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diff --git a/4603-h/4603-h.htm b/4603-h/4603-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1a39a62 --- /dev/null +++ b/4603-h/4603-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,35671 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> + <title> + In the Wilderness, by Robert Hichens + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Wilderness, by Robert Hichens + +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: In the Wilderness + +Author: Robert Hichens + +Release Date: April 13, 2006 [EBook #4603] +Last Updated: September 24, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE WILDERNESS *** + + + + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + IN THE WILDERNESS + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Robert Hichens + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I—<br /> HERMES AND THE CHILD</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> <b>BOOK II — <br /> ECHO</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> <b>BOOK III — <br /> LITTLE CLOISTERS</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> <b>BOOK IV — <br /> THE UNKNOWN GOD</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER IV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER V </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER VI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER VII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER VIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER IX </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER X </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XIV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XV </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XVI </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XVII </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + BOOK I—HERMES AND THE CHILD + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + Amedeo Dorini, the hall porter of the Hotel Cavour in Milan, stood on the + pavement before the hotel one autumn afternoon in the year 1894, waiting + for the omnibus, which had gone to the station, and which was now due to + return, bearing—Amedeo hoped—a load of generously inclined + travelers. During the years of his not unpleasant servitude Amedeo had + become a student of human nature. He had learnt to judge shrewdly and + soundly, to sum up quickly, to deliver verdicts which were not unjust. And + now, as he saw the omnibus, with its two fat brown horses, coming slowly + along by the cab rank, and turning into the Piazza that is presided over + by Cavour’s statue, he prepared almost mechanically to measure and weigh + evidence, to criticize and come to a conclusion. + </p> + <p> + He glanced first at the roof of the omnibus to take stock of the luggage + pile there. There was plenty of it, and a good deal of it was leather and + reassuring. Amedeo had a horror of tin trunks—they usually gave such + small tips. Having examined the luggage he sent a searching glance to two + rows of heads which were visible inside the vehicle. The brawny porters + hurried out, the luggage chute was placed in position, the omnibus door + was opened, and the first traveler stepped forth. + </p> + <p> + A German of the most economical type, large, red and wary, with a mouth + like a buttoned-up pocket, was followed by a broad-waisted wife, with + dragged hair and a looped-up gown. Amedeo’s smile tightened. A Frenchman + followed them, pale and elaborate, a “one-nighter,” as Amedeo instantly + decided in his mind. Such Frenchmen are seldom extravagant in hotels. This + gentleman would want a good room for a small price, would be extremely + critical about the cooking, and have a wandering eye and a short memory + for all servants in the morning. + </p> + <p> + An elderly Englishwoman was the fourth personage to appear. She was badly + dressed in black, wore a tam-o’-shanter with a huge black-headed pin + thrust through it, clung to a bag, smiled with amiable patronage as she + emerged, and at once, without reason, began to address Amedeo and the + porters in fluent, incorrect, and too carefully pronounced Italian. Amedeo + knew her—the Tabby who haunts Swiss and Italian hotels, the eternal + Tabby drastically complete. + </p> + <p> + A gay Italian is gaiety in flight, a human lark with a song. But a gloomy + Italian is oppressive and almost terrible. Despite the training of years + Amedeo’s smile flickered and died out. A ferocious expression surged up in + his dark eyes as he turned rather bruskly to scrutinize without hope the + few remaining clients. But suddenly his face cleared as he heard a buoyant + voice say in English: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll get out first, Godfather, and give you a hand.” + </p> + <p> + On the last word, a tall and lithe figure stepped swiftly, and with a sort + of athletic certainty, out of the omnibus, turned at once towards it, and, + with a movement eloquent of affection and almost tender reverence, + stretched forth an arm and open hand. + </p> + <p> + A spare man of middle height, elderly, with thick gray hair, and a + clean-shaven, much-lined face, wearing a large loose overcoat and soft + brown hat, took the hand as he emerged. He did not need it; Amedeo + realized that, realized also that he was glad to take it, enjoyed + receiving this kind and unnecessary help. + </p> + <p> + “And now for Beatrice!” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he gave in his turn a hand to the girl who followed him. + </p> + <p> + There were still two people in the omnibus, the elderly man’s Italian + valet and an Englishman. As the latter got out, and stretched his limbs + cramped with much sitting, he saw Amedeo, with genuine smiles, escorting + the two girls and the elderly man towards the glass-roofed hall, on the + left of which was the lift. The figure of the girl who had stepped out + first was about to disappear. As the Englishman looked she vanished. But + he had time to realize that a gait, the carriage of a head and its + movement in turning, can produce on an observer a moral effect. A joyous + sanity came to him from this unknown girl and made him feel joyously sane. + It seemed to sweep over him, like a cool and fresh breeze of the sea + falling through pine woods, to lift from him some of the dust of his + journey. He resolved to give the remainder of the dust to the public + garden, told his name, Dion Leith, to the manager, learnt that the room he + had ordered was ready for him, had his luggage sent up to it, and then + made his way to the trees on the far side of the broad road which skirts + the hotel. When he was among them he took off his hat, kept it in his + hand, and, so, strolled on down the almost deserted paths. As he walked he + tasted the autumn, not with any sadness, but with an appreciation that was + almost voluptuous. He was at a time of life and experience, when, if the + body is healthy, the soul is untroubled by care, each season of the year + holds its thrill for the strongly beating heart, its tonic gift for the + mind. Falling leaves were handfuls of gold for this man. The faint chill + in the air as evening drew on turned his thoughts to the brightness and + warmth of English fires burning on the hearths of houses that sheltered + dear and protected lives. The far-off voices of calling children, coming + to him from hidden places among the trees, did not make him pensive + because of their contrast with things that were dying. He hailed them as + voices of the youth which lasts in the world, though the world may seem to + be old to those who are old. + </p> + <p> + Dion Leith had a powerful grip on life and good things. He was young, just + twenty-six, strong and healthy, though slim-built in body, alert and + vigorous in mind, unperturbed in soul, buoyant and warmly imaginative. + Just at that moment the joy of life was almost at full flood in him, for + he had recently been reveling in a new and glorious experience, and now + carried it with him, a precious memory. + </p> + <p> + He had been traveling, and his wanderings had given him glimpses of two + worlds. In one of these worlds he had looked into the depths, had felt as + if he realized fully for the first time the violence of the angry and ugly + passions that deform life; in the other he had scaled the heights, had + tasted the still purity, the freshness, the exquisite calm, which are also + to be found in life. + </p> + <p> + He had visited Constantinople and had sailed from it to Greece. From + Greece he had taken ship to Brindisi, and was now on his way home to + England. + </p> + <p> + What he had thought at the time to be an ill chance had sent him on his + way alone. Guy Daventry, his great friend, who was to go with him, had + been seized by an illness. It was too late then to find another man free. + So, reluctantly, and inclined to grumble a little at fate, Dion had set + off in solitude. + </p> + <p> + He knew now that his solitude had given him keen sensations, which he + could scarcely have felt with the best of friends. Never, in any company, + had he been so repelled, enticed, disgusted, deeply enchanted, as on these + lonely wanderings which were now a part of his life. + </p> + <p> + How he had hated Constantinople, and how he had loved Greece! His + expectation had been betrayed by the event. He had not known himself when + he left England, or the part of himself which he had known had been the + lesser part, and he had taken it for the greater. For he had set out on + his journey with his hopes mainly fixed on Constantinople. Its road of + wildness and tumult, its barbaric glitter, its crude mixture of races, + even its passions and crimes—a legend in history, a solid fact of + to-day—had allured his mind. The art of Greece had beckoned to him; + its ancient shrines had had their strong summons for his brain; but he had + scarcely expected to love the country. He had imagined it as certainly + beautiful but with an austere and desolate beauty that would be, perhaps, + almost repellent to his nature. He had conceived of it as probably sad in + its naked calm, a country weary with the weight of a glorious past. + </p> + <p> + But he had been deceived, and he was glad of that. Because he had been + able to love Greece so much he felt a greater confidence in himself. + Without any ugly pride he said to himself: “Perhaps my nature is a little + bit better, a little bit purer than I had supposed.” + </p> + <p> + As the breeze in the public garden touched his bare head, slightly lifting + his thick dark hair, he remembered the winds of Greece; he remembered his + secret name for Greece, “the land of the early morning.” It was good to be + able to delight in the early morning—pure, delicate, marvelously + fresh. + </p> + <p> + He at down on a bench under a chestnut tree. The children’s voices had + died away. Silence seemed to be drawing near to the garden. He saw a few + moving figures in the shadows, but at a distance, fading towards the city. + </p> + <p> + The line of the figure, the poise of the head of that girl with whom he + had driven from the station, came before Dion’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + One winter day in 1895—it was a Sunday—when fog lay thickly + over London, Rosamund Everard sat alone in a house in Great Cumberland + Place, reading Dante’s “Paradiso.” Her sister, Beatrice, a pale, delicate + and sensitive shadow who adored her, and her guardian, Bruce Evelin, a + well-known Q.C. now retired from practice, had gone into the country to + visit some friends. Rosamund had also been invited, and much wanted, for + there was a party in the house, and her gaiety, her beauty, and her fine + singing made her a desirable guest; but she had “got out of it.” On this + particular Sunday she specially wished to be in London. At a church not + far from Great Cumberland Place—St. Mary’s, Welby Street—a man + was going to preach that evening whom she very much wanted to hear. Her + guardian’s friend, Canon Wilton, had spoken to her about him, and had said + to her once, “I should particularly like <i>you</i> to hear him.” And + somehow the simple words had impressed themselves upon her. So, when she + heard that Mr. Robertson was coming from his church in Liverpool to preach + at St. Mary’s, she gave up the country visit to hear him. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice and Bruce Evelin had no scruples in leaving her alone for a + couple of days. They knew that she, who had such an exceptional faculty + for getting on with all sorts and conditions of men and women, and who + always shed sunshine around her, had within her a great love of, sometimes + almost a thirst for, solitude. + </p> + <p> + “I need to be alone now and then,” they had heard her say; “it’s like + drinking water to me.” + </p> + <p> + Sitting quietly by the fire with her delightful edition of Dante, her left + hand under her head, her tall figure stretched out in a low chair, + Rosamund heard a bell ring below. It called her from the “Paradiso.” She + sprang up, remembering that she had given the butler no orders about not + wishing to be disturbed. At lunch-time the fog had been so dense that she + had not thought about possible visitors; she hurried to the head of the + staircase. + </p> + <p> + “Lurby! Lurby! I’m not at—” + </p> + <p> + It was too late. The butler must have been in the hall. She heard the + street door open and a man’s voice murmuring something. Then the door shut + and she heard steps. She retreated into the drawing-room, pulling down her + brows and shaking her head. No more “Paradiso,” and she loved it so! A + moment before she had been far away. + </p> + <p> + The book was lying open on the arm-chair in which she had been sitting. + She went to close it and put it on a table. For an instant she looked down + on the page, and immediately her dream returned. Then Lurby’s dry, soft + voice said behind her: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” She turned, leaving the book. + </p> + <p> + Directly she looked at Dion Leith she knew why he had come. + </p> + <p> + “I’m all alone,” Rosamund said. “I stayed here, instead of going to + Sherrington with Beattie and my guardian, because I wanted to hear a + sermon this evening. Come and sit down by the fire.” + </p> + <p> + “What church are you going to?” + </p> + <p> + “St. Mary’s, Welby Street.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go with you?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had taken up the “Paradiso” and was shutting it. + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll go alone,” she said gently but quite firmly. + </p> + <p> + “What are you reading?” + </p> + <p> + “Dante’s ‘Paradiso.’” + </p> + <p> + She put the book down on a table at her elbow. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you meant me to be let in,” he said bluntly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it was you. How could I know?” + </p> + <p> + “And if you had known?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. His brows contracted till he looked almost fierce. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure. Honestly I’m not sure. I’ve been quite alone since Friday, + when they went. And I’d got it into my head that I wasn’t going to see any + one till to-morrow, except, of course, at the church.” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt chilled almost to the bone. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t understand,” he almost burst out, in an uncontrolled way that + surprised himself. “Are you completely self-sufficing then? But it isn’t + natural. Could you live alone?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say that.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him steadily and calmly, without a hint of anger. + </p> + <p> + “But could you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Probably not. I’ve never tried.” + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t hate the idea?” + </p> + <p> + His voice was almost violent. + </p> + <p> + “No; if—if I were living in a certain way.” + </p> + <p> + “What way?” + </p> + <p> + But she did not answer his question. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say I might dislike living alone. I’ve never done such a thing, + therefore I can’t tell.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re an enigma,” he exclaimed. “And you seem so—so—you have + this extraordinary, this abnormal power of attracting people to you. You + are friends with everybody.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean you’re so cordial, so friendly with everybody. Don’t you care for + anybody?” + </p> + <p> + “I care very much for some people.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you could live alone! Shut in here for days with a book”—at + that moment he was positively jealous of old Dante, gone to his rest five + hundred and seventy-four years ago—“you’re perfectly happy.” + </p> + <p> + “The ‘Paradiso’ isn’t an ordinary book,” she said, very gently, and + looking at him with a kind, almost beaming expression in her yellow-brown + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe you ever read an ordinary book.” + </p> + <p> + “I like to feed on fine things. I’m half afraid of the second-rate.” + </p> + <p> + “I love you for that. Oh, Rosamund, I love you for so many things!” + </p> + <p> + He got up and stood by the fire, turning his back to her for a moment. + When he swung round his face was earnest but he looked calmer. She saw + that he was making a strong effort to hold himself in, that he was + reaching out after self-control. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you all the things I love you for,” he said, “but your + independence of spirit frightens me. From the very first, from that + evening when I saw you in the omnibus at the Milan Station over a year + ago, I felt your independence.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I manifest it in the omnibus to poor Beattie and my guardian?” she + asked, smiling, and in a lighter tone. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” he said gravely. “But when I saw you the same evening + walking with your sister in the public garden I felt it more strongly. + Even the way you held your head and moved—you reminded me of the + maidens of the Porch on the Acropolis. I connected you with Greece and all + my—my dreams of Greece.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps if you hadn’t just come from Greece—” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it strange,” he said, interrupting her but quite unconscious that + he did so, “that almost the first words I heard you speak were about + Greece? You were telling your sister abut the Greek divers who come to + Portofino to find coral under the sea. I was sitting alone in the garden, + and you passed and I heard just a few words. They made me think of the + first Greek Island I ever saw, rising out of the sunset as I voyaged from + Constantinople to the Piraeus. It was wonderfully beautiful and + wonderfully calm. It was like a herald of all the beauty and purity I + found in Greece. It was—like you.” + </p> + <p> + “How you hated Constantinople!” she said. “I remember you denouncing its + noise and its dirt, and the mongrel horrors of Pera, to my guardian in the + hotel where we made friends. And he put in a plea for Stamboul.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I exaggerated. But Constantinople stood to me for all the uproar of + life, and Greece for the calm and beauty and happiness, the great Sanity + of the true happiness.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her with yearning in his dark eyes. + </p> + <p> + “For all I want in my own life,” he added. + </p> + <p> + He paused; then an expression of strong, almost hard resolution made his + face look suddenly older. + </p> + <p> + “You told me at Burstal, on the Chilton Downs, after your debut in + ‘Elijah,’ that you would give me an answer soon. I have waited a good + while—some weeks——” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you ask me just that day, after ‘Woe unto them’?” + </p> + <p> + “I felt I must,” he answered, but with a slight awkwardness, as if he were + evading something and felt half-guilty. “To-day I decided I would ask you + again, for the last time.” + </p> + <p> + “You would never——” + </p> + <p> + “No, never. If you say ‘Wait, and come later on and ask me,’ I shall not + come.” + </p> + <p> + She got up restlessly. She was obviously moved. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, I can’t tell you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I just feel I can’t. It’s no use.” + </p> + <p> + “When did you mean to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you mean ever to allude to the matter again, if I hadn’t?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should have told you, because I knew you were waiting. I—I—often + I have thought that I shall never marry any one.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into the fire. Her face had become almost mysterious. + </p> + <p> + “Some women don’t need—that,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + The fire played over her pale yellow hair. + </p> + <p> + “Abnormal women!” he exclaimed violently. + </p> + <p> + She turned. + </p> + <p> + “Hush! You don’t know what you are saying. It isn’t abnormal to wish to + dedicate——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. + </p> + <p> + “What?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us talk of these things. But you must not judge any woman + without knowing what is in her heart. Even your own mother, with whom you + have lived alone ever since your father’s death—do you know very + much of her? We can’t always show ourselves plainly as we are. It may not + be our fault.” + </p> + <p> + “You will marry. You must marry.” + </p> + <p> + “Why—must?” + </p> + <p> + He gazed at her. As she met his eyes she reddened slightly, understanding + his thought, that such a woman as she was ought not to avoid the great + vocation of woman. But there was another vocation, and perhaps it was + hers. She felt confused. Two desires were struggling within her. It was as + if her nature contained two necessities which were wholly irreconcilable + the one with the other. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t tell me?” he said, at last. + </p> + <p> + “Not now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I am going, and I shall never ask you again. But I shall never be + able to love any one but you.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing more, and went away without touching her hand. + </p> + <p> + Words of Dante ran in Rosamund’s head, and she repeated them to herself + after Dion had gone. + </p> + <p> + “<i>La divina volontate</i>!” She believed in it; she said to herself that + she trusted it absolutely. But how was she to know exactly what it was? + And yet, could she escape from it even if she wished to? Could she wander + away into any path where the Divine Will did not mean her to set foot? + Predestination—free will. “If only I were not so ignorant,” she + thought. + </p> + <p> + Soon after six she went up to her bedroom to put on her things for church. + </p> + <p> + Her bedroom was very simple, and showed plainly an indifference to luxury, + a dislike of show and of ostentation in its owner. The walls and ceiling + were white. The bed, which stood against the wall in one corner, was + exceptionally long. This fact, perhaps, made it look exceptionally narrow. + It was quite plain, had a white wooden bedstead, and was covered with a + white bedspread of a very ordinary type. There was one arm-chair in the + room made of wickerwork with a rather hard cushion on the seat, the sort + of cushion that resolutely refuses to “give” when one sits down on it. On + the small dressing-table there was no array of glittering silver bottles, + boxes and brushes. A straw flagon of eau-de-Cologne was Rosamund’s sole + possession of perfume. She did not own a box of powder or a puff. But it + must be acknowledged that she never looked “shiny.” She had some ivory + hair-brushes given to her one Christmas by Bruce Evelin. Beside them was + placed a hideous receptacle for—well, for anything—pins, + perhaps, buttons, small tiresomenesses of that kind. It was made of some + glistening black material, and at its center there bloomed a fearful red + cabbage rose, a rose all vulgarity, ostentation and importance. This + monstrosity had been given to Rosamund as a thank-offering by a poor + charwoman to whom she had been kind. It had been in constant use now for + over three years. The charwoman knew this with grateful pride. + </p> + <p> + Upon the mantelpiece there were other gifts of a similar kind: a + photograph frame made of curly shells, a mug with “A present from + Greenwich” written across it in gold letters, a flesh-colored glass vase + with yellow trimmings, a china cow with its vermilion ears cocked forward, + lying down in a green meadow which just held it, and a toy trombone with a + cord and tassels. There were also several photographs of poor people in + their Sunday clothes. On the walls hung a photograph of Cardinal Newman, a + good copy of a Luini Madonna, two drawings of heads by Burne-Jones, a + small painting—signed “G. F. Watts”—of an old tree trunk + around which ivy was lovingly growing, and one or two prints. + </p> + <p> + The floor was polished and partially covered by three good-sized mats. + There was a writing-table on one side of the room with an ebony-and-gold + crucifix standing upon it. Opposite to it, on the other side of the room + near the fireplace, was a bookcase. On the shelves were volumes of + Shakespeare, Dante, Emerson, Wordsworth, Browning, Christina Rossetti, + Newman’s “Dream of Gerontius” and “Apologia,” Thomas a Kempis, several + works on mystics and mysticism, a life of St. Catherine of Genoa, another + of St. Francis of Assisi, St. Ignatius Loyola’s “Spiritual Exercises,” + Pascal’s “Letters,” etc., etc. Over the windows hung gray-blue curtains. + </p> + <p> + Into this room Rosamund came that evening; she went to a wardrobe and + began to take down a long sealskin coat. Just then her maid appeared—an + Italian girl whom she had taken into her service in Milan when she had + studied singing there. + </p> + <p> + “Shan’t I come with you, Signorina?” she asked, as she took the jacket + from her mistress and held it for Rosamund to put on. + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you, Maria. I’m going to church, the Protestant church.” + </p> + <p> + “I could wait outside or come back to fetch you.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not far. I shall be all right.” + </p> + <p> + “But the fog is terrible. It’s like a wall about the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it as bad as that?” + </p> + <p> + She went to one of the windows, pulled aside the curtains, lifted the + blind and tried to look out. But she could not, for the fog pressed + against the window panes and hid the street and the houses opposite. + </p> + <p> + “It is bad.” + </p> + <p> + She dropped the blind, let the curtains fall into place and turned round. + </p> + <p> + “But I’d rather go alone. I can’t miss the way, and I’m not a nervous + person. You’d be far more frightened than I.” She smiled at the girl. + </p> + <p> + Apparently reassured, or perhaps merely glad that her unselfishness was + not going to be tested, Maria accompanied her mistress downstairs and let + her out. It was Lurby’s “evening off,” and for once he was not discreetly + on hand. + </p> + <p> + Church bells were chiming faintly in this City of dreadful night as + Rosamund almost felt her way onward. She heard them and thought they were + sad, and their melancholy seemed to be one with the melancholy of the + atmosphere. Some one passed by her. She just heard a muffled sound of + steps, just discerned a shadow—that was all. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow she must give an answer to Dion Leith. She went on slowly in the + fog, thinking, thinking. Two vertical lines showed in her usually smooth + forehead. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly half-past six when she turned into Welby Street. The church + was not a large one and there was no parish attached to it. It was a + proprietary chapel. The income of the incumbent came from pew rents. His + name was Limer, and he was a first-rate preacher of the sensational type, + a pulpit dealer in “actualities.” He was also an excellent musician, and + took great pains with his choir. In consequence of these talents, and of + his diligent application of them, St. Mary’s was generally full, and all + its pews were let at a high figure. To-night, however, because of the fog, + Rosamund expected to find few people. + </p> + <p> + One bell was mournfully ringing as she drew near and presently saw a faint + gleaming of light through long narrow windows of painted glass. “Ping, + ping, ping!” It was a thin little summons to prayer. She passed through a + gateway in some railings of wrought ironwork, crossed a slippery pavement + and entered the church. + </p> + <p> + It was already more than three parts full, and there was a large + proportion of men in the congregation. A smart-looking young man, + evidently a gentleman, who was standing close to the door, nodded to + Rosamund and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll put you into Lady Millingham’s seat. You’ll find Mrs. Chetwinde and + Mr. Darlington there.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’d rather—” began Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + But he had already begun to move up the aisle, and she was obliged to + follow him to a pew close to the pulpit, in which were seated a smartly + dressed woman with a vague and yet acute expression, pale eyes and a + Burne-Jones throat; and a thin, lanky and immensely tall man of uncertain + age, with pale brown, very straight hair, large white ears, thick ragged + eyebrows, a carefully disarranged beard and mustache, and an irregular + refined face decorated with a discreet but kind expression. These were + Mrs. Willie Chetwinde, who had a wonderful house in Lowndes Square, and + Mr. Esme Darlington, bachelor, of St. James’s Square, who was everybody’s + friend including his own. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund just recognized them gravely; then she knelt down and prayed + earnestly, with her face hidden against her muff. She still heard the + little bell’s insistent “Ping, ping, ping!” She pressed her shut eyes so + hard against the muff that rings of yellow light floated up in her + darkness, forming, retreating, melting away. + </p> + <p> + The bell ceased; the first notes of the organ sounded in a voluntary by + Mendelssohn, amiable and charming; the choir filed in as Rosamund rose + from her knees. In the procession the two last figures were Mr. Limer and + Mr.—or, as he was always called in Liverpool, Father—Robertson. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Limer was a short, squat, clean-shaven but hairy dark man, with + coal-black hair sweeping round a big forehead, a determined face and + large, indignant brown eyes. The Liverpool clergyman was of middle height, + very thin, with snow-white hair, dark eyes and eyebrows, and a young + almost boyish face, with straight, small features, and a luminous, gentle + and yet intense look. He seemed almost to glow, quietly, definitely, like + a lamp set in a dark place, and one felt that his glow could not easily be + extinguished. He walked tranquilly by the side of Mr. Limer, and looked + absolutely unselfconscious, quietly dignified and simple. + </p> + <p> + When he went into the pulpit the lights were lowered and a pleasant + twilight prevailed. But the preacher’s face was strongly illuminated. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robertson preached on the sin of egoism, and took as the motto of his + sermon the words—“<i>Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat</i>.” His method + of preaching was quiet, but intense; again the glow of the lamp. Often + there were passages which suggested a meditation—a soul communing + with itself fearlessly, with an unyielding, but never violent, + determination to arrive at the truth. And Rosamund, listening, felt as if + nothing could keep this man with the snow-white hair and the young face + away from the truth. + </p> + <p> + He ranged over a wide field—egoism being wide as the world—he + exposed many of the larger evils brought about by egoism, in connexion + with the Arts, with politics, with charity, with religious work in great + cities, with missionary enterprises abroad; he touched on some of the more + subtle forms of egoism, which may poison even the sources of love; and + finally he discussed the gains and the losses of egoism. “For,” he said, + “let us be honest and acknowledge that we often gain, in the worldly + sense, by our sins, and sometimes lose by our virtues.” Power of a kind + can be, and very often is, obtained by egoists through their egoism. He + discussed that power, showed its value and the glory of it. Then he + contrasted with it the power which is only obtained by those who, + completely unselfish, know not how to think of themselves. He enlarged on + this theme, on the Kingdom which can belong only to those who are + selfless. And then he drew to the end of his sermon. + </p> + <p> + “One of the best means I know,” he said, “for getting rid of egoism is + this: whenever you have to take some big decision between two courses of + action—perhaps between two life courses—ask yourself, ‘Which + can I share?’—which of these two paths is wide enough to admit of my + treading it with a companion, whose steps I can help, whose journey I can + enliven, whose weariness I can solace, and whose burden I can now and then + bear for a little while? And if only one of the paths is wide enough, then + choose that in preference to the other. I believe profoundly in ‘sharing + terms.’” + </p> + <p> + He paused, gazing at the congregation with his soft and luminous eyes. + Then he added: + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat</i>. When the insistent <i>I</i> + sleeps, only then perhaps can the heart be truly awake, be really + watchful. Then let us send the insistent I to sleep, and let us keep it + slumbering.” + </p> + <p> + He half-smiled as he finished. There had been something slightly whimsical + about his final words, about his manner and himself when he said them. + </p> + <p> + Silence and the fog, and Rosamund walking homewards with her hands deep in + her muff. All those bodies and minds and souls which had been in the + church had evaporated into the night. Mrs. Chetwinde and Esme Darlington + had wanted to speak to Rosamund, but she had slipped out of the church + quickly. She did not wish to talk to any one. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Ego dormio et cor meum vigilat</i>.” + </p> + <p> + What an odd little turn, or twist, the preacher had given to the meaning + of those words! “Whenever you have to take some big decision between two + life courses, ask yourself, ‘Which can I share?’ and if you can only share + one, choose that.” + </p> + <p> + Very slowly Rosamund walked on, bending a little above the big muff, like + one pulled forward by a weight of heavy thoughts. She turned a corner. + Presently she turned another corner and traversed a square, which could + not be seen to be a square. And then, quite suddenly, she realized that + she had not been thinking about her way home and that she was lost in the + impenetrable fog. + </p> + <p> + She stood still and listened. She heard nothing. Traffic seemed stopped in + this region. On her left there were three steps. She went up them and was + under the porch of a house. Light shone dully from within, and by it she + could just make out on the door the number “8.” At least it seemed to her + that probably it was an “8.” She hesitated, came down the steps, and + walked on. It was impossible to see the names of the streets and squares. + But presently she would come across a policeman. She went on and on, but + no policeman bulked shadowy against the background of night and of the fog + which at last seemed almost terrible to her. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was not timid. She was constitutionally incapable of timidity. + Nor was she actively alarmed in a strong and definite way. But gradually + there seemed to permeate her a cold, almost numbing sensation of + loneliness and of desolation. For the first time in her life she felt not + merely alone but solitary, and not merely solitary but as if she were + condemned to be so by some power that was hostile to her. + </p> + <p> + It was a hideous feeling. Something in the fog and in the night made an + assault upon her imagination. Abruptly she was numbered among the derelict + women whom nobody wants, whom no man thinks of or wishes to be with, whom + no child calls mother. She felt physically and morally, “I am solitary,” + and it was horrible to her. She saw herself old and alone, and she + shuddered. + </p> + <p> + How long she walked on she did not know, but when at last she heard a step + shuffling along somewhere in front of her, she had almost—she + thought—realized Eternity. + </p> + <p> + The step was not coming towards her but was going onwards slowly before + her. She hastened, and presently came up with an old man, poorly dressed + in a dreadful frock-coat and disgraceful trousers, wearing on his long + gray locks a desperado of a top hat, and carrying, in a bloated and almost + purple hand, a large empty jug. + </p> + <p> + “Please!” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman shuffled on. + </p> + <p> + “Could you tell me—<i>please</i>—can you tell me where we + are?” + </p> + <p> + She had grasped his left coat-sleeve. He turned and, bending, she peered + into the face of a drunkard. + </p> + <p> + “Close to the ‘Daniel Lambert,’” said an almost refined old voice. + </p> + <p> + And a pair of pathetic gray eyes peered up at her above a nose that was + like a conflagration. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s that? What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know the ‘Daniel Lambert’?” + </p> + <p> + The voice sounded very surprised and almost suspicious. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s well known, very well known. I’m just popping round there to get a + little something—eh!” + </p> + <p> + The voice died away. + </p> + <p> + “I want to find Great Cumberland Place.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you’re pretty close to it. The ‘Daniel Lambert’s’ in the Edgware + Road.” + </p> + <p> + “Could you find it?—Great Cumberland Place, I mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would. I should be so grateful.” + </p> + <p> + The gray eyes became more pathetic. + </p> + <p> + “Grateful to me—would you, miss? I’ll go with you and very glad to + do it.” + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman took Rosamund home and talked to her on the way. When + they parted she asked for his name and address. He hesitated for a moment + and then gave it: “Mr. Thrush, 2 Albingdon Buildings, John’s Court, near + Edgware Road.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. You’ve done me a good turn.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the front door was opened by the housemaid. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—miss!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes left Rosamund and fastened themselves, like weapons, on the old + gentleman’s nose. He lifted his desperado of a hat and immediately turned + away, trying to conceal his jug under his left arm, but inadvertently + letting it protrude. + </p> + <p> + “Good night, and thank you very much indeed!” Rosamund called after him + with warm cordiality. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you’ve got back, miss. We were in a way. It’s ever so late.” + </p> + <p> + “I got lost in the fog. That dear old man rescued me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m very thankful, miss, I’m sure.” + </p> + <p> + The girl seemed stiffened with astonishment. She shut the street door + automatically. + </p> + <p> + “He used to be a chemist once.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he, miss?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, quite a successful one too; just off Hanover Square, he told me. He + was going round to get something for his supper when we met.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed, miss?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund went upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, poor old man,” she said, as she ascended. + </p> + <p> + Like most people in perfect health Rosamund slept well; but that night she + lay awake. She did not want to sleep. She had something to decide, + something of vital importance to her. Two courses lay open to her. She + might marry Dion Leith, or she might resolve never to marry. Like most + girls she had had dreams, but unlike most girls, she had often dreamed of + a life in which men had no place. She had recently entered upon the career + of a public singer, not because she was obliged to earn money but because + she had a fine voice and a strong temperament, and longed for + self-expression. But she had always believed that her public career would + be a short one. She loved fine music and enjoyed bringing its message home + to people, but she had little or no personal vanity, and the life of a + public performer entailed a great deal which she already found herself + disliking. Recently, too, her successful career had received a slight + check. She had made her festival debut at Burstal in “Elijah,” and no + engagements for oratorio had followed upon it. Some day, while she was + still young, she meant to retire, and then—— + </p> + <p> + If she married Dion Leith she would have to give up an old dream. On the + other hand, if she married him, perhaps some day she would be a mother. + She felt certain—she did not know why—that if she did not + marry Dion Leith she would never marry at all. + </p> + <p> + She thought, she prayed, she thought again. Sometimes in the dark hours of + that night the memory of her sensation of loneliness in the fog returned + to her. Sometimes Mr. Robertson’s “Which can I share?” echoed within her, + in the resonant chamber of her soul. He had been very quiet, but he had + made an enormous impression upon her; he had made her hate egoism much + more than she had hated it hitherto. + </p> + <p> + Even into the innermost sanctuary of religion egoism can perhaps find a + way. The thought of that troubled Rosamund in the dark. But when the hour + of dawn grew near she fell asleep. She had made up her mind, or, rather, + it had surely been made up for her. For a conviction had come upon her + that for good or for evil it was meant that her life should be linked with + Dion Leith’s. He possessed something which she valued highly, and which, + she thought, was possessed by very few men. He offered it to her. If she + refused it, such an offering would probably never be made to her again. + </p> + <p> + To be a lonely woman; to be a subtle and profound egoist; to be loved, + cherished, worshiped; to be a mother. + </p> + <p> + Many lives of women seemed to float before her eyes. + </p> + <p> + Just before she lost consciousness it seemed to her, for a moment, that + she was looking into the pathetic eyes of the old man whom she had met in + the fog. + </p> + <p> + “Poor old man!” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + She slept. + </p> + <p> + On the following morning she sent this note to Dion Leith: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR DION,—I will marry you. + </p> + <p> + “ROSAMUND.” <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + In the following spring, Rosamund and Dion were married, and Dion took + Rosamund “to the land of the early morning.” + </p> + <p> + They arrived in Greece at the beginning of May, when the rains were over + and the heats of summer were at hand. The bed of Ilissus was empty. Dust + lay white in the streets of Athens and along the road to Phaleron and the + sea. The low-lying tracts of country were desert-dry, and about Athens the + world was arrayed in the garb of the East. Nevertheless there was still a + delicate freshness in the winds that blew to the little city from the + purple Aegean or from the mountains of Argolis; stirring the dust into + spiral dances among the pale houses upon which Lycabettos looks down; + shaking the tiny leaves of the tressy pepper trees near the Royal Palace; + whispering the antique secrets of the ages into the ears of the maidens + who, unwearied and happily submissive, bear up the Porch of the + Erechtheion; stealing across the vast spaces and between the mighty + columns of the Parthenon. The dawns and the twilights had not lost the + pure savor of their almost frail vitality. The deepness of slumber still + came with the nights. + </p> + <p> + Greece was, perhaps, at her loveliest. And Greece was almost deserted by + travelers. They had come and gone with the spring, leaving the land to its + own, and to those two who had come there to drink deep at the wells of + happiness. And, a little selfish as lovers are, Rosamund and Dion took + everything wonderful and beautiful as their possession. + </p> + <p> + The yellow-green pines near the convent of Daphni threw patches of shade + on the warm earth because they wanted to rest there; the kingfisher rose + in low and arrow-like flight from the banks of Khephissus to make a sweet + diversion for them; they longed for brilliance, and the lagoons of Salamis + were dyed with a wonder of emerald; they asked for twilight, and the deep + and deserted glades of Academe gave it them in full measure. All these + possessions, and many others, they enjoyed almost as children enjoy a + meadow full of flowers when they have climbed over the gate that bars it + from the high road. But the Acropolis was the stronghold of their joy. + Only when their feet pressed its silvery grasses, and trod its warm marble + pavements, did they hold the world within their grasp. + </p> + <p> + For some days after their arrival in Greece they almost lived among the + ruins. The long-coated guardians smiled at them, at first with a sort of + faint amusement, at last with a friendly pleasure. And they smiled at + themselves. Each evening they said, “To-morrow we will do this—or + that,” and each morning they said nothing, just looked at each other after + breakfast, read in each other’s eyes the repetition of desire, and set out + on the dear dusty road with which they were already so familiar. + </p> + <p> + Had there ever before been a honeymoon bounded by the precipices of the + Acropolis? They sometimes discussed that important question, and always + decided against the impertinent possibility. “What we are doing has never + been done before.” Dion went further than this, to “What I am feeling has + never been felt before.” His youth asserted itself in silent, determined + statements which seemed to him to ring with authentic truth. + </p> + <p> + It was a far cry from the downs of Chilton to the summit of the Acropolis. + Dion remembered the crowd assembled to hear “Elijah”; he felt the ugly + heat, the press of humanity. And all that was but the prelude to this! + Even the voice crying “Woe unto them!” had been the prelude to the + wonderful silence of Greece. He felt marvelously changed. And Rosamund + often seemed to him changed, too, because she was his own. That wonderful + fact gave her new values, spread about her new mysteries. And some of + these mysteries Dion did not attempt to fathom at first. Perhaps he felt + that some silences of love are like certain ceremony with a friend—a + mark of the delicacy which is the sign-manual of the things that endure. + In the beginning of that honeymoon there was a beautiful restraint which + was surely of good augury for the future. Not all the doors were set + violently open, not all the rooms were ruthlessly visited. + </p> + <p> + Dion found that he was able to reverence the woman who had given herself + to him more after he had received the gift than before. And this was very + wonderful to him, was even, somehow, perplexing. For Rosamund had the + royal way of bestowing. She was capable of refusal, but not of + half-measures or of niggardliness. There was something primitive in her + which spoke truth with a voice that was fearless; and yet that very + primitiveness seemed closely allied with her purity. Dion only understood + what that purity was when he was married to her. It was like the radiant + atmosphere of Greece to him. Had not Greece led him to it, made him desire + it with all that was best in his nature? Now he had brought it to Greece. + Actually, day after day, he trod the Acropolis with Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Greece had already, he believed, put out a hand and drawn them more + closely together. + </p> + <p> + “Love me, love the land I love.” + </p> + <p> + Laughingly, yet half-anxiously too, Dion had said that to Rosamund when + they left Brindisi and set sail for Greece. With her usual sincerity she + had answered: + </p> + <p> + “I want to love it. Do you wish me to say more than that, to make promises + I may not be able to keep?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” he had answered. “I only want truth from you.” And after a moment he + had added, “I shall never want anything from you but your truth.” + </p> + <p> + She had looked at him rather strangely, like one moved by conflicting + feelings, and after a slight hesitation she had said: + </p> + <p> + “Dion, do you realize all the meaning in those words of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Then if you really mean them you must be one of the most daring of human + beings. But I shall try a compromise with you. I shall try to give you my + best truth, never my worst. You deserve that, I think. Indeed, I know you + do.” + </p> + <p> + And he had left it to her. Was he not wise to do that? Already he trusted + her absolutely, as he had never thought to trust any one. + </p> + <p> + “I could face any storm with you,” he once said to Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had wanted to love Greece, and from the first moment of seeing + the land she had loved it. + </p> + <p> + In the beginning of their stay she had scarcely been able to believe that + she was really in Athens. A great name had aroused in her imagination a + conception of a great city. The soft familiarity, the almost rustic + simplicity and intimacy, the absolutely unpretentious brightness and + homely cheerfulness of the small capital of this unique land had + surprised, had almost confused her. + </p> + <p> + “Is this really Athens?” she had said, wondering, as they had driven into + what seemed a village set in bright bareness, sparsely shaded here and + there by small pepper-trees. + </p> + <p> + And the question had persisted in her mind, had almost trembled upon her + lips, for two or three days. But then had come a mysterious change, + brought about, perhaps, by affection. Quickly she had learnt to love + Athens, and then she had the feeling that if it had been in any way + different from what it was she could not have loved it. Its very smallness + delighted her, and she would not permit its faults to be mentioned in her + presence. Once, when Dion said that it was a great pity the Athenians did + not plant more trees, and a greater pity they so often lopped off branches + from the few trees they had, she exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t run down my Athens. It likes to give itself to the sun + generously. It’s grateful, as it well may be, for all the sun has done for + it. Look at the color of that marble.” + </p> + <p> + And Dion looked at the honey color, and the wonderful reddish-gold, and, + laughing, said: + </p> + <p> + “Athens is the one faultless city, and the dogs tell us so every night and + all night long.” + </p> + <p> + “Dogs always bark when the moon is up,” she answered, with a semi-humorous + gravity. + </p> + <p> + “As they bark in Athens?” he queried. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “If I am ever criticized,” he asked, “will you be my defender?” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t hear you criticized.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “I do know it,” she said, looking at him with her honest brown eyes; + “nobody will criticize you when I am there.” + </p> + <p> + He caught hold of her hand. + </p> + <p> + “And you? Don’t you often criticize me silently? I’m sure you do. Why did + you marry me, Rosamund?” + </p> + <p> + They were sitting on the Acropolis when he put that question. It was a + shining day. The far-off seas gleamed. There was a golden pathway to + Aegina. The brilliant clearness, not European but Eastern, did not make + the great view spread out beneath and around them hard. Greece lay wrapped + in a mystery of sunlight, different from, yet scarcely less magical than, + the mystery of shadows and the moon. Rosamund looked out on the glory. She + had taken off her hat, and given her yellow hair to the sunlight. Without + any head-covering she always looked more beautiful, and, to Dion, more + Greek than when her hair was concealed. He saw in her then more clearly + than at other times the woman of all the ages rather than the woman of an + epoch subject to certain fashions. As he looked at her now, resting on a + block of warm marble above the precipice which is dominated by the little + temple of Athena Nike, he wondered, with the concealed humility of the + great lover, how it was that she had ever chosen to give herself to him. + He had sworn to marry her. He had not been weak in his wooing, had not + been one of those men who will linger on indefinitely at a woman’s feet, + ready to submit to unnumbered refusals. But now there rose up in the + depths of him the cry, “What am I?” and the answer, “Only a man like + thousands of other men, in no way remarkable, in no way more worthy than + thousands of others of the gift of great happiness.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund turned from the shining view. There was in her eyes an unusual + vagueness. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why did I marry you, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. When I found you with your ‘Paradise’ I don’t think you meant ever + to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “I always liked you. But at first I didn’t think of you in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had known for ages before Burstal——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course. I knew the day I sang at Mr. Darlington’s, at that party + he gave to introduce me as a singer. I knew first from your mother. She + told me.” + </p> + <p> + “My mother?” + </p> + <p> + “By the look she gave me when you introduced me to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Was it an——How d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I can scarcely explain. But it was a look that asked a great many + questions. And they wouldn’t have been asked if you hadn’t cared for me, + and if she hadn’t known it.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you think when you knew?” + </p> + <p> + “That it was kind of you to care for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I always feel that about people who like me very much.” + </p> + <p> + “And did you just go on thinking me kind until that day at Burstal?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose so. But I felt very much at home with you.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether that’s a compliment to a man who’s still young, or + not?” + </p> + <p> + “Nor do I. But that’s just how it was.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing for a little while. When he spoke again it was with some + hesitation, and his manner was almost diffident. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund, that day at Burstal, were you at all inclined to accept me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; I think, perhaps, I was. Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I have fancied there was a moment when——” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and then, for once, his eyes fell before hers almost + guiltily. They sat in silence for a moment. Behind them, on a bench set in + the shadow of a mighty wall, was a guardian of the Acropolis, a thin brown + man with very large ears sticking out from his head. He had been dozing, + but now stirred, shuffled his feet, and suddenly cleared his throat. Then + he sighed heavily. + </p> + <p> + “And if there was, why did you think it came, Dion?” said Rosamund + suddenly, with an almost startling swiftness of decision. + </p> + <p> + Dion reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you like to tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—things go through the mind without our wishing them to. + You must know that, Rosamund. They are often like absurd little intruders. + One kicks them out if one can.” + </p> + <p> + “What kind of intruder did you kick out, or try to kick out, at Burstal?” + </p> + <p> + She spoke half-laughingly, but half-challengingly. + </p> + <p> + He drew a little nearer to her. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I have fancied that perhaps, that day at Burstal, you suddenly + realized that love might be a more powerful upholder of life than ambition + ever could be.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes? And you thought it first on the downs, or at any rate after + the concert?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you realize,” she said slowly, and as if with an effort, “that you and + I have never discussed my singing in ‘Elijah’?” + </p> + <p> + “I know we never have.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us do it now,” she continued, still seeming to make a strong effort. + </p> + <p> + “But why should we?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to. Didn’t I sing well?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you sang wonderfully well.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what was it that went wrong? I’ve never understood.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should you think anything went wrong? The critics said it was a + remarkable performance. You made a great effect.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I did. But I felt for the first time that day that I was out of + sympathy with my audience. And then”—she paused, but presently added + with a certain dryness—“I was never offered any engagement to sing + in oratorio after Burstal.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe a good many people thought your talent would show at its best + in opera.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never go on the stage. The idea is hateful to me, and always has + been. Would you like me to sing on the stage?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion, why don’t you tell me what happened that day at Burstal?” + </p> + <p> + “I scarcely could.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you would try.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I think it was a mistake for you to begin your public career + in oratorio by singing ‘Woe unto them.’” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s an unsympathetic thing. It’s a cruel sort of thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Cruel? But it’s one of the best-known things in oratorio.” + </p> + <p> + “You made it quite new.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “It sounded fanatical when you sang it. I never heard it sound like that + before.” + </p> + <p> + “Fanatical?” she said, and her voice was rather cold. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund,” he said, quickly and anxiously, “you asked me to tell you + exactly what I meant, what I felt, that is——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know. Go on, Dion. Well? It sounded fanatical——” + </p> + <p> + “To me. I’m only telling you my impression. When I’ve heard ‘Woe unto + them’ before it has always sounded sad, piteous if you like, a sort of + wailing. When you sang it, somehow it was like a curse, a tremendous + summoning of vengeance.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Are not the words ‘Destruction shall fall upon them’?” + </p> + <p> + “I know. But you made it sound—to me, I mean—almost as if you + were rejoicing personally at the thought of the destruction, as if you + were longing almost eagerly for it to overwhelm the faithless.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. That is what you meant by fanatical?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I suppose so.” + </p> + <p> + After a long pause she said: + </p> + <p> + “Nobody has told me that till now.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps others didn’t feel it as I did.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. What does one know about other people? Not even my guardian + said anything. I never could understand——” + </p> + <p> + She broke off, then continued steadily: + </p> + <p> + “So you think I repelled people that day?” + </p> + <p> + “It seems impossible that you—” + </p> + <p> + But she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “No, Dion, it isn’t at all impossible. I think if we are absolutely + sincere we repel people very often.” + </p> + <p> + “But you are the most sincere person I have ever seen, and you must know + how beloved you are, how popular you are wherever you go.” + </p> + <p> + “When I’m being sincere with the part of me that’s feeling kind or + affectionate. Let us go to the Parthenon.” + </p> + <p> + She got up, opened her white sun-umbrella and turned round, keeping her + hat in her left hand. As she stood there in that setting of marble, with + the sun caught in her hair, and the mighty view below and beyond her, she + looked wonderfully beautiful, Dion thought, but almost stern. He feared + perhaps he had hurt her. But was it his fault? She had told him to speak. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund did not return to the subject of her debut at Burstal, but in the + late afternoon of that day she spoke of her singing, and of the place it + might have in their married life. Dion believed she did this because of + their conversation near the Temple of Nike. + </p> + <p> + They had spent most of the day on the Acropolis. Both had brought books: + she, Mahaffy’s “History of Greek Literature”; he, a volume of poems + written by a young diplomat who loved Greece and knew her well. Neither of + them had read many pages, but as the strong radiance began to soften about + them on the height, and the breeze from the Saronic Gulf came to them with + a more feathery warmth and freshness over the smiling bareness of the + Attic Plain, Dion, who had been half-dreamily turning the leaves of his + little book, said: + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the sea and the mountains of Trigania, those far-off mountains”—he + pointed—“and the outpost of Hydra.” + </p> + <p> + She looked and said nothing. Then he read to her these lines of the young + diplomat-poet: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A crescent sail upon the sea, + So calm and fair and ripple free + You wonder storms can ever be; + + A shore with deep indented bays, + And o’er the gleaming water-ways + A glimpse of Islands in the haze; + + A face bronzed dark to red and gold, + With mountain eyes that seem to hold + The freshness of the world of old; + + A shepherd’s crook, a coat of fleece, + A grazing flock;—the sense of peace, + The long sweet silence,—this is Greece!” + </pre> + <p> + Rosamund gazed before her at Greece in the evening light. + </p> + <p> + “‘The freshness of the world of old,’” she repeated, and her voice had a + thrill in it. “‘The sense of peace, the long sweet silence,—this is + Greece.’ If there was music with the music of those words I should love to + sing them.” + </p> + <p> + “And how you could sing them. Like no other.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate my heart would be in them. ‘The freshness of the world of old—the + sense of peace, the long sweet silence.’” + </p> + <p> + She was standing now near the edge of the sacred rock, looking out over + the tawny plain flanked by gray Hymettos, and away to the sea. There were + no voices rising from below. There was no sound of traffic on the white + road which wound away down the slope to the hidden city. Her contralto + voice lingered on the words; her lips drew them out softly, lengthening + the sounds they loved. + </p> + <p> + “Freshness, that which belonged to the early world, long sweet silence, + peace. Oh, Dion, if you know how something in me cares for freshness and + for peace!” + </p> + <p> + Her glad energies were strangely stilled; yet there was a kind of force in + her stillness, the force that is in all deep truths of whatever nature + they may be. He felt that he was near to perhaps the most essential part + of her, to that which was perhaps more truly her than even the radiant and + buoyant humanity by means of which she drew people to her. + </p> + <p> + “Could you live always out of the world?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + “But it wouldn’t be out of the world.” + </p> + <p> + “Away from people—with me?” + </p> + <p> + “With you?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him for a moment almost as if startled. Then there came into + her brown eyes a scrutiny that seemed half-inward, as if it were partially + applied to herself. + </p> + <p> + “It’s difficult to be certain what one could do. I suppose one has several + sides.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! And your singing side?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak about that.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was suddenly more practical, and her whole look and manner + changed, losing in romance and strangeness, gaining in directness and + energy. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve never discussed it.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down on a slab of rock at the edge of the precipice, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mind your wife being a public singer, do you, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I do?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re so energetic I doubt if you could be happy in idleness.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t in England.” + </p> + <p> + “And in Greece? But we are only here for such a short time.” + </p> + <p> + He took her hand in his. + </p> + <p> + “Learning the lessons of happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Good lessons for us!” she said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “The best there are. I believe in the education of joy. It opens the + heart, calls up all the generous things. But your singing; can I bear your + traveling about perpetually all over England?” + </p> + <p> + “If I get engagements.” + </p> + <p> + “You will. You had a good many for concerts last winter. You’ve got + several for June and July. You’ll get many more. But who’s to go with you + on your travels?” + </p> + <p> + “Beattie, of course. Why do you look at me like that?” + </p> + <p> + “How do we know Beatrice won’t marry?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked grave. + </p> + <p> + “Why shouldn’t she?” asked Dion. + </p> + <p> + “She may, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you think she’ll remain your apanage now?” he asked, with a hint of + smiling sarcasm that could not hurt her. + </p> + <p> + “My apanage?” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t she been something like that?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she has. But Beattie always sinks herself in others. She wouldn’t + be happy if she didn’t do that. Of course, your friend Guy Daventry’s in + love with Beattie.” + </p> + <p> + “Deeply.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m not at all sure that Beattie—” + </p> + <p> + She paused abruptly. After a moment she continued: + </p> + <p> + “You asked me to-day why I married you. I didn’t answer you and I’m not + going to answer you now—entirely. But you’re not like other men, + most other men.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “A way that means very much to me,” she answered, with a delicious purity + and directness. “Women feel such things very soon when they know men. I + could easily have never married, but I could never, never have married a + man who had lived, as I believe most men have lived.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I always knew that from the first moment I saw you.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? I’m glad. I care tremendously for <i>that</i> in you, Dion—more + than you will ever know.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my great, too great reward,” he said soberly, almost with a touch + of deep awe. Then, reddening and looking away, he added, “You were the + very first.” + </p> + <p> + “Was I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but—but you mustn’t think that it was a religious feeling, + anything of that kind, which kept me back from—from certain things. + It was more the desire to be strong, healthy, to have the sane mind in the + sane body, I think. I was mad about athletics, all that sort of thing. + Anyhow, you know now. You were the first. You will be the only one in my + life.” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence between them. Then Rosamund said, with a change + of manner to practical briskness: + </p> + <p> + “If Beattie ever should marry, I could take a maid about with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. An hotel in Liverpool with a maid! In Blackpool, in Huddersfield, in + Wolverhampton, in Glasgow, when there’s a heavy thaw on, with a maid! Oh, + how delightful it will be! Manchester on a wet day in early spring with a—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she put one hand on his lips gently, and looked at him with a sort + of smiling challenge in her eyes. “Do you mean to forbid me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I could ever forbid you to do anything.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see in England.” + </p> + <p> + “But, Rosamund”—there was no one in sight, and he slipped one arm + round her—“if something came to fill your life, both our lives, to + the brim?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then,”—a very remote expression came into her eyes,—“then + it would all be different.” + </p> + <p> + “All?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Everything would be quite different then.” + </p> + <p> + “Not our relation to each other?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, even that. Perhaps that most of all.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I hardly like to hear you say that,” he said, struggling against + a perhaps stupid, or even hateful, feeling of depression mingled with + something else. + </p> + <p> + “But wouldn’t it? Think!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want that to change. I should hate any change in that.” + </p> + <p> + “What we want, and what we hate, doesn’t affect what has to be. And I + expect at the end we shall be thankful for that. But, Dion, yes, <i>if</i> + what you say, I could give it all up. Public singing! What would it matter + then? I’m a woman, not a singer. But perhaps it will never come.” + </p> + <p> + “Who knows?” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he sighed. + </p> + <p> + She turned towards him, leaned one hand on the stone and looked at him + almost anxiously. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “Why? There is nothing the matter.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you rather we never had that in our lives?” + </p> + <p> + “A child?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a child.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I longed for that,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Do you meant that you have changed and don’t long any more?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it’s like this. When a man’s very happy, perfectly happy, he + doesn’t—perhaps he can’t—want any change to come. If you’re + perfectly happy instinctively you almost fear any change. Till to-day, + till this very minute perhaps, I thought I wanted to have a child—some + day. Perhaps I still do really, or perhaps I shall. But—you must + forgive me, I can’t help it!—this evening, sitting here, I don’t + want anything to come between us. It seems to me that even a child of ours + would take some of you away from me. Don’t you see that?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a man’s feeling. I can’t share it.” + </p> + <p> + “But think—all the attention you would have to give to a child, all + the thoughts you would fasten on it, all the anxieties you’d have about + it!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “One only has a certain amount of time. You’d have to take away a good + deal, a great deal, of the time you can now give to me. Oh, it sounds too + beastly, I know! Perhaps I scarcely mean it! But surely you can see how a + man who loves a woman very much might, without being the least bit + unnatural, think, ‘I’d like to keep every bit of her for myself. I’d like + to have her all to myself!’ I dare say this feeling will pass. Remember, + Rose, we’re only just married, and we’re in Greece, right away from every + one. Don’t think me morbidly jealous, or a beast. I’m not. I expect lots + of men have felt as I do, perhaps even till the first child came.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then it would be all right,” she said. “The natural things, the + things nature intends, are always all right.” + </p> + <p> + “How blessedly sane and central you are!” + </p> + <p> + “If we had a child—Dion, you must believe me!—we should be + drawn ever so much nearer together by it. If we ever do have one, we shall + look back on this time—you will—and think ‘We were much + farther apart then than we are now.’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like to hear you say that,” he said gravely, almost with pain. + </p> + <p> + Could a woman like Rosamund be driven by an instinct blindly? She was such + a perfect type of womanhood. It would be almost a tragedy if she—such + a woman—died childless. Perhaps instinct had obscurely warned her of + that, had taught her where to look for a mate. He, Dion, had always lived + purely. That day she had acknowledged that she had divined it. Was that, + perhaps, her real, her instinctive reason for marrying him? But a man + wants to be married for one thing only, because the woman longs for him. + And Dion was just an ordinary man with very strong feelings. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s take one more stroll before we go down,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to the maidens,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Her voice sounded relieved. She pushed her arm gently through his as they + moved away, and he felt all his body thrill. The mystery of love was + almost painful to him at that moment. He realized that a great love might + grow to have an affinity with a disease. “I must be careful. I must take + great care with this love of mine,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + They went slowly over the slabs of marble and the gray rocks and passed + before the west front of the Parthenon. Dion felt slight resistance in + Rosamund’s arm, and stopped. In the changing light the marble was full of + warm color, was in places mysterious and translucent almost as amber. The + immense power, the gigantic calm of the temple, a sort of still breathing + of Eternity upon Time, confronted a glory which was beginning to change in + the face of its changelessness. Soon the seas that held their dream under + the precipices of Sunion, and along the shores of Aegina, where the tall + shepherd boys in their fleeces of white lead home the flocks in the + twilight, would lose the wonder of their shining, and the skies the + rapture of their diffused light. In the quietly austere Attic Plain, + through the whispering groves of Academe, and along the sacred way to + Eleusis, a very delicate vagueness was beginning to travel, like a + wanderer setting forth to greet the coming of the night. The ranges of + hills and mountains, Hymettos and Pentelicus, Parnes stretching to the far + distance, Mount Corydallus, the peak of Salamis, the exquisitely long + mountains of Trigania—“the greyhounds of their tribe,” Rosamund + loved to call them—were changing almost from moment to moment, + becoming a little softer, a little more tender, putting off their distinct + hues of the day for the colors of sleep and forgetting. But the great + Doric columns fronting them, the core of the heart of this evening + splendor, seemed not to defy, but to ignore, all the processes of change. + In its ruin the Parthenon seemed to say, “I have not changed.” And it was + true. For the same soul which had confronted Pericles confronted the two + lovers who now stood at the foot of the temple. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how many thousands of people of all nations have learnt the same + lesson here,” Rosamund said at last. + </p> + <p> + “The Doric lesson, you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of strength, simplicity, endurance, calmness.” + </p> + <p> + “And I wonder how many thousands have forgotten the lesson.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say that, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Great art is a moral teacher, I’m sure of that. But men are + very light-minded as a rule, I think. If they lived before these columns + they might learn a great deal, they might even develop in a splendid + direction, I believe. But an hour, even a few hours, is that enough? + Impressions fade very quickly in most people.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in you. You never forget the Parthenon, and I shall never forget it.” + </p> + <p> + She stood for some minutes quite still gazing steadily up at the temple, + gaining—it seemed to her—her own stillness from its tremendous + immobility. + </p> + <p> + “The greatest strength is in silence,” she thought. “The greatest power is + in motionlessness.” + </p> + <p> + She thought of the raging of the great sea. But no! There was more of the + essence of strength, of the stern inwardness of power, in that which + confronted life and Time in absolute stillness; in a mountain, in this + temple. And the temple spoke to something far down within her; to + something which desired long silences and deep retirement, to something + mystic which she did not understand. The temple was Pagan and she knew + that. But that in her to which it spoke was not Pagan. Before she left + Athens she meant to realize that the soul of man, when it speaks through + mighty and pure effort, of whatever kind, always speaks to the same + Listener, to but one, though man may not know it. + </p> + <p> + “Doric!” she said at last. “I have always known that for me that would be + the greatest. The simplest thing is the most sublime thing. That temple is + like the Sermon on the Mount to me. Didn’t you bring me here because it + meant so much to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not entirely. No, Rosamund, I think I brought you here because I felt + that you belonged here.” + </p> + <p> + “This satisfies me.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed deeply, still gazing at the temple. + </p> + <p> + “You aren’t only in Greece, you are of Greece. Come to the maidens.” + </p> + <p> + As they went on slowly the acid voices of the little birds which fly + perpetually among the columns of the Parthenon followed them, bidding them + good night. + </p> + <p> + They descended over the uneven ground and came to the famous Porch of the + Caryatides, jutting out from the little Ionic temple which is the handmaid + of the Parthenon. Not far from the Porch, and immediately before it, was a + wooden bench. Already Rosamund and Dion had spent many hours here, + sometimes sitting on the bench, more often resting on the warm ground in + the sunshine, among the fragments of ruin and the speary, silver-green + grasses. Now Rosamund sat down and Dion stood by her side. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund, those maidens are my ideal of womanhood shown in marble,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “They are almost miraculously beautiful. And one scarcely knows why. But I + know that every time I see them the mystery of their beauty seems more + ineffable to me, and the meaning of it seems more profound. How did men + get so much meaning into marble?” + </p> + <p> + “By caring so much for what is beautiful in womanhood, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down close beside her. + </p> + <p> + “I sometimes wonder whether women have any idea what some men, many men, I + believe, seek in women.” + </p> + <p> + “What do they seek?” + </p> + <p> + “What do those maidens that hold up the Porch suggest to you?” + </p> + <p> + “All that’s calm without a touch of coldness, and strong without a touch + of hardness, and noble without a touch of pride, and obedient without a + touch of servility.” + </p> + <p> + “Brave sweetness, too, and protectiveness. They are wonderful, and so are + some women. When I saw you in the omnibus at Milan I thought of these + maidens immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “How strange!” + </p> + <p> + “Why strange?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it?” she said, gazing at the six maidens in their flowering + draperies of marble, who, upon their uncovered heads, bore tranquillity up + the marble architrave. “How wonderfully simple and unpretending they are!” + </p> + <p> + “Are not you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I don’t believe I think about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. Rosamund, sometimes I feel that I am an unique man—just think + of a fellow in a firm on the Stock Exchange being unique!—because I + have had an ideal, and I have attainted to it. When I was here alone, I + conceived for the first time an ideal of woman. I said to myself, ‘In the + days of ancient Greece there must have been such women in the flesh as + these maidens in marble. If I could have lived and loved then!’ And I came + away from Greece carrying a sort of romantic dream with me. And now I sit + here with you; I can’t think why I, a quite ordinary man, should be picked + out for perfect happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it really perfect?” she asked, turning to him. + </p> + <p> + “I think so. In such a place with you!” + </p> + <p> + As the evening drew on, a little wind came and went over the rocky height, + but it had no breath of cold in it. Two Greek soldiers passed by slowly + behind them—short young men with skins almost as dark as the skins + of Arabs of the South, black eyes and faces full of active mentality. They + were talking eagerly, but stopped for a moment to look at the English, and + beyond them at the six maidens on their platform of marble. Then they went + on talking again, but presently hesitated, came back, and stood not far + off, gazing at the Porch with a mixture of reverence and quiet + wistfulness. Dion drew Rosamund’s attention to them. + </p> + <p> + “They feel the beauty,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I like that.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the two young men with a smile. One of them noticed it, and + smiled back at her almost boyishly, and with a sort of confidential + simplicity. + </p> + <p> + The light began to fail. The six maidens were less clearly seen, but the + deep meaning of them did not lessen. In the gathering darkness they and + their sweet effort became more touching, more lovable. Their persistence + was exquisite now that they confronted with serenity the night. + </p> + <p> + “They are beautiful by day, but at night they are adorable,” said + Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you know why I thought of them when I met you?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + She got up slowly. The Greek soldiers moved, turned, and went down the + slope towards the Propylae. Their quick voices were heard again. Then + there was the sound of a bell. + </p> + <p> + “Time to go,” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + As they followed the soldiers she again put her arm through her young + husband’s. + </p> + <p> + “Dion,” she said, “I think I’m a little afraid of your ideals. I + understand them. I have ideals too. But I think perhaps mine are less in + danger of ever being shattered than yours are.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? But I know mine are not in danger.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you say that?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use trying to frighten me. But what about your ideals? What is + the nature of the difference between yours and mine, which makes yours so + much less vulnerable than mine?” + </p> + <p> + But she only said: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe I could explain it. But I feel it, and I shall go on + feeling it.” + </p> + <p> + They went down the steep marble steps, gave the guardian at the foot of + them good night, and walked almost in silence to Athens. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + After that day Rosamund and Dion often talked of the child who might + eventually come into their lives to change them. Rosamund indeed, now that + such a possibility had been discussed between them, returned to it with an + eagerness which she did not seek to conceal. She was wonderfully frank, + and her frankness seemed to belong naturally to her transparent purity, to + be an essential part of it. Dion’s momentary depression that evening on + the Acropolis had evidently stirred something in her which would not let + her rest until it had expressed itself. She had detected for the first + time in her husband a hint of something connected with his love for her + which seemed to her morbid. She could not forget it and she was resolved + to destroy it if possible. When they next stood together on their beloved + height she said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Dion, don’t you hate anything morbid?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, loathe it!” he answered, with hearty conviction. “But surely you + know that. Why d’you ask me such a thing? How dare you?” + </p> + <p> + And he turned to her his brown face, bright this morning with good + spirits, his dark eyes sparkling with hopefulness and energy. + </p> + <p> + It was a pale morning, such as often comes to Athens even at the edge of + the summer. They were standing on the little terrace near to the Acropolis + Museum, looking down over the city and to helmet-shaped Lycabettos. The + wind, too fond of the Attic Plain, was blowing, not wildly, but with + sufficient force to send the dust whirling in light clouds over the pale + houses and the little Byzantine churches. Long and narrow rivulets of dust + marked the positions of the few roads which stretched out along the plain. + The darkness of the groves which sheltered the course of the Kephisos + contrasted strongly with the flying pallors and seemed at enmity with + them. The sky was milky white and gray, broken up in places by clouds of + fantastic shapes, along the ruffled edges of which ran thin gleams of + sunshine like things half timorous and ashamed. Upon the flat shores near + Phaleron the purple seas broke in spray, and the salty drops were caught + up by the wind and mingled with the hurrying grains of dust. It was not + exactly a sad day, but there was an uneasiness abroad. The delicate calm + of Greece was disturbed. Nevertheless Dion was feeling gay and + light-hearted, inclined to enjoy everything the world about him offered to + him. Even the restlessness beneath and around them accorded with his + springing spirits. The whirling spirals of dust suggested to him the + gaiety of a dance. The voice of the wind was a joyous music in his ears. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you?” he repeated with a happy pretense of indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Because I think you were almost morbid yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “I? When?” + </p> + <p> + “When we spoke of the possibility of our some day having a child.” + </p> + <p> + “I had a moment of thinking that too,” he agreed. “Yes, Rose, the thought + went through my mind that a great love, such as mine for you, might become + almost a disease if one didn’t watch it, hold it in.” + </p> + <p> + “If it ever did become like that, do you know what would happen?” + </p> + <p> + “What, Rose?” + </p> + <p> + “Instead of rejoicing in it I should shrink from it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s enough for me!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke gaily, confidently. + </p> + <p> + “Besides, I don’t really believe I’m a man to love like that. I only + imagined I might for a moment, perhaps because it was twilight. Imaginings + come with the twilight.” + </p> + <p> + “I could never bear to think, if a child came, that you didn’t want it, + that you wished it out of the way.” + </p> + <p> + “I never should. But I expect lots of young married people have queer + thoughts and feelings which they keep entirely to themselves—I + blurted mine out. You’ve got a dangerously sincere husband, Rose. The + whole matter lies in your own hands. If we ever have a child, love it, but + don’t love it more than me.” + </p> + <p> + “I should love it so differently! How could maternal love interfere with + the love of woman for man?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t suppose it could.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it never could.” + </p> + <p> + “Then that’s settled. Where shall we go to get out of the wind? It seems + to be rising.” + </p> + <p> + After searching for a place of shelter in vain they eventually took refuge + in the Parthenon, under the shadow of the great western wall. Perhaps in + consequence of the wind the Acropolis was entirely deserted. Only the + guardians were hidden somewhere, behind columns, in the Porch of the + Museum, under the roof of their little dwelling at the foot of the marble + staircase which leads up to the Propylae. The huge wall of the Parthenon + kept off the wind from the sea, and as Rosamund and Dion no longer saw the + whirling dust clouds in the plain they had, for the moment, almost an + illusion of peace. They sat down on the guardian’s bench, just beneath + some faint fragments of paintings which dated from the time when the + temple was made use of as a church by Greek Christians; and immediately + Rosamund went on talking about the child. She spoke very quietly and + earnestly, with the greatest simplicity, and by degrees Dion came to see + her as a mother, to feel that perhaps only as a mother could she fulfil + herself. The whole of her beauty would never be revealed unless she were + seen with a child of her own. Hitherto he had thought of her chiefly in + relation to himself, as the girl he longed to win, then as the girl he + most wonderfully had succeeded in winning. She put herself before him now + in a different light, and he saw in her new and beautiful possibilities. + While she was talking his imagination began to play about the child, and + presently he realized that he was thinking of it as a boy. Then, in a + moment, he realized that on the previous evening he had thought of a male, + not of a female child. With this in his mind he said abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “What sort of a child do you wish to have, Rosamund?” + </p> + <p> + “What sort?” she said, looking at him with surprise in her brown eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean? A beautiful, strong, healthy child, of course, the sort + of child every married woman longs to have, and imagines having till it + comes.” + </p> + <p> + “Beautiful, strong, healthy!” he repeated, returning her look. “Of course + it could only be that—your child. But I meant, do you want it to be + a boy or a girl?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + She paused, and looked away from him and down at the uncemented marble + blocks which form the pavement of the Parthenon. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said, as she kept silence. + </p> + <p> + “If it were to be a girl I should love it.” + </p> + <p> + “You wish it to be a girl?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say that. The fact is, Dion”—and now she again looked at + him, “I have always thought of our child as a boy. That’s why your + question almost startled me. I have never even once thought of having a + girl. I don’t know why.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Why then?” + </p> + <p> + “The thought was born of the desire. You wanted our child to be a son and + so you thought of it as a son.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that was it.” + </p> + <p> + “Wasn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a certain pressure. She remained silent for a moment, and + two little vertical lines appeared in her forehead. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I believe it was. And you?” + </p> + <p> + “I confess that when yesterday we spoke of a child I was thinking all the + time about a boy.” + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him with something visionary in her eyes, which made them + look for a moment like the eyes of a woman whom he had not seen till now. + Then she said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “It will be a boy, I think. Indeed, if it weren’t perhaps absurd, I should + say that I know it will be a boy.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing more just then, but at that moment he felt as if he, too, + knew, not merely hoped, or guessed, something about their joint future, + knew in the depths of him that a boy-child would some day be sent to + Rosamund and to him, to influence and to change their lives. + </p> + <p> + The wind began to fail almost suddenly, the sky grew brighter, a shaft of + sun lay on the marble at their feet. + </p> + <p> + “It’s going to be fine,” Dion said. “Let’s be active for once. The wind + has made me restless. Suppose we get a couple of horses and ride out to + the convent of Daphni!” + </p> + <p> + She got up at once. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ve brought my habit, and haven’t had it on once.” + </p> + <p> + As they left the Great Temple she looked up at the mighty columns and + said; + </p> + <p> + “Doric! If we have a boy let us bring him up to be Doric.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Rosamund,” he said quietly and strongly. “We will.” + </p> + <p> + Afterward he believed that it was then, and only then, that he caught + something of her deep longing to have a child. He began to see how a man’s + child might influence him and affect his life, might even send him upwards + by innocently looking up to him. It would be bad, very bad, to fail as a + husband, but, by Jove! it would be one of the great tragedies to fail as a + father. Mentally Dion measured the respective heights of himself and a + very small boy; saw the boy’s trusting eyes looking, almost peering, up at + him. Such eyes could change, could become very attentive. “It wouldn’t do + to be adversely criticized by your boy,” he thought. And one day he said + to Rosamund, but in almost a casual way: + </p> + <p> + “If we ever do have a boy, Rose, and want him to be Doric, we shall have + to start in by being Doric ourselves, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she answered, “I’ve thought that, too.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you think I could ever learn to be that?” + </p> + <p> + “I know you could. You are on the way already, I think. I noticed in + London that you were never influenced by all the affectations and + absurdities, or worse, that seem to have taken hold of so many people + lately.” + </p> + <p> + “There has been a wave of something rather beastly passing over London + certainly. But I almost wonder you knew it.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Can your eyes see anything that isn’t good?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I don’t want ever to look long on what I hate.” + </p> + <p> + “You aren’t afraid you might cease from hating it!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no. But I believe in feeding always on wholesome food.” + </p> + <p> + “Modern London doesn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never be modern, I’m afraid,” she said, half laughing, and with a + soft touch of apparently genuine deprecation. + </p> + <p> + “Be eternal, that’s better!” he almost whispered. “Listen to that + nightingale. It’s singing a song of all the ages. You have a message like + that for me.” + </p> + <p> + They had strolled out after dinner in the warm May night, and had walked a + little way up the steep flank of Lycabettos till they reached a wooden + bench near which were a few small fir trees. Somewhere among these trees + there was hidden a nightingale, which sang with intensity to Athens spread + out below, a small maze of mellow lights and of many not inharmonious + voices. Even in the night, and at a distance, they felt the smiling + intimacy of the little city they loved. Its history was like a living + thing dwelling among the shadows, hallowed and hallowing, its treasures, + like night flowers, breathed out a mysterious message to them. They + received it, and felt that they understood it. Had the nightingale been + singing to any city its song must have seemed to them beautiful. But it + was singing to Athens, and that fact gave to its voice, in their ears, a + magical meaning. + </p> + <p> + They sat for a while in silence. Nobody passed on the winding path. Their + impulse to solitude was unshared by the dwellers in Athens. Neither knew + exactly what thoughts were passing through the other’s mind, what + aspirations were flaming up in the heart of the other. But they knew that + they were close bound in sympathy just then, voyaging towards a common + future. That future lay over the sea in gray England. Their time in Greece + was but an interlude. But in it they were gathering up impressions, were + laying in stores for their journey. The nightingale’s song was part of + their provision. It had to sing to just them for some hidden reason. And + to Dion it seemed that the nightingale knew the reason while they did not, + that it comprehended all the under things of love and of sorrow of which + they were ignorant. When he spoke again he said: + </p> + <p> + “A bird’s song always makes me feel very unlearned. Do you know what I + mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We’ve got to learn so much.” + </p> + <p> + “Together.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—partly.” + </p> + <p> + “Partly?” he said quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I think there’s a great deal that can only be learnt quite alone.” + </p> + <p> + Again, as sometimes before, Dion trod on the verges of mystery, felt as if + something in Rosamund chided him, and was chilled for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you are right,” he said. “But I believe I could learn any + lesson more easily with you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we shall know which is right, you or I, when we’ve been much + longer together,” he said, with an effort to speak lightly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund, sometimes you make me feel as if you thought I didn’t know you, + I mean didn’t know you thoroughly.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Again silence fell between them. As Dion listened once more to the + persistent nightingale he felt that there was pain somewhere at the back + of its ecstasy. He looked down at the soft lights of little Athens, and + suddenly knew that much sorrow lay in the shadows of all the cities of the + earth. There was surely a great reserve in the girl who had given herself + to him. That was natural, perhaps. But to-night he felt that she was aware + of this reserve and was consciously guarding it like a sacred thing. + Presently they got up and went slowly down the hill. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you had never married,” he said, as they drew near to the city, + “how would you have lived, do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps for my singing, at first,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “And afterwards?” + </p> + <p> + “Afterwards? Very quietly, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know for certain, and what does it matter? I have married. If I + hadn’t, perhaps I should have been very selfish and thought myself very + self-sacrificing.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder in what way selfish.” + </p> + <p> + “There are so many ways. I heard a sermon once on a foggy night in + London.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah—that evening I called on you.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say so. It made me understand egoism better than I had + understood it before. Perhaps it’s the unpardonable sin.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it could never be your sin.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” + </p> + <p> + They no longer heard the nightingale. The voices and the houses of Athens + were about them. + </p> + <p> + As the days slipped by, Dion felt that Rosamund and he grew closer + together. He knew, though he could not perhaps have said how, that he + would be the only man in her intimate life. Even if he died she would + never—he felt sure of this—yield herself to another man. The + tie between them was to her a bond for eternity. Her body would never be + given twice. That he knew. But sometimes he asked himself whether her + whole soul would ever be given even once. The insatiable greed of a great + and exclusive love was alive within him, needing always something more + than it had. At first, after their marriage, he had not been aware of this + greed, had not realized that nothing great is content to remain just as it + is at a given moment. His love had to progress, and gradually, in Greece, + he became conscious of this fact. + </p> + <p> + His inner certainty, quite unshakable, that Rosamund would never belong to + another man in the physical sense made jealousy of an ordinary kind + impossible to him. The lowness, the hideous vulgarity of the jealousy + which tortures the writhing flesh would never be his. Yet he wanted more + than he had sometimes, stretched out arms to something which did not come + to nestle against him. + </p> + <p> + There was a great independence in Rosamund, he thought, which set her + apart from other women, Not only could she bear to be alone, she sometimes + wished to be alone. Dion, on the contrary, never wished to be away from + her. It might be necessary for him to leave her. He was not a young doting + fool who could not detach himself even for a moment from his wife’s apron + strings. But he knew very well that at all times he preferred to be with + her, close to her, that he relished everything more when he was in her + company than when he was alone. She added to his power of enjoyment, to + his faculty of appreciation, by being beside him. The Parthenon even was + made more sublime to him by her. That was a mystery. And the mystery of + her human power to increase penetrated everywhere through their life in + common, like a percolating flood that could not be gainsaid. She + manifested her influence upon him subtly through the maidens of the Porch, + through the almost neat perfection of the Theseion, through the detached + grandeur of those columns in the waste place, that golden and carved + Olympieion which acts as an outpost to Athens. It was as if she had the + power to put something of herself into everything that he cared for so + that he might care for it more, whether it were a golden sunset on the sea + over which they drifted in a sailing-boat off the coast of old Phaleron, + or a marble figure in a museum. She dwelt in the stones of a ruined + temple; she set her feet upon the dream of the distant mountains; she was + in the dawn, the twilight, and in all the ways of the moon, because he + loved her and found her in all things when they were together. + </p> + <p> + He did not know whether she, in a similar mysterious way, found him in all + that she enjoyed. He did not ask her the question. Perhaps, really, in + that truth of apprehension which lives very far down in a man, he had + divined the answer, although he told himself that he did not know. + </p> + <p> + He found always something new to enjoy and to worship in Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + They had many tastes in common. At first, of deliberate choice, they had + bounded their honeymoon with the precipices of the Acropolis, learning the + Doric lesson on that height above the world. Then one day they had made a + great sacrifice and gone to pass their hours in the pine woods of + Kephissia. They had returned to the Acropolis quite athirst. But by + degrees the instinct to wander a little farther afield took greater hold + upon them, their love of physical exercise asserted itself. They began to + take long rides on horseback, carrying food in their saddle-bags. The + gently wild charm of Greece laid its spell upon them. They both loved + Athens, but now they began to love, too, escaping from Athens. + </p> + <p> + Directly they were out of the city they were in a freedom that appealed to + the gipsy in both. Dion’s strong boyishness, which had never yet been cast + off, was met and countered by the best of good fellowship in Rosamund. + Though she could be very serious, and even what he called “strange,” she + was never depressed or sad. Her good spirits were unfailing and + infectious. She reveled in a “jaunt” or a “day out,” and her physical + strength kept fatigue far from her. She could ride for many hours without + losing her freshness and zest. Every little episode of the wayside + interested and entertained her. Everything comic made her laugh. She + showed an ardor almost like an intelligent child’s in getting to + understand all she saw. Scenery, buildings, animal life, people, every + offering of Greece was eagerly accepted, examined and discussed by her. + She was the perfect comrade for the wilds. Their common joy in the wilds + drew her and Dion more closely together. Never before had Rosamund been + quite away from civilization, from the hitherto easily borne trammels of + modern complicated life. She “found herself” in the adventure. The pure + remoteness of Greece came to her like natal air. She breathed it in with a + sort of rapture. It was as Dion had said. She was not merely in, she was + of, Greece. + </p> + <p> + They rode one day to Eleusis; on another day to Tatoi, buried in oak-woods + on the slope of Parnes; on another through noisy and mongrel Piraeus, and + over undulating wrinkled ground, burnt up by the sun and covered with low + scrub and bushes of myrtle, to the shore of the gulf opposite to Salamis; + on yet another to Marathon, where they lunched on the famous mound beneath + which the bodies of the Athenians who fell in the battle were buried. They + took no companion with them. Dion carried a revolver in his hip pocket, + but never had reason to show or to use it. When they dismounted they + tethered the horses to a bush or tree, or sometimes hobbled their + forelegs, and turned them loose for a while. + </p> + <p> + Such days were pure joy to them both. In them they went back to the early + world. They did not make the hard and self-conscious imaginative effort of + the prig to hurl themselves into an historic past. They just let the land + and its memories take them. As, sitting on the warm ground among the wild + myrtle bushes, they looked across the emerald green unruffled waters to + Salamis, that very long isle with its calm gray and orange hills and its + indented shores, perhaps for a moment they talked of the Queen of + Halicarnassus, and of the deception of Xerxes watching from his throne on + Mount Aegaleos. But the waters were now so solitary, the peace about them + was so profound, that the memory of battles soon faded away in the + sunshine. Terror and death had been here once. A queen had destroyed her + own people in that jeweled sea, a king had fled from those delicate + mountains. But now sea and land were for lovers. A fly with shining wings + journeyed among the leaves of the myrtles, a beetle crept over the hot + sandy ground leaving a minute pattern behind it; and Rosamund and Dion + forgot all about Artemisia, as they brooded, wide-eyed, over the + activities of the dwellers in the waste. At such moments they realized the + magic of life, as they had never realized it in the turmoil of London. The + insect with its wings that caught the sun, the intent and preoccupied + little traveler whose course could be deflected by a twig, revealed the + wonder that is lost and forgotten in the crowded highways of men. + </p> + <p> + It was when they were at Marathon that Rosamund told Dion she loved Greece + partly because of its emptiness. The country was not only rather bare of + vegetation, despite its groves of glorious old olives, its woods of oaks + round Tatoi, its delicious curly forests of yellow-green pines, which + looked, Rosamund declared, as if they had just had their dainty heads + perfectly dressed by an accomplished coiffeur, it was also almost + strangely bare of men. + </p> + <p> + “Where are the Greeks?” Rosamund had often asked during their first few + rides, as they cantered on and on, scarcely ever meeting a human being. + </p> + <p> + “In the towns to be sure!” Dion had answered. + </p> + <p> + “And where are the towns?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! That’s more than I can tell you!” he had said, laughing. + </p> + <p> + To one hitherto accustomed to England, the emptiness of the country, even + quite near to Athens, was at first surprising. Soon it became enchanting. + </p> + <p> + “This is a country I can thoroughly trust,” Rosamund declared at Marathon. + </p> + <p> + Dion had just finished hobbling the two horses, and now lifted himself up. + His brown face was flushed from bending. His thin riding-clothes were + white with dust, which he beat off with hands that looked almost as if + they wore gloves, so deeply were they dyed by the sun. As the cloud + dispersed he emerged carrying their lunch in a straw pannier. + </p> + <p> + “Why trust—specially?” he said. “Ah,” he threw himself down by her + side with a sigh of happiness, “this is good! The historic mound, and we + think of it merely as a resting-place, vandals that we are. But—why + trust?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that Greece never keeps any unpleasant surprises up her sleeve, + surprises such as other countries have of noisy, intruding people. It’s + terrible how accustomed I’m getting to having everything all to myself, + and how I simply love it.” + </p> + <p> + He began slowly unpacking the pannier, and laying its contents out on the + mound. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a puzzle, Rosamund,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You have a greater faculty for making yourself delightful to all sorts of + people than I have found in any other person, woman or man. And yet you + are developing a perfect passion for solitude.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want people here?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you agree with me.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have an absolute lust for an empty world.” + </p> + <p> + “Look!” + </p> + <p> + She stretched out her right arm—she was leaning on the other with + her cheek in her hand—and pointed to the crescent-shaped plain which + lay beyond them, bounded by a sea which was a wonder of sparkling and + intense blue, and guarded by a curving line of low hills. There were some + clouds in the sky, but the winds were at rest, and the clouds were just + white things dreaming. In the plain there were no trees. Here and there + some vague crops hinted at the languid labors of men. No human beings were + visible, but in the distance, not very far from the sea edge, a few oxen + were feeding. Their dark slow-moving bodies intersected the blue. There + were no ships or boats upon the stretch of sea which Rosamund and Dion + gazed at. Behind them the bare hills showed no sign of life. The solitude + was profound but not startling. It seemed in place, necessary and + beautiful. In the emptiness there was something touching, something + reticently satisfying. It was a land and seascape delicately purged. + </p> + <p> + “Greece and solitude,” said Rosamund. “I shall always connect them + together. I shall always love each for the other’s sake.” + </p> + <p> + In the silence which followed the words the far-off lowing of oxen came to + them over the flats. Rosamund shut her eyes, Dion half shut his, and the + empty world was a shining dream. + </p> + <p> + When they had lunched, Rosamund said: + </p> + <p> + “I am going to climb up into that house. The owner will never come, I’m + sure.” + </p> + <p> + Near them upon the mound was a dwelling of Arcady, in which surely a + shepherd sometimes lay and piped to the sun and the sea god. It was lifted + upon a tripod of poles, and was deftly made of brushwood, with roof, floor + and two walls all complete. A ladder of wood, from which the bark had been + stripped, led up to it. + </p> + <p> + “You want to sleep?” Dion asked. