence; she could not help seeing things +so, it was the way her mind worked. The candles burning on the high +altar of St. Teresa's were only footlights in the wrong place; and the +veil that Mr. Flaxman Reed had lifted a little for her was the curtain +going up before another stage. Meanwhile while she had to consider his +possible criticism of her own acting. Sitting in the hard ascetic chair, +she looked round the room and tried to understand a little of its +owner's life. Every detail in it was a challenge to her intelligence. +She perplexed herself with questions. Why didn't Mr. Flaxman Reed have a +proper carpet on the floor? Why didn't he hang a curtain over that ugly +green baize door? It led into the room where he held his classes and +entertained his poorer parishioners; that room was also his dining-room. +How could he eat his meals after all those dreadful people had been in +it, poor things? Why only common deal book-cases, a varnished desk, and +that little painted table underneath the big crucifix? Why these +painfully uneasy chairs, and--yes--only one picture, and that of the +most emaciated of Madonnas? Could not her old favourite Botticelli have +supplied him with a lovelier type? Or there was Raphael. Sometimes, on a +Sunday evening after service, she had come in here from the rich, warm, +scented church, with the music of an august liturgy ringing in her ears, +and the chill place had struck like death to all her senses. And this +was the atmosphere in which his life was spent--this, and the gaunt +streets and the terrible slums of Lambeth. + +She was not left long alone, for Mr. Flaxman Reed never kept any one +waiting if he could help it. As he seated himself opposite to her, the +set lines of his face relaxed and his manner softened. Her eyes followed +the outline of his face, which stood out white and sharp against the +dark window-curtain. She noted the crossed legs, the hands folded on his +knees, the weary pose of the whole wasted figure. It ought to have been +an appeal to her pity. The poor man was suffering from many kinds of +hunger, and from intense exhaustion. He had just dismissed a tiresome +parishioner, and, vexed with himself for having kept Audrey waiting, had +left his dinner in the next room untouched, and came all unnerved to +this interview which he dreaded yet desired. He listened quietly to the +story of her failure; it was not only what he had expected, but what he +had wished. + +"It's no good my trying any more," she urged in the pleading voice that +she could make so sweet. "I can't do anything. The sight of those poor +wretches' misery only makes me miserable too. I dream of it at night. I +assure you it's been the most awful three days I ever spent in my +life." + +"Has it?" + +"Yes. I feel things so terribly, you know; and it's not as if I could do +anything--I simply can't. What _must_ you think of me?" + +"I think nothing. I knew that you would tell me this, and I am glad." + +"Are you? Glad that I failed?" + +"Yes; glad and thankful." He paused; his thin sensitive lips trembled, +and when he spoke again it was in a low constrained voice, as if he were +struggling with some powerful feeling. + +"I wanted you to learn by failure that it is not what we know, nor what +we do, but what we are that matters in the sight of God." + +"Yes, I know that." She sat looking up, with her head a little on one +side, holding her chin in one hand: it had been her attitude in her +student days at Oxford when trying to follow a difficult lecture, and +she reverted to it now. For Mr. Flaxman Reed was very difficult. His +style fascinated and yet repelled her, and in this case the style was +the man. + +"What am I?" said Audrey, presently. It was a curious question, and none +of her friends had answered it to her satisfaction. She was eager to +know Mr. Reed's opinion. He turned and looked at her, and his eyes were +two clear lights under the shadow of the sharp eyebone. + +"What are you? With all your faults and all your failures, you are +something infinitely more valuable than you know." + +"What makes you say so?" + +"I say so because I think that God cares more for those that hunger and +thirst after righteousness than for those who are filled at his table. +Believe me, nothing in all our intercourse has touched me so much as +this confession of your failure." + +"Has it really? Can you--can you trust me again in spite of it?" + +"Yes; you have trusted me. I take it as one of the greatest pleasures, +the greatest privileges of my life, that you should have come to me as +you have done--not when you were bright and happy, but in your weakness +and distress, in what I imagine to have been the darkest hour of all, +when refuge failed you, and no man cared for your soul." + +"No; that's the worst of it,--that there's nobody to turn to--nobody +cares. If I thought that you cared--but----" + +"Indeed I care." + +"For my soul--yes." Her "yes" was a deep sigh. + +"Why not? It is my office. A priest is answerable to God