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + He helped her up to her feet. Quickly she mounted the ladder and stepped + into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” she said, looking down at him and smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by!” he answered, looking up. + </p> + <p> + She made a pretense of shutting a door and withdrawing into privacy. He + lit his pipe, hesitated a moment, then went to lie down under her room. + Now he no longer saw her, but he heard her movements overhead. The dry + brushwood crackled as she lay down, as she settled herself. She was lying + surely at full length. He guessed that she had stretched out her arms and + put her two hands under her head. She sighed. Below he echoed her sigh + with a long breath of contentment. Then they both lay very still. + </p> + <p> + Marathon! + </p> + <p> + He remembered his schoolbooks. He remembered beginning Greek. He had never + been very good at Greek. His mother, if she had been a man and had gone to + Oxford or Cambridge, would have made a far better classic than he. She had + helped him sometimes during the holidays when he was quite small. He + remembered exactly how she had looked when he had been conjugating—half-loving + and half-satirical. He had made a good many mistakes. Later he had read + Greek history with his mother, he had read about the battle of Marathon. + </p> + <p> + “Marathon”—it was written in his school history, “became a magic + word at Athens . . . the one hundred and ninety-two Athenians who had + perished in the battle were buried on the field, and over their remains a + tumulus or mound was erected, which may still be seen about half a mile + from the sea.” As a small boy he had read that with a certain inevitable + detachment. And now here he lay, a man, on that very tumulus, and the + brushwood creaked above his head with the movement of the woman he loved. + </p> + <p> + How wonderful was the weaving of the Fates! + </p> + <p> + And if some day he should sit in the place of his mother, and should hear + a small boy, his small boy, conjugating. By Jove! He would have to rub up + his classics! Not for ten years old; he wasn’t so bad as that; but for + twenty, when the small boy would be going up to Oxford, and would, + perhaps, be turning out alarmingly learned. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund the mother of a young man! + </p> + <p> + But Dion shied away from that. He could imagine her as the mother of a + child, beautiful mother of a child almost as beautiful; but he could not + conceive of her as the “mater” of a person with a mustache. + </p> + <p> + Their youth, their youth—must it go? + </p> + <p> + Again she moved slightly above him. The twigs crackled, making an almost + irritable music of dryness. Again the lowing of cattle came over that old + battlefield from the edge of the sea. And just then, at that very moment, + Dion knew that his great love could not stand still, that, like all great + things, it must progress. And the cry, that intense human cry, “Whither?” + echoed in the deep places of his soul. Whither were he and his great love + going? To what end were they journeying? For a moment sadness invaded him, + the sadness of one who thinks and is very ignorant. Why cannot a man think + deeply without thinking of an end? “All things come to an end!” That cruel + saying went through his mind like footsteps echoing on iron, and a sense + of fear encompassed him. There is something terrible in a great love, set + in the little life of a man like a vast light in a tiny attic. + </p> + <p> + Did Rosamund ever have such thoughts? Dion longed to ask her. Was she + sleeping perhaps now? She was lying very still. If they ever had a child + its coming would mark a great step onwards along the road, the closing of + a very beautiful chapter in their book of life. It would be over, their + loneliness in love, man and woman in solitude. Even the sexual tie would + be changed. All the world would be changed. + </p> + <p> + He lay flat on the ground, stretched out, his elbows firmly planted, his + chin in his palms, his face set towards the plain and the sea. + </p> + <p> + What he looked at seemed gently to chide him. There were such a brightness + and simplicity and such a delicious freedom from all complication in this + Grecian landscape edged by the wide frankness of the sea that he felt + reassured. Edging the mound there were wild aloes and the wild oleander. A + river intersected the plain which in many places was tawny yellow. Along + the river bank grew tall reeds, sedges and rushes. Beyond the plain, and + beyond the blue waters, rose the Island of Euboea, and ranges of + mountains, those mountains of Greece which are so characteristic in their + unpretentious bareness, which neither overwhelm nor entice, but which are + unfailingly delicate, unfailing beautiful, quietly, almost gently, noble. + In the distance, when he turned his head, Dion could see the little + Albanian village of Marathon, a huddle of tiny houses far off under the + hills. He looked at it for a moment, then again looked out over the plain, + rejoicing in its emptiness. Along the sea edge the cattle were straying, + but their movements were almost imperceptible. Still they were living + things and drew Dion’s eyes. The life in them sent out its message to the + life in him, and he earnestly watched them grazing. Their vague and + ruminating movements really emphasized the profound peace which lay around + Rosamund and him. To watch them thus was a savoring of peace. For every + contented animal is a bearer of peaceful tidings. In the Garden of Eden + with the Two there were happy animals. And Dion recalled the great battle + which had dyed red this serene wilderness, a battle which was great + because it had been gently sung, lifted up by the music of poets, set on + high by the lips of orators. He looked over the land and thought: “Here + Miltiades won the name which has resounded through history. To that shore, + where I see the cattle, the Persians were driven.” And it seemed to him + that the battle of Marathon had been fought in order that Rosamund and he, + in the nineteenth century, might be drawn to this place to meet the + shining afternoon. Yes, it was fought for that, and to make this place the + more wonderful for them. It was their Garden of Eden consecrated by + History. + </p> + <p> + What a very small animal that was which had strayed away from its kind + over the tawny ground where surely there was nothing to feed upon! The + little dark body of it looked oddly detached as it moved along. And now + another animal was following it quickly. The arrival of the second + darkness, running, made Dion know that the first was human, the guardian + of the beasts, no doubt. + </p> + <p> + So Eden was invaded already! He smiled as he thought of the serpent. The + human being came on slowly, always moving in the direction of the mound, + and always accompanied by its attendant animal—a dog, of course. + Soon Dion knew that both were making for the mound. It occurred to him + that Rosamund was in the private room of him who was approaching, was + possibly sound asleep there. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” he almost whispered. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” he murmured, looking upward to his roof, which was her floor. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” came down to him through the brushwood. “I’m willing it to come to + us.” + </p> + <p> + “What—the guardian of the cattle?” + </p> + <p> + “Guardian of the ——! It’s a child!” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I do know. Now you’re not to frighten it.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” + </p> + <p> + He lay very still, his chin in his palms, watching the on-comers. How had + she known? And then, seeing suddenly through her eyes, he knew that of + course it was a child, that it could not be anything else. All its + movements now proclaimed to him its childishness, and he watched it with a + sort of fascination. + </p> + <p> + For he had never seen Rosamund with a child. That would be for him a new + experience with something, perhaps, prophetic in it. + </p> + <p> + Child and animal approached steadily, keeping an undeviating course, and + presently Dion saw a very small, but sturdy, Greek boy of perhaps ten + years old, wearing a collarless shirt, open at a deep brown throat, + leggings of some thin material, boots, and a funny little patched brown + coat and pointed hood made all in one, and hanging down with a fulness + almost of skirts about the small determined legs. The accompanying dog was + a very sympathetic, blunt-nosed, round-headed, curly-coated type, whose + whiteness, which positively invited the stroking hand, was broken by two + great black blotches set all askew on the back, and by a black patch which + ringed the left eye and completely smothered the cocked-up left ear. The + child carried a stick, which nearly reached to his shoulder, and which + ended in a long and narrow crook. The happy dog, like its master, had no + collar. + </p> + <p> + When these two reached the foot of the tumulus they stood still and stared + upwards. The dog uttered a short gruff bark, looked at the boy, wagged a + fat tail, barked again, abruptly depressed the fore part of its body till + its chin was against the ground between its paws, then jumped into the air + with a sudden demeanor of ludicrously young, and rather uncouth, + waggishness, which made Dion laugh. + </p> + <p> + The small boy replied with a smile almost as sturdy as his legs, which he + now permitted to convey him with decisive firmness through the wild aloes + and oleanders to the summit of the tumulus. He stood before Dion, holding + his crooked staff tightly in his right hand, but his large dark eyes were + directed upwards. Evidently his attention was not to be given to Dion. His + dog, on the contrary, after a stare and two muffled attempts at a menacing + bark, came to make friends with Dion in a way devoid of all dignity, full + of curves, wrigglings, tail waggings and grins which exposed rows of + smiling teeth. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” came Rosamund’s voice from above. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Do show him the way up. He wants to come up.” + </p> + <p> + Dion got up, took the little Greek’s hand firmly, led him to the foot of + the ladder, and pointed to Rosamund who leaned from her brushwood chamber + and held out inviting hands, smiling, and looking at the child with + shining eyes. He understood that he was very much wanted, gravely placed + his staff on the ground, laid hold of the ladder, and slowly clambered up, + with the skirts of his coat sticking out behind him. His dog set up a loud + barking, scrambled at the ladder, and made desperate efforts to follow + him. + </p> + <p> + “Help him up, Dion!” came the commanding voice from above. + </p> + <p> + Dion seized the curly coat of the dog—picked up handfuls of dog. + There was a struggle. The dog made fierce motions as if swimming, and + whined in a thin and desperate soprano. Its body heaved upwards, its + forepaws clutched the edge of the brushwood floor, and it arrived. + </p> + <p> + “Bravo!” cried Rosamund, as she proceeded to settle down with her guests. + “But why don’t I know Greek?” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter,” Dion murmured, standing with his hands on the ladder. + “You know their language.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was sitting now, half-curled up, with her back against the + brushwood wall. Her light sun-helmet lay on the floor. In her ruffled hair + were caught two or three thin brown leaves, their brittle edges curled + inwards. The little boy, slightly smiling, yet essentially serious, as are + children tested by a great new experience, squatted close to her and + facing her, with one leg under him, the other leg stretched out + confidentially, as much as to say, “Here it is!” The dog lay close by + panting, smiling, showing as much tongue and teeth as was caninely + possible in the ardor of feeling tremendously uplifted, important, one of + the very few. + </p> + <p> + And Rosamund proceeded to entertain her guests. + </p> + <p> + What did she do? Sometimes, long afterwards in England, Dion, recalling + that day—a very memorable day in his life—asked himself the + question. And he could never remember very much. But he knew that Rosamund + showed him new aspects of tenderness and fun. What do women who love and + understand little boys do to put them at their ease, to break down their + small shynesses? Rosamund did absurd things with deep earnestness and + complete concentration. She invented games, played with twigs and straws + which she drew from the walls of her chamber. She changed the dog’s + appearance by rearrangements of his ears, to which he submitted with a + slobbering ecstasy, gazing at her with yellow eyes which looked flattened + in his head. Turned quite back, their pink insides exposed to view, the + ears changed him into a brand-new dog, at which his master stared with an + amazement which soon was merged in gratification. With a + pocket-handkerchief she performed marvels of impersonation which the boy + watched with an almost severe intentness, even putting out his tongue + slowly, and developing a slight squint, when the magician rose to the top + of her powers. She conjured with a silver coin, and of course let the + child play with her watch. She had realized at a glance that those things + which would be considered as baby nonsense by an English boy of ten, to + this small dweller on the plain of Marathon were full of the magic of the + unknown. And at last: + </p> + <p> + “Throw me up an orange, Dion!” she cried. “I know there are two or three + left in the pannier.” + </p> + <p> + Dion bent down eagerly, rummaged and found an orange. + </p> + <p> + “Here!” he said. “Catch!” + </p> + <p> + He threw it up. She caught it with elaboration to astonish the boy. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” asked Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Throw me up your pocket-knife and you’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + Again he threw and she caught, while the boy’s mouth gaped. + </p> + <p> + “Now then!” cried Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + She set to work, and almost directly had introduced her astounded guest of + the Greek kingdom to the famous “Crossing the Channel” tragedy. + </p> + <p> + So great was the effect of this upon little Miltiades,—so they both + always called the boy when talking of him in after times,—that he + began to perspire, and drops of saliva fell from the corners of his small + and pouting mouth in imitation of the dreadfully human orange by which he + was confronted. Thereupon Rosamund threw off all ceremony and frankly + played the mother. She drew the boy, smiling, sideways to her, wiped his + mouth with her handkerchief, gently blew his small nose and gave him a + warm kiss. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she said. + </p> + <p> + And upon this the child made a remark. + </p> + <p> + Neither of them ever knew what it meant. It was long, and sounded like an + explanation. Having spoken, Miltiades suddenly looked shy. He wriggled + towards the top of the ladder. Dion thought that Rosamund would try to + stop him from leaving her, but she did not. On the contrary, she drew up + her legs and made way for him, carefully. The child deftly descended, + picked up his staff and turned. The dog, barking joyously, had leaped + after him, and now gamboled around him. For a moment the child hesitated, + and in that moment Dion popped the remains of their lunch into his coat + pockets; then slowly he walked to the side of the tumulus by which he had + come up. There he stood for two or three minutes staring once more up at + Rosamund. She waved a friendly hand to him, boyishly, Dion thought. He + smiled cautiously, then confidentially, suddenly turned and bolted down + the slope uttering little cries—and so away once more to the far-off + cattle on the old battlefield, followed by his curly dog. + </p> + <p> + When Dion had watched him into the distance, beyond which lay the shining + glory of the sea, and looked up to Rosamund again, she was pulling the + little dry leaves from her undulating hair. + </p> + <p> + “I’m all brushwood,” she said, “and I love it.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I.” + </p> + <p> + “I ought to have been born a shepherdess. Why do you look at me like + that?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps because I’m seeing a new girl who’s got even more woman in her + than I knew till to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Most women are like that, Dion, when they get the chance.” + </p> + <p> + “To think you knew all those tricks and never told me!” + </p> + <p> + “Help me down.” + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his arms to her. When she was on the ground he still held + her for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “You darling!” he whispered. “Never shall I forget this day at Marathon, + the shining, the child, and you—you!” + </p> + <p> + They did not talk much on the long ride homeward. The heat was great, but + they were not afraid of it, for the shining fires of this land on the edge + of the east cherished and did not burn them. The white dust lay deep on + the road, and flew in light clouds from under the feet of their horses as + they rode slowly upwards, leaving the blue of their pastoral behind them, + and coming into the yellow of the pine woods. Later, as they drew nearer + to Athens, the ancient groves of the olives, touched with a gentle + solemnity, would give them greeting; the fig trees and mulberry trees + would be about them, and the long vineyards watched over by the + aristocratic cypress lifting its dark spire to the sun. But now the + kingdom of the pine trees joyously held them. They were in the happy woods + in which even to breathe was sheer happiness. Now and then they pulled up + and looked back to the crescent-shaped plain which held a child instead of + armies. They traced the course of the river marked out by the reeds and + sedges. They saw the tiny dark specks, which were cattle grazing, with the + wonder of blue beyond them. In these moments, half-unconsciously, they + were telling memory to lay in its provision for the future. Perhaps they + would never come back; never again would Rosamund rest in her brushwood + chamber, never again would Dion hear the dry music above him, and feel the + growth of his love, the urgency of its progress just as he had felt them + that day. They might be intensely happy, but exactly the same happiness + would probably not be theirs again through all the years that were coming. + The little boy and his dog had doubtless gone out of their lives for ever. + Their good-by to Marathon might well be final. They looked back again and + again, till the blue of the sea was lost to them. Then they rode on, + faster. The horses knew they were going homeward, and showed a new + liveliness, sharing the friskiness of the little graceful trees about + them. Now and then the riders saw some dusty peasants—brown and + sun-dried men wearing the fustanella, and shoes with turned-up toes + ornamented with big black tassels; women with dingy handkerchiefs tied + over their heads; children who looked almost like the spawn of the sun in + their healthy, bright-eyed brownness. And these people had cheerful faces. + Their rustic lot seemed enviable. Who would not shed his sorrows under + these pine trees, in the country where the solitudes radiated happiness, + and even bareness was like music? Here was none of the heavy and exotic + passion, none of the lustrous and almost morbid romance of the true and + distant East, drowsy with voluptuous memories. That setting was not for + Rosamund. Here were a lightness, a purity and sweetness of Arcadia, and + people who looked both intelligent and simple. + </p> + <p> + At a turn of the road they met some Vlachs—rascally wanderers, lean + as greyhounds, chicken-stealers and robbers in the night, yet with a sort + of consecration of careless cheerfulness upon them. They called out. In + their cries there was the sound of a lively malice. Their brown feet + stirred up the dust and set it dancing in the sunshine, a symbol surely of + their wayward, unfettered spirits. A little way off, on a slope among the + trees, their dark tents could be partially seen. + </p> + <p> + “Lucky beggars!” murmured Dion, as he threw them a few small coins, while + Rosamund smiled at them and waved her hand in answer to their greetings. + “I believe it’s the ideal life to dwell in the tents.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems so to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t it to-morrow? Won’t it when we are in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps more than ever then.” + </p> + <p> + Was she gently evading an answer? They had reached the brow of the hill + and put their horses to a canter. The white dust settled over them. They + were like millers on horseback as they left the pine woods behind them. + But the touch of the dust was as the touch of nature upon their faces and + hands. They would not have been free of it as they rode towards Athens, + and came to the region of the vineyards, of the olive groves and the + cypresses. Now and then they passed ramshackle cafes made of boards + roughly nailed together anyhow, with a straggle of vine sprawling over + them, and the earth for a flooring. Tables were set out before them, or in + their shadows; a few bottles were visible within; on benches or stools + were grouped Greeks, old and young, busily talking, no doubt about + politics. Carts occasionally passed by the riders, sending out dust to + mingle with theirs. Turkeys gobbled at them, dogs barked in front of + one-storied houses. They saw peasants sitting sideways on pattering + donkeys, and now and then a man on horseback. By thin runlets of water + were women, chattering as they washed the clothes of their households. + Then again, the horses came into the bright and solitary places where the + cheerful loneliness of Greece held sway. + </p> + <p> + And so, at last they cantered into the outskirts of Athens when the + evening was falling. Another day had slipped from them. But both felt it + was a day which they had known very well, had realized with an unusual + fulness. + </p> + <p> + “It’s been a day of days!” Dion said that evening. + </p> + <p> + And Rosamund nodded assent. + </p> + <p> + A child had been in that day, and, with a child’s irresistible might, had + altered everything for them. Now Dion knew how Rosamund would be with a + child of her own, and Rosamund knew that Dion loved her more deeply + because he had seen her with a child. A little messenger had come to them + over the sun-dried plain of Marathon bearing a gift of knowledge. + </p> + <p> + The next day they spent quietly. In the morning they visited the National + Museum, and in the late afternoon they returned to the Acropolis. + </p> + <p> + In the Museum Rosamund was fascinated by the tombs. She, who always seemed + so remote from sorrow, who, to Dion, was the personification of vitality + and joyousness, was deeply moved by the record of death, by the + wonderfully restrained, and yet wonderfully frank, suggestion of the grief + of those who, centuries ago, had mingled their dust with the dust of the + relations, the lovers, the friends, whom they had mourned for. + </p> + <p> + “What a lesson this is for me!” she murmured at last, after standing for a + long while wrapped in silence and contemplation. + </p> + <p> + “Why for you, specially?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him. There were tears in her eyes. He believed she was + hesitating, undecided whether to let him into a new chamber of her being, + or whether to close a half-opened door against him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very difficult to submit, I think, for some of us,” she answered, + after a pause, slowly. “Those old Greeks must have known how to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “To submit to sorrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, to a great sorrow. Such a thing is like an attack in the dark. If I + am attacked I want to strike back and hurt.” + </p> + <p> + “But whom could you reasonably hurt on account of a death that came in the + course of nature? That’s what you mean, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + After a slight hesitation she said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you don’t think we can hurt God?” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder,” Dion answered. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t. I know we can.” + </p> + <p> + She looked again at the tomb before which they were standing. It showed a + woman seated and stretching out her right arm, which a woman friend was + touching. In the background was another, contemplative, woman and a man + wearing a chaplet of leaves, his hand lifted to his face. For epitaph + there was one word cut in marble. + </p> + <p> + “It means farewell, doesn’t it?” asked Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’ll smile, but I think these tombs are the most beautiful + things I have seen in Greece. It’s a miracle—their lack of violence. + What a noble thing grief could be. That little simple word. It’s great to + be able to give up the dearest thing with that one little word. But I + couldn’t—I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I know, because I didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing more on the subject that morning, but when they were on + the Acropolis waiting, as so often before, for the approach of the + evening, she returned to it. Evidently it was haunting her that day. + </p> + <p> + “I believe giving up nobly is a much finer thing than attaining nobly,” + she said. “And yet attaining wins all the applause, and giving up, if it + gets anything, only gets that ugly thing—pity.” + </p> + <p> + “But is pity an ugly thing?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He had a little stone in his hand, and, as he spoke, he threw it gently + towards the precipice, taking care not to send it over the edge. + </p> + <p> + “I think I would rather have anything on earth from people than their + pity.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I were to pity you because I loved you?” + </p> + <p> + He picked up another stone and held it in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I should hate it.” + </p> + <p> + He had lifted his hand for the throw, but he kept hold of the stone. + </p> + <p> + “What, pity that came straight out of love?” + </p> + <p> + “Any sort of pity.” + </p> + <p> + “You must be very proud—much prouder than I am then. If I were + unhappy I should wish to have pity from you.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you have never been really unhappy.” + </p> + <p> + Dion laid the stone down. He thought hard for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Without any hope at all of a change back to happiness—no, actually + I never have.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, then you’ve never had to brace up and see if you could find a strong + voice to utter your ‘farewell’!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with firmness, a firmness that rang like true metal struck with + a hammer and giving back sincerity. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds tremendously Doric,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His lips were smiling, but there was an almost surprised expression in his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, do you know you’re intuitive to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, your training—your training!” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you say we should have to be Doric ourselves if——?” + </p> + <p> + “Come, Rosamund, it’s time for the Parthenon.” + </p> + <p> + Once more they went over the uneven ground to stand before its solemn + splendor. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we have learnt before we go?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “It’s strange, but I think the tombs teach me more. They’re more within my + reach. This is so tremendous that it’s remote. Perhaps a man, or—or + a boy——” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “A boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He drew her down. She clasped her hands, that looked to him so capable and + so pure, round her knees. + </p> + <p> + “A boy? Go on, Rose.” + </p> + <p> + “He might learn his lesson here, with a man to help him. The Parthenon’s + tremendously masculine. Perhaps women have to learn from the gentleness of + those dear tombs.” + </p> + <p> + Never before had she seemed to him so soft, so utterly soft of nature. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been thinking a great deal to-day of our boy, haven’t you?” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we did have a boy and lost him?” + </p> + <p> + “Lost him?” + </p> + <p> + Her voice sounded suddenly almost hostile. + </p> + <p> + “Such a thing has happened to parents. It might happen to us.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it would happen to me,” Rosamund said, with a sort of + curious, almost cold decision. + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” + </p> + <p> + “What made you think of such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Perhaps it was because of what you said this morning about + grief, and then about bracing up and finding a firm voice to utter one’s + ‘farewell.’” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t understand what a woman would feel who lost her child.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure that you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Partly. Quite enough to——Don’t let us speak about it any + more.” + </p> + <p> + “No. There’s nothing more futile than imagining horrors that are never + coming upon us.” + </p> + <p> + “I never do it,” she said, with resolute cheerfulness. “But we shall very + soon have to say one ‘farewell.’” + </p> + <p> + “To the Parthenon?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Say it to-night!” + </p> + <p> + She turned round to face him. + </p> + <p> + “To-night? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “For a little while.” + </p> + <p> + A sudden happy idea had come to him. A shadow had fallen over her for a + moment. He wanted to drive it away, to set her again in the full sunshine + for which she was born, and in which, if he could have his will, she + should always dwell. + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to take me away somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You must see a little more of Greece before we go home. Say your + ‘farewell,’ Rosamund.” + </p> + <p> + She did not know what was in his mind, but she obeyed him, and, looking up + at the great marble columns, glowing with honey-color and gold in the + afternoon light, she murmured: + </p> + <p> + “Farewell.” + </p> + <p> + On the following day they left Athens and set out on the journey to + Olympia. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <h3> + “Why are you bringing me to Olympia?” + </h3> + <p> + That question, unuttered by her lips, was often in Rosamund’s eyes as they + drew near to the green wilds of Elis. Of course they had always meant to + visit Olympia before they sailed away to England, but she knew very well + that Dion had some special purpose in his mind, and that it was closely + connected with his great love of her. She had understood that on the + Acropolis, and her “farewell” had been an act of submission to his will + not wholly unselfish. Her curiosity was awake. + </p> + <p> + What was the secret of Olympia? + </p> + <p> + They had gone by train to Patras, slept there, and thence rode on + horseback to Pyrgos through the vast vineyards of the Peloponnesus—vineyards + that stretched down to the sea and were dotted with sentinel cypresses. + The heat was much greater than it had been in Athens. Enormous aloes + hedged gardens from which came scents that seemed warm. The sandy soil, + turned up by the horses’ feet, was hot to the touch. The air quivered, and + was shot with a music of insects faint but pervasive. + </p> + <p> + Pyrgos was suffocating and noisy, but Rosamund was amused by democracy at + close quarters, showing its naked love of liberty. Her strong humanity + rose to the occasion, and she gave herself with a smiling willingness to + the streets, in which men, women, children and animals, with lungs of + leather, sent forth their ultimate music. Nevertheless, she was glad when + she and Dion set out again, and followed the banks of the Alpheus, leaving + the cries of the city behind them. It seemed to her that they were + traveling to some hidden treasure, secluded in the folds of a green valley + where the feet of men seldom, if ever, came. Dion’s eyes told her that + they were drawing nearer and nearer to the secret he knew of, and was + going to reveal to her. She often caught him looking at her with an almost + boyish expression of loving anticipation; and more than once he laughed + happily when he saw her question, but he would not give her an answer. + </p> + <p> + Peasants worked in the vineyards, shoulder-high in the plants, brown and + sweating in the glare. Swarthy children, with intelligent eyes, often with + delicate noses, and those pouting lips which are characteristic of many + Greek statues, ran to stare at them, and sometimes followed them a little + way, but without asking for alms. Then the solitudes took them, and they + wound on and on, with their guide as their only companion. + </p> + <p> + He was a gentle, even languid-looking youth, called Nicholas Agathoulos, + who was a native of Patras, but who had lived a good deal in Athens, who + spoke a few words of English and French, and who professed a deep passion + for Lord Byron. Nicholas rode on a mule, leading, or not leading as the + case might be—for he was a charmingly careless person—a second + mule on which was fastened Rosamund’s and Dion’s scanty luggage. Rosamund, + like a born vagabond, was content to travel in this glorious climate with + scarcely any impedimenta. When Nicholas was looked at he smiled peacefully + under his quiet and unpretending black mustache. When he was not looked at + he seemed to sleep with open eyes. He never sang or whistled, had no music + at all in him; but he could quote stanzas from “Don Juan” in Greek, and, + when he did that, he woke up, sparks of fire glowed in his eyes, and his + employers realized that he shared to the full the patriotism of his + countrymen. + </p> + <p> + Did he know the secret of Olympia which Dion was concealing so carefully, + and enjoying so much, as the little train of pilgrims wound onwards among + fruit trees and shrubs of arbutus, penetrating farther and ever farther + into a region sweet and remote? Of course he must know it. + </p> + <p> + “I shall ask Nicholas,” Rosamund said once to Dion, perversely. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “You know perfectly well what.” + </p> + <p> + His face was a map of innocence as he touched his thin horse with the whip + and rode forward a little faster. + </p> + <p> + “What is there to see at Olympia, Nicholas?” she said, speaking rather + loudly in order that Dion might hear. + </p> + <p> + Nicholas woke up, and hastily, in a melodious voice, quoted some scraps of + guide-book. Rosamund did not find what she wanted among them. She knew + already about the ruins, about the Nike of Paeonius and the Hermes of + Praxiteles. So she left the young Greek to his waking dream, and possessed + her soul in a patience that was not difficult. She liked to dwell in + anticipation. And she felt that any secret this land was about to reveal + to her would be, must be, beautiful. She trusted Greece. + </p> + <p> + “We aren’t far off now,” said Dion presently, as they rode up the valley—a + valley secluded from the world, pastoral and remote, shaded by Judas + trees. + </p> + <p> + “How peaceful and lovely it is.” + </p> + <p> + “And full of the echoes of the Pagan feet which once trod here.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t hear them,” said Rosamund, “and I am listening.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you could never hear Pagan echoes. And yet you love Greece.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. But I have nothing Pagan in me. I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “You are the ideal woman to be in Greece + with. If I don’t come back to Greece with you, I shall never come back.” + </p> + <p> + They rode on. Her horse was following his along the windings of the river. + Presently she said: + </p> + <p> + “Where are we going to sleep? Surely there isn’t a possible inn in this + remoteness?—or have they build one for travelers who come here in + winter and spring?” + </p> + <p> + “Our inn will be a little above Olympia.” + </p> + <p> + The green valley seemed closing about them, as if anxious to take them to + itself, to keep them in its closest intimacy, with a gentle jealousy. + Rosamund had a sensation, almost voluptuous, of yielding to the pastoral + greenness, to the warm stillness, to the hush of the delicate wilds. + </p> + <p> + “Elis! Elis!” she whispered to herself. “I am riding up into Elis, where + once the processions passed to the games, where Nero built himself a + mansion. And there’s a secret here for me.” + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly there came into her mind the words in the “Paradiso” which + she had been dreaming over in London on the foggy day when Dion had asked + her to marry him. + </p> + <p> + The Kingdom of Heaven suffereth violence from warm love and living hope + which conquereth the Divine will. + </p> + <p> + It was strange that the words should come to her just then. She could not + think why they came. But, repeating them to herself, she felt how very far + off she was from Paganism. Yet she had within her warm love surely and + living hope. Could such things, as they were within her, ever do violence + to the Kingdom of Heaven? She looked between her horse’s perpetually + moving ears at the hollow athletic back of her young husband. If she had + not married she would have given rein to deep impulses within her which + now would never be indulged. They would not have led her to Greece. If she + had been governed by them she would never have been drawn on by the secret + of Olympia. How strange it was that, within the compass of one human + being, should be contained two widely differing characters. Well, she had + chosen, and henceforth she must live according to the choice she had made. + But how would she have been in the other life of which she had dreamed so + often, and so deeply, in her hours of solitude? She would never know that. + She had chosen the warm love and the living hope, but the Kingdom of + Heaven should never suffer violence from anything she had chosen. There + are doubtless many ways of consecrating a life, of rendering service. + </p> + <p> + They came into a scattered and dingy hamlet. Hills rose about it, but the + narrowing valley still wound on. + </p> + <p> + “We are close to the ruins,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Already! Where are we going to sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Up there!” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a steep hill that was set sheer above the valley. + </p> + <p> + “Go on with the mules, Nicholas.” + </p> + <p> + Nicholas rode on, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that building on the hump?” + </p> + <p> + “The Museum.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why they put the inn so far away.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t really very far, not many minutes from here. But the way’s + pretty steep. Now then, Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + They set their horses to the task. Nicholas and the mules were out of + sight. A bend of the little track had hidden them. + </p> + <p> + “Why, there’s a village up here!” said Rosamund, as they came to a small + collection of houses with yards and rough gardens and scattered + outbuildings. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—Drouva. Our inn is just beyond it, but quite separated from + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad of that. They don’t bother very much about cleanliness here, I + should think.” + </p> + <p> + He was smiling at her now. His lips were twitching under his mustache, and + his eyes seemed trying not to tell something to her. + </p> + <p> + “Surely the secret isn’t up here?” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, still smiling, almost laughing. + </p> + <p> + They were now beyond the village, and emerged on a plateau of rough short + grass which seemed to dominate the world. + </p> + <p> + “This is the top of the hill of Drouva,” said Dion, with a ring of joy, + and almost of pride, in his voice. “And there’s our inn, the Inn of + Drouva.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund pulled up her horse. She did not say a word. She just looked, + while her horse lowered his head and sniffed the air in through his + twitching nostrils. Then he sent forth a quivering neigh, his welcome to + the Inn of Drouva. The view was immense, but Rosamund was not looking at + it. A small dark object not far off in the foreground of this great + picture held her eyes. For the moment she saw little or nothing else. + </p> + <p> + She saw a dark, peaked tent pitched in the middle of the plateau. Smoke + from a fire curled up behind it. Two or three figures moved near it. + Beyond, Nicholas was unloading the mules. + </p> + <p> + She dropped the cord by which she had been guiding her horse and slipped + down to the ground. Her legs were rather stiff from riding. She held on to + the saddle for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “A camp?” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + Dion was beside her. + </p> + <p> + “An awfully rough one.” + </p> + <p> + “How jolly!” + </p> + <p> + She said the words almost solemnly. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, you are a brick!” she added, after a pause. “I’ve never stayed in + camp before. A real brick! But you always are.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you coming into the camp?” + </p> + <p> + She put her hand on his arm and kept him back. + </p> + <p> + “No—wait! What did you mean by shaking your head when I asked you if + the secret was up here?” + </p> + <p> + “This isn’t the real secret. It wasn’t because of this that I asked you + suddenly on the Acropolis to say ‘farewell’ to the Parthenon.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s another secret?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s another reason, the real reason, why I hurried you to Olympia. + But I’m going to let you find it out for yourself. I shan’t tell you + anything.” + </p> + <p> + “But how shall I know when——?” + </p> + <p> + “You will know.” + </p> + <p> + “To-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think we might stay on our hill-top till to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, all right. It’s glorious here; I won’t be impatient. But how could + you manage to get the tent here before we came?” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve been two nights on the way, Patras and Pyrgos. That gave plenty of + time to the magician to work the spell. Come along.” + </p> + <p> + This time she did not hold him back. Her eagerness was as great as his. + Certainly it was a very ordinary camp, scarcely, in fact, a camp at all. + The tent was small and of the roughest kind, but there were two neat + little camp-beds within it, with their toes planted on the short dry + grass. In the iron washhand stand were a shining white basin and a jug + filled with clear water. There was a cake of remarkable pink soap with a + strange and piercing scent; there was a “tooth glass”; there was a straw + mat. + </p> + <p> + “What isn’t there?” cried Rosamund, who was almost as delighted as a + child. + </p> + <p> + A grave and very handsome gentleman from Athens, Achilles Stavros by name, + received her congratulations with a classical smile of satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “He’s even got a genuine Greek nose for the occasion!” Rosamund said + delightedly to Dion, when Achilles retired for a moment to give some + instructions about tea to the cook. “Where did you find him?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s my secret.” + </p> + <p> + “I never realised how delicious a camp was before. My wildest dreams are + surpassed.” + </p> + <p> + As they looked at the two small, hard chairs with straw bottoms which were + solemnly set out side by side facing the view, and upon which Achilles + expected them to sink voluptuously for the ritual of tea, they broke into + laughter at Rosamund’s exaggerated expressions of delight. But directly + she was able to stop laughing she affirmed with determination: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care what anybody says, or thinks; I repeat it”—she glanced + from the straw mat to the cake of anemic pink soap—“my wildest + dreams are surpassed. To think”—she spread out her hands—“only + to think of finding a tooth glass here! It’s—it’s admirable!” + </p> + <p> + She turned upon him an almost fanatical eye, daring contradiction; and + they both laughed again, long and loud like two children who, suddenly + aware of a keen physical pleasure, prolong it beyond all reasonable + bounds. + </p> + <p> + “What are we going to have for tea?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Tea,” Dion cried. + </p> + <p> + “You ridiculous creature!” + </p> + <p> + From a short distance, Achilles gazed upon the merriment of theses + newly-married English travelers. Nobody had told him they were newly + married; he just knew it, had known it at a glance. As he watched, the + laughter presently died away, and he saw the two walk forward to the edge + of the small plateau, then stand still to gaze at the view. + </p> + <p> + The prospect from the hill of Drouva above Olympia is very great, and all + Rosamund’s inclination to merriment died out of her as she looked upon it. + Even her joy in the camp was forgotten for a moment. + </p> + <p> + Upon their plateau, sole guests of the bareness, stood two small olive + trees, not distorted by winds. Rosamund leaned against one of them as she + gazed, put her arms round it with a sort of affectionate carelessness that + was half-protective, that seemed to say, “You dear little tree! How nice + of you to be here. But you almost want taking care of.” Then the tree was + forgotten, and the Hellenic beauty reigned over her spirit, as she gazed + upon the immense pastoral bounded by mountains and the sea; a green + wilderness threaded by a serpentine river of silver—a far-flung + river which lingered on its way, journeying hither and thither, making + great curves as if it loved the wilderness and wished to know it well, to + know all of it before being merged irrevocably with the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Those are the valleys of the Kladeos and the Alpheios.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And that far-off Isle is the Island of Zante.” + </p> + <p> + “Of Zante,” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + After a long pause she said: + </p> + <p> + “You know those words somewhere in the Bible—‘the wilderness and the + solitary places’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve always loved them, just those words. Even when I was quite a child I + liked to say them. And I remember once, when I was staying at Sherrington, + we drove over to the cathedral. Canon Wilton took us into the stalls. It + was a week-day and there were very few people. The anthem was Wesley’s + ‘The Wilderness.’ I had never heard it before, and when I heard those + words—my words—being sung, I had such a queer thrill. I wanted + to cry and I was startled. To most people, I suppose, the word wilderness + suggests something dreary and parched, ugly desolation.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The scapegoat was driven out into the wilderness.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I’d rather take <i>my</i> sin into the wilderness than anywhere + else. Purification might be found there.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Your</i> sin!” he said. “As if——” He was silent. + </p> + <p> + Zante seemed sleeping in the distance of the Ionian Sea, far away as the + dream from which one has waked, touched with a dream’s mystic remoteness. + The great plain, stretching to mountains and sea, vast and green and + lonely—but with the loneliness that smiles, desiring nothing else—seemed + uninhabited. Perhaps there were men in it, laboring among the vineyards or + toiling among the crops, women bending over the earth by which they lived, + or washing clothes on the banks of the river. Rosamund did not look for + them and did not see them. In the green landscape, over which from a + distance the mountains kept their quiet and deeply reserved watch, she + detected no movement. Even the silver of the river seemed immobile, as if + its journeyings were now stilled by an afternoon spell. + </p> + <p> + “It’s as empty as the plain of Marathon, but how much greater!” she said + at last. + </p> + <p> + “At Marathon there was the child.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, and here there’s not even a child.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what one would learn to be if one lived on the hill of Drouva?” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “It will be much more beautiful at sunset. We are looking due west. Soon + we shall have the moon rising behind us.” + </p> + <p> + “What memories I shall carry away!” + </p> + <p> + “And I.” + </p> + <p> + “You were here before alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I walked up from the village just before sunset after a long day + among the ruins. I—I didn’t know then of your existence. That seems + strange.” + </p> + <p> + But she was gazing at the view, and now with an earnestness in which there + seemed to him to be a hint of effort, as if she were, perhaps, urging + imagination to take her away and to make her one with that on which she + looked. It struck him just then that, since they had been married, she had + changed a good deal, or developed. A new dreaminess had been added to her + power and her buoyancy which, at times, made her very different from the + radiant girl he had won. + </p> + <p> + “The Island of Zante!” she said once more, with a last look at the sea, as + they turned away in answer to the grave summons of Achilles. “Ah, what + those miss who never travel!” + </p> + <p> + “And yet I remember your saying once that you had very little of the + normal in you, and even something about the cat’s instinct.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably I meant the cat’s instinct to say nasty things. Every woman—” + </p> + <p> + “No, what you meant—” + </p> + <p> + He began actually to explain, but her “Puss, Puss, Puss!” stopped him. Her + dream was over and her laugh rang out infectiously as they returned to the + tent. + </p> + <p> + The tea was fairly bad, but she defended its merits with energy, and + munched biscuits with an excellent appetite. Afterwards she smoked a + cigarette and Dion his pipe, sitting on the ground and leaning against the + tent wall. In vain Achilles drew her attention to the chairs. Rosamund + stretched out her long limbs luxuriously and shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a school-teacher, Achilles,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And Dion had to explain what she meant perhaps—only perhaps, for he + wasn’t sure about it himself,—to that classical personage. + </p> + <p> + “These chairs fight against the whole thing,” she said, when Achilles was + gone. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll hide them,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He was up in a moment, caught hold of the chairs, gripping one in each + hand, and marched off with them. When he came back Rosamund was no longer + sitting on the ground by the tent wall. She had slipped away. He looked + round. She must have gone beyond the brow of the hill, for she was not on + the plateau. He hesitated, pulling hard at his pipe. He knew her curious + independence, knew that sometimes she wanted to be alone. No doubt she had + gone to look at the great view from some hidden place. Well, then, he + ought not to try to find her, he ought to respect her wish to be by + herself. But this evening it hurt him. As he stood there he felt wounded, + for he remembered telling her that the great view would be much more + beautiful at sunset when the moon would be rising behind them. The + implication of course had been, “Wait a little and I’ll show you.” It was + he who had chosen the place for the camp, he who had prepared the + surprise. Perhaps foolishly, he had thought of the whole thing, even of + the plain, the river, the mountains, the sea and the Island of Zante, as a + sort of possession which he was going gloriously to share with her. And + now——! He felt deprived, almost wronged. The sky was changing. + He turned and looked to the east. Above Olympia, in a clear and tremulous + sky, a great silver moon was rising. It was his hour, and she had hidden + herself. + </p> + <p> + Again, at that moment, Dion felt almost afraid of his love. + </p> + <p> + His pipe had gone out. He took it from his lips, bent, and knocked out the + tobacco against the heel of his boot. He was horribly disappointed, but he + was not going to search for Rosamund; nor was he ever going to let her + know of his disappointment. Perhaps by concealing it he would kill it. He + thrust his pipe into his pocket, hesitated, then walked a little way from + the camp and sat down on the side of the hill. What rot it was his always + wanting to share everything now. Till he met Rosamund he had always + thought only women could never be happy unless they shared their + pleasures, and preferably with a man. Love apparently could play the very + devil, bridge the gulf between sexes, make a man who was thoroughly + masculine in all his tastes and habits have “little feelings” which + belonged properly only to women. + </p> + <p> + Doric! Suddenly the word jumped up in his mind, and a vision of the + Parthenon columns rose before his imagination, sternly glorious, almost + with the strength of a menace. He set his teeth together and cursed + himself for a fool and a backslider. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund and he were to be Doric. Well, this evening he didn’t know + exactly what he was, but he certainly was not Doric. + </p> + <p> + Just then he heard the sound of a shot. He did not know what direction it + came from, but, fantastically enough, it seemed to be a comment on his + thought, a brusk, decisive exclamation flung at him from out of the silent + evening. “Sentimentalist! Take that, and get out of your mush of feeling!” + As he recognized it—he now forced himself to that sticking-point—to + be a mush, the shot’s comment fell in, of course, with his own view of the + matter. + </p> + <p> + He sat still for a moment, thinking of the shot, and probably expecting it + to be repeated. It was not repeated. A great silence prevailed, the + silence of the Hellenic wild held in the hand of evening. And abruptly, + perhaps, from that large and pervasive silence, Dion caught a coldness of + fear. All his perceptions rushed upon him, an acute crowd. He sprang up, + put his hand to his revolver. Rosamund out alone somewhere in the + loneliness of Greece—evening—a shot! + </p> + <p> + He was over the brow of the hill towards the west in a moment. All respect + for Rosamund’s evening whim, all remembrance of his own proper pride, was + gone from him. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” he called; “Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + “Here!” replied her strong voice from somewhere a little way below him. + </p> + <p> + And he saw her standing on the hillside and looking downwards. He thrust + his revolver back into his pocket quickly. Already his pride was pushing + its head up again. He stood still, looking down on her. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, it is?” + </p> + <p> + This time she lifted her head and turned her face up to him. + </p> + <p> + “All right?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard a shot.” + </p> + <p> + He saw laughter dawning in her face. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say——?” + </p> + <p> + She laughed frankly. + </p> + <p> + “Come down here!” + </p> + <p> + He joined her. + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you, or didn’t you, think I’d been attacked by Greek brigands?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not! But I heard a shot, and it just struck me——” + </p> + <p> + At that moment he was almost ashamed of loving her so much. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there’s the brigand, and I do believe he’s going to shoot again. + The ruffian! Yes, he’s taking aim! Oh, Dion, let’s seek cover.” + </p> + <p> + Still laughing, she shrank against him. He put one arm round her shoulder + bruskly, and his hand closed on her tightly. A little way below them, + relieved with a strange and romantic distinctness against the evening + light, in which now there was a strong suggestion of gold, was a small + figure, straight, active—a figure of the open air and the wide + spaces—with a gun to its right shoulder. A shot rang out. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got it,” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + And there was a note of admiring praise in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “That child’s a dead shot,” she added. “It’s quail he’s after, I believe. + Look! He’s picking it up.” + </p> + <p> + The small black figure bent quickly down, after running forward a little + way. + </p> + <p> + “He retrieves as well as he shoots. Shall we go to him and see whether + it’s quail?” + </p> + <p> + “Another child,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He still had his arm round her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you come here?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “To look at the evening coming to me over the wilderness. But he made me + forget it for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + Dion was staring at her now. + </p> + <p> + “I believe a child could make you forget anything,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go to him.” + </p> + <p> + The gold of the evening was strengthening and deepening. The vast view, + which was the background to the child’s little figure, was losing its robe + of green and of blue, green of the land, blue of the sea, was putting on + velvety darkness and gold. The serpentine river was a long band of gold + flung out, as if by a careless enchanter, towards the golden sea in which + Zante was dreaming. Remote and immense this land had seemed in the full + daytime, a tremendous pastoral deserted by men, sufficient to itself and + existing only for its own beauty. Now it existed for a child. The human + element had caused nature, as it were, to recede, to take the second + place. A child, bending down to pick up a shot quail, then straightening + up victoriously, held the vast panorama in submission, as if he had + quietly given out the order, “Make me significant.” And Rosamund, who had + stolen away to meet the evening, was now only intent on knowing whether + the shot bird was a quail or not. + </p> + <p> + It was a quail, and a fat one. + </p> + <p> + When they came to the boy they found him a barefooted urchin, with + tattered coarse clothes and densely thick, uncovered black hair growing + down almost to his fiery young eyes, which stared at them proudly. There + was a wild look in those eyes never to be found in the eyes of a dweller + in cities, a wild grace in his figure, and a complete self-possession in + his whole bearing. The quail just shot he had in his hand. Another was + stuffed into the large pocket of his jacket. He pulled it out and showed + it to them, reading at a glance the admiration in Rosamund’s eyes. Dion + held out a hand to the boy’s gun, but at this his manner changed, he + clutched it tightly, moved a step or two back, and scowled. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a regular young savage,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “I like him as he is. Besides, why should he give his gun to a stranger? + He knows nothing about us.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re immense!” said Dion, laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s have the quail for our dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you expect him to give them to us without a stand-up fight and probably + bloodshed? For he’s armed, unfortunately!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be ridiculous. Look here, Dion, you go off for a minute, and leave + him with me. I think you get on his nerves.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m——!” + </p> + <p> + But he went. He left the two figures together, and presently saw them both + from a distance against the vastness of the gold. Bushes and shrubs, and + two or three giant pine trees, between the summit of Drouva and the plain, + showed black, and the figures of woman and child were almost ebon. Dion + watched them. He could not see any features. The two were now like carved + things which could move, and only by their movements could they tell him + anything. The gun over the boy’s shoulder was like a long finger pointing + to the west where a redness was creeping among the gold. The great moon + climbed above Drouva. Bluish-gray smoke came from the camp-fire at a + little distance. It ascended without wavering straight up in the windless + evening. Far down in the hidden valley, behind Dion and below the small + village, shadows were stealing through quiet Elis, shadows were coming to + shroud the secret that was held in the shrine of Olympia. A slight sound + of bells stole up on the stillness from somewhere below, somewhere not far + from those two ebon figures. And this sound, suggestive of moving animals + coming from pasture to protected places for the night, put a heart in the + breast of this pastoral. Thin was the sound and delicate, fit music for + Greece in the fragile evening. As Dion listened to it, he looked at that + black finger below him pointing to the redness in the west. Then he + remembered it was a gun, and, for an instant, looking at the red, he + thought of the color of fresh blood. + </p> + <p> + At this moment the tall figure, Rosamund, took hold of the gun, and the + two figures moved away slowly down the winding track in the hill, and were + hidden at a turning of the path. + </p> + <p> + Almost directly a third shot rang out. The young dweller in the wilderness + was allowing Rosamund to give a taste of her skill with the gun. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Rosamund came back to the camp that evening with Dirmikis,—so the + boy of the wilderness was called,—and five quail, three of them to + her gun. She was radiant, and indeed had an air almost of triumph. Her + eyes were sparkling, her cheeks were glowing; she looked like a beautiful + schoolgirl as she walked in over the plateau with the sunset flushing + scarlet behind her, and the big moon coming to meet her. Dirmikis, at her + side, carried the quail upside down in his brown hands. Rosamund had the + gun under her right arm. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a capital gun,” she called out to Dion. “I got three. Here, + Dirmikis,”—she turned to the boy,—“show them.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he understand English?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but he understands me!” she retorted with pride. “Look there!” + </p> + <p> + Dirmikis held up the birds, smiling a savage smile. + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t they fat? Feel them, Dion! The three fattest ones fell to my gun, + but don’t tell <i>him</i>.” + </p> + <p> + She sketched a delicious wink, looking about sixteen. + </p> + <p> + “I really have a good eye,” she added, praising herself with gusto. “It’s + no use being over-modest, is it? If one has a gift, well one just has it. + Here, Dirmikis!” + </p> + <p> + She gave his gun carefully to the barefooted child. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a little stunner, and so chivalrous. I never met a boy I liked more. + Do give him a nice present, Dion, and let him feed in the camp if he + likes.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, what next? What am I to give him?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing dressy. He isn’t a manikin, he’s a real Doric boy.” + </p> + <p> + She slapped Dirmikis on the back with a generous hand. He smiled + radiantly, this time without any savagery. + </p> + <p> + “The sort of boy who’ll be of some use in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give him a tip.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund seemed about to assent when an idea struck her, as she afterwards + said, “with the force of a bomb.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what he’ll like better than anything.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Your revolver, to be sure!” + </p> + <p> + “My revolver to be suren’t!” exclaimed Dion passionately, inventing a + negative. “I bought it at great cost to defend you with, not for the + endowment of a half-naked varmint from the wilderness under Drouva.” + </p> + <p> + “Be careful, Dion; you’re insulting a Doric boy!” + </p> + <p> + “Here—I’ll insult him with a ten-lepta piece.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be mean. Bribe him thoroughly if you’re going to bribe him. We go + shooting together again to-morrow evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you indeed?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, directly after tea. It’s all arranged. Dirmikis suggested it with + the most charming chivalry, and I gave yes for an answer. So we must keep + on good terms with him at whatever cost.” + </p> + <p> + She cocked up her chin and walked exultantly into the tent. A minute + afterwards there rang out to the evening a warm contralto voice singing. + </p> + <p> + Dirmikis looked at the tent and then at Dion with an air of profound + astonishment. The quail dropped from his hands, and he did not even snatch + at them as he listened to the remarkable sounds which, he could not doubt, + flowed from his Amazon. His brows came down over his fiery eyes, and he + seemed to stand at gaze like an animal, half-fascinated and + half-suspicious. The voice died away and was followed by a sound of + pouring water. Then Dirmikis accepted two ten-lepta pieces and picked up + the quail. Dion introduced him to the cook, and it was understood that he + should be fed in the camp, and that the quail should form part of the + evening meal. + </p> + <p> + Very good they proved to be, cooked in leaves with the addition of some + fried slices of fat ham. Rosamund exulted again as she ate them, + recognizing the birds she had shot “by the taste.” + </p> + <p> + “This is one! Aren’t mine different from Dirmikis’s?” she exclaimed. “So + much more succulent!” + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, you great baby!” + </p> + <p> + “Life is glorious!” she exclaimed resonantly. “To eat one’s own bag on the + top of Drouva under the moon! Oh!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the moon, then bent over her plate of metal-ware which was + set on the tiny folding-table. In her joy she was exactly like a big + child. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder how many I shall get to-morrow. I got my eye in at the very + start. Really, Dion, you know, I’m a gifted creature. It isn’t every one——” + </p> + <p> + And she ran on, laughing at herself, reveling in her whimsical pretense of + conceit till dinner was over. + </p> + <p> + “Now a cigarette! Never have I enjoyed any meal so much as this! It’s only + out of doors that one gets hold of the real <i>joie de vivre</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re never without it, thank God,” returned Dion, striking a match for + her. + </p> + <p> + So still was the evening that the flame burned steadily even upon that + height facing immensities. Rosamund leaned to it with the cigarette + between her lips. Her face was browned to the sun. She looked rather like + a splendid blonde gipsy, with loose yellow hair and the careless eyes of + those who dwell under smiling heavens. She sent out a puff of cigarette + smoke, directing it with ardor to the moon which now rode high above them. + </p> + <p> + “I’d like to catch up nature in my arms to-night,” she said. “Come, Dion, + let’s go a little way.” + </p> + <p> + She was up, and put her arm through his like a comrade. He squeezed her + arm against his side and, strolling there in the night on the edge of the + hill, she talked at first with almost tumultuous energy, with an energy as + of an Amazon who cared for the things of the soul as much as for the + things of the body. To-night her body and soul seemed on the same high + level of intensity. + </p> + <p> + At first she talked of the present, of their life in Greece and of what it + had meant to her, what it had done for her; and then, always with her arm + through Dion’s, she began to talk of the future. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve got to go away from all this, but let us carry it with us; you + know, as one can carry things that one has really gathered up, really got + hold of. It will mean a lot to us afterwards in England, in our regular + humdrum life. Not that life’s ever humdrum. We must take Drouva to + England, and Marathon, and the view from the Acropolis, and the columns of + the Parthenon above all those, and the tombs.” + </p> + <p> + “But they’re sad.” + </p> + <p> + “We must take them. I’m quite sure the way to make life splendid, noble, + what it is meant to be to each of us, is to press close against one’s + heart all that is sent to one, the sorrows as well as the joys. Everything + one tries to keep at arm’s length hurts one.” + </p> + <p> + “Sins?” + </p> + <p> + “Sins, Dion? I said what is sent to us.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think——?” + </p> + <p> + “Sins are never sent to us, we always have to go and fetch them. It’s like + that poor old chemist going round the corner in the fog with a jug for + what is ruining his life.” + </p> + <p> + “What poor old chemist?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “A great friend of mine in London—Mr. Thrush. You shall know him + some day. Oh—but London! Now, Dion, can we, you and I, live + perpetually in London after all this?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, dearest, I must stick close to business.” + </p> + <p> + “I know that. And we’ve got the little house. But later on?” + </p> + <p> + “And your singing, your traveling all over the place with a maid!” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I shall. To-night I don’t feel as if I shall.” + </p> + <p> + She stood still abruptly, and was silent for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think,” she said, in a different and less exuberant voice, and + with a changed and less physical manner—“don’t you think sometimes, + in exceptional hours, one can feel what is to come, what is laid up for + one? I do. This is an exceptional hour. We are on the heights and it’s + very wonderful. Well, perhaps to-night we can feel what is coming. Let’s + try.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s just be quiet, and give ourselves up to the hill of Drouva, and + Greece, and the night, and—and what surrounds and permeates us and + all this.” + </p> + <p> + With a big and noble gesture she indicated the sleeping world far below + them, breathless under the moon; the imperceptible valleys merged in the + great plain through which the river, silver once more, moved unsleeping + between its low-lying banks to the sea; the ranges of mountains which held + themselves apart in the night, a great company, reserved and almost + austere, yet trodden with confidence by the feet of those fairies who + haunt the ancient lands; the sea which drew down the moon as a lover draws + down his mistress; Zante riding the sea like a shadow in harbor. + </p> + <p> + And they were silent. Dion had a sensation of consciously giving himself, + almost as a bather, to the sea. Did he feel what was coming to him and to + this girl at his side, who was part of him, and yet who was alone, whose + arm clasped his, yet whose soul dwelt far off in its own remoteness? Would + the years draw them closer and closer together, knit them together, + through greater knowledge, through custom, through shared joys and + beliefs, through common beliefs, through children, till they were as + branches growing out of one stem firmly rooted? + </p> + <p> + He gave himself and gave himself, or tried to give himself in the silence. + Yet he could not have said truly that any mystical knowledge came to him. + Only one thing he seemed strangely to know, that they would never have + children. The sleeping world and the sea, and, as Rosamund had said, “what + surrounds and permeates us and all this” seemed to permit him mysteriously + to get at that one bit of foreknowledge. Something seemed to say to him, + “You will be the father of one child.” And yet, when he came to think of + it, he realized how probable, how indeed almost certain it was that the + silent voice issued from within himself. Rosamund and he had talked about + a child, a boy, had begun almost to sketch out mental plans for that boy’s + upbringing; they had never talked about children. He believed that he had + penetrated to the secret of the voice. He said to himself, “All that sort + of thing comes out of one’s self. It doesn’t reach one from the outside.” + And yet, when he looked out over the world, which seemed wrapped in + ethereal garments, garments woven by spirit on looms no hand of woman or + man might ever touch, he was vaguely conscious that all within him which + was of any real value was there too. Surely he did not possess. Rather was + he possessed of. + </p> + <p> + He looked at Rosamund at last. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got anything?” + </p> + <p> + But she did not answer him. There was a great stillness in her big eyes. + All the vital exuberance of body and spirit mingled together had vanished + from her abruptly. Nothing of the Amazon who had captured the heart of + Dirmikis remained. As Dion looked at her now, he simply could not see the + beautiful schoolgirl of sixteen, the blonde gipsy who had bent forward, + cigarette in mouth, to his match, who had leaned back and blown rings to + the moon above Drouva. Had she ever set the butt of a gun against her + shoulder? Something in this woman’s eyes made him suddenly feel as if he + ought to leave her alone. Yet her arm still lay on his, and she was his. + </p> + <p> + Against the silver of the moon the twisted trunks of the two small olive + trees showed black and significant. The red of the dying camp-fire glowed + not far from the tent. Dogs were barking in the hamlet of Drouva. She + neither saw details nor heard ugly sounds in the night. He knew that. And + the rest? It seemed to him that something of her, the spirit of her, + perhaps, or some part of it with which his had never yet had any close + contact, was awake and at work in the night. But though he held her arm in + his she was a long way from him. And there came to him this thought: + </p> + <p> + “I felt as if I ought to leave her alone. But she has left me alone.” + </p> + <p> + Almost mechanically, and slowly, he straightened his arm, thus letting + hers slip. She did not seem to notice his action. She gazed out towards + Zante over a world that now looked very mystical. In the daylight it had + been a green pastoral. Now there was over it, and even surely in it, a dim + whiteness, a something pure and hushed, like the sound, remote and + curiously final, of a quiet sleeper. + </p> + <p> + That night, when they went to bed, Rosamund was full of the delight of a + new experience. She insisted that the flap of the tent should not be kept + shut down. She had never slept in a tent before, and was resolved to look + out and see the stars from her pillow. + </p> + <p> + “And my olive tree,” she added. + </p> + <p> + Obediently, as soon as she was in her camp-bed, Dion lifted the flap. A + candle was still burning, set on a chair between the two beds. As the + moonlight came in, Rosamund lifted herself on one arm, leaned over and + blew it out. + </p> + <p> + “How horrible moonlight makes candlelight,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Dion, in his pyjamas, was outside fastening back the flap, his bare feet + on the short dry grass. + </p> + <p> + “I can see the Pleiades!” she added earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “There!” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He looked up at the sky. + </p> + <p> + “The Pleiades, the Great Bear, Mars.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she drew in her breath. “A shooting star!” + </p> + <p> + She pressed her lips together and half-shut her eyes. By her contracted + forehead Dion saw that she was wishing almost fiercely. He believed he + read her wish. He had not seen the traveling star, and did not try to wish + with her, lest he should cross the path of the Fates and throw his shadow + on her desire. + </p> + <p> + He came softly into the tent which was full of the whiteness of the moon. + Sleeping thus with Rosamund in the bosom of nature was very wonderful to + him. It was like a sort of re-marriage. The moon and the stars looking in + made his relation to her quite new and more beautiful. + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget Olympia,” he whispered, leaning over her. + </p> + <p> + He kissed her very gently, not with any passion. He had the feeling that + she would almost resent passion just then. + </p> + <p> + He got into his bed and lay with his arm crooked, his cheek in his hand. + Part of the Milky Way was visible to him, that dust of little stars + powdering the deep of the sky. If he, too, should see a falling star + to-night, dropping down towards the hidden sea, vanishing below the line + of the hill! Would he echo her wish? + </p> + <p> + “Are you sleepy, Rosamund?” he asked presently. + </p> + <p> + “No I don’t want to sleep. It would make me miss all the stars.” + </p> + <p> + “And if you’re tired to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I shan’t be. I shan’t be tired while we are in camp. I should like never + to go to bed in a room again. I should like always to dwell in the + wilderness.” + </p> + <p> + He longed for the addition of just two words. They did not come. But of + course they were to be understood. There is no need to state things known. + The fact that she had let him bring her to the wilderness was enough. The + last words he heard Rosamund say that night were these, almost whispered + slowly to herself and to the stars: + </p> + <p> + “The wilderness—and—the solitary places.” + </p> + <p> + Very early in the morning she awoke while Dion was sleeping. She slipped + softly out of the little camp-bed, wrapped a cloak around her, and went + out to gaze at the dawn. + </p> + <p> + When they sat at breakfast she said: + </p> + <p> + “And now are you going to tell me the secret?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m going to let you find it out for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “But if I can’t?” + </p> + <p> + “You will.” + </p> + <p> + They set off, about ten, down the hill on foot. The morning was very still + and already very hot. As they descended towards the basin in which lies + Olympia, heat ascended to meet them and to give them a welcome—a + soft and almost enticing heat like a breath from some green fastness where + strange marvels were secluded. + </p> + <p> + “Elis even smells remote,” Rosamund said. + </p> + <p> + “Are you sorry to leave the hill-top?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I was, but already I’m beginning to feel drawn on. There’s something here—what + is it?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Something for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Specially for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Specially for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Hidden in the folds of the green. Where are we going first?” + </p> + <p> + “To the ruins.” + </p> + <p> + He was carrying their lunch in a straw pannier slung over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll lunch in the house of Nero, and rest there.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds rather dreadful, Dion.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you see it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t imagine that monster in Elis.” + </p> + <p> + “He was a very artistic monster, you remember.” + </p> + <p> + “Like some of the decadents in London. Why is it that those who hate moral + beauty so often worship all the other beauties?” + </p> + <p> + “D’you think in their hearts they actually hate moral beauty?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, despise it, laugh at it, try to tarnish it.” + </p> + <p> + “Paganism!” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, no!” + </p> + <p> + And they both laughed as they went down the narrow path to the soft green + valley that awaited them, hushed in the breathless morning, withdrawn + among the hills, holding its memories of the athletic triumphs of past + ages. Near the Museum they stopped for a moment to look down on the + valley. + </p> + <p> + “Is the Hermes in there?” Rosamund asked, glancing at the closed and + deserted building. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What a strange and delicious home for him.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall visit him presently. There are jackals in this valley.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t hear any last night.” + </p> + <p> + She looked again at the closed door of the Museum. + </p> + <p> + “When do they open it?” + </p> + <p> + “Probably the guardian’s in there. That’s where he lives.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a small dwelling close to the museum. Just then a tiny + murmur of some far-away wind stirred the umbrella pines which stood + sentinel over the valley. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dion, what an exquisite sound!” she said. + </p> + <p> + She held up one hand like a listening child. There was awe in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “This is a shrine,” she said, when the murmur failed. “Dion, I know you + planned to go first to the ruins.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They’re just below us. Look—by the river!” + </p> + <p> + “Let me see the Hermes first, just for a moment.” + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met. He thought she was reading his mind, though he tried to + keep it closed against her just then. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you in such a hurry?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I feel I must see it,” she answered, with a sort of sweet obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then—I’ll see if I can find the guardian.” + </p> + <p> + In a moment he came back with a smiling Greek who was holding a key. As + the man went to open the door, Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “Rose, will you follow my directions?” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “Now, when you go into the Museum.” + </p> + <p> + “But aren’t you coming too?” + </p> + <p> + “Not now. I will when we’ve seen the ruins. When you go into the Museum go + straight through the vestibule where the Roman Emperors are. Don’t turn to + the right. In front of you you’ll see a hall with a wooden roof and red + walls. The ‘Victory’ is there. But don’t stay there. Go into the small + room beyond, the last room, and you mustn’t let the guardian go with you.” + </p> + <p> + From behind came the sound of the big door being opened. + </p> + <p> + “Then that is the secret, and I knew about it all the time!” + </p> + <p> + “Knew about it—yes.” + </p> + <p> + She looked down on the green cup surrounded by hills, with its little + river where now two half-naked men were dragging with a hand-net for fish. + Again the tiny breath from the far-away wind stirred in the pine trees, + evoking soft sounds of Eternity. She turned away and went into the Museum. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Dion lifted the lunch-pannier from his shoulder and laid it + down on the ground. Then he sat down under one of the pine trees. A wild + olive grew very near it. He thought of the crown of wild olive which the + victors received in days when the valley resounded with voices and the + trampling of the feet of horses. He took off his hat and laid it beside + him on the ground by the lunch-pannier. One of the men in the river cried + out to his companion. Sheep-bells sounded softly down the valley. Some + peasants went by with a small train of donkeys on a path which wound away + at the foot of the hill of Kronos. + </p> + <p> + Dion was being unselfish. In staying where he was, beyond the outer door + of the house of Hermes, he was taking the first firm step on a path which + might lead him on very far. He had slept in the dawn when Rosamund slipped + out of the tent, but till the stars waned he had been awake, and in the + white light of the moon he had seen the beginning of the path. Men were + said to be selfish. People, especially women, often talked as if + selfishness were bred in the very fiber of men, as if it were + ineradicable, and must be accepted by women. He meant to prove to one + woman that even a man could be unselfish, moved by something greater than + himself. Up there on Drouva he had definitely dedicated himself to + Rosamund. His acute pain when, coming back to the place where he had left + her by the tent before sunset, he had not found her, his sense almost of + smoldering anger, had startled him. In the night he had thought things + over, and then he had come to the beginning of the path. A really great + love, if it is to be worthy to carry the torch, must tread in the way of + unselfishness. He would conform to the needs, doubtless imperious, of + Rosamund’s nature, even when they conflicted with his. + </p> + <p> + So now he sat outside under the pine tree, and she was within alone. A + first step was taken on the path. + </p> + <p> + Would she presently come through the hall of the Victory to call him in? + </p> + <p> + He heard the guardian cough in the vestibule of the Emperors; the cough + was that of a man securely alone with his bodily manifestations. The train + of peasants had vanished. Still the sheep-bells sounded, but the chime + seemed to come to him now from a greater distance. + </p> + <p> + The morning was wearing on. When would she come back to him from the + secret of Olympia? + </p> + <p> + He heard again above his head the eternities whispering in the pine + branches. The calmness and heat of the valley mingled together, and rose + to him, and wanted to take him to themselves. But he was detached from + them, terribly detached by his virtue—his virtue, which involved him + in a struggle, pushed them off. + </p> + <p> + Surely an hour had passed, perhaps even more. He began to tingle with + impatience. The sound of the sheep-bells had died away beyond the + colonnade of the echoes. A living silence was now about him. + </p> + <p> + At last he put on his hat and got up. The Hermes was proving his power too + mercilessly, was stealing the hours like a thief at work in the dark. The + knowledge that Rosamund was his own for life did not help Dion at all at + this moment. He had planned out this day as if they were never to have + another. Their time in Greece was nearly over, and they could not linger + for very long anywhere. Anyhow, just this day, once gone, could never be + recaptured. + </p> + <p> + He looked towards the doorway of the Museum, hesitating. He was devoured + by impatience. Nevertheless he did not wish to step out of that path, the + beginning of which he had seen in the night. Determined not to seek + Rosamund, yet driven by restlessness, he did one of those meaningless + things which, bringing hurt to nature, are expected by man to bring him at + least a momentary solace. His eyes happened to rest on the olive tree + which stood not far from the Museum. One branch of it was stretched out + beyond the others. He walked up to the tree, pulled at the branch, and + finally snapped it off, stripped it of its leaves and threw it on the + ground. + </p> + <p> + As he finished this stupid and useless act, Rosamund came out of the + Museum, looking almost angry. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dion, was it you?” she asked. “What could make you do such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “But—what do you mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She looked down at the massacred branch at his feet. + </p> + <p> + “A branch of wild olive! If you only knew how it hurt me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—that! But how could you know?” + </p> + <p> + She still looked at him with a sort of shining of anger in her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I saw from the room of the Hermes. The doorway of the Museum is the frame + for such a picture of Elis! It’s almost, in its way, as dream-like and + lovely as the distant country one sees through the temple door in + Raphael’s ‘Marriage of the Virgin’ in Milan. And hanging partly across it + was that branch of wild olive. I was looking at it and loving it in the + room of the Hermes when a man’s arm, your arm, was thrust into the + picture, and the poor branch was torn away.” + </p> + <p> + She had spoken quite excitedly, still evidently under the impulse of + something like anger. Now she suddenly pulled herself up with a little + forced laugh. + </p> + <p> + “Of course you didn’t know; you couldn’t. I suppose I was dreaming, and it—it + looked like a sort of murder. But still I don’t see why you should tear + the branch off, and all the leaves too.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, Rosamund. It was idiotic. Of course I hadn’t + an idea what you were doing, I mean, that you were looking at it. One does + senseless little things sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “It looked so angry.” + </p> + <p> + “What did?” + </p> + <p> + “Your hand, your arm. You can have no idea how——” + </p> + <p> + She broke off again. + </p> + <p> + “Let me come in with you. Let’s go to the Hermes.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, not now.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with almost brusk decision. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then, I’ll just pay the man something, and we’ll be off to the + ruins.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Dion went to pay the guardian, whom he found standing up among the Roman + Emperors in a dignified and receptive attitude. When he came back he + picked up the lunch-basket, slung it over his shoulder, and they walked + down the small hill and towards the ruins in silence. He felt involved in + a tragedy, pained and discomforted. Yet it was all rather absurd, too. He + did not know what to say, how to take it, and he looked straight ahead, + seeking instinctively for some diversion. When they were on the river bank + he found it in the fishermen who were wading in the shallows with their + nets. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what they catch here,” he said. “There’s not much water.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund took up the remark with her usual readiness and sympathetic + cordiality, and soon they were chattering again much as usual. + </p> + <p> + The great heat of the hour after noontide found them lunching among the + ruins of Nero’s house. By this time the spell of the place had fast hold + of them both. Nature had long since taken the ruins to her gentle breast; + she took Rosamund and Dion with them. In her green lap she sheltered them; + with her green hills and her groves of pine trees she wrapped them round; + with her tall grasses, her bushes, her wild flowers and her leaves she + caught at and caressed them. A jackal whined in its lair near the huge + limestone blocks of the temple of Zeus. Green lizards basked on the + pavements which still showed the little ruts constructed to save the feet + of contending athletes from slipping. All along the green valley the birds + flew and sang; blackberry bushes climbed over the broken walls of the + mansion of Nero, and red and white daisies and silvery grasses grew in + every cranny where the kindly earth found a foothold. + </p> + <p> + “Look at those butterflies, Dion!” Rosamund said. + </p> + <p> + Two snow-white butterflies, wandering among the ruins, had found their way + to the house of Nero, and seemed inclined to make it their home. Keeping + close together, as if guided by some sweet and whimsical purpose, they + flew from stone to stone, from daisy to daisy, often alighting, as if bent + on a thorough investigation of this ancient precinct, then fluttering + forward again, with quivering wings, not quite satisfied, in an airy + search for the thing or place desired. Several times they seemed about to + abandon the ruins of Nero’s house, but, though they fluttered away, they + always returned. And at last they alighted side by side on a piece of + uneven wall, and rested, as if asleep in the sun, with folded wings. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the finishing touch,” said Rosamund. “White butterflies asleep in + the house of Nero.” + </p> + <p> + She looked round over the ruins, poetic and beautiful in their + prostration, as if they had fallen to kiss the vale which, in return, had + folded them in an eternal embrace. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t take me to Delphi this time, Dion; don’t take me anywhere else,” + she said. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking only to-day that our time’s very short now. We lingered so + long in Athens.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll say our good-by to Greece from the Acropolis. That’s—of + course! The grandeur and wonder are there. But the dream of Greece—that’s + here. This is a shrine.” + </p> + <p> + “For Pan?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, not for Pan, though I dare say he often comes here.” + </p> + <p> + From the Kronos Hill, covered with little pines, came the mystical voice + of the breeze, speaking to them in long and remote murmurs. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the most exquisite sound in the world,” Rosamund continued. “But + it has nothing to do with Pan. You remember that day we went into the + Russian church in Athens, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “There was the same sort of sound in those Russian voices when they were + singing very softly. It could never come from a Pagan world.” + </p> + <p> + “You find belief behind it?” + </p> + <p> + “No—knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + He did not ask her to define exactly what she meant. It was not an hour + for definition, but for dreaming, and he was happy again; the cloud of the + morning had passed away; he had his love with untroubled eyes among the + ruins. Thinking of that, realizing that with a sudden intensity, he took + her warm hand from the warm stone on which it was resting, and held it + closely in his. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Rosamund, shall I ever have another hour as happy as this?” he said. + </p> + <p> + A little way off, in that long meadow in the breast of which the Stadium + lay hidden, the sheep-bells sounded almost pathetically; a flock was there + happily at pasture. + </p> + <p> + “It’s as if all the green doors were closing upon us to keep us in Elis + forever, isn’t it?” she said. “But——” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with a sort of smiling reproach: + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t be allowed to stay.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “You committed a crime this morning. Nature’s taken possession of Olympia, + and you struck at her.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you know why I did that?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + But she did not again ask him why, and he never told her. When the heat + had lessened a little, they wandered once more through that garden of + ruins, where scarcely a column is standing, where convulsions of nature + have helped the hands of man to overthrow man’s work, and where nature has + healed every wound, and made every scar tender and beautiful. And + presently Rosamund said: + </p> + <p> + “I want to know exactly where Hermes was found.” + </p> + <p> + “Come, and I’ll show you.” + </p> + <p> + He led her on among the wild flowers and the grasses, till they came to + the clearly marked base of the Heraeon, the most ancient known temple of + Greece. Two of its columns were standing, tremendously massive Doric + columns of a warm golden-brown color. + </p> + <p> + “The Hermes was found in this temple. It stood between two of the columns, + but I believe it was lying down when it was found.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s difficult to imagine him between such columns as these.” + </p> + <p> + “Yet you love Doric.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I don’t know——” + </p> + <p> + She looked at the columns, even put her hands on them as if trying to + clasp them. + </p> + <p> + “It must have been right. The Greeks knew. Strength and grace, power and + delicacy, that’s the bodily ideal. So the Hermes stood actually here.” + </p> + <p> + She looked all round, she listened to the distant sheep-bells, she drew + into her nostrils the green scents of the valley. + </p> + <p> + “And left his influence here for ever,” she added. “His quiet influence.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me come to see him with you on the way home.” + </p> + <p> + And this time she said, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + At a little after four they left the sweet valley, and, passing over the + river ascended the hill to the Museum. The door was open, and the guardian + was sitting profoundly asleep in the vestibule of the Emperors. + </p> + <p> + “You see, that’s the picture-frame,” Rosamund whispered, when they were + inside, pointing to the doorway. “The branch came just there in my + picture.” + </p> + <p> + She had lifted her hand. He took her by the wrist and gently pulled her + hand down. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t show me that.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us wake him.” + </p> + <p> + A fly buzzed outside on the sunny threshold of the door, making a sleepy + sound like the winding of a rustic horn in the golden stillness, as they + went forward on tiptoe between the dull red walls of the hall of the + Victory, and came into the room beyond, where the Hermes stood alone but + for the little Dionysos on his arm. + </p> + <p> + There a greater silence seemed to reign—the silence of the harmony + which lies beyond music, as a blue background of the atmosphere lies + beyond the verges of the vastest stretch of land that man’s eyes have + power to see; he sees the blue, but almost as if with his soul, and in + like manner hears the harmony. Both Rosamund and Dion felt the difference + in the silence directly they entered that sacred room. + </p> + <p> + There was no room beyond it. Not very large, it was lighted by three + windows set in a row under a handsome roof of wood. The walls were dull + red like the walls in the hall of the Victory. On the mosaic pavement were + placed two chairs. Rosamund went straight up to one of them, and sat down + in front of the statue, which was raised on a high pedestal, and set + facing the right-hand wall of the chamber. Dion remained standing a little + way behind her. + </p> + <p> + He remembered quite well his first visit to Olympia, his first sight of + the Hermes. He had realized then very clearly the tragedy of large Museums + in which statues stand together in throngs, enclosed within roaring + cities. From its situation, hidden in the green breast of this valley in + Elis, the Hermes seemed to receive a sort of consecration, a blessing from + its shrine; and the valley received surely from the Hermes a gracious + benediction, making it unlike any other valley, however beautiful, in any + land of the earth. Nowhere else could the Hermes have been so serenely + tender, so exquisitely benign in its contemplation; and no other valley + could have kept it safe with such gentle watchfulness, such tranquilly + unwearied patience. Surely each loved the other, and so each gained + something from the other. + </p> + <p> + Through all the months since his visit, Dion had remembered the unique + quality of the peace of Olympia, like no other peace, and the strange and + exquisite hush which greeted the pilgrim at the threshold of the chamber + in which the Hermes stood. He had remembered, but now he felt. Again the + silence seemed to come out of the marble to greet him, a remembered + pilgrim who had returned to his worship bringing another pilgrim. He + entered once more into the peace of the Hermes, and now Rosamund shared + that peace. As he looked at her for a moment, he knew he had made a + complete atonement; he had sent the shadow away. + </p> + <p> + How could any shadow stand in the presence of the Hermes? The divine calm + within this chamber had a power which was akin to the power of nature in + the twilight of a windless evening, or of a beautiful soul at ease in its + own simplicity. It purified. Dion could not imagine any man being able to + look at the Hermes and feel the attraction of sin. Rosamund was right, he + thought. Surely men have to go and fetch their sins. Their goodness is + given to them. The mother holds it, and is aware of it, when her baby is + put into her arms for the first time. + </p> + <p> + For a long while these two watched Hermes and the child in the silence of + Elis, bound together by an almost perfect sympathy. And they understood as + never before the beauty of calm—calm of the nerves, calm of the + body, calm of the mind, the heart and the soul; peace physical, + intellectual and moral. In looking at the Hermes they saw, or seemed to + themselves to see, the goal, what struggling humanity is meant for—the + perfect poise, all faculties under effortless control, and so peace. + </p> + <p> + “We must be meant for that,” Dion said to himself. “Shall we reach that + goal, and take a child with us?” + </p> + <p> + Then he looked down at Rosamund, saw her pale yellow hair, the back of her + neck, in which, somehow, purity was manifested, and thought: + </p> + <p> + “I might perhaps get there through her, but only through her.” + </p> + <p> + She turned round, looked at him and smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t he divine? And the child’s attitude!” + </p> + <p> + Dion moved and sat down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “If this is Paganism,” she continued, “it’s the same thing as + Christianity. It’s what God means. Men try to separate things that are all + one. I feel that when I look at Hermes. Oh, how beautiful he is! And his + beauty is as much moral as physical. You know the Antinous mouth?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at his mouth. Could any one, comparing the two, honestly say that + purity doesn’t shine like a light in darkness? Aren’t those lips stamped + with the Divine seal?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion, I’m so thankful I have a husband who’s kept the power to see that + even physical beauty must have moral beauty behind it to be perfect. Many + men can’t see that, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it their fault?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + After another long silence she said: + </p> + <p> + “Spirit really is everything. Hermes tells me that almost as plainly as + the New Testament. Lots of people we know in London would laugh at me for + saying so, the people who talk of ‘being Greek’ and who never can be + Greek. And he stood between Doric columns. I’m trying to learn something + here.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “How to bring <i>him</i> up if he ever comes.” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt for her hand. + </p> + <p> + They stayed on for a week at Drouva. Each evening Rosamund shot with the + boy of the wilderness, and they ate any birds that fell, at their evening + meal. The nights were given to the stars till sleep came. And all the days + were dedicated to Hermes, the child, and the sweet green valley which + served as a casket for the perfect jewel which the earth had given up + after centuries of possession. Since Rosamund had told the dear secret of + her heart, what she was trying to learn, Dion was able to see her go in + alone to the inner chamber without any secret jealousy or any impatience. + The given confidence had done its blessed work swiftly and surely; the + spring behind the action, revealed so simply, was respected, was almost + loved by Dion. Often he sat among the ruins alone, smoking his pipe; or he + wandered away after the call of the sheep-bells, passing between the + ruined walls overgrown with brambles and grasses and mosses, shaded here + and there by a solitary tree, and under the low arch of the Athletes’ + entrance into the great green space where the contests had been held. Here + he found the wearers of music feeding peacefully, attended by a dreaming + boy. With the Two in the Garden of Eden there were happy animals. The + sheep-bells ringing tranquilly in his ears made Eden more real to him, and + also more like something in one of the happy dreams of a man. + </p> + <p> + A world that had risen to great heights of emotion in this valley was + dead, but that did not sadden him. He found it impossible to be sad in + Olympia, because his own life was so happy. + </p> + <p> + A delicious egoism, the birthright of his youth, had him safe in its + grasp. But sometimes, when Rosamund was alone in the room of the Hermes, + learning her lesson, and he was among the ruins, or walking above the + buried Stadium where the flocks were at pasture, he recalled the great + contests of the Athletes of ancient Greece; the foot-races which were the + original competitions at the games, the races in armor, the long jumps, + the wrestling matches, the discus and dart-throwing, the boxing and the + brutal <i>pankration</i>. And he remembered that at the Olympic Games + there were races for boys, for quite young boys. A boy had won at Olympia + who was only twelve years old. When Dion recalled that fact one golden + afternoon, it seemed to him that perhaps his lesson was to be learnt among + the feeding sheep in the valley, rather even than on the hill where the + Hermes dwelt. The father surely shapes one part of the sacred clay of + youth, while on the other part, with a greater softness, a perhaps subtler + care, the mother works. + </p> + <p> + He would try to make his boy sturdy and strong and courageous, swift to + the race of life; he would train his boy to be a victor, to be a boy + champion among other boys. Her son must not fail to win the crown of wild + olive. And when he was a man——! But at that point in his + dreams of the future Dion always pulled up. He could not see Rosamund as + the mother of a man, could not see Rosamund old. She would, of course, be + beautiful in old age, with a perhaps more spiritual beauty than she had + even now. He shut his eyes, tried to imagine her, to see her before him + with snow-white hair, a face perhaps etherealized by knowledge of life and + suffering; once he even called up the most perfect picture of old age he + knew of—the portrait of Whistler’s mother, calm, dignified, gentle, + at peace, with folded hands; but his efforts were in vain; he simply could + not see his Rosamund old. And so, because of that, he could only see their + child as a very young boy, wearing a boy’s crown of wild olive, such as + had once been won by the boy of twelve in the games at Olympia. + </p> + <p> + The last day of their visit to the green wilds and the hilltops dawned, + still, cloudless and very hot. There was a light haze over Zante, and the + great plain held a look of sleep—not the sleep of night but of the + siesta, when the dreams come out of the sun, and descend through the + deep-blue corridors to visit those who are weary in the gold. Rosamund, + bareheaded, stood on the hill of Drouva and gazed towards the sea; her arm + was round her olive tree; she looked marvelously well, lithe and strong, + but her face was grave, held even a hint of sadness. + </p> + <p> + “Our last day here!” she said to Dion. “One more night with the stars, + only one! Dion, when you brought me here, you did a dangerous thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Gave you opportunities for regret? D’you mean that?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, still gazing towards Zante. + </p> + <p> + “Such opportunities!” + </p> + <p> + “It couldn’t be helped. I had to bring you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. I know. If you had let me leave Greece without coming here, + and I had ever come to understand what I had missed, I don’t believe I + could have forgiven even you.” + </p> + <p> + “I always meant to bring you here.” + </p> + <p> + “But you had a sudden impulse, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why exactly did it come?” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated. Suddenly he felt reserved; but he broke through his reserve + and answered: + </p> + <p> + “I saw I had made you feel sad.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you? Why was that?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you remember?” + </p> + <p> + She was catching the dream of the plain, perhaps, for she replied, with an + almost preoccupied air: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think so.” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to make you happy again, very happy, to give you a treat as + quickly as possible. The idea of this”—he flung out a brown hand—“came + to me suddenly. That’s how it was. You—you don’t know how I wish to + keep every breath of sorrow out of your life.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you do; I feel it. But you’ve put a sorrow in.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a half-whimsical smile. + </p> + <p> + “Have I?” + </p> + <p> + “The sorrow of leaving all this, of leaving the Hermes. I didn’t know it + was possible to grow to care for a lifeless thing as I care for him. + Sometimes I believe the marble has actually retained nothing of Praxiteles + as a man. I mean as apart from a sculptor. But he must have been full of + almost divine feelings and conceptions, or he could never have made my + Hermes. No man can make the divine without having divinity in him. I’ve + learnt more here in these few days than I have learnt in all my years.” + </p> + <p> + “From the statue of a Pagan. Isn’t that strange?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t think so. For I was able to see the Christianity in it. I + know what Praxiteles was only able to feel mysteriously. Sometimes in + London I’ve heard people—you know the sort of people I mean—regretting + they didn’t live in the old Greek world.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve regretted that.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you? But not in their way. When I look at the Hermes I feel very + thankful I have lived since.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me just why.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I live in a world which has received definitely and finally the + message the Hermes knew before it was sent down.” + </p> + <p> + She took away her arm from the olive tree and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dion, I shall hate going away, leaving the tent and Drouva and him. + But I believe whenever I think of Olympia I shall feel the peace that, + thank God, doesn’t pass all understanding.” + </p> + <p> + They went down to the valley that day to pay their final visit to the + Hermes. Twilight had not yet come, but was not very far off when, for the + last time, they crossed the threshold of his chamber. More silent than + ever, more benignly silent, did the hush about him seem to Dion; more + profound were his peace and serenity. He and the child had surely + withdrawn a little farther from all that was not intended, but that, for + some inscrutable reason, had come to be. His winged sandals had carried + him still farther away. As Dion looked at him he seemed to be afar. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “This evening I have a feeling about the Hermes I’ve never had before.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “That he’s taking the child away, quite away.” + </p> + <p> + “But he’s always been here, and not here. That’s what I love so much.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean quite that. It’s as if he were taking the child farther and + farther away, partly because of us.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t like that. I don’t feel that at all.” + </p> + <p> + “We belong to this world, you see, and are subject to all its conditions. + We are in it and of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He belongs to such a different world.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, the released world, where no ugly passions can ever get in.” + </p> + <p> + “The way he looks at Dionysos tells one that. He hasn’t any fear for the + boy’s future when he grows up and comes to know things. It just strikes me + that no human being who thinks could ever look at a human child like that. + There would always be the fear behind—‘What is life going to do to + the child?’” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, and her face was very grave. + </p> + <p> + “D’you think we should feel that?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely.” + </p> + <p> + “Unless we got the serene courage of the Hermes.” + </p> + <p> + “But he lived among gods, and we live among men.” + </p> + <p> + “Not always.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps some day you will,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + Into her eyes there had come a strange look of withdrawal. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the atmosphere in the room of the Hermes seemed to Dion + more full of peace even than before, but the peace was like something + almost tangible. It troubled him a little because he felt that the Hermes, + the child and Rosamund were of it, while he was not. They were surrounded + by the atmosphere necessary to them, and to which they were mysteriously + accustomed, while he was for the first time in such an atmosphere. He felt + separated from Rosamund by a gulf, perhaps very narrow, but probably very + deep. + </p> + <p> + Over Elis the twilight was falling, a green twilight sylvan and very + ethereal, tremulous in its delicate beauty. It stole through the green + doors, and down through the murmuring pine trees; it crossed the shallow + river, and made its way to the garden of ruins where once the Hermes had + stood between Doric Columns in the Heraeon. Through the colonnade of the + echoes it passed, and under the arch of the Athletes. Over the crude and + almost terrible strength of the ruins of the temple of Zeus it let its + green garments trail down, as it felt its way softly but surely to the + buried Stadium where once a boy of twelve had won the crown of wild olive. + The sheep-bells were ringing softly; the flocks were going homeward from + pasture. They were making their way up the valley now at the base of the + Kronos Hill, and the chime of their little bells mingled with the wide + whispering of the eternities among the summits of the pine trees. Music of + earth mingled with the music from a distance that knew what the twilight + knew. + </p> + <p> + The tall oblong of the Museum doorway on the hill framed a tiny picture of + Elis, bathed in green and tremulous light; a small section of hillside, a + fragment of empty, poetic country—Pan’s world rather hinted at than + revealed—a suggestion of evening sky, remote, with infinity lost in + its distance. But there was no branch of wild olive flickering across the + picture. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund missed it as she looked from the room of the Hermes out to the + whispering evening and the quiet vale of Olympia. But she did not say so + to Dion. He thought of it too, as he looked at her, and he tried to forget + it. The picture framed by the doorway strangely grew dimmer and yet more + full of greenish light; the country of Pan was fading in light. Presently + details were entirely lost. Only an oblong of green, now almost emerald, + light showed from the chamber of the Hermes. And in that chamber the two + marble figures were gradually fading; the athletic, yet miraculously + graceful, messenger of the gods with the winged sandals, the tiny child + clinging to his shoulder with one little arm stretched out in an + enchanting gesture of desire. Still the child nestled against Hermes, and + still Hermes contemplated the child, with a celestial benignity, a + half-smiling calmness of other worlds than this. + </p> + <p> + In the vestibule of the Emperors the guardian waited patiently. He was not + accustomed to visitors who lingered on like these two English, when the + light was failing, and surely it must be difficult, if not impossible, to + see the statues properly. But Rosamund, with her usual lack of all effort, + had captivated him. He had grown accustomed to her visits; he was even + flattered by them. It pleased him subtly to have in his care a treasure + such as the Hermes, to see which beautiful women, the Rosamunds of the + world, traveled from far-off countries. Rosamund’s perpetual, and + prolonged, visits had made him feel more important than he had ever + succeeded in feeling before. Let the night come, she might stay on there, + if she chose. He took very little account of Dion. But Rosamund was + beginning to assume a certain vital importance in his quiet life. + </p> + <p> + The green light faded into a very dim primrose; the music of the + sheep-bells drew near and died away among the small houses of the hamlet + at the foot of the hill of Drouva; Elis withdrew itself into the obscurity + that would last till the late coming of the waning moon. Of Hermes and + Dionysos now only the attitudes could be seen faintly. But even they told + of a golden age, an age from which everything ugly, everything violent, + everything unseemly, everything insincere, everything cruel was blotted + out—an age of serenity of body and soul, the age of the long peace. + </p> + <p> + “He’s gone,” said Dion at last. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund got up slowly. + </p> + <p> + “You think he’s taken away the child because of us?” + </p> + <p> + There was an almost pathetic sound in her voice, but there was a smile in + it too. + </p> + <p> + “You remember my stupid remark?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it wasn’t stupid. I think those who dare to have a child ought to + keep very near to the world Hermes walks in. They mayn’t wear wings on + their sandals, but the earth oughtn’t to hold their feet too fast. Hermes + has taught me.” + </p> + <p> + “No one could ever want to take a child away from you,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + In the vestibule of the Emperors they bade good-by to the guardian of the + Museum, and made him understand that on the morrow they would be gone. + </p> + <p> + As he looked at Dion’s gift he felt for a moment almost depressed. He was + accustomed to his constant visitor. Surely he would miss her. She smiled + on him with her warm and very human cordiality for the last time, and went + away, with her companion, into the dimness towards the hill of Drouva. + Then the guardian pulled the great door. It closed with a final sound. The + key was turned. And Hermes was left untroubled in that world where wings + grow out of the sandals. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK II — ECHO + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + Robin, whose other name was Gabriel, arrived at the “little house,” of + which Rosamund had spoken to Dion upon the hill of Drouva, early in the + following year, on the last night of February to be exact. For a long time + before his coming his future home had been subtly permeated by an + atmosphere of expectancy. + </p> + <p> + No. 5 Little Market Street was in Westminster, not far from the river and + the Houses of Parliament, yet in a street which looked almost remote, and + which was often very quiet although close to great arteries of life. Dion + sometimes thought it almost too dusky a setting for his Rosamund, but it + was she who had chosen it, and they had both become quickly fond of it. It + was a house with white paneling, graceful ceilings and carved fireplaces, + and a shallow staircase of oak. There was a tiny but welcoming hall, and + the landing on the first floor suggested potpourri, chintz-covered + settees, and little curtains of chintz moved by a country wind coming + through open windows. There were, in fact, chintz-covered settees, and + there was potpourri. Rosamund had taken care about that; she had also + taken care about many other little things which most London housewives, + perhaps, think unworthy of their attention. Every day, for instance, she + burnt lavender about the house, and watched the sweet smoke in tiny + wreaths curling up from the small shovel, as she gently moved it to and + fro, with a half smile of what she called “rustic satisfaction.” She laid + lavender in the cupboards and in the chests of drawers, and, when she + bought flowers, chose by preference cottage garden flowers, if she could + get them, sweet williams, pansies, pinks, wallflowers, white violets, + stocks, Canterbury bells. Sometimes she came home with wild flowers, and + had once given a little dinner with foxgloves for a table decoration. An + orchid, a gardenia, even a hyacinth, was never to be seen in the little + house. Rosamund confessed that hyacinths had a lovely name, and that they + suggested spring, but she added that they smelt as if they had always + lived in hothouses, and were quite ready to be friends with gardenias. + </p> + <p> + She opened her windows. In this she was almost too rigorous for her + maid-servants, who nevertheless adored her. “Plenty of warmth but plenty + of air,” was her prescription for a comfortable and healthy house, “and + not too much or too many of anything.” Dust, of course, was not to be + known of in her dwelling, but “blacks” were accepted with a certain + resignation as a natural chastening and a message from London. “They + aren’t our fault, Annie,” she had been known to observe to the housemaid. + “And dust can’t be anything else, however you look at it, can it?” And + Annie said, “Well, no, ma’am!” and, when she came to think of it, felt she + had not been a liar in the moment of speaking. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund never “splashed,” or tried to make a show in her house, and she + was very careful never to exceed their sufficient, but not large, income; + but the ordinary things, those things which of necessity come into the + scheme of everyday life, were always of the very best when she provided + them. Dion declared, and really believed, perhaps with reason, that no tea + was so fragrant, no bread and butter so delicious, no toast so crisp, as + theirs; no other linen felt so cool and fresh to the body as the linen on + the beds of the little house; no other silver glittered so brightly as the + silver on their round breakfast-table; no other little white window + curtains in London managed to look so perennially fresh, and almost + blithe, as the curtains which hung at their windows. Rosamund and Annie + might have conversations together on the subject of “blacks,” but Dion + never saw any of these distressing visitants. The mere thought of Rosamund + would surely keep them at a more than respectful distance. + </p> + <p> + She proved to be a mistress of detail, and a housekeeper whose enthusiasm + was matched by her competence. At first Dion had been rather surprised + when he followed from afar, as is becoming in a man, this development. + Before they settled down in London he had seen in Rosamund the + enthusiastic artist, the joyous traveler, the good comrade, the gay + sportswoman touched with Amazonian glories; he had known in her the deep + lover of pure beauty; he had divined in her something else, a little + strange, a little remote, the girl to whom the “Paradiso” was a door + opening into dreamland, the girl who escaped sometimes almost mysteriously + into regions he knew nothing of; but he had not seen in her one capable of + absolutely reveling in the humdrum. Evidently, then, he had not grasped + the full meaning of a genuine <i>joie de vivre</i>. + </p> + <p> + To everything she did Rosamund brought zest. She kept house as she sang + “The heart ever faithful,” holding nothing back. Everything must be right + if she could get it right; and the husband got the benefit, incidentally. + Now and then Dion found himself mentally murmuring that word. A great love + will do such things unreasonably. For Rosamund’s <i>joie de vivre</i>, + that gift of the gods, caused her to love and rejoice in a thing for the + thing’s own sake, as it seemed, rather than for the sake of some one, any + one, who was eventually to gain by the thing. Thus she cared for her + little house with a sort of joyous devotion and energy, but because it was + “my little house” and deserved every care she could give it. Rather as she + had spoken of the small olive tree on Drouva, of the Hermes of Olympia, + even of Athens, she spoke of it, with a sort of protective affection, as + if she thought of it as a living thing confided to her keeping. She + possessed a faculty not very common in women, a delight in doing a thing + for its own sake, rather than for the sake of some human being—perhaps + a man. If she boiled an egg—she went to the kitchen and did this + sometimes—she seemed personally interested in the egg, and keenly + anxious to do the best by it; the boiling must be a pleasure to her, but + also to the egg, and it must, if possible, be supremely well done. As the + cook once said, after a culinary effort by Rosamund, “I never seen a lady + care for cooking and all such-like as she done. If she as much as plucked + a fowl, you’d swear she loved every feather of it. And as to a roast, she + couldn’t hardly seem to set more store by it if it was her own husband.” + </p> + <p> + Such a spirit naturally made for comfort in a house, and Dion had never + before been so comfortable. Nevertheless—and he knew it with a keen + savoring of appreciation—there was a Spartan touch to be felt in the + little house. Comfort walked hand in hand with Rosamund, but so did + simplicity; she was what the maids called “particular,” but she was not + luxurious; she even disliked luxury, connecting it with superfluity, for + which she had a feeling amounting almost to repulsion. “I detest the + sensation of sinking down in <i>things</i>,” was a favorite saying of + hers; and the way she lived proved that she spoke the sheer truth. + </p> + <p> + All through the house, and all through the way of life in it, there + prevailed a “note” of simplicity, even of plainness. The odd thing, + perhaps, was that it pleased almost every one who visited the young + couple. A certain well-known man, noted as a Sybarite, clever, decadent + and sought after, once got into the house, he pretended by stealth, and + spent half an hour there in conversation with Rosamund. He came way + “acutely conscious of my profound vulgarity,” as he explained later to + various friends. “Her house revealed to me the hideous fact that all the + best houses in London smack of cocotte-try; the trail of cushions and + liqueurs is over them all. Mrs. Leith’s house is a vestal, and its lamp is + always trimmed.” Daventry’s comment on this was: “Trimmed—yes, but + trimmings—no!” + </p> + <p> + Even Esme Darlington highly approved of the “charming sobriety of No. 5 + Little Market Street,” although he had had no hand in its preparation, no + voice in the deciding of its colors, its stuffs, its rugs, or its + stair-rods. He was even heard to declare that “our dear Rosamund is almost + the only woman I know who has the precious instinct of reticence; an + instinct denied, by the way, even to that delightful and marvelous + creature Elizabeth Browning—<i>requiescat</i>.” + </p> + <p> + The “charming sobriety” was shown in various ways; in a lack of those + enormous cushions which most women either love, or think necessary, in all + sitting-rooms; in the comparative smallness of such sofas as were to be + seen; in the moderation of depth in arm-chairs, and in the complete + absence of footstools. Then the binding of the many books, scattered about + here and there, and ranged on shelves, was “quiet”; there was no scarlet + and gold, or bright blue and gold; pictures were good but few; not many + rugs lay on the polished wooden floors, and there was no litter of + ornaments or bibelots on cabinets or tables. A couple of small statuettes, + copies of bronzes in the Naples Museum, and some bits of blue-and-white + china made their pleasant effect the more easily because they had not to + fight against an army of rivals. There was some good early English glass + in the small dining-room, and a few fine specimens of luster ware made a + quiet show in Dion’s little den. Apart from the white curtains, and outer + curtains of heavier material, which hung at all the windows, there were no + “draperies.” Overmantels, “cosy-corners,” flung Indian shawls, “pieces” + snatched from bazaars, and “carelessly” hung over pedestals and divans + found no favor in Rosamund’s eyes. There was a good deal of homely chintz + about which lit up the rather old-fashioned rooms, and colors throughout + the house were rather soft than hard, were never emphatic or designed to + startle or impress. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund, indeed, was by far the most vivid thing in the house, and some + people—not males—said she had taken care to supply for herself + a background which would “throw her up.” These people, if they believed + what they said, did not know her. + </p> + <p> + She had on the first floor a little sitting-room all to herself; in this + were now to be found the books which had been in her bedroom in Great + Cumberland Place; the charwoman’s black tray with the cabbage rose, the + mug from Greenwich, the flesh-colored vase, the china cow, the toy + trombone, and other souvenirs of her girlhood to which Rosamund “held.” On + the brass-railed shelf of the writing-table stood a fine photogravure of + the Hermes of Olympia with little Dionysos on his arm. Very often, many + times every day, Rosamund looked up at Hermes and the Child from account + books, letters or notes, and then the green dream of Elis fell about her + softly again; and sometimes she gazed beyond the Hermes, but instead of + the wall of the chamber she saw, set in an oblong frame, and bathed in + green twilight, a bit of the world of Pan, with a branch of wild olive + flickering across the foreground; or, now and then, she saw a falling + star, dropping from its place in the sky down towards a green wilderness, + and carrying a wish from her with it, a wish that was surely soon to be + granted. Her life in the little house had been a happy life hitherto, but—she + looked again at the little Dionysos on the arm of Hermes, nestling against + his shoulder—how much happier it was going to be, how much happier! + She was not surprised, for deep in her heart she always expected + happiness. + </p> + <p> + People had been delightful to her and to Dion. Indeed, they had flocked to + the small green door (the Elis door) of 5 Little Market Street in almost + embarrassing numbers. That was partly Mr. Darlington’s fault. Naturally + Rosamund’s and Bruce Evelin’s friends came; and of course Dion’s relations + and friends came. That would really have been enough. Rosamund enjoyed, + but was not at all “mad about,” society, and had no wish to give up the + greater part of her time to paying calls. But Mr. Darlington could not + forbear from kind efforts on behalf of his delightful young friends, that + gifted and beautiful creature Rosamund Leith, and her pleasant young + husband. He, who found time for everything, found time to give more than + one “little party, just a few friends, no more,” specially for them; and + the end of it was that they found themselves acquainted with almost too + many interesting and delightful people. + </p> + <p> + At first, too, Rosamund continued to sing at concerts, but at the end of + July, after their return from Greece, when the London season closed, she + gave up doing so for the time, and accepted no engagements for the autumn. + Esme Darlington was rather distressed. He worked very hard in the arts + himself, and, having “launched” Rosamund, he expected great things of her, + and wished her to go forward from success to success. Besides “the money + would surely come in very handy” to two young people as yet only + moderately well off. He did not quite understand the situation. Of course + he realized that in time young married people might have home interests, + home claims upon them which might necessitate certain changes of + procedure. The day might come—he sincerely hoped it would—when + a new glory, possibly even more than one, would be added to the delightful + Rosamund’s crown; but in the meanwhile surely the autumn concerts need not + be neglected. He had heard no hint as yet of any—h’m, ha! He stroked + his carefully careless beard. But he had left town in August with his + curiosity unsatisfied, leaving Rosamund and Dion behind him. They had had + their holiday, and had stayed steadily on in Little Market Street through + the summer, taking Saturday to Monday runs into the country; more than + once to the seacoast of Kent, where Bruce Evelin and Beatrice were + staying, and once to Worcestershire to Dion’s mother, who had taken a + cottage there close to the borders of Warwickshire. The autumn had brought + people back to town, and it was in the autumn that Rosamund withdrew from + all contact with the hurly-burly of London. She had no fears at all for + her body, none of those sick terrors which some women have as their time + draws near, no premonitions of disaster or presages of death, but she + desired to “get ready,” and her way of getting ready was to surround her + life with a certain stillness, to build about it white walls of peace. + Often when Dion was away in the City she went out alone and visited some + church. Sometimes she spent an hour or two in Westminster Abbey; and on + many dark afternoons she made her way to St. Paul’s Cathedral where, + sitting a long way from the choir, she listened to evensong. The beautiful + and tenderly cool singing of the distant boys came to her like something + she needed, something to which her soul was delicately attuned. One + afternoon they and the men, who formed the deeply melodious background + from which their crystalline voices seemed to float forward and upward, + sang “The Wilderness” of Wesley. Rosamund listened to it, thankful that + she was alone, and remembering many things, among them the green + wilderness beneath the hill of Drouva. + </p> + <p> + Very seldom she spoke to Dion about these excursions of hers. There was + something in her feeling for religion which loved reserve rather than + expression; she who was so forthcoming in many moments of her life, who + was genial and gay, who enjoyed laughter and was always at home with + humanity, knew very well how to be silent. There was a saying she cared + for, “God speaks to man in the silence;” perhaps she felt there was a + suspicion of irreverence in talking to any one, even to Dion, about her + aspiration to God. If, on his return home, he asked her how she had passed + the day, she often said only, “I’ve been very happy.” Then he said to + himself, “What more can I want? I’m able to make her happy.” + </p> + <p> + One windy evening in January, when an icy sleet was driving over the town, + as he came into the little hall, he found Rosamund at the foot of the + staircase, with a piece of mother’s work in her hand, about to go into the + drawing-room which was on the ground floor of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Rose,” he said, looking down at the little white something she was + holding, “do you think we shall both feel ever so much older in March? It + will be in March, won’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so,” she answered, with a sort of deeply tranquil gravity. + </p> + <p> + “In March when we are parents?” + </p> + <p> + “Are you worrying about that?” she asked him, smiling now, but with, in + her voice, a hint of reproach. + </p> + <p> + “Worrying—no. But do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go into the drawing-room,” she said. + </p> + <p> + When they were there she answered him: + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely different, but not necessarily older. Feeling older must be + very like feeling old, I think—and I can’t imagine feeling old.” + </p> + <p> + “Because probably you never will.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you had tea, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at the Greville. I promised I’d meet Guy there to-day. He spoke + about Beattie.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Beattie would marry him if he asked her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down in the firelight near the hearth, and bent a little over her + work on the tiny garment, which looked as if it were intended for the use + of a fairy. Dion looked at her head with its pale hair. As he leaned + forward he could see all the top of her head. The firelight made some of + her hair look quite golden, gave a sort of soft sparkle to the curve of it + about her broad, pure forehead. + </p> + <p> + “Guy’s getting desperate,” he said. “But he’s afraid to put his fortune to + the test. He thinks even uncertainty is better than knowledge of the + worst.” + </p> + <p> + “Of one thing I’m certain, Dion. Beattie doesn’t love Guy Daventry.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh well, then, it’s all up.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked up from the little garment. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say that.” + </p> + <p> + “But if Beattie—but Beattie’s the soul of sincerity.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; but I think she might consent to marry Guy Daventry.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know exactly. She never told me. I just feel it.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if you feel it, I’m sure it is so. But how awfully odd. Isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it really is rather odd in Beattie. Do you want Beattie to marry Guy + Daventry?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do. Don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Beattie! I want her to be happy. But I think it’s very difficult, + even when one knows some one very, very well, to know just how she can get + happiness, through just what.” + </p> + <p> + “Rose, have I made you happy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “As happy as you could be?” + </p> + <p> + “I think, perhaps, you will have—soon.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you mean——?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She went on stitching quietly. Her hands looked very contented. Dion drew + up a little nearer to the fire with a movement that was rather brusk. It + just struck him that his walk home in the driving sleet had decidedly + chilled his body. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I know what you mean about Beattie,” he said, after a pause, + looking into the fire. “But do you think that would be fair to Guy?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not quite sure myself what I mean, honestly, Dion.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, let’s suppose it. If it were so, would it be fair?” + </p> + <p> + “I think Beattie’s so really good that Mr. Daventry, as he loves her, + could scarcely be unhappy with her.” + </p> + <p> + Dion thought for a moment, then he said: + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps with Guy it wouldn’t be unfair, but, you know, Rose, that sort of + thing wouldn’t do with some men. Some men could never stand being married + for anything but the one great reason.” + </p> + <p> + He did not explain what that reason was, and Rosamund did not ask. There + was a sort of wide and sweet tranquillity about her that evening. Dion + noticed that it seemed to increase upon her, and about her, as the days + passed by. She showed no sign of nervousness, had evidently no dread at + all of bodily pain. Either she trusted in her splendid health, or she was + so wrapped up in the thought of the joy of being a mother that the + darkness to be passed through did not trouble her; or perhaps—he + wondered about this—she was all the time schooling herself, looking + up, in memory, to the columns of the Parthenon. He was much more strung + up, much more restless and excitable than she was, but she did not seem to + notice it. Always singularly unconscious of herself she seemed at this + period to be also unobservant of those about her. He felt that she was + being deliberately egoistic for a great reason, that she was caring for + herself, soul and body, with a sort of deep and quiet intensity because of + the child. + </p> + <p> + “She is right,” he said to himself, and he strove in all ways in his power + to aid her beautiful selfishness; nevertheless sometimes he felt shut out; + sometimes he felt as if already the unseen was playing truant over the + seen. He was conscious of the child’s presence in the little house through + Rosamund’s way of being before he saw the child. He wondered what other + women were like in such periods, whether Rosamund was instinctively + conforming to an ancient tradition of her sex, or whether she was, as + usual, strongly individualistic. In many ways she was surely not like + other women, but perhaps in these wholly natural crises every woman + resembled all her sisters who were traveling towards the same sacred + condition. He longed to satisfy himself whether this was so or not, and + one Saturday afternoon, when Rosamund was resting in her little + sitting-room with a book, and the Hermes watching over her, he bicycled to + Jenkins’s gymnasium in the Harrow Road, resolved to put in forty minutes’ + hard work, and then to visit his mother. Mrs. Leith and Rosamund seemed to + be excellent friends, but Dion never discussed his wife with his mother. + There was no reason why he should do so. On this day, however, + instinctively he turned to his mother; he thought that she might help him + towards a clearer knowledge of Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had long ago been formally made known to Bob Jenkins, Jim’s + boxing “coach,” who enthusiastically approved of her, though he had never + ventured to put his opinion quite in that form to Dion. Even Jenkins, + perhaps, had his subtleties, those which a really good heart cannot rid + itself of. Rosamund, in return, had made Dion known to her extraordinary + friend, Mr. Thrush of Abingdon Buildings, John’s Court, near the Edgware + Road, the old gentleman who went to fetch his sin every evening, and, it + is to be feared, at various other times also, in a jug from the “Daniel + Lambert.” Dion had often laughed over Rosamund’s “cult” for Mr. Thrush, + which he scarcely pretended to understand, but Rosamund rejoiced in Dion’s + cult for the stalwart Jenkins. + </p> + <p> + “I like that man,” she said. “Perhaps some day——” She stopped + there, but her face was eloquent. + </p> + <p> + In his peculiar way Jenkins was undoubtedly Doric, and therefore deserving + of Rosamund’s respect. Of Mr. Thrush so much could hardly be said with + truth. In him there were to be found neither the stern majesty and + strength of the Doric, nor the lightness and grace of the Ionic. As an art + product he stood alone, always wearing the top hat, a figure Degas might + have immortalized but had unfortunately never seen. Dion knew that Mr. + Thrush had once rescued Rosamund in a fog and had conveyed her home, and + he put the rest of the Thrush matter down to Rosamund’s genial kindness + towards downtrodden and unfortunate people. He loved her for it, but could + not help being amused by it. + </p> + <p> + When Dion arrived at the gymnasium, Jenkins was giving a lesson to a small + boy of perhaps twelve years old, whose mother was looking eagerly on. The + boy, clad in a white “sweater,” was flushed with the ardor of his + endeavors to punch the ball, to raise himself up on the bar till his chin + was between his hands, to vault the horse neatly, and to turn somersaults + on the rings. The primrose-colored hair on his small round head was all + ruffled up, perspiration streamed over his pink rosy cheeks, his eyes + shone with determination, and his little white teeth were gritted as, with + all the solemn intensity of childhood, he strove to obey on the instant + Jenkins’s loud words of command. It was obvious that he looked to Jenkins + as a savage looks to his Tribal God. His anxious but admiring mother was + forgotten; the world was forgotten; Jenkins and the small boy were alone + in a universe of grip dumb-bells, heavy weights, “exercisers,” + boxing-gloves, horizontal bars, swinging balls and wooden “horses.” Dion + stood in the doorway and looked on till the lesson was finished. It ended + with a heavy clap on the small boy’s shoulders from the mighty paw of + Jenkins, and a stentorian, “You’re getting along and no mistake, Master + Tim!” + </p> + <p> + The face of Master Tim at this moment was a study. All the flags of + triumph and joy were hung out in it and floated on the breeze; a soul + appeared at the two windows shining with perfect happiness; and, + mysteriously, in all the little figure, from the ruffled primrose-colored + feathers of hair to the feet in the white shoes, the pride of manhood + looked forth through the glowing rapture of a child. + </p> + <p> + “What a jolly boy!” said Dion to Jenkins, when Master Tim and his mother + had departed. “It must be good to have a boy like that.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll have one some day, sir,” said Jenkins, speaking heartily in + his powerful voice, but looking, for the moment, unusually severe. + </p> + <p> + He and Bert, his wife, had had one child, a girl, which had died of + quinsy, and they had never had another. + </p> + <p> + “Now I’m ready for you, sir!” he added, with a sort of outburst of + recovery. “I should like a round with the gloves to-day, if it’s all the + same to you.” + </p> + <p> + It was all the same to Dion, and, when he reached Queen Anne’s Mansions in + the darkness of evening, he was still glowing from the exercise; the blood + sang through his veins, and his heart was almost as light as his step. + </p> + <p> + Marion, the parlor-maid, let him in, and told him his mother was at home. + Dion put his hand to his lips, stole across the hall noiselessly, softly + opened the drawing-room door, and caught his mother unawares. + </p> + <p> + Whenever he came into the well-known flat alone, he had a moment of + retrogression, went back to his unmarried time, and was again, as for so + many years, in the intimate life of his mother. But to-day, as he opened + the door, he was abruptly thrust out of his moment. His mother was in her + usual place on the high-backed sofa near the fire. She was doing nothing, + was just sitting with her hands, in their wrinkled gloves, folded in her + lap, and her large, round blue eyes looking. Dion thought of them as + looking because they were wide open, but they were strangely emptied of + expression. All of his mother seemed to him for just the one instant which + followed on his entrance to be emptied, as if the woman he had always + known—loving, satirical, clever, kind, observant—had been + poured away. The effect upon him was one of indescribable, almost of + horrible, dreariness. Omar Khayyam, his mother’s black pug, was not in the + room as usual, stretched out before the fire. + </p> + <p> + Even as Dion realized this, his mother was poured back into the round face + and plump figure beside the fire, and greeted him with the usual almost + saccharine sweet smile, and: + </p> + <p> + “Dee-ar, I wasn’t expecting you to-day. How is the beloved one?” + </p> + <p> + “The beloved one” was Mrs. Leith’s rendering of Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “How particularly spry you look,” she added. “I’m certain it’s the Jenkins + paragon. You’ve been standing up to him. Now, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Dion acknowledged that he had, and added: + </p> + <p> + “But you, mother? How are you?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite wickedly well. I ought to be down with influenza like all well-bred + people,—Esme Darlington has it badly,—but I cannot compass + even one sneeze.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Omar?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Leith looked grave. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little chap, we must turn down an empty glass for him.” + </p> + <p> + “What—you don’t mean——?” + </p> + <p> + “Run over yesterday just outside the Mansions, and by a four-wheeler. I’m + sure he never expected that the angel of death would come for him in a + growler, poor little fellow.” + </p> + <p> + “I say! Little Omar dead! What a beastly shame! Mother, I am sorry.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down beside her; he was beset by a sensation of calamity. Oddly + enough the hammer of fate had never yet struck on him so definitely as now + with the death of a dog. But, without quite realizing it, he was + considering poor black Omar as an important element in his mother’s life, + now abruptly withdrawn. Omar had been in truth a rather greedy, + self-seeking animal, but he had also been a companion, an adherent, a + friend. + </p> + <p> + “You must get another dog,” Dion added quickly. “I’ll find you one.” + </p> + <p> + “Good of you, dee-ar boy! But I’m too old to begin on a new dog.” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense!” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t. I feel I’m losing my nameless fascination for dogs. A poodle + barked at me this afternoon in Victoria Street. One can’t expect one’s day + to last for ever, though, really, some Englishwomen seem to. But, tell me, + how is the beloved one?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—to be sure! I wanted to talk to you about Rose.” + </p> + <p> + The smile became very sweet and welcoming on Mrs. Leith’s handsome round + face. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing wrong, I’m sure. Your Rosamund sheds confidence in her + dear self like a light all round her.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing wrong—no. I didn’t mean that.” + </p> + <p> + Dion paused. Now he was with his mother he did not know how to explain + himself; his reason for coming began to seem, even to himself, a little + vague. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a little difficult,” he began at last, “but I’ve been wondering + rather about women who are as Rosamund is just now. D’you think all women + become a good deal alike at such times?” + </p> + <p> + “In spirit, do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I scarcely know.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean do they concentrate on the child a long while before it comes.” + </p> + <p> + “Many smart women certainly don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, smart women! I mean women.” + </p> + <p> + “A good definition, dee-ar. Well, lots of poor women don’t concentrate on + the child either. They have far too much to do and worry about. They are + ‘seeing to’ things up till the very last moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we must rule them out. Let’s say the good women who have the time.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect a great many of them do, if the husband lets them.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Dion rather sharply. + </p> + <p> + “There are a few husbands, you see, who get fidgety directly the pedestal + on which number one thinks himself firmly established begins to shake.” + </p> + <p> + “Stupid fools!” + </p> + <p> + “Eminently human stupid fools.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps. But then humanity’s contemptible.” + </p> + <p> + “Extra-humanity, or the attempt at it, can be dangerous.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean exactly by that, mater?” + </p> + <p> + “Only that we have to be as we are, and can never really be, can only seem + to be, as we aren’t.” + </p> + <p> + “What a whipping I’m giving to myself just now!” was her thought, as she + finished speaking. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes, of course. That’s true. I think—I think Rosamund’s + concentrating on the child, in a sort of quiet, big way.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s something fine in that. But her doings are often touched with + fineness.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, aren’t they? She doesn’t seem at all afraid.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think she need be. She has such splendid health.” + </p> + <p> + “But she may suffer very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but something will carry her gloriously through all that, I expect.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think it’s very natural, very usual, her—her sort of living + alone with the child before it is born?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Leith saw in her son’s eyes an unmistakably wistful look at this + moment. It was very hard for her not to take him in her arms just then, + not to say, “My son, d’you suppose I don’t understand it all—<i>all</i>?” + But she never moved, her hands lay still in her lap, and she replied: + </p> + <p> + “Very natural, quite natural, Dion. Your Rosamund is just being herself.” + </p> + <p> + “You think she’s able to live with the child already?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Leith hesitated for a moment. In that moment certainly she felt a + strong, even an almost terrible inclination to tell a lie to her son. But + she answered: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “That must be very strange,” was all that Dion said just then; but a + little later on—he stayed with his mother longer than usual that day + because poor little Omar was dead—he remarked: + </p> + <p> + “D’you know, mater, I believe it’s the right thing to be what’s called a + thorough-paced egoist at certain moments, in certain situations.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps it is,” said his mother incuriously. + </p> + <p> + “I fancy there’s a good deal of rot talked about egoism and that sort of + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a good deal of rot talked about most things.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn’t there? And besides, how is one to know? Very often what seems + like egoism may not be egoism at all. As I grow older I often feel how + important it is to search out the real reasons for things.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes they’re difficult to find,” returned his mother, with an + unusual simplicity of manner. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but still——Well, I must be off.” + </p> + <p> + He stood up and looked at the Indian rug in front of the hearth. + </p> + <p> + “When are you coming to see us?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Almost directly, dee-ar.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s right. Rosamund likes seeing you. Naturally she depends upon you + at such——” He broke off. “I mean, do come as often as you + can.” + </p> + <p> + He bent down and kissed his mother. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” he added, almost awkwardly, “about that dog?” + </p> + <p> + “What dog, dee-ar?” + </p> + <p> + “The dog I want to give you.” + </p> + <p> + “We must think about it. Give me time. After a black pug one doesn’t know + all in a moment what type would be the proper successor. You remember your + poor Aunt Binn?” + </p> + <p> + “Aunt Binn! Why, what did she do?” + </p> + <p> + “Gave Uncle Binn a hairless thing like a note of interrogation, that had + to sleep in a coating of vaseline, when his enormous sheep-dog died who + couldn’t see for hair. She believed in the value of contrast, but Uncle + Binn didn’t. It would have led to a separation but for the hectic efforts + of your aunt’s friend, Miss Vine. When I’ve decided what type of dog, I’ll + tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Dion understood the negative and, in spite of his feeling of fitness, went + away rather uncomfortably. He couldn’t forget the strange appearance of + that emptied woman whom he had taken unawares by the fireside. If only his + mother would let him give her another dog! + </p> + <p> + When he got home he found Beatrice sitting with Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Dion had grown very fond of Beatrice. He had always been rather touched + and attracted by her plaintive charm, but since she had become his + sister-in-law he had learnt to appreciate also her rare sincerity and + delicacy of mind. She could not grip life, perhaps, could not mold it to + her purpose and desire, but she could do a very sweet and very feminine + thing, she could live, without ever being intrusive, in the life of + another. It was impossible not to see how “wrapped up” she was in + Rosamund. Dion had come to feel sure that it was natural to Beatrice to + lead her life in another’s, and he believed that Rosamund realized this + and often let Beatrice do little things for her which, full of vigor and + “go” as she was, she would have preferred to do for herself. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been boxing and then to see mother,” he said, as he took Beatrice’s + long narrow hand in his. “She sent her best love to you, Rosamund.” + </p> + <p> + “The dear mother!” said Rosamund gently. + </p> + <p> + Dion sat down by Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite upset by something that’s happened,” he continued. “You know + poor little Omar, Beattie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Is he ill?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead. He was run over yesterday by a four-wheeler.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “Poor little dog,” Rosamund said, again gently. + </p> + <p> + “When they picked him up—are you going, Rose?” + </p> + <p> + “Only for a few minutes. I am sorry. I’ll write to the dear mother.” + </p> + <p> + She went quietly out of the room. Dion sprang up to open the door for her, + but she had been sitting nearer to the door than he, and he was too late; + he shut it, however, and came slowly back to Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder——” He looked at Beatrice’s pale face and earnest + dark eyes. “D’you think Rosamund disliked my mentioning poor Omar’s being + killed?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “But didn’t she leave us rather abruptly?” + </p> + <p> + “I think perhaps she didn’t want to hear any details. You were just + beginning to—” + </p> + <p> + “How stupid of me!” + </p> + <p> + “You see, Rosamund has the child to live for now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes. What blunderers we men are, however much we try—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not a blame you ought to take,” Beatrice interrupted, with earnest + gentleness. “You are the most thoughtful man I know—for a woman, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + Dion flushed. + </p> + <p> + “Am I? I try to be. If I am it’s because—well, Beattie, you know + what Rose is to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know.” + </p> + <p> + “Dearer and dearer every day. But nobody——Mother thinks a lot + of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Who doesn’t? There aren’t many Roses like ours.” + </p> + <p> + “None. Poor mother! Beattie, d’you think she feels very lonely? You know + she’s got heaps of friends—heaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t as if she knew very few people, or lived alone in the country.” + </p> + <p> + “No but I’m very sorry her little dog’s dead.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to give her another.” + </p> + <p> + “It would be no use.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” + </p> + <p> + “You see, little Omar was always there when you were living there.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He was part of her life with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes.” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked rather hard at Beatrice. In that moment he began to realize + how much of the intelligence of the heart she possessed, and how widely + she applied it. His application of his intelligence of the heart was, he + feared, much less widespread than hers. + </p> + <p> + “Go to see mother when you can, will you?” he said. “She’s very fond of + you, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go. I like going to her.” + </p> + <p> + “And, Beattie, may I say something rather intimate? I’m your brother now.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She was sitting opposite to him near the fire on a low chair. There was a + large shaded lamp in the room, but it was on a rather distant table. He + saw Beatrice’s face by the firelight and her narrow thoroughbred figure in + a dark dress. And the firelight, he thought, gave to both face and figure + a sort of strange beauty that was sad, and that had something of the + strangeness and the beauty of those gold and red castles children see in + the fire. They glow—and that evening there was a sort of glow in + Beatrice; they crumble—and then there was a pathetic something in + Beatrice, too, which suggested wistful desires, perhaps faint hopes and an + ending of ashes. + </p> + <p> + “Would you marry old Guy if he asked you? Don’t be angry with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, we’ve all known for ages how much he cares for you. He spoke + to me about it to-day. He’s desperately afraid of your refusing him. He + daren’t put his fate to the test. Beattie—would you?” + </p> + <p> + A slow red crept over Beatrice’s face. She put up one hand to guard + herself from the glow of the fire. For a moment she looked at Dion, and he + thought, “What a strange expression firelight can give to a face!” Then + she said: + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice was husky. + </p> + <p> + “Beattie, you’ve got a cold!” + </p> + <p> + “Have I?” + </p> + <p> + She got up. + </p> + <p> + “I must go, Dion. I’ll just see Rosamund for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + As she left the room, she said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go and see your mother to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The door shut. Dion stood with one elbow resting on the mantelpiece and + looked down into the fire. He saw his mother sitting alone, a strange, + emptied figure; he saw Beatrice. And fire, which beautifies, or makes + romantic and sad everything gave to Beatrice the look of his mother. For a + moment his soul was full of questions about the two women. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <h3> + “I’ve joined the Artists’ Rifles,” Dion said to Rosamund one day. + </h3> + <p> + He spoke almost bruskly. Of late he had begun to develop a manner which + had just a hint of roughness in it sometimes. This manner was the + expression of a strong inward effort he was making. If, as his mother + believed, already Rosamund was able to live with the child, Dion’s + solitary possession of the woman he loved was definitely over, probably + forever. Something within him which, perhaps, foolishly, rebelled against + this fact had driven him to seek a diversion; he had found it in beginning + to try to live for the child in the man’s way. He intended to put the old + life behind him, and to march vigorously on to the new. He called up + Master Tim before him in the little white “sweater,” with the + primrose-colored ruffled feathers of hair, the gritted white teeth, small + almost as the teeth of a mouse, the moist, ardent cheeks, and the glowing + eyes looking steadfastly to the Tribal God. He must be the Tribal God to + his little son, if the child were a son. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund did not seem surprised by Dion’s abrupt statement, though he had + never spoken of an intention to join any Volunteer Corps. She knew he was + fond of shooting, and had been in camp sometimes when he was at a public + school. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” she asked. “I’ve heard of it, but I thought it was a corps + for men who are painters, sculptors, writers and musicians.” + </p> + <p> + “It was founded, nearly forty years ago, I believe, for fellows working in + the Arts, but all sorts of business men are let in now.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it take up much time?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I shall have to drill a certain amount, and in summer I shall go into + camp for a bit, and of course, if a big war ever came, I could be of some + use.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you’ve joined.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would be. I shall see a little less of you, I suppose, but, + after all, a husband can’t be perpetually hanging about the house, can + he?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked at him and smiled, then laughed gently. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, how absurd you are! In some ways you are only a boy still.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what to you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “A man who sticks to business as you do, hanging about the house!” + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t like it if I did.” + </p> + <p> + “No, because I should know it was doing you harm.” + </p> + <p> + “And besides—do you realize how independent you are?” + </p> + <p> + “Am I?” + </p> + <p> + “For a woman I think you are extraordinarily independent.” + </p> + <p> + She sat still for a minute, looking straight before her in an almost + curious stillness. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I know why perhaps I seem so,” she said at length. + </p> + <p> + And then she quietly, and very naturally, turned the conversation into + another channel; she was a quieter Rosamund in those days of waiting than + the Rosamund unaffected by motherhood. That Rosamund had been vigorous and + joyous; this Rosamund was strongly serene. In all she was and did at this + time Dion felt strength; but it was shown chiefly in stillness. She worked + sometimes; she read a great deal sitting upstairs in her own little room. + One day Dion found her with a volume of Tennyson; another day she was + reading Shakespeare’s “Henry the Fifth”; she had the “Paradiso” in hand, + too, and the Greek Testament with the English text in parallel columns. In + the room there was a cottage piano, and one evening, when Dion had been + drilling and came back late, he heard her singing. He stood still in the + hall, after shutting softly the door of the lobby, and listened to the + warm and powerful voice of the woman he loved. He could hear the words of + the song, which was a setting of “Lead, kindly Light.” Rosamund had only + just begun singing it when he came into the hall; the first words he + caught were, “The night is dark, and I am far from home; lead thou me on.” + He thrust his hands into the pockets of the black jacket he was wearing + and did not move. He had never before heard Rosamund sing any piece of + music through without seeing her while she was doing it; her voice seemed + to him now different from the voice he knew so well; perhaps because he + was uninfluenced by her appearance. That counted for much in the effect + Rosamund created when she sang to people. The thought went through Dion’s + mind, “Am I really the husband of this voice?” It was beautiful, it was + fervent, but it was strange, or seemed strange to him as it came down + through the quiet house on this winter evening. For the first time, + listening thus, he was able imaginatively to realize something of what it + must be like to be a mystic, or rather, perhaps, to have within one a + definite tendency towards mysticism, a definite and ceaseless and + governing aspiration towards harmony with the transcendental order. When + this voice which he heard above him sang “The night is dark, and I am far + from home,” he felt a sort of sharp comprehension of the real meaning of + homeless wandering such as he had certainly never experienced before. He + felt, too, that the spirit from which this voice proceeded could never be + at home in the ordinary way of ordinary people, could not be at home even + as he himself could be at home. The spirit behind this voice needed + something of which, till now, he had not consciously felt the need; + something peculiar, out of the way and remote—something very + different from human love and human comfort. Although he was musical, and + could be critical about a composition according to its lights, Dion did + not think about the music of this song <i>qua</i> music—could not + have said how good he considered it to be. He knew only that this was not + poor or insincere music. But music sung in this peculiar way was only a + means by which the under part of a human being, that which has its + existence deep down under layers and layers of the things which commonly + appear and are known of, rose to the surface and announced itself. + </p> + <p> + The Artists’ Rifles—and this! + </p> + <p> + When the voice was silent, Dion went slowly upstairs. The door of + Rosamund’s little room was shut. He paused outside it, and stood looking + at it, the movable barrier of dark shining wood which divided him from the + voice. When he was ascending the stairs he had meant to go in to Rosamund. + But now he hesitated, and presently he turned away. He felt that a greater + barrier than the door was between them. He might open the door easily + enough, but the other barrier would remain. The life of the body seemed to + him just then an antagonist to the life of the soul. + </p> + <p> + “I’m on the lower plane,” said Dion to himself that evening. “If it’s a + boy, I shall have to look after his body; she’ll take care of the rest. + Perhaps mothers always do, but not as she could and will.” + </p> + <p> + From this moment he devoted himself as much as possible to his body, + almost, indeed, with the ardor of one possessed by a sort of mania. The + Artists’ Corps took up part of his time; Jenkins another part; he + practised rifle shooting as diligently almost as if he expected to have to + take his place almost immediately in the field; he began to learn fencing. + Rosamund saw very little of him, but she made no comment. He explained to + her what he was doing. + </p> + <p> + “You see, Rose,” he said to her once, “if it’s a boy it will be my job + eventually to train him up to be first-class in the distinctively man’s + part of life. No woman can ever do that. I mustn’t let myself get slack.” + </p> + <p> + “You never would, I’m sure.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not. Still, lots of business men do. And I’m sitting about + three-quarters of my time. One does get soft, and the softer a chap gets + the less inclined he is to make the effort required of him, if he wants to + get hard. If I ever am to be the father of a growing-up son—when + they get to about sixteen, you know, they get awfully critical about games + and athletics, sport, everything of that kind—I should like to be + able to keep my end up thoroughly well with him. He’d respect me far more + then. I know exactly the type of fellow real boys look up to. It isn’t the + intelligent softy, however brainy he may be; it’s the man who can do all + the ordinary things superlatively well.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled at him with her now curiously tranquil yellow-brown eyes, and + he thought he saw in them approval. + </p> + <p> + “I think few men would prepare as you do,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “And how many women would prepare as you do?” he returned. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t do anything else. But now I feel as if we were working + together, in a way.” + </p> + <p> + He squeezed her hand. She let it lie motionless in his. + </p> + <p> + “But if it weren’t a boy?” he said, struck by a sudden reaction of doubt. + </p> + <p> + And the thought went, like an arrow, through him: + </p> + <p> + “What chance should I have then?” + </p> + <p> + “I know it will be a boy,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Not because you sleep north and south!” he exclaimed, with a + laughing allusion to the assertion of Herrick. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I always thought the bed——” + </p> + <p> + “No, it’s east and west.” + </p> + <p> + “Fishermen say the dead sleep east and west.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you superstitious?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Perhaps, where you are concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be. Superstition seems to me the opposite of belief. Just wait, and + remember, I <i>know</i> it will be a boy.” + </p> + <p> + One evening Dion went to Great Cumberland Place to dine with Bruce Evelin + and Beatrice, leaving Rosamund apparently in her usual health. She was + going to have “something on a tray” in her sitting-room, and he went in + there to say good-by to her just before he started. He found her sitting + by the fire, and looking at Hermes and the Child with steady eyes. They + were lit up rather faintly by a couple of wax candles placed on the + writing-table. The light from these candles and from the fire made a + delicate and soothing radiance in the room, which was plainly furnished, + and almost somber in color. A very dim and cloudy purple-blue pervaded it, + a very beautiful hue, but austere, and somehow suggestive of things + ecclesiastical. On a small, black oak table at Rosamund’s elbow two or + three books were lying beside a bowl of dim blue glass which had + opalescent lights in it. This bowl was nearly full of water upon which a + water-lily floated. The fire on the hearth was small, but glowing with red + and gold. Dark curtains were drawn across the one window which looked out + at the back of the house. It was a frosty night and windless. + </p> + <p> + Dion stood still for a moment on the threshold of the room after he had + opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “How quiet you are in here!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “This little room is always quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but to-night it’s like a room to which some one has just said + ‘Hush!’” + </p> + <p> + He came in and shut the door quietly behind him. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just a minute.” + </p> + <p> + He came up to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “And so you were looking at him, our Messenger with winged sandals. Oh, + Rosamund, how wonderful it was at Olympia! I wonder whether you and I + shall ever see the Hermes together again. I suppose all the chances are + against it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope we shall.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you? And yet—I don’t know. It would be terrible to see him + together again—if things were much altered; if, for instance, one + was less happy and remembered——” + </p> + <p> + He broke off, came to the settee at right angles to the fire on which she + was sitting, and sat down beside her. At this moment—he did not know + why—the great and always growing love he had for her seemed to surge + forward abruptly like a tidal wave, and he was conscious of sadness and + almost of fear. He looked at Rosamund as if he were just going to part + from her, anxiously, and with a sort of greed of detail. + </p> + <p> + “Alone I would never go back to Elis,” he said. “Never. What a power + things have if they are connected in our hearts with people. It’s—it’s + awful.” + </p> + <p> + A clock chimed faintly. + </p> + <p> + “I must go.” + </p> + <p> + He got up and stood for a moment looking down at the dear head loved so + much, at her brow. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why it is,” he said, “but this evening I hate leaving you.” + </p> + <p> + “But it’s only for a little while.” + </p> + <p> + There was a tap at the door. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! here’s my tray.” + </p> + <p> + The maid came in carrying a woman’s meal, and Dion’s strange moment was + over. + </p> + <p> + When he got to Great Cumberland Place, Daventry, who was to make a fourth, + had just arrived, and was taking off his coat in the hall. He looked + unusually excited, alert in an almost feverish way, which was surprising + in him. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in a case,” he said, “a quite big case. Bruce Evelin’s got it for me. + I’m going to be junior to Addington; Lewis & Lewis instruct me. What + d’you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + Dion clapped him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “The way of salvation!” + </p> + <p> + “Where will it lead me?” + </p> + <p> + “To Salvation, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll walk home with you to-night, old Dion. I must yap across the Park + with you to Hyde Park Corner, and tell you all about the woman from + Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + They were going upstairs. + </p> + <p> + “The woman——?” + </p> + <p> + “My client, my client. My dear boy, this is no ordinary case”—he + waved a small hand ceremoniously—“it’s a <i>cause celebre</i> or I + shouldn’t have bothered myself with it.” + </p> + <p> + Lurby opened the drawing-room door. + </p> + <p> + “How’s Rosamund?” was Beatrice’s first question to Dion, as they shook + hands. + </p> + <p> + “All right. I left her just going to feed from a tray in her little room.” + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund always loved having a meal on a tray,” said Bruce Evelin. “She’s + a big child still. But enthusiasts never really grow up, luckily for + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Dinner is served, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Daventry, will you take Beatrice?” + </p> + <p> + As Dion followed with Bruce Evelin, he said: + </p> + <p> + “So you’ve got Daventry a case!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Bruce Evelin lowered his voice. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a good fellow and a clever fellow, but he’s got to work. He’s been + slacking for years.” + </p> + <p> + Dion understood. Bruce Evelin wished Beatrice to marry Daventry. + </p> + <p> + “He respects you tremendously, sir. If any one can make him work, you + can.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to,” returned Bruce Evelin, with his quiet force. “He’s got + remarkable ability, and the slacker—well——” + </p> + <p> + He looked at Dion with his dark, informed eyes, in which knowledge of the + world and of men always seemed sitting. + </p> + <p> + “I can bear with bad energy almost more easily and comfortably than with + slackness.” + </p> + <p> + During dinner, without seeming to, Dion observed and considered Beatrice + and Daventry, imagining them wife and husband. He felt sure Daventry would + be very happy. As to Beatrice, he could not tell. There was always in + Beatrice’s atmosphere, or nearly always, a faint suggestion of sadness + which, curiously, was not disagreeable but attractive. Dion doubted + whether Daventry could banish it. Perhaps no one could, and Daventry had, + perhaps, that love which does not wish to alter, which says, “I love you + with your little sadness—keep it.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry was exceptionally animated at dinner. The prospect of actually + appearing in court as counsel in a case had evidently worked upon him like + a powerful tonic. Always able to be amusing when he chose, he displayed + to-night a new something—was it a hint of personal dignity?—which + Dion had not hitherto found in him. “Dear old Daventry,” the agreeable, + and obviously clever, nobody, who was a sure critic of others, and never + did anything himself, who blinked at moments with a certain feebleness, + and was too fond of the cozy fireside, or the deep arm-chairs of his club, + had evidently caught hold of the flying skirts of his self-respect, and + was thoroughly enjoying his capture. He did not talk very much to + Beatrice, but it was obvious that he was at every moment enjoying her + presence, her attention; when she listened earnestly he caught her + earnestness and it seemed to help him; when she laughed, in her + characteristic delicate way,—her laugh seemed almost wholly of the + mind,—he beamed with a joy that was touching in a man of his type + because it was so unself-conscious. His affection for Beatrice had + performed the miracle of drawing him out of the prison of awareness in + which such men as he dwell. To-night he was actually unobservant. Dion + knew this by the changed expression of his eyes. Even Beatrice he was not + observing; he was just feeling what she was, how she was. For once he had + passed beyond the narrow portals and had left satire far behind him. + </p> + <p> + When Beatrice got up to go to the drawing-room he opened the door for her. + She blushed faintly as she went out. When the door was shut, and the three + men were alone, Bruce Evelin said to Dion: + </p> + <p> + “Will you mind if Daventry and I talk a little shop to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. But would you rather I went up and kept Beattie company?” + </p> + <p> + “No; stay till you’re bored, or till you think Beatrice is bored. Let us + light up.” + </p> + <p> + He walked slowly, with his gently precise gait, to a cigar cabinet, opened + it, and told the young men to help themselves. + </p> + <p> + “And now for the Clarke case,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the name of the woman from Constantinople?” asked Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Mrs. Beadon Clarke,” said Daventry. “But she hates the Beadon and + never uses it. Beadon Clarke’s trying to divorce her, and I’m on her side. + She’s staying with Mrs. Chetwinde. Esme Darlington, who’s an old friend of + hers, thinks her too unconventional for a diplomatist’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + Bruce Evelin had lighted his cigar. + </p> + <p> + “We mustn’t forget that our friend Darlington has always run tame rather + than wild,” he remarked, with a touch of dry satire. “And now, Daventry, + let us go through the main facts of the case, without, of course, telling + any professional secrets.” + </p> + <p> + And he began to outline the Clarke case, which subsequently made a great + sensation in London. + </p> + <p> + It appeared that Mrs. Clarke had come first to him in her difficulty, and + had tried hard to persuade him to emerge from his retirement and to lead + for her defense. He had been determined in refusal, and had advised her to + get Sir John Addington, with Daventry as junior. This she had done. Now + Bruce Evelin was carefully “putting up” Daventry to every move in the + great game which was soon to be played out, a game in which a woman’s + honor and future were at stake. The custody of a much-loved child might + also come into question. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose Addington is suddenly stricken with paralysis in the middle of + the case, you must be ready to carry it through triumphantly alone,” he + observed, with quietly twinkling eyes, to Daventry. + </p> + <p> + “May I have a glass of your oldest brandy, sir?” returned Daventry, + holding on to the dinner-table with both hands. + </p> + <p> + The brandy was given to him and the discussion of the case continued. By + degrees Dion found himself becoming strongly interested in Mrs. Clarke, + whose name came up constantly. She was evidently a talented and a very + unusual woman. Perhaps the latter fact partially accounted for the unusual + difficulties in which she was now involved. Her husband, Councilor to the + British Embassy at Constantinople, charged her with misconduct, and had + cited two co-respondents,—Hadi Bey, a Turkish officer, and Aristide + Dumeny, a French diplomat,—both apparently men of intellect and of + highly cultivated tastes, and both slightly younger than Mrs. Clarke. A + curious fact in the case was that Beadon Clarke was deeply in love with + his wife, and had—so Dion gathered from a remark of Bruce Evelin’s—probably + been induced to take action against her by his mother, Lady Ermyntrude + Clarke, who evidently disliked, and perhaps honestly disbelieved in, her + daughter-in-law. There was one child of the marriage, a boy, to whom both + the parents were deeply attached. The elements of tragedy in the drama + were accentuated by the power to love possessed by accuser and accused. As + Dion listened to the discussion he realized what a driving terror, what a + great black figure, almost monstrous, love can be—not only the + sunshine, but the abysmal darkness of life. + </p> + <p> + Presently, in a pause, while Daventry was considering some difficult + point, Dion remembered that Beatrice was sitting upstairs alone. Her + complete unselfishness always made him feel specially chivalrous towards + her. Now he got up. + </p> + <p> + “It’s tremendously interesting, but I’m going upstairs to Beattie,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, how subtle of you, my boy!” said Bruce Evelin. + </p> + <p> + “Subtle! Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I was just coming to the professional secrets.” + </p> + <p> + Dion smiled and went off to Beattie. He found her working quietly, almost + dreamily, on one of those fairy garments such as he had seen growing + towards its minute full size in the serene hands of his Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “You too!” he said, looking down at the filmy white. “How good you are to + us, Beattie!” + </p> + <p> + He sat down. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this in your lap?” + </p> + <p> + The filmy white had been lifted in the process of sewing, and a little + exquisitely bound white book was disclosed beneath it. + </p> + <p> + “May I look?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do.” + </p> + <p> + Dion took the book up, and read the title, “The Kasidah of Haji Abdu + El-Yezdi.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of this. Where did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “Guy Daventry left it here by mistake yesterday. I must give it to him + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Dion opened the book, and saw on the title page: “Cynthia Clarke, + Constantinople, October 1896,” written in a curiously powerful, very + upright caligraphy. + </p> + <p> + “It doesn’t belong to Guy.” + </p> + <p> + “No; it was lent to him by his client, Mrs. Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + Dion turned some of the leaves of the book, began to read and was + immediately absorbed. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, it’s wonderful, it’s simply splendid!” he said in a moment. + “Just listen to this: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “True to thy nature, to thyself, + Fame and disfame nor hope, nor fear; + Enough to thee the still small voice + Aye thundering in thine inner ear. + + From self-approval seek applause: + What ken not men thou kennest thou! + Spurn every idol others raise: + Before thine own ideal bow.” + </pre> + <p> + He met the dark eyes of Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “You care for that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very much,” she answered, in her soft and delicate voice. + </p> + <p> + “Beattie, I believe you live by that,” he said, almost bruskly. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he felt aware of a peculiar sort of strength in her, in her + softness, a strength not at all as of iron, mysterious and tenacious. + </p> + <p> + “Dear old Beattie!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Moisture had sprung into his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How lonely our lives are,” he continued, looking at her now with a sort + of deep curiosity. “The lives of all of us. I don’t care who it is, man, + woman, child, he or she, every one’s lonely. And yet——” + </p> + <p> + A doubt had surely struck him. He sat very still for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “When I think of Rosamund I can’t think of her as lonely.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Somehow it seems as if she always had a companion with her.” + </p> + <p> + He turned a few more pages of Mrs. Clarke’s book, glancing here and there. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund would hate this book,” he said presently. “It seems thoroughly + anti-Christian. But it’s very wonderful.” + </p> + <p> + He put the book down. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Beattie! Guy cares very much for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know,” said Beatrice, with a great simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “If he comes well out of this case, and feels he’s on the road to success, + he’ll be another man. He’ll dare as a man ought to dare.” + </p> + <p> + She went on sewing the little garment for Dion’s child. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll walk across the Park with you, old Dion,” said Daventry that night, + as they left the house in Great Cumberland Place, “whether you’re going to + walk home or whether you’re not, whether you’re in a devil of a hurry to + get back to your Rosamund, or whether you’re in a mood for friendship. + What time is it, by the way?” + </p> + <p> + He was wrapped in a voluminous blue overcoat, with a wide collar, immense + lapels, and apparently only one button, and that button so minute that it + was scarcely visible to the naked eye. From somewhere he extracted a + small, abnormally thin watch with a gold face. + </p> + <p> + “Only twenty minutes to eleven. We dined early.” + </p> + <p> + “You really wish to walk?” + </p> + <p> + “I not only wish to walk, I will walk.” + </p> + <p> + The still glory of frost had surely fascinated London, had subdued the + rumbling and uneasy black monster; it seemed to Dion unusually quiet, + almost like something in ecstasy under the glittering stars of frost, + which shone in a sky swept clear of clouds by the hand of the lingering + winter. It was the last night of February, but it looked, and felt, like a + night dedicated to the Christ Child, to Him who lay on the breast of Mary + with cattle breathing above Him. As Dion gazed up at the withdrawn and yet + almost piercing radiance of the wonderful sky, instinctively he thought of + the watching shepherds, and of the coming of that Child who stands forever + apart from all the other children born of women into this world. He wished + Rosamund were with him to see the stars, and the frost glistening white on + the great stretches of grass, and the naked trees in the mysterious and + romantic Park. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we take the right-hand path and walk round the Serpentine?” said + Daventry presently. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I don’t mind. Rosamund will be asleep, I think. She goes to bed + early now.” + </p> + <p> + “When will it be?” + </p> + <p> + “Very soon, I suppose; perhaps in ten days or so.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry was silent. He wanted and meant to talk about his own affairs, + but he hesitated to begin. Something in the night was making him feel very + small and very great. Dion gave him a lead by saying: + </p> + <p> + “D’you mind my asking you something about the Clarke case?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like. I’ll answer if I may.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe Mrs. Clarke to be guilty or innocent?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, innocent!” exclaimed Daventry, with unusual warmth. + </p> + <p> + “And does Bruce Evelin?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so. I assume so.” + </p> + <p> + “I noticed that, while I was listening to you both, he never expressed any + opinion, or gave any hint of what his opinion was on the point.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel sure he thinks her innocent,” said Daventry, still almost with + heat. “Not that it much matters,” he added, in a less prejudiced voice. + “The point is, we must prove her to be innocent whether she is nor not. I + happen to feel positive she is. She isn’t the least the siren type of + woman, though men like her.” + </p> + <p> + “What type is she?” + </p> + <p> + “The intellectual type. Not a blue-stocking! God forbid! I couldn’t defend + a blue-stocking. But she’s a woman full of taste, who cares immensely for + fine and beautiful things, for things that appeal to the eye and the mind. + In that way, perhaps, she’s almost a sensualist. But, in any other way! I + want you to know her. She’s a very interesting woman. Esme Darlington says + her perceptions are exquisite. Mrs. Chetwinde’s backing her up for all + she’s worth.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she believes her to be innocent too, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Come with me to Mrs. Chetwinde’s next Sunday afternoon. She’ll + be there.” + </p> + <p> + “On a night like this, doesn’t a divorce case seem preposterous?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you have the tongue of the flatterer!”—he looked up—“But + perhaps it does, even when it’s Mrs. Clarke’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you in love with Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “Deeply, because she’s my first client in a <i>cause celebre</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you forgotten her book again?” + </p> + <p> + “Her book? ‘The Kasidah’? I’ve got it here.” + </p> + <p> + He tapped the capacious side pocket of his coat. + </p> + <p> + “You saw it then?” he added. + </p> + <p> + “Beattie had it when I went upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what she made of it,” Daventry said, with softness in his voice. + “Don’t ever let Rosamund see it, by the way. It’s anything rather than + Christian. Mrs. Clarke gets hold of everything, dives into everything. + She’s got an unresting mind.” + </p> + <p> + They had come to the edge of the Serpentine, on which there lay an + ethereal film of baby ice almost like frosted gauze. The leafless trees, + with their decoration of filigree, suggested the North and its peculiar + romance—nature trailing away into the mighty white solitudes where + the Pole star reigns over fields of ice. + </p> + <p> + “Hyde Park is bringing me illusions to-night,” said Daventry. “That water + might be the Vistula. If I heard a wolf howling over there near the + ranger’s lodge, I shouldn’t be surprised.” + </p> + <p> + A lifeguardsman, in a red cloak, and a woman drifted away over the frost + among the trees. + </p> + <p> + “I love Mrs. Clarke as a client, but perhaps I love her even more because, + through her, I hope to get hold of something I’ve—I’ve let drop,” + continued Daventry. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + Daventry put his arm through Dion’s. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know whether I can name it even to you; but it’s something a man + of great intelligence, such as myself, should always keep in his fist.” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “The clergy are apt to call it self-respect,” he at length added, in a dry + voice. + </p> + <p> + Dion pressed his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Bruce Evelin wants you to marry Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “He hasn’t told you so?” + </p> + <p> + “No, except by taking the trouble to force you to work.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry stood still. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to ask her—almost directly.” + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Guy, or we shall have all the blackbirds round us. Look over + there.” + </p> + <p> + Not far off, among the trees, two slinking and sinister shadows of men + seemed to be intent upon them. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it incredible to practise the profession of a blackmailer out of + doors on a night like this?” said Dion. “D’you remember when we were in + the night train coming from Burstal? You had a feather that night.” + </p> + <p> + “Damn it! Why rake up—?” + </p> + <p> + “And I said how wonderful it would be if some day I were married to + Rosamund.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Very wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Children too!” + </p> + <p> + Daventry sighed. + </p> + <p> + “One wants to be worthy of it all,” he murmured. “And then”—he + laughed, as if calling in his humor to save him from something—“the + children, in their turn, feel they would like to live up to papa. Dion, + people can be caught in the net of goodness very much as they can be + caught in the net of evil. Let us praise the stars for that.” + </p> + <p> + They arrived at the bridge. The wide road, which looked to-night + extraordinarily clean, almost as if it had been polished up for the + passing of some delicate procession in the night, was empty. There were no + vehicles going by; the night-birds kept among the trees. The quarter after + eleven chimed from some distant church. Dion thought of Rosamund, as he + paused on the bridge, thought of himself as a husband yielding his wife up + to the solitude she evidently desired. He took Daventry for his companion; + she had the child for hers. There was suffering of a kind even in a very + perfect marriage, but what he had told Daventry was true; it had been very + wonderful. He had learnt a great deal in his marriage, dear lessons of + high-mindedness in desire, of purity in possession. If Rosamund were to be + cut off from him even to-night he had gained enormously by the possession + of her. He knew what woman can be, and without disappointment; for he did + not choose to reckon up those small, almost impalpable things which, like + passing shadows, had now and then brought a faint obscurity into his life + with Rosamund, as disappointments. They came, perhaps, from himself. And + what where they? He looked out over the long stretch of unruffled water, + filmed over with ice near the shores, and saw a tiny dark object traveling + through it with self-possession and an air of purpose beneath the + constellations; some aquatic bird up to something, heedless of the + approaching midnight and the Great Bear. + </p> + <p> + “Look at that little beggar!” said Daventry. “And we don’t know so very + much more about it all than he does. I expect he’s a Muscovy duck, or + drake, if you’re a pedant about genders.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s evidently full of purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “Out in the middle of the ice-cold Serpentine. He’s only a speck now, like + our world in space. Now I can’t see him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re longer-sighted than I am. But, Dion, I’m seeing a longish way + to-night, farther than I’ve seen before. Love’s a great business, the + greatest business in life. Ambition, and greed, and vanity, and altruism, + and even fanaticism, must give place when it’s on hand, when it harnesses + its winged horses to a man’s car and swings him away to the stars.” + </p> + <p> + “Ask her. I think she’ll have you.” + </p> + <p> + A star fell through the frosty clear sky. Dion remembered the falling star + above Drouva. This time he was swift with a wish, but it was not a wish + for his friend. + </p> + <p> + They reached Hyde Park Corner just before midnight and parted there. Dion + hailed a hansom, but Daventry declared with determination that he was + going to walk all the way home to Phillimore Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “To get up my case, to arrange things mentally,” he explained. “Big brains + always work best at night. All the great lawyers toil when the stars are + out. Why should I be an exception? I dedicate myself to Cynthia Clarke. + She will have my undivided attention and all my deepest solicitude.” + </p> + <p> + “I know why.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + He put one hand on the apron which Dion had already closed. + </p> + <p> + “No, really, you’re wrong. I am deeply interested in Mrs. Clarke because + she is what she is. I want her to win because I’m convinced she’s + innocent. Will you come to Mrs. Chetwinde’s next Sunday and meet her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, unless Rosamund wants me.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s always understood.” + </p> + <p> + The cab drove away, and the great lawyer was left to think of his case + under the stars. + </p> + <p> + When the cab turned the corner of Great Market Street, Westminster, and + came into Little Market Street, Dion saw in the distance before him two + large, staring yellow eyes, which seemed to be steadily regarding him like + the eyes of something on the watch. They were the lamps of a brougham + drawn up in front of No. 5. Dion’s cabman, perforce, pulled up short + before the brown door of No. 4. + </p> + <p> + “A carriage in front of my house at this time of night!” thought Dion, as + he got out and paid the man. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the coachman and at the solemn brown horse between the + shafts, and instantly realized that this was the carriage of a doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + With a thrill of anxiety, a clutch at his heart, he thrust his latchkey + into the door. It stuck; he could not turn it. This had never happened + before. He tried, with force, to pull the key out. It would not move. He + shook it. The doctor’s coachman, he felt, was staring at him from the box + of the brougham. As he struggled impotently with the key his shoulders + began to tingle, and a wave of acute irritation flooded him. He turned + sharply round and met the coachman’s eyes, shrewd, observant, lit, he + thought, by a flickering of sarcasm. + </p> + <p> + “Has the doctor been here long?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “This is a doctor’s carriage, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir. Doctor Mayson.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I say, has he been here long?” + </p> + <p> + “About an hour, sir, or a little more.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + Dion turned again and assaulted the latchkey. + </p> + <p> + But he had to ring the bell to get in. When the maid came, looking + excited, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what on earth’s the matter with this key. I can’t either + turn it or get it out.” + </p> + <p> + “No, sir?” + </p> + <p> + The girl put her hand to the key, and without any difficulty drew it out + of the door. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know—I couldn’t!” + </p> + <p> + The girl shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter? Why’s the doctor here? It isn’t——?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir,” said the girl, with a sort of intensely feminine significance. + “It came on quite sudden.” + </p> + <p> + “How long ago?” + </p> + <p> + “A good while, sir. I couldn’t say exactly.” + </p> + <p> + “But why wasn’t I sent for?” + </p> + <p> + “My mistress wouldn’t have you sent for, sir. Besides, we were expecting + you every moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah! and I—and now it’s past midnight.” + </p> + <p> + He had quickly taken off his coat, hat and gloves. Now he ran up the + shallow steps of the staircase. There was a sort of tumult within him. He + felt angry, he did not know why. His whole body was longing to do + something strong, eager, even violent. He hated his latchkey, he hated the + long stroll in Hyde Park, the absurd delay upon the bridge, his + preoccupation with the Muscovy duck, or whatever bird it was, voyaging + over the Serpentine. Why had nothing told him not to lose a moment but to + hurry home? He remembered that he had been specially reluctant to leave + Rosamund that evening, that he had even said to her, “I don’t know why it + is, but this evening I hate to leave you.” Perhaps, then, he had been + warned, but he had not comprehended the warning. As he had looked at the + stars he had thought of the coming of the most wonderful Child who had + ever visited this earth. Perhaps then, too——He tried to snap + off his thought, half confusedly accusing himself of some sort of + blasphemy. At the top of the staircase he turned and looked down into the + hall. + </p> + <p> + “The nurse?” + </p> + <p> + “Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you managed to get the nurse?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir; she’s been here some time.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Doctor Mayson opened the door of Rosamund’s room and came + out upon the landing—a tall, rosy and rather intellectual-looking + man, with tranquil gray eyes, and hair thinning above the high knobby + forehead. Dion had never seen him before. They shook hands. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t go into your wife’s room,” said Doctor Mayson in a low bass + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Why? Doesn’t she wish it?” + </p> + <p> + “She wished you very much to be in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not send for me?” + </p> + <p> + “She was against it, I understand. And she doesn’t wish any one to be with + her just now except the nurse and myself.” + </p> + <p> + “When do you expect? . . .” + </p> + <p> + “Some time during the night. It’s evidently going to be an easy + confinement. I’m just going down to send away my carriage. It’s no use + keeping the horse standing half the night in this frost. I’m very fond of + horses.” + </p> + <p> + “Fond of horses—are you?” said Dion, rather vacantly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Are you?” + </p> + <p> + The low bass voice almost snapped out the question. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I dare say. Why not? They’re useful animals. I’ll come down with you + if I’m not to go into my wife’s room.” + </p> + <p> + He followed the doctor down the stairs he had just mounted. When the + carriage had been sent away, he asked Doctor Mayson to come into his den + for a moment. The pains of labor had come on unexpectedly, but were not + exceptionally severe; everything pointed to an easy confinement. + </p> + <p> + “Your wife is one of the strongest and healthiest women I have ever + attended,” Doctor Mayson added; “superb health. It’s a pleasure to see any + one like that. I look after so many neurotic women in London. They give + themselves up for lost when they are confronted with a perfectly natural + crisis. Mrs. Leith is all courage and self-possession.” + </p> + <p> + “But then why shouldn’t I see her?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she seems to have an extraordinary sense of duty towards the child + that’s coming. She thinks you might be less calm than she is.” + </p> + <p> + “But I’m perfectly calm.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Mayson smiled. + </p> + <p> + “D’you know, it’s really ever so much better for us men to keep right out + of the way in such moments as these. It’s the kindest thing we can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I’ll do it of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I never go near my own wife when she’s like this.” + </p> + <p> + Dion stared into the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Have you many children?” + </p> + <p> + “Eleven,” remarked the bass voice comfortably. “But I married very young, + before I left Guy’s. Now I’ll go up again. You needn’t be the least + alarmed.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not,” said Dion bruskly. + </p> + <p> + “Capital!” + </p> + <p> + And Doctor Mayson went off, not treading with any precaution. It was quite + obvious that his belief in his patient was genuine. + </p> + <p> + Eleven children! Well, some people were prepared to take any risks and to + face any responsibilities. Was it very absurd to find in the coming of one + child a tremendous event? Really, Doctor Mayson had almost succeeded in + making Dion feel a great fool. Just another child in the world—crying, + dribbling, feebly trying to grasp the atmosphere; another child to cut its + first tooth, with shrieks, to have whooping-cough, chicken-pox, rose rash + and measles; another child to eat of the fruit of the tree; another child + to combat and love and suffer and die. No, damn it, the matter was + important. Doctor Mayson and his rosy face were unmeaning. He might have + eleven, or a hundred and eleven children, but he had no imagination. + </p> + <p> + Dion shut himself into his room, sat down in a big armchair, lit his pipe + and thought about the Clarke case. He had just told Doctor Mayson a white + lie. He was determined not to think about his Rosamund: he dared not do + that; so his mind fastened on the Clarke case. Almost ferociously he flung + himself upon it, called upon the unknown Mrs. Clarke, the woman whom he + had never seen to banish from him his Rosamund, to interpose between her + and him. For Rosamund was inevitably suffering, and if he thought about + that suffering his deep anxiety, his pity, his yearning would grow till + they were almost unendurable, might even lead his feet to the room + upstairs, the room forbidden to him to-night. So he called to Mrs. Clarke, + and at last, obedient to his insistent demand, she came and did her best + for him, came, he imagined, from Constantinople, to keep him company in + this night of crisis. + </p> + <p> + As Daventry had described her, as Bruce Evelin had, with casual allusions + and suggestive hints, built her up before Dion in the talk after dinner + that night, so she was now in the little room: a woman of intellect and of + great taste, with an intense love for, and fine knowledge of, beautiful + things: a woman who was almost a sensualist in her adoration for fine and + rare things. + </p> + <p> + “I detest the sensation of sinking down in things!” + </p> + <p> + Who had said that once with energy in Dion’s hearing? Oh—Rosamund, + of course! But she must not be admitted into Dion’s life in these hours of + waiting. Mrs. Clarke must be allowed to reign. She had come (in Dion’s + imagination) all the way from the city of wood and of marble beside the + seaway of the Golden Horn, a serious, intellectual and highly cultivated + woman, whom a cruel fate—Kismet—was now about to present to + the world as a horrible woman. Pale, thin, rather melancholy she was, a + reader of many books, a great lover of nature, a woman who cared very much + for her one child. Why should Fate play such a woman such a trick? Perhaps + because she was very unconventional, and it is unwise for the bird which + sings in the cage of diplomacy to sing any but an ordinary song. + </p> + <p> + Daventry had dwelt several times on Mrs. Clarke’s unconventionality; + evidently the defense meant to lay stress on it. + </p> + <p> + So now Dion sat with a pale, thin, unconventional woman, and she told him + about the life at Stamboul. She knew, of course, that he had hated + Constantinople. He allowed her to know that. And she pointed out to him + that he knew nothing of the wonderful city, upon which Russia breathes + from the north, and which catches, too, strange airs and scents and + murmurs of voices from distant places of Asia. What does the passing + tourist of a Pera hotel know about the great city of the Turks? Nothing + worth knowing. The roar of the voices of the Levant deafens his ears; the + glitter of the shop windows in the Grande Rue blinds his eyes. He knows + not the exquisite and melancholy charm, full of nuances and of the most + fragile and evanescent subtleties, which Constantinople holds for those + who know her and love her well. + </p> + <p> + The defense was evidently going to make much of Mrs. Clarke’s passion for + the city on the Bosporus. Daventry had alluded to it more than once, and + Bruce Evelin had said, “Mrs. Clarke has always had an extraordinary + feeling for places. If her husband had accused her of a liaison with Eyub, + or of an unholy fancy for the forest of Belgrad, we might have been in a + serious difficulty. She had, I know, a regular romance once with the + Mosquee Verte at Brusa.” + </p> + <p> + Evidently she was a woman whom ordinary people would be likely to + misunderstand. Dion sat in his arm-chair trying to understand her. The + effort would help him to forget, or to ignore if he couldn’t forget, what + was going on upstairs in the little house. He pulled hard at his pipe, as + an aid to his mind; he sat alone for a long while with Mrs. Clarke. + Sometimes he looked across the Golden Horn from a bit of waste ground in + Pera, near to a small cemetery: it was from there, towards evening, that + he had been able to “feel” Stamboul, to feel it as an unique garden city, + held by the sea, wooden and frail, marble and enduring. And somewhere in + the great and mysterious city Mrs. Clarke had lived and been adored by the + husband who, apparently still adoring, was now trying to get rid of her. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Dion heard voices rising from the crowded harbor of the Golden + Horn. They crept up out of the mystery of the evening; voices from the + caiques, and from the boats of the fishermen, and from the big sailing + vessels which ply to the harbors of the East, and from the steamers at + rest near the Galata Bridge, and from the many craft of all descriptions + strung out towards the cypress-crowned hill of Eyub. And Mrs. Clarke, + standing beside him, began to explain to him in a low and hoarse voice + what these strange cries of the evening meant. + </p> + <p> + Daventry had mentioned that she had a hoarse voice. + </p> + <p> + At a little after three o’clock Dion sat forward abruptly in his chair and + listened intently. He fancied he had heard a faint cry. He waited, + surrounded by silence, enveloped by silence. There was a low drumming in + his ears. Mrs. Clarke had escaped like a phantom. Stamboul, with its + mosques, its fountains, its pigeons and its plane trees, had faded away. + The voices from the Golden Horn were stilled. The drumming in Dion’s ears + grew louder. He stood up. He felt very hot, and a vein in his left temple + was beating—not fluttering, but beating hard. + </p> + <p> + He heard, this time really heard, a cry overhead, and then the muffled + sound of some one moving about; and he went to the door, opened it and + passed out into the hall. He did not go upstairs, but waited in the hall + until Doctor Mayson came down, looking as rosy and serene and unconcerned + as ever. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Leith,” he said, “you’re a father. I congratulate you. You wife + has got through beautifully.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “By the way, it’s a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, of course.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Mayson looked genuinely surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Why ‘of course’? I don’t quite understand.” + </p> + <p> + “She knew it was going to be a boy.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Women often have strange fancies at such times. I mean before they are + confined.” + </p> + <p> + “But you see she was right. It is a boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly,” returned the doctor, looking at his nails. + </p> + <p> + Dion saw the star falling above the hill of Drouva. + </p> + <p> + Did the Hermes know? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + On the following Sunday afternoon Dion was able to fulfil his promise to + Daventry. Rosamund and the baby were “doing beautifully”; he was not + needed at home, so he set out with Daventry, who came to fetch him, to + visit Mrs. Willie Chetwinde in Lowndes Square. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the house Daventry said: + </p> + <p> + “Now for Mrs. Clarke. She’s really a wonderful woman, Dion, and she’s got + a delicious profile.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’s that—” + </p> + <p> + “No, it isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + He gently pushed Mrs. Chetwinde’s bell. + </p> + <p> + As they went upstairs they heard a soft hum of voices. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Clarke’s got heaps of people on her side,” whispered Daventry. “This + is a sort of rallying ground for the defense.” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s her child? Here?” + </p> + <p> + “No, with some relations till the trial’s over.” + </p> + <p> + The butler opened the door, and immediately Dion’s eyes rested on Mrs. + Clarke, who happened to be standing very near to it with Esme Darlington. + Directly Dion saw her he knew at whom he was looking. Something—he + could not have said what—told him. + </p> + <p> + By a tall pedestal of marble, on which was poised a marble statuette of + Echo,—not that Echo who babbled to Hera, but she who, after her + punishment, fell in love with Narcissus,—he saw a very thin, very + pale, and strangely haggard-looking woman of perhaps thirty-two talking to + Esme Darlington. At first sight she did not seem beautiful to Dion. He was + accustomed to the radiant physical bloom of his Rosamund. This woman, with + her tenuity, her pallor, her haunted cheeks and temples, her large, + distressed and observant eyes—dark hazel in color under brown + eyebrows drawn with a precise straightness till they neared the bridge of + the nose and there turning abruptly downwards, her thin and almost + white-lipped mouth, her cloudy brown hair which had no shine or sparkle, + her rather narrow and pointed chin, suggested to him unhealthiness, a + human being perhaps stricken by some obscure disease which had drained her + body of all fresh color, and robbed it of flesh, had caused to come upon + her something strange, not easily to be defined, which almost suggested + the charnel-house. + </p> + <p> + As he was looking at her, Mrs. Clarke turned slightly and glanced up at + the statue of Echo, and immediately Dion realized that she had beauty. The + line of her profile was wonderfully delicate and refined, almost ethereal + in its perfection; and the shape of her small head was exquisite. Her + head, indeed, looked girlish. Afterwards he knew that she had enchanting + hands—moving purities full of expressiveness—and slim little + wrists. Her expression was serious, almost melancholy, and in her whole + personality, shed through her, there was a penetrating refinement, a + something delicate, wild and feverish. She looked very sensitive and at + the same time perfectly self-possessed, as if, perhaps, she dreaded Fate + but could never be afraid of a fellow-creature. He thought: + </p> + <p> + “She’s like Echo after her punishment.” + </p> + <p> + On his way to greet Mrs. Chetwinde, he passed by her; as he did so she + looked at him, and he saw that she thoroughly considered him, with a grave + swiftness which seemed to be an essential part of her personality. Then + she spoke to Esme Darlington. Dion just caught the sound of her voice, + veiled, husky, but very individual and very attractive—a voice that + could never sing, but that could make of speech a music frail and + evanescent as a nocturne of Debussy’s. + </p> + <p> + “Daventry’s right,” thought Dion. “That woman is surely innocent.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde, who was as haphazard, as apparently absent-minded and as + shrewd in her own house as in the houses of others, greeted Dion with a + vague cordiality. Her husband, a robust and very definite giant, with a + fan-shaped beard, welcomed him largely. + </p> + <p> + “Never appear at my wife’s afternoons, you know,” he observed, in a fat + and genial voice. “But to-day’s exceptional. Always stick to an innocent + woman in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice in speaking the last sentence, and looked very human. + And immediately Dion was aware of a special and peculiar atmosphere in + Mrs. Chetwinde’s drawing-room on this Sunday afternoon, of something + poignant almost, though lightly veiled with the sparkling gossamer which + serves to conceal undue angularities, something which just hinted at + tragedy confronted with courage, at the attempted stab and the raised + shield of affection. Here Mrs. Clarke was in sanctuary. He glanced towards + her again with a deepening interest. + </p> + <p> + “Canon Wilton’s coming in presently,” said Mrs. Chetwinde. “He’s preaching + at St. Paul’s this afternoon, or perhaps it’s Westminster Abbey—something + of that kind.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve heard him two or three times,” answered Dion, who was on very good, + though not on very intimate, terms with Canon Wilton. “I’d rather hear him + than anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “In the pulpit—yes, I suppose so. I’m scarcely an amateur of + sermons. He’s a volcano of sincerity, and never sends out ashes. It’s all + red-hot lava. Have you met Cynthia Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s over there, echoing my Echo. Would you like——?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll—” + </p> + <p> + An extremely pale man, with long, alarmingly straight hair and wandering + eyes almost the color of silver, said something to her. + </p> + <p> + “Watteau? Oh, no—he died in 1721, not in 1722,” she replied. “The + only date I can never remember is William the Conqueror. But of course you + couldn’t remember about Watteau. It’s distance makes memory. You’re too + near.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the fan painter, Murphy-Elphinston, Watteau’s reincarnation,” she + added to Dion. “He’s always asking questions about himself. Cynthia—this + is Mr. Dion Leith. He wishes——” She drifted away, not, + however, without dexterously managing to convey Mr. Darlington with her. + </p> + <p> + Dion found himself looking into the large, distressed eyes of Mrs. Clarke. + Daventry was standing close to her, but, with a glance at his friend, + moved away. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to sit down,” said Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “Here are two chairs——” + </p> + <p> + “No, I’d rather sit over there under the Della Robbia. I can see Echo from + there.” + </p> + <p> + She walked very slowly and languidly, as if tired, to a large and low sofa + covered with red, which was exactly opposite to the statuette. Dion + followed her, thinking about her age. He supposed her to be about + thirty-two or thirty-three, possibly a year or two more or less. She was + very simply dressed in a gray silk gown with black and white lines in it. + The tight sleeves of it were unusually long and ended in points. They were + edged with some transparent white material which rested against her small + hands. + </p> + <p> + She sat down and he sat down by her, and they began to talk. Unlike Mrs. + Chetwinde, Mrs. Clarke showed that she was alertly attending to all that + was said to her, and, when she spoke, she looked at the person to whom she + was speaking, looked steadily and very unself-consciously. Dion mentioned + that he had once been to Constantinople. + </p> + <p> + “Did you care about it?” said Mrs. Clarke, rather earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I disliked it, although I found it, of course, tremendously + interesting. In fact, I almost hated it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s only because you stayed in Pera,” she answered, “and went about + with a guide.” + </p> + <p> + “But how do you know?”—he was smiling. + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course you did.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I could easily make you love it,” she continued, in an oddly impersonal + way, speaking huskily. + </p> + <p> + Dion had never liked huskiness before, but he liked it now. + </p> + <p> + “You are fond of it, I believe?” he said. + </p> + <p> + His eyes met hers with a great deal of interest. + </p> + <p> + He considered her present situation an interesting one; there was drama in + it; there was the prospect of a big fight, of great loss or great gain, + destruction or vindication. + </p> + <p> + In her soul already the drama was being played. He imagined her soul in + turmoil, peopled with a crowd of jostling desires and fears, and he was + thinking a great many things about her, and connected with her, almost + simultaneously—so rapidly a flood of thoughts seemed to go by in the + mind—as he put his question. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I am,” replied Mrs. Clarke. “Stamboul holds me very fast in its + curiously inert grip. It’s a grip like this.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her small right hand, and he put his rather large and sinewy + brown hand into it. The small hand folded itself upon his in a curious way—feeble + and fierce at the same time, it seemed—and held him. The hand was + warm, almost hot, and soft, and dry as a fire is dry—so dry that it + hisses angrily if water is thrown on it. + </p> + <p> + “Now, you are trying to get away,” she said. “And of course you can, but——” + </p> + <p> + Dion made a movement as if to pull away his hand, but Mrs. Clarke retained + it. How was that? He scarcely knew; in fact he did not know. She did not + seem to be doing anything definite to keep him, did not squeeze or grip + his hand, or cling to it; but his hand remained in hers nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + “There,” she said, letting his hand go. “That is how Stamboul holds. Do + you understand?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde’s vague eyes had been on them during this little episode. + Dion had had time to see that, and to think, “Now, at such a time, no one + but an absolutely innocent woman would do in public what Mrs. Clarke is + doing to me.” Mrs. Chetwinde, he felt sure, full of all worldly knowledge, + must be thinking the very same thing. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “I think I do. But I wonder whether it could hold me like + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I know it could.