for the souls +of his people." + +He spoke with a touch of austerity in his tone. Something warned him +that if this conversation was to be profitable to either of them, he +must avoid personalities. His position in the Church was a compromise. +His attitude towards Audrey Craven was only another kind of +compromise,--so much concession to her weakness, so much to her +appealing womanhood. He had begun by believing in her soul,--that was +the plea he made to the fierce exacting conscience, always requiring a +spiritual motive for his simplest actions,--and he had ended by creating +the thing he believed in, and in his own language he was answerable to +God for it. But hitherto with his own nature he had made no compromise. +He had sacrificed heart, senses, and intellect to the tyranny of his +conscience; he had ceased to dread their insane revolt against that +benevolent despotism. And now the question that tormented him was +whether all the time he had not been temporising with his own inexorable +humanity, whether his relations with Audrey Craven did not involve a +perpetual intrigue between the earthly and the heavenly. For there was a +strange discrepancy between his simple heart that took all things +seriously--even a frivolous woman--and the tortuous entangled thing that +was his conscience. He went on at first in the same self-controlled +voice, monotonous but for a peculiar throbbing stress on some words, and +he seemed to be speaking more to himself than her. + +"You say you can do nothing, and I believe it. What of that? The things +that are seen are temporal, the things that are unseen are eternal. Our +deeds are of the things that are seen; they are part of the visible +finite world, done with our hands, with our body. They belong to the +flesh that profiteth nothing. It is only the spirit, only the pure and +holy will, that gives them life. That will is not ours--not yours or +mine. Before we can receive it our will must die; otherwise there would +be two wills in us struggling for possession. You have come to me for +help--after all I can give you none. I can only tell you what I +know--that there is no way of peace but the way of renunciation. I can +only say: if your will is not yet one with God's will, renounce it--give +it up. Then and then only you will live--not before. Look there!" he +pointed to the crucifix. "The great Pagan religions had each their +symbol of life. For us who are Christ's the symbol of life is the +crucifix. Crucify self. When you have done that, you will have no need +to come and ask me what you must do and what you must leave undone. Your +deeds are--they _must_ be pure." + +His excitement moved her, her eyes filled with tears; but she followed +his words slowly and painfully. He was always making these speeches to +her, full of the things she could not understand. How often she had felt +this sense of effort and pain in the old "art" days with Ted, or when +she had been held helpless in the grasp of Wyndham's relentless +intellect. She had chafed when the barriers rose between her mind and +theirs. But between her and this nineteenth century ascetic there was an +immeasurable gulf fixed; she could not reach the hand he stretched out +to her across it. Even his living presence seemed endlessly far from +hers, and the thought of that separation filled her with a deep resigned +humility. Now, though his thoughts were poured into her consciousness +without mixing with it, cloudy, insoluble, troubling its blank +transparency, something in the rhythmic movement of his words stirred +her, so responsive was she to every impression of sense. They recalled +to her that other gospel of life preached to her by Langley, and though +she understood imperfectly, she felt the difference with shame. The +young priest went on, still as if speaking to himself. + +"There are only two things we have to learn--the knowledge of self and +the knowledge of God, and they hang together. If there is any sin in us, +unconfessed and unrecognised as sin, there is no knowledge of God and no +union with him possible for us." + +She rose, moved a step forward, and then stood looking at him +irresolutely. Truly a revelation was there for her; but she was in that +state of excitement in which we are more capable of making revelations +than of receiving them. He had risen too, and was holding out his hand. +"Well," he said more gently, "there is something you want to say to me. +Please sit down again." + +She shook her head and still stood upright. Possessed with the thought +of the confession she was about to make, she felt that she needed all +the dignity that attitude afforded. At last she spoke, very low and +quickly, keeping her eyes fixed on the floor. + +"You say you know me, but you don't. You don't know what I am--what I am +capable of. But I must tell you,--the thought of it is stifling me. +Once, only two years ago, I had a terrible temptation. It came to me +through some one whom I loved--very dearly. I was ready to give up +everything--_everything_, you understand--for him; and I would have done +it, only--God was good to me. He made it impossible for me, and I was +saved. But I am just as bad, just as guilty, as if he had let it +happen." + +It was done. The unutterable thing was said. For once Audrey had been +absolutely truthful and sincere. The soul that he had evoked had come +forth as it were new-born out of the darkness. + +At first neither of them spoke. Then he sat down and thanked her, +simply, for what she had just told him. But to his own shame and grief +he had nothing more to say. He had heard many a confession, and from +many a guiltier woman's lips, but none so piteous, because none so +purely spontaneous, as this. And to all he had given pity, counsel, and +help. + +But now he was dumb. + +She was thirsting for help, for help that she could understand. She +clasped her hands imploringly and looked into his face, but it had no +pity for her and no deliverance. She could see nothing there but +grief--grief terrible and profound. + +"I see. Then you too judge me--like the rest." + +"God forbid. I judge no man." Which was true, for it was the woman he +had judged. + +She looked at him again, a long look full of wonder and reproach; then +she went quietly away. + +She had reached the end of the narrow passage leading from the study to +the front hall, when she recollected that she had left behind her a +small manual of devotion. He had given it to her not long ago. She went +back for it, and knocked softly at the study door. There was no answer, +and supposing that he had gone through into the room beyond, she opened +the door and looked in. + +He was kneeling in the far corner of the study, with his hands stretched +out before the crucifix. From the threshold where she stood she could +see the agony of his uplifted face and hear his prayer. "O wretched man +that I am! who shall deliver me from the body of this death?" + +Audrey knew then that for one moment the love she had hungered and +thirsted after, more than after righteousness, had been actually within +her grasp, and that she had lost it. The shadow of an uncommitted sin +stood between her and the one man by whom and for whom she could have +grown pure and womanly and good. For Flaxman Reed had loved her, though +up to that evening he had been in complete ignorance of the fact, being +already wedded to what the world considers an impossible ideal. + +Such is the power of suggestion, that Audrey's confession of her +weakness had revealed to him his own. If she had been all that he +believed her to be, he might not have regarded his feeling for her as in +itself of the nature of sin; but his sensitive soul, made morbid by its +self-imposed asceticism, recoiled from the very thought of impurity in +the woman he loved. Hence his powerlessness to help her. He knew, none +better, that a stronger man would not have felt this difficulty. He had +trembled before his own intellect; now he was afraid of his own heart. + +Audrey--it was for such that his Christ had died. And he could not even +speak a word to save her. + +He became almost blasphemous in his agony. Christ had died on _his_ +cross. He, Christ's servant, had crucified self--and it could not die. +Was this the ironic destiny of all ideals too austere for earth, too +divine for humanity? + +Not long afterwards Flaxman Reed was received into the communion of the +Church of Rome. He had done with compromise. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII + + +It was Audrey's fate to be condemned by those whom she had most cared +for. Ted and Vincent, Langley and Katherine, and lastly Mr. Flaxman +Reed, they had all judged her--harshly, imperfectly, as human nature +judges. Of the five, perhaps Vincent, because he was a child of Nature, +and Katherine, because she was a good woman, alone appreciated the more +pathetic of Audrey's effects. She presented the moving spectacle of a +small creature struggling with things too great for her. Love, art, +nature, religion, she had never really given herself up to any one of +them; but she had called upon them all in turn, and instead of +sustaining, they had overwhelmed her. + +And it seemed that Mr. Flaxman Reed, as the minister of the religion in +which she had sought shelter for a day, had failed her the most +unexpectedly, and in her direst necessity. And yet he had done more for +her than any of the others. She had lied to all of them; he had made it +possible for her to be true. Flaxman Reed would certainly not have +called himself a psychological realist; but by reason of his one +strength, his habit of constant communion with the unseen, he had +solved Langley Wyndham's problem. It would never have occurred to the +great novelist, in his search for the real Audrey, to look deeper than +the "primitive passions," or to suspect that the secret of personality +could lie in so pure a piece of mechanism as the human conscience. + +Soon after her confession Audrey left town for the neighbourhood of +Oxford. She