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask how you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not? Simply by my observation of you.” + </p> + <p> + Dion remembered the swift grave look of consideration she had given to him + as he came into the room. Something almost combative rose up in him, and + he entered into an argument with her, in the course of which he was + carried away into the revelation of his mental comparison between + Constantinople and Greece, a comparison into which entered a moral + significance. He even spoke of the Christian significance of the Hermes of + Olympia. Mrs. Clarke listened to him with a very still, and apparently a + very deep, attention. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been to Greece,” she said simply, when he had finished. + </p> + <p> + “You didn’t feel at all as I did, as I do?” + </p> + <p> + “You may know Greece, but you don’t know Stamboul,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “If you had shown it to me I might feel very differently,” Dion said, with + a perhaps slightly banal politeness. + </p> + <p> + And yet he did not feel entirely banal as he said it. + </p> + <p> + “Come out again and I will show it to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was almost staring at him, at his chest and shoulders, not at his + face, but her eyes still kept their unself-conscious and almost oddly + impersonal look. + </p> + <p> + “You are going back there?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, when my case is over.” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt very much surprised. He knew that Mrs. Clarke’s husband was + accredited to the British Embassy at Constantinople; that the scandal + about her was connected with that city and with its neighborhood—Therapia, + Prinkipo, and other near places, that both the co-respondents named in the + suit lived there. Whichever way the case went, surely Constantinople must + be very disagreeable to Mrs. Clarke from now onwards. And yet she was + going back there, and apparently intended to take up her life there again. + She evidently either saw or divined his surprise, for she added in the + husky voice: + </p> + <p> + “Guilt may be governed by circumstances. I suppose it is full of alarms. + But I think an innocent woman who allows herself to be driven out of a + place she loves by a false accusation is merely a coward. But all this is + very uninteresting to you. The point is, I shall soon be settled down + again at Constantinople, and ready to make you see it as it really is, if + you ever return there.” + </p> + <p> + She had spoken without hardness or any pugnacity; there was no defiance in + her manner, which was perfectly simple and straightforward. + </p> + <p> + “Your moral comparison between Constantinople and Greece—it isn’t + fair, by the way, to compare a city with a country—doesn’t interest + me at all. People can be disgusting anywhere. Greece is no better than + Turkey. It has a wonderfully delicate, pure atmosphere; but that doesn’t + influence the morals of the population. Fine Greek art is the purest art + in the world; but that doesn’t mean that the men who created it had only + pure thoughts or lived only pure lives. I never read morals into art, + although I’m English, and it’s the old hopeless English way to do that. + The man who made Echo”—she turned her large eyes towards the + statuette—“may have been an evil liver. In fact, I believe he was. + But Echo is an exquisite pure bit of art.” + </p> + <p> + Dion thought of Rosamund’s words about Praxiteles as they sat before + Hermes. His Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke were mentally at opposite poles; yet + they were both good women. + </p> + <p> + “My friend Daventry would agree with you, I know,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a clever and a very dear little man. Who’s that coming in?” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked and saw Canon Wilton. He told Mrs. Clarke who it was. + </p> + <p> + “Enid told me he was coming. I should like to know him.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go and tell him so?” + </p> + <p> + “Presently. How’s your baby? I’m told you’ve got a baby.” + </p> + <p> + Dion actually blushed. Mrs. Clarke gazed at the blush, and no doubt + thoroughly understood it, but she did not smile, or look arch, or full of + feminine understanding. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very well, thank you. It’s just like other babies.” + </p> + <p> + “So was mine. Babies are always said to be wonderful, and never are. And + we love ours chiefly because they aren’t. I hate things with wings growing + out of their shoulders. My boy’s a very naughty boy.” + </p> + <p> + They talked about the baby, and then about Mrs. Clarke’s son of ten; and + then Canon Wilton came up, shook hands warmly with Dion, and was + introduced by Mrs. Chetwinde to Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Presently, from the other side of the room where he was standing with Esme + Darlington, Dion saw them in conversation; saw Mrs. Clarke’s eyes fixed on + the Canon’s almost fiercely sincere face. + </p> + <p> + “It’s going to be an abominable case,” murmured Mr. Darlington in Dion’s + ear. “We must all stand round her.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t imagine how any one could think such a woman guilty,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “It has all come about through her unconventionality.” He pulled his beard + and lifted his ragged eyebrows. “It really is much wiser for innocent + people, such as Cynthia, to keep a tight hold on the conventions. They + have their uses. They have their place in the scheme. But she never could + see it, and look at the result.” + </p> + <p> + “But then don’t you think she’ll win?” + </p> + <p> + “No one can tell.” + </p> + <p> + “In any case, she tells me she’s going back to live at Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “Madness! Sheer madness!” said Mr. Darlington, almost piteously. “I shall + beg her not to.” + </p> + <p> + Dion suppressed a smile. That day he had gained the impression that Mrs. + Clarke had a will of iron. + </p> + <p> + When he went up to say good-by to her, Daventry had already gone; he said + he had work to do on the case. + </p> + <p> + “May I wish you success?” Dion ventured to say, as he took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she answered. “I think you must go in for athletic exercises, + don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were fixed on the breadth of his chest, and then traveled to his + strong, broad shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m very keen on them.” + </p> + <p> + “I want my boy to go in for them. It’s so important to be healthy.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + He felt the Stamboul touch in her soft, hot hand. As he let it go, he + added: + </p> + <p> + “I can give you the address of a first-rate instructor if your boy ever + wants to be physically trained. I go to him. His name’s Jenkins.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + She was still looking at his chest and shoulders. The expression of + distress in her eyes seemed to be deepening. But a tall man, Sir John + Killigrew, one of her adherents, spoke to her, and she turned to give him + her complete attention. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll walk with you, if you’re going,” said Canon Wilton’s strong voice in + Dion’s ear. + </p> + <p> + “That’s splendid. I’ll just say good-by to Mrs. Chetwinde.” + </p> + <p> + He found her by the tea-table with three or four men and two very smart + women. As he came up one of the latter was saying: + </p> + <p> + “It’s all Lady Ermyntrude’s fault. She always hated Cynthia, and she has a + heart of stone.” + </p> + <p> + The case again! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, are you going?” said Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + She got up and came away from the tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “D’you like Cynthia Clarke?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very much. She interests me.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, and seemed about to say something, but did not speak. + </p> + <p> + “You saw her take my hand,” he said, moved by a sudden impulse. + </p> + <p> + “Did she?” + </p> + <p> + “We were talking about Stamboul. She did it to show me——” He + broke off. “I saw you felt, as I did, that no one but a through and + through innocent woman could have done it, just now—like that, I + mean.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course Cynthia is innocent,” Mrs. Chetwinde said, rather coldly and + very firmly. “There’s Canon Wilton waiting for you.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away, but did not go back to the tea-table; as Dion went out of + the room he saw her sitting down on the red sofa by Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Canon Wilton and he walked slowly away from the house. The Canon, who had + some heart trouble of which he never spoke, was not allowed to walk fast; + and to-day he was tired after his sermon at the Abbey. He inquired + earnestly about Rosamund and the child, and seemed made happy by the good + news Dion was able to give him. + </p> + <p> + “Has it made all life seem very different to you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Dion acknowledged that it had. + </p> + <p> + “I was half frightened at the thought of the change which was coming,” he + said. “We were so very happy as we were, you see.” + </p> + <p> + The Canon’s intense gray eyes shot a glance at him, which he felt rather + than saw, in the evening twilight. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you’ll be even happier now.” + </p> + <p> + “It will be a different sort of happiness now.” + </p> + <p> + “I think children bind people together more often than not. There are + cases when it’s not so, but I don’t think yours is likely to be one of + them.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, no.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it a good-looking baby?” + </p> + <p> + “No, really it’s not. Even Rosamund thinks that. D’you know, so far she’s + marvelously reasonable in her love.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s splendid,” said Canon Wilton, with a strong ring in his voice. “An + unreasonable love is generally a love with something rotten at its roots.” + </p> + <p> + Dion stood still. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, is that true really?” + </p> + <p> + The Canon paused beside him. They were in Eaton Square, opposite to St. + Peter’s. + </p> + <p> + “I think so. But I hate anything that approaches what I call mania. + Religious mania, for instance, is abhorrent to me, and, I should think, + displeasing to God. Any mania entering into a love clouds that purity + which is the greatest beauty of love. Mania—it’s detestable!” + </p> + <p> + He spoke almost with a touch of heat, and put his hand on Dion’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Beware of it, my boy.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on, talking of other things. A few minutes before they parted + they spoke of Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “Did you know her before to-day?” asked the Canon. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’d never even seen her. How dreadful for her to have to face such a + case.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “The fact that she’s innocent gives her a great pull, though. I realized + what a pull when I was having a talk with her.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know much about the case,” was all that the Canon said. “I hope + justice will be done in it when it comes on.” + </p> + <p> + Dion thought that there was something rather implacable in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe Mrs. Clarke doubts that.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she say so?” asked Canon Wilton. + </p> + <p> + “No. But I felt that she expected to win—almost knew she would win.” + </p> + <p> + “I see. She has confidence in the result.” + </p> + <p> + “She seems to have.” + </p> + <p> + “Women often have more confidence in difficult moments than we men. Well, + here I must leave you.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his big, unwavering hand to Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by. God bless you both, and the child, whether it’s plain or not. + One good thing’s added to us when we start rather ill-favored; the chance + of growing into something well-favored.” + </p> + <p> + He gripped Dion’s hand and walked slowly, but powerfully, away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + As Dion had said, the baby was an ordinary baby. “In looks,” the nurse + remarked, “he favors his papa.” Certainly in this early stage of his + career the baby had little of the beauty and charm of Rosamund. As his + head was practically bald, his forehead, which was wrinkled as if by + experience and the troubles of years, looked abnormally high. His face, + full of puckers, was rather red; his nose meant very little as yet; his + mouth, with perpetually moving lips, was the home of bubbles. His eyes + were blue, and looked large in his extremely small countenance, which was + often decorated with an expression of mild inquiry. This expression, + however, sometimes changed abruptly to a network of wrath, in which every + feature, and even the small bald head, became involved. Then the minute + feet made feeble dabs, or stabs, at the atmosphere; the tiny fists doubled + themselves and wandered to and fro as if in search of the enemy; and a + voice came forth out of the temple, very personal and very intense, to + express the tempest of the soul. + </p> + <p> + “Hark at him!” said the nurse. “He knows already what he wants and what he + <i>don’t</i> want.” + </p> + <p> + And Rosamund, listening as only a mother can listen, shook her head over + him, trying to condemn the rage, but enjoying the strength of her child in + the way of mothers, to whom the baby’s roar perhaps brings the thought, + “What a fine, bold man he’ll be some day.” If Rosamund had such a thought + the nurse encouraged it with her. “He’s got a proud spirit already, ma’am. + He’s not to be put upon. Have his way he will, and I don’t altogether + blame him.” Nor, be sure, did Rosamund altogether blame the young varmint + for anything. Perhaps in his tiny fisticuffs and startlingly fierce cries + she divined the Doric, in embryo, as it were; perhaps when “little master” + shrieked she thought of the columns of the Parthenon. + </p> + <p> + But Dion told the truth to Canon Wilton when he had said that Rosamund was + marvelously reasonable, so far, in her love for her baby son. The + admirable sanity, the sheer healthiness of outlook which Dion loved in her + did not desert her now. To Dion it seemed that in the very calmness and + good sense of her love she showed its great depth, showed that already she + was thinking of her child’s soul as well as of his little body. + </p> + <p> + Dion felt the beginnings of a change in Rosamund, but he did not find + either her or himself suddenly and radically changed by the possession of + a baby. He had thought that perhaps as mother and father they would both + feel abruptly much older than before, even perhaps old. It was not so. + Often Dion gazed at the baby as he bubbled and cooed, sneezed with an air + of angry astonishment, stared at nothing with a look of shallow surmise, + or, composing his puckers, slept, and Dion still felt young, even very + young, and not at all like a father. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure,” he once said to Rosamund, “women feel much more like mothers + when they have a baby than men feel like fathers.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel like a mother all over,” she replied, bending above the child. “In + every least little bit of me.” + </p> + <p> + “Then do you feel completely changed?” + </p> + <p> + “Completely, utterly.” + </p> + <p> + Dion sat still for a moment gazing at her. She felt his look, perhaps, for + she lifted her head, and her eyes went from the baby to him. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Rosamund? What are you considering?” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” She hesitated. “Perhaps no one could quite + understand, but I feel a sense of release.” + </p> + <p> + “Release! From what?” + </p> + <p> + Again she hesitated; then she looked once more at the child almost as if + she wished to gain something from his helplessness. At last she said: + </p> + <p> + “Dion, as you’ve given me <i>him</i>, I’ll tell you. Very often in the + past I’ve had an urgent desire some day to enter into the religious life.” + </p> + <p> + “D’you—d’you mean to become a Roman Catholic and a nun?” he + exclaimed, feeling, absurdly perhaps, almost afraid and half indignant. + </p> + <p> + “No. I’ve never wished to change my religion. There are Anglican + sisterhoods, you know.” + </p> + <p> + “But your singing!” + </p> + <p> + “I only intended to sing for a time. Then some day, when I felt quite + ready, I meant—” + </p> + <p> + “But you married me?” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. So you see I gave it all up.” + </p> + <p> + “But you said it was the child which had brought you a sensation of + release!” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you have never been a prisoner of a desire which threatens to + dominate your soul forever,” she said, quietly evading his point and + looking down, so that he could not see her eyes. “Look, he’s waking!” + </p> + <p> + Surely she had moved abruptly and the movement had awakened the child. She + began playing with him, and the conversation was broken. + </p> + <p> + The Clarke trial came on in May, when Robin was becoming almost elderly, + having already passed no less than ten weeks in the midst of this wicked + world. On the day before it opened, Daventry made Dion promise to come + into court at least once to hear some of the evidence. + </p> + <p> + “A true friend would be there every day,” he urged—“to back up his + old chum.” + </p> + <p> + “Business!” returned Dion laconically. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your real reason against it?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Rosamund hates this kind of case. I spoke to her about it the other + day.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “That she was delighted you had something to do, and that she hoped, if + Mrs. Clarke were innocent, she’d win. She pities her for being dragged + through all this mud.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “She said at the end that she hoped I wouldn’t think her unsympathetic if + she neither talked about the case nor read about it. She hates filling her + mind with ugly details and horrible suggestions.” + </p> + <p> + “I see.” + </p> + <p> + “You know, Guy, Rosamund thinks—she’s told me so more than once—that + the mind and the soul are very sensitive, and that—that they ought + to be watched over, and—and taken care of.” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked rather uncomfortable as he finished. It was one thing to speak + of such matters with Rosamund, and quite another to touch on them with a + man, even a man who was a trusted friend. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you’d rather not come at all?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no. I’ll come once. You know how keen I am on your making a good + start.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry took him at his word, and got him a seat beside Mrs. Chetwinde on + the third day of the trial, when Mrs. Clarke’s cross-examination, begun on + the previous day, was continued by Sir Edward Jeffson, Beadon Clarke’s + leading counsel. + </p> + <p> + Dion told Rosamund where he was going when he left the house in the + morning. + </p> + <p> + “I hope it will go well for poor Mrs. Clarke,” she said kindly, but + perhaps rather indifferently. + </p> + <p> + She had not looked at the reports of the case in the papers, and had not + discussed its progress with Dion. He was not sorry for that. It was a + horrible case, full of abominable allegations and suggestions such as he + would have hated to discuss with Rosamund. As he stood in the little hall + of their house, which was delicately scented with lavender and lit by pale + sunshine, bidding her good-by, he realized the impossibility of such a + woman as she was ever being “mixed up” in such a trial. Simply that + couldn’t happen, he thought. Instinct would keep her far from every + suggestion of a possible impurity. He felt certain that Mrs. Clarke was + innocent, but, as he looked into Rosamund’s honest brown eyes, he thought + that Mrs. Clarke must have been singularly imprudent. He remembered how + she had held his hand in Mrs. Chetwinde’s drawing-room. Wisdom and + unwisdom; he compared them: the one was a builder up, the other a + destroyer of beauty—the beauty that is in every completely sane and + perfectly poised life. + </p> + <p> + “Rose,” he said, leaning forward to kiss his wife, “I think you are very + wise.” + </p> + <p> + “Why wise all of a sudden?” she asked, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “You keep the door of your life.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced round at the little hall, simple, fresh, with a few white roses + in a blue pot, the pale sunshine lying on the polished floor of wood, the + small breeze coming in almost affectionately between snowy curtains. + Purity—everything seemed to whisper of that, to imply that; + simplicity ruling, complexity ruled out. + </p> + <p> + And then he was sitting in the crowded court, breathing bad air, hearing + foul suggestions, watching strained or hateful faces, surrounded by people + who were attracted by ugly things as vultures are attracted by the stench + of dead and decaying bodies. At first he loathed being there; presently, + however, he became interested, then almost fascinated by his surroundings + and by the drama which was being played slowly out in the midst of them. + </p> + <p> + Daventry, in wig and gown, looked tremendously legal and almost severe in + his tense gravity. Sir John Addington, his leader, a man of great fame, + was less tense in his watchfulness, amazingly at his ease with the Court, + and on smiling terms with the President, who, full of worldly and + unworldly knowledge, held the balance of justice with an unwavering + firmness. The jury looked startlingly commonplace, smug and sleepy, + despite the variety of type almost inevitably presented by twelve human + beings. Not one of them looked a rascal; not one of them looked an + actively good man. The intense Englishness of them hit one in the face + like a well-directed blow from a powerful fist. And they had to give the + verdict on this complex drama of Stamboul! How much they would have to + tell their wives presently! Their sense of their unusual importance pushed + through the smugness heavily, like a bulky man in broadcloth showing + through a dull crowd. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke occasionally glanced at them with an air of almost distressed + inquiry, as if she had never seen such cabbages before, and was wondering + about their gray matter. Her life in Stamboul must have effected changes + in her. She looked almost exotic in this court, despite the simplicity of + her gown, her unpretending little hat; as if her mind, perhaps, had become + exotic. But she certainly did not look wicked. Dion was struck again by + the strong mentality of her and by her haggardness. To him she seemed + definitely a woman of mind, not at all an animal woman. When he gazed at + her he felt that he was gazing at mind rather than at body. Just before + she went into the box she met his eyes. She stared at him, as if carefully + and strongly considering him; then she nodded. He bowed, feeling + uncomfortable, feeling indeed almost a brute. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll think I’ve come out of filthy curiosity,” he thought, looking + round at the greedy faces of the crowd. + </p> + <p> + No need to ask why those faces were there. + </p> + <p> + He felt still more uncomfortable when Mrs. Clarke was in the witness-box, + and Sir Edward Jeffson took up the cross-examination which he had begun + late in the afternoon of the previous day. + </p> + <p> + Dion had very seldom been in a Court of Justice, and had never before been + in the Divorce Court. As the cross-examination of Mrs. Clarke lengthened + out he felt as if his clothes, and the clothes of all the human beings who + crowded about him, were being ruthlessly stripped off, as if an ugly and + abominable nakedness were gradually appearing. The shame of it all was + very hateful to him; and yet—yes, he couldn’t deny it—there + was a sort of dreadful fascination in it, too. + </p> + <p> + The two co-respondents, Hadi Bey and Aristide Dumeny of the French Embassy + in Constantinople, were in court, sitting not far from Dion, to whom Mrs. + Chetwinde, less vague than, but quite as self-possessed as, usual, pointed + them out. + </p> + <p> + Both were young men. Hadi Bey, who of course wore the fez, was a fine + specimen of the smart, alert, cosmopolitan and cultivated Turk of modern + days. There was a peculiar look of vividness and brightness about him, in + his piercing dark eyes, in his red lips, in his healthy and manly face + with its rosy brown complexion and its powerful decided chin. He had none + of the sleepiness and fatalistic languor of the fat hubble-bubble smoking + Turk of caricature. The whole of him looked aristocratic, energetic, + perfectly poised and absolutely self-possessed. Many of the women in court + glanced at him without any distaste. + </p> + <p> + Aristide Dumeny was almost strangely different—an ashy-pale, + dark-eyed, thin and romantic-visaged man, stamped with a curious + expression of pain and fatalism. He looked as if he had seen much, dreamed + many dreams, and suffered not a little. There was in his face something + slightly contemptuous, as if, intellectually, he seldom gazed up at any + man. He watched Mrs. Clarke in the box with an enigmatic closeness of + attention which seemed wholly impersonal, even when she was replying to + hideous questions about himself. That he had an interesting personality + was certain. When his eyes rested on the twelve jurymen he smiled every so + faintly. It seemed to him, perhaps, absurd that they should have power + over the future of the woman in the witness-box. + </p> + <p> + That woman showed an extraordinary self-possession which touched dignity + but which never descended to insolence. Despite her obvious cleverness and + mental resource she preserved a certain simplicity. She did not pose as a + passionate innocent, or assume any forced airs of supreme virtue. She + presented herself rather as a woman of the world who was careless of the + conventions, because she thought of them as chains which prevented free + movement and were destructive of genuine liberty. She acknowledged that + she had been a great deal with Hadi Bey and Dumeny, that she had often + made long excursions with each of them on foot, on horseback, in caiques, + that she had had them to dinner, separately, on many occasions in a little + pavilion which stood at the end of her husband’s garden and looked upon + the Bosporus. These dinners had frequently taken place when her husband + was away from home. Monsieur Dumeny was a good musician and had sometimes + sung and played to her till late in the night. Hadi Bey had sometimes been + her guide in Constantinople and had given to her the freedom of his + strange and mysterious city of Stamboul. With him she had visited the + mosques, with him she had explored the bazaars, with him she had sunk down + in the strange and enveloping melancholy of the vast Turkish cemeteries + which are protected by forests of cypresses. All this she acknowledged + without the least discomposure. One of her remarks to the cross-examining + counsel was this: + </p> + <p> + “You suggest that I have been very imprudent. I answer that I am not able + to live what the conventional call a prudent life. Such a life would be a + living death to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Kindly confine yourself to answering my questions,” retorted Counsel + harshly. “I suggest that you were far more than imprudent. I suggest that + when you and Hadi Bey remained together in that pavilion on the Bosporus + until midnight, until after midnight, you——” and then followed + another hideous accusation, which, gazing with her observant eyes at the + brick-red shaven face of her accuser, Mrs. Clarke quietly denied. She + never showed temper. Now and then she gave indications of a sort of cold + disgust or faint surprise. But there were no outraged airs of virtue. A + slight disdain was evidently more natural to the temperament of this woman + than any fierceness of protestation. Once when Counsel said, “I shall ask + the jury to infer”—something abominable, Mrs. Clarke tranquilly + rejoined: + </p> + <p> + “Whatever they infer it won’t alter the truth.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry moved his shoulders. Dion was certain that he considered this + remark ill-advised. The jury, however, at whom Mrs. Clarke gazed in the + short silence which followed, seemed, Dion thought, impressed by her + firmness. The luncheon interval prevented Counsel from saying anything + further just then, and Mrs. Clarke stepped down from the box. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + Dion heard this murmur, which did not seem to be addressed to any + particular person. It had come from Mrs. Chetwinde, who now got up and + went to speak to Mrs. Clarke. The whole court was in movement. Dion went + out to have a hasty lunch with Daventry. + </p> + <p> + “A pity she said that!” Daventry said in a low voice to Dion, hitching up + his gown. “Juries like to be deferred to.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she impressed them by her independence.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you, though? She’s marvelously intelligent. Perhaps she knows more of + men, even of jurymen, than I do.” + </p> + <p> + At lunch they discussed the case. Daventry had had two or three chances + given to him by Sir John Addington, and thought he had done quite well. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think Mrs. Clarke will win?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “I know she’s innocent, but I can’t tell. She’s so infernally + unconventional and a jury’s so infernally conventional that I can’t help + being afraid.” + </p> + <p> + Dion thought of his Rosamund’s tranquil wisdom. + </p> + <p> + “I think Mrs. Clarke’s very clever,” he said. “But I suppose she isn’t + very wise.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you what it is, old Dion; she prefers life to wisdom.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but——” Dion Began. + </p> + <p> + But he stopped. Now he knew Mrs. Clarke a little better, from her own + evidence, he knew just what Daventry meant. He looked upon the life of + unwisdom, and he was able to feel its fascination. There were scents in it + that lured, and there were colors that tempted; in its night there was + music; about it lay mystery, shadows, and silver beams of the moon shining + between cypresses like black towers. It gave out a call to which, perhaps, + very few natures of men were wholly deaf. The unwise life! Almost for the + first time Dion considered it with a deep curiosity. + </p> + <p> + He considered it more attentively, more curiously, during the afternoon, + when Mrs. Clarke’s cross-examination was continued. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious that during this trial two women were being presented to + the judge and jury, the one a greedy and abominably secret and clever + sensualist, who hid her mania beneath a cloak of intellectuality, the + other a genuine intellectual, whose mental appetites far outweighed the + appetites of her body, who was, perhaps, a sensualist, but a sensualist of + the spirit and not of the flesh. Which of these two women was the real + Cynthia Clarke? The jury would eventually give their decision, but it + might not be in accordance with fact. Meanwhile, the horrible unclothing + process was ruthlessly proceeded with. But already Dion was becoming + accustomed to it. Perhaps Mrs. Clarke’s self-possession helped him to + assimilate the nauseous food which was offered to him. + </p> + <p> + Beadon Clarke was in court, and had been pointed out to Dion, an + intellectual and refined-looking man, bald, with good features, and a + gentle, but now pained, expression; obviously a straight and aristocratic + fellow. Beside him sat his mother, that Lady Ermyntrude who, it was said, + had forced on the trial. She sat upright, her eyes fixed on her + daughter-in-law, a rather insignificant small woman, not very well + dressed, young looking, with hair done exactly in Queen Alexandra’s way, + and crowned with a black toque. + </p> + <p> + Dion noticed that she had a very firm mouth and chin. She did not look + actively hostile as she gazed at the witness, but merely attentive—deeply, + concentratedly attentive. Mrs. Clarke never glanced towards her. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, whatever Lady Ermyntrude had believed hitherto, she was now + beginning to wonder whether her conception of her son’s wife had been a + wrong one, was beginning to ask herself whether she had divined the nature + of the soul inhabiting the body which now stood up before her. + </p> + <p> + About an hour before the close of the sitting the heat in the court became + almost suffocating, and the Judge told Mrs. Clarke she might continue her + evidence sitting down. She refused this favor. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not at all tired, my lord,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “She’s made of iron,” Mrs. Chetwinde murmured to Dion. “Though she + generally looks like a corpse. She was haggard even as a girl.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you know her then?” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve known her all my life.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry wiped his brow with a large pocket-handkerchief, performing the + action legally. One of the jurymen, who was too fat, and had something of + the expression of a pug dog, opened his mouth and rolled slightly in his + seat. The cross-examination became with every moment more disagreeable. + Beadon Clarke never lifted his eyes from his knees. All the women in + court, except Mrs. Chetwinde and Mrs. Clarke, were looking strangely alive + and conscious. Dion had forgotten everything except Stamboul and the life + of unwisdom. Suppose Mrs. Clarke had lived the life imputed to her by + Counsel, suppose she really were a consummately clever and astoundingly + ingenious humbug, driven, as many human beings are driven, by a dominating + vice which towered over her life issuing commands she had not the strength + to resist, how had it profited her? Had she had great rewards in it? Had + she been led down strange ways guided by fascination bearing the torch + from which spring colored fires? Good women sometimes, perhaps oftener + than many people realize, look out of the window and try to catch a + glimpse of the world of the wicked women, asking themselves, “Is it worth + while? Is their time so much better than mine? Am I missing—missing?” + And they shut the window—for fear. Far away, turning the corner of + some dark alley, they have seen the colored gleam of the torch. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund would never do that—would never even want to do that. She + was not one of the good women who love to take just a peep at evil + “because one ought to know something of the trials and difficulties of + those less fortunately circumstanced than oneself.” + </p> + <p> + But, for the moment, Dion had quite forgotten his Rosamund. She was in + England, but he was in Stamboul, hearing the waters of the Bosporus + lapping at the foot of Mrs. Clarke’s garden pavilion, while Dumeny played + to her as the moon came up to shine upon the sweet waters of Asia; or + sitting under the plane trees of the Pigeon Mosque, while Hadi Bey showed + her how to write an Arabic love-letter—to somebody in the air, of + course. In this trial he felt the fascination of Constantinople as he had + never felt it when he was in Constantinople; but he felt, too, that only + those who strayed deliberately from the beaten paths could ever capture + the full fascination of the divided city, which looks to Europe and to + Asia, and is set along the way of the sea. + </p> + <p> + Whether innocent or guilty, Mrs. Clarke had certainly done that. He + watched her with a growing interest. How very much she must know that he + did not know. Then he glanced at Hadi Bey, who still sat up alertly, who + still looked bright and vivid, intelligent, ready for anything, a man + surely with muscles of steel and a courageous robust nature, and at + Aristide Dumeny. Upon the latter his eyes rested for a long time. When at + last he again looked at Mrs. Clarke he had formed the definite impression + that Dumeny was corrupt—an interesting man, a clever, probably a + romantic as well as a cynical man, but certainly corrupt. + </p> + <p> + Didn’t that tell against Mrs. Clarke? + </p> + <p> + She was now being questioned about a trip at night in a caique with Hadi + Bey down the sweet waters of Asia where willows lean over the stream. Mrs. + Chetwinde’s pale eyes were fastened upon her. Beadon Clarke bent his head + a little lower as, in her husky voice, his wife said that he knew of the + expedition, had apparently smiled upon her unconventionalities, knowing + how entirely free she was from the ugly bias towards vice attributed to + her by Counsel. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ermyntrude Clarke shot a glance at her son, and her firm mouth became + firmer. + </p> + <p> + The willows bent over the sweet waters in the warm summer night; the + Albanian boatmen were singing. + </p> + <p> + “She must have had wonderful times!” + </p> + <p> + The whisper came from an unseen woman sitting just behind Dion. His mind + echoed the thought she had expressed. Now the Judge was rising from the + bench and bowing to the Court; Mrs. Clarke was stepping down from the + witness-box; Dumeny, his eyes half closed, was brushing his shining silk + hat with the sleeve of his coat; Beadon Clarke was leaning to speak to his + mother. + </p> + <p> + The Court was adjourned. + </p> + <p> + As Dion got up he felt the heat as if it were heat from a furnace. His + face and his body were burning. + </p> + <p> + “Come and speak to Cynthia, and take us to tea somewhere—can you?” + said Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, with pleasure.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Rosamund——?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were on him for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t expect me at any particular time.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Daventry can come too.” + </p> + <p> + Dion never forgot their difficult exit from the court. It made him feel + ashamed for humanity, for the crowd which frantically pressed to stare at + a woman because perhaps she had done things which were considered by all + right-minded people to be disgusting. Mrs. Clarke and her little party of + friends had to be helped away by the police. When at length they were + driving away towards Claridge’s Hotel, Dion was able once more to meet the + eyes of his companions, and again he was amazed at the self-possession of + Mrs. Clarke. Really she seemed as composed, as completely mistress of + herself, as when he had first seen her standing near the statue of Echo in + the drawing-room of Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t been in court before to-day, have you?” she said to Dion. + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you come to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I——” He hesitated. “I promised Mr. Daventry to come + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “That was it!” said Mrs. Clarke, and she looked out of the window. + </p> + <p> + Dion felt rather uncomfortable as he spoke to Mrs. Chetwinde and left + further conversation with Mrs. Clarke to Daventry; but when they were all + in a quiet corner of the tearoom at Claridge’s, a tea-table before them + and a band playing softly at a distance, he was more at his ease. The + composure of Mrs. Clarke perhaps conveyed itself to him. She spoke of the + case quite naturally, as a guilty woman surely could not possibly have + spoken of it—showing no venom, making no attack upon her accusers. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all a mistake,” she said, “arising out of stupidity, out of the most + widespread and, perhaps, the most pitiable and dangerous lack in human + nature.” + </p> + <p> + “And what’s that?” asked Daventry, rather eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “I expect you know.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you?” she asked of Dion, spreading thinly some butter over a piece + of dry toast. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Cynthia means the lack of power to read character, the lack of + psychological instinct,” drifted from the lips of Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “Three-quarters of the misunderstandings and miseries of the world come + from that,” said Mrs. Clarke, looking at the now buttered toast. “If my + mother-in-law and my husband had any psychological faculty they would + never have mistaken my unconventionality, which I shall never give up, for + common, and indeed very vulgar, sinfulness.” + </p> + <p> + “Confusing the pastel with the oleograph,” dropped out Mrs. Chetwinde, + looking abstractedly at an old red woman in a turret of ostrich plumes, + who was spread out on the other side of the room before a plate of cakes. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure Lady Ermyntrude didn’t understand?” said Daventry, with a + certain sharp legality of manner. + </p> + <p> + “You mean that she might be wicked instead of only stupid?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, yes. I suppose it does come to that.” + </p> + <p> + “Believe me, Mr. Daventry, she’s a quite honest stupid woman. She honestly + thinks that I’m a horrible creature.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Clarke began to bite the crisp toast with her lovely teeth. Mrs. + Chetwinde’s eyes dwelt on her for a brief instant with, Dion thought, a + rather peculiar look which he could not quite understand. It had, perhaps, + a hint of hardness, or of cold admiration, something of that kind, in it. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me some more about the baby,” was Mrs. Clarke’s next remark, + addressed to Dion. “I want to get away for a minute into a happy domestic + life. And yours is that, I know.” + </p> + <p> + How peculiarly haggard, and yet how young she looked as she said that! She + added: + </p> + <p> + “If the case ends as I feel sure it will, I hope your wife and I shall get + to know each other. I hear she’s the most delightful woman in London, and + extraordinarily beautiful. Isn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “I think she is beautiful,” Dion said simply. + </p> + <p> + And then they talked about Robin, while Mrs. Chetwinde and Daventry + discussed some question of the day. Before they parted Dion could not help + saying: + </p> + <p> + “I want to ask you something.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you feel sure that the trial will end as it ought to end? Surely + the lack of the psychological instinct is peculiarly abundant—if a + lack can be abundant!”—he smiled, almost laughed, a little + deprecatingly—“in a British jury?” + </p> + <p> + “And so you think they’re likely to go wrong in their verdict?” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t it rather follow?” + </p> + <p> + She stared at him, and her eyes were, or looked, even more widely opened + than usual. After a long pause she said; + </p> + <p> + “You wish to frighten me.” + </p> + <p> + She got up, and began to draw on her dove-colored Swedish kid gloves. + </p> + <p> + “Tippie,” she said to Mrs. Chetwinde, “I must go home now and have a + little rest.” + </p> + <p> + Only then did Dion realize how marvelously she was bearing a tremendous + strain. He began to admire her prodigiously. + </p> + <p> + When he said good-by to her under the great porch he couldn’t help asking: + </p> + <p> + “Are your nerves of steel?” + </p> + <p> + She leaned forward in the brougham. + </p> + <p> + “If your muscles are of iron.” + </p> + <p> + “My muscles!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you educated them?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And perhaps I’ve educated my nerves.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde’s spirited horses began to prance and show temper. Mrs. + Clarke sat back. As the carriage moved away, Dion saw Mrs. Chetwinde’s + eyes fixed upon him. They looked at that moment not at all vague. If they + had not been her eyes, he would have been inclined to think them piercing. + But, of course, Mrs. Chetwinde’s eyes could never be that. + </p> + <p> + “How does one educate one’s nerves, Guy?” asked Dion, as the two friends + walked away. + </p> + <p> + “By being defendant in a long series of divorce cases, I should say.” + </p> + <p> + “Has Mrs. Clarke ever been in another case of this kind?” + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, no. If she had, even I couldn’t believe in her innocence, + as I do now.” + </p> + <p> + “Then where did she get her education?” + </p> + <p> + “Where do women get things, old Dion? It seems to me sometimes straight + from God, and sometimes straight from the devil.” + </p> + <p> + Dion’s mental comment on this was, “What about Mrs. Clarke?” But he did + not utter it. + </p> + <p> + Before he left Daventry, he was pledged to be in court on the last day of + the case, when the verdict would be given. He wished to go to the court + again on the morrow, but the thought of Rosamund decided him not to do + this; he would, he knew, feel almost ashamed in telling her that the + divorce court, at this moment, fascinated him, that he longed, or almost + longed, to follow the colored fires of a certain torch down further + shadowy alleys of the unwise life. He felt quite sure that Mrs. Clarke was + an innocent woman, but she had certainly been very unconventional indeed + in her conduct. He remembered the almost stern strength in her husky voice + when she had said “my unconventionality, <i>which I shall never give up</i>.” + So even this hideous and widely proclaimed scandal would not induce her to + bow in the future before the conventional gods. She really was an + extraordinary woman. What would Rosamund think of her? If she won her case + she evidently meant to know Rosamund. Of course, there could be nothing + against that. If she lost the case, naturally there could never be any + question of such an acquaintance; he knew instinctively that she would + never suggest it. Whatever she was, or was not, she was certainly a woman + of the world. + </p> + <p> + That evening, when he reached home, he found Rosamund sitting in the + nursery in the company of Robin and the nurse. The window was partially + open. Rosamund believed in plenty of air for her child, and no + “cosseting”; she laughed to scorn, but genially, the nurse’s prejudice + against “the night air.” + </p> + <p> + “My child,” she said, “must get accustomed to night as well as day, Nurse—and + the sooner the better.” So now “Master Robin” was played upon by a little + wind from Westminster. He seemed in no way alarmed by it. This evening he + was serene, and when his father entered the room he assumed his expression + of mild inquiry, vaguely agitated his small rose-colored fists, and blew + forth a welcoming bubble. + </p> + <p> + Dion was touched at the sight. + </p> + <p> + “Little rogue!” he said, bending over Robin. “Little, little rogue!” + </p> + <p> + Robin raised his, as yet scarcely defined, eyebrows, stared tremendously + hard at the nursery atmosphere, pulled out his wet lips and gurgled, at + the same time wagging his head, now nicely covered with silky fair hair, + or down, whichever you chose to call it. + </p> + <p> + “He knows his papa, ma’am, and that he does, a boy!” said the nurse, who + approved of Dion, and had said below stairs that he was “as good a husband + as ever wore shoe-leather.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he does,” said Rosamund softly. “Babies have plenty of + intelligence of a kind, and I think it’s a darling kind.” + </p> + <p> + Dion sat down beside her, and they both bent over Robin in the gathering + twilight, while the nurse went softly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Dion had quite forgotten the Clarke case. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + Three days later Daventry called in Little Market Street early, and was + shown into the dining-room where he found Rosamund alone at the + breakfast-table. + </p> + <p> + “Do forgive me for bursting in upon the boiled eggs,” he said, looking + unusually excited. “I’m off almost directly to the Law Courts and I want + to take Dion with me. It’s the last day of Mrs. Clarke’s case. We expect + the verdict some time this evening. I dare say the court will sit late. + Where’s Dion?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s just coming down. We were both disturbed in the night, so we slept + later than usual.” + </p> + <p> + “Disturbed? Burglars? Fire?” + </p> + <p> + “No; Robin’s not at all well.” + </p> + <p> + “I say! I’m sorry for that. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s had a very bad throat and been feverish, poor little chap. But I + think he’s better this morning. The doctor came.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll never be one of the fussy mothers.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not,” she said, rather gravely; “I’m not fond of them. Here’s + Dion.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry sat with them while they breakfasted, and Dion agreed to keep his + promise and go to the court. + </p> + <p> + “I told Uncle Biron I must be away from business to hear the summing-up,” + he said. “I’ll send a telegram to the office. Do you think it will be all + right for Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s innocent, but nobody can say. It depends so much on the + summing-up.” + </p> + <p> + Dion glanced at Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t think I’m going to turn into an idler, Rose. This is a very + special occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. Mr. Daventry’s first case.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you followed it at all?” Daventry asked. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “No, but I’ve been wished you well all the same.” + </p> + <p> + When the two men got up to go, Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “If Mrs. Clarke wins and is completely exonerated, I think she would like + very much to make your acquaintance.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “What makes you think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she said something to that effect the other day.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a very interesting, clever woman,” interposed Daventry, with sudden + warmth. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure she is. We must see. It’s very kind of her. Poor woman! What + dreadful anxiety she must be in to-day! You’ll all be glad when it’s + over.” + </p> + <p> + When the two friends were out in the sunshine, walking towards the Strand, + Daventry said: + </p> + <p> + “Why is your wife against Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “She isn’t. What makes you thinks so?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite sure she doesn’t want to know her, even if she gets the + verdict.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course all this sort of thing is—it’s very far away from + Rosamund.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say you doubt Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but——” + </p> + <p> + “Surely if she’s innocent she’s as good as any other woman.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, but——I suppose it’s like this: there are different + ways of being good, and perhaps Mrs. Clarke’s way isn’t Rosamund’s. In + fact, we know it isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Daventry said nothing more on the subject; he began to discuss the case in + all its bearings, and presently dwelt upon the great power English judges + have over the decisions of juries. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Clarke gave her evidence splendidly on the whole,” he said. “And + Hadi Bey made an excellent impression. My one fear is that fellow Aristide + Dumeny. You didn’t hear him, but, of course, you read his evidence. He was + perfectly composed and as clever as he could be in the box, but I’m sure, + somehow, the jury were against him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know. It may be something in his personality.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe he’s a beast,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “There!” exclaimed Daventry, wrinkling his forehead. “If the Judge thinks + as you do it may just turn things against us.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did she make a friend of the fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Because he’s chock-full of talent and knowledge, and she loves both. + Dion, my boy, the mind can play the devil with us as well as the body. But + I hope—I hope for the right verdict. Anyhow I’ve done well, and + shall get other cases out of this. The odd thing is that Mrs. Clarke’s + drained me dry of egoism. I care only to win for her. I couldn’t bear to + see her go out of court with a ruined reputation. My nerves are all on + edge. If Mrs. Clarke loses, how d’you think she’ll take it?” + </p> + <p> + “Standing up.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect you’re right. But I don’t believe I shall take it standing. + Perhaps some women make us men feel for them more than they feel for + themselves. Don’t look at me in court whatever you do.” + </p> + <p> + They had arrived at the Law Courts. He hurried away. + </p> + <p> + Dion’s place was again beside Mrs. Chetwinde, who looked unusually alive, + and whose vagueness had been swept away by something—anxiety for her + friend, perhaps, or the excitement of following day after day an unusually + emotional <i>cause celebre</i>. + </p> + <p> + Now, as Sir John Addington stood up to continue his speech on Mrs. + Clarke’s behalf, begun on the previous day, Mrs. Chetwinde leaned forward + and fixed her eyes upon him, closing her fingers tightly on the fan she + had brought with her. + </p> + <p> + Sir John spoke with an earnestness and conviction which at certain moments + rose almost to passion, as he drew the portrait of a woman whose brilliant + mind and innocent nature had led her into the unconventional conduct which + her enemies now asserted were wickedness. Beadon Clarke’s counsel had + suggested that Mrs. Clarke was an abominable woman, brilliantly clever, + exquisitely subtle, who had chosen as an armor against suspicion a bold + pretense of simplicity and harmless unconventionality, but who was the + prey of a hidden and ungovernable vice. He, Sir John, ventured to put + forward for the jury’s careful examination a very different picture. He + made no secret of the fact that, from the point of view of the ordinary + unconventional man or woman, Mrs. Clarke had often acted unwisely, and, + with not too fine a sarcasm, he described for the jury the average + existence of “a careful drab woman” in the watchful and eternally + gossiping diplomatic world. Then he contrasted with it the life led by + Mrs. Clarke in the wonderful city of Stamboul—a life “full of color, + of taste, of interest, of charm, of innocent, joyous and fragrant liberty. + Which of us,” he demanded, “would not in our souls prefer the latter life + to the former? Which of us did not secretly long for the touch of romance, + of strangeness, of beauty, to put something into our lives which they + lacked? But we have not the moral courage to break our prison doors and to + emerge into the nobler world.” + </p> + <p> + “The dull, the drab, the platter-faced and platter-minded people,” he + said, in a passage which Dion was always to remember, “who go forever + bowed down beneath the heavy yoke of convention, are too often apt to + think that everything charming, everything lively, everything unusual, + everything which gives out, like sweet incense, a delicate aroma of + strangeness, must be, somehow, connected with wickedness. Everything which + deviates from their pattern must deviate towards the devil, according to + them; every step taken away from the beaten path must be taken towards + ultimate destruction. They have no conception of intimacies between women + and men cemented not by similar lusts and similar vices, but by similar + intellectual tastes and similar aspirations towards beauty. In color such + people always find blackness, in gaiety wickedness, in liberty license, in + the sacred intimacies of the soul the hateful vices of the body. But you, + gentlemen of the jury——” + </p> + <p> + His appeal to the twelve in the box at this moment was, perhaps, scarcely + convincing. He addressed them as if, like Mrs. Clarke and himself, they + were enamored of the unwise life, which is only unwise because we live in + a world of censorious fools, and as if he knew it. The strange thing was + that the jury were evidently impressed if not carried away, by his appeal. + They sat forward, stared at Sir John as if fascinated, and even began to + assume little airs which were almost devil-may-care. But when, with a + precise and deliberately cold acuteness, Sir John turned to the evidence + adverse to his client, and began to tear it to shreds, they stared less, + frowned, and showed by their expressions their efforts to be legal. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Sir John had finished his speech, the Court rose for the + luncheon interval. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going out?” said Mrs. Chetwinde to Dion. “I’ve brought some + horrible little sandwiches, and I shan’t stir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not hungry. I’ll stay with you.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed. + </p> + <p> + “What a crowd!” he said, looking over the sea of hot, staring faces. “How + horrid people look sometimes!” + </p> + <p> + “When they’re feeling cruel.” + </p> + <p> + She began to eat her sandwiches, which were tightly packed in a small + silver box. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t Mrs. Clarke coming to-day?” Dion asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I expect her in a moment. Esme Darlington is bringing her.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Darlington?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re surprised?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should hardly have expected somehow that—I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. But Esme Darlington’s more of a man than he seems. And he’s + thoroughly convinced of Cynthia’s innocence. Here they are.” + </p> + <p> + There was a stir in the crowd. Many women present rustled as they turned + in their seats; some stood up and craned forward; people in the gallery + leaned over, looking eagerly down; a loud murmur and a wide hiss of + whispering emphasized the life in the court. The tall, loose-limbed figure + of Esme Darlington, looking to-day singularly dignified and almost + impressive, pushed slowly forward, followed by the woman whose social fate + was so soon to be decided. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke glanced round over the many faces without any defiance as she + made her way with difficulty to a seat beside her solicitor. The lack of + defiance in her expression struck Dion forcibly. This woman did not seem + to be mentally on the defensive, did not seem to be wishing to repel the + glances, fierce with curiosity, which were leveled at her from all sides. + Apparently she had no fear at all of bristling bayonets. Her haggard face + was unsmiling, not cold, but intense with a sort of living calm which was + surely not a mask. She looked at Mrs. Chetwinde and at Dion as she passed + near to them, giving them no greeting except with her large eyes which + obviously recognized them. In a moment she was sitting down between her + solicitor and Esme Darlington. + </p> + <p> + “It will quite break Guy Daventry up if she doesn’t get the verdict,” said + Dion in an uneven voice to Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Daventry?” she said, with an odd little stress of emphasis on the + name. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I should hate it too. Any man who feels a woman is innocent—” + </p> + <p> + He broke off. She said nothing, and went on eating her little sandwiches + as if she rather disliked them. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Chetwinde, do tell me. I believe you’ve got an extraordinary flair—will + she win?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear boy, now how can I know?” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt very young for a minute. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know what you expect.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde closed the small silver box with a soft snap. + </p> + <p> + “I fully expect her to win.” + </p> + <p> + “Because she’s innocent?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. That’s no reason in a world like this, unfortunately.” + </p> + <p> + “But, then, why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because Cynthia always does get what she wants, or needs. She has quite + abnormal will-power, and will-power is <i>the</i> conqueror. If I’m to + tell you the truth, I see only one reason for doubt, I don’t say fear, as + to the result.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me what it is?” + </p> + <p> + “Aristide Dumeny.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the Judge returned to the bench. An hour later he began to + sum up. + </p> + <p> + He spoke very slowly and rather monotonously, and at first Dion thought + that he was going to be “let down” by this almost cruelly level finale to + a dramatic, sometimes even horrible, struggle between powerful opposing + forces. But presently he began to come under a new fascination, the + fascination of a cool and very clear presentation of undressed facts. Led + by the Judge, he reviewed again the complex life at Constantinople, he + followed again Mrs. Clarke’s many steps away from the beaten paths, he + penetrated again through some of the winding ways into the shadows of the + unwise life. And he began to wonder a little and a little to fear for the + woman who was sitting so near to him waiting for the end. He could not + tell whether the Judge believed her to be innocent or guilty, but he + thought he could tell that the Judge considered her indiscreet, too + heedless of those conventions on which social relations are based, too + determined a follower after the flitting light of her own desires. + Presently the position of Beadon Clarke in the Constantinople <i>menage</i> + was touched upon, and suddenly Dion found himself imagining how it would + be to have as his wife a Mrs. Clarke. Suppose Rosamund were to develop the + unconventional idiosyncrasies of a Cynthia Clarke? He realized at once + that he was not a Beadon Clarke; he could never stand that sort of thing. + He felt hot at the mere thought of his Rosamund making night expeditions + in caiques alone with young men—such, for instance, as Hadi Bey; or + listening alone at midnight in a garden pavilion isolated, shaded by + trees, to the music made by a Dumeny. + </p> + <p> + Dumeny! The Judge pronounced his name. + </p> + <p> + “I come now to the respondent’s relation with the second co-respondent, + Aristide Dumeny of the French Embassy in Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + Dion leaned slightly forward and looked at Dumeny. Dumeny was sitting bolt + upright, and now, as the Judge mentioned his name, he folded his arms, + raised his long dark eyes, and gazed steadily at the bench. Did he know + that he was the danger in the case? If he did he did not show any + apprehension. His white face, typically French, with its rather long nose, + slightly flattened temples, faintly cynical and ironic lips and small but + obstinate chin, was almost sinister in its complete immobility. + </p> + <p> + “He’s certainly a corrupt beast,” Dion said to himself. “But as certainly + he’s an interesting, clever, knowledgeable beast.” + </p> + <p> + Dumeny’s very thick, glossy, and slightly undulating dark hair, growing + closely round his low forehead, helped to make him almost romantically + handsome, although his features were rather irregular. His white ears were + abnormally small, Dion noticed. + </p> + <p> + The Judge went with cold minuteness into every detail of Dumeny’s intimacy + with Mrs. Clarke that had been revealed in the trial, and dwelt on the + link of music which, it was said, had held them together. + </p> + <p> + “Music stimulates the passions, and may, in highly sensitive persons, + generate impulses not easy to control, provided that the situation in + which such persons find themselves, when roused and stirred, is + propitious. It has been given in evidence that Monsieur Dumeny frequently + played and sang to the respondent till late in the night in the pavilion + which has been described to you. You have seen Monsieur Dumeny in the box, + and can judge for yourselves whether he was a man likely to avail himself + of any advantage his undoubted talents may have given him with a highly + artistic and musical woman.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing striking in the words, but to Dion the Judge’s voice + seemed slightly changed as it uttered the last sentence. Surely a frigid + severity had crept into it, surely it was colored with a faint, but + definite, contempt. Several of the jury started narrowly at Aristide + Dumeny, and the foreman, with a care and precision almost ostentatious, + took a note. + </p> + <p> + The Judge continued his analysis of Mrs. Clarke’s intimacy with Dumeny. He + was scrupulously fair; he gave full weight to the mutual attraction which + may be born out of common intellectual tastes—an attraction possibly + quite innocent, quite free from desire of anything but food for the brain, + the subtler emotions, and the soul “if you like to call it so, gentlemen.” + But, somehow, he left upon the mind of Dion, and probably upon the minds + of many others, an impression that he, the Judge, was doubtful as to the + sheer intellectuality of Monsieur Dumeny, was not convinced that he had + reached that condition of moral serenity and purification in which a rare + woman can be happily regarded as a sort of disembodied spirit. + </p> + <p> + When the Judge at length finished with Dumeny and Dumeny’s relations with + Mrs. Clarke, Dion felt very anxious about the verdict. The Judge had not + succeeded in making him believe that Mrs. Clarke was a guilty woman, but + he feared that the jury had been made doubtful. It was evident to him that + the Judge had a bad opinion of Dumeny, and had conveyed his opinion to the + jury. Was the unwisdom of Mrs. Clarke to prove her undoing? Esme + Darlington was pulling his ducal beard almost nervously. A faint hum went + through the densely packed court. Mrs. Chetwinde moved and used her fan + for a moment. Dion did not dare to look at Guy Daventry. He was realizing, + with a sort of painful sharpness, how great a change a verdict against + Mrs. Clarke must make in her life. + </p> + <p> + Her boy, perhaps, probably indeed, would be taken from her. She had only + spoken to him casually about her boy, but he had felt that the casual + reference did not mean that she had a careless heart. The woman whose hand + had held his for a moment would be tenacious in love. He felt sure of + that, and sure that she loved her naughty boy with a strong vitality. + </p> + <p> + When the Judge had finished his task and the jury retired to consider + their verdict, it was past four o’clock. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” Dion said in a low voice to Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “About the summing-up?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “It has left things very much as I expected. Any danger there is lies in + Monsieur Dumeny.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. I stayed with Cynthia once in Constantinople. He took us about.” + </p> + <p> + She made no further comment on Monsieur Dumeny. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether the jury will be away long?” Dion said, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Probably. I shan’t be at all surprised if they can’t agree. Then there + will be another trial.” + </p> + <p> + “How appalling!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it wouldn’t be very nice for Cynthia.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help wishing——” + </p> + <p> + He paused, hesitating. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Mrs. Chetwinde, looking about the court. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help wishing Mrs. Clarke hadn’t been unconventional in quite such + a public way.” + </p> + <p> + A faint smile dawned and faded on Mrs. Chetwinde’s lips and in her pale + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “The public method’s often the safest in the end,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + Then she nodded to Esme Darlington, who presently got up and managed to + make his way to them. He, too, thought the jury would probably disagree, + and considered the summing-up rather unfavorable to Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “People who live in the diplomatic world live in a whispering gallery,” he + said, bending down, speaking in an under-voice and lifting and lowering + his eyebrows. “I told Cynthia so when she married. I ventured to give her + the benefit of my—if I may say so—long and intimate knowledge + of diplomatic life and diplomatists. I said to her, ‘Remember you can <i>always</i> + be under observation.’ Ah, well—one can only hope the jury will take + the right view. But how can we expect British shopkeepers, fruit brokers, + cigar merchants, and so forth to understand a—really, one can only + say—a wild nature like Cynthia’s? It’s a wild mind—I’d say + this before her!—in an innocent body, just that.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled almost distractedly at his beard with bony fingers, and repeated + plaintively: + </p> + <p> + “A wild mind in an innocent body—h’m, ha!” + </p> + <p> + “If only Mr. Grundy can be brought to comprehension of such a phenomenon!” + murmured Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + It was obvious to Dion that his two friends feared for the result. + </p> + <p> + The Judge had left the bench. An hour passed by, and the chime of a clock + striking five dropped down coolly, almost frostily, to the hot and curious + crowd. Mrs. Clarke sat very still. Esme Darlington had returned to his + place beside her, and she spoke to him now and then. Hadi Bey wiped his + handsome rounded brown forehead with a colored silk handkerchief; and + Aristide Dumeny, with half-closed eyes, ironically examined the crowd, + whispered to a member of his Embassy who had accompanied him into court, + folded his arms and sat looking down. Beadon Clarke’s face was rigid, and + a fierce red, like the red of a blush of shame, was fixed on his cheeks. + His mother had pulled a thick black veil with a pattern down over her + face, and was fidgeting perpetually with a chain of small moonstones set + in gold which hung from her throat to her waist. Daventry, blinking and + twitching, examined documents, used his handkerchief, glanced at his + watch, hitched his gown up on his shoulders, looked at Mrs. Clarke and + looked away. + </p> + <p> + Uneasiness, like a monster, seemed crouching in the court as in a lair. + </p> + <p> + At a quarter-past five, the Judge returned to the bench. He had received a + communication from the jury, who filed in, to say, through their foreman, + that they could not agree upon a verdict. A parley took place between the + foreman and the Judge, who made inquiry about their difficulties, answered + two questions, and finally dismissed them to further deliberations, urging + them strongly to try to arrive at an unanimous conclusion. + </p> + <p> + “I am willing to stay here till nightfall,” he said, in a loud and almost + menacing voice, “if there is any chance of a verdict.” + </p> + <p> + The jury, looking weary, harassed and very hot, once more disappeared, the + Judge left the bench, and the murmuring crowd settled down to another + period of waiting. + </p> + <p> + To Dion it seemed that a great tragedy was impending. Already Mrs. Clarke + had received a blow. The fact that the jury had publicly announced their + disagreement would be given out to all the world by the newspapers, and + must surely go against Mrs. Clarke even if she got a verdict ultimately. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think there is any chance still?” he said to Mrs. Chetwinde. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, yes. As I told you, Cynthia always manages to get what she wants.” + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t think she can ever have wanted anything so much as she wants + the right verdict to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know that,” Mrs. Chetwinde replied, with a rather disconcerting + dryness. + </p> + <p> + She was using her fan slowly and monotonously, as if, perhaps, she were + trying to make her mind calm by the repetition of a physical act. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry the foreman said they couldn’t agree,” Dion said, almost in a + whisper. “Even if the verdict is for Mrs. Clarke, I’m afraid that will go + against her.” + </p> + <p> + “If she wins she wins, and it’s all right. Cynthia’s not the sort of woman + who cares much what the world thinks. The only thing that really matters + is what the world does; and if she gets the verdict the world won’t do + anything—except laugh at Beadon Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + A loud buzz of conversation rose from the court. Presently the light began + to fade, and the buzz faded with it; then some lights were turned on, and + there was a crescendo of voices. It was possible to see more clearly the + multitude of faces, all of them hot, nearly all of them excited and + expressive. A great many people were standing, packed closely together and + looking obstinate in their determined curiosity. Most of them were either + staring at, or were trying to stare at Mrs. Clarke, who was now talking to + her solicitor. Esme Darlington was eating a meat lozenge and frowning, + evidently discomposed by the jury’s dilemma. Lady Ermyntrude Clarke had + lifted her veil and was whispering eagerly to her son, bending her head, + and emphasizing her remarks with excited gestures which seemed to suggest + the energy of one already uplifted by triumph. Beadon Clarke listened with + the passivity of a man encompassed by melancholy, and sunk deep in the + abyss of shame. Aristide Dumeny was reading a letter which he held with + long-fingered, waxen-white hands very near to his narrow dark eyes. His + close-growing thick hair looked more glossy now that there was artificial + light in the court; from the distance its undulations were invisible, and + it resembled a cap of some heavy and handsome material drawn carefully + down over his head. Hadi Bey retained his vivid, alert and martial + demeanor. He was twisting his mustaches with a muscular brown hand, not + nervously, but with a careless and almost a lively air. Many women gazed + at him as if hypnotized; they found the fez very alluring. It carried + their thoughts to the East; it made them feel that the romance of the East + was not very far from them. Some of them wished it very near, and thought + of husbands in silk hats, bowlers, and flat caps of Harris tweed with the + dawning of a dull distaste. The woman just behind Dion was talking busily + to her neighbor. Dion heard her say: + </p> + <p> + “Some women always manage to have a good time. I wish I was one of them. + Dick is a dear, but still——” She whispered for a minute or + two; then out came her voice with, “There must be great chances for a + woman in the diplomatic world. I knew a girl who married an <i>attache</i> + and went to Bucharest. You can have no idea what the Roumanians——” + whisper, whisper, whisper. + </p> + <p> + That woman was envying Mrs. Clarke, it seemed, but surely not envying her + innocence. Dion began to be conscious of faint breaths from the furnace of + desire, and suddenly he saw the gaunt and sickly-smiling head of + hypocrisy, like the flat and tremulously moving head of a serpent, lifted + up above the court. Only a little way off Robin, now better, but still + “not quite the thing,” was lying in his cozy cot in the nursery of No. 5 + Little Market Street, with Rosamund sitting beside him. The window to-day, + for once, would probably be shut as a concession to Robin’s indisposition. + A lamp would be burning perhaps. In fancy, Dion saw Rosamund’s head lit up + by a gentle glow, her hair giving out little gleams of gold, as if fire + were caught in its meshes. How was it that her head always suggested to + him purity; and not only her purity but the purity of all sweet, sane and + gloriously vigorous women—those women who tread firmly, nobly, in + the great central paths of life? He did not know, but he was certain that + the head of no impure, of no lascivious woman could ever look like his + Rosamund’s. That nursery, holding little Robin and his mother in the + lamplight, was near to this crowded court, but it was very far away too, + as far as heaven is from hell. It would be good, presently, to go back to + it. + </p> + <p> + Chime after chime dropped down frostily into the almost rancid heat of the + court. Time was sending its warning that night was coming to London. + </p> + <p> + An epidemic of fidgeting and of coughing seized the crowd, which was + evidently beginning to feel the stinging whip of an intense irritation. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth,” said the voice of a man, expressing the thought which + bound all these brains together, “what on earth can the jury be up to?” + </p> + <p> + Surely by now everything for and against Mrs. Clarke must have been + discussed <i>ad nauseam</i>. Only the vainest of repetitions could be + occupying the time of the jury. People began positively to hate those + twelve uninteresting men, torn from their dull occupations to decide a + woman’s fate. Even Mrs. Chetwinde showed vexation. + </p> + <p> + “This is really becoming ridiculous,” she murmured. “Even twelve fools + should know when to give their folly a rest.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose there must be one or two holding out against all argument and + persuasion. Don’t you think so?” said Dion, almost morosely. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say. I know a great deal about individual fools, but very little + about them in dozens. The heat is becoming unbearable.” + </p> + <p> + She sighed deeply and moved in her seat, opening and shutting her fan. + </p> + <p> + “She must be enduring torment,” muttered Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; even Cynthia can hardly be proof against this intolerable delay.” + </p> + <p> + Another dropping down of chimes: eight o’clock! A long murmur went through + the crowd. Some one said: “They’re coming at last.” + </p> + <p> + Every one moved. Instinctively Dion leant forward to look at Mrs. Clarke. + He felt very much excited and nervous, almost as if his own fate were + about to be decided. As he looked he saw Mrs. Clarke draw herself up till + she seemed taller than usual. She had a pair of gloves in her lap, and she + now began to pull one of these gloves on, slowly and carefully, as if she + were thinking about what she was doing. The jury filed in looking + feverish, irritable and battered. Three or four of them showed piteous and + injured expressions. Two others had the peculiar look of obstinate men who + have been giving free rein to their vice, indulging in an orgy of what + they call willpower. Their faces were, at the same time, implacable and + ridiculous, but they walked impressively. The Judge was sent for. Two or + three minutes elapsed before he came in. During those minutes there was no + coughing and scarcely any moving. The silence in the court was vital. + During it, Dion stared hard at the jury and strove to read the verdict in + their faces. Naturally he failed. No message came from them to him. + </p> + <p> + The Judge came back to the bench, looking weary and harsh. + </p> + <p> + “Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not guilty of + misconduct with the co-respondent, Hadi Bey?” said the clerk of the court. + </p> + <p> + “We find that the respondent has not been guilty of misconduct with Hadi + Bey.” + </p> + <p> + After a slight pause, speaking in a louder voice than before, the clerk of + the court said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you find that the respondent has been guilty or not guilty of + misconduct with the co-respondent, Aristide Dumeny?” + </p> + <p> + “We find that the respondent has not been guilty of misconduct with + Aristide Dumeny.” + </p> + <p> + Dion saw the Judge frown. + </p> + <p> + Slight applause broke out in the court, but it was fitful and uncertain + and almost immediately died away. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde said in a low voice, almost as if to herself: + </p> + <p> + “Cynthia has got what she wants—again.” + </p> + <p> + Then, after the formalities, the crowd was in movement; the weary and + excited people, their curiosity satisfied at last, began to melt away; the + young barristers hurried out, eagerly discussing the rights and wrongs of + the case; and Mrs. Clarke’s adherents made their way to her to offer her + their congratulations. + </p> + <p> + Daventry was triumphant. He shook his client’s hand, held it, shook it + again, and could scarcely find words to express his excitement and + delight. Even Esme Darlington’s usual careful serenity was for the moment + obscured by an emotion eminently human, as he spoke into Mrs. Clarke’s ear + the following words of a ripe wisdom: + </p> + <p> + “Cynthia, my dear, after this do take my advice and live as others live. + In a conventional world conventionality is the line of least resistance. + Don’t turn to the East unless the whole congregation does it.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never forget your self-sacrifice in facing the crowd with me + to-day, dear Esme,” was her answer. “I know how much it cost you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as to that, for an old friend—h’m, ha!” + </p> + <p> + His voice failed in his beard. He drew forth a beautiful Indian + handkerchief—a gift from his devoted friend the Viceroy of India—and + passed it over a face which looked unusually old. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde said: + </p> + <p> + “I expected you to win, Cynthia. It was stupid of the jury to be so slow + in arriving at the inevitable verdict. But stupid people are as lethargic + as silly ones are swift. How shall we get to the carriage? We can’t go out + by the public exit. I hear the crowd is quite enormous, and won’t move. We + must try a side door, if there is one.” + </p> + <p> + Then Dion held Mrs. Clarke’s hand, and looked down at her haggard but + still self-possessed face. It astonished him to find that she preserved + her earnestly observant expression. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad,” was all he found to say. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she replied, in a voice perhaps slightly more husky than + usual. “I mean to stay on in London for some time. I’ve got lots of things + to settle”—she paused—“before I go back to Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “But are you really going back?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course—eventually.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice, nearly drowned by the noise of people departing from the court, + sounded to him implacable. + </p> + <p> + “You heard the hope of the Court that my husband and I would come together + again? Of course we never shall. But I’m sure I shall get hold of Jimmy. I + know my husband won’t keep him from me.” She stared at his shoulders. “I + want you to help me with Jimmy’s physical education—I mean by + getting him to that instructor you spoke of.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure—Jenkins,” he said, marveling at her. + </p> + <p> + “Jenkins—exactly. And I hope it will be possible for your wife and + me to meet soon, now there’s nothing against it owing to the verdict.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do tell her, and see if we can arrange it.” + </p> + <p> + Dumeny at this moment passed close to them with his friend on his way out + of court. His eyes rested on Mrs. Clarke, and a faint smile went over his + face as he slightly raised his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by,” said Mrs. Clarke to Dion. + </p> + <p> + And she turned to Sir John Addington. + </p> + <p> + Dion made his way slowly out into the night, thinking of the unwise life + and of the smile on the lips of Dumeny. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + That summer saw, among other events of moment, the marriage of Beatrice + and Daventry, the definite establishment of Robin as a power in his world, + and the beginning of one of those noiseless contests which seem peculiar + to women, and which are seldom, if ever, fully comprehended in all their + bearings by men. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, as she wished it, had a very quiet, indeed quite a + hole-and-corner wedding in a Kensington church, of which nobody had ever + heard till she was married in it, to the great surprise of its vicar, its + verger, and the decent widow woman who swept its pews for a moderate wage. + For their honeymoon she and Daventry disappeared to the Garden of France + to make a leisurely tour through the Chateaux country. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Robin, according to his nurse, “was growing something wonderful, + and improving with his looks like nothing I ever see before, and me with + babies ever since I can remember anything as you may say, a dear!” His + immediate circle of wondering admirers was becoming almost extensive, + including, as it did, not only his mother and father, his nurse, and the + four servants at No. 5 Little Market Street, but also Mrs. Leith senior, + Bruce Evelin—now rather a lonely man—and Mr. Thrush of John’s + Court near the Edgware Road. + </p> + <p> + At this stage of his existence, Rosamund loved Robin reasonably but with a + sort of still and holy concentration, which gradually impinged upon Dion + like a quiet force which spreads subtly, affecting those in its + neighborhood. There was in it something mystical and, remembering her + revelation to him of the desire to enter the religious life which had + formerly threatened to dominate her, Dion now fully realized the truth of + a remark once made by Mrs. Chetwinde about his wife. She had called + Rosamund “a radiant mystic.” + </p> + <p> + Now changes were blossoming in Rosamund like new flowers coming up in a + garden, and one of these flowers was a beautiful selfishness. So Dion + called it to himself but never to others. It was a selfishness surely + deliberate and purposeful—an unselfish selfishness, if such a thing + can be. Can the ideal mother, Dion asked himself, be wholly without it? + All that she is, perhaps, reacts upon the child of her bosom, the child + who looks up to her as its Providence. And what she is must surely be at + least partly conditioned by what she does and by all her way of life. The + child is her great concern, and therefore she must guard sedulously all + the gates by which possible danger to the child might strive to enter in. + This was what Rosamund had evidently made up her mind to do, was beginning + to do. Dion compared her with many of the woman of London who have + children and who, nevertheless, continue to lead haphazard, frivolous, + utterly thoughtless lives, caring apparently little more for the moral + welfare of their children than for the moral welfare of their Pekinese. + Mrs. Clarke had a hatred of “things with wings growing out of their + shoulders.” Rosamund would probably never wish their son to have wings + growing out of his shoulders, but if he had little wings on his sandals, + like the Hermes, perhaps she would be very happy. With winged sandals he + might take an occasional flight to the gods. Hermes, of course, was really + a rascal, many-sided, and, like most many-sided people and gods, capable + of insincerity and even of cunning; but the Hermes of Olympia, their + Hermes, was the messenger purged, by Praxiteles of very bit of dross—noble, + manly, pure, serene. Little Robin bore at present no resemblance to the + Hermes, or indeed—despite the nurse’s statements—to any one + else except another baby; but already it was beginning mysteriously to be + possible to foresee the great advance—long clothes to short clothes, + short clothes to knickerbockers, knickerbockers to trousers. Robin would + be a boy, a youth, a man, and what Rosamund was might make all the + difference in that Trinity. The mystic who enters into religion dedicated + her life to God. Rosamund dedicated hers to her boy. It was the same thing + with a difference. And as the mystic is often a little selfish in shutting + out cries of the world—cries sometimes for human aid which can + scarcely be referred from the fellow-creature to God—so Rosamund was + a little selfish, guided by the unusual temperament which was housed + within her. She shut out some of the cries that she might hear Robin’s the + better. + </p> + <p> + Robin’s sudden attack of illness during Mrs. Clarke’s ordeal had been + overcome and now seemed almost forgotten. Rosamund had encountered the + small fierce shock of it with an apparent calmness and self-possession + which at the time had astonished Dion and roused his admiration. A baby + often comes hardly into the world and slips out of it with the terrible + ease of things fated to far-off destinies. During one night Robin had + certainly been in danger. Perhaps that danger had taught Rosamund exactly + how much her child meant to her. Dion did not know this; he suspected it + because, since Robin’s illness, he had become much more sharply aware of + the depth of mother-love in Rosamund, of the hovering wings that guarded + the nestling. That efficient guarding implies shutting out was presently + to be brought home to him with a definiteness leading to embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + The little interruptions a baby brings into the lives of a married couple + were setting in. Dion was sure that Rosamund never thought of them as + interruptions. When Robin grew much older, when he was in trousers, and + could play games, and appreciate his father’s prowess and God-given + capacities in the gymnasium, on the tennis lawn, over the plowland among + the partridges, Dion’s turn would come. Meanwhile, did he actually love + Robin? He thought he did. He was greatly interested in Robin, was + surprised by his abrupt manifestations and almost hypnotized by his + outbursts of wrath; when Robin assumed his individual look of mild + inquiry, Dion was touched, and had a very tender feeling at his heart. No + doubt all this meant love. But Dion fully realized that his feeling + towards Robin did not compare with Rosamund’s. It was less intense, less + profound, less of the very roots of being. His love for Robin was a shadow + compared with the substance of his love for Rosamund. How would Rosamund’s + two loves compare? He began to wonder, even sometimes put to himself the + questions, “Suppose Robin were to die, how would she take it? And how + would she take it if I were to die?” And then, of course, his mind + sometimes did foolish things, asked questions beginning with, “Would she + rather——?” He remembered his talks with Rosamund on the + Acropolis—talks never renewed—and compared the former life + without little Robin, with the present life pervaded gently, or + vivaciously, or almost furiously by little Robin. Among the mountains and + by the deep-hued seas of Greece he had foreseen and wondered about Robin. + Now Robin was here; the great change was accomplished. Probably Rosamund + and he, Dion, would never again be alone with their love. Other children, + perhaps, would come. Even if they did not, Robin would pervade their + lives, in long clothes, short skirts, knickerbockers, trousers. He might, + of course, some day choose a profession which would carry him to some + distant land: to an Indian jungle or a West African swamp. But by that + time his parents would be middle-aged people. And how would their love be + then? Dion knew that now, when Rosamund and he were still young, both less + than thirty, he would give a hundred Robins, even if they were all his own + Robins, to keep his one Rosamund. That was probably quite natural now, for + Robin was really rather inexpressive in the midst of his most unbridled + demonstrations. When he was calm and blew bubbles he had charm; when he + was red and furious he had a certain power; when he sneezed he had pathos; + when he slept the serenity of him might be felt; but he would mean very + much more presently. He would grow, and surely his father’s love for him + would grow. But could it ever grow to the height, the flowering height, of + the husband’s love for Rosamund? Dion already felt certain that it never + could, that it was his destiny to be husband rather than parent, the + eternal lover rather than the eternal father. Rosamund’s destiny was + perhaps to be the eternal mother. She had never been exactly a lover. + Perhaps her remarkable and beautiful purity of disposition had held her + back from being that. Force, energy, vitality, strong feelings, she had; + but the peculiar something in which body seems mingled with soul, in which + soul seems body and body soul, was apparently lacking in her. Dion had + perhaps never, with full consciousness, missed that element in her till + Robin made his appearance; but Robin, in his bubbling innocence, and + almost absurd consciousness of himself and of others, did many things that + were not unimportant. He even had the shocking impertinence to open his + father’s eyes, and to show him truths in a bright light—truths + which, till now, had remained half-hidden in shadow; babyhood enlightened + youth, the youth persisting hardily because it had never sown wild oats. + Robin did not know that; he knew, in fact scarcely anything except when he + wanted nourishment and when he desired repose. He also knew his mother, + knew her mystically and knew her greedily, with knowledge which seemed of + God, and with an awareness whose parent was perhaps a vital appetite. At + other people he gazed and bubbled but with a certain infantile detachment, + though his nurse, of course, declared that she had never known a baby to + take such intelligent notice of all created things in its neighborhood. + “He knows,” she asseverated, with the air of one versed in mysteries, “he + knows, does little master, who’s who as well as any one, and a deal better + than some that prides themselves on this and that, a little + upsy-daisy-dear!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Leith senior paid him occasional visits, which Dion found just the + least bit trying. Since Omar had been killed, Dion had felt more + solicitous about his mother, who had definitely refused ever to have + another dog. If he had been allowed to give her a dog he would have felt + more easy about her, despite Beatrice’s quiet statement of why Omar had + meant so much. As he might not do that, he begged his mother to come very + often to Little Market Street and to become intimate with Robin. But when + he saw her with Robin he was generally embarrassed, although she was + obviously enchanted with that gentleman, for whose benefit she was + amazingly prodigal of nods and becks and wreathed smiles. It was a pity, + he thought, that his mother was at moments so apparently elaborate. He + felt her elaboration the more when it was contrasted with the transparent + simplicity of Rosamund. Even Robin, he fancied, was at moments rather + astonished by it, and perhaps pushed on towards a criticism at present + beyond the range of his powers. But Mrs. Leith’s complete self-possession, + even when immersed in the intricacies of a baby-language totally + unintelligible to her son, made it impossible to give her a hint to be a + little less—well, like herself when at No. 5. So he resigned himself + to a faint discomfort which he felt sure was shared by Rosamund, although + neither of them ever spoke of it. But they never discussed his mother, and + always assumed that she was ideal both as mother-in-law and grandmother. + She was Robin’s godmother and had given him delightful presents. Bruce + Evelin and Daventry were his godfathers. + </p> + <p> + Bruce Evelin now lived alone in the large house in Great Cumberland Place. + He made no complaint of his solitude, which indeed he might be said to + have helped to bring about by his effective, though speechless, advocacy + of Daventry’s desire. But it was obvious to affectionate eyes that he + sometimes felt rather homeless, and that he was happy to be in the little + Westminster home where such a tranquil domesticity reigned. Dion sometimes + felt as if Bruce Evelin were watching over that home in a wise old man’s + way, rather as Rosamund watched over Robin, with a deep and still + concentration. Bruce Evelin had, he confessed, “a great feeling” for + Robin, whom he treated with quiet common sense as a responsible entity, + bearing, with a matchless wisdom, that entity’s occasional lapses from + decorum. Once, for instance, Robin chose Bruce Evelin’s arms unexpectedly + as a suitable place to be sick in, without drawing down upon himself any + greater condemnation than a quiet, “How lucky he selected a godfather as + his receptacle!” + </p> + <p> + And Mr. Thrush of John’s Court? One evening, when he returned home, Dion + found that old phenomenon in the house paying his respects to Robin. He + was quite neatly dressed, and wore beneath a comparatively clean collar a + wisp of black tie that was highly respectable, though his top hat, + deposited in the hall, was still as the terror that walketh in darkness. + His poor old gray eyes were pathetic, and his long, battered old face was + gently benign; but his nose, fiery and tremendous as ever, still made + proclamation of his “failing.” Dion knew that Mr. Thrush had already been + two or three times to see Robin, and had wondered about it with some + amusement. “Where will your cult for Mr. Thrush lead you?” he had + laughingly said to Rosamund. And then he had forgotten “the phenomenon,” + as he sometimes called Mr. Thrush. But now, when he actually beheld Mr. + Thrush in his house, seated on a chair in the nursery, with purple hands + folded over a seedy, but carefully brushed, black coat, he genuinely + marveled. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Thrush rose up at his entrance, quite unself-conscious and + self-possessed, and as Dion, concealing his surprise, greeted the visitor, + Rosamund, who was showing Robin, remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thrush has great ideas on hygiene, Dion. He quite agrees with us + about not wrapping children in cotton-wool.” + </p> + <p> + “Your conceptions are Doric, too, in fact?” said Dion to Thrush, in the + slightly rough or bluff manner which he now sometimes assumed. + </p> + <p> + “I wouldn’t go so far as to say exactly that, sir,” said Mr. Thrush, + speaking with a sort of gentleness which was almost refined. “But having + been a chemist in a very good way of business—just off Hanover + Square—during the best years of my life, I have my views, foolish or + perhaps the reverse, on the question of infants. My motto, so far as I + have one, is, <i>Never cosset</i>.” + </p> + <p> + He turned towards Robin, who, from his mother’s arms, sent him a look of + mild inquiry, and reiterated, with plaintive emphasis, “<i>Never cosset!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “There, Dion!” said Rosamund, with a delicious air of genial appreciation + which made Mr. Thrush gently glow. + </p> + <p> + “And I’ll go further,” pursued that authority, lifting a purple hand and + moving his old head to give emphasis to his deliverance, “I’ll go further + even than that. Having retired from the pharmaceutical brotherhood I’ll + say this: If you can do it, avoid drugs. Chemists”—he leaned forward + and emphatically lowered his voice almost to a whisper—“Chemists + alone know what harm they do.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, though, and do they?” said Dion heartily. + </p> + <p> + “Terrible, sir, terrible! Some people’s insides that I know of—used + to know of, perhaps I should say—must be made of iron to deal with + all the medicines they put into ‘em. Oh, keep your baby’s inside free from + all such abominations!” (He loomed gently over Robin, who continued to + stare at him with an expression of placid interrogation.) “Keep it away + from such things as the Sampson Syrup, Mother Maybrick’s infant tablets, + Price’s purge for the nursery, Tinkler’s tone-up for tiny tots, Ada Lane’s + pills for the poppets, and above and before all, from Professor Jeremiah + T. Iplock’s ‘What baby wants’ at two-and-sixpence the bottle, or in + tabloid form for the growing child, two-and-eight the box. Keep his inside + clear of all such, and you’ll be thankful, and he’ll bless you both on his + bended knees when he comes to know his preservation.” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll never have them, Mr. Thrush,” said Rosamund, with a sober voice and + twinkling eyes. “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless you, ma’am, for those beautiful words. And now really I must be + going.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find tea in the housekeeper’s room, Mr. Thrush, as usual,” said + Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “And very kind of you to have it there, I’m sure, ma’am!” the old + gentleman gallantly replied as he made his wavering adieux. + </p> + <p> + At the door he turned round to face the nursery once more, lifted one hand + in a manner almost apostolic, and uttered the final warning “<i>Never + cosset!</i>” Then he evaporated, not without a sort of mossy dignity, and + might be heard tremblingly descending to the lower regions. + </p> + <p> + “Rose, since when do we have a housekeeper’s room?” asked Dion, touching + Robin’s puckers with a gentle fore-finger. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t call it the servants’ hall to him, poor old man. And I like to + give him tea. It may wean him from——” An expressive look + closed the sentence. + </p> + <p> + That night, at last, Dion drew from her an explanation of her Thrush cult. + On the evening when Mr. Thrush had rescued her in the fog, as they walked + slowly to Great Cumberland Place, he had told her something of his + history. Rosamund had a great art in drawing from people the story of + their troubles when she cared to do so. Her genial and warm-hearted + sympathy was an almost irresistible lure. Mr. Thrush’s present fate had + been brought about by a tragic circumstance, the death of his only child, + a girl of twelve, who had been run over by an omnibus in Oxford Circus and + killed on the spot. Left alone with a peevish, nagging wife who had never + suited him, or, as he expressed it, “studied” him in any way, he had gone + down the hill till he had landed near the bottom. All his love had been + fastened on his child, and sorrow had not strengthened but had embittered + him. + </p> + <p> + “But to me he seems a gentle old thing,” Dion said, when Rosamund told him + this. + </p> + <p> + “He’s very bitter inside, poor old chap, but he looks upon us as friends. + He’s taken sorrow the wrong way. That’s how it is. I’m trying to get him + to look at things differently, and Robin’s helping me.” + </p> + <p> + “Already!” said Dion, smiling, yet touched by her serious face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s an unconscious agent. Poor old Mr. Thrush has never learnt the + lesson of our dear Greek tombs: farewell! He hasn’t been able to say that + simply and beautifully, leaving all in other hands. And so he’s the poor + old wreck we know. I want to get him out of it if I can. He came into my + life on a night of destiny too.” + </p> + <p> + But she explained nothing more. And she left Dion wondering just how she + would receive a sorrow such as had overtaken Mr. Thrush. Would she be able + to submit as those calm and simple figures on the tombs which she loved + appeared to be submitting? Would she let what she loved pass away into the + shades with a brave and noble, “Farewell”? Would she take the hand of + Sorrow, that hand of steel and ice, as one takes the hand of a friend—stern, + terrible, unfathomed, never to be fathomed in this world, but a friend? He + wondered, but, loving her with that love which never ceased to grow within + him, he prayed that he might never know. She seemed born to shed happiness + and to be happy, and indeed he could scarcely imagine her wretched. + </p> + <p> + It was after the explanation of Mr. Thrush’s exact relation to Rosamund + that the silent contest began in the waning summer when London was rather + arid, and even the Thames looked hot between its sluggish banks of mud. + </p> + <p> + After the trial of her divorce case was over, Mrs. Clarke had left London + and gone into the country for a little while, to rest in a small house + possessed by Esme Darlington at Hook Green, a fashionable part of Surrey. + At, and round about, Hook Green various well-known persons played + occasionally at being rural; it suited Mrs. Clarke very well to stay for a + time among them under Mr. Darlington’s ample and eminently respectable + wing. She hated being careful, but even she, admonished by Mr. Darlington, + realized that immediately after emerging from the shadow of a great + scandal she had better play propriety for a time. It really must be + “playing,” for, as had been proved at the trial, she was a thoroughly + proper person who hadn’t troubled to play hitherto. So she rested at Hook + Green, till the season was over, with Miss Bainbridge, an old cousin of + Esme’s; and Esme “ran down” for Saturdays and Sundays, and “ran up” from + Mondays to Saturdays, thus seeing something of the season and also doing + his chivalrous devoir by “poor dear Cynthia who had had such a cruel time + of it.” + </p> + <p> + The season died, and Mr. Darlington then settled down for a while at + Pinkney’s Place, as his house was called, and persuaded Mrs. Clarke to + lengthen her stay there till the end of August. He would invite a few of + the people likely to “be of use” to her under the present circumstances, + and by September things would be “dying down a little,” with all the + shooting parties of the autumn beginning, and memories of the past season + growing a bit gray and moldy. Then Mrs. Clarke could do what she liked + “within reason, of course, and provided she gave Constantinople a wide + berth.” This she had not promised to do, but she seldom made promises. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had expressed to Daventry her pleasure in the result of the + trial, but in the rather definitely detached manner which had always + marked her personal aloofness from the whole business of the deciding of + Mrs. Clarke’s innocence or guilt. She had only spoken once again of the + case to Dion, when he had come to tell her the verdict. Then she had said + how glad she was, and what a relief it must be to Mrs. Clarke, especially + after the hesitation of the jury. Dion had touched on Mrs. Clarke’s great + self-possession, and—Rosamund had begun to tell him how much better + little Robin was. He had not repeated to Rosamund Mrs. Clarke’s final + words to him. There was no necessity to do that just then. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke stayed at Hook Green till the end of August without making any + attempt to know Rosamund. By that time Dion had come to the conclusion + that she had forgotten about the matter. Perhaps she had merely had a + passing whim which had died. He was not sorry, indeed, he was almost + actively glad, for he was quite sure Rosamund had no wish to make Mrs. + Clarke’s acquaintance. At the beginning of September, however, when he had + just come back to work after a month in camp which had hardened him and + made him as brown as a berry, he received the following note: + </p> + <p> + “CLARIDGE’S HOTEL, 2 September, 1897 + </p> + <p> + “DEAR Mr. LEITH,—What of that charming project of bringing about a + meeting between your wife and me? Esme Darlington is always talking of her + beauty and talent, and you know my love of the one and the other. Beauty + is the consolation of the world; talent the incentive to action stirring + our latent vitality. In your marriage you are fortunate; in mine I have + been unfortunate. You were very kind to me when things were tiresome. I + feel a desire to see your happiness. I’m here arranging matters with my + solicitor, and expect to be here off and on for several months. Perhaps + October will see you back in town, but if you happen to be in this dusty + nothingness now, you might come and see me one day.—Yours with + goodwill, + </p> + <p> + “CYNTHIA CLARKE + </p> + <p> + “P. S.—My husband and I are separated, of course, but I have my boy + a good deal with me. He will be up with me to-morrow. I very much want to + take him to that physical instructor you spoke of to me. I forget the + name. Is it Hopkins?” + </p> + <p> + As Dion read this note in the little house he felt the soft warm grip of + Stamboul. Rosamund and Robin were staying at Westgate till the end of + September; he would go down there every week from Saturday till Monday. It + was now a Monday evening. Four London days lay before him. He put away the + letter and resolved to answer it on the morrow. This he did, explaining + that his wife was by the sea and would not be back till the autumn. He + added that the instructor’s name was not Hopkins but Jenkins, and gave + Mrs. Clarke the address of the gymnasium. At the end of his short note he + expressed his intention of calling at Claridge’s, but did not say when he + would come. He thought he would not fix the day and the hour until he had + been to Westgate. On a postcard Mrs. Clarke thanked him for Jenkins’s + address, and concluded with “Suggest your own day, or come and dine if you + like. Perhaps, as you’re alone, you’ll prefer that.—C. C.” + </p> + <p> + At Westgate Dion showed Rosamund Mrs. Clarke’s letter. As she read it he + watched her, but could gather nothing from her face. She was looking + splendidly well and, he thought, peculiarly radiant. A surely perfect + happiness gazed bravely out from her mother’s eyes, changed in some + mysterious way since the coming of Robin. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said, as she gave him back the letter. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very kind of her. Esme Darlington turns us all into swans, doesn’t + he? He’s a good-natured enchanter. How thankful she must be that it’s all + right about her boy. Oh, here’s Robin! Robino, salute your father! He’s a + hard-bitten military man, and some day—who knows?—he’ll have + to fight for his country. Dion, look at him! Now isn’t he trying to + salute?” + </p> + <p> + “And that he is, ma’am!” cried the ecstatic nurse. “He knows, a boy! It’s + trumpets, sir, and drums he’s after already. He’ll fight some day with the + best of them. Won’t he then, a marchy-warchy-umtums?” + </p> + <p> + And Robin made reply with active fists and feet and martial noises, + assuming alternate expressions of severe decision almost worthy of a + Field-Marshal, and helpless bewilderment that suggested a startled puppy. + He was certainly growing in vigor and beginning to mean a good deal more + than he had meant at first. Dion was more deeply interested in him now, + and sometimes felt as if Robin returned the interest, was beginning to be + able to assemble and concentrate his faculties at certain moments. + Certainly Robin already played an active part in the lives of his parents. + Dion realized that when, on the following Monday, he returned to town + without having settled anything with regard to Mrs. Clarke. Somehow Robin + had always intervened when Dion had drawn near to the subject of the + projected acquaintance between the woman who kept the door of her life and + the woman who, innocently, followed the flitting light of desire. There + were the evenings, of course, but somehow they were not propitious for a + discussion of social values. Although Robin retired early, he was apt to + pervade the conversation. And then Rosamund went away at intervals to have + a look at him, and Dion filled up the time by smoking a cigar on the cliff + edge. The clock struck ten-thirty—bedtime at Westgate—before + one had at all realized how late it was getting; and it was out of the + question to bother about things on the edge of sleep. That would have made + for insomnia. The question of Mrs. Clarke could easily wait till the + autumn, when Rosamund would be back in town. It was impossible for the two + women to know each other when the one was at Claridge’s and the other at + Westgate. Things would arrange themselves naturally in the autumn. Dion + never said to himself that Rosamund did not intend to know Mrs. Clarke, + but he did say to himself that Mrs. Clarke intended to know Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + He wondered a little about that. Why should Mrs. Clarke be so apparently + keen on making the acquaintance of Rosamund? Of course, Rosamund was + delightful, and was known to be delightful. But Mrs. Clarke must know + heaps of attractive people. It really was rather odd. He decidedly wished + that Mrs. Clarke hadn’t happened to get the idea into her head, for he + didn’t care to press Rosamund on the subject. The week passed, and another + visit to Westgate, and he had not been to Claridge’s. In the second week + another note came to him from Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “CLARIDGE’S, ETC. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR Mr. LEITH,—I’m enchanted with Jenkins. He’s a trouvaille. My + boy goes every day to the ‘gym,’ as he calls it, and is getting on + splendidly. We are both grateful to you, and hope to tell you so. Come + whenever you feel inclined, but only then. I love complete liberty too + well ever to wish to deprive another of it—even if I could. How wise + of your wife to stay by the sea. I hope it’s doing wonders for the baby + who (mercifully) isn’t wonderful.—Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “CYNTHIA CLARKE” + </p> + <p> + After receiving this communication Dion felt that he simply must go to see + Mrs. Clarke, and he called at the hotel and asked for her about + five-thirty on the following afternoon. She was out, and he left his card, + feeling rather relieved. Next morning he had a note regretting she had + missed him, and asking him, “when” he came again, to let her know + beforehand at what time he meant to arrive so that she might be in. He + thanked her, and promised to do this, but he did not repeat his visit. By + this time, quite unreasonably he supposed, he had begun to feel decidedly + uncomfortable about the whole affair. Yet, when he considered it fully and + fairly, he told himself that he was a fool to imagine that there could be + anything in it which was not quite usual and natural. He had been + sympathetic to Mrs. Clarke when she was passing through an unpleasant + experience; he was Daventry’s good friend; he was also a friend of Mrs. + Chetwinde and of Esme Darlington; naturally, therefore, Mrs. Clarke was + inclined to number him among those who had “stuck to her” when she was + being cruelly attacked. Where was the awkwardness in the situation? After + denying to himself that there was any awkwardness he quite suddenly and + quite clearly realized one evening that such denial was useless. There was + awkwardness, and it arose simply from Rosamund’s passive resistance to the + faint pressure—he thought it amounted to that—applied by Mrs. + Clarke. This it was which had given him, which gave him still, a sensation + obscure, but definite, of contest. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke meant to know Rosamund, and Rosamund didn’t mean to know Mrs. + Clarke. Well, then, the obvious thing for him to do was to keep out of + Mrs. Clarke’s way. In such a matter Rosamund must do as she liked. He had + no intention of attempting to force upon her any one, however suitable as + an acquaintance or even as a friend, whom she didn’t want to know. He + loved her far too well to do that. He decided not to mention Mrs. Clarke + again to Rosamund when he went down to Westgate; but somehow or other her + name came up, and her boy was mentioned, too. + </p> + <p> + “Is he still with his mother?” Rosamund asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He’s nearly eleven, I believe. She takes him to Jenkins for + exercise. She’s very fond of him, I think.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of silence Rosamund simply said, “Poor child!” and then + spoke of something else, but in those two words, said as she had said + them, Dion thought he heard a definite condemnation of Mrs. Clarke. He + began to wonder whether Rosamund, although she had not read a full, or, so + far as he knew, any account of the case in the papers, had somehow come to + know a good deal about the unwise life of Constantinople. Friends came to + see her in London; she knew several people at Westgate; report of a <i>cause + celebre</i> floats in the air; he began to believe she knew. + </p> + <p> + At the end of September, just before Rosamund was to return to London for + the autumn and winter, Mrs. Clarke wrote to Dion again. + </p> + <p> + “CLARIDGE’S, 28 September, 1897 + </p> + <p> + “DEAR Mr. LEITH,—I’m so sorry to bother you, but I wonder whether + you can spare me a moment. It’s about my boy. He seems to me to have + strained himself with his exercises. Jenkins, as you probably know, has + gone away for a fortnight’s holiday, so I can’t consult him. I feel a + little anxious. You’re an athlete, I know, and could set me right in a + moment if I’m making a fuss about nothing. The strain seems to be in the + right hip. Is that possible?—Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “CYNTHIA CLARKE” + </p> + <p> + Dion didn’t know how to refuse this appeal, so he fixed an hour, went to + Claridge’s, and had an interview with Mrs. Clarke and her son, Jimmy + Clarke. When he went up to her sitting-room he felt rather uncomfortable. + He was thinking of her invitation to dinner, and to call again, of his + lack of response. She must certainly be thinking of them, too. But when he + was with her his discomfort died away before her completely natural and + oddly impersonal manner. Dinners, visits, seemed far away from her + thoughts. She was apparently concentrated on her boy, and seemed to be + thinking of him, not at all of Dion. Had Dion been a vain man he might + have been vexed by her indifference; as he was not vain, he felt relieved, + and so almost grateful to her. Jimmy, too, helped to make things go + easily. The young rascal, a sturdy, good-looking boy, with dark eyes + brimming over with mischief, took tremendously to Dion at first sight. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” he remarked, “you must be jolly strong! May I?” + </p> + <p> + He felt Dion’s biceps, and added, with a sudden profound gravity: + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m blowed! Mater, he’s almost as hard as Jenkins.” + </p> + <p> + His mother gave Dion a swift considering look, and then at once began to + consult him about Jimmy’s hip. The visit ended with an application by Dion + of Elliman’s embrocation, for which one of the hotel page-boys was sent to + the nearest chemist. + </p> + <p> + “I say, mind you come again, Mr. Leith!” vociferated Jimmy, when Dion was + going. “You’re better than doctors, you know.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke did not back up her son’s frank invitation. She only thanked + Dion quietly in her husky voice, and bade him good-by with an “I know how + busy you must be, and how difficult you must find it ever to pay a call. + You’ve been very good to us.” At the door she added, “I’ve never seen + Jimmy take so much to anyone as to you.” As Dion went down the stairs + something in him was gently glowing. He was glad that young rascal had + taken to him at sight. The fact gave him confidence when he thought of + Robin and the future. + </p> + <p> + It occurred to him, as he turned into the Greville Club, that Mrs. Clarke + had not once mentioned Rosamund during his visit. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + When Rosamund, Robin and the nurse came back to London on the last day of + September, Beatrice and Daventry were settled in their home. They had + taken a flat in De Lorne Gardens, Kensington, high up on the seventh floor + of a big building, which overlooked from a distance the trees of + Kensington Gardens. Their friends soon began to call on them, and one of + the first to mount up in the lift to their “hill-top,” as Daventry called + their seventh floor, was Mrs. Clarke. A few nights after her call the + Daventrys dined in Little Market Street, and Daventry, whose happiness had + raised him not only to the seventh-floor flat, but also to the seventh + heaven, mentioned that she had been, and that they were going to dine with + her at Claridge’s on the following night. He enlarged, almost with + exuberance, upon her <i>savoir-vivre</i>, her knowledge and taste, and + said Beattie was delighted with her. Beatrice did not deny it. She was + never exuberant, but she acknowledged that she had found Mrs. Clarke + attractive and interesting. + </p> + <p> + “A lot of the clever ones are going to-morrow,” said Daventry. He + mentioned several, both women and men, among them a lady who was famed for + her exclusiveness as well as for her brains. + </p> + <p> + Evidently Mrs. Chetwinde had been speaking by the book when she had said + at the trial, “If she wins, she wins, and it’s all right. If she gets the + verdict, the world won’t do anything, except laugh at Beadon Clarke.” No + serious impression had apparently been left upon society by the first + disagreement of the jury. The “wild mind in the innocent body” had been + accepted for what it was. And perhaps now, chastened by a sad experience, + the wild mind was on the way to becoming tame. Dion wondered if it were + so. After dinner he was undeceived by Daventry, who told him over their + cigars that Mrs. Clarke was positively going back to live in + Constantinople, and had already taken a flat there, “against every one’s + advice.” Beadon Clarke had got himself transferred, and was to be sent to + Madrid, so she wouldn’t run against him; but nevertheless she was making a + great mistake. + </p> + <p> + “However,” Daventry concluded, “there’s something fine about her + persistence; and of course a guilty woman would never dare to go back, + even after an acquittal.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Dion, thinking of the way his hand had been held in Mrs. + Chetwinde’s drawing-room. “I suppose not.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder when Rosamund will get to know her,” said Daventry, with perhaps + a slightly conscious carelessness. + </p> + <p> + “Never, perhaps,” said Dion, with equal carelessness. “Often one lives for + years in London without knowing, or even ever seeing, one’s next-door + neighbor.” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure!” said Daventry. “One of London’s many advantages, or + disadvantages, as the case may be.” + </p> + <p> + And he began to talk about Whistler’s Nocturnes. Dion had never happened + to tell Daventry about Jimmy Clarke’s strained hip and his own application + of Elliman’s embrocation. He had told Rosamund, of course, and she had + said that if Robin ever strained himself she should do exactly the same + thing. + </p> + <p> + That night, when the Daventrys had gone, Dion asked Rosamund whether she + thought Beattie was happy. She hesitated for a moment, then she said with + her usual directness: + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure that she is, Dion. Guy is a dear, kind, good husband to her, + but there’s something homeless about Beattie somehow. She’s living in that + pretty little flat in De Lorne Gardens, and yet she seems to me a + wanderer. But we must wait; she may find what she’s looking for. I pray to + God that she will.” + </p> + <p> + She did not explain; he guessed what she meant. Had she, too, been a + wanderer at first, and had she found what she had been looking for? While + Rosamund was speaking he had been pitying Guy. When she had finished he + wondered whether he had ever had cause to pity some one else—now and + then. Despite the peaceful happiness of his married life there was a very + faint coldness at, or near to, his heart. It came upon him like a breath + of frost stealing up out of the darkness to one who, standing in a room + lit and warmed by a glowing fire, opens a window and lets in for a moment + a winter night. But he shut his window quickly, and he turned to look at + the fire and to warm his hands at its glow. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke rapidly established a sort of intimacy with the Daventrys. As + Daventry had helped to fight for her, and genuinely delighted in her + faculties, this was very natural; for Beatrice, unlike Rosamund, was apt + to take her color gently from those with whom she lived, desiring to + please them, not because she was vain and wished to be thought charming, + but because she had an unusually sweet disposition and wished to be + charming. She was sincere, and if asked a direct question always returned + an answer that was true; but she sometimes fell in with an assumption from + a soft desire to be kind. Daventry quite innocently assumed that she found + Mrs. Clarke as delightful as he did. Perhaps she did; perhaps she did not. + However it was, she gently accepted Mrs. Clarke as a friend. + </p> + <p> + Dion, of course, knew of this friendship; and so did Rosamund. She never + made any comment upon it, and showed no interest in it. But her life that + autumn was a full one. She had Robin; she had the house to look after, “my + little house”; she had Dion in the evenings; she had quantities of friends + and acquaintances; and she had her singing. She had now definitely given + up singing professionally. Her very short career as an artist was closed. + But she had begun to practise diligently again, and showed by this + assiduity that she loved music not for what she could gain by it, but for + its own sake. Of her friends and acquaintances she saw much less than + formerly. Many of them complained that they never could get a glimpse of + her now, that she shut them out, that “not at home” had become a + parrot-cry on the lips of her well-trained parlor-maid, that she cared for + nobody now that she had a husband and a baby, that she was self-engrossed, + etc., etc. But they could not be angry with her; for if they did happen to + meet her, or if she did happen to be “at home” when they called, they + always found her the genial, radiant, kind and friendly Rosamund of old; + full, apparently, of all the former interest in them and their doings, + eager to welcome and make the most of their jokes and good stories, + sympathetic towards their troubles and sorrows. To Dion she once said in + explanation of her withdrawal from the rather bustling life which keeping + up with many friends and acquaintances implies: + </p> + <p> + “I think one sometimes has to make a choice between living deeply in the + essentials and just paddling up to one’s ankles in the non-essentials. I + want to live deeply if I can, and I am very happy in quiet. I can hear + only in peace the voices that mean most to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember what you said to me once in the Acropolis,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “What was that?” + </p> + <p> + “You said, ‘Oh, Dion, if you knew how something in me cares for freshness + and for peace.’” + </p> + <p> + “You remember my very words!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you understand?” + </p> + <p> + “And besides,” he said slowly, and as if with some hesitation, “you used + to long for a very quiet life, for the religious life; didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Once, but it seems such ages ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet Robin’s not a year old yet.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him with a sudden, and almost intense, inquiry; he was + smiling at her. + </p> + <p> + “Robino maestro di casa!” he added. + </p> + <p> + And they both laughed. + </p> + <p> + Towards the end of November one day Daventry said to Dion in the Greville + Club: + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice is going to give a dinner somewhere, probably at the Carlton. + She thought of the twenty-eighth. Are Rosamund and you engaged that night? + She wants you, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “No. We don’t go out much. Rose is an early rooster, as she calls it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the twenty-eighth would do capitally.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell Rose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do. Beattie will write too, or tell Rosamund when she sees her.” + </p> + <p> + “Whom are you going to have?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Chetwinde for one, and—we must see whom we can get. We’ll + try to make it cheery and not too imbecile.” + </p> + <p> + As Daventry was speaking, Dion felt certain that the dinner had an object, + and he thought he knew what that object was. But he only said: + </p> + <p> + “It’s certain to be jolly, and I always enjoy myself at the Carlton.” + </p> + <p> + “Even with bores?” said Daventry, unable to refrain from pricking a + bubble, although he guessed the reason why Dion had blown it. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, I’m sure you won’t invite bores,” said Dion, trying to preserve a + casual air, and wishing, for the moment, that he and his friend were + densely stupid instead of quite intelligent. + </p> + <p> + “Pray that Beattie and I may be guided in our choice,” returned Daventry, + going to pick up the “Saturday Review.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund said of course she would go on the twenty-eighth and help Beattie + with her dinner. She had accepted before she asked who were the invited + guests. Beattie, who was evidently quite guileless in the matter, told her + at once that Mrs. Clarke was among them. Rosamund said nothing, and + appeared to be looking forward to the twenty-eighth. She even got a new + gown for it, and Dion began to feel that he had made a mistake in + supposing that Rosamund had long ago decided not to know Mrs. Clarke. He + was very glad, for he had often felt uncomfortable about Mrs. Clarke, who, + he supposed, must have believed that his wife did not wish to meet her, as + her reiterated desire to make Rosamund’s acquaintance had met with no + response. She had, he thought, shown the tact of a lady and of a thorough + woman of the world in not pressing the point, and in never seeking to + continue her acquaintance, or dawning friendship, with him since his wife + had come back to town. He felt a strong desire now to be pleasant and + cordial to her, and to show her how charming and sympathetic his Rosamund + was. He looked forward to this dinner as he seldom looked forward to any + social festivity. + </p> + <p> + On the twenty-sixth of November Robin had a cold! On the twenty-seventh it + was worse, and he developed a little hard cough which was rather pathetic, + and which seemed to surprise and interest him a good deal. Rosamund was + full of solicitude. On the night of the twenty-seventh she said she would + sit up with Robin. The nurse protested, but Rosamund was smilingly firm. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to have a good night, Nurse,” she said. “You’re too devoted + and take too much out of yourself. And, besides, I shouldn’t sleep. I + should be straining my ears all the time to hear whether my boy was + coughing or not.” + </p> + <p> + Nurse had to give in, of course. But Dion was dismayed when he heard of + the project. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be worn out!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “No, I shan’t But even if I were it wouldn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “But I want you to look your radiant self for Beattie’s dinner.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—the dinner!” + </p> + <p> + It seemed she had forgotten it. + </p> + <p> + “Robin comes first,” she said firmly, after a moment of silence. + </p> + <p> + And she sat up that night in an arm-chair by the nursery fire, ministering + at intervals to the child, who seemed impressed and heartened in his + coughings by his mother’s presence. + </p> + <p> + On the following day she was rather tired, the cough was not abated, and + when Dion came back from business he learnt that she had telegraphed to + Beattie to give up the dinner. He was very much disappointed. But she did + really look tired; Robin’s cough was audible in the quiet house; the + telegram had gone, and of course there was nothing more to be done. Dion + did not even express his disappointment; but he begged Rosamund to go very + early to bed, and offered to sleep in a separate room if his return late + was likely to disturb her. She agreed that, perhaps, that would be best. + So, at about eleven-thirty that night, Dion made his way to their spare + room, walking tentatively lest a board should creak and awaken Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Everybody had missed her and had made inquiries about her, except Mrs. + Clarke and Daventry. The latter had not mentioned her in Dion’s hearing. + But he was very busy with his guests. Mrs. Clarke had apparently not known + that Rosamund had been expected at the dinner, for when Dion, who had sat + next her, had said something about the unfortunate reason for Rosamund’s + absence, Mrs. Clarke had seemed sincerely surprised. + </p> + <p> + “But I thought your wife had quite given up going out since her child was + born?” she had said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. She goes out sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “I had no idea she did. But now I shall begin to be disappointed and to + feel I’ve missed something. You shouldn’t have told me.” + </p> + <p> + It was quite gravely and naturally said. As he went into the spare room, + Dion remembered the exact tone of Mrs. Clarke’s husky voice in speaking + it, the exact expression in her eyes. They were strange eyes, he thought, + unlike any other eyes he had seen. In them there was often a look that + seemed both intent and remote. Their gaze was very direct but it was not + piercing. There was melancholy in the eyes but there was no demand for + sympathy. When Dion thought of the expression in Rosamund’s eyes he + realized how far from happiness, and even from serenity, Mrs. Clarke must + be, and he could not help pitying her. Yet she never posed as <i>une femme + incomprise</i>, or indeed as anything. She was absolutely simple and + natural. He had enjoyed talking to her. Despite her gravity she was, he + thought, excellent company, a really interesting woman and strongly + individual. She seemed totally devoid of the little tiresomenesses + belonging to many woman—tiresomenesses which spring out of vanity + and affectation, the desire of possession, the uneasy wish to “cut out” + publicly other women. Mrs. Clarke would surely never “manage” a man. If + she held a man it would be with the listless and yet imperative grip of + Stamboul. The man might go if he would, but—would he want to go? + </p> + <p> + In thinking of Mrs. Clarke, Dion of course always considered her with the + detached spectator’s mind. No woman on earth was of real importance to him + except Rosamund. His mother he did not consciously count among women. She + was to him just the exceptional being, the unique and homely manifestation + a devoted mother is to the son who loves her without thinking about it; + not numbered among women or even among mothers. She stood to him for + protective love unquestioning, for interest in him and all his doings + unwavering, for faith in his inner worth undying, for the Eternities + without beginning or ending; but probably he did not know it. Of Rosamund, + what she was, what she meant in his life, he was intensely, even secretly, + almost savagely conscious. In Mrs. Clarke he was more interested than he + happened to be in any of the women who dwelt in the great world of those + whom he did not love and never could love. + </p> + <p> + Had the dinner-party he had just been to been arranged by Daventry in + order that Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke might meet in a perfectly natural way? + If so, it must have been Daventry’s idea and not Mrs. Clarke’s. Dion had a + feeling that Daventry had been vexed by Rosamund’s defection. He knew his + friend very well. It was not quite natural that Daventry had not mentioned + Rosamund. But why should Daventry strongly wish Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund + to meet if Mrs. Clarke had not indicated a desire to know Rosamund? + Daventry was an enthusiastic adherent of Mrs. Clarke’s. He had, Dion knew, + a chivalrous feeling for her. Having helped to win her case, any slight + put upon her would be warmly resented by him. + </p> + <p> + Had Rosamund put upon her a slight? Had she deliberately avoided the + dinner? + </p> + <p> + Dion was on the point of getting into the spare-room bed when he asked + himself that question. As he pulled back the clothes he heard a dry little + sound. It was Robin’s cough. He stole to the door and opened it. As he did + so he saw the tail of Rosamund’s dressing-gown disappearing over the + threshold of the nursery. The nursery door shut softly behind her, and + Dion got into bed feeling heartily ashamed of his suspicion. How low it + was to search for hidden motives in such a woman as Rosamund. He resolved + never to do that again. He lay in bed listening, but he did not hear + Robin’s cough again, and he wondered if the child was already old enough + to be what nurses call “artful,” whether he had made use of his little + affliction to get hold of his providence in the night. + </p> + <p> + What a mystery was the relation of mother and little child! He lay for a + long while musing about it. Why hadn’t he followed Rosamund over the + threshold of the nursery just now? The mystery had held him back. + </p> + <p> + Was it greater than the mystery of the relation of man to woman in a love + such as his for Rosamund? He considered it, but he was certain that he + could not fathom it. No man, he felt sure, knew or ever could know how a + mother like Rosamund, that is an intensely maternal mother, regarded her + child when he was little and dependent on her; how she loved him, what he + meant to her. And no doubt the gift of the mother to the child was subtly + reciprocated by the child. But just how? + </p> + <p> + Dion could not remember at all what he had felt, or how he had regarded + his mother when he was nine months old. Presently he recalled Hermes and + the child in that remote and hushed room hidden away in the green wilds of + Elis; he even saw them before him—saw the beautiful face of the + Hermes, saw the child’s stretched-out arm. + </p> + <p> + Elis! He had been wonderfully happy there, far away in the smiling + wilderness. Would he ever be there again? And, if fate did indeed lead his + steps thither, would he again be wonderfully happy? Of one thing he was + certain; that he would never see Elis, would never see Hermes and the + child again, unless Rosamund was with him. She had made the green + wilderness to blossom as the rose. She only could make his life to + blossom. He depended upon her terribly—terribly. Always that love of + his was growing. People, especially women, often said that the love of a + man was quickly satisfied, more quickly than a woman’s, that the masculine + satisfaction was soon followed by satiety. Love such as that was only an + appetite, a species of lust. Such a woman as Rosamund could not awaken + mere lust. For her a man might have desire, but only the desire that every + great love of a man for a woman encloses. And how utterly different that + was from physical lust. + </p> + <p> + He thought of the maidens upholding the porch of the Erechtheion. His + Rosamund descended from them, was as pure, as serene in her goodness, as + beautiful as they were. + </p> + <p> + In thinking of the beloved maidens he did not think of them as marble. + </p> + <p> + Before he went to sleep Dion had realized that, since Rosamund was awake, + the reason for his coming to the spare room did not exist. Nevertheless he + did not go to their bedroom that night. Robin’s little dry cough still + sounded in his ears. To-night was Robin’s kingdom. + </p> + <p> + In a day or two Robin was better, in a week he was perfectly well. If he + had not chanced to catch cold, would Rosamund have worn that new + evening-gown at the Carlton dinner? + </p> + <p> + On that question Dion had a discussion with Daventry which was + disagreeable to him. One day Daventry, who had evidently been, in silence, + debating whether to speak or not, said to him: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dion, d’you mind if I use a friend’s privilege and say something I + very much want to say, but which you mayn’t be so keen to hear?” + </p> + <p> + “No, of course not. We can say anything to each other.” + </p> + <p> + “Can we? I’m not sure of that—now.” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—anyhow, this time I’ll venture. Why did Rosamund throw us + over the other night at almost the last moment?” + </p> + <p> + “Because Robin was ill.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s quite well now.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not. It’s ten days ago.” + </p> + <p> + “He can’t have been so very ill.” + </p> + <p> + “He was ill enough to make Rosamund very anxious. She was up with him the + whole night before your dinner; and not only that, she was up again on the + night of the dinner, though she was very tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, coming to our dinner wouldn’t have prevented that—only eight + till ten-thirty.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think, Guy, you at all understand Rosamund’s feeling for Robin,” + said Dion, with a sort of dry steadiness. + </p> + <p> + “Probably not, being a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps a father can understand better.” + </p> + <p> + “Better? It seems to me one either does understand a thing or one doesn’t + understand it.” + </p> + <p> + There was a not very attractive silence which Daventry broke by saying: + </p> + <p> + “Then you think if Beattie and I give another dinner at the Carlton—a + piece of reckless extravagance, but we are made on entertaining!—Robin + won’t be ill again?” + </p> + <p> + “Another dinner? You’ll be ruined.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got several more briefs. Would Robin be ill?” + </p> + <p> + “How the deuce can any one know?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll hazard a guess. He would be ill.” + </p> + <p> + Dion reddened. There was sudden heat not only in his cheeks but also about + his heart. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know you were capable of talking such pernicious rubbish!” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s prove whether it’s rubbish or not. Beattie will send Rosamund + another dinner invitation to-morrow, and then we’ll wait and see what + happens to Robin’s health.” + </p> + <p> + “Guy, I don’t want to have a quarrel with you.” + </p> + <p> + “A quarrel? What about?” + </p> + <p> + “If you imply that Rosamund is insincere, is capable of acting a part, we + shall quarrel. Robin was really ill. Rosamund fully meant to go to your + dinner. She bought a new dress expressly for it.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, old Dion, and please don’t think I was attacking Rosamund. + No. But I think sometimes the very sweetest and best women do have their + little bit of insincerity. To women very often the motive seems of more + importance than the action springing from it. I had an idea that perhaps + Rosamund was anxious not to hurt some one’s feelings.” + </p> + <p> + “Whose?” + </p> + <p> + After a slight hesitation Daventry said: + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Clarke’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Mrs. Clarke know that Rosamund accepted to go to your dinner?” asked + Dion abruptly, and with a forcible directness that put the not unastute + Daventry immediately on his guard. + </p> + <p> + “What on earth has that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything, I should think. Did she?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Daventry. + </p> + <p> + “Then how could—?” Dion began. But he broke off, and added more + quietly: + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so anxious that Rosamund should know Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, didn’t Mrs. Clarke ages ago express a wish to know Rosamund if the + case went in her favor?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I—yes, I fancy she did. But she probably meant nothing by it, + and has forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + “I doubt that. A woman who has gone through Mrs. Clarke’s ordeal is + generally hypersensitive afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “But she’s come out splendidly. Everybody believes in her. She’s got her + child. What more can she want?” + </p> + <p> + “As she’s such a great friend of ours I think it must seem very odd to her + not knowing Rosamund, especially as she’s good friends with you. D’you + mind if we ask Rosamund to meet her again?” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve done it once. I should leave things alone. Mind, Rosamund has + never told me she doesn’t want to know Mrs. Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + “That may be another example of her goodness of heart,” said Daventry. + “Rosamund seldom or never speaks against people. I’ll tell you the simple + truth, Dion. As I helped to defend Mrs. Clarke, and as we won and she was + proved to be an innocent woman, and as I believe in her and admire her + very much, I’m sensitive for her. Perhaps it’s very absurd.” + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s very chivalrous.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—rot! But there it is. And so I hate to see a relation of my own—I + count Rosamund as a relation now—standing out against her.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no reason to think she’s doing that.” + </p> + <p> + An expression that seemed to be of pity flitted over Daventry’s + intelligent face, and he slightly raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, we won’t bother you with another dinner invitation,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And so the conversation ended. + </p> + <p> + It left with Dion an impression which was not pleasant, and he could not + help wondering whether, during the conversation, his friend had told him a + direct and deliberate lie. + </p> + <p> + No more dinners were given by Beattie and Daventry at the Carlton. Robin’s + health continued to be excellent. Mrs. Clarke was never mentioned at 5 + Little Market Street, and she gave to the Leiths no sign of life, though + Dion knew that she was still in London and was going to stay on there + until the spring. He did not meet her, although she knew many of those + whom he knew. This was partly due, perhaps, to chance; but it was also + partly due to deliberate action by Dion. He avoided going to places where + he thought he might meet her: to Esme Darlington’s, to Mrs. Chetwinde’s, + to one or two other houses which she frequented; he even gave up visiting + Jenkins’s gymnasium because he knew she continued to go there regularly + with Jimmy Clarke, whom, since the divorce case, with his father’s + consent, she had taken away from school and given to the care of a tutor. + All this was easy enough, and required but little management on account of + Rosamund’s love of home and his love of what she loved. Since Robin’s + coming she had begun to show more and more plainly her root-indifference + to the outside pleasures and attractions of the world, was becoming, Dion + thought, week by week, more cloistral, was giving the rein, perhaps, to + secret impulses which marriage had interfered with for a time, but which + were now reviving within her. Robin was a genuine reason, but perhaps also + at moments an excuse. Was there not sometimes in the quiet little house, + quiet unless disturbed by babyhood’s occasional outbursts, a strange new + atmosphere, delicate and subdued, which hinted at silent walks, at + twilight dreamings, at slowly pacing feet, bowed heads and wide-eyed + contemplation? Or was all this a fancy of Dion’s, bred in him by + Rosamund’s revelation of an old and haunting desire? He did not know; but + he did know that sometimes, when he heard her warm voice singing at a + little distance from him within their house, he thought of a man’s voice, + in some dim and remote chapel with stained-glass windows, singing an + evening hymn in the service of Benediction. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of many friends, in the midst of the enormous City, Rosamund + effected, or began to effect, a curiously intent withdrawal, and Dion, as + it were, accompanied her; or perhaps it were truer to say, followed after + her. He loved quiet evenings in his home, and the love of them grew + steadily upon him. To the occasional protests of his friends he laughingly + replied: + </p> + <p> + “The fact is we’re both very happy at home. We’re an unfashionable + couple.” + </p> + <p> + Bruce Evelin, Esme Darlington and a few others, including, of course, + Dion’s mother and the Daventrys, they sometimes asked to come to them. + Their little dinners were homely and delightful; but Mr. Darlington often + regretted plaintively their “really, if I may say so, almost too definite + domesticity.” He even said to certain intimates: + </p> + <p> + “I know the next thing we shall hear of will be that the Leiths have + decided to bury themselves in the country. And Dion Leith will wreck his + nerves by daily journeys to town in some horrid business train.” + </p> + <p> + At the beginning of January, however, there came an invitation which they + decided to accept. It was to an evening party at Mrs. Chetwinde’s, and she + begged Rosamund to be nice to her and sing at it. + </p> + <p> + “Since you’ve given up singing professionally one never hears you at all,” + she wrote. “I’m not going to tell the usual lie and say I’m only having a + few people. On the contrary, I’m asking as many as my house will hold. + It’s on January the fifteenth.” + </p> + <p> + It happened that the invitation arrived in Little Market Street by the + last post, and that, earlier in the day, Daventry had met Dion in the Club + and had casually told him that Mrs. Clarke was spending the whole of + January in Paris, to get some things for the flat in Constantinople which + she intended to occupy in the late spring. Rosamund showed Dion Mrs. + Chetwinde’s note. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s go,” he said at once. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we? Do you like these crowds? She says ‘as many as my house will + hold.’” + </p> + <p> + “All the better. There’ll be all the more to enjoy the result of your + practising. Do say yes.” + </p> + <p> + His manner was urgent. Mrs. Clarke would be in Paris. This party was + certainly no ingenuity of Daventry’s. + </p> + <p> + “We mustn’t begin to live like a monk and a nun,” he exclaimed. “We’re too + young and enjoy life too much for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Do monks and nuns live together? Since when?” said Rosamund, laughing at + him. + </p> + <p> + “Poor wretches! If only they did, how much—!” + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” she said, with a smiling pretense of thinking of being shocked + presently. + </p> + <p> + She went to the writing-table. + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then, we’ll go if you want to.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you?” he asked, following her. + </p> + <p> + She had sat down and taken up a pen. Now she looked up at him with her + steady eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I shall enjoy it when I’m there,” she answered. “I generally + enjoy things. You know that. You’ve seen me among people so often.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. One would think you reveled in society if one only knew you in that + phase.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t <i>really</i> care for it one bit. I can’t, because I never + miss it if I don’t have it.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe you <i>really</i> care for very few things and for very few + people,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps that’s true about people.” + </p> + <p> + “How many people, I wonder?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think one always knows whom one cares for until something + happens.” + </p> + <p> + “Something?” + </p> + <p> + “Until one’s threatened with loss, or until one actually does lose + somebody one loves. I”—she hesitated, stretched out her hand, and + drew some notepaper out of a green case which stood on the table—“I + had absolutely no idea what I felt for my mother until she died. She died + very suddenly.” + </p> + <p> + Tears rushed to her eyes and her whole face suddenly reddened. + </p> + <p> + “Then I knew!” she said, in a broken voice. + </p> + <p> + Dion had never before seen her look as she was looking now. + </p> + <p> + For a moment he felt almost as if he were regarding a stranger. There was + a sort of heat of anger in the face, which looked rebellious in its + emotion; and he believed it was the rebellion in her face which made him + realize how intensely she had been able to love her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Now I must write to Mrs. Chetwinde,” she said, suddenly bending over the + notepaper, “and tell her we’ll come, and I’ll sing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He stood a moment watching the moving pen. Then he bent down and just + touched her shoulder with a great gentleness. + </p> + <p> + “If you knew what I would do to keep every breath of sorrow out of your + life!” he said, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + Without looking up she touched his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I know you would. You could never bring sorrow into my life.” + </p> + <p> + From that day Dion realized what intensity of feeling lay beneath + Rosamund’s serene and often actively joyous demeanor. Perhaps she cared + for very few people, but for those few she cared with a force surely + almost abnormal. Her mother had now been dead for many years; never before + had Rosamund spoken of her death to him. He understood the reason of that + silence now, and from that day the desire to keep all sorrow from her + became almost a passion in him. He even felt that its approach to her, + that its cold touch resting upon her, would be a hateful and almost + unnatural outrage. Yet he saw all around him people closely companioned by + sorrow and did not think that strange. Sorrow even approached very near to + Rosamund and to him in that very month of January, for Beatrice had a + miscarriage and lost her baby. She said very little about it, but Dion + believed that she was really stricken to the heart. He was very fond of + Beatrice, he almost loved her; yet her sorrow was only a shadow passing by + him, not a substance pressing upon him. And that fact, which he realized, + made him know how little even imagination and quiet affection can help men + feel the pains of others. The heart knoweth only its own bitterness and + the bitterness of those whom it deeply and passionately loves. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + On January the fifteenth Rosamund put on the gown which had been bought + for the Carlton dinner but not worn at it. + </p> + <p> + Although she had not really wanted to go to Mrs. Chetwinde’s party she + looked radiantly buoyant, and like one almost shining with expectation, + when she was ready to start for Lowndes Square. + </p> + <p> + “You ought to go out every night,” Dion said, as he put her cloak over her + shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “To enjoy and to give enjoyment. Merely to look at you would make the + dullest set of people in London wake up and scintillate. Don’t tell me + you’re not looking forward to it, because I couldn’t believe you.” + </p> + <p> + “Now that the war-paint is on I confess to feeling almost eager for the + fray. How nicely you button it. You aren’t clumsy.” + </p> + <p> + “How could I be clumsy in doing something for you? Where’s your music?” + </p> + <p> + “In my head. Jennie will meet us there.” + </p> + <p> + Jennie was Rosamund’s accompanist, a clever Irish girl who often came to + Little Market Street to go through things with Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “It will be rather delightful singing to people again,” she added in a + joyous voice as they got into the hired carriage. “I hope I’ve really + improved.” + </p> + <p> + “How you love a thing for itself!” he said, as they drove off. + </p> + <p> + “I think that’s the only way to love.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is. You know the only way to everything beautiful and sane. + What I have learnt from you!” + </p> + <p> + “Dion,” she said, in the darkness, “I think you are rather a dangerous + companion for me.” + </p> + <p> + “How can I be?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not at all a piece of perfection. Take care you don’t teach me to + think I am.” + </p> + <p> + “But you’re the least conceited—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, you encourager of egoism!” she interrupted seriously. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid you’ll find a good many more at Mrs. Chetwinde’s.” + </p> + <p> + Dion thought he had been a true prophet half an hour later when, from a + little distance, he watched and listened while Rosamund was singing her + first song. Seeing her thus in the midst of a crowd he awakened to the + fact that Robin had changed her very much. She still looked splendidly + young but she no longer looked like a girl. The married woman and the + mother were there quite definitely. Even he fancied that he heard them in + her voice, which had gained in some way, perhaps in roundness, in + mellowness. This might be the result of study; he was inclined to believe + it the result of motherhood. She was wearing ear-rings—tiny, not + long drooping things, they were green, small emeralds; and he remembered + how he had loved her better when he saw her wearing ear-rings for the + first time in Mr. Darlington’s drawing-room. How definite she was in a + crowd. Crowds effaced ordinary people, but when Rosamund was surrounded + she always seemed to be beautifully emphasized, to be made more perfectly + herself. She did not take, she gave, and in giving showed how much she + had. + </p> + <p> + She was giving now as she sang, “Caro mio ben.” + </p> + <p> + Towards the end of the song, when Dion was deeply in it and in her who + sang it, he was disturbed by a woman’s whisper coming from close behind + him. He did not catch the beginning of what was communicated, but he did + catch the end. It was this: “Over there, the famous Mrs. Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Clarke was in Paris. Daventry had told him so. Dion looked + quickly about the large and crowded room, but could not see Mrs. Clarke. + Then he glanced behind him to see the whisperer, and beheld a hard-faced, + middle-aged and very well-known woman—one of those women who, by + dint of perpetually “going about,” become at length something less than + human. He was quite sure Mrs. Brackenhurst would not make a mistake about + anything which happened at a party. She might fail to recognize her + husband, if she met him about her house, because he was so seldom there; + she would not fail to recognize the heroine of a resounding divorce case. + Mrs. Clarke must certainly have returned from Paris and be somewhere in + that room, listening to Rosamund and probably watching her. Dion scarcely + knew whether this fact made him sorry or glad. He did know, however, that + it oddly excited him. + </p> + <p> + When “Caro mio ben” was ended people began to move. Rosamund was + surrounded and congratulated, and Dion saw Esme Darlington bending to her, + half paternally, half gallantly, and speaking to her emphatically. Mrs. + Chetwinde drifted up to her; and three or four young men hovered near to + her, evidently desirous of putting in a word. The success of her leaped to + the eye. Dion saw it and glowed. But the excitement in him persisted, and + he began to move towards the far side of the great room in search of Mrs. + Clarke. If she had just come in she would probably be near the door by + which the pathetic Echo stood on her pedestal of marble, withdrawn in her + punishment, in her abasement beautiful and wistful. How different was + Rosamund from Echo! Dion looked across at her joyous and radiant + animation, as she smiled and talked almost with the eagerness and vitality + of a child; and he had the thought, “How goodness preserves!” Women throng + the secret rooms of the vanity specialists, put their trust in pomades, in + pigments, in tinctures, in dyes; and the weariness and the sin become + lustrous, perhaps, but never are hidden or even obscured. His Rosamund + trusted in a wholesome life, with air blowing through it, with sound sleep + as its anodyne, with purity on guard at its door; and radiance and youth + sparkled up in her like fountain spray in the sunshine. And the + wholesomeness of her was a lure to the many even in a drawing-room of + London. He saw powdered women, women with darkened eyebrows, and + touched-up lips, and hair that had forgotten long ago what was its natural + color, looking at her, and he fancied there was a dull wonder in their + eyes. Perhaps they were thinking: “Yes, that’s the recipe—being gay + in goodness!” And perhaps some of them were thinking, too: “We’ve lost the + power to follow that recipe, if we ever had it.” Poor women! With a sort + of exultation he pitied them and their husbands. A chord was sounded on + the piano. He stood still. The loud buzz of conversation died down. Was + Rosamund going to sing again so soon? Perhaps some one had begged for + something specially beloved. Jennie was playing a soft prelude as a gentle + warning to a few of those who seem ever to find silence a physical + difficulty. She stopped, and began to play something Dion did not know, + something very modern in its strange atmospheric delicacy, which + nevertheless instantly transported him to Greece. He was there, even + before Rosamund began to sing in a voice that was hushed, in a far-off + voice, not antique, but the voice of modernity, prompted by a mind looking + away from what is near to what is afar and is deeply desired. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A crescent sail upon the sea, + So calm and fair and ripple-free + You wonder storms can ever be; + + A shore with deep indented bays, + And o’er the gleaming water-ways + A glimpse of Islands in the haze; + + A faced bronzed dark to red and gold, + With mountain eyes that seem to hold + The freshness of the world of old; + + A shepherd’s crook, a coat of fleece, + A grazing flock—the sense of peace, + The long sweet silence—this is Greece.” + </pre> + <p> + The accompaniment continued for a moment alone, whispering remoteness. + Then, like a voice far off in a blue distance, there came again from + Rosamund, more softly and with less pressure: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “——The sense of peace, + The long sweet silence—this is Greece! + This is Greece!” + </pre> + <p> + It was just then that Dion saw Mrs. Clarke. She had, perhaps, been sitting + down; or, possibly, some one had been standing in front of her and had + hidden her from him; for she was not far off, and he wondered sharply why + he had not seen her till now, why, till now, she had refrained from + snatching him away from his land of the early morning. There was to him at + this moment something actually cruel and painful in her instant suggestion + of Stamboul. Yet she was not looking at him, but was directing upon + Rosamund her characteristic gaze of consideration, in which there was a + peculiar grave thoroughness. A handsome, fair young man, with a very red + weak mouth, stood close to her. Echo was just beyond. Without speaking, + Mrs. Clarke continued looking at Rosamund intently, when the music + evaporated, and Greece faded away into the shining of that distance which + hides our dreams. And Dion noted again, with a faint creeping of wonder + and of doubt, the strange haggardness of her face, which, nevertheless, he + had come to think almost beautiful. + </p> + <p> + The fair young man spoke to her, bending and looking at her eagerly. She + turned her head slowly, and as if reluctantly towards him, and was + evidently listening to what he said, listening with that apparent + intentness which was characteristic of her. She was dressed in black and + violet, and wore a large knot of violets in her corsage. Round her throat + was clasped an antique necklace of dull, unshining gold, and dim purple + stones, which looked beautiful, but almost weary with age. Perhaps they + had lain for years in some dim bazaar of Stamboul, forgotten under heaps + of old stuffs. Dion thought of them as slumbering, made drowsy and finally + unconscious by the fumes of incense and the exhalations from diapered + perfume vials. As he looked at Mrs. Clarke, the bare and shining vision of + Greece, evoked by the song Rosamund had just been singing, faded; the + peculiar almost intellectually delicate atmosphere of Greece was gone; and + he saw for a moment the umber mystery of Stamboul, lifted under tinted + clouds of the evening beyond the waters of the Golden Horn; the great + rounded domes and tapering speary minarets of the mosques, couchant amid + the shadows and the trailing and gauzy smoke-wreaths, a suggestion of + dense masses of cypresses, those trees of the night which only in the + night can be truly themselves, guarding the innumerable graves of the + Turkish cemeteries. + </p> + <p> + From that moment he connected Mrs. Clarke in his mind with the cypress. + Surely she must have spent very many hours wandering in those enormous and + deserted gardens of the dead, where the very dust is poignant, and the + cries of the sea come faintly up to Allah’s children crumbling beneath the + stone flowers and the little fezes of stone. Mrs. Clarke must love the + cypress, for about her there was an atmosphere which suggested dimness and + the gathering shadows of night. + </p> + <p> + Greece and Stamboul, the land of the early morning and the wonder-city of + twilight; Rosamund and Mrs. Clarke, standing there for a moment, in the + midst of the shifting crowd, Dion traveled, compared, connected and was + alone in the soul’s solitude. + </p> + <p> + Then Mrs. Chetwinde spoke to him, and he saw Bruce Evelin in the distance + going towards Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde told him that Rosamund had made a great advance. + </p> + <p> + “Now that she’s given up singing professionally she’s singing better than + ever. That Grecian song is the distilled essence of Greece felt in our new + way. For we’ve got our new way of feeling things. Rosamund tells us she + repeated the words to Jennie Stileman, and Jennie had them set by a young + Athenian who’s over here studying English. He catches the butterfly, lets + it flutter for a moment in his hand and go. He doesn’t jab a pin into it + as our composers would. Oh, there’s Cynthia! I hope she heard the last + thing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she did.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought Mrs. Clarke was spending January in Paris.” + </p> + <p> + “She came back to-day, and sent round to ask if she might come.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Chetwinde wandered away, insouciant and observant as ever. Even at + her own parties she always had an air of faintly detached indifference, + never bothered about how “it” was “going.” If it chose to stop it could, + and her guests must put up with it. + </p> + <p> + When she left him Dion hesitated. Mrs. Clarke had just seen him and sent + him a grave nod of recognition. Should he go to her? But the fair young + man was still at her side, was still, with his weak red mouth, talking + into her ear. Dion felt a strange distaste as he saw those moving lips + under the brushed-up, almost ridiculously small, golden mustache; and just + as he was conscious of this distaste Mrs. Clarke got rid of the young man, + and spoke to a woman. Then she moved forward slowly. Mr. Chetwinde spoke + to her, moving his ample fan-shaped beard, which always looked Assyrian, + though he was profoundly English and didn’t know it. She drew nearer to + Dion as she answered Mr. Chetwinde, but in a wholly unconscious manner. + To-night she looked more haggard even than usual, no doubt because of the + journey from Paris. But Mrs. Chetwinde had once said of her: “Cynthia is + made of iron.” Could that be true? She was quite close to Dion now, and he + was aware of a strange faint perfume which reminded him of Stamboul; and + he realized here in Lowndes Square that Stamboul was genuinely + fascinating, was much more fascinating than he had realized when he was in + it. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke passed him without looking at him, and he felt sure quite + unconscious of his nearness to her. Evidently she had forgotten all about + him. Just after she had gone by he decided that of course he ought to go + and speak to her, and that to-night he must introduce Rosamund to her. Not + to do so would really be rude. Daventry was not there to be chivalrous. + The illness of Beattie, and doubtless his own distress at the loss of his + unborn child, had kept him away. Dion thought that he would be + unchivalrous if he now neglected to make a point of speaking to Mrs. + Clarke and of introducing his wife to her. + </p> + <p> + Having made up his mind on this he turned to follow Mrs. Clarke, and at + once saw that Esme Darlington, that smoother of difficult social places, + was before him. A little way off he saw Mr. Darlington, with Rosamund well + but delicately in hand, making for Mrs. Clarke somewhat with the gait of + Agag. In a moment the thing was done. The two women were speaking to each + other, and Rosamund had sent to Mrs. Clarke one of her inquiring looks. + Then they sat down together on that red sofa to which Mrs. Clarke had led + Dion for his first conversation with her. Esme Darlington remained + standing before it. The full acquaintance was joined at last. + </p> + <p> + Were they talking about the baby? Dion wondered, as for a moment he + watched them, forgetting his surroundings. Rosamund was speaking with her + usual swift vivacity. At home she was now often rather quiet, moving, Dion + sometimes thought, in an atmosphere of wide serenity; but in society she + was always full of sunshine and eager life. Something within her leaped up + responsively at the touch of humanity, and to-night she had just been + singing, and the whole of her was keenly awake. The contrast between her + and Mrs. Clarke was almost startling: her radiant vitality emphasized Mrs. + Clarke’s curious, but perfectly natural, gravity; the rose in her cheeks, + the yellow in her hair, the gaiety in her eyes, drew the attention to Mrs. + Clarke’s febrile and tense refinement, which seemed to have worn her body + thin, to have drained the luster out of her hair, to have fixed the + expression of observant distress in her large and fearless eyes. Animal + spirits played through Rosamund to-night; from Mrs. Clarke they were + absent. Her haggard composure, confronting Rosamund’s pure sparkle, + suggested the comparison of a hidden and secret pool, steel colored in the + depths of a sunless forest, with a rushing mountain stream leaping towards + the sea in a tangle of sun-rays. Dion realized for the first time that + Mrs. Clarke never laughed, and scarcely ever smiled. He realized, too, + that she really was beautiful. For Rosamund did not “kill” her; her + delicacy of line and colorless clearness stood the test of nearness to + Rosamund’s radiant beauty. Indeed Rosamund somehow enhanced the peculiarly + interesting character of Mrs. Clarke’s personality, which was displayed, + but with a sort of shadowy reticence, in her physique, and at the same + time underlined its melancholy. So might a climbing rose, calling to the + blue with its hundred blossoms, teach something of the dark truth of the + cypress through which its branches are threaded. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Clarke would certainly never be Rosamund’s stairway towards + heaven. + </p> + <p> + Some one he knew spoke to Dion, and he found himself involved in a long + conversation; people moving hid the two women from him, but presently the + piano sounded again, and Rosamund sang that first favorite of hers and of + Dion’s, the “Heart ever faithful,” recalling him to a dear day at + Portofino where, in a cozy room, guarded by the wintry woods and the gray + sea of Italy, he had felt the lure of a faithful spirit, and known the + basis of clean rock on which Rosamund had built up her house of life. + Bruce Evelin stood near to him while she sang it now, and once their eyes + met and exchanged affectionate thoughts of the singer, which went gladly + out of the gates eager to be read and understood. + </p> + <p> + When the melody of Bach was finished many people, impelled thereto by the + hearty giant whom Mrs. Chetwinde had most strangely married, went + downstairs to the black-and-white dining-room to drink champagne and eat + small absurdities of various kinds. A way was opened for Dion to Mrs. + Clarke, who was still on the red sofa. Dion noticed the fair young man + hovering, and surely with intention in his large eyes, in the middle + distance, but he went decisively forward, took Mrs. Clarke’s listless yet + imperative hand, and asked her if she would care to go down with him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no; I never eat at odd times.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever eat at all?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, at my chosen moments. Do find another excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “For going to eat?” + </p> + <p> + “Or drink.” + </p> + <p> + His reply was to sit down beside her. Mrs. Chetwinde’s dining-room was + large. People probably knew that, for the drawing-room emptied slowly. + Even the fair young man went away to seek consolation below. Rosamund had + descended with Bruce Evelin and Esme Darlington. There was a pleasant and + almost an intimate hush in the room. + </p> + <p> + “I heard you were to be in Paris this month,” Dion said. + </p> + <p> + “I came back to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you tired?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I want to speak to you about Jimmy, if you don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Please do,” said Dion rather earnestly, struck by a sort of little pang + as he remembered the boy’s urgent insistence that his visitor was to come + again soon. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not quite satisfied with his tutor.” + </p> + <p> + She began to ask Dion’s advice with regard to the boy’s bringing up, + explaining that her husband had left that matter in her hands. + </p> + <p> + “He’s very sorry and ashamed now, poor man, about his attacks on me, and + tries to make up from a distance by trusting me completely with Jimmy. I + don’t bear him any malice, but of course the link between us is smashed + and can’t ever be resoldered. I’m asking you what I can’t ask him because + he’s a weak man.” + </p> + <p> + The implication was obvious and not disagreeable to Dion. He gave advice, + and as he did so thought of Robin at ten. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke was a remarkably sensible woman, and agreed with his views on + boys, and especially with his theory, suddenly discovered in the present + heat of conversation, that to give them “backbone” was of even more + importance than to develop their intellectual side. She spoke of her son + in a way that was almost male. + </p> + <p> + “He mustn’t be small,” she said, evidently comprehending both soul and + body in the assertion. “D’you know Lord Brayfield who was talking to me + just now?” + </p> + <p> + “You mean a fair man?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, with a meaningless mouth. Jimmy mustn’t grow up into anything of + that kind.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation took a decidedly Doric turn as Mrs. Clarke developed her + ideas of what a man ought to be. In the midst of it Dion remembered + Dumeny, and could not help saying: + </p> + <p> + “But that type”—they had been speaking of what he considered to be + Rosamund’s type of man, once described by her as “a strong soul in a + strong body, and a soft heart but not a softy’s heart”—“is almost + the direct opposite of the artistic type of man, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Her large eyes looked “Well?” at him, but she said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I thought you cared so very much for knowledge and taste in a man.” + </p> + <p> + “So I do. But Jimmy will never have knowledge and taste. He’s the + boisterous athletic type.” + </p> + <p> + “And you’re glad?” + </p> + <p> + “Not sorry, at any rate. He’ll just be a thorough man, if he’s brought up + properly, and that will do very well.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re very complex,” Dion said, still thinking of Dumeny. + </p> + <p> + “Because I make friends in so many directions?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—yes, partly,” he answered, wondering if she was reading his + thought. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy’s not a friend but my boy. I know very well Monsieur Dumeny, for + instance, whom you saw, and I dare say wondered about, at the trial; but I + couldn’t bear that my boy should develop into that type of man. You’ll say + I am a treacherous friend, perhaps. It might be truer to say I was born + acquisitive and too mental. I never really liked Monsieur Dumeny; but I + liked immensely his musical talent, his knowledge, his sure taste, and his + power of making almost everything flower into interestingness. Do you know + what I mean? Some people take light from your day; others add to its light + and paint in wonderful shadows. If I went to the bazaars alone they were + Eastern shops; if I went with Dumeny they were the Arabian Nights. Do you + understand?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The touch of his mind on a thing gave it life. It stirred. One could look + into its heart and see the pulse beating. I care to do that, so I cared to + go about with Monsieur Dumeny. But one doesn’t love people for that sort + of thing. In the people one loves one needs character, the right fiber in + the soul. You ought to know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” he asked, almost startled. + </p> + <p> + “I was introduced to your wife just now.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Then Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you have met.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” said Mrs. Clarke, in a voice that sounded more husky even than + usual. “She sang that Greek song quite beautifully. I’ve just been telling + her that I want to show her some curious songs I have heard in Turkey, and + Asia Minor, at Brusa. There was one man who used to sing to me at Brusa + outside the Mosquee Verte. Dumeny took down the melody for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you like the ‘Heart ever faithful’?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it’s excellent in that sledge-hammer sort of way, a superb + example of the direct. Stamboul is very indirect. Perhaps it has colored + my taste. It’s full of mystery. Bach isn’t mysterious, except now and then—in + rare bits of his passion music, for instance.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if my wife could sing those Turkish songs.” + </p> + <p> + “We must see. She sang that Greek song perfectly.” + </p> + <p> + “But she’s felt Greece,” said Dion. “And I think there’s something in her + that——” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I only mean,” he said, with reserve in his voice, “that I think there’s + something of Greece in her.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s got a head like a Caryatid.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, with much less reserve. “Hasn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke had paid his Rosamund two noble compliments, he thought; and + he liked her way of payment, casual yet evidently sincere, the simple + utterance of two thoughts in a mind that knew. He felt a sudden glow of + real friendship for her, and, on the glow as it were, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy’s quite mad about you.” + </p> + <p> + “Still?” he blurted out, and was instantly conscious of a false step. + </p> + <p> + “He’s got an extraordinary memory for a biceps, and then Jenkins talks + about you to him.” + </p> + <p> + As they went on talking people began coming up from the black-and-white + dining-room. Dion said he would come to see Jimmy again, would visit the + gymnasium in the Harrow Road one day when Jimmy was taking his lesson. Did + Jimmy ever go on a Saturday? Yes, he was going next Saturday at four. Dion + would look in next Saturday. Now Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund had met, and + Mrs. Clarke evidently admired Rosamund in two ways, Dion felt quite + different about his acquaintance with her. If it had already been agreed + that Mrs. Clarke should show Rosamund Turkish songs, there was no need for + further holding back. The relief which had come to him made Dion realize + how very uncomfortable he had been about Mrs. Clarke in the immediate + past. He was now thoroughly and cordially at his ease with her. They + talked till the big drawing-room was full again, till Rosamund reappeared + in the midst of delightful friends; talked of Jimmy’s future, of the new + tutor who must be found,—a real man, not a mere bloodless + intellectual,—and, again, of Constantinople, to which Mrs. Clarke + would return in April, against the advice of her friends, and in spite of + Esme Darlington’s almost frantic protests, “because I love it, and because + I don’t choose to be driven out of any place by liars.” Her last remark to + him, and he thought it very characteristic of her, was this: + </p> + <p> + “Liberty’s worth bitterness. I would buy it at the price of all the tears + in my body.” + </p> + <p> + It was, perhaps, also very characteristic that she made the statement with + a perfectly quiet gravity which almost concealed the evidently tough + inflexibility beneath. + </p> + <p> + And then, when people were ready to go, Rosamund sung Brahm’s + “Wiegenlied.” + </p> + <p> + Dion stood beside Bruce Evelin while Rosamund was singing this. She sang + it with a new and wonderful tenderness which had come to her with Robin, + and in her face, as she sang, there was a new and wonderful tenderness. + The meaning of Robin in Rosamund’s life was expressed to Dion by Rosamund + in this song as it had never been expressed before. Perhaps it was + expressed also to Bruce Evelin, for Dion saw tears in his eyes almost + brimming over, and his face was contracted, as if only by a strong, even a + violent, effort he was able to preserve his self-control. + </p> + <p> + As people began to go away Dion found himself close to Esme Darlington. + </p> + <p> + “My dear fellow,” said Mr. Darlington, with unusual abandon, “Rosamund has + made a really marvelous advance—marvelous. In that ‘Wiegenlied’ she + reached high-water mark. No one could have sung it more perfectly. What + has happened to her?” + </p> + <p> + “Robin,” said Dion, looking him full in the face, and speaking with almost + stern conviction. + </p> + <p> + “Robin?” said Mr. Darlington, with lifted eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + Then people intervened. + </p> + <p> + In the carriage going home Rosamund was very happy. She confessed to the + pleasure her success had given her. + </p> + <p> + “I quite loved singing to-night,” she said. “That song about Greece was + for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I know, and the ‘Wiegenlied’ was for Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. + </p> + <p> + She was silent; then her voice came out of the darkness: + </p> + <p> + “For Robin, but he didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “Some day he will know it.” + </p> + <p> + Not a word was said about Mrs. Clarke that night. + </p> + <p> + On the following day, however, Dion asked Rosamund how she had liked Mrs. + Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you talking to her with the greatest animation.” + </p> + <p> + “Was I?” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “And she told me it had been arranged that she should—no, I don’t + mean that; but she said she wanted to show you some wonderful Turkish + songs.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she? What a beautiful profile she has!” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you noticed that!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, directly.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t she mention the Turkish songs?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe she did, but only in passing, casually. D’you know, Dion, I’ve + got an idea that Greece is our country, not Turkey at all. You hate + Constantinople, and I shall never see it, I’m sure. We are Greeks, and + Robin has to be a Greek, too, in one way—a true Englishman, of + course, as well. Do you remember the Doric boy?” + </p> + <p> + And off went the conversation to the hills of Drouva, and never came back + to Turkey. + </p> + <p> + When Friday dawned Dion thought of his appointment for Saturday afternoon + at the gymnasium in the Harrow Road, and began to wish he had not made it. + Rosamund had not mentioned Mrs. Clarke again, and he began to fear that + she had not really liked her, although her profile was beautiful. If + Rosamund had not liked Mrs. Clarke, his cordial enthusiasm at Mrs. + Chetwinde’s—in retrospect he felt that his attitude and manner must + have implied that—had been premature, even, perhaps, unfortunate. He + wished he knew just what impression Mrs. Clarke had made upon Rosamund, + but something held him back from asking her. He had asked her already + once, but somehow the conversation had deviated—was it to Mrs. + Clarke’s profile?—and he had not received a direct answer. Perhaps + that was his fault. But anyhow he must go to the gymnasium on the morrow. + To fail in doing that after all that had happened, or rather had not + happened, in connexion with Mrs. Clarke would be really rude. He did not + say anything about the gymnasium to Rosamund on Friday, but on the + Saturday he told her what had been arranged. + </p> + <p> + “Her son, Jimmy Clarke, has taken a boyish fancy to me, it seems. I said + I’d look in and see his lesson just for once.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he a nice boy?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, first-rate, I should think, rather a pickle, and likely to develop + into an athlete. The father is awfully ashamed now of what he did—that + horrible case, I mean—and is trying to make up for it.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” said Rosamund simply. + </p> + <p> + “By giving her every chance with the boy.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad the child likes you.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve only seen him once.” + </p> + <p> + “Twice won’t kill his liking,” she returned affectionately. + </p> + <p> + And then she went out of the room. She always had plenty to do. Small + though he was, Robin was a marvelous consumer of his mother’s time. + </p> + <p> + When Dion got to the gymnasium Mrs. Clarke and Jimmy were already there, + and Jimmy, in flannels and a white sweater, his dark hair sticking up in + disorder, and his face scarlet with exertion, was performing feats with an + exerciser fixed to the wall, while Mrs. Clarke, seated on a hard chair in + front of a line of heavy weights and dumb-bells, was looking on with + concentrated attention. Jenkins was standing in front of Jimmy, loudly + directing his movements with a stentorian: “One—two—one—two—one—two! + Keep it up! No slackening! Put some guts into it, sir! One—two—one—two!” + </p> + <p> + As Dion came in Mrs. Clarke looked round and nodded; Jimmy stared, unable + to smile because his mouth and lower jaw were working, and he had no + superfluous force to spare for polite efforts; and Jenkins uttered a + gruff, “Good day, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How are you, Jenkins?” returned Dion, in his most off-hand manner. + </p> + <p> + Then he jerked his hand at Jimmy with an encouraging smile, went over to + Mrs. Clarke, shook her hand and remained standing beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he’s doing it well?” she murmured, after a moment. + </p> + <p> + “Stunningly.” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t he broadened in the chest?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” + </p> + <p> + She looked strangely febrile and mental in the midst of the many + appliances for developing the body. Rosamund, with her splendid physique + and glowing health, would have crowned the gymnasium appropriately, have + looked like the divine huntress transplanted to a modern city where still + the cult of the body drew its worshipers. The Arcadian mountains—Olympia + in Elis,—Jenkins’s “gym” in the Harrow Road—differing shrines + but the cult was the same. Only the conditions of worship were varied. + Dion glanced down at Mrs. Clarke. Never had she seemed more curiously + exotic. Yet she did not look wholly out of place; and it occurred to him + that a perfectly natural person never looks wholly out of place anywhere. + </p> + <p> + “Face to the wall, sir!” cried Jenkins. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy found time for a breathless and half-inquiring smile at Dion as he + turned and prepared for the most difficult feat. + </p> + <p> + “His jaw always does something extraordinary in this exercise,” said Mrs. + Clarke. “It seems to come out and go in again with a click. Jenkins says + it’s because Jimmy gets his strength from there.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. Mine used to do just the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy doesn’t mind. It amuses him.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s the spirit!” + </p> + <p> + “He finishes with this.” + </p> + <p> + “Already?” said Dion, surprised. + </p> + <p> + “You must have been a little late. How did you come?” + </p> + <p> + “On my bicycle. I had a puncture. That must have been it. And there was a + lot of traffic.” + </p> + <p> + “Keep it up, sir!” roared Jenkins imperatively. “What’s the matter with + that left arm?” + </p> + <p> + Click went Jimmy’s lower jaw. + </p> + <p> + “Dear little chap!” muttered Dion, full of sympathetic interest. “He’s + doing splendidly.” + </p> + <p> + “You really think so?” + </p> + <p> + “Couldn’t be better.” + </p> + <p> + “You understand boys?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than I understand women, I expect,” Dion returned, with a sudden + thought of Rosamund at home and the wonderful Turkish songs Mrs. Clarke + wished to show to her. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke said nothing, and just at that moment Jenkins announced: + </p> + <p> + “That’ll do for to-day, sir.” + </p> + <p> + In a flood of perspiration Jimmy turned round, redder than ever, his chest + heaving, his mouth open, and his eyes, but without any conceit, asking for + a word of praise from Dion, who went to clap him on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Capital! Hallo! What muscles we’re getting! Eh, Jenkins?” + </p> + <p> + “Master Jimmy’s not doing badly, sir. He puts his heart into it. That I + must say.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy shone through the red and the perspiration. + </p> + <p> + “He sticks it,” continued Jenkins, in his loud voice. “Without grit + there’s nothing done. That’s what I always tell my pupils.” + </p> + <p> + “I say”—began Jimmy, at last finding a small voice—“I say, Mr. + Leith, you haven’t hurried over it.” + </p> + <p> + “Over what?” + </p> + <p> + “Letting me see you again. Why, it’s—” + </p> + <p> + “Run along to the bath, sir. You’ve got to have it before you cool down,” + interposed the merciless Jenkins. + </p> + <p> + And Jimmy made off with an instant obedience which showed his private + opinion of the god who was training him. + </p> + <p> + When he was gone Jenkins turned to Dion and looked him over. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t seen much of you, sir, lately,” he remarked. + </p> + <p> + “No, I’ve been busy,” returned Dion, feeling slightly uncomfortable as he + remembered that the reason for his absence from the Harrow Road was + listening to the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Going to have a round with the gloves now you are here, sir?” pursued + Jenkins. + </p> + <p> + Dion looked at Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I hadn’t thought of it,” he said, rather doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Just as you like, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Do, Mr. Leith,” said Mrs. Clarke, getting up from the hard chair, and + standing close to the medicine ball with her back to the vaulting-horse. + “Jimmy and I are going in a moment. You mustn’t bother about us.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, but how are you going home?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall walk. Of course have your boxing. It will do you good.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re right there, ma’am,” said Jenkins, with a sort of stern approval. + “Mr. Leith’s been neglecting his exercises lately.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I’ve been doing a good deal in odd times with the Rifle Corps.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know anything about that, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “All right, I’ll go and change,” said Dion, who always kept a singlet and + flannels at the gymnasium. “Then——” he turned to Mrs. Clarke + as if about to say good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Jimmy will want to see you for a moment after his bath. We’ll say + good-by then.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I should like to see him,” said Dion, and went off to the dressing + cubicles. + </p> + <p> + When he returned ready for the fray, with his arms bared to the shoulder, + he found Jimmy, in trousers and an Eton jacket, with still damp hair + sleeked down on his head, waiting with his mother, but not to say good-by. + </p> + <p> + “We aren’t going,” he announced, in a voice almost shrill with excitement, + as Dion came into the gymnasium. “The mater was all for a trot home, but + Jenkins wishes me to stay. He says it’ll be a good lesson for me. I mean + to be a boxer.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” observed the great voice of Jenkins. “It’s the best sport in + the world bar none.” + </p> + <p> + “There!” said Jimmy. “And if I can’t be anything else I’ll be a bantam, + that’s what I’ll be.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you’ll grow, sir, no doubt. We may see you among the heavy-weights + yet.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s Mr. Leith? Is he a heavy-weight?” vociferated Jimmy. “Just look at + his arms.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see him use them in a minute,” observed Jenkins, covering Dion + with a glance of almost grim approval, “and then you can judge for + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “You can referee us, Jimmy,” said Dion, smiling, as he pulled on the + gloves. + </p> + <p> + “I say, by Jove, though!” said Jimmy, looking suddenly overwhelmed and + very respectful. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head and blushed, then abruptly grinned. + </p> + <p> + “The mater had better do that.” + </p> + <p> + They all laughed except Mrs. Clarke. Even Jenkins unbent, and his bass “Ha + ha!” rang through the large vaulted room. Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly, + scarcely changing the expression of her eyes. She looked unusually intent + and, when the smile was gone, more than usually grave. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don’t mind our staying just for a few minutes,” she said to + Dion. “You see what he is!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at her boy, but not with deprecation. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not, but I’m afraid it will bore you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, it won’t. I like to see skill of any kind.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at his arms. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll get out of your way. Come, Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + She took him by the arm and went back to the hard chair, while Dion and + Jenkins in the middle of the floor stood up opposite to one another. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got a watch, Master Jimmy?” said Jenkins, looking over his + shoulder at his pupil. + </p> + <p> + “Rather!” piped Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you’d better time us if you don’t referee us.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy sprang away from his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Keep out of our road, or you may chance to get a kidney punch that’ll + wind you. Better stand here. That’s it. Three-minute rounds. Keep your eye + on the watch.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to say ‘Go’?” almost whispered Jimmy, tense with a fearful + importance such as Caesar and Napoleon never felt. + </p> + <p> + “Who else? You don’t expect us to order ourselves about, do you?” + </p> + <p> + After a pause Jimmy murmured, “No” in a low voice. So might a mortal + whisper a reply when interrogated from Olympus as to his readiness to be + starter at a combat of the immortal gods. + </p> + <p> + “Now, then, watch in hand and no favoritism!” bellowed Jenkins, whose + sense of humor was as boisterous as his firmness was grim. “Are we ready?” + </p> + <p> + Dion and he shook hands formally and lifted their arms, gazing at each + other warily. Mrs. Clarke leaned forward in the chair which stood among + the dumb-bells. Jimmy perspired and his eyes became round. He had his + silver watch tight in his right fist. Jenkins suddenly turned his head and + stared with his shallow and steady blue eyes, looking down from Olympus + upon the speck of a mortal far below. + </p> + <p> + “Go!” piped Jimmy, in the voice of an ardent, but awestruck mouse. + </p> + <p> + Homeric was that combat in the Harrow Road; to its starter and timekeeper + a contest of giants, awful in force, in skill, in agility, in endurance. + Dion boxed quite his best that day, helped by his gallery. He fought to + win, but he didn’t win. Nobody won, for there was no knock-out blow given + and taken, and, when appealed to for a decision on points, Jimmy, + breathing stertorously from excitement, was quite unable to give the + award. He could only stare at the two glorious heroes before him and drop + the silver watch, glass downwards of course, on the floor, where its + tinkle told of destruction. Later on, when he spoke, he was able to say: + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” which he presently amplified into, “I say, mater, by Jove—eh, + wasn’t it, though?” + </p> + <p> + “Not so bad, sir!” said Jenkins to Dion, after the latter had taken the + shower bath. “You aren’t as stale as I expected to find you, not near as + stale. But I hope you’ll keep it up now you’ve started with it again.” + </p> + <p> + And Dion promised he would, put his bicycle on the top of a fourwheeler, + sent it off to Westminster, and walked as far as Claridge’s with Mrs. + Clarke and Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + The boy made him feel tremendously intimate with Mrs. Clarke. The + hero-worship he was receiving, the dancing of the blood through his veins, + the glow of hard exercise, the verdict of Jenkins on his physical + condition—all these things combined spurred him to a joyous + exuberance in which body and mind seemed to run like a matched pair of + horses in perfect accord. Although not at all a conceited man, the feeling + that he was being admired, even reverenced, was delightful to him, and + warmed his heart towards the jolly small boy who kept along by his side + through the busy streets. He and Jimmy talked in a comradely spirit, while + Mrs. Clarke seemed to listen like one who has things to learn. She was + evidently a capital walker in spite of her delicate appearance. To-day + Dion began to believe in her iron health, and, in his joy of the body, he + liked to think of it. After all delicacy, even in a woman, was a fault—a + fault of the body, a sort of fretful imperfection. + </p> + <p> + “Are you strong?” he said to her, when Jimmy’s voice ceased for a moment + to demand from him information or to pour upon him direct statement. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes. I’ve never been seriously ill in my life. Don’t I look strong?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think you do, but I feel as if you are.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the wiry kind of strength, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “The mater’s a stayer,” quoth Jimmy, and forthwith took up the wondrous + tale with his hero, who began to consult him seriously on the question of + “points.” + </p> + <p> + “If you’d had to give a decision, Jimmy, which of us would have got it, + Jenkins or I?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy looked very grave and earnest. + </p> + <p> + “It’s jolly difficult to tell a thing like that, isn’t it?” he said, after + a longish pause. “You see, you’re both so jolly strong, aren’t you?” + </p> + <p> + His dark eyes gazed at the bulk of Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Well, which is the quicker?” demanded Dion. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmy was not to be drawn. + </p> + <p> + “I think you’re both as quick as—as cats,” he returned + diplomatically, seeking anxiously for the genuine sporting comparison that + would be approved at the ring-side. “Don’t you, mater?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke huskily agreed. They were now nearing Claridge’s, and Jimmy + was insistent that Dion should come in and have a real jam tea with them. + </p> + <p> + “Do, Mr. Leith, if you have the time,” said Mrs. Clarke, but without any + pressure. + </p> + <p> + “The strawberry they have is ripping, I can tell you!” cried Jimmy, with + ardor. + </p> + <p> + But Dion refused. Till he was certain of Rosamund’s attitude he felt he + simply couldn’t accept Mrs. Clarke’s hospitality. He was obliged to get + home that day. Mrs. Clarke did not ask why, but Jimmy did, and had to be + put off with an evasion, the usual mysterious “business,” which, of + course, a small boy couldn’t dive into and explore. + </p> + <p> + Dion thought Mrs. Clarke was going to say good-by without any mention of + Rosamund, but when they reached Claridge’s she said: + </p> + <p> + “Your wife and I didn’t decide on a day for the Turkish songs. You + remember I mentioned them to you the other night? I can’t recollect + whether she left it to me to fix a time, or whether I left it to her. Can + you find out? Do tell her I was stupid and forgot. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + Dion said he would. + </p> + <p> + “I think they’ll interest her. Now, Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + But Jimmy hung on his god. + </p> + <p> + “I say, you’ll come again now! You promise!” + </p> + <p> + What could Dion do? + </p> + <p> + “You put your honor into it?” pursued Jimmy, with desperate earnestness. + “You swear?” + </p> + <p> + “If I swear in the open street the police will take me up,” said Dion + jokingly. + </p> + <p> + “Not they! One from the shoulder from you and I bet they lose enough + claret to fill a bucket. You’ve given your honor, hasn’t he, mater?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course we shall see him again,” said Mrs. Clarke, staring at Dion. + </p> + <p> + “What curious eyes she has!” Dion thought, as he walked homeward. + </p> + <p> + Did they ever entirely lose their under-look of distress? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + That evening Dion told Rosamund what Mrs. Clarke had said when he parted + from her at Claridge’s. + </p> + <p> + “I promised her I’d find out which it was,” he added. “Do you remember + what was said?” + </p> + <p> + After a minute of silence, during which Rosamund seemed to be considering + something, she answered: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Which was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither, Dion. Mrs. Clarke has made a mistake. She certainly spoke of + some Turkish songs for me, but there was never any question of fixing a + day for us to try them over together.” + </p> + <p> + “She thinks there was.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s difficult to remember exactly what is said, or not said, in the + midst of a crowd.” + </p> + <p> + “But you remember?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you’d rather not try them over?” + </p> + <p> + “After what you’ve told me about Constantinople I expect I should be quite + out of sympathy with Turkish music,” she answered, lightly and smiling. + “Let us be true to our Greek ideal.” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to be in fun, but he detected firmness of purpose behind the + fun. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I say to Mrs. Clarke?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I should just leave it. Perhaps she’ll forget all about it.” + </p> + <p> + Dion was quite sure that wouldn’t happen, but he left it. Rosamund had + determined not to allow Mrs. Clarke to be friends with her. He wished very + much it were otherwise, not because he really cared for Mrs. Clarke, but + because he liked her and Jimmy, and because he hated the idea of hurting + the feelings of a woman in Mrs. Clarke’s rather unusual situation. He + might, of course, have put his point of view plainly to Rosamund at once. + Out of delicacy he did not do this. His great love for Rosamund made him + instinctively very delicate in all his dealings with her; it told him that + Rosamund did not wish to discuss her reasons for desiring to avoid Mrs. + Clarke. She had had them, he believed, before Mrs. Clarke and she had met. + That meeting evidently had not lessened their force. He supposed, + therefore, that she had disliked Mrs. Clarke. He wondered why, and tried + to consider Mrs. Clarke anew. She was certainly not a disagreeable woman. + She was very intelligent, thoroughbred, beautiful in a peculiar way,—even + Rosamund thought that,—ready to make herself pleasant, quite free + from feminine malice, absolutely natural, interested in all the really + interesting things. Beattie liked her; Daventry rejoiced in her; Mrs. + Chetwinde was her intimate friend; Esme Darlington had even made + sacrifices for her; Bruce Evelin—— + </p> + <p> + There Dion’s thought was held up, like a stream that encounters a barrier. + What did Bruce Evelin think of Mrs. Clarke? He had not gone to the trial. + But since he had retired from practise at the Bar he had never gone into + court. Dion had often heard him say he had had enough of the Law Courts. + There was no reason why he should have been drawn to them for Mrs. + Clarke’s sake, or even for Daventry’s. But what did he think of Mrs. + Clarke? Dion resolved to tell him of the rather awkward situation which + had come about through his own intimacy—it really amounted to that—with + Mrs. Clarke, and Rosamund’s evident resolve to have nothing to do with + her. + </p> + <p> + One day Dion went to Great Cumberland Place and told Bruce Evelin all the + facts, exactly what Mrs. Clarke had said and done, exactly what Rosamund + had said and done. As he spoke it seemed to him that he was describing a + sort of contest, shadowy, perhaps, withdrawn and full of reserves, yet + definite. + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of it?” he said, when he had told the comparatively + little there was to tell. + </p> + <p> + “I think Rosamund likes to keep her home very quiet, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I do.” + </p> + <p> + “Even her friends complain that she shuts them out.” + </p> + <p> + “I know they do.” + </p> + <p> + “She may not at all dislike Mrs. Clarke. She may simply not wish to add to + her circle of friends.” + </p> + <p> + “The difficulty is, that Mrs. Clarke is such friends with Beattie and Guy, + and that I’ve got to know her quite well. Then there’s her boy; he’s taken + a fancy to me. If Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund could just exchange calls it + would be all right, but if they don’t it really looks rather as if + Rosamund—well, as if she thought the divorce case had left a slur on + Mrs. Clarke. What I mean is, that I feel Mrs. Clarke will take it in that + way.” + </p> + <p> + “She may, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why she is so determined to make friends with Rosamund,” blurted + out Dion abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “You think she is determined?” said Bruce Evelin quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Telling you had made me feel that quite plainly.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, she’ll be gone back to Constantinople in April, and then your + little difficulty will come to an end automatically.” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked rather hard at Bruce Evelin. When he spoke to Rosamund of Mrs. + Clarke, Rosamund always seemed to try for a gentle evasion. Now Bruce + Evelin was surely evading the question, and again Mrs. Clarke was the + subject of conversation. Bruce Evelin was beginning to age rather + definitely. He had begun to look older since Beattie was married. But his + dark eyes were still very bright and keen, and one could not be with him + for even a few minutes without realizing that his intellect was sharply + alert. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it strange that she should go back to live in Constantinople?” Dion + said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Not many women in her position would do it.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet there’s reason in her contention that an innocent woman who + allows herself to be driven away from the place she lived in is a bit of a + coward.” + </p> + <p> + “Beadon Clarke’s transferred to Madrid, so Mrs. Clarke’s reason—it + was a diplomatic one—for living in Constantinople falls to the + ground.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s true. But of course her husband and she have parted. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally. So she has the world to choose from.” + </p> + <p> + “For a home, you mean? Yes. It’s an odd choice, Constantinople. But she’s + not an ordinary woman.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I suppose not,” said Bruce Evelin. + </p> + <p> + Again Dion was definitely conscious of evasion. He got up to go away, + feeling disappointed. + </p> + <p> + “Then you advise me to do nothing?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What about, my boy?” + </p> + <p> + “About Mrs. Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + “What could you do?” + </p> + <p> + Dion was silent. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s better to let women settle these little things among + themselves. They have a deep and comprehensive understanding of trifles + which we mostly lack. How’s Robin?” + </p> + <p> + Robin again! Was he always to be the buffer between 5 Little Market Street + and Mrs. Clarke? + </p> + <p> + “He’s well and tremendously lively, and I honestly think he’s growing + better looking.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear little chap!” said Bruce Evelin, with a very great tenderness in his + voice. “Dion, we shall have to concentrate on Robin.” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked at him with inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Beattie, I don’t think she’ll have a child.” + </p> + <p> + “Beattie! Not ever?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid not.” + </p> + <p> + Dion was shocked and startled. + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t heard a word—” he began. + </p> + <p> + “No. Both Beattie and Guy feel it terribly. I had a talk with Beattie’s + doctor to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “How dreadful! I’m sorry. But——” He paused. + </p> + <p> + He didn’t like to ask intimate questions about Beattie. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid it is so,” said Bruce Evelin. “You must let us all have a + share in your Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke very quietly, but there was a very deep, even intense, feeling in + his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Beattie!” Dion said. + </p> + <p> + And that, too, was an evasion. + </p> + <p> + He went away from Great Cumberland Place accompanied by a sense of + walking, not perhaps in darkness, but in a dimness which was not + delicately beautiful like the dimness of twilight, but was rather akin to + the semi-obscurity of fog. + </p> + <p> + Not a word more was said about Mrs. Clarke between Rosamund and Dion, and + the latter never let Mrs. Clarke know about the Turkish songs, never + fulfilled his undertaking to go and see Jimmy again. In a contest he could + only be on Rosamund’s side. The whole matter seemed to him unfortunate, + even almost disagreeable, but, for him, there could be no question as to + whether he wished Rosamund’s or Mrs. Clarke’s will to prevail. Whatever + Rosamund’s reason was for not choosing to be friends with Mrs. Clark he + knew it was not malicious or petty. Perhaps she had made a mistake about + Mrs. Clarke. If so it was certainly an honest mistake. It was when he + thought of his promise to Jimmy that he felt most uncomfortable about + Rosamund’s never expressed decision. Jimmy had a good memory. He would not + forget. As to Mrs. Clarke, of course she now fully understood that Mrs. + Dion Leith did not want to have anything to do with her. She continued to + go often to Beattie and Daventry, consolidated her friendship with them. + But Dion never met her in De Lorne Gardens. From Daventry he learnt that + Mrs. Clarke had been extraordinarily kind to Beattie when Beattie’s + expectation of motherhood had faded away. Bruce Evelin’s apprehension was + well founded. For reasons which Daventry did not enter into Beattie could + never now hope to have a child. Daventry was greatly distressed about it, + but rather for Beattie’s sake than for his own. + </p> + <p> + “I married Beattie because I loved her, not because I wanted to become a + father,” he said. + </p> + <p> + After a long pause he added, almost wistfully. + </p> + <p> + “As to Beattie’s reasons for marrying me, well, Dion, I haven’t asked what + they were and I never shall. Women are mysterious, and I believe it’s + wisdom on our part not to try to force the locks and look into the hidden + chambers. I’ll do what I can to make up to Beattie for this terrible + disappointment. It won’t be nearly enough, but that isn’t my fault. + Rosamund and you can help her a little.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” + </p> + <p> + “She—she’s extraordinarily fond of Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Extraordinarily?” said Dion, startled almost by Daventry’s peculiar + emphasis on the word. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Let her see a good deal of Robin if you can. Poor Beattie! She’ll + never have a child of her own to live in.” + </p> + <p> + Dion told Rosamund of this conversation, and they agreed to encourage + Beattie to come to Little Market Street as often as possible. Nevertheless + Beattie did not come very often. It was obvious that she adored Robin, who + was always polite to her; but perhaps delicacy of feeling kept her from + making perpetual pilgrimages to the shrine before which an incense not + hers was forever ascending; or perhaps she met a gaunt figure of Pain in + the home of her sister. However it was, her visits were rather rare, and + no persuasion availed to make her come oftener. At this time she and + Dion’s mother drew closer together, The two women loved and understood + each other well. Perhaps between them there was a link of loneliness, or + perhaps there was another link. + </p> + <p> + Early in April Dion received one morning the following letter: + </p> + <p> + “CLARIDGE’S HOTEL 6 April + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MR. LEITH,—I feel pretty rotten about you. I thought when once + a clever boxer gave his honor on a thing it was a dead cert. The mater + wouldn’t let me write before, though I’ve been at her over it every day + for weeks. But now we’re going away, so she says I may write and just tell + you. If you want to say good-by could you telephone, she says. P’raps you + don’t. P’raps you’ve forgotten us. I can tell you Jenkins is sick about it + all and your never going to the Gim. He said to me to-day, ‘I don’t know + what’s come over Mr. Leith.’ No more do I. The mater says you’re a busy + man and have a kid. I say a true friend is never too busy to be friendly. + I really do feel rotten over it, and now we are going.—Your + affectionate JIMMY.” + </p> + <p> + Dion showed Rosamund the letter, and telephoned to say he would call on + the following day. Jimmy’s voice answered on the telephone and said: + </p> + <p> + “I say, you have been beastly to us. The mater says nothing, but we + thought you liked us. Jenkins says that between boxers there’s always a—” + </p> + <p> + At this point Jimmy was cut off in the flow of his reproaches. + </p> + <p> + On arriving at Claridge’s Dion found Jimmy alone. Mrs. Clarke was out but + would return in a moment. Jimmy received his visitor not stiffly but with + exuberant and vociferous reproaches, and vehement demands to know the why + and wherefore of his unsportsmanlike behavior. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve ordered you a real jam tea all the same,” he concluded, with a + magnanimity which did him honor, and which, as he was evidently aware, + proved him to be a true sportsman. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a trump,” said Dion, pulling the boy down beside him on a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—but I say, why didn’t you come?” + </p> + <p> + He stared with the mercilessly inquiring eyes of boyhood. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I ever said on my honor that I would come.” + </p> + <p> + “But you did. You swore.” + </p> + <p> + “No. I was afraid of the policeman.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, what rot! As if you could be afraid of any one! Why, Jenkins says + you’re the best pupil he’s ever had. Why didn’t you? Don’t you like us?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do.” + </p> + <p> + “The mater says you’re married, and married men have no time to bother + about other people’s kids. Is that true?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, of course there’s a lot to be done in London, and I go to business + every day.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a kid, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a boy, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I say, how old is it?” + </p> + <p> + “A year and a month old, or a little over.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy’s face expressed satire. + </p> + <p> + “A year and a month!” he repeated. “Is that all? Then it can’t be much + good yet, can it?” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t box or do exercise as you can. You are getting broad.” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Box? I should think not! A kid of a year old boxing! I should + like to see it with Jenkins.” + </p> + <p> + He begin to giggle. By the time Mrs. Clarke returned and they sat down to + the real jam tea, the ice was in fragments. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you were right, mater, and it was all the kid that prevented + Mr. Leith from sticking to his promise,” Jimmy announced, as he helped + Dion to “the strawberry,” with a liberality which betokened an affection + steadfast even under the stress of blighting circumstances. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I was right,” returned his mother gravely. + </p> + <p> + Dion was rather glad that she looked away from him as she said it. + </p> + <p> + Her manner to him was unchanged. Evidently she was a woman not quick to + take offense. He liked that absence of all “touchiness” from her, and felt + that a man could rest comfortably on her good breeding. But this very good + breeding increased within him a sense of discomfort which amounted almost + to guilt. He tried to smother it by being very jolly with Jimmy, to whom + he devoted most of his attention. When tea was over Mrs. Clarke said to + her son: + </p> + <p> + “Now, Jimmy, you must go away for a little while and let me have a talk + with Mr. Leith.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mater, that’s not fair. Mr. Leith’s my pal. Aren’t you, Mr. Leith? + Why, even Jenkins says—” + </p> + <p> + “I should rather think so. Why—” + </p> + <p> + “You shall see Mr. Leith again before he goes.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at his mother, suddenly became very grave, and went slowly out + of the room. It was evident to Dion that Mrs. Clarke knew how to make + people obey her when she was in earnest. + </p> + <p> + As soon as Jimmy had gone Mrs. Clarke rang for the waiter to take away the + tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “Then we shan’t be bothered,” she remarked. “I hate people coming in and + out when I’m trying to have a quiet talk.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + The waiter rolled the table out gently and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke sat down on a sofa. + </p> + <p> + “Do light a cigar,” she said. “I know you want to smoke, and I’ll have a + cigarette.” + </p> + <p> + She drew out of a little case which lay on a table beside her a Turkish + cigarette and lit it, while Dion lighted a cigar. + </p> + <p> + “So you’re really going back to Constantinople?” he began. “Are you taking + Jimmy with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for a time. My husband raises no objection. In a year I shall send + Jimmy to Eton. Lady Ermyntrude is furious, of course, and has tried to + stir up my husband. But her influence with him is dead. He’s terribly + ashamed at what she made him do.” + </p> + <p> + “The action?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It was she who made him think me guilty against his real inner + conviction. Now, poor man, he realizes that he dragged me through the dirt + without reason. He’s ashamed to show his face in the Clubs, and nearly + resigned from diplomacy. But he’s a valuable man, and they’ve persuaded + him to go to Madrid.” + </p> + <p> + “Why go back to Constantinople?” + </p> + <p> + “Merely to show I’m not afraid to and that I won’t be driven from my + purpose by false accusations.” + </p> + <p> + “And you love it, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. My flat will be charming, I think. Some day you’ll see it.” + </p> + <p> + Dion was silent in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you realize that?” she asked, staring at him. + </p> + <p> + “I think it very improbable that I shall ever go back to Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “And I’m sure you will.” + </p> + <p> + “Why are you sure?” + </p> + <p> + “That I can’t tell you. Why is one sometimes sure that certain things will + come about?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you claim to be psychic?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “I never make verbal claims. Now about Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + She discussed for a little while seriously her plans for the boy’s + education while he stayed with her. She had found a tutor, a young Oxford + man, who would accompany them to Turkey, but she wanted Dion’s advice on + certain points. He gave it, wondering all the time why she consulted him + after his neglect of her and of her son, after his failure to accept + invitations and to fulfil pledges (or to stick to the understandings which + were almost pledges), after the tacit refusals of Rosamund. Did it not + show a strange persistence, even a certain lack of pride in her? Perhaps + she heard the haunting questions which he did not utter, for she suddenly + turned from the topic of the boy and said: + </p> + <p> + “You’re surprised at my bothering you with all this when we really know + each other so slightly. It is unconventional; but I shall never learn the + way to conventionality in spite of all poor Esme’s efforts to shepherd me + into the path he thinks narrow and I find broad—a way that leads to + destruction. I feel you absolutely understand boys, and know by instinct + the best way with them. That’s why I <i>still</i> come to you.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. She had deliberately driven home her meaning by a stress on + one word. Now she sat looking at him, with a wide-eyed and deeply grave + fixity, as if considering what more she should say. Dion murmured + something about being very glad if he could help her in any way with + regard to Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + “You can be conventional,” she remarked. “Well, why not? Most English + people are perpetually playing for safety.