may have perceived that London was too vast a stage for her +slender performances; or she may have had some idea of following up a +line slanting gently between the two paths pointed out to her by Langley +Wyndham and Flaxman Reed, who had been the strongest forces in her life. +She had come to herself, but she was not the stuff of which renunciants +are made. + +It was about three years later that Mr. Langley Wyndham, looking over +his "Times" one morning, had the joy of reading the announcement of Miss +Audrey Craven's marriage with Algernon Jackson, Esq., of Broughton +Poggs, in the county of Oxfordshire. + +It was true. After all, Audrey had married a nonentity: it was the end +of her long quest of the eminent and superlative. + +Mr. Jackson was certainly not an eminent person, and he was superlative +only in so far as he passed for "the biggest bore in the county"; but he +had the positive merit of being a gentleman, which in these days of a +talented democracy amounts almost to genius. Since that night when, as a +guileless undergraduate, he had interfered with Audrey's first +introduction to Langley Wyndham, Mr. Jackson's career had been +simplicity itself. He had tried most of the learned professions, and +failed in all he tried. He then took up model goose-farming on a large +scale, and achieved success amidst the jeers of his family and friends. +The echo of that derision was soon lost in the jingle of Algernon's +guineas. Not every one can attain a golden mediocrity; and it was a +great step for a man who had hitherto ranked as a nonentity. On the +strength of it he asked the beautiful Miss Craven to be his wife, and no +one was more surprised than himself when she consented. She was his +first and last love--of a series of loves. For Mr. Jackson had never +read "Laura"; indeed he read but few books, and if you had told him of +Langley Wyndham's masterpiece to-day, he would have forgotten all about +it by to-morrow; he would certainly never have thought of identifying +its heroine with his wife. + +Nobody ever understood why Audrey made that marriage. For any one who +had enjoyed the friendship of such men as Langley Wyndham and Flaxman +Reed, there was bathos in the step; it seemed an ugly concession to +actuality. It may have been; for Audrey was nothing if not modern, the +daughter of an age that has flirted with half-a-dozen ideals, all +equally fascinating, and finally decided in favour of a mature realism. +She may have learned that hardest lesson of the schools, the translation +of life's drama from fancy into fact; found out that all the time the +grey old chorus has been singing, not of love and joy, as she once in +her ignorance imagined, but of unspeakable rest on the great consoling +platitudes of life, where there is no more revelation because there is +no mystery, and no despair because there is no hope. The text of that +chorus is often corrupt, but the meaning is never hopelessly obscure. In +other words, she may have married Mr. Jackson in a fit of pessimism. + +Or perhaps--perhaps she had profited by the more cheerful though equally +important lesson of the playground; learned that whether the game of +life be fast or slow, dull or amusing, matters little when you are +knocked out in the first round (she herself had had many rounds, not +counting Mr. Jackson); that in these circumstances one may still find +considerable entertainment in looking on; and that in any case the +player is not for the game, but the game for the player. The player--who +may be left on the ground long after all games have been played out. But +this is to suppose that Audrey was a philosopher, which is manifestly +absurd. + +Perhaps! More likely than not her revelation came when she was least +looking for it, stumbling by the merest accident on one of "the great +things of life," the eternal, the incomprehensible; for of these some +say that the greatest is love. It is certainly the most +incomprehensible. She may have loved Mr. Jackson. If she did not, she +has never let him know it. + + + + THE END + + ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ +| | +| Transcriber's note | +| | +| The spelling of the following words which appear to be | +| printers errors has been changed. | +| | +| gods to goods | +| effection to affection | +| it to if | +| undergratuate to undergraduate | +| | +| | +| Other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's | +| spelling has been maintained. | +| | +| | +| Passages in italic font are indicated by _italic_. | +| | ++--------------------------------------------------------------+ + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Audrey Craven, by May Sinclair + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AUDREY CRAVEN *** + +***** This file should be named 29766.txt or 29766.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/7/6/29766/ + +Produced by Woodie4, Suzanne Shell, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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