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you wouldn’t go back to Constantinople,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe it’s a mistake. It seems to me like throwing down a defiance to + your world.” + </p> + <p> + “But I never play for safety.” + </p> + <p> + “But think of the danger you’ve passed through.” + </p> + <p> + The characteristic distressed look deepened in her eyes till they seemed + to him tragic. Nevertheless, fearlessness still looked out of them. + </p> + <p> + “What shall I gain by doing that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Esme Darlington once said you were a wild mind in an innocent body. I + believe he was right. But it seems to me that some day your wild mind may + get you into danger again and that perhaps you won’t escape from it + unscathed a second time.” + </p> + <p> + “How quiet and safe it must be at Number 5!” she rejoined, without any + irony. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t care for that sort of life. You’d find it humdrum,” said + Dion, with simplicity. + </p> + <p> + “You never would,” she said, still without irony, without even the hint of + a sneer. “And the truth is that the humdrum is created not by a way of + living but by those who follow it. Your wife and the humdrum could never + occupy the same house. I shall always regret that I didn’t see something + of her. Do give her a cordial ‘au revoir’ from me. You’ll hear of me + again. Don’t be frightened about me in your kind of chivalrous heart. I am + grateful to you for several things. I’m not going to give the list now. + That would either bore you, or make you feel shy. Some day, perhaps, I + shall tell you what they are, in a caique on the sweet waters of Asia or + among the cypresses of Eyub.” + </p> + <p> + With the last sentence she transported Dion, as on a magic carpet, to the + unwise life. Her husky voice changed a little; her face changed a little + too; the one became slower and more drowsy; the other less haggard and + fixed in its expression of distress. This woman had her hours of + happiness, perhaps even of exultation. For a moment Dion envisaged another + woman in her. And when he had bidden her good-by, and had received the + tremendous farewells of Jimmy, he realized that she had made upon him an + impression which, though soft, was certainly deep. He thought of how a + cushion looks when it lies on a sofa in an empty room, indented by the + small head of a woman who has been thinking, thinking alone. For a moment + he was out of shape, and Mrs. Clarke had made him so. + </p> + <p> + In the big hall, as he passed out, he saw Lord Brayfield standing in front + of the bureau speaking to the hall porter. + </p> + <p> + “Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you what they are, in a caique on the + sweet waters of Asia or among the cypresses of Eyub.” + </p> + <p> + Dion smiled as he recalled Mrs. Clarke’s words, which had been spoken + fatalistically. Then his face became very grave. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly there dawned upon him, like a vision in the London street, one of + the vast Turkish cemeteries, dusty, forlorn, disordered, yet full of a + melancholy touched by romance; and among the thousands of graves, through + the dark thickets of cypresses, he was walking with Mrs. Clarke, who + looked exactly like Echo. + </p> + <p> + A newsboy at the corner was crying his latest horror—a woman found + stabbed in Hyde Park. But to Dion his raucous and stunted voice sounded + like a voice from the sea, a strange and sad cry lifted up between Europe + and Asia. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK III — LITTLE CLOISTERS + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + More than a year and a half passed away, and in the autumn of 1899 the + Boer War broke out and the face of England was changed; for the heart of + England began to beat more strongly than usual, and the soul of England + was stirred. The winter came, and in many Englishmen a hidden conflict + began; in their journey through life they came abruptly to a parting of + the ways, stood still and looked to the right and the left, balancing + possibilities, searching their natures and finding within them strange + hesitations, recoils, affirmations, determined nobilities. + </p> + <p> + Dion had followed the events which led up to the fateful decision of + Wednesday, October the eleventh, with intense interest. As the October + days drew on he had felt the approach of war. It came up, this footfall of + an enemy, it paced at his side. Would he presently be tried by this enemy, + would it test him and find out exactly what metal he was made of? He + wondered, but from the moment when the first cloud showed itself on the + horizon he had a presentiment that this distant war was going to have a + strong effect on his life. + </p> + <p> + On the afternoon of October the eleventh he walked slowly home from the + City alone. There was excitement in the air. The voices of the newsvendors + sounded fateful in his ears; the faces of the passers-by looked unusually + eager and alert. As he made his way through the crowd he did not debate + the rights and wrongs of the question about to be decided between Briton + and Boer. His mind avoided thoughts about politics. For him, perhaps + strangely, the issue had already narrowed down to a personal question: + “What is this war going to mean to me?” + </p> + <p> + He asked himself this; he put the question again and again. Nevertheless + it was answered somewhere within him almost as soon as it was put. If + there came a call for volunteers he would be one of the many who would + answer it. The call might not come, of course; the war might be short, a + hole-and-corner affair soon ended. He told himself that, and, as he did + so, he felt sure that the call would come. + </p> + <p> + He knew he would not hold back; but he knew also that his was not the + eagerness to go of the man assumed by journalists to be the typical + Englishman. He was not mad to plunge into the great game, reckless of the + future and shouting for the fray. He was not one of the “hard-bitten + raw-boned men with keen eyes and ready for anything” beloved of the + journalists, who loom so large in the public eye when “big things are + afoot.” On that autumn evening, as he walked homeward, Dion knew the + bunkum that is given out to the world as truth, knew that brave men have + souls undreamed of in newspaper offices. He perceived the figure of war + just then as a figure terribly austere, grim, cold, harsh—a figure + stripped of all pleasant flesh and sweet coloring, of all softness and + warm humanity. It accompanied him like an iron thing which nevertheless + was informed with life. Joy withered beside it, yet it had the power to + make things bloom. Already he knew that as he had not known it before. + </p> + <p> + In the crowded Strand the voices of the newsvendors were insistently + shrill, raucous, almost fierce. As he heard them he faced tests. Many + things were going to be put to the test in the almost immediate future. + Among them perhaps would be Rosamund’s exact feeling for him. + </p> + <p> + Upon the hill of Drouva they had slept in the same tent, husband and wife, + more than three years ago; in green and remote Elis they had sat together + before the Hermes, hidden away from the world and hearing the antique + voices; in Westminster Robin was theirs; yet this evening, facing in + imagination the tests of war, Dion knew that Rosamund’s exact feeling for + him was still a secret from him. If he went to South Africa that secret + must surely be revealed. Rosamund would inevitably find out then the + nature of her feeling for him, how much she cared, and even if she did not + tell him how much she cared he would know, he could not help knowing. + </p> + <p> + He knew with a terrible thoroughness this evening how much he cared for + her. + </p> + <p> + He considered Robin. + </p> + <p> + Robin was now more than two and a half years old; a personage in a jersey + and minute knickerbockers, full of dancing energy and spirits, full of + vital interest in the smaller problems of life. He was a fidget and he was + a talker. Out of a full mind he poured forth an abundant stream of words, + carelessly chosen at times, yet on the whole apt to the occasion. His + intelligence was marked, of course,—what very young child’s is not?—and + he had inherited an ample store of the <i>joie de vivre</i> which + distinguished his mother. The homeliness of feature which had marked him + out in the baldhead stage of his existence had given place to a dawning of + what promised to be later on distinct good looks. Already he was an + attractive-looking child, with a beautiful mouth, a rather short and at + present rather snub nose, freckled on the bridge, large blue eyes, and a + forehead, temples and chin which hinted at Rosamund’s. His hair was now + light brown, and had a bold, almost an ardent, wave in it. Perhaps Robin’s + most marked characteristic at this time was ardor. Occasionally the mildly + inquiring expression which Dion had been touched by in the early days came + to his little face. He could be very gentle and very clinging, and was + certainly sensitive. Often imagination, in embryo as it were, was shown by + his eyes. But ardor informed and enveloped him, he swam in ardor and of + ardor he was all compact. Even the freckles which disfigured, or adorned, + the bridge of his nose looked ardent. Rosamund loved those freckles in a + way she could never have explained, loved them with a strength and + tenderness which issued from the very roots of her being. To her they were + Robin, the dearest part of the dearest thing on earth. Many of her kisses + had gone to those little freckles. + </p> + <p> + Dion might have to part not only from Rosamund but also from Robin. + </p> + <p> + He had become very fond of his little son. The detachment which had + perhaps marked his mental attitude to the baby did not mark his mental + attitude to the boy. In the Robin of to-day, the jerseyed and + knickerbockered person, with the incessantly active legs, the eager eyes, + the perpetually twittering voice, Dion was conscious of the spirit of + progress. Already he was able to foresee the small school-boy, whom only a + father could properly help and advise in regard to many aspects of the + life ahead; already he was looking forward to the time when he could take + a hand in the training of Robin. It would be very hard to go away from + that little bit of quicksilver, very hard indeed. + </p> + <p> + But the thought which made his heart sink, which brought with it almost a + sensation of mortal sickness to his soul, was the thought of parting from + Rosamund. As he walked down Parliament Street he imagined the good-by to + her on the eve of sailing for South Africa. That acute moment might never + come. This evening he felt it on the way. Whatever happened it would be + within his power to stay with Rosamund, for there was no conscription in + England. If he went to South Africa then the action of leaving her would + be deliberate on his part. Was there within him something that was + stronger than his love for her? There must be, he supposed, for he knew + that if men were called for, and if Rosamund asked, or even begged him not + to go, he would go nevertheless. + </p> + <p> + Vaporous Westminster, dark and leaning to the great river, for how long he + had not seen it, or realized what it meant to him! Custom had blinded his + eyes and had nearly closed his mind to it. The day’s event had given him + back sight and knowledge. This evening his familiarity with Westminster + bred in him intensity of vision and apprehension. It seemed to him that + scales had fallen from his eyes, that for the first time he really saw + Parliament Street, the Houses of Parliament, Westminster Bridge, the + river. The truth was, that for the first time he really felt them, felt + that he belonged to them and they to him, that their blackness in the + October evening was part of the color of him, that the Westminster sounds, + chimes, footfalls, the dull roar of traffic, human voices from street, + from bridge, from river, harmonized with the voices in him, in the very + depths of him. This was England, this closeness, this harmony of the outer + to and with the inner, this was England saying to one of her sons, “You + belong to me and I to you.” The race spoke and the land, they walked with + Dion in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + For he did not go straight home. He walked for a long time beside the + river. By the river he kissed Robin and he said good-by to Rosamund, by + the river he climbed upon the troopship, and he saw the fading of England + on the horizon, and he felt the breath of the open sea. And in the midst + of a crowd of men going southward he knew at last what loneliness was. The + lights that gleamed across the river were the last lights of England that + he would see for many a day, perhaps forever; the chime from the + clock-tower was the last of the English sounds. He endured in imagination + a phantom bitterness of departure which seemed abominably real; then + suddenly he was recalled from a possible future to the very definite + present. + </p> + <p> + He met by the river two men, sleek people in silk hats, with plump hands—hands + which looked as if they were carefully fed on very nutritious food every + day by their owners—warmly covered. As they passed him one of those + know-alls said to the other: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, it’ll only be a potty little war. What can a handful of peasants do + against our men? I’ll lay you five to one in sovereigns two months will + see it out.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you will,” returned the other, in a voice that was surely + smiling, “but I won’t take you.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove, what a plunger I am!” thought Dion. “Racing ahead like a horse + that’s lost his wits. Ten to one they’ll never want volunteers.” + </p> + <p> + But Westminster still looked exceptional, full of the inner meaning, and + somewhere within him a voice still said, “You will go.” Nevertheless he + was able partly to put off his hybrid feeling, half-dread, half-desire. + The sleek people in the silk hats had made their little effect on the + stranger. “The man in the street is often right,” Dion said to himself; + though he knew that the man in the street is probably there, and remains + there, because he is so often wrong. + </p> + <p> + When he reached Little Market Street Dion told Rosamund there would be war + in South Africa, but he did not even hint at his thought that volunteers + might be called for, at his intention, if they were, to offer himself. To + do that would not only be absurdly premature, but might even seem slightly + bombastic, an uncalled-for study in heroics. He kept silence. The battles + of Ladysmith, of Magersfontein, of Stormberg, of Colenso, unsettled the + theories of sleek people in silk hats. England came to a very dark hour + when Robin was playing with a new set of bricks which his Aunt Beattie had + given him. Dion began to understand the rightness of his instinct that + evening by the river, when Westminster had spoken to him and England had + whispered in his blood. As he had thought of things, so they were going to + be. The test was very great. It was as if already it stood by him, a + living entity, and touched him with an imperious hand. Sometimes he looked + at Rosamund and saw great stretches of sea rolling under great stretches + of sky. The barrier! How would he be able to bear the long separation from + Rosamund? The habit of happiness in certain circumstances can become the + scourge of a man. Men who were unhappy at home could go to war with a + lighter heart than he. + </p> + <p> + Just before Christmas the call for men came, and in Dion a hesitation was + born. Should he go and offer himself at once without telling Rosamund, or + should he tell her what he wished to do and ask her opinion? Suppose she + were against his going out? He could not ask her advice if he was not + prepared to take it. What line did he wish her to take? By what course of + action would such a woman as Rosamund prove depth of love? Wouldn’t it be + natural for a woman who loved a man to raise objections to his going out + to fight in a distant country? Wouldn’t she prove her love by raising + objections? On the other hand, wouldn’t a woman who loved a man in the + greatest way be driven by the desire to see him rise up in an emergency + and prove his manhood at whatever cost to her? + </p> + <p> + Dion wanted one thing of Rosamund at this moment, wanted it terribly, with + longing and with fear,—the proof absolute and unhesitating of her + love for him. + </p> + <p> + He decided to volunteer without telling her before hand that he meant to + do so. He told no one of his intention except his Uncle Biron, whom he was + obliged to consult as they were partners in business. + </p> + <p> + “You’re right, my boy,” said his uncle. “We’ll get on as best we can + without you. We shall miss you, of course. Since you’ve been married your + energy has been most praiseworthy, but, of course, the nation comes before + the firm. What does your mother say?” + </p> + <p> + Dion was struck with a sense of wonder by this question. Why didn’t his + uncle ask him what Rosamund had said? + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t spoken to her,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “She’ll wish you to go in spite of all,” said his uncle gravely. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t even spoken to Rosamund of my intention to enlist.” + </p> + <p> + His uncle looked surprised, even for a moment astonished, but he only + said: + </p> + <p> + “She’s rather on heroic lines, I should judge. There’s something spacious + in her nature.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He pledged his uncle to silence. Then they talked business. + </p> + <p> + From that moment Dion wondered how his mother would take his decision. + That he had not wondered before proved to himself the absorbing character + of his love for his wife. He loved his mother very much, yet, till his + uncle had spoken about her in the office, he had only thought about + Rosamund in connection with his decision to enlist. The very great thing + had swallowed up the big thing. There is something ruthless, almost at + moments repellent, in the very great thing which rules in a man’s life. + But his mother would never know. + </p> + <p> + That was what he said to himself, unconscious of the fact that his mother + had known and had lived alone with her knowledge for years. + </p> + <p> + He offered himself for service in South Africa with the City Imperial + Volunteers. The doctor passed him. He was informed that he would be sworn + in at the Guildhall on 4th January. The great step was taken. + </p> + <p> + Why had he taken it without telling Rosamund he was going to take it? + </p> + <p> + As he came out into the dark winter evening he wondered about that almost + vaguely. He must have had a driving reason, but now he did not know what + it was. How was Rosamund going to take it? Suddenly he felt guilty, as if + he had done her a wrong. They were one flesh, and in such a vital matter + he had not consulted her. Wasn’t it abominable? + </p> + <p> + As soon as he was free he went straight home. + </p> + <p> + This time, as he walked homeward, Dion held no intercourse with + Westminster. If he heard the chimes, the voices, the footfalls, he was not + conscious of hearing them; if he saw the vapors from the river, the + wreaths of smoke from the chimneys, the lights gleaming in the near houses + and far away across the dark mystery of the water, he did not know that he + saw them. In himself he was imprisoned, and against the great city in + which he walked he had shut the doors. + </p> + <p> + He arrived at his house and put his hand in his pocket to get his + latch-key. Before he was able to draw it forth the green door was opened + and Beatrice came out. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she said, startled. + </p> + <p> + “You nearly ran over me!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked. “What have you done?” + </p> + <p> + “But—” + </p> + <p> + “I know!” she interrupted. + </p> + <p> + She put out her hand and took hold of his coat sleeve. The action was + startlingly impulsive in Beatrice, who was always so almost plaintive, so + restrained, so dim. + </p> + <p> + “But you can’t!” + </p> + <p> + “I do. You are going to South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + He said nothing. How could he tell Beatrice before he told Rosamund? + </p> + <p> + “When are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “Is Rosamund in the house, Beattie?” he asked, very gently. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice flushed deeply, painfully, and took her hand from his sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ve been playing with Robin, building castles with the new bricks. + Good-by, Dion.” + </p> + <p> + She went past him and down the small street rather quickly. He stood for a + moment looking after her; then he turned into the house. As he shut the + door he heard a chord struck on the piano upstairs in Rosamund’s + sitting-room. He took off his coat and hat and came into the little hall. + As he did so he heard Rosamund’s voice beginning to sing Brahms’s + “Wiegenlied” very softly. He guessed that she was singing to an audience + of Robin. The bricks had been put away after the departure of Aunt + Beattie, and now Robin was being sung towards sleep. How often would he be + sung to by Rosamund in the future when his father would not be there to + listen! + </p> + <p> + Robin was going to have his mother all to himself, and Rosamund was going + to have her little son all to herself. But they did not know that yet. The + long months of their sacred companionship stretched out before the father + as he listened to the lullaby, which he could only just hear. Rosamund had + mastered the art of withdrawing her voice and yet keeping it perfectly + level. + </p> + <p> + When the song was finished, whispered away into the spaces where music + disperses to carry on its sweet mission, Dion went up the stairs, opened + the door of Rosamund’s room, and saw something very simple, and, to him, + very memorable. Rosamund had turned on the music-stool and put her right + arm round Robin, who, in his minute green jersey and green knickerbockers, + stood leaning against her with the languid happiness and half-wayward + demeanor of a child who has been playing, and who already feels the + soothing influence of approaching night with its gift of profound sleep. + Robin’s cheeks were flushed, and in his blue eyes there was a curious + expression, drowsily imaginative, as if he were welcoming dreams which + were only for him. With a faint smile on his small rosy lips he was + listening while Rosamund repeated to him in English the words of the song + she had just been singing. Dion heard her say: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Sink to slumber, good-night, + And angels of light + With love you shall fold + As the Christ Child of old.” + </pre> + <p> + “There’s Fa!” whispered Robin, sending to Dion a semi-roguish look. + </p> + <p> + Dion held up his hand and formed “Hush!” with his lips. Rosamund finished + the verse: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “While the stars dimly shine + May no sorrow be thine.” + </pre> + <p> + She bent and kissed Robin on the top of his head just in the middle, + choosing the place, and into his hair she breathed a repetition of the + last words, “May no sorrow be thine.” + </p> + <p> + And Dion was going to the war. + </p> + <p> + Robin slipped from his mother’s arm gently and came to his father. + </p> + <p> + “‘Allo, Fa!” he observed confidentially. + </p> + <p> + Dion bent down. + </p> + <p> + “Hallo, Robin!” + </p> + <p> + He picked the little chap up and gave him a kiss. What a small bundle of + contentment Robin was at that moment. In South Africa Dion often + remembered just how Robin had felt to him then, intimate and a mystery, + confidential, sleepy with happiness, a tiny holder of the Divine, a + willing revelation and a soft secret. So much in so little! + </p> + <p> + “You’ve been playing with Aunt Beattie.” + </p> + <p> + Robin acknowledged it. + </p> + <p> + “Auntie’s putty good at bricks.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you meet Beattie, Dion?” asked Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “On the doorstep.” + </p> + <p> + He thought of Beattie’s question. There was no question in Rosamund’s + face. But perhaps his own face had changed. + </p> + <p> + A tap came to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Master Robin?” said nurse, in a voice that held both inquiry and an + admonishing sound. + </p> + <p> + When Robin had gone off to bed, walking vaguely and full of the + forerunners of dreams, Dion knew that his hour had come. He felt a sort of + great stillness within him, stillness of presage, perhaps, or of mere + concentration, of the will to be, to do, to endure, whatever came. + Rosamund shut down the lid of the piano and came away from the + music-stool. Dion looked at her, and thought of the maidens of the porch + and of the columns of the Parthenon. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund,” he said,—that stillness within him forbade any + preparation, any “leading up,”—“I’ve joined the City Imperial + Volunteers.” + </p> + <p> + “The City Imperial Volunteers?” she said. + </p> + <p> + He knew by the sound of her voice that she had not grasped the meaning of + what he had done. She looked surprised, and a question was in her brown + eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Why? What are they? I don’t understand. And the Artists’ Rifles?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got my transfer from them. I’ve joined for the war.” + </p> + <p> + “The war? Do you mean——?” + </p> + <p> + She came up to him, looking suddenly intent. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean you have volunteered for active service in South Africa?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Without consulting me?” + </p> + <p> + Her whole face reddened, almost as it had reddened when she spoke to him + about the death of her mother. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I haven’t signed on yet, but the doctor has passed me. I’m to be + sworn in at the Guildhall on the fourth, I believe. We shall sail very + soon, almost directly, I suppose. They want men out there.” + </p> + <p> + He did not know how bruskly he spoke; he was feeling too much to know. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t think you could do such a thing without speaking to me first. My + husband, and you——!” + </p> + <p> + She stopped abruptly, as if afraid of what she might say if she went on + speaking. Two deep lines appeared in her forehead. For the first time in + his life Dion saw an expression of acute hostility in her eyes. She had + been angry, or almost angry with him for a moment in Elis, when he broke + off the branch of wild olive; but she had not looked like this. There was + something piercing in her expression that was quite new to him. + </p> + <p> + “I felt I ought to do it,” he said dully. + </p> + <p> + “Did you think I should try to prevent you?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I scarcely knew what I thought.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you told your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I had to tell Uncle Biron because of the business. Nobody else + knows.” + </p> + <p> + And then suddenly he remembered Beattie. + </p> + <p> + “At least I haven’t told any one else.” + </p> + <p> + “But some one else does know—knew before I did.” + </p> + <p> + “I saw Beattie just now, as I said. I believe she guessed. I didn’t tell + her.” + </p> + <p> + “But how could she guess such a thing if you gave her no hint?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s just what I have been wondering.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was silent. She went away from him and stood by the fire, turning + her back to him. He waited for a moment, then he went to the hearth. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think perhaps it’s best for a man to decide such a thing quite + alone? It’s a man’s job, and each man must judge for himself what he ought + to do in such a moment. If you had asked me not to go I should have felt + bound to go all the same.” + </p> + <p> + “But I should have said ‘Go.’ Then you never understood me in Greece? All + our talks told you nothing about me? And now Robin is here—you + thought I should ask you not to go!” + </p> + <p> + She turned round. She seemed almost passionately surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps—in a way—I wished to think that.” + </p> + <p> + “Why? Did you wish to despise me?” + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund! As if I could ever do that.” + </p> + <p> + “If you did a despicable thing I should despise you.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t! I haven’t much more time here.” + </p> + <p> + “I never, never shall be able to understand how you could do this without + telling me beforehand that you were going to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “It wasn’t from any want of respect or love for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t talk about it any more just now.” + </p> + <p> + The flush on her face deepened. She turned and went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Dion was painfully affected. He had never before had a serious + disagreement with Rosamund. It was almost intolerable to have one now on + the eve of departure from her. He felt like one who had committed an + outrage out of the depths of a terrible hunger, a hunger of curiosity. He + knew now why he had volunteered for active service without consulting + Rosamund. Obscurely his nature had spoken, saying, “Put her to the test + and make the test drastic.” And he had obeyed the command. He had wanted + to know, to find out suddenly, in a moment, the exact truth of years. And + now he had roused a passion of anger in Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Her anger wrapped him in pain such as he had never felt till now. + </p> + <p> + The house seemed full of menace. In the little room the atmosphere was + changed. He looked round it and his eyes rested on the Hermes. He went up + to it and stood before it. + </p> + <p> + Instantly he felt again the exquisite calm of Elis. The face of the Hermes + made the thought of war seem horrible and ridiculous. Men had learnt so + much when Praxiteles created his Hermes, and they knew so little now. The + enigma of their violence was as great as the enigma of the celestial calm + which the old Greeks had perpetuated to be forever the joy and the rest of + humanity. And he, Dion, was going to take an active part in violence. The + unchanging serenity of the Hermes, which brought all Elis before him, with + its green sights and its wonderful sounds, of the drowsy insects in the + sunshine, of the sheep-bells, and of the pines whose voices hold within + them all the eternal secrets, increased the intensity of his misery. He + realized how unstable are the foundations of human happiness, and his + house of life seemed crumbling about him. + </p> + <p> + Presently he went downstairs to his room and wrote letters to his mother + and to Bruce Evelin, telling them what he had done. + </p> + <p> + When he had directed and stamped these letters he thought of Beattie and + Guy. Beattie knew. What was it which had led her so instantly to a + knowledge denied to Rosamund? Rosamund had evidently not noticed any + difference in him when he came in that evening. But, to be sure, Robin had + been there. + </p> + <p> + Robin had been there. + </p> + <p> + Dion sat before the writing-table for a long while doing nothing. Then a + clock struck. He had only half an hour to spare before dinner would be + ready. Quickly he wrote a few words to Beattie: + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR BEATTIE,—You were right. I have volunteered for active + service and shall soon be off to South Africa. I don’t know yet exactly + when we shall start, but I expect they’ll hurry us off as quickly as they + can. Men are wanted out there badly. Lots of fellows are coming forward. + I’ll tell you more when I see you again. Messages to Guy.—Yours + affectionately, + </p> + <p> + “DION” + </p> + <p> + It was not an eloquent letter, but Beattie would understand. Beattie was + not a great talker but she was a great understander. He went out to put + the three letters into the pillar-box. Then he hurried upstairs to his + dressing-room. For the first time in his life he almost dreaded spending + an evening alone with Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + He did not see her till he came into the drawing-room. As he opened the + door he saw her sitting by the fire reading, in a dark blue dress. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I’m late,” he said, as he walked to the hearth. “I wrote to + mother, Beattie and godfather to tell them what I was going to do.” + </p> + <p> + “What you had done,” she said quietly, putting down the book. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t actually been sworn in yet, but of course it is practically the + same thing.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her almost surreptitiously. She was very grave, but there was + absolutely nothing hostile or angry in her expression or manner. They went + into the dining-room, and talked together much as usual during dinner. As + soon as dinner was over, and the parlor-maid had gone out, having finished + her ministrations, which to Dion that night had seemed innumerable and + well-nigh unbearable, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I’m dreadfully sorry about to-day. I did the wrong thing in volunteering + without saying anything to you. Of course you were hurt and startled——” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was. I couldn’t help it, and I don’t think you ought to have done + what you did. But you have made a great sacrifice—very great. I only + want to think of that, Dion, of how much you are giving up, and of the + cause—our cause.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke very earnestly and sincerely, and her eyes looked serious and + very kind. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us go back to anything sad, or to any misunderstanding now,” + she continued. “You are doing an admirable thing, and I shall always be + glad you had the will to do it, were able to do it. Tell me everything. I + want to live in your new life as much as I can. I want you to feel me in + it as much as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “She has prayed over it. While I was writing my letters she was praying + over it.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Dion knew this as if Rosamund had opened her heart to him and had + told it. And immediately something which was like a great light seemed not + only to illumine the present moment but also to throw a piercing ray + backwards upon all his past life with Rosamund. In the light of this ray + he discerned a shadowy something, which stood between Rosamund and him, + keeping them always apart. It was a tremendous Presence; his feeling was + that it was the Presence of God. Abruptly he seemed to be aware that God + had always stood, was standing now, between him and his wife. He + remembered the words in the marriage service, “Those whom God hath joined + together let no man put asunder.” “But God,” he thought, “did not join us. + He stood between us always. He stands between us now.” It was an awful + thought. It was like a great blasphemy. He was afraid of it. And yet he + now felt that it was an old, old thought in his mind which only now had he + been able to formulate. He had known without knowing consciously, but now + he consciously knew. + </p> + <p> + He took care at this moment not to look at Rosamund. If he looked, surely + she would see in his eyes his terrible thought, the thought he was going + to carry with him to South Africa. Making a great effort he began to tell + her all that he knew about the C.I.V. They discussed matters in a + comradely spirit. Rosamund said many warm-hearted things, showed herself + almost eagerly solicitous. They went up to sit by the fire in her little + room. Dion smoked. They talked for a long time. Had any one been there to + listen he would probably have thought, “This man has got the ideal wife. + She’s a true comrade as well as a wife.” But all the time Dion kept on + saying to himself, “This is the result of her prayers before dinner. She + is being good.” Only when it was late, past their usual hour for going to + bed, did he feel that the strong humanity in Rosamund had definitely + gained ground, that she was being genuinely carried away by warm impulses + connected with dear England, our men, and with him. + </p> + <p> + When they got up at last to go to bed she exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “I shall always love what you have done, Dion. You know that.” + </p> + <p> + “But not the way of my doing it!” trembled on his lips. + </p> + <p> + He did not say it, however. Why lead her back even for a moment to + bitterness? + </p> + <p> + That night he lay with his thoughts, and in the darkness the ray was + piercing bright and looked keen like a sharpened sword. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + On the fourth of January Dion and about nine hundred other men were sworn + in at the Guildhall; on January the seventeenth, eight hundred of them, + including Dion, were presented with the Freedom of the City of London; on + the nineteenth they were equipped and attended a farewell service at St. + Paul’s Cathedral, after which they were entertained at supper, some at + Gray’s Inn and some at Lincoln’s Inn; on the twentieth they entrained for + Southampton, from which port they sailed in the afternoon for South + Africa. Dion was on board of the “Ariosto.” + </p> + <p> + Strangely, perhaps, he was almost glad when the ship cast off and the + shores of England faded and presently were lost beyond the horizon line. + He was alone now with his duty. Life was suddenly simplified. It was + better so. In the last days he had often felt confused, beset, had often + felt that he was struggling in a sea of complications which threatened to + overwhelm him. There had been too much to do and there had been too much + to endure; he had been obliged to be practical when he was feeling + intensely emotional. The effort to dominate and to conceal his emotion had + sometimes almost exhausted him in the midst of all he had had to do. He + had come to the knowledge of the fact that it is the work of the spirit + which leaves the whole man tired. He was weary, not from hard energies + connected with his new profession, not from getting up at dawn, marching + through dense crowds of cheering countrymen, traveling, settling in on + shipboard, but from farewells. He looked back now upon a sort of panorama + of farewells, of partings from his mother, his uncle, Bruce Evelin, Guy, + Beatrice, Robin, Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Quite possibly all these human companions had vanished out of his life for + ever. It was a tremendous thought, upon which he was resolved not to dwell + lest his courage and his energies might be weakened. + </p> + <p> + Through good-bys a man may come to knowledge, and Dion had, in these last + few days, gone down to the bedrock of knowledge concerning some of those + few who were intimately in his life—knowledge of them and also of + himself. Nobody had traveled to Southampton to see him off. He had a very + English horror of scenes, and had said all his good-bys in private. With + Bruce Evelin he had had a long talk; they had spoken frankly together + about the future of Rosamund and Robin in the event of his not coming + back. Dion had expressed his views on the bringing up of the boy, and, in + doing so had let Bruce Evelin into secrets of Greece. The father did not + expect, perhaps did not even desire, that the little son should develop + into a paragon, but he did desire for Rosamund’s child the strong soul in + the strong body, and the soft heart that was not a softy’s heart. + </p> + <p> + In that conversation Bruce Evelin had learnt a great deal about Dion. They + had spoken of Rosamund, perhaps more intimately than they had ever spoken + before, and Dion had said, “I’m bothering so much about Robin partly + because her life is bound up with Robin’s.” + </p> + <p> + “Several lives are bound up with that little chap’s,” Bruce Evelin had + said. + </p> + <p> + And a sudden sense of loneliness had come upon Dion. But he had only made + some apparently casual remark to the effect that he knew Bruce Evelin + would do his best to see that Robin came to no harm. No absurd and + unnecessary promises had been exchanged between the old and the young man. + Their talk had been British, often seemingly casual, and nearly always + touched with deep feeling. It had not opened to Dion new vistas of Bruce + Evelin. For a long time Dion had felt that he knew Bruce Evelin. But it + had given him a definite revelation of the strong faithfulness, the + tenacity of faithfulness in friendship, which was perhaps the keynote of + Bruce Evelin’s character. + </p> + <p> + The parting from Guy had been less eventful. Nevertheless it had helped to + get rid of certain faint misunderstandings which neither of the friends + had ever acknowledged. Since the Mrs. Clarke episode Dion had been aware + that Guy’s feeling towards him had slightly changed. They were such old + and tried friends that they would always care for each other, but Guy + could not help resenting Rosamund’s treatment of Mrs. Clarke, could not + help considering Dion’s acquiescence in it a sign of weakness. These + feelings, unexpressed, but understood by Dion, had set up a slight barrier + between the two young men; it had fallen when they said good-by. Mrs. + Clarke had been forgotten then by Guy, who had only remembered the gifts + of war, and that possibly this was his final sight of old Dion. All their + common memories had been with them when the last hand-clasp was given, and + perhaps only when their hands fell apart had they thoroughly tested at + last the strength of the link between them. They were friends for life + without knowing exactly why. Thousands of Englishmen were in the same + case. + </p> + <p> + Dion had gone to De Lorne Mansions to bid good-by to Beattie, and with + her, too, he had talked about Robin. Beattie had known when Dion was + coming, and had taken care to be alone. Always quiet, she had seemed to + Dion quieter even than usual in that final hour by the fire, almost + singularly timid and repressed. There had even been moments when she had + seemed to him cold. But the coldness—if really there had been any—had + been in her manner, perhaps in her voice, but had been absent from her + face. They had sat in the firelight, which Beattie was always fond of, and + Dion had not been able to see her quite clearly. If the electric light had + been turned on she might have told him more; but she surely would not have + told him of the quiet indifference which manner and voice and even + inexpressive attitude had seemed to be endeavoring to convey to him. For + Beattie’s only half-revealed face had looked eloquent in the firelight, + eloquent of a sympathy and even of a sorrow she had said very little + about. Whenever Dion had begun to feel slightly chilled he had looked at + her, and the face in the firelight had assured him. “Beattie does care,” + he had thought; and he had realized how much he wanted Beattie to care, + how he had come to depend upon Beattie’s sisterly affection and gentle but + deep interest in all the course of his life. + </p> + <p> + Quickly, too quickly, the moment had come for him to say the last word to + Beattie, and suddenly he had felt shy. It had seemed to him that something + in Beattie—he could not have said what—had brought about this + unusual sensation in him. He had got up abruptly with a “Well, I suppose I + must be off now!” and had thrust out his hand. He had felt that his manner + and action were almost awkward and hard. Beattie had got up too in a way + that looked listless. + </p> + <p> + “Are you well, Beattie?” he had asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite well.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you are tired?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “I fancied—well, good-by, Beattie.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Dion.” + </p> + <p> + That had been all. At the door he had looked round, and had seen Beattie + standing with her back to him and her face to the firelight, stooping + slightly, and he had felt a strong impulse to go to her again, and to—he + hardly knew what—to say good-by again, perhaps, in a different, more + affectionate or more tender way. But he had not done it. Instead he had + gone out and had shut the door behind him very quietly. It was odd that + Beattie had not even looked after him. Surely people generally did that + when a friend was going away, perhaps for ever. But Beattie was different + from other people, and somehow he was quite sure she cared. + </p> + <p> + The three last good-bys had been said to his mother, Robin and Rosamund, + in Queen Anne’s Mansions and Little Market Street. He had stayed with his + mother for nearly two hours. She had a very bad cold, unbecoming, + complicated with fits of sneezing, a cold in the “three handkerchiefs an + hour” stage. And this commonplace malady had made him feel very tender + about her, and oddly pitiful about all humanity, including, of course, + himself. While they talked he had thought several times, “It’s hard to see + mother in such a state when perhaps I shall never see her again. I don’t + want to remember her with a cold.” And the thought, “I shan’t be here to + see her get well,” had pained him acutely. + </p> + <p> + “I’m looking and feeling glazed, dee-ar,” had been her greeting to him. + “My nose is shiny and my mind is woolly. I don’t think you ought to kiss + me or talk to me.” + </p> + <p> + And then he had kissed her, and they had talked, intimately, sincerely. In + those last hours mercifully Dion had not felt shy with his mother. But + perhaps this was because she was never shy, not even in tenderness or in + sorrow. She was not afraid of herself. They had even been able to discuss + the possibility of his being killed in the war, and Mrs. Leith had been + quite simple about it, laying aside all her usual elaboration of manner. + </p> + <p> + “The saddest result of such an honorable and noble end would be the loss + to Robin, I think,” she had said. + </p> + <p> + “To Robin? But he’s got such a mother!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he doesn’t need, won’t need much more later on, the father + he’s got? Dion, my son, humility is a virtue, no doubt, but I don’t + believe in excess even in the practice of virtue, and sometimes I think + you do.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “This going to the war is a splendid thing for you. I wouldn’t have you + out of it even though——” + </p> + <p> + Here she had been overcome by a tremendous fit of sneezing from which she + had emerged with the smiling remark: + </p> + <p> + “I’m not permitted to improve the occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I know what you mean. Perhaps you’re right, mother. You’re + cleverer than I am. Still I can’t help seeing that Robin’s got a mother + such as few children have. Look round at all the mothers you know in + London!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Rosamund was created to be a mother. But just to-day I want to look + at Robin’s father.” + </p> + <p> + And so they had talked of him. + </p> + <p> + That talk had done Dion good. It had set his face towards a shining + future. If he came back from the war he now felt, through the feeling of + his mother, that he would surely come back tempered, tried, better fitted + to Robin’s uses, more worthy of any woman’s gift of herself. Without + preaching, even without being remarkably definite, his mother had made him + see in this distant war a great opportunity, not to win a V.C. or any + splashing honor that would raise him up in the eyes of the world, but to + reach out and grip hold of his own best possibilities. Had his mother done + even more than this? Had she set before him some other goal which the war + might enable him to gain if he had not already gained it? Had she been + very subtle when seeming to be very direct? Even when she held him in her + arms—despite the cold!—and gave him the final kiss and + blessing, he was not sure. If it had been done it had been done with + extraordinary delicacy, with the marvelous cunning of clever love which + knows how to avoid all the pitfalls. And it had been done, too, with the + marvelous unselfishness of which, perhaps, only the highest type of + mother-love is capable. + </p> + <p> + After he had left his mother, and was just going out of the flat, Dion had + heard through the half-open door a sound, a ridiculous sound, which had + made him love her terribly, and with the sudden yearning which is the + keenest pain of the heart because it defines all the human limitations: + she was sneezing again violently. As he shut the front door, “If she were + to die while I’m away, and I were to come back!” had stabbed his mind. + Outside in the court he had gazed up at the towering rows of lighted + windows and had said another good-by out there. + </p> + <p> + Shutting his eyes for a moment as the “Ariosto” plowed her way onwards + through a rather malignant sea, Dion saw again those rows of lighted + windows, and he wondered, almost as earnestly as a child wonders, whether + his mother’s cold was better. What he had done, volunteering for active + service and joining the C.I.V. battalion, had made him feel simpler than + usual; but he did not know it, did not look on at his own simplicity. + </p> + <p> + And then, last of all, had come the parting from Robin and Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund and Dion had agreed not to make very much of his departure to + Robin. Father was going way for a time, going over the sea picturesquely, + with a lot of friends, all men, all happy to be together and to see + wonderful things in a country quite different from England. Some day, when + Robin was a big as his father, perhaps he, too, would make such a voyage + with his friends. Robin had been deeply interested, and had shown his + usual ardor in comment and—this was more embarrassing—in + research. He had wanted to know a great deal about his father’s intentions + and the intentions of father’s numerous male friends. What were they going + to do when they arrived in the extremely odd country which had taken it + into its head to be different from England? How many male friends was + father taking with him? Why hadn’t they all been to “see us?” Was Uncle + Guy one of them? Was Mr. Thrush going too? Why wasn’t Mr. Thrush going? If + he was too old to go was Uncle Guy too old? Did Mr. Thrush want to go? Was + he disappointed at father’s not being able to take him? Was it all a + holiday for father? Would mummy have liked to go? No lies had been told to + Robin, but some of the information he had sought had been withheld. Dion + had made skilful use of Mr. Thrush when matters had become difficult, when + Robin had nearly driven him into a corner. The ex-chemist, though seldom + seen, loomed large in Robin’s world, on account of his impressive coloring + and ancient respectabilities. Robin regarded him with awful admiration, + and looked forward to growing like him in some far distant future. Dion + had frequently ridden off from difficult questions on Mr. Thrush. Even in + the final interview between father and son Mr. Thrush had been much + discussed. + </p> + <p> + The final interview had taken place in the nursery among Aunt Beattie’s + bricks, by which Robin was still obsessed. Dion had sat on the floor and + built towers with his boy, and had wondered, as he handled the bricks in + the shining of the nursery fire, whether he would come back to help Robin + with his building later on. He was going out to build, for England and for + himself, perhaps for Robin and Rosamund, too. Would he be allowed to see + the fruits of his labors? + </p> + <p> + The towers of bricks had grown high, and with it Dion had built up another + tower, unknown to Robin, a tower of hopes for the child. So much ardor in + so tiny a frame! It was a revelation of the wonder of life. What a marvel + to have helped to create that life and what a responsibility. And he was + going away to destroy life, if possible. The grotesqueness of war had come + upon him then, as he had built up the tower with Robin. And he had longed + for a released world in which his boy might be allowed to walk as a man. + The simplicity of Robin, his complete trustfulness, his eager appreciation + of human nature, his constant reaching out after kindness without fear of + being denied, seemed to imply a world other than the world which must keep + on letting blood in order to get along. Robin, and all the other Robins, + female and male, revealed war in its true light. Terrible children whose + unconscious comment on life bites deep like an acid! Terrible Robin in + that last hour with the bricks! + </p> + <p> + When the tower had become a marvel such as had been seen in no nursery + before, Dion had suggested letting it be. Another brick and it must surely + fall. The moment was at hand when he must see the last of Robin. He had + had a furtive but strong desire to see the tower he and his son had built + still standing slenderly erect when he went out of the nursery. Just then + he had been the man who seeks a good omen. Robin had agreed with his + suggestion after a long moment of rapt contemplation of the tower. + </p> + <p> + “I wish Mr. Thrush could see it,” he had observed, laying down the brick + he had taken up to add to the tower just before his father had spoken. “He + <i>would</i> be pleased.” + </p> + <p> + The words had been lifted out on a sigh, the sigh of the wonder-worker who + had achieved his mission. And then they had talked of Mr. Thrush, sitting + carefully, almost motionless, beside the tower, and speaking softly “for + fear.” The firelight had danced upon the yellow bricks and upon the + cream-colored nursery walls, filtering through the high nursery “guard” + which protected Robin from annihilation by fire, and the whisper, whisper + of their voices had only emphasized the quiet. And, with every moment that + went by, the lit-up tower had seemed more like a symbol to Dion. Then at + last the cuckoo-clock had chimed and the wooden bird, with trembling tail, + had made its jerky obeisance. + </p> + <p> + “Cuckoo!” + </p> + <p> + Dion had put his arm round the little figure in the green jersey and the + tiny knickerbockers, and had whispered, still governed by the tower: + </p> + <p> + “I must go now, Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Fa,” Robin had whispered back, with his eyes on the tower. + </p> + <p> + With a very careful movement he had lifted his face to be kissed, and on + his soft lips Dion had felt a certain remoteness. Did the tower stand + between him and his little son as he said good-by to Robin? + </p> + <p> + Just as he had reluctantly let Robin go and, with his legs crossed, had + been about to perform the feat of getting up without touching the floor + with his hands, and without shaking the bricks in their places,—moved + to this trifling bodily feat by the desire to confront his emotion with an + adversary,—the door behind him had been opened. Already in movement + he had instinctively half-turned round. Something had happened,—he + never knew exactly what,—something had escaped from his physical + control because his mind had abruptly been deflected from its task of + vigilance; there had been a crash and a cry of “Oh, <i>Fa</i>!” from + Robin, and he had met Rosamund’s eyes as the tower toppled down in ruin. + Not so much as one brick had been left upon another. + </p> + <p> + Robin had been greatly distressed. Tears had come into his eyes, and for a + moment he had looked reproachfully at his father. Then, almost + immediately, something chivalrous had spoken within him, admonishing him, + and he had managed a smile. + </p> + <p> + “It’ll be higher next time, Fa, won’t it?” he had murmured, still + evidently fighting a keen disappointment. + </p> + <p> + And Dion had caught him up, given him a hug, whispered “My boy!” to him, + put him down and gone straight out of the room with Rosamund, who had not + spoken a word. + </p> + <p> + And that had been the last of Robin for his father. + </p> + <p> + In the evening, when Robin was asleep, Dion had said good-by to Rosamund. + The catastrophe of the tower of bricks had haunted his mind. As he had + chosen to make of the tower an omen, in its destruction he had found a + presage of evil which depressed him, which even woke in him ugly fears of + the future. He had had a great deal out of life, not all he had wanted, + but still a great deal. Perhaps he was not going to have much more. He had + not spoken of his fears to Rosamund, but had been resolutely cheerful with + her in their last conversation. Neither of them had mentioned the + possibility of his not coming back. They had talked of what probably lay + before him in South Africa, and of Robin, and presently Rosamund had said: + </p> + <p> + “I want to make a suggestion. Will you promise to tell me if you dislike + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind if I succeeded in letting this house and went into the + country with Robin to wait for your coming back?” + </p> + <p> + “Letting it furnished, do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “But won’t you be dull in the country, away from mother, and Beattie, and + godfather, and all our friends?” + </p> + <p> + “I could never be dull with Robin and nature, never, and I wouldn’t go + very far from London. I thought of something near Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + “So that you could go in to Cathedral service when ‘The Wilderness’ was + sung!” + </p> + <p> + He had smiled as he had said it, but his own reference to Rosamund’s + once-spoken-of love of the wilderness had, in a flash, brought the hill of + Drouva before him, and he had faced man’s tragedy—remembered joys of + the past in a shadowed present. + </p> + <p> + “Go into the country, Rose. I only want you to be happy, but”—he had + hesitated, and then had added, almost in spite of himself—“but not + too happy.” + </p> + <p> + Not too happy! That really was the great fear at his heart now that he was + voyaging towards South Africa, that Rosamund would be too happy without + him. He no longer deceived himself. This drastic change in his life had + either taught him to face realities, or simply prevented him from being + able to do anything else. He told himself the truth, and it was this, that + Rosamund did not love him at all as he loved her. She was fond of him, she + trusted him, she got on excellently with him, she believed in him, she + even admired him for having been able to live as he had lived before their + marriage, but she did not passionately love him. He might have been + tempted to think that, with all her fine, even splendid, qualities, she + was deprived of the power of loving intensely if he had not seen her with + Robin, if he had not once spoken with her about her mother. + </p> + <p> + If he were killed in South Africa would Rosamund be angry at his death? + That was her greatest tribute, anger, directed surely not against any + human being, but against the God Whom she loved and Who, so she believed, + ruled the world and directed the ways of men. Once Rosamund had said that + she knew it was possible for human beings to hurt God. She had doubtless + spoken out of the depths of her personal experience. She had felt sure + that by her anger at the death of her mother she had hurt God. Such a + conviction showed how she thought of God, in what a closeness of relation + with God she felt herself to be. Dion knew now that she had loved her + mother, that she loved Robin, as she did not love him. If he were to die + she would be very sorry, but she would not be very angry. No, she would be + able to breathe out a “farewell!” simply, with a resignation comparable to + that of the Greeks on those tombs which she loved, and then—she + would concentrate on Robin. + </p> + <p> + If he, Dion, were to be shot, and had time for a thought before dying, he + knew what his thought would be: that the Boer’s bullet had only hit a man, + not, like so many bullets fired in war, a man and a woman. And that + thought would add an exquisite bitterness to the normal bitterness of + death. + </p> + <p> + So Dion, on the “Ariosto,” voyaged towards South Africa, companioned by + new and definite knowledge—new at any rate in the light and on the + surface, definite because in the very big moments of life truth becomes as + definite as the bayonet piercing to the man who is pierced. + </p> + <p> + His comrades were a mixed lot, mostly quite young. The average age was + about twenty-five. Among them were barristers, law students, dentists, + bank clerks, clerks, men of the Civil Service, architects, auctioneers, + engineers, schoolmasters, builders, plumbers, jewelers, tailors, Stock + Exchange men, etc., etc. There were representatives of more than a hundred + and fifty trades, and adherents to nine religions, among the men of the + C.I.V. Their free patriotism welded them together, the thing they had all + spontaneously done abolished differences between Baptists and Jews, + Methodists and Unitarians, Catholics and Protestants. The perfumery + manager and the marine engineer comprehended each other’s language; the + dentist and the insurance broker “hit it off together” at first sight; + printers and plumbers, pawnbrokers and solicitors, varnish testers and hop + factors—they were all friendly and all cheerful together. Each one + of them had done a thing which all the rest secretly admired. Respect is a + good cement, and can stand a lot of testing. In his comrades Dion was not + disappointed. Among them were a few acquaintances, men whom he had met in + the City, but there was only one man whom he could count as a friend, a + barrister named Worthington, a bachelor, who belonged to the Greville + Club, and who was an intimate of Guy Daventry’s. Worthington knew Daventry + much better than he knew Dion, but both Dion and he were glad to be + together and to exchange impressions in the new life which they had + entered so abruptly, moved by a common impulse. Worthington was a dark, + sallow, narrow-faced man, wiry, with an eager intellect, fearless and + energetic, one of the most cheerful men of the battalion. His company + braced Dion. + </p> + <p> + The second day at sea was disagreeable; the ship rolled considerably, and + many officers and men were sea-sick. Dion was well, but Worthington was + prostrated, and did not show on deck. Towards evening Dion went down to + have a look at him, and found him in his bunk, lead-colored, with pinched + features, but still cheerful and able to laugh at his own misery. They had + a small “jaw” together about people and things at home, and in the course + of it Worthington mentioned Mrs. Clarke, whom he had several times met at + De Lorne Gardens. + </p> + <p> + “You know she’s back in London?” he said. “The winter’s almost impossible + at Constantinople because of the winds from the Black Sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I heard she was in London, but I haven’t seen her this winter.” + </p> + <p> + “I half thought—only half—she’d send me a wire to wish me good + luck when we embarked,” said Worthington, shifting uneasily in his bunk, + and twisting his white lips. “But she didn’t. She’s a fascinating woman. I + should have liked to have had a wire from her.” + </p> + <p> + “By Jove!” exclaimed Dion. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just remembered I got some telegrams when we were going off. I read + one, from my wife, and stuffed the others away. There was such a lot to do + and think of. I believe they’re here.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust a hand into one of his pockets and brought out four telegrams, + one, Rosamund’s, open, the rest unopened. Worthington lay staring at him + and them, glad perhaps to be turned for a moment from self-contemplation + by any incident, however trifling. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll bet I know whom they’re from,” said Dion. “One’s from old Guy, one’s + from Bruce Evelin, and one’s from——” He paused, fingering the + telegrams. + </p> + <p> + “Eh?” said Worthington, still screwing his lips about. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps from Beattie, my sister-in-law, unless she and Guy have clubbed + together. Well, let’s see.” + </p> + <p> + He tore open the first telegram. + </p> + <p> + “May you have good luck and come back safe and soon.—BEATTIE—GUY.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the second. It was from Bruce Evelin. + </p> + <p> + “May you be a happy warrior.—BRUCE EVELIN.” + </p> + <p> + Dion read it more than once, and his lips quivered for a second. He shot a + glance at Worthington, and said, rather bruskly: + </p> + <p> + “Beatrice and Guy Daventry and Bruce Evelin!” + </p> + <p> + Worthington gave a little faint nod in the direction of the telegram that + was still unopened. + </p> + <p> + “Your mater!” + </p> + <p> + “No; she wrote to me. She hates telegrams, says they’re public property. I + wonder who it is.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed a forefinger under the envelope, tore it and pulled out the + telegram. + </p> + <p> + “The forgotten do not always forget. May Allah have you and all brave men + in His hand.—CYNTHIA CLARKE.” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt Worthington’s observant eyes upon him, looked up and met them as + the “Ariosto” rolled and creaked in the heavy gray wash of the sea. + </p> + <p> + “Funny!” he jerked out. + </p> + <p> + Worthington lifted inquiring eyebrows but evidently hesitated to speak + just then. + </p> + <p> + “It’s from Mrs. Clarke.” + </p> + <p> + “Beastly of her!” tipped out Worthington. “What—she say?” + </p> + <p> + “Just wishes me well.” + </p> + <p> + And Dion stuck the telegram back into the flimsy envelope. + </p> + <p> + When he looked at it again that night he thought the woman from Stamboul + was a very forgiving woman. Almost he wished that she were less forgiving. + She made him now, she had made him in days gone by, feel as if he had + behaved to her almost badly, like a bit of a brute. Of course that wasn’t + true. If he hadn’t been married, no doubt they might have been good + friends. As things were, friendship between them was impossible. He did + not long for friendship with Mrs. Clarke. His life was full. There was no + room in it for her. But he slightly regretted that he had met her, and he + regretted more that she had wished to know Rosamund and him better than + Rosamund had wished. He kept her telegram, with the rest of the telegrams + he had received on his departure; now and then he looked at it, and + wondered whether its wording was not the least bit indelicate. It would + surely have been wiser if Mrs. Clarke had omitted the opening six words. + They conveyed a reproach; they conveyed, too, a curious suggestion of will + power, of quiet persistence. When he read them Dion seemed to feel the + touch—or the grip—of Stamboul, listless apparently, yet not + easily to be evaded or got rid of. + </p> + <p> + That telegram caused him to wonder whether he had made a really strong + impression upon Mrs. Clarke, such as he had not suspected till now, + whether she had not, perhaps, liked him a good deal more than she liked + most people. “May Allah have you and all brave men in His hand.” + Worthington would have been glad to have had that message. Dion had + discovered that Worthington was half in love with Mrs. Clarke. He chaffed + Dion about Mrs. Clarke’s telegram with a rather persistent gaiety which + did not hide a faint, semi-humorous jealousy. One day he even said, “To + him that hath shall be given. It’s so like a woman to sent her word of + encouragement to the man who’s got a wife to encourage him, and to leave + the poor beggar who’s got no one out in the cold. It’s a cruel world, and + three-quarters of the cruelty in it is the production of women.” He spoke + with a smile, and the argument which followed was not serious. They + laughed and bantered each other, but Dion understood that Worthington + really envied him because Mrs. Clarke had thought of him at the moment of + departure. Perhaps he had been rather stupid in letting Worthington know + about her telegram. But Worthington had been watching him; he had had the + feeling that Worthington had guessed whom the telegram was from. The + matter was of no importance. If Mrs. Clarke had cared for him, or if he + had cared for her, he would have kept her message secret; as they were + merely acquaintances who no longer met each other, her good wishes from a + distance meant very little, merely a kindly thought, for which he was + grateful and about which no mystery need be made. + </p> + <p> + Of course he must write a letter of thanks to Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + One day, after he had written to Rosamund, to Robin, to his mother, to + Beattie and to Bruce Evelin, Mrs. Clarke’s turn came. His letter to her + was short and cheery, but he was slow in writing it. There was a noise of + men, a turmoil of activity all about him. In the midst of it he heard a + husky, very individual voice, he saw a pair of wide-open distressed eyes + looking directly at him. And an odd conviction came to him that life would + bring Mrs. Clarke and him together again. Then he would come back from + South Africa? He had no premonition about that. What he felt as he wrote + his letter was simply that somehow, somewhere, Mrs. Clarke and he would + get to know each other better than they knew each other now. Kismet! In + the vast Turkish cemeteries there were moldering bodies innumerable. Why + did he think of them whenever he thought of Mrs. Clarke? No doubt because + she lived in Constantinople, because much of her life was passed in the + shadow of the towering cypresses. He had thought of her as a cypress. Did + she keep watch over bodies of the dead? + </p> + <p> + A bugle rang out. He put his letter into the envelope and hastily + scribbled the address. Mrs. Clarke was again at Claridge’s. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Every man who loves very deeply wishes to conquer the woman he loves, to + conquer the heart of her and to have it as his possession. Dion had left + England knowing that he had won Rosamund but had never conquered her. This + South African campaign had come upon him like a great blow delivered with + intention; a blow which does not stun a man but which wakes the whole man + up. If this war had not broken out his life would have gone on as before, + harmoniously, comfortably, with the daily work, and the daily exercise, + and the daily intercourse with wife and child and friends. And would he + ever have absolutely known what he knew now, what—he was certain of + it!—his mother knew, what perhaps Beattie and even Bruce Evelin + knew? + </p> + <p> + He had surely failed in a great enterprise, but he was resolved to succeed + if long enough life were given to him. He was now awake and walked in full + knowledge. Surely, Rosamund being what she was, the issue lay with + himself. If God had stood between them that must be because he, Dion, was + not yet worthy of the full happiness which was his greatest earthly + desire. Dion was certain that God did not stand between Rosamund and + Robin. + </p> + <p> + He had dreams of returning to England a different, or perhaps a developed, + man. The perfect lovers ought to stand together on the same level. + Rosamund and he had never done that yet. He resolved to gain in South + Africa, to get a grip on his best possibilities, to go back to England, if + he ever went back, a bigger soul, freer, more competent, more generous, + more fearless. He could never be a mystic. He did not want to be that. But + surely he could learn in this interval of separation which, like a river, + divided his life from Rosamund’s, to match her mysticism with something + which would be able to call it out of its mysterious understanding. + Instead of retreating to God alone she might then, perhaps, take him with + her; instead of praying over him she might pray with him. If, after he + returned from South Africa, Rosamund were ever again to be deliberately + good with him, making such an effort as she had made on that horrible + evening in Little Market Street when he had told her he was going on + active service, he felt that he simply couldn’t bear it. + </p> + <p> + He put firmly aside the natural longings for home which often assailed + him, and threw himself heart and soul into his new duties. Already he felt + happier, for he was “out” to draw from the present, from the whole of it, + all the building material it contained, and was resolute to use all that + material in the construction of a palace, a future based on marble, + strong, simple, noble, a Parthenon of the future. Only the weak man looks + to omens, is governed in his mind, and so in his actions, by them. That + which he had not known how to win in an easy life he must learn to win in + a life that was hard. This war he would take as a gift to him, something + to be used finely. If he fell in it still he would have had his gift, the + chance to realize some of his latent and best possibilities. He swept out + of his mind an old thought, the creeping surmise that perhaps Rosamund had + given him all she had to give in lover’s love, that she knew how to love + as child and as mother, but that she was incapable of being a great lover + in man’s sense of the term when he applies it to woman. + </p> + <p> + Madeira was passed on January the twenty-fifth, and the men, staring + across the sea, saw its lofty hills rising dreamily out of the haze, + watchers of those who would not stop, who had no time for any eating of + the lotus. Heat came upon the ship, and there were some who pretended that + they heard sounds, and smelled perfumes wafted, like messages, from the + hidden shores on which probably they would never land. Every one was kept + busy, after a sail bath, with drilling, musketry instruction, physical + drill, cleaning of accouterments, a dozen things which made the hours go + quickly in a buzz of human activities. Some of the men, Dion among them, + were trying to learn Dutch under an instructor who knew the mysteries. A + call came for volunteers for inoculation, and both Dion and Worthington + answered it, with between forty and fifty other men. The prick of the + needle was like the touch of a spark; soon after came a mystery of general + wretchedness, followed by pains in the loins, a rise of temperature and + extreme, in Dion’s case even intense, weakness. He lay in his bunk trying + to play the detective on himself, to stand outside of his body, saying to + himself, “This is I, and I am quite unaffected by my bodily condition.” + For what seemed to him a long time he was fairly successful in his effort; + then the body began to show definitely the power of its weakness upon the + Ego, to asset itself by feebleness. His will became like an invalid who is + fretful upon the pillows. Soon his strong resolutions, cherished and never + to be parted from till out of them the deeds had blossomed, lost blood and + fell upon the evil day of anemia. He had a sensation of going out. When + the midnight came he could not sleep, and with it came a thought feeble + but persistent: “If she loves me it’s because I’ve given her Robin.” And + in the creaking darkness, encompassed by the restlessness of the sea, + again and again he repeated to himself the words—“it’s because I’ve + given her Robin.” That was the plain truth. If he was loved, he was loved + because of something he had done, not because of something that he was. + Towards dawn he felt so weak that his hold on life seemed relaxing, and at + last he almost wished to let it go. He understood why dying people do not + usually fear death. + </p> + <p> + Three days later he was quite well and at work, but the memory of his + illness stayed with him all through the South African campaign. Often at + night he returned to that night on shipboard, and said to himself, “The + doctor’s needle helped me to think clearly.” + </p> + <p> + The voyage slipped away with the unnoticed swiftness that is the child of + monotony. The Southern Cross shone above the ship. When the great heat set + in the men were allowed to sleep on deck, and Dion lay all night long + under the wheeling stars, and often thought of the stars above Drouva, and + heard Rosamund’s voice saying, “I can see the Pleiades.” + </p> + <p> + The ship crossed the line. Early in February the moon began to show a + benign face to the crowd of men. One night there was a concert which was + followed by boxing. Dion boxed and won his bout easily on points. + </p> + <p> + This little success had upon him a bracing effect, and gave him a certain + prestige among his comrades. He did well also at revolver and musketry + practice—better than many men who, though good enough shots at + Bisley, found sectional practice with the service rifle a difficult job, + were adepts at missing a mark with the revolver, and knew nothing of fire + discipline. Because he had set an aim before him on which he knew that his + future happiness depended, he was able to put his whole heart into + everything he did. In the simplest duty he saw a means to an end which he + desired intensely. Everything that lay to hand in the life of the soldier + was building material which he must use to the best advantage. He knew + fully, for the first time, the joy of work. + </p> + <p> + On a day in the middle of February the “Ariosto” passed the mail-boat from + the Cape bound for England, sighted Table Mountain, and came to anchor + between Robben Island and the docks. On the following morning the men of + the C.I.V. felt the earth with eager feet as they marched to Green Point + Camp. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <h3> + “Robin,” said Rosamund, “would you like to go and live in the country?” + </h3> + <p> + Robin looked very serious and, after a moment of silent consideration, + remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Where there’s no houses?” + </p> + <p> + “Some houses, but not nearly so many as here.” + </p> + <p> + “Would Mr. Thrush be there?” + </p> + <p> + “Well no, I’m afraid he wouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Robin began to look decidedly adverse to the proposition. + </p> + <p> + “You see Mr. Thrush has always lived in London,” began Rosamund + explanatorily. + </p> + <p> + “But so’ve we,” interrupted Robin. + </p> + <p> + “But we aren’t as old as Mr. Thrush.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he very old, mummie? How old is he?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but he’s a very great deal older than you are.” + </p> + <p> + “I s’poses,” observed Robin meditatively, slightly wrinkling his little + nose where the freckles were. “Well, mummie?” + </p> + <p> + “Old people don’t generally like to move about much, but I think it would + be very good for you and me to go into the country while father’s away.” + </p> + <p> + And taking Robin on her knees, and putting her arms round him, Rosamund + began to tell him about the country, developing enthusiasm as she talked, + bending over the little fair head that was so dear to her—the little + fair head which contained Robin’s dear little thoughts, funny and very + touching, but every one of them dear. + </p> + <p> + She described to Robin the Spring as it is in the English country, frail + and fragrant, washed by showers that come and go with a waywardness that + seems very conscious, warmed by sunbeams not fully grown up and therefore + not able to do the work of the sunbeams of summer. She told him of the + rainbow that is set in the clouds like a promise made from a very great + distance, and of the pale and innocent flowers of Spring: primroses, + periwinkles, violets, cowslips, flowers of dells in the budding woods, and + of clearings round which the trees stand on guard about the safe little + daisies and wild hyacinths and wild crocuses; flowers of the sloping + meadows that go down to the streams of Spring. And all along the streams + the twigs are budding; the yellow “lambs’ tails” swing in the breeze, as + if answering to the white lambs’ tails that are wagging in the fields. The + thrush sings in the copse, and in his piercing sweet note is the sound of + Spring. + </p> + <p> + Bending over Robin, Rosamund imitated the note of the thrush, and Robin + stared up at her with ardent eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Does Mr. Thrush ever do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never heard him do it.” + </p> + <p> + And she went on talking about the Spring. + </p> + <p> + How she loved that hour talking of Spring in the country with her human + Spring in her arms. What was the war to her just then? Robin abolished + war. While she had him there was always the rainbow, the perfect rainbow, + rising from the world to the heavens and falling from the heavens to the + world. The showers were fleeting Spring showers, and the clouds were + fleecy and showed the blue. + </p> + <p> + “Robin, Robin, Robin!” she breathed over her child, when they had lived in + the Spring together, the pure and exquisite Spring. + </p> + <p> + And Robin, all glowing with the ardor he had caught from her, declared for + the country. + </p> + <p> + A few days later Rosamund wrote to Canon Wilton, who happened to be in + residence at Welsley out of his usual time, and asked him if he knew of + any pretty small house, with a garden, in the neighborhood, where she and + Robin could settle down till Dion came back from the war. In answer she + got a letter from the Canon inviting her to spend a night or two at his + house in the Precincts. In a P.S. he wrote: + </p> + <p> + “If you can come next week I think I can arrange with Mr. Soames, our + precentor, for Wesley’s ‘Wilderness’ to be sung at one of the afternoon + services; but let me know by return what days you will be here.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund replied by telegraph. Aunt Beatrice was installed in Little + Market Street for a couple of nights as Robin’s protector, and Rosamund + went down to Welsley, and spent two days with the Canon. + </p> + <p> + She had never been alone with him before, except now and then for a few + minutes, but he was such a sincere and plain-spoken man that she had + always felt she genuinely knew him. To every one with whom he spoke he + gave himself as he was. This unusual sincerity in Rosamund’s eyes was a + great attraction. She often said that she could never feel at home with + pretense even if the intention behind it was kindly. Perhaps, however, she + did not always detect it, although she possessed the great gift of + feminine intuition. + </p> + <p> + She arrived by the express, which reached Welsley Station in the evening, + and found Canon Wilton at the station to meet her. His greeting was: + </p> + <p> + “The ‘Wilderness,’ Wesley, at the afternoon service to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s good of you!” she exclaimed, with the warm and radiant cordiality + that won her so many friends. “I shall revel in my little visit here. It’s + an unexpected treat.” + </p> + <p> + The Canon seemed for a moment almost surprised by her buoyant + anticipation, and a look that was sad flitted across his face; but she did + not notice it. + </p> + <p> + As they drove in a fly to his house in the Precincts she looked out at the + busy provincial life in the narrow streets of the old country town, and + enjoyed the intimate concentration of it all. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to poke about here,” she said. “I should feel at home as I + never do in London. I believe I’m thoroughly provincial at heart.” + </p> + <p> + In the highest tower of the Cathedral, which stood in the heart of the + town, the melodious chimes lifted up their crystalline voices, and “Great + John” boomed out the hour in a voice of large authority. + </p> + <p> + “Seven o’clock,” said the Canon. “Dinner is at eight. You’ll be all alone + with me this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow too, I hope,” Rosamund said, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “No, to-morrow we shall be the awkward number—three. Mr. Robertson, + from Liverpool, is coming to stay with me for a few days. He preaches here + next Sunday evening.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund’s thought was carried back to a foggy night in London, when she + had heard a sermon on egoism, and a quotation she had never forgotten: <i>“Ego + dormio et cor meum vigilat.”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Can you manage with two clergymen?” said Canon Wilton. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try. I don’t think they’ll frighten me, and I’ve been wishing to + meet Mr. Robertson for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a good man,” said Canon Wilton very simply. But the statement as he + made it was like an accolade. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund enjoyed her quiet evening with the Canon in the house with the + high green gate, the elm trees and the gray gables. As they talked, at + first in the oak-paneled dining-room, later in the Canon’s library by a + big wood fire, she was always pleasantly conscious of being enclosed, of + being closely sheltered in the arms of the Precincts, which held also the + mighty Cathedral with its cloisters, its subterranean passages, its + ancient tombs, its mysterious courts, its staircases, its towers hidden in + the night. The ecclesiastical flavor which she tasted was pleasant to her + palate. She loved the nearness of those stones which had been pressed by + the knees of pilgrims, of those walls between which so many prayers had + been uttered, so many praises had been sung. A cosiness of religion + enwrapped her. She had a delicious feeling of safety. They could hear the + chimes where they sat encompassed by a silence which was not like ordinary + silences, but which to Rosamund seemed impregnated with the peace of long + meditations and of communings with the unseen. + </p> + <p> + “This rests me,” she said to her host. “Don’t you love your time here?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m fond of Welsley, but I don’t think I should like to pass all my year + in it. I don’t believe in sinking down into religion, or into practises + connected with it, as a soft old man sinks down into a feather bed. And + that’s what some people do.” + </p> + <p> + “Do they?” said Rosamund abstractedly. + </p> + <p> + Just then a large and murmurous sound, apparently from very far off, had + begun to steal upon her ears, level and deep, suggestive almost of the + vast slumber of a world and of the underthings that are sleepless but keep + at a distance. + </p> + <p> + “Is it the organ?” she asked, in a listening voice. + </p> + <p> + Canon Wilton nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Dickinson practising.” + </p> + <p> + They sat in silence for a long time listening. In that silence the Canon + was watching Rosamund. He thought how beautiful she was and how good, but + he almost disliked the joy which he discerned in her expression, in her + complete repose. He rebuked himself for this approach to dislike, but his + rebuke was not efficacious. In this enclosed calm of the precincts of + Welsley where, pacing within the walls by the edge of the velvety lawns, + the watchman would presently cry out the hour Canon Wilton was conscious + of a life at a distance, the life of a man he had met first in St. James’s + Square. The beautiful woman in the chair by the fire had surely forgotten + that man. + </p> + <p> + Presently the distant sound of the organ ceased. + </p> + <p> + “I love Welsley,” said Rosamund, on a little sigh. “I just love it. I + should like to live in the Precincts.” + </p> + <p> + That brought them to a discussion of plans in which Dion was talked of + with warm affection and admiration by Rosamund; and all the time she was + talking, Canon Wilton saw the beautiful woman in the chair listening to + the distant organ. He knew of a house that was to be let in the Precincts, + but that night he did not mention it. Something prevented him from doing + so—something against which he struggled, but which he failed to + overcome. + </p> + <p> + When they separated it was nearly eleven o’clock. As Rosamund took her + silver candlestick from the Canon at the foot of the shallow oak staircase + she said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had <i>such</i> a happy evening!” + </p> + <p> + It was a very sweet compliment very sweetly paid. No man could have been + quite indifferent to it. Canon Wilton was not. As he looked at Rosamund a + voice within him said: + </p> + <p> + “That’s a very dear woman.” + </p> + <p> + It spoke undeniable truth. Yet another voice whispered: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if I could change her!” + </p> + <p> + But that was impossible. The Canon knew that, for he was very sincere with + himself; and he realized that the change he wanted to see could only come + from within, could never be imposed by him from without upon the + mysterious dweller in the Temple of Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + That night Rosamund undressed very slowly and “pottered about” in her + room, doing dreamily unnecessary things. She heard the chimes, and she + heard the watchman calling the midnight hour near her window as “Great + John” lifted up his voice. In the drawers where her clothes were laid the + Canon’s housekeeper had put lavender. She smelt it as she listened to the + watchman’s voice, shutting her eyes. Presently she drew aside curtain and + blind and looked out of the window. She saw the outline of part of the + great Cathedral with the principal tower, the home of “Great John”; she + felt the embracing arms of the Precincts; and when she knelt down to say + her prayers she thought: + </p> + <p> + “Here is a place where I can really pray.” + </p> + <p> + Nuns surely are helped by their convents and monks by the peace of their + whitewashed cells. + </p> + <p> + “It is only in sweet places of retirement that one can pray as one ought + to pray,” thought Rosamund that night as she lay in bed. + </p> + <p> + She forgot that the greatest prayer ever offered up was uttered on a cross + in the midst of a shrieking crowd. + </p> + <p> + On the following day she went to the morning service in the Cathedral, and + afterwards heard something which filled her with joyful anticipation. + Canon Wilton told her there was a house to let in the Precincts. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take it,” said Rosamund at once. “Esme Darlington has found me a + tenant for No. 5, an old friend of his, or rather two old friends, Sir + John and Lady Tenby. Where is it?” + </p> + <p> + He took her to see it. + </p> + <p> + The house in question had been occupied by the widow of a Dean, who had + recently been driven by her health to “relapse upon Bournemouth.” It was a + small old house with two very large rooms—one was the drawing-room, + the other a bed-room. + </p> + <p> + The house stood at right angles to the east end of the Cathedral, from + which it was only divided by a strip of turf broken up by fragments of old + gray ruins, and edged by an iron railing, and by a paved passage-way, + which led through the Dark Entry from the “Green Court,” where the Deanery + and Minor Canons’ houses were situated, to the pleasaunce immediately + around the Cathedral. To the green lawns of this wide pleasaunce the + houses of the residentiary Canons gave access. One projecting latticed + window of the drawing-room of Mrs. Browning’s house, another of the big + bedroom above it, and the windows of the kitchen and the servants’ + quarters looked on to the passage-way and the Cathedral; all the other + windows looked into an old garden surrounded by a very high brick wall, a + garden of green turf like moss, of elm trees, and, in summer, of gay + herbaceous borders, a garden to which the voices of the chimes dropped + down, and to which the Cathedral organ sent its message, as if to a place + that knew how to keep safely all things that were precious. Even the pure + and chill voices of the boy choristers found a way to this hidden garden, + in which there were straight and narrow paths, where nuns might have loved + to walk unseen of the eyes of men. + </p> + <p> + The Dean’s widow had left behind all her furniture, and was now adorning a + Bournemouth hotel, in which her sprightly invalidism and close knowledge + of the investments of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners, and of the habits + and customs of the lesser clergy, were greatly appreciated. Some of the + furniture did not wholly commend itself to Rosamund. There were certain + settees and back-to-backs, certain whatnots and occasional tables, which + seemed to stamp the character of the Dean’s widow as meretricious. But + these could easily be “managed.” Rosamund was enchanted with the house, + and went from room to room with Canon Wilton radiantly curious, and almost + as excited as a joyous schoolgirl. + </p> + <p> + “I must poke my nose into everything!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + And she did it, and made the Canon poke his too. + </p> + <p> + Presently, opening the lattice of the second window in the big, low-ceiled + drawing-room, she leaned out to the moist and secluded garden. She was + sitting sideways on the window-seat, of which she had just said, “I won’t + have this dreadful boudoir color on <i>my</i> cushions!” Canon Wilton was + standing behind her, and presently heard her sigh gently, and almost + voluptuously, as if she prolonged the sigh and did not want to let it go. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said, with a half-humorous inflection of the voice. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked round gravely. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say something?” + </p> + <p> + “Only—yes?—in answer to your sigh.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? Yes, I must have. I was thinking——” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, while he stood looking at her with his strong, steady + gray-blue eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of a life I shall never live.” + </p> + <p> + He came up to the window-seat. + </p> + <p> + “Some of it might have been passed in just such a garden as this within + sound of bells.” + </p> + <p> + With a change of voice she added: + </p> + <p> + “How Robin will love it!” + </p> + <p> + “The life you will never live?” said the Canon, smiling gravely. + </p> + <p> + “No, the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you haven’t a doubt?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. When I know a thing there’s no room in me for hesitation. I shall + love being here with Robin as I have never loved anything yet.” + </p> + <p> + The quarter struck in the Cathedral tower. + </p> + <p> + “Very different from South Africa!” said Canon Wilton. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund knitted her brows for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether Dion will come back altered,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “D’you wish him to?” + </p> + <p> + She got up from the window-seat, put out her hand, and softly pulled the + lattice towards her. + </p> + <p> + “Not in most ways. He’s so dear as he is. It would all depend on the + alteration.” + </p> + <p> + She latched the window gently, and again looked at the garden through it. + </p> + <p> + “I may be altered, too, by living here!” she said. “All alone with Robin. + I think I shall be.” + </p> + <p> + Canon Wilton made no comment. He was thinking: + </p> + <p> + “And when the two, altered, come together again, if they ever do, what + then?” + </p> + <p> + He had noticed that Rosamund never seemed to think of Dion’s death in + South Africa as a possibility. When she spoke of him she assumed his + return as a matter of course. Did she never think of death, then? Did she, + under the spell of her radiant and splendidly healthy youth, forget all + the tragic possibilities? He wondered, but he did not ask. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Robertson arrived at the Canon’s house just in time for the afternoon + service—“my Wilderness service,” as Rosamund called it. The bells + were ringing as he drove up with his modest luggage, and Rosamund had + already gone to the Cathedral and was seated in a stall. + </p> + <p> + “I should like to have half an hour’s quiet meditation in church before + the service begins,” she had remarked to Canon Wilton. And the Canon had + put her in a stall close to where he would presently be sitting, and had + then hurried back to meet Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + “My Welsley!” was Rosamund’s thought as she sat in her stall, quite alone, + looking up at the old jeweled glass in the narrow Gothic windows, at the + wonderful somber oak, age-colored, of the return stalls and canopy beneath + which Canon Wilton, as Canon-in-Residence, would soon be sitting at right + angles to her, at the distant altar lifted on high and backed by a + delicate marble screen, beyond which stretched a further, tranquilly + obscure vista of the great church. The sound of the bells ringing far + above her head in the gray central tower was heard by her, but only just + heard, as we hear the voices of the past murmuring of old memories and of + deeds which are almost forgotten. Distant footsteps echoed among the great + tombs of stone and of marble, which commemorated the dead who had served + God in that place in the gray years gone by. In her nostrils there seemed + to be a perfume, like an essence of concentrated prayers sent up among + these stone traceries, these pointed arches, these delicate columns, by + generations of believers. She felt wrapped in a robe never woven by hands, + in a robe that gave warmth to her spirit. + </p> + <p> + A few people began stealing quietly in through the narrow archway in the + great screen which shut out the raised choir from the nave. Only one bell + sounded now in the gray tower. A faint noise, like an oncoming sigh, above + Rosamund’s head heralded the organ’s awakening, and was followed by the + whisper of its most distant voice, a voice which made her think—she + knew not why—of the sea whispering about a coral reef in an isle of + the Southern Seas, part of God’s world, mysteriously linked to “my + Welsley.” She shut her eyes, seeking to feel more strongly the sensation + of unity. When she opened them she saw, sitting close to her in the return + stalls, Father Robertson. His softly glowing eyes were looking at her, and + did not turn away immediately. She felt that he knew she was his + fellow-guest, and was conscious of a delicious sensation of sympathy, of + giving and taking, of cross currents of sympathy between the Father and + herself. + </p> + <p> + “I love this hour—I love all this!” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + If only little Robin were submerged in the stall beside her! + </p> + <p> + The feet of the slow procession were heard, and the silver wand of the + chief verger shone out of the delicate gloom. + </p> + <p> + When the anthem was given out Rosamund looked across at Canon Wilton, and + her eyes said to him, “Thank you.” Then she stood up, folded her hands on + the great cushion in front of her, and looked at the gray vistas and at + the dim sparkle of the ancient glass in the narrow windows. + </p> + <p> + “The wilderness and the solitary places . . .” + </p> + <p> + She had spoken of this to Dion as they looked at Zante together, before + little Robin had come, and she had said that if she had committed a great + sin she would like to take her sin into the Wilderness, because + purification might be found there. And she had meant what she said, had + spoken out of her heart sincerely. But now, as she listened to this + anthem, she saw a walled-in garden, with green turf like moss, old elm + trees and straight narrow paths. Perhaps she had been mistaken when she + had spoken of the sin and the Wilderness, perhaps she would find + purification with fewer tears and less agony in the cloister, within the + sound of the bells which called men to the service of God, and of the + human voices which sang His praises. Saints had fled into the Wilderness + to seek God there, but was He not in the Garden between the sheltering + walls, ready there, as in the farthest desert, to receive the submission + of the soul, to listen to the cry, “I have sinned”? + </p> + <p> + As in Elis the spell of the green wild had been upon Rosamund, so now the + spell of these old Precincts was upon her, and spoke to her innermost + being, and as in Elis Dion had been woven into her dream of the + Wilderness, so now in Welsley Robin was woven into it. But Dion had seemed + a forerunner, and little Robin seemed That for which she had long waited, + the fulfilment of the root desire of her whole being as applied to human + life. + </p> + <p> + When the service was over and the procession had gone out Rosamund sat + very still listening to the organ. She believed that Canon Wilton had + given the organist a hint that he would have an attentive hearer, for he + was playing one of Bach’s greatest preludes and fugues. Father Robertson + stayed on in his place. All the rest of the small congregation drifted + away through the archway in the rood-screen and down the steps to the + nave. The fugue was a glorious, sturdy thing, like a great solid body + inhabited by a big, noble, unquestioning soul—a soul free from + hesitations, that knew its way to God and would not be hindered from + taking it. A straight course to the predestined end—that was good, + that was glorious! The splendid clamor of the organ above her, growing in + sonorous force, filled Rosamund with exultation. She longed to open her + mouth and sing; the blood came to her cheeks; her eyes shone; she mounted + on the waves of sound; she was wound up with the great fugue, and felt + herself part of it. The gradual working up thrilled her whole being; she + was physically and spiritually seized hold of and carried along towards a + great and satisfying end. At last came the trumpet with its sound of + triumphant flame, and the roar of the pedals was like the roaring of the + sea. Already the end was there, grandly inherent in the music, inevitably, + desired by all the voices of the organ. All the powers of the organ + thundered towards it, straining to be there. + </p> + <p> + It came, like something on the top of the world. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a man that’s the way I should like to go to God!” said Rosamund + to herself, springing up. “That’s the way, in a chariot of fire.” + </p> + <p> + Unconscious of what she was doing she stretched out her hands with a big + gesture and opened her lips to let out a breath; then, in the gray silence + of the now empty Cathedral, she saw Father Robertson’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + He stepped down from his stall and went out through the archway, and she + followed him. On the steps, just beyond the rood-screen, she met a small, + determined-looking man with hot cheeks and shining eyes. She guessed at + once that he was the organist, went up to him and thanked him + enthusiastically. + </p> + <p> + The organist was the first person she captivated in Welsley, where she was + to have so many warm adherents very soon. + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson went back to Canon Wilton’s house while Rosamund talked + to the organist, with whom she walked as far as a high wooden gate labeled + “Mr. Dickinson.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a walled garden too!” she remarked, as her companion took off + his hat with an “I live here.” + </p> + <p> + The organist looked inquiring. Rosamund laughed. + </p> + <p> + “How could you know? It’s only that I’ve been visiting a delicious old + house, with a walled garden, to-day. It’s to let.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mrs. Duncan Browning’s!” said Mr. Dickinson. “I—I’m sure I hope + you’re going to take it.” + </p> + <p> + “I may!” said Rosamund. “Good-by, and thank you again for your splendid + music. It’s done me good.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” exclaimed Mr. Dickinson, about a minute later, bursting—rather + than going—into his wife’s small drawing-room, “I’ve just met the + most delightful woman, a goddess to look at, and as charming as a siren + brought up to be a saint.” + </p> + <p> + “More epigrams, Henry!” murmured Mrs. Dickinson. + </p> + <p> + “She’s staying with Canon Wilton. She’s a thorough musician such as one + seldom comes across. There’s a chance—I hope it materializes—of + her taking—” + </p> + <p> + “Your tea is nearly cold, Henry.” + </p> + <p> + “Her name is Mrs. Dion Leith. If she really does come here we must be sure + to—” + </p> + <p> + “Scones, Henry?” + </p> + <p> + Thus urged, Mr. Dickinson’s body for the moment took precedence of his + soul. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund knew she was going to like Mr. Robertson as she liked very few + people. She felt as if already she was his friend, and when they shook + hands in Canon Wilton’s drawing-room she cordially told him so, and + referred to the Sunday evening when she had heard him preach. The rooks + were cawing among the elms in the Canon’s garden. She could hear their + voices in the treetops while she was speaking. A wind was stirring as the + afternoon waned, and there came a patter of rain on the lofty windows. And + the voices of the rooks, in the windy treetops, the patter of the rain, + and the sigh of the wind were delightful to Rosamund, because she was + safely within the Precincts, like a bird surrounded by the warmth of its + nest. + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming to live here,” she said to Mr. Robertson, as she poured out + tea for the two clergymen. “My husband has gone to South Africa with the + City Imperial Volunteers. He’s in business, so we live in London. But + while he’s away I mean to stay here.” + </p> + <p> + And eagerly almost as a child, she told him about the house of the Dean’s + widow, and described to him the garden. + </p> + <p> + “It’s like a convent garden, isn’t it?” she asked Canon Wilton, who + assented. “That’s why I love it. It gives me the feeling of enclosed peace + that must be so dear to nuns.” + </p> + <p> + Something in her voice and look as she said this evidently struck Mr. + Robertson, and when she presently left the room he said to Canon Wilton: + </p> + <p> + “If I didn’t know that sweet woman had a husband I should say she was born + with the vocation for a religious life. From the first moment I spoke to + her, looked at her, I felt that, and the feeling grows upon me. Can’t one + see her among sisters?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to,” said Canon Wilton bluntly. “Shall we go to my study?” + </p> + <p> + With the composed gentleness that was characteristic of him Father + Robertson assented, and they went downstairs. When they were safely shut + up in the big room, guarded by multitudes of soberly bound volumes, Canon + Wilton said: + </p> + <p> + “Robertson, I want to talk to you in confidence about my guest, who, as + you say, is a very sweet woman. You could do something for her which I + couldn’t do. I have none of your impelling gentleness. You know how to + stir that which dwells in the inner sanctuary, to start it working for + itself; I’m more apt to try to work for it, or at it. Perhaps I can rouse + up a sinner and make him think. I’ve got a good bit of the instinct of the + missioner. But my dear guest there isn’t a sinner, except as we all are! + She’s a very good woman who doesn’t quite understand. I think perhaps you + might help her to understand. She possesses a great love, and she doesn’t + know quite how to handle it, or even to value it.” + </p> + <p> + The clock struck seven when they stopped talking. + </p> + <p> + That evening, after dinner, Canon Wilton asked Rosamund to sing. Almost + eagerly she agreed. + </p> + <p> + “I shall love to sing in the Precincts,” she said, as she went to the + piano. + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson, who had been sitting with his back to the piano, moved + to the other side of the room. While Rosamund sang he watched her closely. + He saw that she was quite unconscious of being watched, and her + unconsciousness of herself made him almost love her. Her great talent he + appreciated fully, for he was devoted to music; but he appreciated much + more the moral qualities she showed in her singing. He was a man who could + not forbear from searching for the soul, from following its workings. He + had met all sorts and conditions of men, and with few he had not been + friends. He had known, knew now, scientists for whose characters and lives + he had strong admiration, and who felt positive that the so-called soul of + man was merely the product of the brain, resided in the brain, and must + cease with the dispersal of the brain at death. He was not able to prove + the contrary. That did not trouble him at all. It was not within the power + of anything or of any one to trouble this man’s faith. He did not mind + being thought a fool. Indeed, being without conceit, and even very modest, + he believed himself to be sometimes very foolish. But he knew he was not a + fool in his faith, which transcended forms, and swore instinctively + brotherhood with all honest beliefs, and even with all honest disbeliefs. + In his gentle, sometimes slightly whimsical way, he was as sincere as + Canon Wilton; but whereas the Canon showed the blunt side of sincerity, he + usually showed the tender and winning side. He found good in others as + easily and as surely as the diviner finds the spring hidden under the hard + earth’s surface. His hazel twig twisted if there was present only one drop + of the holy water. + </p> + <p> + He discerned many drops in Rosamund. In nothing of her was her enthusiasm + for what was noble and clean and sane and beautiful more apparent than in + her singing. Her voice and her talent were in service when she sang, in + service to the good. Music can be evil, neurotic, decadent and even + utterly base. She never touched musical filth, which she recognized as + swiftly as dirt on a body or corruption in a soul. + </p> + <p> + “We must have Bach’s ‘Heart ever faithful,’” said Canon Wilton strongly, + when Rosamund, after much singing, was about to get up from the piano. + </p> + <p> + Almost joyfully she obeyed his smiling command. When at last she shut the + piano she said to Father Robertson: + </p> + <p> + “That’s Dion’s—my husband’s—best-loved melody.” + </p> + <p> + “I should like to know your husband,” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + “You must, when he comes back.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no idea, I suppose, how long he will be away?” + </p> + <p> + “No, nor has he.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what are you going to do about Mrs. Browning’s house?” said the + Canon’s bass. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—well——” + </p> + <p> + Two lines appeared in her forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I thought of taking it for six months, and then I can see. My little + house in Westminster is let for six months from the first of March.” She + had turned to Father Robertson: “I’m only afraid——” She + paused. She looked almost disturbed. + </p> + <p> + “What are you afraid of?” asked Canon Wilton. + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid of getting too fond of Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + The Canon looked across at Father Robertson on the other side of the + fireplace. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Rosamund went back to Robin and London on the following afternoon. In the + morning she took Father Robertson to see Mrs. Browning’s house. Canon + Wilton was busy. After the morning service in the Cathedral he had to go + to a meeting of the Chapter, and later on to a meeting in the City about + something connected with education. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be in bonds till lunch,” he said, “unless I burst them, as I’m + afraid I sometimes feel inclined to do when people talk at great length on + subjects they know nothing about.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps Mrs. Leith will kindly take me to see her house and garden,” + observed Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was frankly delighted. + </p> + <p> + “Bless you for calling them mine!” she said. “That’s just what I’m longing + to do.” + </p> + <p> + The wind and the rain were till hanging about in a fashion rather + undecided. It was a morning of gusts and of showers. The rooks swayed in + the elm tops, or flew up under the scudding clouds of a treacherous sky. + There was a strong smell of damp earth, and the turf of the wide spreading + lawns looked spongy. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how English this is!” said Rosamund enthusiastically to the Father as + they set forth together. “It’s like the smell of the soul of England. I + love it. I should like to lie on the grass and feel the rain on my face.” + </p> + <p> + “You know nothing of rheumatism evidently,” said Father Robertson, in a + voice that was smiling. + </p> + <p> + “No, but I suppose I should if I gave way to my impulse. And the rooks + would be shocked.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean the Cathedral dignitaries?” + </p> + <p> + They were gently gay as they walked along, but very soon Rosamund, in her + very human but wholly unconscious way, put her hand on Father Robertson’s + arm. + </p> + <p> + “There it is!” + </p> + <p> + “Your house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Isn’t it sweet? Doesn’t it look peacefully old? I should like to + grow old like that, calmly, unafraid and unrepining. I knew you’d love + it.” + </p> + <p> + He had not said so, but that did not matter. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a dear old caretaker, with only one tooth in front and such nice + eyes, who’ll let us in. Not an electric bell!” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a look half confidential, half humorous, and wholly girlish. + </p> + <p> + “We have to pull it. That’s so much nicer!” + </p> + <p> + She pulled, and the dear old caretaker, a woman in Cathedral black, with + the look of a verger’s widow all over her, showed the tooth in a smile as + she peeped round the door. + </p> + <p> + “And now the garden!” said Rosamund, in the withdrawn voice of an intense + anticipation, half an hour later, when Father Robertson had seen, and been + consulted, about everything from kitchen to attic. + </p> + <p> + She turned round to Mrs. Soper, as the verger’s widow—indeed she was + that!—was called. + </p> + <p> + “Shall you mind if we stay a good while in the garden, Mrs. Soper? It’s so + delightful there. Will it bother you?” + </p> + <p> + “Most pleased, ma’am! I couldn’t wish for anything else. You do hear the + chimes most beautiful from there. But it’s very damp. That we must allow.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you afraid of the damp, Father?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit.” + </p> + <p> + “I knew you wouldn’t be,” she said, almost exultantly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Soper took her stand by the drawing-room window and gazed through the + lattice with the deep interest which seems peculiar to provincial towns, + and which is seldom manifested in capitals, where the curiosity is rather + of the surface than of the very entrails of humanity. She showed the tooth + as she stood, but not in a smile. She was far too interested in the lady + and the white-haired clergyman to smile. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t wonder but what they’re going to be married!” was her + feminine thought, as she watched them walking about the garden, and + presently pacing up and down one of the narrow paths, to the far-off wall + that bordered one end of the Bishop’s Palace, and back again to the wall + near the Dark Entry. Canon Wilton had not mentioned Rosamund’s name to the + verger’s widow, who had no evil thoughts of bigamy. Presently the chimes + sounded in the tower, and Mrs. Soper saw the two visitors pause in their + walk to listen. They both looked upwards towards the Cathedral, and on the + lady’s face there was a rapt expression which was remarked by Mrs. Soper. + </p> + <p> + “She do look religious,” murmured that lady to the tooth. “She might be a + bishop’s lady when she a-stands like that.” + </p> + <p> + The chimes died away, the visitors resumed their pacing walk, and Mrs. + Soper presently retired to the kitchen, which looked out on the + passage-way, to cook herself “a bit of something” for the midday staying + of her stomach. + </p> + <p> + In the garden that morning Rosamund and Father Robertson became friends. + Rosamund had never had an Anglican confessor, though she had sometimes + wished to confess, not because she was specially conscious of a burden of + sin, but rather because she longed to speak to some one of those inmost + thoughts which men and women seldom care to discuss with those who are + always in their lives. In Father Robertson she had found the exceptional + man with whom she would not mind being perfectly frank about matters which + were not for Dion, not for Beattie, not for godfather—matters which + she could never have hinted at even to Canon Wilton, whose strong serenity + she deeply admired. Had any of her nearest and dearest heard Rosamund’s + talk with Father Robertson that day, they would have realized, perhaps + with astonishment, how strong was the reserve which underlay her + forthcoming manner and capacious frankness about the ordinary matters of + everyday existence. + </p> + <p> + “Father, a sermon from you changed my life, I think,” she said, when they + had paced up and down the path only two or three times; and, without any + self-consciousness, she told him of Dion’s proposal on that foggy + afternoon in London, of her visit to St. Mary’s, Welby Street, and of the + impression the sermon had made upon her. She described her return home, + and the painful sensation which had beset her when she lost herself in the + fog—the sensation of desertion, of a horror of loneliness. + </p> + <p> + “The next day I accepted my husband,” she said. “I resolved to take the + path of life along which I could walk with another. I decided to share. Do + you remember?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him gently, earnestly, and he understood the allusion to his + sermon. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I remember. But,”—his question came very gently—“in + coming to that decision, were you making a sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I was.” + </p> + <p> + And then Rosamund made a confession such as she had never yet made to any + one, though once she had allowed Dion to know a little of what was in her + heart. She told Father Robertson of the something almost imperious within + her which had longed for the religious life. He listened to the story of a + vocation; and he was able to understand it as certainly Canon Wilton could + not have understood it. For Rosamund’s creeping hunger had been not for + the life of hard work among the poor in religion, not for the dedication + of all her energies to the lost and unreclaimed, who are sunk in the mire + of the world, but for that peculiar life of the mystic who leaves the + court of the outer things for the court of the mysteries, the inner + things, who enters into prayer as into a dark shell filled with the vast + and unceasing murmur of the voice which is not human. + </p> + <p> + “I wished to sing in public for a time. Something made me long to use my + voice, to express myself in singing noble music, in helping on its + message. But I meant to retire while I was still quite young. And always + at the back of my mind there was the thought—‘then I’ll leave the + world, I’ll give myself up to God.’ I longed for the enclosed life of + perpetual devotion. I didn’t know whether there was any community in our + Church which I could join, and in which I could find what I thought I + needed. I didn’t get so far as that. You see I meant to be a singer at + first.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I quite understand. And the giving up of this mystical dream was a + great sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + “Really it was. I had a sort of absolute hunger in me to do eventually + what I have told you.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand that hunger,” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + Just then the chimes sounded in the Cathedral, and they stopped on the + narrow path to listen, looking up at the great gray tower which held the + voices sweet to their souls. + </p> + <p> + “I understand that hunger,” he repeated, when the chimes died away. “It + can be fierce as any hunger after a sin. In your case you felt it was not + free from egoism, this strong desire?” + </p> + <p> + “Your sermon made me look into my heart, and I did think that perhaps I + was an egoist in my religious feeling, that I was selfishly intent on my + own soul, that in my religion, if I did what I longed presently to do, I + should be thinking almost solely of myself.” + </p> + <p> + Rather abruptly Father Robertson put a question: + </p> + <p> + “There was nothing else which drew you towards marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “I liked and admired Dion very much. I thought him an exceptional sort of + man. I knew he cared for me in a beautiful sort of way. That touched me. + And”—she slightly hesitated, and a soft flush came to her cheeks—“I + felt that he was a good man in a way—I believe, I am almost sure, + that very few young men are good in the particular way I mean. Of all the + things in Dion that was the one which most strongly called to me.” + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson understood her allusion to physical purity. + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t have married him but for that,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “If I had known you when you were a girl I believe I should not have + expected you to marry,” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + Afterwards, when he had seen Rosamund with Robin, he thought he had been + very blind when he had said that. + </p> + <p> + “You understand me,” she said, very simply. “But I knew you would.” + </p> + <p> + “You have given up something. Many people, perhaps most people, would deny + that. But I know how difficult it is”—his voice became lower—“to + give up retirement, to give up that food which the soul instinctively + longs to find, thinks perhaps it only can find, in silence, perpetual + meditation, perpetual prayer, in the world that is purged of the insistent + clamor of human voices. But”—he straightened himself with a quick + movement, and his voice became firmer—“a man may wish to draw near + to God in the Wilderness, or in the desert, and may find Him most surely + in”—and here he hesitated slightly, almost as a few minutes before + Rosamund had hesitated—“in the Liverpool slums. What a blessing it + is, what an unspeakable blessing it is, when one has learnt the lesson + that God is everywhere. But how difficult it is to learn!” + </p> + <p> + They walked together for a long time in the garden, and Rosamund felt + strangely at ease, like one who has entered a haven and has found the + desired peace. She had given up something, but how much had been given to + her! In the shelter of the gray towers, and within the enclosing walls, + she would go again to some of her dreams, while the chimes marked the + passing of the quiet hours, and the watchman’s voice was lifted up to the + stars which looked down on Welsley. + </p> + <p> + And Robin would be with her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + A little more than six months later, when a golden September lay over the + land, Rosamund could scarcely believe that she had ever lived out of + Welsley. Dion was still in South Africa, in good health and “without a + scratch.” In his last letter home he had written that he had no idea how + long the C.I.V.‘s would be kept in South Africa. The war dragged on, and + despite the English successes which had followed such bitter defeats no + one could say when it would end. There was no immediate reason, therefore, + for Rosamund to move back to London. + </p> + <p> + She dreaded that return. She loved Welsley and could not now imagine + herself living anywhere else. Robin, too was a pronounced, even an + enthusiastic, “Welsleyite,” and had practically forgotten “old London,” as + he negligently called the greatest city in the world. They were very happy + in Welsley. In fact, the Dean’s widow was the only rift in Rosamund’s + lute, that lute which was so full of sweet and harmonious music. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund’s lease of the house in the Precincts, “Little Cloisters,” as it + was deliciously named, had been for six months, from the 1st of March till + the 1st of September. As Dion was not coming home yet, and as he wrote + begging her to live on at Welsley if she preferred it to London, she was + anxious to “renew” for another six months. The question whether Mrs. + Duncan Browning would, or would not, renew really tormented Rosamund, and + the uncertainty in which she was living, and the misery it caused her, + showed her how much of her heart had been given to Welsley. + </p> + <p> + The Dean’s widow was capricious and swayed by fluctuations of health. She + was “up and down,” whatever that betokened. At one moment she “saw the + sun,”—her poetical way of expressing that she began to feel pretty + well,—and thought she had had enough of the “frivolous existence one + leads in an hotel”; at another a fit of sneezing,—“was not the early + morning sneeze but the real thing,”—a pang of rheumatism, or a touch + of bronchitis, made her fear for the damp of Welsley. She would and she + would not, and Rosamund could not induce her to come to a decision, and + suffered agonies at the thought of being turned out of Little Cloisters. + When Dion came back, of course, a flitting from Welsley would have to be + faced, but to be driven away without that imperative reason would indeed + be gall and wormwood. There were days when Rosamund felt unchristian + towards Mrs. Dean, upon whom she had never looked, but with whom she had + exchanged a great many cordial letters. + </p> + <p> + In August, under the influence of a “heavy cold, which seems the worse + because of the heat,” Mrs. Browning had agreed to let Rosamund stay on for + another month, September; and now Rosamund was anxiously awaiting a reply + to her almost impassioned appeal for a six months’ extension of her lease. + Canon Wilton was again in residence in the Precincts, and one afternoon he + called at Little Cloisters, after the three o’clock service, to inquire + what was the result of this appeal. Beatrice was staying with her sister + for a few days, and when the Canon was shown in she was alone in the + drawing-room, having just come up from the garden, where she had been + playing with Robin, whose chirping high voice was audible, floating up + from below. + </p> + <p> + “Is your sister busy?” asked the Canon, after greeting Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “She’s in her den. What do you think she is doing?” + </p> + <p> + The Canon looked hard at her, and he too smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Not writing again to Mrs. Browning?” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice nodded, and sat gently down on the window-seat. + </p> + <p> + “Begging and praying for an extension.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never seen any one so in love with a place as your sister is with + Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down near Beatrice. + </p> + <p> + “But it is attractive, isn’t it?” she said. + </p> + <p> + She turned her head slowly and looked out of the open window to the + enclosed garden which was bathed in mellow sunshine. The sky above the + gray Cathedral towers was a clear and delicate, not deep, blue. Above the + mossy red wall of the garden appeared the ruined arches of the cloisters + which gave to the house its name. Among them some doves were cooing. Up in + the blue, about the pinnacles of the towers, the rooks were busily flying. + Robin, in a little loose shirt, green knickerbockers, and a tiny soft + white hat set well on the back of his head, was gardening just below the + window with the intensity that belongs to the dawn. His bare brown legs + moved rapidly, as he ran from place to place carrying earth, a plant, a + bright red watering-pot. The gardener, a large young man, with whom Robin + was evidently on the most friendly, and even intimate, terms, was working + with him, and apparently under his close and constant supervision. A + thrush with very bright eyes looked on from an adjacent elder bush. Upon + the wall, near the end of the Bishop’s Palace, a black cat was sunning + itself and lazily attending to its toilet. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the very place for Rosamund,” said Beatrice, after a pause, during + which she drank in Welsley. “She seems to know and love every stick and + stone in it.” + </p> + <p> + “And almost every man, woman and child,” said the Canon. “She began by + captivating the Precincts,—not such an easy task either, for a + bishop usually has not the taste of a dean, and minor canons think very + lightly of the praises of an archdeacon,—and she has ended by + captivating the whole city. Even the wives of the clergy sing her praises + with one accord. It’s the greatest triumph in the history of the church.” + </p> + <p> + “You see she likes them and is thoroughly interested in all their little + affairs.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it’s genuine sympathy. She makes Welsley her world, and so Welsley + thinks the world of her.” + </p> + <p> + He looked across at Beatrice for a moment meditatively, and then said: + </p> + <p> + “And when her husband comes back?” + </p> + <p> + “Dion! Well, then, of course——” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated, and in the silence the drawing-room door opened and + Rosamund came in, holding an open letter in her hand, knitting her brows, + and looking very grave and intense. She greeted the Canon with her usual + warm cordiality, but still looked grave and preoccupied. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been writing to Mrs. Browning, about the house,” she said earnestly. + “It <i>is</i> damp, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Damp?” said the Canon. “I’ve never noticed it. But then do you think the + house is unwholesome?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for <i>us</i>. What I feel is, that for a bronchial person it might + be.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, looking at her letter. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve put just what I feel here, in a letter to Mrs. Browning. I know the + house is considered damp; by the Precincts, I mean. Mrs. Murry told me so, + and Mrs. Tiling-Smith thinks the same. Even the Bishop—why are you + smiling, Canon Wilton?” + </p> + <p> + But she began to smile too. + </p> + <p> + “What does the Bishop say about the danger to health of Little Cloisters?” + </p> + <p> + Her lips twitched, but she replied with firm sweetness: + </p> + <p> + “The Bishop says that all, or nearly all, old houses are apt to be damp in + winter.” + </p> + <p> + “A weighty utterance! But I’m afraid Mrs. Browning—by the way, have + you put the Bishop into your letter?” + </p> + <p> + “I had thought of reading it to you both, but now I shall not.” + </p> + <p> + She put the letter into an envelope, sealed it up with practical + swiftness, rang the bell for Annie and sent it to the postbox round the + corner. + </p> + <p> + “I put the Bishop in,” she added, with a mockery of defiance that was + almost girlish, when Annie had gone out. + </p> + <p> + “That was a mistake,” said the Canon sonorously. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Bishops never carry weight with the wives, or widows, of deans.” + </p> + <p> + “But why not?” asked Rosamund, with a touch of real anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Because the wives of deans always think their husbands ought to be + bishops instead of those who are bishops, and the widows of deans always + consider that they ought to be the widows of bishops. They therefore very + naturally feel that bishops are not entitled by merit to the positions + they hold, and could be treated with a delicate disdain.” + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of that. I wonder if Annie——” + </p> + <p> + “Too late!” said the Canon. “You’ll have to turn out of Little Cloisters, + I foresee that.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sat down, leaned towards him with her hands clasped tightly + together, and, in her absolutely unself-conscious way, began to tell him + and Beattie what she felt about Welsley, or something of what she felt. A + good deal she could only have told to Father Robertson. When she had + finished, Canon Wilton said, in his rather abrupt and blunt way: + </p> + <p> + “Well, but if your husband comes home unexpectedly? You can’t stay here + then, can you?” + </p> + <p> + Beatrice, who was still on the window seat, leaned out, and began to speak + to Robin below her in a quiet voice which could scarcely be heard within + the room. + </p> + <p> + “But Dion sees no prospect of coming home yet.” + </p> + <p> + “I heard to-day from some one in London that the C.I.V. may be back before + Christmas.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion doesn’t say so.” + </p> + <p> + “It mayn’t be true.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion writes that no one out there has any idea when the war will end.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably not. But the C.I.V. mayn’t be needed all through the war. Most + of them are busy men who’ve given up a great deal out of sheer patriotism. + Fine fellows! They’ve done admirable work, and the War Office may decide + that they’ve done enough. Things out there have taken a great turn since + Roberts and Kitchener went out. The C.I.V. may come marching home long + before peace is declared.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a certain pressure, a certain intensity, and his eyes never + left Rosamund’s face. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad my Dion’s one of them,” she said. “And Robin will be glad, too, + some day.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing more about Mrs. Browning and Little Cloisters. But when + Canon Wilton had gone she said to her sister: + </p> + <p> + “Beattie, does it ever strike you that Canon Wilton’s rather abrupt and + unexpected sometimes in what he says?” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t beat about the bush,” replied Beatrice. “Do you mean that?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I do. Now I’m going down to Robin. How strong he’s getting here! + Hark at his voice! Can’t you hear even in his voice how much good Welsley + had done him?” + </p> + <p> + Robin’s determined treble was audible as he piped out: + </p> + <p> + “Oh no, Fipper! Not by the Bish’s wall! Why, I say, the slugs always comes + there. They do, weally! You come and see! Come quick! I’ll show——” + </p> + <p> + The voice faded in the direction of the Palace. + </p> + <p> + “I must go down and see if it’s true about the slugs,” exclaimed Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + And with beaming eyes she hastened out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice looked after her and sighed. Dion’s last letter from South Africa + was lying on the writing-table close to her. Rosamund had already given it + to her to read. Now she took it up and read it carefully again. The doves + cooed in the cloisters; the bells chimed in the tower; the mellow sunshine—already + the sunshine not of full summer, but of the dawning autumn, with its + golden presage of days not golden, and of nights heavy with dews and laden + with floating leaves,—came in through the lattice, and lay over her + soft and wistful melancholy, as she read of hardship, and dust, and blood + and death, told truthfully, but always cheerfully, as a soldier tells a + thing to a woman he loves and wishes to be sincere with. + </p> + <p> + Dion was not in the peace. Dear Rosamund! Did she quite realize? And then + Beattie pulled herself up. A disloyal thought surely leaves a stain on the + mind through which it passes. Beattie did not want to have a stain on her + mind. She cared for it as a delicately refined woman cares for her body, + bathing it every day. + </p> + <p> + She put Dion’s letter down. + </p> + <p> + That evening Rosamund sang at a charity concert in the City Hall. Her + music was already a legend in Welsley and the neighborhood. Mr. Dickinson, + who always accompanied her singing, declared it emphatically to be + “great.” The wife of the Bishop, Mrs. Mabberley, pronounced the verdict, + “She sings with her soul rather than with her voice,” without intention of + paying a left-handed compliment. The Cathedral Choir boys affirmed that + “our altos are a couple of squeaks beside her.” Even Mrs. Dickinson, “the + cold douche,” as she was named in the Precincts, had long ago “come round” + about Mrs. Dion Leith, and had been heard to say of her, “She’s got more + than a contralto, she’s got a heart, and I couldn’t say that of some women + in high positions.” This was “aimed” at the Dean’s wife, Mrs. Jasper, who + gave herself musical airs, and sometimes tried to “interfere with the + Precentor’s arrangements,” which meant falling foul of “Henry.” + </p> + <p> + As Rosamund looked down upon the rows of friendly and familiar faces from + the platform, as she heard the prolonged applause which greeted her before + she sang, and the cries of “Encore!” which saluted her when she finished, + she felt that she had given her heart irrevocably to Welsley, and the + thought came to her, “How can I leave it?” This was cozy, and London could + never be cozy. She could identify herself with the concentrated life here, + without feeling it a burden upon her. For she was so much beloved that + people even respected her privacy, and fell in with what she called “my + absurd little ways.” In London, however many people you knew, you saw + strangers all the time, strangers with hard, indifferent eyes and + buttoned-up mouths. And one could never say of London “my London.” + </p> + <p> + When the concert was over she wound a veil about her pale yellow hair, + wrapped a thin cloak round her shoulders, took up her music case and asked + for Beattie. An eager boy with a smiling round face, one of the Cathedral + Choristers, darted off to find Mrs. Daventry, the sister of “our Mrs. + Leith”; Mr. Dickinson gently, but decisively, took the music case from + Rosamund’s hand with an “I’ll carry that home for you”; a thin man, like + an early primrose obliged by some inadvertence of spring to work for its + living, sidled up and begged for the name of “your most beautiful and + chaste second encore for our local paper, the ‘Welsley Whisperer’”; and + Mrs. Dickinson in a pearl gray shawl, with an artificial pink camellia + carelessly entangled in her marvelously smooth mouse-colored hair, + appeared to tell Mrs. Leith authoritatively that “Madame Patey <i>in her + heyday</i> never sang ‘O Rest in the Lord’ as we have heard it sung + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Then Rosamund, pleasantly surrounded by dear provincial enthusiasts, made + her way to the door where Beattie, with more enthusiasts, was waiting for + her; and they all came out into the narrow High Street, and found the + September moon riding above their heads to give them a greeting nobly + serene and beneficent, and they set out <i>sans facon</i>, many of them + bare-headed, to walk home down tiny “Archbishop’s Lane” to the Precincts. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund walked with Mr. Dickinson on one side of her and the Dean of + Welsley and Mrs. Jasper on the other; Canon Wilton, Beattie, the + Archdeacon of Welsley and the Precentor were just in front; behind + peacefully streamed minor canons and their wives, young sons and daughters + of the Precincts, and various privileged persons who, though not of the + hierarchy, possessed small houses within the sacred pale. Only the Bishop + and his consort drove majestically home in “Harrington’s Fly.” + </p> + <p> + What a chatter of voices there was under the projecting eaves of the dear + old house! What happy laughter was wafted towards the smiling moon! Mrs. + Dickinson, presently “coming up with” Rosamund’s party, became absolutely + “waggish” (the Dean’s expression), and made Rosamund laugh with that + almost helpless spontaneity which is the greatest compliment to a joke. + And then the gate in the ancient archway was opened, and they all passed + into their great pleasaunce, and, with a sensation of joyous + proprietorship, heard the gate shut and locked behind them, and saw the + Cathedral lifting its towers to the moon. Laughter was hushed then, and + some of the voices were silent; feet went more slowly along the edges of + the velvety lawns; the spell of ancient things which are noble, and which + tell of the noble ideals of humanity, fell upon them; their hearts within + them were lifted up. + </p> + <p> + When the Dean bade good-night to Rosamund he said: + </p> + <p> + “Your music and you mean a great deal to Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + “Not half as much as Welsley means to me,” she replied with earnest + sincerity. + </p> + <p> + “We are all looking forward to greeting your gallant, self-sacrificing + husband presently, very soon I hope. Good-night to you. It has been”—he + paused, looked at Rosamund and gently pressed her hand,—“a most + fragrant evening.” + </p> + <p> + A most fragrant evening! When Beattie and Rosamund had eaten their + sandwiches, and drunk their still lemonade and claret, and when Beattie + had gone to bed, Rosamund slipped out alone into the dear walled garden, + and paced up and down in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + Yes, there was something fragrant here, something that infected the soul, + something of old faiths and old holy aspirations, a murmur and a perfume + of trust and love. There might be gossip, trickling jealousies in this + little world, mean actions, even, perhaps, ugly desires and ugly + fulfilments of desire. Rosamund scarcely noticed, or did not notice, these + things. With her people were at their best. That night, when Beattie was + going to bed, Rosamund had said to her: + </p> + <p> + “I can’t think why Mrs. Dickinson is called ‘the cold douche.’ I find her + so warm-hearted and so amusing!” + </p> + <p> + And so it was with them all. Rosamund had the magic touch which drew the + best out of every one in Welsley, because she was happy there, and + sincerely loved the place. + </p> + <p> + “How can I leave Welsley?” she thought now, as she walked up and down in + the garden, and heard presently the chiming of midnight and the voice of + the watchman beyond the Dark Entry. God seemed very near to her in + Welsley, God and the happiness of God. In Welsley she felt, or was + beginning to feel, that she was almost able to combine two lives, the life + she had grasped and the life she had let go. Here she was a mother and at + moments she was almost a religious too. She played with her boy, she + trained him, watched over his small body and his increasing soul; and she + meditated between the enclosing walls, listening to bells and floating + praises, to the Dresden Amen, and to the organ with its many voices all + dedicated to the service of God. Often, when she walked alone in the + garden, or sat alone in some hidden corner under the mossy walls, she felt + like a nun who had given up the world forever, and had found the true life + in God. In imagination, then, she lived the life of which she had dreamed + as a girl before any man had brought her his love. + </p> + <p> + She could never, even in imagination, live that life truly, without + effort, in London. Welsley had made her almost hate London. She did not + know how she would be able to bear the return to it. Yet, if Canon Wilton + were right in what he had said to her that afternoon, Dion might come back + very soon, and therefore very soon she might have to leave Welsley. + </p> + <p> + No. 5 Little Market Street once more; vaporous Westminster leaning to the + dark river! + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sighed deeply as she looked up again to the towers, and the moon, + and turned to go into Little Cloisters. It was difficult to shut out such + a night; it would be more difficult to give up the long meditations, the + dreams that came in this sweet retirement sheltered by the house of God. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Two days later, at breakfast-time, Rosamund received the following letter, + written on paper scented with “Wood violet”: + </p> + <p> + “HOTEL PALACE-BY-THE-SEA, BOURNEMOUTH, Thursday + </p> + <p> + “MY DEAR MRS. LEITH,—I have received your two—or is it three?—charming + letters recently written, suggesting a renewal of the lease of Little + Cloisters beyond September. At first I hesitated. The atmosphere of a + Cathedral town naturally attracts me and recalls sweet memories of the + past. On the other hand the life of a well-managed hotel, such as this is + not without its <i>agrements</i>. Frivolous it may be (though not light); + comfortable and restful it undoubtedly is. The against and the for in a + nutshell as it were! Your last letter, in which you dwell on the dampness + inevitable in old houses, and quote the Bishop’s opinion, would, I think, + have left me undisturbed in mind—I have recently taken up the ‘new + mind’ cult, which is, of course, not antagonistic to our cherished + Anglican beliefs—had it not happened to coincide with more than a + touch of bronchial asthma. The Bishop (quite between you and me!) though a + very dear man and a very good Christian, is not a person of great + intellect. My husband would never enter into controversy with him, as he + said it was useless to strive in argument with a mind not sure of its + bearings! An opinion of the Bishop’s would not, therefore, weigh much with + me. But there is an element of truth in the contention as to the damp. Old + houses <i>are</i> damp at times. Little Cloisters, placed as it is in the + shadow of the Cathedral, doubtless suffers in some degree from this + defect. My doctor here,—<i>such</i> a clever man!—though very + reluctant to prevent me from returning home, confessed to-day that he + thought my case needed careful watching by some one who <i>knew</i>. Now + (between you and me), nobody <i>knows</i> in Welsley, and therefore, after + weighing pros and cons, and undergoing an hour of mental treatment—merely + the silent encouragement and purification of the will—by an expert + here, I have decided to remain for the winter. I am willing, therefore, to + extend your lease for another six months on the terms as before. Perhaps + you will kindly visit my solicitor, Mr. Collingwood of Cattle Market Lane,—but + you are sure to know his address!—who will arrange everything + legally with you.—With my kindest regards and all good wishes, + believe me, dear Mrs. Leith, always sincerely yours, + </p> + <p> + “IMOGENE DUNCAN BROWNING.” + </p> + <p> + It was Beattie’s last morning at Little Cloisters; she had settled to go + back to De Lorne Gardens in the afternoon of that day. Rosamund read Mrs. + Browning’s letter sitting opposite to her sister at the breakfast-table in + the small, paneled dining-room. At the same time Beattie was reading a + letter from Guy. As she finished it she looked up and said: + </p> + <p> + “Anything interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “What does Guy say?” replied Rosamund. “Oh, here’s a letter from + godfather! Perhaps he’s coming down.” + </p> + <p> + Rather hastily she tore open another envelope. + </p> + <p> + Later on in the morning, when Beattie was doing mysterious things in the + garden with Robin, Rosamund slipped out alone and made her way to Cattle + Market Lane. She came back just before lunch, looking unusually + preoccupied. + </p> + <p> + The day after Beattie had returned to London, a note from Rosamund told + her that the lease of Little Cloisters had been renewed for another six + months, till the end of March, 1901. + </p> + <p> + “And if old Dion comes back in the meanwhile, as I fully expect he will?” + said Guy, when Beattie told him of Rosamund’s note. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose it is possible to sublet a house,” said Beattie, looking + unusually inexpressive, Guy thought. + </p> + <p> + “They say at the Clubs the C.I.V. will be back before Christmas, Beattie,” + said Guy. + </p> + <p> + “The Tenbys’ lease of Number 5 is up.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but do you think Dion can afford to run two houses?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps——” she stopped. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe Rosamund will ever be got out of Welsley,” said Guy. “And + I’m pretty sure you agree with me.” + </p> + <p> + “I must go now,” said Beattie gently. “I’m going to Queen Anne’s Mansions + to tell the dear mother all about my visit to Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + “When is she going there?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. She’s very lazy about moving. She’s not been out of London + since Dion sailed.” + </p> + <p> + “I think she’s the most delicate mother-in-law—I don’t mean + physically—who has ever been born in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Beattie looked down, and in a moment went out of the room without saying + anything more. + </p> + <p> + “Darling Beattie,” murmured Guy, looking after his wife. “How she bears + her great disappointment.” + </p> + <p> + For Beattie’s sake far more than for his own he longed to have a child in + his home, a child of hers and his. But that would never be. And so Beattie + gave all the mother-love that was in her to Robin, but much of it + secretly. Guy knew that, and believed he knew the secret of her reticence + even with Robin. She loved Robin, as it were, from a distance; only his + mother must love him cheek to cheek, lips to lips, heart to heart, and his + father as men love the sons they think of as the bravery and strength of + the future. + </p> + <p> + But even Guy did not know how much his wife loved Robin, how many buried + hopes and dreams stirred in their graves when Robin threw himself + impulsively into her arms and confidentially hung on her neck and informed + her of the many important details of his life. No man knows all that a + certain type of woman is able to feel about a child. + </p> + <p> + When Rosamund had arranged about the renewal of the lease, she tried to + feel the joy which was evidently felt by all her Welsley friends—with + one exception which, however, she either did not notice or did not seem to + notice. They were frankly delighted and enthusiastic at the prospect of + keeping her among them. She was very grateful for their affection, so + eagerly shown, but somehow, although she had signed her name in a + solicitor’s office, and her signature had been witnessed by a neat young + man with a neat bald head, she did not feel quite at ease. She found + herself looking at “my Welsley” with the anxiously loving eyes of one who + gathers in dear details before it is too late for such garnering; she sat + in the garden and listened to the beloved sounds from the Cathedral with + strained attention, like one who sets memory at its mysterious task. + </p> + <p> + The Dean’s widow had yielded to the suggestion of inevitable dampness in + old houses, but——! + </p> + <p> + On September 28, towards evening, when Rosamund was in the garden with + Robin, Annie, the parlor-maid, came out holding a salver on which lay a + telegram. Rosamund opened it and read: + </p> + <p> + “Coming home.—DION.” + </p> + <p> + “Any answer, ma’am?” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Is there any answer, ma’am? Shall I tell the boy to wait?” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say, Annie?” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell the boy to wait, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thank you, Annie. There’s no answer.” + </p> + <p> + Annie turned and recrossed the garden, looking careful, as if she were + thinking of her cap, round which the airs were blowing. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sat for a few minutes almost motionless, with the slip of paper + lying in her lap; then the breeze came lightly, as if curious, and blew it + away. Robin saw it and ran. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll catch it, mummie. You see! I’ll catch it!” + </p> + <p> + The little brown legs were amazingly swift, but the telegram was elusive + because the breeze was naughty. When Robin ran up to his mother holding it + out he was almost breathless. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is, mummie.” + </p> + <p> + His blue eyes and his voice held triumph. + </p> + <p> + “I said I would, and I did!” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund put her arm round him. + </p> + <p> + “Who do you think sent this?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno.” + </p> + <p> + “Daddy sent it.” + </p> + <p> + Robin’s eyes became round. + </p> + <p> + “Daddy! What for?” + </p> + <p> + “To tell us he’s coming home.” + </p> + <p> + A deeply serious expression came to Robin’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Have I growed much?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a great deal.” + </p> + <p> + “Will daddy see it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I’m sure he will directly he comes.” + </p> + <p> + Robin seemed relieved. + </p> + <p> + “Is daddy coming here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he goin’ to live here with us?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see about all that when he comes.” + </p> + <p> + Annie, evidently still thinking about her cap, reappeared on the garden + path. + </p> + <p> + “The Dean to see you, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund got up, gave Robin a long kiss on the freckles and said: + </p> + <p> + “Robin, I believe the Dean has come about Mr. Thrush.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he know Mr. Thrush?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. I’ll tell you something presently.” + </p> + <p> + And she went slowly into the house. Was a scheme of hers coming to + fruition just when——? She tried to close her mind to an + approaching thought. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + On the 7th of October the C.I.V. sailed from South Africa for England, on + the 19th of October they made St. Vincent; on the 23rd Dion again looked + over the sea at the dreaming hills of Madeira. The sight of these hills + made him realize the change brought about in him by the work he had done + in South Africa. As he gazed at them he suddenly and sharply remembered + the man who had gazed at them nine months before, a man who was gathering + together determination, who was silently making preparations for progress, + or for what he thought of as progress. Those hills then had seemed to be + calling to him out of the mists of heat, and to himself he had seemed to + be defying them, to be thrusting their voices from him. For were they not + the hills of a land where the lotus bloomed, where a weariness bred of + stagnant delights wrapped men in a garment of Nessus, steeped in a subtle + poison which drew from them all their energies, which brought them not + pain but an inertia more deadly to the soul than pain? Now they had no + power over him. He did not need to defy them, because he had gained in + strength. Ere they vanished from his eyes over the sea he remembered + another Island rising out of waters that gleamed with gold. How far off + now seemed to him that evening when he had looked on it as he traveled to + Greece! How much he had left behind on the way of his life! + </p> + <p> + The experience of separation and of war had not aged him, but it had made + him feel older. Nothing of the boy was left in him. He felt himself of + manhood all compact. He had seen men die, had seen how they were able to + die, how they met severe physical suffering; he had silently tried to + prepare himself for death, keeping a cheerful countenance; he had known, + like most brave men, the cold companionship of fear, and he had got rid of + that companionship. Knowing death better, he knew life much better than + when he had left England. + </p> + <p> + On the voyage out he had looked at the hills of Madeira with Worthington. + Now Worthington was not with him; he had died of enteric at Pretoria in + September. Dion was carrying back to England Worthington’s last written + message to his people. He was carrying also another letter written by an + English officer, whose body lay in the earth of Africa, to a woman at + home. On the voyage Dion often thought of that dead man and of the living + woman to whom he would presently give the letter. He had promised to + deliver it personally. + </p> + <p> + At St. Vincent he had received a welcome by cable from Rosamund, and had + sent a cable to her asking not to be met. He wished to meet her in her + home at Welsley. She had written to him enthusiastic accounts of its peace + and beauty. Her pen had been tipped with love of it. Their first meeting, + their reunion, must take place there in the midst of that wonderful peace + of green England which she loved so much. After the heat and the dust and + the pain of South Africa that would surely be very good. + </p> + <p> + Their reunion! + </p> + <p> + Dion had escaped death. He had been allowed to return to Rosamund in + splendid health, without a wound, though he had been in battle. He had a + strong presentiment that he was allowed to return for some definite + purpose. Could he not now be of far more use to his little son than if he + had never volunteered for active service? Rosamund and he had looked up + together at the columns of the Parthenon and had thought of the child who + might come. Dion felt that he understood the Parthenon better now that he + had looked death in the face, now that he had been ready to give up his + life if it had been required of him. He even had a whimsical feeling—he + smiled at it seriously to himself—that the Parthenon, if he again + stood before it, would understand him better. He was not proud of himself + for what he had done. But in the depths of him he often felt earnestly + glad, almost thankful, that he had been able to do it. The doing of it had + brought a new zest into life, new meanings, a new outlook. He seemed to + feel life like something precious in his hand now; he had not felt it so + before, even when he had won Rosamund and had been with her in Greece. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The hills of Madeira faded. Three days later there was a burial at sea in + the early morning. A private, who had been ill with enteric, had died in + the night. The body sank into the depths, the ship went on her way and ran + into a stiff gale. Already England was rousing herself to welcome her + returning sons, bruskly but lustily, in her way, which was not South + Africa’s way. Dion loved that gale though it kept him awake all night. + </p> + <p> + Next morning they were off the Start, and heard the voices of the sirens + bidding them good day. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + On the last day of October, at about four o’clock in the afternoon, + Rosamund was waiting for Dion. He was due by the express which, when up to + time, reached Welsley Station at 3.55. She would naturally have been at + the station to meet him if she had not received a telegram from him + begging her to stay at home. + </p> + <p> + “Would much rather meet you first in Little Cloisters,—Dion,” were + the last words of the telegram. + </p> + <p> + So Rosamund had stayed at home. + </p> + <p> + It was a peculiarly still autumn afternoon. A suggestion—it was + scarcely more than that—of mist made the Precincts look delicately + sad, but not to the eyes of Rosamund. She delighted in this season of + tawny colors and of fluttering leaves, of nature’s wide-eyed and + contemplative muteness. The beauty of autumn appealed to her because she + possessed a happy spirit, and was not too imaginative. She had + imagination, but it was not of the intensely sensitive and poetic kind + which dies with the dying leaves, and in the mists loses all the hopes + that were born with the birth of summer. The strong sanity which marked + her, and which had always kept her in central paths, far away from the + byways in which the neurotic, the decadent, the searchers after the + so-called “new” things loved to tread, led her to welcome each season in + is turn, and to rejoice in its special characteristics. + </p> + <p> + So she loved the cloistral feeling autumn brought with it to Welsley. + Green summer seemed to open the doors, and one rejoiced in a golden + freedom; tawny autumn seemed softly to close the doors, and one was happy + in a sensation of being tenderly guarded, of being kept very safe in + charge for the coming winter with its fires, and its cosy joys of the + interior. + </p> + <p> + Another reason which made Rosamund care very much for the autumn was this: + in the autumn the religious atmosphere which hung about the Precincts of + Welsley seemed to her to become more definite, more touching, the ancient + things more living and powerful in their message. + </p> + <p> + “Welsley always sends out influences,” she had once said to Father + Robertson. “But in certain autumn days it speaks. I hear its voice in the + autumn.” + </p> + <p> + She heard its voice now as she waited for Dion. + </p> + <p> + The lattice window which gave on to the garden was partly open; there was + a fire in the wide, old-fashioned grate; vases holding chrysanthemums + stood on the high wood mantelpiece and on the writing-table; the tea-table + had been placed by Annie near the hearth. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund listened to the cloistral silence, and looked at two deep, + old-fashioned arm-chairs which were drawn up by the tea-table. + </p> + <p> + Just how much had she missed Dion? + </p> + <p> + That question had suddenly sprung up in her mind as she looked at the two + arm-chairs. + </p> + <p> + The first time she had been in Little Cloisters she had spoken to Canon + Wilton of Dion, had wondered if he would come back from South Africa + altered; and she had said that if she came to live in it Welsley might + alter her. Canon Wilton had made no comment on her remark. She had + scarcely noticed that at the time, perhaps had not consciously noticed it; + but her subconscious mind had recorded the fact, and she recalled it now. + </p> + <p> + Welsley, she thought, had changed her a good deal. She was not a + self-conscious woman as a rule, but to-day was not like other days, and + she was not quite like herself on other days. Perhaps, for once, she was + what women often call “strung up”; certainly she felt peculiarly alive—alive + specially in the nerves of her body. + </p> + <p> + Those two arm-chairs were talking to her; they were telling her of the + imminent renewal of the life closely companioned, watched over, protected, + beloved. They were telling, and they were asking, too. She felt absurdly + that it was they who were asking how much she had missed Dion. + </p> + <p> + It would be good to have him back, but she now suddenly realized, in a + self-conscious way, that she had managed to be very happy without him. But + then she had always looked forward to his eventual return. Suppose he had + not come back? + </p> + <p> + She got up restlessly, went to the window and looked out into the garden. + Robin was not there, nor was he in the house. Obedient to an impulse which + she had not understood at the time, Rosamund had arranged a small, and + rather odd, festivity for him which had taken him away from home, and + would keep him out till five o’clock: he was having tea in a cake-shop + near the top of Wesley High Street with his nurse and Mr. Thrush, who, not + unexpectedly, had arrived in Welsley. The first meeting between his father + and mother would not be complicated by his eager young presence. + </p> + <p> + So the garden was empty to-day. Not even the big young gardener was to be + seen; he only came on four days in the week, and this was not one of them. + As Rosamund looked down into the garden, she loved its loneliness, its + misty, autumnal aspect. It was surely not her fault if she had a natural + affection for solitude—not for the hideous solitude of a childless + mother, but for the frequent privacy of a mother who was alone, but who + knew that her child was near, playing perhaps, or gone for a little jaunt + with his faithful nurse, or sleeping upstairs. + </p> + <p> + As she looked at the garden a faint creeping sense of something almost + like fear came to her. Since Dion had been away she had surely altered, + because she had had a new experience; she had, as it were, touched the + confines of that life which she had deliberately renounced when she had + married. + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her, as she stood there and remembered her long meditations + in that enclosed and ancient garden, that in these months she had drawn + much nearer to God, and—could it be because of that?—perhaps + had receded a little from her husband. + </p> + <p> + The sense of uneasiness—she could not call it fear—deepened in + her. Was the receding then implicit in the drawing near? She began to feel + almost confused. She put up a hand to her face; her cheek was hot. + </p> + <p> + The clock in the room struck four; two minutes later the chimes sounded, + and then Big John announced the hour. + </p> + <p> + Dion might arrive at any moment now. She turned away rather quickly from + the window. She hated the unusual feeling of self-consciousness which had + come to her. + </p> + <p> + At ten minutes past four the door bell rang. It must be he. She went to + the drawing-room door, opened it and listened. She heard a man’s voice and + a bump; then another bump, a creaking, a sort of scraping, and the voice + once more saying, “I’ll manage, miss.” + </p> + <p> + It was Dion’s luggage. Harrington’s man explained that the gentleman had + said he would walk to Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund went back into the drawing-room and shut the door. Now that + Dion’s luggage was actually in the house everything seemed curiously + different. A period was definitely over; her loneliness with Robin in + Little Cloisters was at an end. She sat down in one of the two arm-chairs + by the tea-table, clasped her hands together and looked at the fire. + </p> + <p> + If she had held to her girlish idea? If she had become a “Sister”? But—she + shook her head as she sat there alone—Robin! And then she sighed; + she had not thought, “But—Dion!” She was almost angry with herself + for being so introspective, so mentally observant of herself. All this was + surely unnatural in her. Was she going to become morbid—she who had + such a hatred of morbidity? She tried to force herself to feel that she + had missed Dion tremendously, that his return would make things right in + Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + But had they ever been wrong? And, besides, Little Cloisters would almost + immediately be only a dear memory of the past. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund began almost to hate herself. Was she capable of any sort of + treachery? Swiftly she began to dwell upon all the dear goodness of Dion, + upon his love, his admiration, his perpetual thoughtfulness, his + unselfishness, his straight purity, his chivalry, his unceasing devotion. + He was a man to trust implicitly. That was enough. She trusted him and + loved him. She thanked God that he was back in England. She had missed him + more, much more than she had realized; she was quite sure of that now that + she had recalled things. One happiness is apt to oust the acute memory of + another. That had (quite naturally) happened in her case. It would indeed + have been strange if, living in such a dear place as “My Welsley,” with + Robin the precious one, she had been a miserable woman! And she had always + known—as women know things they do not know—that Dion would + come back after behaving nobly. And that was exactly what had happened. + </p> + <p> + She looked at the arm-chair opposite. + </p> + <p> + How splendid it would be to see dear, brave, good, faithful Dion sitting + in it in a moment, safe after all his hardships and dangers, comfortable, + able to rest at last in his own home. + </p> + <p> + For Little Cloisters would be his home even if only for a few days. And + then——What about Mr. Thrush? What about—oh, so many + things? + </p> + <p> + “I’ll find the way all right,” Dion had said at the station, after he had + been assured that it was only ten minutes’ walk, “or so,” to Little + Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + The little walk would be a preparation for the very great event. He only + knew how great it was when he got out at the Welsley Station. + </p> + <p> + He had never seen Welsley before, though its fame had been familiar to him + from childhood. Thousands of pilgrims had piously visited it, coming from + afar; now yet another pilgrim had come from afar, sensitively eager to + approach a shrine which held something desired by his soul. + </p> + <p> + That part of the city which immediately surrounded the station was not + attractive, but very soon Dion came into a narrow street and was aware of + an ancient flavor, wholly English, and only to be savored thoroughly by an + English palate. In this street he began to taste England. He passed an old + curiosity shop, black and white, with a projecting upper storey, lattice + windows with tiny panes, a door of black oak upon which many people had + carved their names. By the door stood a spinning-wheel. In the window were + a tea service of spode and a collection of luster ware. There were also + some Toby jugs. + </p> + <p> + Dion went in quickly and bought one for Robin. He carried it unwrapped in + his hand as he walked on. One could do that here, in this intimate, cozy + old town of dear England. He enjoyed the light mist, the moisture in the + air. He had come to hate aridity and the acrid dryness of dust blown by + hot winds across great spaces. The moisture caressed his skin, burnt + almost to the color of copper by the African sun. + </p> + <p> + He came into the High Street. On its farther side, straight in front of + him, the narrowest street he had ever seen, a rivulet of a street, with + leaning houses which nearly formed an arcade, stretched to a wonderful + gray gateway, immensely massive, with towers at its corners, and rows of + shields above its beetling archway. + </p> + <p> + This must be the entrance to the Precincts. + </p> + <p> + In the tiny street he met a verger in mufti, an old bent man, with a + chin-beard and knotty hands, English in every vein, in every sinew of his + amazingly respectable and venerable body. This worthy he stopped and + inquired of him the way to Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + “Where Mrs. Leith and her boy lives, sir?” mouthed the old man, with a + kindly gaping smile. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s a nice lady,” said the verger. “We think a lot of her here, + especially we Cathedral folk.” + </p> + <p> + He went on to explain elaborately where Little Cloisters was, and to + describe minutely two routes, by either of which it might be come at. It + was evident that he was one of those who love to listen to themselves and + who take a pride in words. + </p> + <p> + Dion decided for the route “round at the back” by Chantrey Lane, through + the Green Court, leaving the Deanery on the left and the Bishop’s Palace + on the right, and so by way of the Prior’s Gate and the ruins of the + Infirmary through the Dark Entry to Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t miss it. The name’s writ on the door in the wall, and a rare + old wall it is,” said the venerable man. + </p> + <p> + Dion thanked him warmly and walked on, while the verger looked after him. + </p> + <p> + “I shouldn’t wonder if that’s Mrs. Leith’s husband home from the war,” he + murmured. “Looks as if he’d been fighting, he does, and burnt pretty near + to a cinder by something, the sun as like as not.” + </p> + <p> + And he walked on down the tiny street towards the muffin which awaited him + at home, well pleased with his perspicuity, and making mental preparations + for the astonishing of his wife with a tidbit of news. + </p> + <p> + Dion came into the Green Court, and immediately felt Welsley, felt it in + the depths of him, and understood Rosamund’s love of it so often expressed + in her letters. As he looked at the moist green lawn in the center, at the + gray and brown houses which fronted it, at the Deanery garden full of the + ruddy flowers of autumn behind the iron railings, at the immense Cathedral + with its massive and yet almost tenderly graceful towers, a history in + stone of the faithful work and the progress of men, he knew why Rosamund + had come to live here. He stood still. In the misty air he heard the + voices of the rooks. The door of a Canon’s house opened, and two + clergymen, one of them in gaiters and a shovel hat, came out, and walked + slowly away in earnest conversation. Bells sounded in one of the towers. + </p> + <p> + He understood. Here was a sort of essence of ecclesiasticism. It seemed to + penetrate the whole atmosphere. Rosamund was at home in it. + </p> + <p> + He remembered his terrible thought that God had always stood between his + wife and him, dividing them. + </p> + <p> + How would it be now? + </p> + <p> + Again he looked up at the great house of God, and he felt almost afraid. + But he was not the man he had been when he said good-by to Rosamund; he + had gained in force of character, and he knew it. Surely out there in + South Africa, he had done what his mother had wanted him to do, he had + laid hold of his best possibilities. At any rate, he had sincerely tried + to do that. Why, then, should he be afraid—and of God? + </p> + <p> + He walked on quickly, and came to Little Cloisters by way of the Dark + Entry. + </p> + <p> + It was very dark that day, for the autumn evening was already making its + moist presence felt, and there was a breathing of cold from the old gray + stones which looked like the fangs of Time. + </p> + <p> + Dion shook his broad shoulders in an irresistible shiver as he came out + into the passage-way between Rosamund’s garden wall and the ruined + cloisters, immediately beyond which rose the east end of the Cathedral. + South Africa had evidently made him sensitive to the dampness and cold of + England. + </p> + <p> + “Little Cloisters.” The white words showed on a tall green door let into + the wall on his left; and, as the verger had said, it was a rare old wall. + So here it actually was! He was at home. His heart thumped as he pulled at + the bell, and unconsciously he gripped the Toby jug hard with his other + hand. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <h3> + “Dion! Is it you at last?” + </h3> + <p> + A warm voice called from above, and the blood rushed to his temples. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to him that he took the old staircase in his stride, and he had + a feeling almost such as a man has when he is going into action. + </p> + <p> + “Rose!” + </p> + <p> + He held her in his arms and kissed her. + </p> + <p> + “It’s—seemed a long time!” + </p> + <p> + He felt moisture springing to his eyes. The love he felt for her almost + overwhelmed his self-control. Till this moment he had never known how + great it was. All his deprivation was in that embrace. + </p> + <p> + “Years it’s seemed!” he said, letting her go with a little laugh, summoned + up—he did not know how—to save him from too much emotion. + </p> + <p> + She gazed at him. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Dion, how you have altered!” + </p> + <p> + “Have I?” + </p> + <p> + “Tremendously.” + </p> + <p> + How well he knew the kindly glance of her honest brown eyes; a thousand + times he had called it up before him in South Africa. But this was not the + glance so characteristic of her. In the firelit room her eyes looked + puzzled, almost wide, with a sort of startled astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “You had a lot of the boy in you still when you went away. At least, I + used to think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I any left?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t see any. No, I think you’ve come back all man. And how + tremendously burnt you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Almost black, I suppose. But I’m so accustomed to it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s right,” she said. “Your face tells the story of what you’ve done. + Robin”—she paused, then slowly she said—“Robin’s got almost a + new father.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he? He’s sure to have altered more than I have.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. He’ll be in about five. I’ve sent him out to tea with some one you + know.” + </p> + <p> + “With whom?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thrush.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thrush at Welsley?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ll explain all that presently. I thought I’d have you all to + myself for half an hour, and then Robin should have his turn. Here comes + Annie.” + </p> + <p> + When the two arm-chairs were occupied, Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “And you, Rosamund?” + </p> + <p> + “What about me?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you altered?” + </p> + <p> + “If I have, probably you would know it and I shouldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I dare say that’s true. You aren’t conscious of it, then?” + </p> + <p> + But she was giving him his tea, and that took her mind away from his + question, no doubt. He felt a change in her, but it was not almost + fiercely marked like the change in him, on whom a Continent had written + with its sun and its wind, and with its battlefields. The body of a man + was graven by such a superscription. And no doubt even a child could read + something of it. But the writing on Rosamund was much fainter, was far + less easy to decipher; it was perhaps traced on the soul rather than on + the body. The new legend of Dion was perhaps an assertion. But this story + of Rosamund, what was it? She saw the man in Dion, lean, burnt, strong, + ardent, desirous, full of suppressed emotion that was warmly and intensely + human; he saw in her, as well as the mother, something that was perhaps + almost pale, almost elusive, like the still figure and downbent face of a + recluse seen in passing an open window. + </p> + <p> + She saw in Dion his actions; he saw in her her meditations. Perhaps that + was it. All this time he had been living incessantly in the midst of men, + never alone, nearly always busy, often fiercely active, marching, eating, + sleeping in company. And all the time she had been here, in the midst of + this cloistral silence, and perhaps often alone. + </p> + <p> + “You know everybody here, I suppose?” he asked, drinking his tea with + relish, and eating the toast which seemed to him crisply English, but + always faintly aware of that still figure and of that downbent face. + </p> + <p> + “Almost everybody. I’ve sung a great deal, and got to know them all partly + through that. And they’re dear people most of them. They let one alone + when they know one wants to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “And I expect you can enjoy being alone here.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said simply. “At times. It would be difficult to feel lonely, + in the miserable, dreadful way, I mean, in the Precincts. We are rather + like a big family here, each one with his, or her, own private room in the + big family house.” + </p> + <p> + “I know you’ve always loved a certain amount of solitude, Rose,” he said + tenderly. “D’you remember that day in London when I burst in upon your + solitude with Dante, and was actually jealous of the ‘Paradiso’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “But you forgave me, or I shouldn’t be here now.” + </p> + <p> + He gave her his cup for some more tea. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t imagine how absolutely wonderful it is to me to be here after + what I’ve been through.” + </p> + <p> + He lay back in his chair, but he still looked tremendously alert, wiry, + powerful even. + </p> + <p> + Dion was much more impressive than he had been when he went away. Rosamund + felt a faint creeping of something that was almost like shyness in her as + she looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “After Green Point Camp and Orange River—I shall never forget the + dust-storm we had there!—and Springfontein and Kaffir River—oh, + the heat there, Rose!—and Kaalfontein and all the rest of it. It was + near Kaalfontein that we first came under fire. I shan’t forget that.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent for a moment. She looked at him across the tea-table. All + that he knew and she did not know now made him seem rather strange to her. + The uniting of two different, utterly different, experiences of life, was + more tremendous, more full of meaning and of mystery, than the uniting of + two bodies. This, then, was to be a second wedding-day for her and for + Dion? All their letters, in which, of course, they had tried to tell each + other something of their differing experiences, had really told very + little, almost nothing. Dion’s glance told her more than all his letters, + that and his color, and certain lines in his face, and the altered shapes + of his hands, and his way of holding himself, and his way of speaking. + Even his voice was different. He was an unconscious record of what he had + been through out there; and much of it, she felt sure, he would never tell + to her except unconsciously by being a different Dion from the Dion who + had gone away. + </p> + <p> + “How little one can tell in letters,” she said. “Scarcely anything.” + </p> + <p> + “You made me feel Welsley in yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Did I? Why did you walk from the station?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to taste your home, to get into your atmosphere, if I could, + before seeing you. Rose, love can make a man almost afraid at times.” + </p> + <p> + It seemed to her that his dark eyes burned with fires they had captured in + South Africa. Sitting in the old room with its homely and ecclesiastical + look, he had an oddly remote appearance, she thought, as if he belonged to + a very different milieu. Always dark, he now looked almost gipsy-like; yet + he had the unmistakable air of a soldier. But if there had ever been + anything there was now nothing left of the business man in Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you find it very difficult to settle down again to the life in + Austin Friars, Dion?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I should, but for one thing.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + “You and Robin at home when the drudgery is done.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund saw Welsley receding from her into darkness, with its familiar + faces and voices, its gray towers, its cloisters, its bells, the Dresden + Amen, the secret garden, the dreams she had had in the garden. + </p> + <p> + “Number 5 is all ready to go into. It was lucky we only let it for six + months,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle Biron has given me a fortnight’s holiday, or rather gladly agreed + to my taking it. Of course I’m my own master in a way, being a partner, + but I want to consider him. He was awfully good about my going away. + Mother’s looking well. She was at our Thanksgiving Service; Beattie and + Guy too. I’ve had just a glimpse of godfather.” + </p> + <p> + They talked about family things till Robin came in from his festivity with + Mr. Thrush, who was staying at Little Cloisters, but only till the + following day. + </p> + <p> + That was a great moment, the moment of Robin’s arrival. Mr. Thrush did not + appear with him, but, being a man of delicate perceptions despite his + unfortunate appearance, retired discreetly to the servants’ hall, leaving + his devoted adherent free for the “family reunion,” as he called it. + </p> + <p> + “Go up quietly, dear,” said the nurse to Robin, “and tap at the + drawing-room door.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tap?” asked Robin earnestly. + </p> + <p> + He was looking unusually solemn, his lips were parted, and his eyes almost + stared. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, dear. Tap prettily, like a young gentleman as you are, and when you + hear ‘Come in!’——” + </p> + <p> + “I know then!” interrupted Robin, with an air of decision. + </p> + <p> + He walked rather slowly upstairs, lifting one brown leg after the other + thoughtfully from step to step, till he was outside the drawing-room door. + Inside he heard the noise of a man’s voice, which sounded to him very + tremendous and important, the voice of a brave soldier. + </p> + <p> + “That’s Fa!” he thought, and he listened for a moment as to the voice of a + god. + </p> + <p> + Then he doubled his small fist and gave a bang to the door. Some instinct + told him not to follow nurse’s injunction, not to try to be pretty in his + tapping. The voice of the soldier ceased inside, there was a brief sound + of a woman’s voice, then came a strong “Come in!” + </p> + <p> + Robin opened the door, went straight up to the very dark and very thin man + whom he saw sitting by the fire, and, staring at this man with intensity, + lifted up his face, at the same time saying: + </p> + <p> + “‘Ullo, Fa!” + </p> + <p> + There was a dropped aitch for which nurse, who was very choice in her + English, would undoubtedly have rebuked him had she been present. The dark + man did not rebuke Robin, but caught him up and enfolded him in a hug that + was powerful but not a bit rough. Robin was quite incapable of analyzing a + hug, but he loved it as he would not have loved it if it had been rough, + or if it had been merely gentle. A sense of great happiness and of great + confidence flooded him. From that moment he adored his father as he had + never adored him before. The new authority of his father’s love for him + captured him. He knew nothing about it and he knew all about it, as is the + way with children, those instinctive sparks fresh from the great furnace. + </p> + <p> + Long before dinner time Dion knew that he had won something beside the + D.C.M. which he had won in South Africa, something that was wonderfully + precious to him. He gave Robin the Toby jar and another gift. + </p> + <p> + He cared for his little son that night as he had never cared for him + before. It was as if the sex in Robin spoke to the sex in him for the + first time with a clear, unmistakable voice, saying, “We’re of the + comradeship of the male sex, we’re of the brotherhood.” It was not even a + child’s voice that spoke, though it spoke in a little child. Dion blessed + South Africa that night, felt as if South Africa had given him his son. + </p> + <p> + That gift would surely be a weapon in his hands by means of which, or with + the help of which, he would conquer the still unconquered mystery, + Rosamund’s whole heart. South Africa had done much for Dion. Out there in + that wonderful atmosphere he had seen very clearly, his vision had pierced + great distances; he saw clearly still, in England. War, it seemed, was so + terribly truthful that it swept a man clean of lies; Dion was swept clean + of lies. He did not feel able any longer even to tell them occasionally to + himself. He knew that Rosamund’s greeting to him, warm, sweet, sincere + though it had been, had lacked something which he had found in Robin’s. + But he felt that now he had got hold of Robin so instantly, and so + completely, the conquest of the woman he had only won must be but a + question of time. That was not pride in him but instinct, speaking with + that voice which seems a stranger to the brain of man, but a friend to + something else; something universal of which in every man a fragment is + housed, or by which every man is mysteriously penetrated. + </p> + <p> + A fortnight’s holiday—and then? + </p> + <p> + On that first evening it had been assumed that as soon as Dion went back + to business in Austin Friars, No. 5 Little Market Street would receive its + old tenants again, be scented again with the lavender, made musical with + Rosamund’s voice, made gay with the busy prattle and perpetual activities + of Robin. + </p> + <p> + For two days thereafter no reference was made by either Rosamund or Dion + to the question of moving. Dion gave himself up to Welsley, to + holiday-making. With a flowing eagerness, not wholly free from + undercurrents, Rosamund swept him sweetly through Welsley’s delights. She + inoculated him with Welsley, or at any rate did her best to inoculate him, + secretly praying with all her force that the wonderful preparation might + “take.” Soon she believed that it was “taking.” It was evident that Dion + was delighted with Welsley. On his very first day they went together to + the afternoon service in the Cathedral, and when the anthem was given out + it proved to be “The Wilderness.” Rosamund’s quick look at Dion told him + that this was her sweet doing, and that she remembered their talk on the + hill of Drouva. He listened to that anthem as he had never listened to an + anthem before. After the service Canon Wilton, who, though no longer in + residence as “three months’ Canon,” was still staying on at his house in + the Precincts for a few days, came up to welcome him home. Then Mr. + Dickinson appeared, full of that modesty which is greedy for compliments. + Mrs. Dickinson, too, drifted up the nave in a casual way which scarcely + concealed her curiosity about Mrs. Dion’s husband; when, later, Rosamund + told Dion of her Precincts’ name, “the cold douche,” he could not see its + applicability. + </p> + <p> + “I thought her an observant but quite a warm-hearted woman,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “She is warm-hearted; in fact she’s a dear, and I’m very fond of her,” + said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Every one here seems very fond of you,” he replied. + </p> + <p> + Indeed, he was struck by Welsley’s evident love of Rosamund. It was like a + warm current flowing about her, and about him now, because he was her + husband. He was greeted with cordial kindness by every one. + </p> + <p> + “It is jolly to be received like this,” he said to Rosamund. “It does a + fellow good when he’s just come home. It makes him feel that there is + indeed no place like England. But it’s all owing to you.” + </p> + <p> + But she protested. + </p> + <p> + “They all admire and respect you for what you’ve done,” she said. “You’ve + brought the best introductions here, your own deeds. They speak for you.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, loving her perfectly sincere modesty. + </p> + <p> + “You may be a thousand things,” he told her, “but one thing you’ll never + be—vain or conceited.” + </p> + <p> + The charm of her, which was compounded of beauty and goodness, mixed with + an extraordinary hold upon, and joy in, the simple and healthy things of + life, came upon him with a sort of glorious newness after his absence in + South Africa. He loved other people’s love of her and the splendid reasons + for it so apparent in her. But for Robin he might nevertheless have felt + baffled and sad even in these moments dedicated to the joys of reunion, he + might have felt acutely that the completeness and perfection of reunion + depended upon the exact type of union it followed upon. Robin saved him + from that. He hoped very much in Robin, who had suddenly given him a + confidence in himself which he had never known till now. This was a + glorious possession. It gave him force. People in Welsley were decidedly + impressed by Mrs. Leith’s husband. Mrs. Dickinson remarked to her Henry + over griddle cakes after the three o’clock service: + </p> + <p> + “I call Mr. Leith a very personable man. Without having Mrs. Leith’s + wonderful charm—what man could have?—he makes a distinct + impression. He has suppressed force, and that’s what women like in a man.” + </p> + <p> + Henry took another griddle cake, and wondered whether he was wise in + looking so decided. Perhaps he ought to suppress his undoubted force; + perhaps all his life, without knowing it, he had hovered on the verge of + the blatant. + </p> + <p> + Canon Wilton also was struck by the change in Dion, and said something, + but not just then all, of what he felt. + </p> + <p> + “You know the phrase, ‘I’m my own man again,’ Leith, don’t you?” he said, + in his strong bass voice, looking steadily at Dion with his kindly stern + eyes. (He always suggested to Dion a man who would be very stern with + himself.) + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Dion. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I think South Africa’s made you your own man.” + </p> + <p> + Dion looked tremendously, but seriously, pleased. + </p> + <p> + “Do you? And what about the again?” + </p> + <p> + “Cut it out. I don’t think you’d ever been absolutely your own man before + you went away.” + </p> + <p> + “I wonder if I am now,” Dion said, but without any weakness. + </p> + <p> + He had been through one war and had come out of it well; now he had come + home to another. The one campaign had been but a stern preparation for the + other perhaps. But Rosamund did not know that. Nevertheless, it seemed to + him that already their relation to each other was slightly altered. He + felt that she was more sensitive to him than formerly, more closely + observant of what he was and what he did, more watchful of him with Robin, + more anxious about his opinion on various matters. + </p> + <p> + For instance, there was the matter of Mr. Thrush. + </p> + <p> + Dion had not seen Mr. Thrush on the evening of his first day at Welsley. + He had been kept so busy by Rosamund, had done and seen so much, that he + had quite forgotten the ex-chemist. In the evening, however, before + dinner, he suddenly remembered him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s become of Mr. Thrush?” he asked. “And, by the way, what is he + doing down here? You never told me, Rose, and even Robin’s not said a + word.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked him not to,” said Rosamund, with her half-shrewd, half-soft look. + “The fact is——” She broke off, then continued, with her + confidential air, “Dion, when you see Mr. Thrush I want you to tell me + something truthfully. Will you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try to. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I want you to look at his nose—” + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + “No, really,” she pursued, with great earnestness. “And I want you to tell + me whether you think, honestly think, it—better.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s very important for Mr. Thrush that it should look better. He’s down + here to be seen.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice had become almost mysterious. + </p> + <p> + “To be seen? By whom? Is he on show in the town?” + </p> + <p> + “No—don’t laugh. It’s really important for his future. I must tell + you something. He’s taken the modified pledge.” + </p> + <p> + Her look said, “There! what d’you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Modified!” said Dion, rather doubtfully. + </p> + <p> + “Never between meals—never.” + </p> + <p> + “At any rate that’s a step in the right direction.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it? I took it with him.” + </p> + <p> + “The modified pledge?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, with great seriousness. + </p> + <p> + “But you never——! To help him, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And has it made a difference to the nose?” + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s made a considerable difference. But I want your opinion.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll give it you for what it’s worth. But who’s going to see Mr. Thrush?” + </p> + <p> + “The Dean. + </p> + <p> + “The Dean! Why on earth?” + </p> + <p> + “Almost directly there’s going to be a vacancy among the vergers, and the + Dean has promised me faithfully that if Mr. Thrush seems suitable he shall + have the post.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thrush a verger! Mr. Thrush carry a poker before a bishop!” + </p> + <p> + “Not a poker, only a white wand. I’ve been making him practise here in the + garden, and he does it quite admirably already.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke now with almost defiant emphasis. Dion loved her for the + defiance and for its deliciously absurd reason. + </p> + <p> + “The Dean is away, but he’s coming back to-morrow, so I begin to feel + rather anxious. Of course, he’ll see at once that Mr. Thrush is an + educated man. I’m not afraid about that. It’s only—well, the little + failing. It would mean so much for Mr. Thrush to get the post. He’ll be + provided for for life. I’ve set my heart on it.” + </p> + <p> + Annie came in. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Annie, is it Mr. Thrush?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Please ask him to come in.” + </p> + <p> + With a very casual air, as of one doing a thing for no particular reason + and almost without thought, she lowered the wick of the lamp which + illuminated the room. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t want it to flare,” she said, as she came away from it. “Oh, Mr. + Thrush, here’s my husband back again!” + </p> + <p> + With a certain unostentatious dignity Mr. Thrush stepped into the room. He + was most respectably dressed in a neat black suit, the coat of which + looked rather like either a frock coat which was in course of diminishing + gradually into what tailors call “a morning coat,” or a morning coat which + was in course of expanding gently into a frock coat; a speckless collar + with points appeared above a pair of dark worsted gloves, and a hat which + resembled a square bowler half-way on the road to top hatdom. + </p> + <p> + Dion felt touched by his appearance and his gait, which seemed to hint at + those rehearsals in the garden, and especially touched by the fact that he + had bought a new hat. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome home, sir!” he said at once to Dion. “I’m sure the country is + proud of you.” + </p> + <p> + He paid the compliment with so much sincerity that Dion did not feel + embarrassed by it. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit down, Mr. Thrush,” said Rosamund, after hands had been cordially + shaken. “No, not there!”—as he was about to sit full in the + lamplight—“This chair will be more comfortable. Now I’ll leave you + to have a little talk with my husband.” + </p> + <p> + With an inquiring look at Dion she went out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Before she came back Mr. Thrush had told Dion all his hopes and fears with + regard to the Dean, and had dwelt on his overwhelming desire to become a + verger. Quite unself-conscious in his simplicity he rose almost to + dignity. He frankly confessed his “failing,” and alluded to the taking of + the modified pledge. + </p> + <p> + “We took it together, sir, your kind lady and I, we both pledged ourselves + never to touch a drop of liquor between meals whatever the occasion.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right!” said Dion, with firmness, almost with bruskness. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you think so, sir. But a verger can’t be too careful. He’s held + up as an example to the whole city by his position, walking so often in + procession as he does before the eyes of all men. Even a chemist scarcely + takes so much upon himself. In respect of the body he may, I’ll allow you,—for + no verger has to do with prussic acid, iodine, cascara and all such-like,—but + in respect of what I might all the uplifting of the soul not a doubt of it + but that the verger comes far before any chemist. It’s a solemn thing to + think of, and I hope, if so be as I’m elected, I shall be worthy of the + position. I see Mr. Dean to-morrow, sir, at eleven o’clock. I trust I + shall make a favorable impression. I lived just off Hanover Square for + more years than some can remember, and that, I hope, with a Very Reverend + will tell in my favor. None of them vergers here, though I’m sure they’re + a splendid body of men,—any one who has seen them walking before his + Lordship, the Bishop, the Canons and what not, as I did last Sunday + morning, would say the same,—but none of the vergers here can say as + much. I’ve made inquiry, but of course with all discretion. As to the + duties, sir, I think I can fulfil them. The carrying of the wand I may say + I am almost perfect in already. I’ve been at it in the garden with your + kind good lady since I came. I found it a bit difficult at first, sir. + There’s what you might call a knack to it, though from the congregation it + looks simple enough. But there, what does a congregation know of the + things a verger has to master any more than it does of what is required of + a good chemist? Often and often when I was just off Hanover Square——” + </p> + <p> + He was still flowing on with imperturbable volubility when Rosamund came + back and sent another, more inquiring, glance to Dion. + </p> + <p> + When Mr. Thrush had retired she at once said anxiously: + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a nice old chap.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, isn’t he? But what did you really think?” + </p> + <p> + “About the nose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The lamp was turned rather low, but I really believe the modified pledge + has—” + </p> + <p> + “There! What did I say?” she interrupted triumphantly. “I knew you’d + notice the difference. It’s really very much like yours or mine now, and + I’m sure—” + </p> + <p> + But here Dion broke in decisively. + </p> + <p> + “No, Rosamund, I can’t let that pass. It’s not like yours yet. I say + nothing about mine. But I honestly think it’s modified and I hope the Dean + will pass it.” + </p> + <p> + “The Dean and I are great cronies!” she murmured doubtfully. “My only fear + is that after he is a verger Mr. Thrush may—may lapse if I’m not——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, looking at Dion, and again he thought that she was more + sensitive to his opinion, to his wishes, than she had formerly been. Her + slightly changed attitude made Dion gladly aware of change in himself. He + meant more to Rosamund now than he had meant when he left England. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + Three days had slipped by. Dion had been accepted as one of the big + Welsley family, had been made free of the Precincts. During those three + days he had forgotten London, business, everything outside of Welsley. It + had seemed to him that he had the right to forget, and he had exercised + it. Robin had played a great part in those three days. His new adoration + of his father was obvious to every one who saw them together. The soldier + appealed to the little imagination. Robin’s ardor was concentrated for the + moment in his pride of possession. He owned a father who—his own + nurse had told him so—was not as other fathers, not as ordinary + fathers such as stumped daily about the narrow streets of Welsley, + rubicund and, many of them, protuberant in the region of the watch-chain. + They were all very well; Robin had nothing against them; many of them were + clergymen and commanded his respect by virtue of their office, their + gaiters, the rosettes and cords that decorated their wide-winged hats. But + they were not like “Fa.” They had not become lean, and muscular, and dark, + and quick-limbed, and keen-eyed, and spry, in the severe service of their + country. They had not—even the Archdeacon, Robin’s rather special + pal, had not—ever killed any wicked men who did not like England, or + gone into places where wicked men who did not like England might have + killed them. Some of them did not know much about guns, did not seem to + take any interest in guns. It was rather pitiable. Since his father had + come back Robin had had an opportunity of sounding the Archdeacon on the + subject of an advance in open order. The result had not been satisfactory. + The Archdeacon, Robin thought, had taken the matter with a lightness, + almost a levity, which one could not have looked for from a man in his + position, and when questioned as to his methods of taking over had frankly + said that he had none. + </p> + <p> + “I like him,” Robin said ruefully. “But he’ll never be a good scout, will + he, Fa?” + </p> + <p> + To which Dion replied with discretion. + </p> + <p> + “There are plenty of good scouts, old boy, who would never make good + archdeacons.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there?” said Robin. “Why not? I know what scouts does, but what does + archdeacons does?” + </p> + <p> + And with that he had his father stumped. Dion had not been long enough at + Welsley to dive into all its mysteries. + </p> + <p> + On the evening of the third day Dion told Rosamund that he must go to + London on the following morning. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got something I must do and I want to tell you about it,” he said. + “You remember Mrs. Clarke?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “It must be more than two years since I’ve seen her. She lives a great + deal in Constantinople, you know. But she sometimes comes to London in the + winter. It’s abominably cold in Constantinople in winter. There are + perpetual winds from the Black Sea.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know there are. Esme Darlington has told me about them.” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Clarke’s in London now.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you see her when you passed through?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I want to see her to-morrow. Rose, I’m going to tell you + something which nobody else must know. I was asked to keep it entirely to + myself, but I refused. I was resolved to tell you, because I don’t believe + in secrets between husband and wife—about their doings, I mean.” + (Just then he had happened to think of Mrs. Clarke’s farewell telegram to + him when he had sailed for South Africa.) + </p> + <p> + “I know how frank and sincere you always are, Dion,” she said gently. + </p> + <p> + “I try to be. You remember that party at Mrs. Chetwinde’s where you sang? + You met Mrs. Clarke that night.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I remember. We had quite an interesting talk.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s clever. Lord Brayfield was there, too, that night, a fair man. + </p> + <p> + “I saw him. He wasn’t introduced to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Brayfield was shot in the war. Did you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I thought I had read everything. But I didn’t happen to see it.” + </p> + <p> + “And I didn’t mention it when I wrote. I thought I’d tell you if I came + home. Brayfield, poor fellow, didn’t die immediately. He suffered a great + deal, but he was able to write two or three letters—last messages—home. + One of these messages was written to Mrs. Clarke. He gave it to me and + made me promise to convey it to her personally, not to put it in the + post.” + </p> + <p> + “Was Lord Brayfield in the C.I.V.?” asked Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no. He was a captain in the 5th Lancers. We were brigaded with them + for a bit and under fire at the same time. Brayfield happened to see me. + He knew I was an acquaintance of Mrs. Clarke’s, and when he was shot he + asked that I should be allowed to come to him. Permission was given. I + went, and he asked me if I’d give Mrs. Clarke a letter from him when I got + home. It seems none of his brother officers happened to know her. He might + have given the letter to one of them. It would have been more natural. + But”—Dion hesitated—“well, he wanted to say a word or two to + some one who knew her, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund quite understood there were things Dion did not care to tell even + to her. She did not want to hear them. She was not at all a curious woman. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad you are able to take the letter,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And then she began to talk about something else. Mr. Thrush’s prospects + with the Dean, which were even yet not quite decided. + </p> + <p> + By the quick train at nine o’clock Dion left Welsley next morning; he was + in London by half-past ten. He had of course written to Mrs. Clarke asking + if he could see her. She had given him an appointment for three o’clock at + the flat she had taken for a few months in Park Side, Knightsbridge. Dion + went first to the City, and after doing some business there, and lunching + with his uncle at the Cheshire Cheese, got into a cab and drove to + Knightsbridge. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke’s flat was on the first floor of a building which faced the + street on one side and Hyde Park on the other. Dion rang at a large, very + solid oak door. In two or three minutes the door was opened by an elderly + maid, with high cheek-bones and long and narrow light gray eyes, who said, + with a foreign accent, that Mrs. Clarke was at home. Afterwards Dion knew + that this woman was a Russian and Mrs. Clarke’s own maid. + </p> + <p> + She showed Dion into a long curving hall in which a fire was burning. Here + he left his hat and coat. While he was taking the coat off he had time to + think, “What an original hall this is!” From it he got an impression of + warmth and of a pleasant dimness. He had really no time to look carefully + about, but a quick glance told him that there were interesting things in + this hall, or at any rate interestingly combined. He was conscious of the + stamp of originality. + </p> + <p> + The Russian maid showed him into a drawing-room and went away to tell + “Madame.” She did not go out by the hall, but walked the whole length of + the long narrow drawing-room, and passed through a small doorway at its + farther end. Through this doorway there filtered into the drawing-room a + curious blue light. All the windows of the drawing-room looked into Hyde + Park, on to the damp grass, the leafless trees, the untenanted spaces of + autumn. + </p> + <p> + Dion went to the fireplace, which faced the far doorway. There was not a + sound in the room; not a sound came to it just then from without. He could + scarcely believe he was in Knightsbridge. Not even a clock was ticking on + the mantelpiece above the fire, in which ship logs were burning. The + flames which came from them were of various shades of blue, like magical + flames conjured up by a magician. He looked round. He had never seen a + room like this before. It was a room to live in, to hear strange music in; + it was not a reception-room. Not crowded with furniture it was not at all + bare. Its “note” was not austere but quite the contrary. It was a room + which quietly enticed. Dion was not one of those men who know all about + women’s dresses, and combinations of color, and china, and furniture, but + he was observant; as a rule he noticed what he saw. Fresh from South + Africa, from a very hard life out of doors, he looked at this room and was + almost startled by it. The refinement of it was excessive in his eyes and + reminded him of something overbred, of certain Italian greyhounds, for + instance. Strange blues and greens were dexterously combined through the + room, in the carpet, the curtains, the blinds, the stuffs which covered + the chairs, sofas, divans, cushions—blues and greens innumerable. He + had never before seen so many differing shades of the two colors; he had + not known that so many shades existed. In the china these colors were + repeated. The door by which he had come in was of thick glass in a frame + of deep blue wood and, by means of a mysterious light in the hall, was + made mistily blue. All along the windows, lilies were growing, or seemed + to be growing, in earth closely covered with green moss. There were dwarf + trees, like minute yew trees, in green and blue china pots. + </p> + <p> + And always the ship logs in the fire gave out the magical blue flames. + </p> + <p> + Certainly the general effect of the room was not only luxuriously + comfortable, but also strangely beautiful, though there was nothing in it + which a lover of antiques would have given his eyes for. To Dion, fresh + from South Africa, the room looked too comfortable, too ingeniously + beautiful. It struck him as ultra modern, ahead of anything he had ever + yet seen, and almost as evil. But certainly it enticed. + </p> + <p> + He heard the distant sound of a woman’s dress and saw Mrs. Clarke coming + slowly in from the room beyond (another blue and green room perhaps), and + he thought of Brayfield dying. He thrust a hand into the breast-pocket of + his coat and brought out the dead man’s letter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke came up to the fire and greeted him. She did not look a moment + older than when he had seen her last at Claridge’s, or indeed than when he + had first seen her standing under the statue of Echo in Mrs. Chetwinde’s + drawing-room. The same feverish refinement still was with her, belonged to + her; she looked as before, wasted as if by some obscure disease, haunted, + almost distressed, and yet absolutely self-controlled, mistress of herself + and unconscious of critical observation. Not even for a moment, seeing her + thus again after a long interval of time, did Dion hesitate about her + beauty. Undoubtedly she had beauty. The shape of her head was lovely, and + her profile was like a delicate vision seen in water. The husky sound of + her voice in her first words to him took him back to the Divorce Court. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t changed,” she said, staring intently at him in her oddly + impersonal way, which appraised and yet held something of inwardness. + </p> + <p> + “But people say I have changed very much.” + </p> + <p> + “People?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—my people.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t call natural development change. I saw in you very plainly when + we first met what you are now. You have got there. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + Her lips were very pale. How strangely unshining her hair was. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she looked punished!” he thought. “It’s that look of punishment + which sets her quite apart from all other women.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at the letter he was holding and sat down on a very broad + green divan. There were many cushions upon it; she did not heap them + behind her, but sat quite upright. She did not ask him to sit down. He + would do as he liked. Absurd formalities of any kind did not enter into + her scheme of life. + </p> + <p> + “How is Jimmy?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Brilliantly well. He’s been at Eton for a long time, doing dreadfully at + work—he’s a born dunce—and splendidly at play. How he would + appreciate you as you are now!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a gravity that was both careless and intense. He sat down + near her. In his letter asking to see her he had not told her that he had + a special object in writing to visit her. By her glance at Brayfield’s + letter he knew that she had gathered it. + </p> + <p> + They talked of Jimmy for a few minutes; then Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “My regiment was brigaded with Lord Brayfield’s for a time in South + Africa. I was in the action in which he was shot, poor chap. He saw me and + remembered that I was a—a friend of yours. When he was dying he + wanted to see me. I was sent for, and he gave me this letter for you. He + asked me to give it to you myself if I came back.” + </p> + <p> + He bent down to her with the letter. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” she said, and she took it without looking at all surprised, + and with her habitual composed gravity. “There are Turkish cigarettes in + that ivory box,” she added, looking at a box on a table close by. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + As Dion turned to get a cigarette he heard her tearing Brayfield’s + envelope. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me one?” said the husky voice. + </p> + <p> + Without saying anything he handed to her the box, and held a lighted match + to her cigarette when it was between the pale lips. She smoked gently as + she opened and read Brayfield’s letter. When she had finished it—evidently + it was not a long letter—she put it back into the envelope, laid it + down on the green divan and said: + </p> + <p> + “What do you think of this room? It was designed and arranged by Monsieur + de Vaupre, a French friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “By a man!” said Dion, irrepressibly. + </p> + <p> + “Who hasn’t been in the South African War. Do you like it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I do, but I admire it a good deal.” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at the letter lying on the divan, and Brayfield was before + him, tormented and dying. He had always disliked the look of Brayfield, + but he had felt almost a sort of affection for him when he was dying. + Foolishly perhaps, Dion wanted Mrs. Clarke to say something kind about + Brayfield now. + </p> + <p> + “If you admire it, why don’t you like it?” she asked. “A person—I + could understand; but a room!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and hesitated to acknowledge a feeling at which he knew + something in her would smile; then he thought of Rosamund and of Little + Cloisters and spoke out the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s an unwholesome-looking room. It looks to me as if it had + been thought out and arranged by somebody with a beastly, though artistic, + mind.” + </p> + <p> + “The inner room is worse,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But she did not offer to show it to him, nor did she disagree with his + view. He even had the feeling that his blunt remark had pleased her. + </p> + <p> + He asked her about Constantinople. She lived there, she told him, all + through the spring and autumn, and spent the hottest months on the + Bosphorus. + </p> + <p> + “People are getting accustomed to my temerity,” she said. “Of course Esme + Darlington is still in despair, and Lady Ermyntrude goes about spreading + scandal. But it doesn’t seem to do much harm. She hasn’t any more + influence over my husband. He won’t hear a word against me. Like a good + dog, I suppose, he loves the hand which has beaten him.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got a will of iron, I believe,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + She changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ask you to tell me about South Africa,” she said. “Because you + told me the whole story as soon as I came into the room. But what are you + going to do now? Settle down in the Church’s bosom at Welsley?” + </p> + <p> + There was no sarcasm in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “Oh—I’m going back to business in a few days.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll run up and down, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too far, an hour and a half each way. I shall have to be in London.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke rather indecisively. + </p> + <p> + “I’m taking a fortnight’s holiday, and then we shall settle down.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been in Welsley,” said Mrs. Clarke. “It’s beautiful but, to me, + stifling. It has an atmosphere which would soon dry up my mind. All the + petals would curl up and go brown at the edges. I’m glad you’re not going + to live there. But after South Africa you couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. I find it very attractive,” he said, instinctively on the + defensive because of Rosamund, who had not been attacked. “The coziness + and the peace of it are very delightful after all the—well, of + course, it was a pretty stiff life in South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + Again he looked at Brayfield’s letter. He wanted to tell Mrs. Clarke about + Brayfield, but it seemed she had no interest in the dead man. While he was + thinking this she quietly put out her hand, took the letter, got up and + dropped it into the fire among the blue flames from the ship logs. + </p> + <p> + “I seldom keep letters,” she said, “unless I have to answer them.” + </p> + <p> + She turned round. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve kept yours,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “The one I—it was awfully good of you to send me that telegram.” + </p> + <p> + “So Allah had you in His hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why when so many much better fellows——” He broke + off, and then he plunged into the matter of Brayfield. He could not go + without telling her, though hearing, perhaps, would not interest her. + </p> + <p> + All the time he was speaking she remained standing by the fire, with her + lovely little head slightly bending forward and her profile turned towards + him. The emaciation of her figure almost startled him. She wore a black + dress. It seemed to him a very simple dress. She could have told him that + such simplicity only comes from a few very good dressmakers, and is only + fully appreciated by a very few women. + </p> + <p> + Brayfield, though he was dying, had been very careful in what he had said + to Dion. In his pain he had shown that he had good blood in him. He had + not hinted even at any claim on Mrs. Clarke. But he had spoken of a + friendship which had meant very much to him, and had asked Dion, if he + ever had the opportunity, to tell Mrs. Clarke that when he was dying she + was the woman he was thinking about. He had not spoken interestingly; he + was not an interesting man; but he had spoken with sincerity, with genuine + feeling. + </p> + <p> + “She’s a woman in a thousand,” he had said. “Tell her I thought so till + the last. Tell her if she had been free I should have begged her to marry + me.” + </p> + <p> + And he had added, after a pause: + </p> + <p> + “Not that she’d ever have done it. I’m pretty sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + When Dion had finished, still standing by the fire, Mrs. Clarke said: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for remembering it all. It shows your good heart.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—please!” + </p> + <p> + Why didn’t she think about Brayfield? + </p> + <p> + She turned round and fixed her distressed eyes on him. + </p> + <p> + “Which is best, to be charitable or to be truthful?” she said, without any + vibration of excitement. “<i>De Mortuis</i>—it’s a kindly saying. A + true Turk, one of the old Osmanlis, might have said it. If you hadn’t + brought me that letter and the message I should probably never have + mentioned Brayfield to you again. But as it is I am going to be truthful. + I can say honestly peace to Brayfield’s ashes. His death was worthy. + Courage he evidently had. But you mustn’t think that because he liked me I + ever liked him. Don’t make a mistake. I’m not a nervous suspicious fool of + a woman anxiously defending, or trying to defend, her honor—not + attacked, by the way. If Lord Brayfield had ever been anything to me I + should just be quiet, say nothing. But I didn’t like him. If I had liked + him I shouldn’t have burnt his letter. And now”—to Dion’s great + astonishment she made slowly the sign of the Cross—“<i>requiescat in + pace</i>.” + </p> + <p> + After a long pause she added: + </p> + <p> + “Now come and see the other room. I’ll give you Turkish coffee there.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + It had been understood between Rosamund and Dion that he should spend that + night in London. He had several things to see to after his long absence, + had to visit his tailor, the dentist, the bootmaker, to look out some + things in Little Market Street, to have an interview with his banker, et + cetera. He would go back to Welsley on the following afternoon. In the + evening of that day he dined in De Lorne Gardens with Beatrice and Guy + Daventry and his mother, and again, as in Knightsbridge, something was + said about the Welsley question. Dion gathered that Rosamund’s devotion to + Welsley was no secret in “the family.” The speedy return to Little Market + Street was assumed; nevertheless he was certain that his mother, his + sister-in-law, and Guy were secretly wondering how Rosamund would be able + to endure the departure from Welsley. Beatrice had welcomed him back very + quietly, but he had felt more definitely than ever before the strong + sympathy which existed between them. + </p> + <p> + “I quite love Beatrice,” he said to his mother in the jobbed brougham with + the high stepping, but slow moving, horse which conveyed them to Queen + Anne’s Mansions after the dinner. + </p> + <p> + “She is worth it,” said Mrs. Leith. “Beatrice says very little, but she + means very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I wonder—I wonder how much of her meaning I thoroughly + understand, mater.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps about five per cent of it, dee-ar,” observed Mrs. Leith in her + sweetest voice. + </p> + <p> + And then she began to talk about Esme Darlington. + </p> + <p> + That night Dion stayed at Queen Anne’s Mansions, and slept in his old + room. + </p> + <p> + In her room his mother lay awake because she wished to lie awake. In sleep + she would have lost the precious sense of her boy’s nearness to her. So + she counted the hours and she thanked God; and twice in the night she + slipped out into the hall, with her ample dressing-gown folded about her, + and she looked at her boy’s coat hanging on its hook, and she listened + just outside his door. Once she felt certain she heard his quiet + breathing, and then, shutting her eyes, for a moment she was again the + girl mother with little Dion. + </p> + <p> + Little, little Dion! The soldier, burnt and hardened and made wholly a man + by South Africa, was still that to his mother, more than ever that since + he had been to the war. + </p> + <p> + That question of Welsley! + </p> + <p> + Going down in the train next day Dion thought about it a great deal. With + his return the old longing, almost an old need it was, to give Rosamund + whatever she wanted, or cared at all for, had come to him again. But + something fought it, the new longing to dominate and the wish to give + Rosamund chances. Besides, how could they possibly live on in Welsley? He + could not spend from three to four hours every day in the train. He might + get away from London on Fridays and stay at Welsley every week till Monday + morning, but that would mean living alone in Little Market Street for four + days in the week. If he seemed willing to do that, would Rosamund consent + to it? + </p> + <p> + Another test! He remembered his test before the war. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke’s allusion to Welsley had left a rather strong impression upon + him. He did not know whether he had a great respect for her, but he knew + that he had a great respect for her mind. Like Beattie, but in a very + different way, she meant a great deal. He no longer doubted that she liked + him very much, though why he honestly did not know. When with her he felt + strongly that he was not an interesting man. Dumeny was a beast, he felt + sure, but he also felt sure that Dumeny was an interesting man. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke’s wild mind attracted something in him. Through her eyes he + was able to see the tameness of Welsley, a dear tameness, safe, cozy, full + of a very English charm and touched with ancient beauty, but still——! + Would the petals of Rosamund ever curl up and go brown at the edges from + living at Welsley? No, he could not imagine that ever happening. A + dried-up mind she could never have. + </p> + <p> + He would not see Welsley through the eyes of Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless when he got out of the train at Welsley Station, and saw + Robin’s pal, the Archdeacon, getting out too, and a couple of minor + canons, who had come up for the evening papers or something, greeting him + with an ecclesiastical heartiness mingled with just a whiff of + professional deference, Mrs. Clarke’s verdict of “stifling” recurred to + his mind. + </p> + <p> + Stamboul and Welsley—Mrs. Clarke and Rosamund! + </p> + <p> + The dual comparison made him at once see the truth. Stamboul and Welsley + were beautiful; each possessed an enticing quality; but the one enticed by + its grandiose mystery, by its sharp contrasts of marble stability and + matchboard frailty, by its melancholy silences and spaces, by its obscure + peace and its dangerous passion; the other by its delightful simplicity, + its noble homeliness, its dignity and charm of an old faith and a smiling + unworldliness, its harmonies of gray and of green, of stone and verdure, + its serenity lifted skywards by many bells. + </p> + <p> + But at the heart of Stamboul the dust lay thick, and there was dew at the + heart of Welsley. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps green Elis, with its sheep-bells, the eternal voices of its pine + trees, the celestial benignity of its Hermes, was more to be desired than + either Stamboul or Welsley. But for the moment Welsley was very desirable. + </p> + <p> + Dion gave his bag to an “outside porter,” and walked to the Precincts with + the Archdeacon. + </p> + <p> + He found Rosamund uplifted and triumphant; Mr. Thrush had finally + captivated the Dean, and had been given the “situation” which Rosamund had + desired for him. Her joy was almost ebullient. She could talk of nothing + else. Mr. Thrush was to be installed on the following Sunday. + </p> + <p> + “Installed?” said Dion. “Is the Archbishop coming down to conduct the + ceremony?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no! What I mean is that Mr. Thrush will walk in the procession for + the first time. Oh, I shall be so nervous! If only he carries the wand as + I’ve taught him! I don’t know what Mr. Thrush would do without me. He + seems to depend on me for everything now, poor old gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid he’ll miss you dreadfully,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Miss me? When?” + </p> + <p> + Before he could answer she said quickly: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, by the way, Dion, while you’ve been away I’ve done something for + you.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Rose?” + </p> + <p> + She was looking gaily mysterious, and almost cunning, but in a delightful + way. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want you to be bored during your holiday.” + </p> + <p> + “Bored! Don’t you realize that this is an earthly Paradise for me? You and + Robin and peace after South Africa.” + </p> + <p> + She looked very shrewd. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all very well, but a man, especially a soldier man, wants sport.” + </p> + <p> + She laid a strong and happy emphasis on the last word, and then she + disclosed the secret. A brother of “the cold douche,” a gentleman farmer + who had land some four miles from Welsley, and who was “a great friend” of + Rosamund’s—she had met him three times at the organist’s house—hearing + of Dion’s arrival, had written to say that he had some partridges which + needed “keeping down.” He himself was “laid by” with a bad leg, but he + would be very glad if Mr. Leith would “take his chance among the birds” + any day, or days, he liked while at Welsley. The gentleman farmer could + not offer much, just the ground, most of it stubble, and a decent lot of + birds. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Dickinson knew through me how fond of shooting you are. We owe + it all to her,” said Rosamund, in conclusion. “I’ve written to thank him, + and to say how glad you’ll be.” + </p> + <p> + “But you must come too,” he said. “You shot in Greece, you must shoot + again here.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I will here,” said Rosamund, confidentially and rather + mysteriously. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I don’t think the Dean would approve of it. And he’s been so bricky + about Mr. Thrush that I shouldn’t like to hurt him.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t go alone. I shall take Robin then.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke half-laughingly. + </p> + <p> + “Robin?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, why not? I’m sure he’d love to go.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he would. But how could his little legs walk over stubble? He’s + not four years old yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Robin’s got to be Doric. He can’t begin too soon.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled, then looked at him seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, do you know that you’ve come back much more Doric than you were + when you went out?” + </p> + <p> + “Have I, Rose?” + </p> + <p> + “Much more.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you like me less because of that?” + </p> + <p> + She blushed faintly. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. + </p> + <p> + That faint blush made Dion’s heart bound, he scarcely knew why. But he + only said soberly: + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad of that. And now about Robin. You’re right. He can’t walk over + stubble with me, but why shouldn’t I stick him on a pony?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—a pony! How he would love it!” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t I get hold of one?” + </p> + <p> + “But Job Crickendon’s got one!” + </p> + <p> + “Job Crick— . . . ?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Dickinson’s brother who’s lending you the partridges. Don’t say + another word, Dion. I’ll arrange it all. Robin will be in the seventh + heaven.” + </p> + <p> + “And you must come with us.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund was about to speak quickly. Dion saw that. Her eyes shone; she + opened her lips. But something, some sudden thought, stopped her. After a + minute she said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see.” + </p> + <p> + And she gave Dion a curious, tender look which he did not quite + understand. Surely she was keeping some delicate secret from him, one of + those dear secrets which perhaps will never be told, but which are + sometimes happily guessed. + </p> + <p> + Dion could not help seeing that Rosamund eagerly wanted to attach him to + Welsley. He felt that she had not honestly and fully faced the prospect of + returning to live in London. Her plan—he saw it plainly; the + partridge shooting was part of it—was to make Welsley so delightful + to him that he would not want to give up the home at Little Cloisters. + What was to be done? He disliked, he almost hated, the thought that his + return would necessitate an unpleasant change in Rosamund’s life. Yet + something within him told him that he ought to be firm. He was obliged to + live in London, and therefore it was only natural and right that Rosamund + and Robin should live in London too. After this long separation he ought + not to have to face a semi-bachelor life; three days of the week at Little + Cloisters and four days alone in Little Market Street. He must put + Rosamund to the test. That faint blush, which he would not soon forget, + made him hope that she would come out of the test triumphantly. + </p> + <p> + If she did, how splendid it would be. His heart yearned at the thought of + a Rosamund submissive to his wish, unselfish out of the depth of—dared + he think of it as a new growth of love within her, tending towards a great + flowering which would bring a glory into two lives? But if she yielded at + once to his wish, without a word of regret, if she took the speedy return + to London quite simply as a matter of course, he would feel almost + irresistibly inclined to take her in his arms and to say, “No, you shall + stay on at Little Cloisters. We’ll manage somehow.” Perhaps he could stand + three hours daily in the train. He could read the papers. A man must do + that. As well do it in the train as in an arm-chair at home. + </p> + <p> + But at any rate he would put her to the test. On that he was resolved. + </p> + <p> + At dinner that night Rosamund told him she had already written to “dear, + kind Job Crickendon” about the pony. + </p> + <p> + “You might shoot on Monday,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Right you are. When we hear about the pony we’ll tell Robin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Not till it’s all delightfully settled. Robin on horseback!” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes shone. + </p> + <p> + “I can see him already with a gun in his hand old enough to shoot with + you,” she added. “We must bring him up to be a thorough little sportsman; + like that Greek boy Dirmikis.” + </p> + <p> + They talked about Robin’s future till dinner was over. Dion loved their + talk, but he could not help seeing that in Rosamund’s forecast town life + held no place at all. In everything, or in almost everything, that she + said the country held pride of place. There was not one word about + Jenkins’s gymnasium, or the Open Air Club with its swimming facilities, or + riding in the Park, or fencing at Bernardi’s. Rosamund seemed tacitly to + assume that everything which was Doric was connected with country life. + </p> + <p> + On the following morning she hastened out “to buy riding gaiters for + Robin.” She had his “size” with her. + </p> + <p> + Not a word had been said about Dion’s visit to Mrs. Clarke. Rosamund’s + lack of all curiosity in regard to Mrs. Clarke and himself gave him the + measure of her faith in him. Few women, he thought, would be able to trust + a man so completely. And this trust was the more remarkable because he + felt positive that Rosamund distrusted Mrs. Clarke. She had never said so, + but he considered that by her conduct she had proved her distrust. + </p> + <p> + It was a great virtue in Rosamund, that power she had to trust where trust + was deserved. + </p> + <p> + Dear, kind Job Crickendon wrote that Master Robin could ride his pony, + Jane, and welcome. The letter arrived on Saturday. Rosamund read it aloud + to Dion. + </p> + <p> + “The people about here are the dearest people I’ve ever come across,” she + said. “So different from people in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, what’s the matter with people in London?” asked Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know; they’re more artificial. They think so much about + clothes, and hats, and the way their hair’s done.” + </p> + <p> + “The men!” + </p> + <p> + “I was talking of the women.” + </p> + <p> + “But is Job Crickendon a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be absurd, Dion. You know what I mean. The country brings out the + best that is in people.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s a bad look out for me, who’ve lived nearly all my life in London.” + </p> + <p> + “You would be yourself anywhere. Now about Robin. I’ve got the gaiters. + They’re not exactly riding gaiters—they don’t make them for such + little boys—but they’ll do beautifully. But I don’t want to tell + Robin till Monday morning. You see he’s got a very exciting day before him + to-morrow, and I think to know about Monday on top of it might be almost + too much for him.” + </p> + <p> + “But what excitement is there to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him reproachfully. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Thrush!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course. And is Robin coming to the Cathedral?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, for once. It’s a terribly long service for a child, but Robin would + break his heart if he didn’t see Mr. Thrush walk in the procession for the + first time.” + </p> + <p> + “Then we won’t tell him till Monday morning. I’ll hire a dog-cart and we + can all drive out together.” + </p> + <p> + Again she gave him the tender look, but she did not then explain what it + meant. + </p> + <p> + That evening they dined with Canon Wilton, who had a surprise in store for + them. Esme Darlington had come down to stay with him over Sunday, and to + have a glimpse of his dear young friends in Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was a delightful one. Mr. Darlington was benignly talkative and + full of kindly gossip; Canon Wilton almost beamed upon his guests; after + dinner Rosamund sang song after song while the three men listened and + looked. She sang her very best for them, and when she was winding a lace + shawl about her hair preparatory to the little walk home, Canon Wilton + thanked her in a way that brought the blood to her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made me very happy to-night,” he said finally. And his strong bass + voice was softer than usual. + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad.” + </p> + <p> + “Not only by your singing,” he added. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him inquiringly. His eyes had gone to Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Not only by that.” + </p> + <p> + And then he spoke almost in a murmur to her. + </p> + <p> + “He’s come back worth it,” he said. “Good night. God bless you both.” + </p> + <p> + The following day was made memorable by the “installation” of Mr. Thrush + as a verger of Welsley Cathedral. + </p> + <p> + The Cathedral was not specially crowded for the occasion, but there was a + very fair congregation when Rosamund, Dion and Robin (in a sailor suit + with wide blue trousers) walked in together through the archway in the + rood-screen. One of the old established vergers, a lordly person with a + “presence” and the air of a high dignitary, met them as they stepped into + the choir, and wanted to put them into stalls; but Rosamund begged for + seats in a pew just beyond the lectern, facing the doorway by which the + procession came into the choir. + </p> + <p> + “Robin would be swallowed up in a stall,” she whispered to Dion. + </p> + <p> + And they both looked down at the little chap tenderly, and met his blue + eyes turned confidingly, yet almost anxiously too, up to them. He was + wondering about all this whispering with the verger, and hoping that + nothing had happened to Mr. Thrush. + </p> + <p> + They found perfect seats in a pew just beyond the deanery stalls. Far up + in the distance above them one bell, the five minutes’ bell, was chiming. + Its voice recalled to Rosamund the “ping-ping” of the bell of St. Mary’s + Church which had welcomed her in the fog. How much had happened since + then! Robin was nestling against her. He sat between her and his father, + and was holding his father’s hand. By dividing Dion from her he united her + with Dion. She thought of the mystery of the Trinity, and then of their + mystery, the mystery of father, mother and child. To-day she felt very + happy, and happy in an unusual way. In her happiness she know that, in a + sort of under way, she had almost dreaded Dion’s return. She had been so + peacefully content, so truly at rest and deeply serene in the life at + Welsley with Robin. In her own heart she could not deny that she had loved + having her Robin all to herself; and she had loved, too, the long hours of + solitude during which, in day-dreams, she had lived the religious life. A + great peace had enveloped those months at Welsley. In them she had + mysteriously grown into a closer relation with her little son. She had + often felt in those months that this mysterious nearness could never have + become quite what it had become to her unless she had been left alone with + Robin. It was their solitude which had enabled her to concentrate wholly + on Robin, and it was surely this exclusive concentration on Robin which + had drawn him so very close to her. All the springs of his love had flowed + towards her. + </p> + <p> + She had been just a wee bit frightened about Dion’s return. + </p> + <p> + And that was why at this moment, when the five minutes’ bell was ringing, + she felt so happy. For Dion’s return had not made any difference; or, if + it had made a difference, she did not actively regret it. The child’s new + adoration of his father had made her care more for Dion, and even more for + Robin; for she felt that Robin was unconsciously loving in his father a + strength and a nobility which were new in Dion, which had been born far + away across the sea. War destroys, and all the time war is destroying it + is creating. Robin was holding a little bit of what the South African War + had created as he held his father’s hand. For are not the profound truths + of the soul conveyed through all its temple? + </p> + <p> + “Happiness is a mystery,” thought Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + And then she silently thanked God that this mystery was within herself, + and that she felt it in Robin and in Dion. + </p> + <p> + She looked down at her little son, and as she met his soft and yet ardent + eyes,—full of innocent anxiety, and almost of awe, about Mr. Thrush,—she + blessed the day when she had decided to marry Dion, when she had renounced + certain dreams, when she had taken the advice of the man who was now her + friend and had resolved to tread that path of life in which she could have + a companion. + </p> + <p> + Her companion had given her another companion. In the old gray Cathedral, + full of the silent voices of men who had prayed and been gathered to their + rest long since, Rosamund looked down the way of happiness, and she could + not see its end. + </p> + <p> + The five minutes’ bell stopped and Robin sat up very straight in the pew. + The Bishop’s wife proceeded to her stall with a friend. Robin stared + reverently, alert for the tribute to Mr. Thrush. Miss Piper glided in + sideways, holding her head down as if she were searching for a dropped pin + on the pavement. She, too, was an acquaintance of Robin’s, and he + whispered to his mother: + </p> + <p> + “Miss Piper’s come to see Mr. Thrush.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, darling.” + </p> + <p> + What a darling he was in his anxiety for his old friend! She looked at the + freckles on the bridge of his little nose and longed to kiss them. This + was without doubt the most wonderful day in Robin’s life so far. She + looked ahead and saw how many wonderful days for Robin! And over his fair + hair she glanced at Dion, and she felt Dion’s thought hand in hand with + hers. + </p> + <p> + A long sigh came from the organ, and then Mr. Dickinson was at work + preluding Mr. Thrush. Distant steps sounded on the pavement behind the + choir screen coming from some hidden place at the east end of the + Cathedral. The congregation stood up. All this, in Robin’s mind, was for + Mr. Thrush. Still holding his father’s hand tightly he joined in the + congregation’s movement. The solemnly pacing steps drew nearer. Robin felt + very small, and the pew seemed very deep to him now that he was standing + up. There was a fat red footstool by his left leg. He peeped at his father + and whispered: + </p> + <p> + “May I, Fa?” + </p> + <p> + Dion bent down, took him under the arms and lifted him gently on to the + footstool just as the vergers appeared with their wands, walking nobly at + the head of the procession. + </p> + <p> + At Welsley the ordinary vergers did not march up the choir to the return + stalls, but divided and formed up in two lines at the entrance, making a + dignified avenue down which the choristers and the clergy passed with calm + insouciance into the full view of the waiting congregation. Only two + picked men, with wands of silver, preceded the dignitaries to their + massive stalls. Mr. Thrush was—though not in Robin’s eyes—an + ordinary verger. He would not therefore penetrate into the choir. But, + mercifully, he with one other had been placed in the forefront of the + procession. He led the way, and Robin and his parents had a full and + satisfying view of him as the procession curved round and made for the + screen. In his dark and flowing robe he came on majestical, holding his + wand quite perfectly, and looking not merely self-possessed but—as + Rosamund afterwards put it—“almost uplifted.” + </p> + <p> + Robin began to breathe hard as he gazed. From Mr. Thrush’s shoulders the + robe swung with his lordly movements. He reached the entrance. It seemed + as if nothing could prevent him from floating on, in all the pride and + dignity of his new office, to the very steps of the Dean’s stall. But + discipline held him. He stood aside; he came to rest with his wand before + him; he let the procession pass by, and then, almost mystically, he + evaporated with his brother vergers. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sent a quick look to Dion, a look of subdued and yet bright + triumph. Then she glanced down at Robin. She had been scarcely less + excited, less strung up, than he. But she had seen the fruit of her + rehearsals and now she was satisfied. Robin, she saw, was more than + satisfied. His eyes were round with the glory of it all. + </p> + <p> + That was the happiest Sunday Dion had ever spent, and it was fated to + close in a happiness welling up out of the very deeps of the heart. + </p> + <p> + Canon Wilton and Esme Darlington came in to tea, and Mr. Thrush was + entertained at a sumptuous repast in the nursery “between the services.” + Robin presided at it with anxious rapture, being now just a little in awe + of his faithful old friend. His nurse, who approved of Mr. Thrush, and was + much impressed by the fact that after two interviews with the Dean he had + been appointed to a post in the Cathedral, sat down to it too; and + Rosamund and Dion looked in to congratulate Mr. Thrush, and to tell him + how delighted they were with his bearing in the procession and his + delicately adroit manipulation of his wand. Mr. Thrush received their + earnest congratulations with the quiet dignity of one who felt that they + did not spring from exaggeration of sentiment. Like all great artists he + knew when he had done well. But when Rosamund and Dion were about to + retire, and to leave him with Robin and the nurse to the tea and + well-buttered toast, he suddenly emerged into an emotion which did him + credit. + </p> + <p> + “Madame!” He said to Rosamund, in a rather hoarse and tremulous voice. + </p> + <p> + “Now don’t trouble to get up again, dear Mr. Thrush. Yes, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Thrush looked down steadily at the “round” which glistened on his + plate. Something fell upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Thrush——!” began Robin, and paused in dismay, looking + up at his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” said Mr. Thrush again, still looking at the “round,” “I haven’t + felt as I do now since I stood behind my counter just off Hanover Square, + respected. Yes,” he said, and his old voice quavered upwards, gaining in + strength, “respected by all who knew me. <i>She</i> was with me then, and + now she isn’t. But I feel—I feel—I’m respected again.” + </p> + <p> + Something else fell upon the toast. + </p> + <p> + “And it’s all your doing, madam. I—all I can say is that I—all + I can say——” His voice failed. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund put her hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “There, Mr. Thrush, there! I know, I know just how it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” said Mr. Thrush, with quavering emphasis, “one can depend upon + you, a man can depend upon you. What you undertake you carry through, even + if it’s only the putting on his feet of—of—I never thought to + be a verger, never. I never could have looked up to such a thing but for + you. But Mr. Dean he said to me, ‘Mr. Thrush, when Mrs. Leith speaks up + for a man, even an archbishop has to listen.’” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Mr. Thrush. Robin, give Mr. Thrush the brown sugar. He always + likes brown sugar in his tea.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s more nourishing, madam,” said Mr. Thrush, with a sudden change from + emotion to quiet self-confidence. “It does more work for the stomach. A + chemist knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear old man!” said Rosamund, when she and Dion were outside in the + passage. “To say all that before nurse—it was truly generous.” + </p> + <p> + And she frankly wiped her eyes. A moment later she added: + </p> + <p> + “I pray he doesn’t fall back into his little failing!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at Dion interrogatively. He looked at her, understanding, he + believed, the inquiry in her eyes. Before he could say anything the kind + and careful voice of Mr. Darlington was heard below, asking: + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Dion Leith at home?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington was delighted with Little Cloisters. He said it had a + “flavor which was quite unique,” and was so enthusiastic that Rosamund + became almost excited. Dion saw that she counted Mr. Darlington as an + ally. When Mr. Darlington’s praises sounded she could not refrain from + glancing at her husband, and when at length their guests got up to go + “with great reluctance,” she begged them to come and dine on the following + night. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington raised his ragged eyebrows and looked at Canon Wilton. + </p> + <p> + “I’m by way of going back to town to-morrow afternoon,” he began + tentatively. + </p> + <p> + “Stay another night and let us accept,” said Canon Wilton heartily. + </p> + <p> + “But I’m dining with dear Lavinia Berkhamstead, one of my oldest friends. + It’s not a set dinner, but I should hardly like—” + </p> + <p> + “For once!” pleaded Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington wavered. He looked round the room and then at Rosamund and + Dion. + </p> + <p> + “It’s most attractive here,” he murmured, “and Lady Berkhamstead lives in + the Cromwell Road, at the far end. I wonder—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s settled!” Rosamund exclaimed. “Dinner at half-past seven. We keep + early hours here, and Dion goes shooting to-morrow with Robin and may get + sleepy towards ten o’clock.” + </p> + <p> + After explanations about Robin, Mr. Darlington gracefully yielded. He + would wire to dear Lavinia Berkhamstead and explain matters. + </p> + <p> + As he and Canon Wilton walked back to the Canon’s house he said; + </p> + <p> + “What dear people those are!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, indeed,” said the Canon. + </p> + <p> + “Happiness has brought out the very best in them both. Leith is a fine + young fellow, and she, of course, is unique, a piece of radiance, as her + beautiful mother was. It does one good to see such a happy household.” + </p> + <p> + He gently glowed, and presently added: + </p> + <p> + “You and I, dear Canon, have missed something.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment the Canon’s strong voice came gravely out of the winter + darkness: + </p> + <p> + “You think great happiness the noblest education?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington began to pull his beard. + </p> + <p> + “You mean, my dear Wilton——?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think the education of happiness is the education most likely to + bring out the greatest possibilities of the soul?” + </p> + <p> + This was the sort of very definite question that Mr. Darlington preferred + to get away from if possible, and he was just preparing to “hedge,” when, + fortunately, they ran into the Dean, and the conversation deviated to a + discussion concerning the effect the pursuit of scientific research was + likely to have upon religious belief. + </p> + <p> + After supper that evening—supper instead of dinner on Sundays was + the general rule in Welsley—Dion lit his pipe. It had been a very + happy day. He wished the happiness to last till sleep came to Rosamund and + to him; nevertheless he was resolved to take a risk, and to take it now + before they went to bed, while they still had two quiet hours before them. + He looked at Rosamund and reluctance surged up in him, but he beat it + back. Something told him that he had been allowed to come back from South + Africa in order that he might build firm foundations. The perfect family + life must be set upon rock. He meant to get through to the rock if + possible. Rosamund and he were beginning again. Now surely was the day of + salvation if he played the man, the man instead of merely the lover. + </p> + <p> + “This has been one of the happiest days of my life,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He was standing by the fire. Rosamund was sitting on a low chair doing + some embroidery. Gold thread gleamed against a rough cream-colored ground + in her capable hands. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so thankful you like Welsley,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you hate leaving Welsley?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund went on quietly working for a moment. Perhaps she bent a little + lower over the embroidery. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve made a great many friends here,” she said at length, “and——” + </p> + <p> + She paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—do tell me, Rose.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s something here that I care for very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the atmosphere of religion? There’s a great deal here that suggests + the religious life.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; it’s what I care for.” + </p> + <p> + “I was almost afraid of meeting you here when I came back, Rose. I + remembered what you had once told me, that you had had a great longing to + enter the religious life. I was half afraid that, living here all alone + with Robin, you might have become—I don’t know exactly how to put it—become + cloistral. I didn’t want to find you a sort of nun when I came back.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with a gentle lightness. + </p> + <p> + “It might have been so, mightn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + She remembered her dreams in the walled-in garden almost guiltily. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said steadily—and as she spoke she felt as if she were + firmly putting those dreams behind her forever. “Motherhood changes a + woman more than men can ever know.” + </p> + <p> + “I—I know it’s all right. Then you won’t hate me for taking you both + back to Little Market Street in a few days?” + </p> + <p> + He saw the color deepen in her face. For an instant she went on working. + Then she put the work down, sat back in the low chair, and looked up at + him. + </p> + <p> + “No, of course we must go back. And I was very happy in Little Market + Street.” + </p> + <p> + And then quickly, before he could say anything, she began to recall the + pleasant details of their life in Westminster, dwelling upon every + household joy, and everything that though “Londony” had been delightful. + Having conquered, with an effort which had cost her more than even Dion + knew, a terrible reluctance she gave herself to her own generous impulse + with enthusiasm. Rosamund could not do things by halves. She might + obstinately refrain from treading a path, but if once she had set her feet + on it she hurried eagerly along it. Something to-night had made her decide + on treading the path of unselfishness, of generosity. When Dion lit his + pipe she had not known she was going to tread it. It seemed to her almost + as if she had found herself upon the path without knowing how she had got + there. Now without hesitation she went forward. + </p> + <p> + “It was delightful in Westminster,” she concluded, “and it will be + delightful there again.” + </p> + <p> + “And all your friends here? And Mr. Thrush?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what Mr. Thrush will do,” she said, with a change to deep + gravity. + </p> + <p> + The two lines showed in her pure forehead. + </p> + <p> + “I’m so afraid that without me he will fall back. But perhaps I can run + down now and then just for the day to keep him up to his promise, poor + dear old man.” + </p> + <p> + “And your friends?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, well—of course I shall miss them. But I suppose there is always + something to miss. There must be a crumpled rose leaf. I am far more + fortunate than almost any woman I know.” + </p> + <p> + Dion put down his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “I simply can’t do it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Take you away from here. It seems your right place. You love it; Robin + loves it. What’s to be done? Shall I run up and down?” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t. It’s too far.” + </p> + <p> + “I have to read the papers somewhere. Why not in the train?” + </p> + <p> + “Three hours or more! It’s impossible. If only Welsley were nearer London! + But, then, it wouldn’t be Welsley.” + </p> + <p> + “Now I know you’ll go I can’t take you away.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you—what did you think I should do?” + </p> + <p> + “How could I tell?” + </p> + <p> + He sat down and took her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Rose, you’ve made this the happiest day of my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean because——?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Her face became very grave, almost severe. She looked at him, + but he felt that she was really looking inward upon herself. When at last + he let go her hands she said: + </p> + <p> + “Dion, you are very different from what you were when you went to the war. + If I seem different, too, it’s because of that, I think.” + </p> + <p> + “War changes women, perhaps, as well as men,” he said tenderly. + </p> + <p> + They sat by the fire in the quiet old room and talked of the future and of + all the stages of Robin: as schoolboy, as youth, as budding undergraduate, + as man. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps he’ll be a soldier-man as his father has been,” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish it?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him steadily for a moment. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if it helps him as I think it has helped you. I expect when men go + to fight for their country they go, perhaps without knowing it, to fight + just for themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe everything we do for others, without any thought of ourselves, + we do for ourselves,” he said, very seriously. + </p> + <p> + “Altruism! But then I ought to live in London for you, and you in Welsley + for me.” + </p> + <p> + They both laughed. Nothing had been absolutely decided; and yet it seemed + as if through that laughter a decision had been reached about everything + really important. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + A dogcart from Harrington’s had been ordered to be “round” the next day at + noon. Dion had decided against a long day’s shooting on Robin’s account. + He must not tire the little chap. In truth it would be impossible to take + the shooting seriously, with Robin there all the time, clinging on to Jane + and having to be looked after. + </p> + <p> + “It’s going to be Robin’s day,” Dion said the next morning. “When are you + going to tell him?” + </p> + <p> + “Directly after breakfast. By the way, Dion,”—she spoke carelessly, + and was opening a letter while she spoke,—“I’m not coming.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but you must!” + </p> + <p> + “No; I’ll stay quietly here. I have lots of things to do.” + </p> + <p> + “But Robin’s first day as a sportsman!” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t going to shoot,” she said with a mother’s smile. + </p> + <p> + “Why won’t you come? You’ve got some very special reason.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I have, but I’m not going to tell it. Women aren’t wanted + everywhere. Sometimes a couple of men like to be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “Robin’s a man now?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a little man. I do hope the gaiters will fit him. I haven’t dared to + try them on yet. And I’ve got him the dearest little whip you ever saw.” + </p> + <p> + “Jane will have to look to her paces. I’m sorry you’re not coming, Rose.” + </p> + <p> + But he did not try to persuade her. He believed that she had a very sweet + reason behind her abstention. She had had Robin all to herself for many + months; perhaps she thought the father ought to have his turn now, perhaps + to-day she was handing over her little son to his father for the education + which always comes from a man. Her sudden unselfishness—Dion + believed it was that—touched him to the heart. But it made him long + to do something, many things, for her. + </p> + <p> + “I’m determined that you and Welsley shan’t part from each other forever,” + he said. “We’ll hit on some compromise. This house is on our hands, + anyhow, till the spring.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we could sublet it,” said Rosamund, trying to speak with brisk + cheerfulness. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll talk it over again to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And now for Robin’s gaiters!” + </p> + <p> + They fitted perfectly; “miraculously” was Rosamund’s word for the way they + fitted. + </p> + <p> + “His legs might a-been poured into them almost, a-dear,” was nurse’s + admirably descriptive comment on the general effect produced. + </p> + <p> + Robin looked at his legs with deep solemnity. When the great project for + this day of days had been broken to him he had fallen upon awe. His + prattling ardors had subsided, stilled by a greater joy than any that had + called them forth in his complex past of a child. Now he gazed at his + legs, which were stretched out at right angles to his body on a nursery + chair, as if they were not his. Then he looked up at his mother, his + father, nurse; then once more down at his legs. His eyes were inquiring. + They seemed to say, “Can it be?” + </p> + <p> + “Bless him! He can’t hardly believe in it!” muttered nurse. “And no + wonder.” + </p> + <p> + A small sigh came from Robin. To his father and mother it came like the + whisper of happiness, that good fairy which men cannot quite get rid of, + try as they may. Two small hands went down to the little gaiters and felt + them carefully. Then Robin looked up again, this time at his father, and + smiled. Instinctively he connected his father with these wonderful + appurtenances, although his mother had bought them and put them on him. + With that smile he gave the day to his father, and Dion took it with just + a glance at Rosamund—a glance which deprecated and which accepted. + </p> + <p> + When the dogcart was announced by Annie, with beaming eyes, Dion got his + gun, Robin received his whip,—a miniature hunting-crop with a horn + handle,—his cap was pulled down firmly on his head by Rosamund, and + they set forth to the Green Court. Here they found Harrington’s most fiery + horse harnessed to quite a sporting dogcart and doing his very best to + champ his bit. From the ground Robin looked up at him with solemn eyes. + The occasion was almost too great. His father with a gun, his own legs in + gaiters, the whip which he felt in his hand, the packet of sandwiches + thrust tenderly by nurse into the pocket of his little covert coat, and + now this glorious animal and this high and unusual carriage gleaming with + light-colored wood between its immense wheels! There was almost too much + of meaning, too much of suggestion in it all. No words came to him. He + could only feel and gaze. + </p> + <p> + A stableman with hard lips stood sentinel in front of the fiery horse, and + put up a red forefinger on the right side of his temple to give them + greeting. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll get in first,” said Dion to Rosamund, “and then you can hand me up + Robin.” + </p> + <p> + He put in his gun and took the reins, while Robin instinctively extended + his arms so that his mother could take hold of him under them. + </p> + <p> + “Up we go!” cried Dion. + </p> + <p> + And he mounted lightly to the high seat. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Robin!” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund took hold of Robin, whose short arms were still solemnly + outstretched. She was about to lift him into the cart, but, overcome by an + irresistible impulse, she paused, put one arm under the little legs in the + gaiters, drew him to her and pressed her lips on the freckled bridge of + his tiny nose. + </p> + <p> + “You darling!” she whispered, so that only he could hear. “I love you in + your gaiters better than I ever loved you before.” Then she handed him up + to his father as if he were a dear little parcel. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it,” said Dion. “Put your arm round here, boy. Hold on tight! Let + him go!” + </p> + <p> + The hard-lipped man stood to one side and the horse—well, moved. + Robin gazed down at his mother with the faint hint of an almost shy smile, + Dion saluted her with his whip, and the glorious day was fairly begun. + Traveling with a sort of rakish deliberation the dogcart skirted the + velvet lawn of the Green Court and disappeared from sight beneath the + ancient archway. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sighed as she turned to walk back to Little Cloisters. She had + made a real sacrifice that day in giving up Robin to his father and + staying at home. Secretly she had longed to go with her “men-folk” upon + the great expedition, to be present at Robin’s initiation into the Doric + life. But something very dear in Dion had prompted her to be unselfish. + Dion was certainly much more impressive to her since his return from the + war. Even the dear things in him meant more. There seemed to be more + muscle in them than there had been when he went away. + </p> + <p> + “Even our virtues can be weak or strong, I suppose,” Rosamund thought, as + she turned into the walled garden which she loved so much, and there + followed the thought: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder which mine are.” + </p> + <p> + She meant to spend that day in saying good-by to Welsley. Dion had said + they would talk things over again that night; probably he would be ready + to fall in with any desire of hers, but she felt almost sure that she + would not tell him how much she wished to stay on at Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + An obscure feeling had come to her that perhaps it was not quite safe for + her to remain any longer here in the arms of the Precincts. Looking + backward to that which has been deliberately renounced is surely an act of + weakness. + </p> + <p> + Even the imaginative effort to live a life that has been put aside is a + feeble concession to an inclination at least partially morbid. Rosamund + was in fact a mother, and yet here in Welsley, she had, as it were, + sometimes played at being one of those “Sisters” who are content to be + brides of heaven and mothers of the poor. For her own sake it was + doubtless best to renounce Welsley at once. The new meaning of Dion would + help her to do that bravely. He had often been unselfish for her; she + would try to counter his unselfishness with hers. + </p> + <p> + When she was in the house again she had a colloquy with the cook about the + dinner for that evening. As Esme Darlington had given up an engagement in + London to come to Little Cloisters, her dinner must be something special. + She told the cook so in her cordial, almost confidential, way, and they + “put their heads together” and devised a menu full of attractions. That + done she had the day to herself. Dion and Robin would come home some time + in the afternoon, and they were all going to have tea together up in the + nursery. It might be at half-past four, it might be at half-past five. + Till then she was free. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she thought of going to see some of her friends, of telling + Mrs. Dickinson and other adherents of hers that her days in Welsley were + numbered. But a reluctance seized her. She felt a desire to be alone. What + if instead of saying good-by to Welsley, she said good-by to her dreams in + Welsley? She summoned Annie and told her not to let any one in. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to spend a quiet day, Annie,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am,” said Annie, with an air of intelligent comprehension. + </p> + <p> + “Though what else any one ever does in old Welsley I’m sure I couldn’t + say,” she afterwards remarked to the cook. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a cockney at ‘eart, Annie,” repeated that functionary. “The + country says nothing to you. You want the parks, that’s what you want.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I was brought up in ‘em, as you may say,” said Annie, whose father + had been a park-keeper, and whose mother and grandmother were natives of + Westbourne Grove. + </p> + <p> + By a quiet day Rosamund meant a day lived through in absolute solitude, a + day of meditation in the cloistered garden. She would not have any lunch. + Then she would have a better appetite for the nursery tea at which Robin + would relate to her all the doings of the greatest day of his life. + Precious, precious Robin! + </p> + <p> + She went down into the garden. + </p> + <p> + It was a mistily bright day of November. The sun shone through a delicate + veil. The air was cold but not sharp. Neither autumn nor winter ruled. It + seemed like a day which had slipped into an interstice between two + seasons, a day that was somehow rare and exceptional, holding a faint + stillness that was strange. There was in it something of the far away. If + a fairy day can be cold, it was like a fairy day. On such a day one treads + lightly and softly and at moments feels almost as if out of the body. + </p> + <p> + Lightly and softly Rosamund went to and fro between the high and mossy + walls of the garden, keeping to the straight paths. When the bells chimed + in the tower of the Cathedral they sounded much farther away than usual; + the song of the thrush somewhere in the elder bush near the garden door + was curiously remote; the caw-caw of the rooks dropped down as if from an + immeasurable distance. Through the mist the sunshine filtered, lightly + pale and pure, a sensitive sunshine which would surely not stay very long + in Rosamund’s garden. + </p> + <p> + A sort of thin stillness had fallen upon the world. + </p> + <p> + And so another chapter of life was closing, the happy chapter of Welsley! + </p> + <p> + Something of sadness accompanied Rosamund along the straight paths, the + delicate melancholy which attends the farewells of one who has regret but + who has hope. + </p> + <p> + With the new Dion and with the old Robin, the Robin blessedly unchanged, + she could not be really unhappy. Yet it was sad to give up the dear garden + and all the dreams which belonged to it. Far down in her—she knew it—there + was certainly a recluse. She could see the black figure, the sheltered + face, the eyes looking down, the praying hands. It would have been very + natural to her long ago to seek God in the way of the recluse. But not + now! + </p> + <p> + Hermes and the child came before her. In the stillness of Welsley it was + as if she heard the green stillness of Elis. She was quite alone in that + inner room where stood the messenger with the wings on his sandals. Dion + had stayed outside. He had been unselfish that day as to-day she had been + unselfish. For she had wanted to go with the little gaiters. She could see + the smiling look of eternity upon the face of the messenger. He had no + fear for the child. He had mounted on winged feet to the region where no + fear is. How his benign and eternal calm had sunk into Rosamund’s soul + that day in Elis. Far off she had seen through the frame of the Museum + doorway a bit of the valley in which the Hermes had dwelt, and stretching + across it a branch of wild olive. She had looked at it and had thought of + the victor’s Crown, a crown which had even been won by a boy at the games. + </p> + <p> + Already then a fore-knowledge of Robin had been in her. + </p> + <p> + She had gazed at the branch and loved it. Certainly she had been dreaming, + as she had afterwards told Dion, and in her dream had been Hermes and the + child, and surely another child for whose future the messenger would not + fear. The branch of wild olive had, perhaps, entered into the dream. Into + a crown she had wound it to set upon the little fair head. And that was + why she had suffered, had really suffered, when a cruel hand had come into + Elis and had torn down the wild olive branch. Dion’s hand! + </p> + <p> + That action had been like a murder. She remembered even now her feeling of + anger and distress. She had been startled. She had been ruthlessly torn + away from the exquisite calm in which, with the Hermes, she had been + celestially dreaming. Dion had torn her away, Dion who loved her so much. + </p> + <p> + Why had he done it? Even now she did not know. + </p> + <p> + He had taken her out of that dream, and now he was going to take her away + from Welsley. + </p> + <p> + The misty brightness was already fading from the garden; the song of the + thrush was no longer audible: he had flown away from the elder bush and + from Rosamund. The coldness and silence of the day seemed to deepen about + her. Welsley was fading out of her life. She felt that. She was going to + begin again. But as she had carried Elis with her when she left it, and + the dear tombs and temples of Greece, when she had bidden good-by to the + bare and beautiful land whose winds and whose waters are not as the winds + and the waters of any other region, so she would carry away with her + Welsley, this garden with its seclusion, its old religious atmosphere, the + music of the chimes, even the thrush’s song from the elder bush. + “Farewell!” She must say that. But she had her precious possession. + Another page of the book of life would be turned. That was all. + </p> + <p> + That was all? She sighed. A painful sense of the impermanence of the + things of this world came suddenly upon her. Like running water life was + slipping by; its joys, the shining bubbles poised upon the surface, + drifted into the distance and—how quickly!—were out of reach. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the great attraction, the lure of the religious life, was the + sense felt by those who led it of having a close grip upon that which was + permanent. The joys of the world—even the natural, healthy, allowed + joys—were shut out, but there was the great compensation, + companionship with that to which no “farewell” would ever have to be said, + with that to which death only brought the human being nearer. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund stopped in her walk, and looked up at the great Cathedral which + towered above the wall of the garden. She had been pacing to and fro for a + long time. She did not feel tired, but she was beset by an unaccustomed + sensation of weariness, mental and spiritual rather than physical. + </p> + <p> + After a minute she went into the house, found a rug and a book, came back + into the garden, and sat down on a bench in a corner hidden from + observation. This bench was close to the wall which divided the garden + from the “Dark Entry.” It was separated from the lawn and the view of the + house by a belt of shrubs. Rosamund was fond of this nook and had very + often sat in it, sometimes alone, sometimes with Robin. She had told the + maids never to look for her there; if any visitor came and she was not + seen in that part of the garden which was commanded by the windows of the + house, they were to conclude that she was “out.” Here, then, she was quite + safe, and could turn the last page of the chapter of Welsley in her book + of life. + </p> + <p> + She wrapped herself up in the big and heavy rug. The sun was gone, the + mist had become slightly more dense, the air was colder. + </p> + <p> + Presently Dion and Robin would come back; there would be tea in the warm + old-fashioned nursery, gay talk, the telling of wonderful deeds. + </p> + <p> + If only Robin did not fall off Jane! But Dion would take care of that. + Dion certainly loved Robin very much. The bond between father and son had + evidently been strengthened by the intervention of the war, which had + broken off their intercourse for a time, and given Robin a father changed + by contact with hard realities. + </p> + <p> + For a few minutes in imagination Rosamund followed the two figures over + the stubble, the thin strong walking figure, and the little darling figure + on pony back. Would Robin quite forget her in the midst of his proud and + triumphant joy? She wondered. Even if he did, she would not really mind. + She wanted him to be very happy indeed without her—just for a short + time: that he could not be happy without her for long she knew very well. + </p> + <p> + Oddly, her sensation of weariness persisted. She recognized it now as + wholly unphysical. She was certainly feeling what people call “depressed.” + No doubt this unusual depression—for she had been born with a + singularly cheerful spirit—was caused by the resolution she had + taken to give up Welsley. Perhaps Welsley meant more to her even than she + had supposed. But it was absurd—wasn’t it?—to be so dominated + by places. People, certain people, might mean everything in the life of a + woman; many women lived, really lived, only in and through their lovers, + their husbands, their children; but what woman lived in and through the + life of the place? She had only to compare mentally the loss of Welsley + with—say—the loss of Dion, the new Dion, to realize how little + Welsley really meant to her. Certainly she loved it as a place, but + probably a woman can only love a place with a bit of her. + </p> + <p> + And yet to-day, she certainly felt depressed. Even the thought of the + nursery tea did not drive the depression from her. + </p> + <p> + She opened the book she had brought from the house. It was a volume of + Browning’s poems. She had opened it at hap-hazard, and now her eyes rested + on these words, words loved almost above all others by one of the greatest + souls that ever spent itself for England: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I go to prove my soul! + I see my way as birds their trackless way + I shall arrive! What time, what circuit first + I ask not; but unless God send His Hail + Or blinding fire-balls, sleet, or stifling snow, + In some time, His good time!—I shall arrive: + He guides me and the bird. In His good time!” + </pre> + <p> + She read the lines three—four times. Then she laid the book down on + her knees and sat very still. Consciously she tried to withdraw herself, + to pass into meditation carrying the poem with her. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I see my way as birds their trackless way—I shall arrive!” + </pre> + <p> + Rosmund was gazing downward at a coping of worn brick on which she had set + her feet, but she did not see it now. She saw migratory birds traveling + steadily through a vast expanse of gray sky; birds that were going, at the + appointed time, to some far-distant place, in search of a golden climate, + in search of the sun. Inevitably they would come into the golden climate, + inevitably they would find the sun which they needed. Like them she was + traveling through a vast gray expanse, the life of the world. Robin and + Dion were with her. They were seeking the sun which they needed. Surely, + like the birds, they would find the sun at last. She had thought to seek + her way deliberately. When she was quite a girl it had seemed to her that + the human being had the power, and was therefore almost under the + obligation, to find the way to God for herself. When she had contemplated + entering the religious life the thought at the back of her mind had + perhaps been something like this: “I’ll conquer the love and the mercy of + God by my own exertions; I’ll find the way to God by my own ingenuity and + determination in searching it out.” Possibly she had never quite simply + and humbly said in her soul, with Newman, “Be Thou my Guide.” Now, as she + sat in the garden, with the image of the migratory birds in her mind, she + thought, “The birds do that. They give themselves to the sky, and God does + the rest. He knows the way by which each human soul can best go back to + that from which once it issued forth.” Perhaps as a Sister, leading the + hidden secluded life, she could not have found the way; perhaps she had to + find it in the world, through Dion with whom she had united herself, or + through Robin to whom she had given birth. + </p> + <p> + Through Robin! Yes, surely that was her way to God. “A little child shall + lead them.” The words started up in her mind without their context, and + she realized that, though people believe it is the mother who teaches the + child, nevertheless the mother learns the greatest truths from the child. + Who living on the earth could keep her from sin as surely as her Robin? + How could she be evil when Robin looked to her as the embodiment of + goodness. What would she not do, what would she not give up, to increase + Robin’s love for her, to give him more reason for regarding her with + innocent confidence and simple reverence? + </p> + <p> + Yes, Robin was surely her way to God. + </p> + <p> + And now, withdrawn into the very depths of meditation, and hearing no + longer the distant voices of the rooks as they wheeled about the elm-tops + near Canon Wilton’s house, she went onwards down the way chosen for her by + God, the “Robin-way.” + </p> + <p> + Now Robin was a young child, and naturally looked up to her as a kind of + Providence. Presently he would be a lad; inevitably he would reach the age + when the growing mind becomes critical. Young animals gnaw hard things to + test the strength of their teeth; so do young growing minds gnaw the bones + that come in their way. Even the mother comes in for much secret criticism + from the son who loves her. Rosamund’s time for being criticized by Robin + would come in the course of the years. She must try to get ready against + that time; she must try to be worthy of Robin’s love when he was able to + be critical. And so onwards down the way across the gray expanse, guided, + like the birds! + </p> + <p> + Rosamund saw herself now as the mother of a tall son, hardened a little by + public-school life, a cricketer, a rower, a swimmer; perhaps intellectual + too, the winner of a scholarship. There were so many hearts and minds that + the mother of a son must learn to keep, to companion, to influence, to go + forward with: the heart and the mind of the child, the schoolboy, the + undergraduate, the young man out in the world taking up his life-task—a + soldier perhaps, or a man of learning, a pioneer, a carver of new ways for + the crowd following behind. + </p> + <p> + It was a tremendous thing to be a mother; it was a difficult way to God. + But it was the most beautiful way of all the ways, and Rosamund was very + thankful that she had been guided to take it. Robin, she knew, had taught + her already very much, but how little compared with all that he was + destined to teach her in the future! Even when her hair was white no doubt + she would still be learning from him, would still be trying to lift + herself a little higher lest he should ever have to look downward to see + her. + </p> + <p> + For a long time she meditated on these things, for a very long while. The + sun never came back to the garden as she dreamed of the sun which the + birds were seeking, of the sun which she and Dion and Robin were seeking; + the afternoon hours passed on in a gray procession; the chimes sounded + many times, but she did not hear them. She had forgotten Welsley in + remembering how small a part Welsley must play in her mother-life, in + remembering how very small were the birds in the immense expanse of the + sky. + </p> + <p> + In Meditation she had entered into Vastness. + </p> + <p> + The sound of the organ in the Cathedral recalled her. It was four o’clock. + The afternoon service was just beginning. She sat still and listened. It + was growing dark now, but she had no wish to move. Probably in half an + hour Robin and Dion would come back from the shooting. From to-day she + would think of Robin in a different way. He would be even dearer to her, + even more sacred, her little teacher. What did it matter where she lived + if her little teacher was with her. The sting had gone out of her + unselfishness; she was glad she had been able to be unselfish, to put Dion + before herself. + </p> + <p> + The organ ceased. They were praying now in the Cathedral. Presently she + heard them singing the psalms faintly. The voices of the boys came to her + with a sort of vague sweetness through the gathering darkness and the + mist. They died away; the Magnificat followed, then silence, then the Nunc + Dimittis, then another silence, presently the anthem. Finally she heard + the organ alone in a Fugue of Bach. + </p> + <p> + The quarter to five chimed in the tower. Dion and Robin were a little + late. + </p> + <p> + She got up, and carried the rug into the house. + </p> + <p> + “Annie!” she called. + </p> + <p> + Annie came. + </p> + <p> + “When Mr. Leith and Robin come back,—they’ll be here directly,—will + you ask them to give me a call? I shall be in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + Again Rosamund paced up and down the paths. Now she was very conscious of + herself and of her surroundings. The long night of early winter was + falling upon Welsley. Five o’clock struck, a quarter-past five, then the + half-hour. She stood still on the path, beginning to wonder. How late they + were! Robin would surely be very tired. It would be too much for him. + Directly he had had his tea he must be put to bed. Or perhaps it would be + best to put him to bed at once. He would be disappointed, but they could + easily have tea in the night nursery. She smiled, conjuring up a picture + of Robin under the bedclothes being fed pieces of cake. He would enjoy + that. And she would hold his cup for him while he drank, so that the bed + might be safe. Meals in bed are often dangerous to the bed. How delightful + were all the little absurd things she did for Robin! + </p> + <p> + When the chimes told her that it was a quarter to six she began to feel + puzzled, and just the least little bit anxious. It had been quite dark for + a little while now. Job Crickendon’s farm was only about four miles from + Welsley. Harrington’s horse might not be an exceptionally fast-goer, but + surely he could cover six miles in an hour. Dion and Robin could get back + in forty minutes at the most. They must have stayed on at Job Crickendon’s + till past five o’clock. Could they have had tea there? No, she was sure + they would not have done that, when they knew she was waiting for them, + was looking forward eagerly to tea in the nursery. + </p> + <p> + When six o’clock struck and they had not returned she felt really uneasy, + although she was not at all a nervous mother, and seldom, or never, + worried about her little son. She could not doubt any longer that + something unexpected had occurred. They were dining at half-past seven + that night. In an hour’s time at the latest she and Dion would have to + dress. The hopes she had set on the family tea were vanishing. In her + uneasiness she began to feel almost absurdly disappointed about the tea. + She was hungry, too; she had had no lunch just because of the tea. It was + to be a sort of family revel, and she had wished to enjoy it in every way, + to make of it a real meal. Her abstention from lunch now seemed to her + almost pitiful. Disappointment became acute in her. Yet even now her + uneasiness, though definite, was not strong. If it had been she would not + have been able to feel so disappointed, even so sorry for herself. She had + given up the day to Dion. The nursery tea was to have been her little + reward. Now she would be deprived of it. For a moment she felt hurt, + almost the least bit angry. + </p> + <p> + As the words formed themselves in her mind she heard the quarter-past six + chime out in the tower. She stood still on the path. What had happened? + Perhaps Robin had fallen off Jane and hurt himself, or perhaps there had + been an accident when they were driving home. Harrington’s horse was + probably a crock. He might have fallen down. The dogcart was a high one—— + </p> + <p> + She pulled herself up. She had always secretly rather despised the typical + “anxious mother,” had always thought that the love which shows itself in + perpetual fear was a silly, poor sort of affection. Even when Robin, as a + baby, had once been seriously ill, at the time of the Clarke divorce case, + she had been calm, had shown complete self-control. She had even surprised + people by her fearlessness and quiet determination. + </p> + <p> + They did not know how she had prayed, and almost agonized in secret. She + had drawn the calm at which they had wondered from prayer. She had asked + God to let Robin get well, and she had felt that her prayer had been + heard, and that God would grant her the life of her child. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps she had exaggerated to herself the danger he was in. But he was + ill—for a short time he was very ill, and a baby’s hold on life is + but frail. + </p> + <p> + Now she remembered her self-control during Robin’s illness, and resolutely + she banished her anxiety. There was no doubt some perfectly simple + explanation which presently would account to her for their not coming at + the tea hour. + </p> + <p> + “Ma’am!” cried a respectable voice. “Ma-a-am!” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Nurse. They haven’t come back?” + </p> + <p> + Nurse was coming down the path gingerly, with a shawl over her cap. + </p> + <p> + “No, ma’am. Whatever can have happened? <i>Something’s</i> a-happened, + that’s certain.” + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense, Nurse!” + </p> + <p> + “But whatever should keep them out till late into the night, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only a little after six. It isn’t night at all.” + </p> + <p> + “But the tea, ma’am! And Master Robin’s so regular in his habits. He’ll be + fair famished, ma’am, that he will. I——Well, ma’am, if I may + say it, I really don’t hold with all this shooting, and sport, and what + not for such young children.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s only just for once, Nurse. Go in now. You’ll catch cold.” + </p> + <p> + “But yourself, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m quite warm. I’d rather stay out.” + </p> + <p> + Nurse stared anxiously for a moment, then turned away and went gingerly + back to the house. Her white shawl faded against the background of + darkness. With its fading Rosamund entered into—not exactly + darkness, but into deep shadows. She supposed that nurse’s fear had + communicated itself to her; she had caught the infection of fear from + nurse. But when was nurse not afraid? She was an excellent woman and + absolutely devoted to Robin, but she was not a Spartan. She leaped at + sight of a mouse, and imagined diseases to be for ever floating Robinwards + on all the breezes. Rosamund had strictly forbidden her ever to talk + nonsense about illness to Robin, and she had obeyed. But that was her one + fault; she had a timorous nature. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund wished nurse had not come out into the garden to infect her with + foolish fear. + </p> + <p> + Nurse’s invitation to her to come into the house had made her suddenly + know that to be shut in would be intolerable to her. Why was that? She now + knew that lately, while she had been walking in the garden, she had been + straining her ears to hear the sound of wheels in the Green Court. She + knew she would be able to hear them in the garden. In the house that would + be impossible. Therefore she could not go into the house till Robin came + back. + </p> + <p> + All her fear was for Robin. He was so young, so tiny. Perhaps she ought + not to have allowed him to go. Perhaps nurse was right, and such an + expedition ought to have been ruled out as soon as it was suggested. + Perhaps Dion and she had been altogether too Doric. She began to think so. + But then she thought: “Robin’s with his father. What harm could come to + him with his father, and such a competent father too?” That thought of + Dion’s strength, coolness, competency reassured her; she dwelt on it. Of + course with Dion Robin must be all right. + </p> + <p> + Presently, leaving the path in front of the house, she went again to the + seat hidden away behind the shrubs against the wall which separated the + garden from the Dark Entry. This dark entry was an arched corridor of + stone which led directly from the Green Court to the passage-way on which + the main door of the garden opened. It was paved with worn slabs of stone + upon which the feet of any one passing rang with a mournful and hollow + sound. A tiny path skirted the garden wall, running between the hidden + seat and the small belt of shrubs which shut out a view of the house. Just + before she turned into this path Rosamund looked back at the old house, + and saw a lamp gleaming in the lattice window of the nursery. She did not + sit down on the seat. She had thought to do that and to listen. But the + mist had made the wood very wet, and she had left the rug in the house. If + she walked softly up and down the little path she would be sure to hear + the hoofs of Harrington’s horse, the wheels of the dogcart directly the + wanderers drove into the Green Court. There they would get down, and would + walk home through the Dark Entry. She intended to call out to them when + she heard their footsteps ringing on the old stones. That would surprise + them. She tried to enjoy the thought of their surprise when they heard her + voice coming out of the darkness. How Robin would jump at the sound of + mummy! + </p> + <p> + She stood just in front of the seat for two or three minutes, listening + intently in the misty darkness. She heard nothing except for a moment a + rustling which sounded like a bird moving in ivy. Then she began to walk + softly up and down passing and repassing the seat. When she came up to the + seat for the fourth time in her walk, an ugly memory—she knew not + why—rose in her mind like a weed in a pool; it was the memory of a + story which she had long ago read and disliked. She had read it, she + remembered, in a railway train on a long journey. She had had a book, + something interesting and beautiful, with her, but she had finished it. A + passenger, who had got out of the carriage, had left behind him a + paper-covered volume of short stories. She had taken it up and had read + the first story, which now, after an interval of years, recurred to her + mind. + </p> + <p> + There was in the story a very commonplace business man, middle-aged, quite + unromantic and heavy, the sort of man who does not know what “nerves” + means, who thinks suggestion “damned nonsense,” and psychical research, + occultism, and so forth, absurdities fit only to take up the time of “a + pack of silly women.” This worthy person lived in the suburbs of London in + a semi-detached villa with a long piece of garden at the back. On the + other side of the fairly high garden wall was the garden of his next-door + neighbor, another business man of the usual suburban type. Both men were + busy gardeners in their spare time. Number one had conceived the happy + idea of putting up a tea-house in the angle of the wall at the bottom of + his lawn. Number two, having heard of this achievement, and not wishing to + be outdone, put up a very similar tea-house in the corresponding angle on + his side of the wall. The two tea-houses stood therefore back to back with + nothing but the wall between them. Now, one warm summer evening Mr. + Jenkins-Smith—Rosamund could remember his name, though she had not + thought of him for years—had been busy watering his flowers and + mowing his lawn. He had worked really hard, and when the evening began to + close in he thought he would go into the tea-house and have a rest. On + each side of the curly-legged tea-table of unpolished wood stood a wicker + arm-chair. Into one of these chairs Mr. Jenkins-Smith sank with a sigh of + content. Then he lighted his pipe, stretched out his short legs, and, + gazing at his beautifully trimmed garden, prepared to enjoy a delicious + hour of well-earned repose. Things were going well with him; money was + easy; his health was good; when he sat down in the wicker chair and put + his pipe into his mouth he was, perhaps, as happy a man as you could find + in all Surbiton. + </p> + <p> + But presently, in fact very soon, he became conscious of a disagreeable + feeling. A curious depression began to come upon him. He smoked steadily, + he gazed out at his garden green with turf and gay with flowers, but his + interest and pleasure in it were gone from him. He wondered why. Presently + he turned his head and looked over his shoulder. What he was looking for + he did not know; simply he felt obliged to do what he did. He saw, of + course, nothing but the curved wooden back of the tea-house. He listened, + he strained his ears, but he heard nothing except the faint “ting-ting” of + a tram-bell, and voices of some children playing in a distant garden. His + pipe had gone out. As he lit a match and held it to his pipe bowl he saw + that his hand was shaking. Whatever had come to him? He was no drinker; he + had always been a temperate man, proud of his clear eyes and steady limbs, + yet now he was shaking like a drunkard. Perspiration burst out upon his + forehead. He was seized by an intense desire to get away from the + tea-house, to get out into the open, and he half rose from his chair, + holding on to the arms and dropping his pipe on the wooden floor. The tiny + noise it made set his nerves in a turmoil. He was afraid. But of what? He + took his hands from the chair and sat back, angry with himself, almost + ashamed. That he should feel afraid, here in his own garden, in his own + cozy tea-house! It was absurd, monstrous; it was like a sort of madness + come upon him. But he was determined not to give way to such nonsense. + Just because he was longing to go out of the tea-house he would remain in + it. Let the darkness come; he did not mind it; he was going to smoke his + pipe. + </p> + <p> + Again he stared over his shoulder, and the sweat ran down his face. Had + not he heard something in the tea-house of his neighbor on the other side + of the wall? It seemed to him that he had rather felt a sound than + actually heard it. Nausea came upon him. He got up trembling. But still he + was ashamed of himself, and he would not go out of the tea-house. Instead + he went behind the table, stood close to the wooden wall, put his ear to + it and listened intently. He heard nothing; but when he was standing + against the wall his horror and fear increased until he could no longer + combat them. He turned sharply, knocked over a chair, and hurried out into + the garden. There for a moment he stood still. Under the sky he felt + better, but not himself; he did not feel himself at all. After a pause for + consideration he put on his jacket,—he had been gardening in his + shirt-sleeves,—went into his house, out into the road, and then up + to the door of his neighbor. There he rang the bell and knocked. A maid + came. “Is your master in?” he asked. “Yes, sir, he’s sitting in the + summer-house at the end of the garden.” “How long’s he been there?” “About + half an hour, sir, as near as I can reckon.” “Could I see him?” + “Certainly, sir.” “Perhaps you’d—perhaps you’d show me to the + summer-house.” “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Jenkins-Smith and the maid went to the end of the garden, and there, + in the summer-house, they found the corpse of a suicide hanging from a + beam in the roof. + </p> + <p> + This was the ugly story which had come into Rosamund’s mind as she stood + by the seat close to the garden wall. On the other side of Mr. + Jenkins-Smith’s wall had been the summer-house of his neighbor; on the + other side of her wall there was the Dark Entry. She stood considering + this fact and thinking of the man’s terror in his garden. He had been + subject surely to an emanation. A mysterious message had been sent to him + by the corpse which dangled from the beam on the other side of the wall. + </p> + <p> + She went nearer to the wall of the garden and listened attentively. Had + she not heard a sound in the Dark Entry? It seemed to her that some one + had come into the stone corridor while she had been walking up and down on + the path, and was now standing there motionless. But how very unlikely it + was that any one would do such a thing! It must be quite black there now, + and very cold on the stone pavement, between the stone walls, under the + roof of stone. Of course no one was there. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless she went on listening with a sort of painful attention. And + distress came upon her. It began in a sort of physical malaise out of + which a mental dread, such as she had never yet experienced, was born. She + felt now quite certain that some one was standing still in the Dark Entry, + very close to her, but separated from her by two walls of brick and stone; + and something of this unseen person, of his attention, or his anger, or + his terror, or his criminal intent, in any case something tremendously + powerful, pierced the walls and came upon her and enveloped her. She + opened her lips, not knowing what she was going to say, and from them came + the cry: + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” + </p> + <p> + Silence followed her cry. + </p> + <p> + “Dion! Dion!” she called again. + </p> + <p> + Immediately after the third cry she heard a slow step on the stones of the + Dark Entry, passing close to her but muffled by the intervening walls. It + went on very slowly indeed; it was a dragging footfall; the sound of it + presently died away. + </p> + <p> + Then she sat down on the bench close to the wall. She still felt + distressed, even afraid. Whoever it was—that loiterer in the Dark + Entry—he had left the corridor by the archway near Little Cloisters; + he had not gone into the Green Court. + </p> + <p> + She sat waiting in the darkness. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + That afternoon, while Rosamund was in the garden, Mr. Esme Darlington was + paying a little visit to his old friend and crony, the Dean of Welsley. He + had known the Dean—well, almost ever since he could remember, and + the Dean’s wife ever since she had married the Dean. His delay in + returning to town, caused by Rosamund’s attractive invitation, enabled him + to spend an hour at the Deanery, where he had tea in the great + drawing-room on the first floor, which looked out on the Green Court. So + pleasant were the Dean and his wife, so serenely flowed the conversation, + that the hour lengthened out into two hours, and the Cathedral chimes + announced that it was a quarter to seven before Mr. Darlington uncrumpled + his length to go. Even then Mrs. Dean begged him to stay on a little + longer. + </p> + <p> + “It’s such a treat to hear all the interesting gossip of London,” she + said, almost wistfully. “When Dickie”—Dickie was the Dean,—“when + Dickie was at St. Peter’s, Eaton Square, we knew everything that was going + on, but here in Welsley—well, I often feel rather rusty.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington paid the appropriate compliment, not in a banal way, and + then mentioned that at half-past seven he was dining in Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + “That delightful creature Mrs. Dion Leith!” exclaimed Mrs. Dean. “Dickie’s + hopelessly in her toils.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” began the Dean, in pleased protestation. + </p> + <p> + But she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “I assure you,” she went on to Mr. Darlington, “he is always making + excuses to see her. She has even influenced him to appoint a new verger, a + most extraordinary old person, called Thrush, with a nose!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington cocked an interrogative eyebrow. + </p> + <p> + “My darling!” said the Dean. “He’s a good old man, very deserving, and has + recently taken the pledge.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a modified teetotaler!” said his wife to Mr. Darlington, patting her + husband’s arm. “You see what Dickie’s coming to. If it goes on he will + soon be a modified Dean.” + </p> + <p> + It was past seven when they finished talking about Rosamund and Dion, when + Mr. Darlington at length tore himself delicately away from their + delightful company, and, warmly wrapped in an overcoat lined with + unostentatious sable, set out on the short walk to Canon Wilton’s house. + To reach the Canon’s house he had to pass through the Dark Entry and skirt + the garden wall of Little Cloisters. + </p> + <p> + Now, as he came out of the Dark Entry and stepped into the passage-way, + which led by the wall and the old house into the great open space of green + lawns and elm trees round which the dwellings of the canons showed their + lighted windows to the darkness of the November evening, he was stopped by + a terrible sound. It came to him from the garden of Little Cloisters. It + was short, sharp and piercing, so piercing that for an instant he felt as + if literally it had torn the flesh of his body. He had never before heard + any sound at all like it; but, when he was able to think, he thought, he + felt almost certain, that it had come from an animal. He shuddered. Always + temperamentally averse from any fierce demonstrations of feeling, always + instinctively restrained, careful and intelligently conventional, he was + painfully startled and moved by this terrible outcry which could only have + been caused by intense agony. As he believed that the cry had come from an + animal, he naturally supposed that the agony which had caused it was + physical. He was a very humane man, and as soon as he had mastered the + feeling of cold horror which had for a moment held him rigid, he hastened + on to the door of Little Cloisters and pulled the bell. After a pause + which seemed to him long the door was opened by Annie, Rosamund’s + parlor-maid. She presented to Mr. Darlington’s peering gaze a face full of + ignorance and fear. + </p> + <p> + “What is the matter?” he asked, in a hesitating voice. + </p> + <p> + “Sir?” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “What has happened in the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, sir, that I know of. I have been in the house.” She paused, then + added, with a sort of timorous defiance: “I’m not one as would listen, + sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you didn’t hear it?” + </p> + <p> + “Hear what, sir?” + </p> + <p> + Her question struck upon Mr. Darlington’s native conventionality, and made + him conscious of the fact that, perhaps almost indiscreetly, he was + bandying words with a maid-servant. He put up one hand to his beard, + pulled at it, and then said, almost in his usual voice: + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Leith in?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s in the garden, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “In the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Is—is Mr. Leith at home?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s just come home, sir, and gone to Mrs. Leith in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington stood for a moment pulling his beard and raising and + lowering his eyebrows. Then he said doubtfully: + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I won’t disturb them now. I shall be here with Canon Wilton at + half-past seven.” + </p> + <p> + Annie stood staring at him in silence. + </p> + <p> + “They—Mr. and Mrs. Leith expect us, I believe?” added Mr. + Darlington. + </p> + <p> + “They haven’t said anything to the contrary, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “No?” + </p> + <p> + Slowly Mr. Darlington turned away, slowly he disappeared into the + darkness; his head was bent, and he looked older than usual. Annie gazed + after him. Once she opened her lips as if she were going to call him back, + but no sound came from them. + </p> + <p> + “Annie! Annie!” cried a voice in the house behind her. + </p> + <p> + She turned sharply and confronted Robin’s nurse. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Master Robin?” said the nurse, almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. He hasn’t come back with master.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m going into the garden,” said the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, don’t!” said Annie. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” asked the nurse. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Annie began to cry. The nurse pulled her in and shut the door of + the house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <p> + Rosamund did not know how long she sat in the garden after she had heard + the footfall in the Dark Entry. Perhaps five minutes, perhaps many more + had slipped by before she was aware of feeling cold. A chill had gone + through her mind when she heard the footfall; now her body was chilled. + She shivered and got up. She must go into the house. + </p> + <p> + It was now very dark. The path was a pale grayish blur at her feet. On her + left the shrubs which concealed the house from her showed as a heavy + morose blackness against the softer and more mysterious blackness of the + night. The dampness which rose in the garden was like the dreary + whispering of sad earth voices. + </p> + <p> + She shivered again. + </p> + <p> + Then she heard a faltering step on the path beyond the shrubs. It was + certainly Dion’s step. At last they had come back! + </p> + <p> + With a movement of her shoulders she tried to throw off her depression, as + if it were something heavy resting upon her, something which a physical + effort could get rid of. Then she called out in a brisk and cheerful + voice: + </p> + <p> + “Dion, I’m here. How late you are! What have you shot?” + </p> + <p> + It was too late now for the nursery tea, but they had come back and all + was well. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” + </p> + <p> + The step had stopped on the path and no voice answered her. Nevertheless + she was certain that it was Dion who had come into the garden. Perhaps + Robin was with him, perhaps they were going to give her a surprise. She + waited for an instant. Something within her was hesitating. She conquered + it, not without an effort, and went round the angle of the path. Beyond + the shrubs, but not far from them, a man was standing. It was Dion. He was + alone. It was so dark that Rosamund could not see him clearly, but she + noticed at once that the outline of his figure looked strange. His body + seemed to be all awry as if he were standing in an unnatural position. She + stopped and stared at this body. + </p> + <p> + “Is anything wrong, Dion?” she asked. “What’s the matter? Why do you stand + like that?” + </p> + <p> + After her last quick question she heard a long-drawn quivering breath. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s Robin?” she said sharply. + </p> + <p> + He did not answer. She meant to go up to him; but she did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you so late? Where’s Robin?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund—” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t move! Stand there, and tell me what it is.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I—always tried to make you happy?” + </p> + <p> + The words came from the body before her, but she did not know the voice. + It was Dion’s voice, of course. It must be that. But she had never heard + it before. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t come nearer to me. What have you done?” + </p> + <p> + “Robin—I have—I have—Robin—my gun——” + </p> + <p> + The voice failed in the darkness. Rosamund shut her eyes. She had seen an + angry hand tear down a branch of wild olive. Suddenly she knew. It seemed + to her that ever since that day long ago in Elis some part of her had + always prophetically known that Dion was fated to bring terror and ruin + into her life. This was not true, but now she felt it to be true. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve killed Robin,” she said, quietly and coldly. + </p> + <p> + Her brain and heart seemed to stand still, like things staring into an + immense voice. They had come to the end of their road. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve killed Robin,” she said again. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund——” + </p> + <p> + The body in front of her moved to come towards her. Then she uttered the + fearful cry which was heard by Mr. Darlington on his way home from the + Deanery, and she fled from the body which had slain Robin. + </p> + <p> + That purely instinctive action was the beginning of Dion’s punishment. A + cry, the movement of a body, and everything which meant life to him, + everything for which he had lived, was gone. But he followed Rosamund with + a sort of blind obstinacy, driven as she was by instinct. Dimly he knew + that he was a man who only merited compassion, all the compassion of the + world. He had no horror of himself, but only a horror of that Fate to + which mortals have to submit and which had overtaken him in a shining + moment of happiness. The gun accident of which his little son had been the + victim presented itself to his erring mind as a terrific stroke from + above, or from beyond, falling equally upon father and child. He was not + responsible for it. The start of a frightened pony, its sudden attempt to + bolt, the pulling of a rein which had brought the animal against him just + as he was lifting his gun to fire at a rising bird—what were those + things? Only the clumsy machinery used by implacable Fate to bring about + that which had been willed somewhere, far off in the dark and the + distance. + </p> + <p> + He must tell Rosamund, he must tell Rosamund. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Annie and the nurse came out to the edge of the broad path which ran along + the front of the house and peered into the darkness. Annie was crying and + holding on to the nurse, whose almost fierce determination faded as she + confronted the mystery of the night which hid her master and mistress. + </p> + <p> + “H’sh, Annie,” she whispered. “Where can they be? Listen, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + Annie strove to choke down her sobs. + </p> + <p> + “I can hear—some one,” whispered the nurse, after a moment. “Don’t + you. Listen, I tell you! Right over by the wall near the Bishop’s!” + </p> + <p> + The sound of steps indeed came to them through the darkness. Annie broke + away from the nurse. + </p> + <p> + “I’m frightened! I’m frightened! I don’t know what’s come to them,” she + whispered through her teeth, resisting the impulse to cry out. “Come in, + Nurse, for God’s sake!” + </p> + <p> + She shrank into the house. The nurse stood where she was for a moment, but + when she heard the steps a little nearer to her she, too, was overcome by + fear and followed Annie trembling, shutting the door behind her. + </p> + <p> + Exactly at half-past seven Mr. Darlington and Canon Wilton were outside + the door of Little Cloisters and Mr. Darlington pulled the bell. Always + the most discreet of men, he had not mentioned to his host the terrible + cry he had heard in the Leiths’ garden, or his short colloquy with Annie. + He was seriously disturbed in mind, but, being a trained man of the world + and one who prided himself upon his powers of self-control, he had + concealed this unpleasant fact from the Canon, and had talked quite + agreeably during their little walk between the two houses. The sound of + that dreadful cry still seemed to shudder through his flesh, but it was + not for him to pry into the private lives of others, even of those whom he + knew intimately, and had a great regard for. He hoped all was well with + his dear young friends, There might be some quite simple explanation of + that cry. He fervently hoped there was. In any case it was not for him to + ask questions, or to— + </p> + <p> + “They’re a long while answering the bell,” said Canon Wilton, in his + strong, earnest voice. “Hadn’t you better give it another tug, + Darlington?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Darlington started. + </p> + <p> + “H’m—ha!” + </p> + <p> + He raised his hand and pulled the bell a second time. + </p> + <p> + “That’s better,” said the Canon, as he heard inside the house a long + tinkle. “Annie’s bound to come now. As a rule she’s very quick in + answering the door. Among her many virtues, Mrs. Leith counts that of + being a first-rate housewife. She trains her maids well.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she?” murmured Mr. Darlington abstractedly, bending forward till he + seemed almost to be listening at the door. “Does she? I hear some one + coming. H’m!” + </p> + <p> + He straightened himself. The door opened and Annie appeared. When she saw + the two men she drew back quickly to let them pass in. Canon Wilton said + kindly: “Good evening, Annie.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir,” said Annie, and began to cry audibly. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” asked the Canon, surprised. + </p> + <p> + They were now in the little oak paneled hall, and by the light of the lamp + they could see the tears running down the flushed face of the maid. “Is + anything wrong?” said the Canon. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, sir, I’m so glad you’ve come! Oh, we don’t know what it is!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment Robin’s nurse showed herself on the staircase. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, sir,” she said, with trembling lips, “do go into the + garden!” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” said Canon Wilton, in a loud, firm voice. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. and Mrs. Leith are both there, sir. They’ve been there this long + time. Mr. Leith he’s come back from the shooting without Master Robin. Oh, + there’s something wrong, sir, there’s something wrong!” + </p> + <p> + “Stay here for a moment, Darlington,” said the Canon, with a sudden, + almost fiery, decision. “I’ll go at once and see what’s the matter.” + </p> + <p> + But Mr. Darlington laid a bony hand on his friend’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come with you, Wilton. I’m—I’m afraid it’s something very + bad.” + </p> + <p> + He lowered his voice almost to a whisper in saying the last words. + </p> + <p> + The Canon formed “Why?” with his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Just now, as I was passing the garden here coming back from the Deanery, + I heard a most dreadful cry. I thought at the time that it came from an + animal, but—now——” + </p> + <p> + The Canon stared at him almost sternly. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better not waste time,” he said. “I wish you’d gone in then.” + </p> + <p> + And he turned bruskly. He had opened the door, and was about to step on to + the broad path which divided the front of the house from the lawn, when he + heard steps approaching swiftly on the gravel. + </p> + <p> + “Some one coming!” he said. “Stop where you are, Darlington. I believe its + . . .” + </p> + <p> + Before he could finish his sentence Rosamund came upon him out of the + darkness. Her face was distorted, so distorted that he scarcely recognized + it. It seemed to have shrunk and sharpened, and it had the look of + fierceness which is characteristic of the faces of starving people. She + put out both her hands as she came up to him, pushed him with violence + into the house, and followed him. + </p> + <p> + “Lock the door!” she whispered. “Lock it! Lock it!” + </p> + <p> + “But——” + </p> + <p> + Her voice rose. She seemed savage with fear. + </p> + <p> + “Lock it, I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + A long arm shot out and a bony hand turned the key in the door. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the only thing to be done for the moment,” said Mr. Darlington to + the Canon. “She’s mad with fear.” + </p> + <p> + Both the maids had disappeared, terrified by the face of their mistress. + Rosamund caught hold of the stair-rail and began to hurry upstairs, but + Mr. Darlington followed her and seized her by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Rosamund! Rosamund! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + She turned. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to find Robin. That man’s killed Robin! Keep him out! Keep him + away from me!” + </p> + <p> + A dreadful surreptitious expression made her face hideous. She leaned + forward, nodding her head, and whispered in Mr. Darlington’s ear: + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> keep him away from me while I find Robin. He’s killed Robin!” + </p> + <p> + Her whole body began to shake. Mr. Darlington put one arm round her. + </p> + <p> + “But, Rosamund——” + </p> + <p> + Below, the handle of the door leading to the garden was turned, the door + was shaken, and there came a knocking on the wood. + </p> + <p> + Then Mr. Darlington heard again the cry which had come to him that evening + as he passed the garden of Little Cloisters. His arm dropped. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund went frantically up the stairs and disappeared on the dark + landing above. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + BOOK IV — THE UNKNOWN GOD + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I + </h2> + <p> + In June of the following year two young Englishmen, who were making a + swift tour of the near East, were sitting one evening in a public garden + at Pera. The west wind, which had been blowing all day, had gone down with + the coming of night. The air was deliciously warm, but not sultry. The + travelers had dined well, but not too well, and were ready to be happy, + and to see in others the reflection of their own contented holiday mood. + It was delightful to be “on the loose,” without responsibilities, and with + a visit to Brusa to look forward to in the immediate future. They sat + under the stars, sipped their coffee, listened to the absurd music played + by a fifth-rate band in a garishly-lighted kiosk, and watched with + interest the coming and going of the crowd of Turks and Perotes, with whom + mingled from time to time foreign sailors from ships lying off the + entrance to the Golden Horn and a few tourists from the hotels of Pera. + Just behind them sat their guide, a thin and eager Levantine, half-Greek + and half-Armenian, who, for some inscrutable reason, declared that his + name was John. + </p> + <p> + There was little romance in this garden set in the midst of the noisy + European quarter of Constantinople. The music was vulgar; Greek waiters + with dissipated faces ran to and fro carrying syrups and liqueurs; + corpulent Turks sat heavily over glasses of lager beer; overdressed young + men of enigmatic appearance, with oily thick hair, shifty eyes, and hands + covered with cheap rings, swaggered about smoking cigarettes and talking + in loud, ostentatious voices. Some women were there, fat and garish for + the most part, liberally powdered and painted, and crowned with hats at + which Paris would have stared almost in fear. There were also children, + dark, even swarthy, with bold eyes, shrill voices, immodest bearing, who + looked as if they had long since received the ugly freedom of the streets, + and learned lessons no children ought to know. + </p> + <p> + Presently the band stopped playing and there was a general movement of the + crowd. People got up from the little tables and began to disperse. “John” + leaned forward to his employers, and in a quick and rattling voice + informed them that a “fust-rate” variety entertainment was about to take + place in another part of the garden. Would they come to see it? There + would be beautiful women, very fine girls such as can only be gazed on in + Constantinople, taking part in the “show.” + </p> + <p> + The young men agreed to “have a look at it,” and followed John to a place + where many round tables and chairs were set out before a ramshackle wooden + barrack of a theatre, under the shade of some pepper trees, through whose + tresses the stars peeped at a throng and a performance which must surely + have surprised them. + </p> + <p> + The band, or a portion of it, was again at work, playing an inane melody, + and upon the small stage two remarkably well-developed and + aquiline-featured women of mature age, dressed as very young children in + white socks, short skirts which displayed frilled drawers, and muslin + bonnets adorned with floating blue and pink ribbons, swayed to and fro and + joined their cracked voices in a duet, the French words of which seemed to + exhale a sort of <i>fade</i> obscenity. While they swayed and jigged + heavily, showing their muscular legs to the staring audience, they gazed + eagerly about, seeking an admiration from which they might draw profit + when their infantile task was over. Presently they retired, running + skittishly, taking small leaps into the air, and aimlessly blowing kisses + to the night. + </p> + <p> + “Very fine girls!” murmured John to his young patrons. “They make much + money in Pera.” + </p> + <p> + One of the young men shrugged his shoulders with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Get us two Turkish coffees, John!” he said. Then he turned to his + companion. “I say, Ellis, have you noticed an English feller—at + least I take him to be English—who’s sitting over there close to the + stage, sideways to us?” + </p> + <p> + “No; where is he?” asked his companion. + </p> + <p> + “You see that old Turk with the double chin?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather.” + </p> + <p> + “Just beyond him, sitting with a guide who’s evidently Greek.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got him.” + </p> + <p> + “Watch him. I never saw such a face.” + </p> + <p> + A blowzy young woman, in orange color and green, with short tinsel-covered + skirts, bounded wearily on to the stage, smiling, and began to sing: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Je suis une boite de surprises! + O la la! O la la! + Je suis une boite de surprises.” + </pre> + <p> + Ellis looked across at the man to whom his attention had been drawn. This + man was seated by a little table on which were a siphon, a bottle of iced + water, and a tall tumbler nearly half-full of a yellow liquid. He was + smoking a large dark-colored cigar which he now and then took from his + mouth with a hand that was very thin and very brown. His face was dark and + browned by the sun, but looked startlingly haggard, as if it were pale or + even yellowish under the sunburn. About the eyes there were large + wrinkles, spraying downwards over the cheek bones and invading the cheeks. + He wore a mustache, and was well-dressed in a tweed suit. But his low + collar was not very fresh, and his tie was arranged in a slovenly fashion + and let his collar stud be seen. He sat with his legs crossed, staring at + the grimacing woman on the stage with a sort of horribly icy intentness. + The expression about his lips and eyes was more than bitter; it showed a + frozen fierceness. + </p> + <p> + On the other side of the table was seated a lean, meager guide, obviously + one of those Greeks who haunt the quays of Constantinople on the look out + for arriving travelers. Now and then this Greek leaned forward and, with a + sort of servile and anxious intelligence, spoke to his companion. He + received no reply. The other man went on smoking and staring at the <i>boite + de surprises</i> as if he were alone. And somehow he seemed actually to be + alone, encompassed by a frightful solitude. + </p> + <p> + “A tragic face, isn’t it?” said the man who had first spoken. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove it is!” returned the officer. “I wonder that woman can go on + singing so close to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Probably she hasn’t seen him. How many years do you give him?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirty-eight or forty.” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t out for pleasure, that’s certain.” + </p> + <p> + “Pleasure! One would suppose he’d been keeping house with Medusa and—the + deuce, she’s seen him!” + </p> + <p> + At this moment the singer looked towards the stranger, quavered, faltered, + nearly broke down, then, as if with an effort, raised her voice more + shrilly and defiantly, exaggerated her meaningless gestures and looked + away. A moment later she finished her song and turned to strut off the + stage. As she did so she shot a sort of fascinated glance at the dark man. + He took his cigar from his mouth and puffed the smoke towards her, + probably without knowing that he did so. With a startled jerk she bounded + into the wings. + </p> + <p> + At this moment John returned with two cups of coffee. + </p> + <p> + “You know everything, John. Tell us who that man over there is,” said + Ellis, indicating the stranger. + </p> + <p> + John sent a devouring glance past the old Turk’s double chin, a glance + which, as it were, swallowed at one gulp the dark man, his guide, the + siphon, the water-bottle and the glass partially full of the yellow + liquid. + </p> + <p> + “I dunno him. He is noo.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he English?” + </p> + <p> + “Sure!” returned John, almost with a sound of contempt. + </p> + <p> + He never made a mistake about any man’s nationality, could even tell a + Spanish Jew from a Portuguese Jew on a dark night at ten yards’ distance. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you who he is later. I know the guide, a damned fool and a rogue + of a Greek that has been in prison. He robs all his people what take him.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t bother,” said Ellis curtly. + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Shut up, John, and don’t run down your brothers in crime.” + </p> + <p> + “That man my brother!” + </p> + <p> + John upraised two filthy ringed hands. + </p> + <p> + “That dirty skunk my brother! That son of—” + </p> + <p> + “That’ll do, John! Be quiet.” + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I till you all about the gentleman. Here is another fine girl! + I know her very well.” + </p> + <p> + A languid lady, with a face painted as white as a wall, large scarlet + lips, eyes ringed with bluish black, and a gleaming and trailing black + gown which clung closely to her long and snake-like body, writhed on to + the stage, looking carefully sinister. + </p> + <p> + The dark man swallowed his drink, got up and made his way to the exit from + the garden. He passed close to the two young men, followed by his Greek, + at whom John cast a glance of scowling contempt, mingled, however, with + very definite inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “By Jove! He’s almost spoilt my evening,” said Ellis. “But we made a + mistake, Vernon. He isn’t anything like forty.” + </p> + <p> + “No; more like thirty under a cloud.” + </p> + <p> + “By the look of things I should guess there are plenty of people under a + cloud in Pera. But that English feller stands out even here. This girl is + certainly a first-class wriggler, if she’s nothing else.” + </p> + <p> + They did not mention the stranger again that night. But John had not + forgotten him, and when he arrived at their hotel next day he at once + opened his capacious mouth and let out the following information: + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman’s name is Denton, his other name is Mervyn, he is three + days in Constantinople, he lives in Hughes’s Hotel in Pera, a very poor + house where chic people they never goes, he is out all day and always + walkin’, he will not take a carriage, and he is never tired, Nicholas + Gounaris—the Greek guide—he is droppin’ but the gentleman he + does not mind, he only sayin’ if you cannot walk find me another guide + what can, every night he is out, too, and he is goin’ to Stamboul when it + is dark, he is afraid of nothin’ and goin’ where travelers they never go, + one night Gounaris he had to show the traveler—” + </p> + <p> + But at this point Ellis shut John up. + </p> + <p> + “That’ll do,” he observed. “You’re a diligent rascal, John. One must say + that. But we aren’t a couple of spies, and we don’t want to hear any more + about that feller.” + </p> + <p> + And John, without bearing any malice, went off to complete his + arrangements for the journey to Brusa. + </p> + <p> + Two days later, Mrs. Clarke, who was at Buyukderer in a villa she had + taken for the summer months, but who had come into Constantinople to do + some shopping, saw “Mervyn Denton” in a side street close to the British + Embassy. Those distressed eyes of hers were very observant. There were + many people in the street, and “Denton,” who was alone, was several yards + away from her, and was walking with his back towards her; but she + immediately recognized him, quickened her steps till she was close to him, + and then said: + </p> + <p> + “Dion Leith!” + </p> + <p> + Dion heard the husky voice and turned round. He did not say anything, but + he took off the soft hat he was wearing. Mrs. Clarke stared at him with + the unself-conscious directness which was characteristic of her. She saw + Dion for the first time since the tragedy which had changed his life, but + she had written to him more than once. Her last letter had come from + Buyukderer. He had answered it, but he had not told her where he was, had + not even hinted to her that he might come to Constantinople. Nevertheless, + she did not now show any surprise. She just looked at him steadily, + absorbed all the change in him swiftly, and addressed herself to the new + man who stood there before her. + </p> + <p> + “Come with me to the Hotel de Paris. I’m spending the night there, and go + back to-morrow to Buyukderer. I had something to do in town.” + </p> + <p> + She had not given him her hand, and he did not attempt to take it. He put + on his hat, turned and walked at her side. Neither of them spoke a word + until they had come into the uproar of the Grande Rue, which surrounded + them with a hideous privacy. Then Mrs. Clarke said; + </p> + <p> + “Where are you staying?” + </p> + <p> + “At Hughes’s Hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “I never heard of it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s in Brusa Street. It’s cheap.” + </p> + <p> + “And horrible,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + But she did not say so. + </p> + <p> + “I have only been here three days,” Dion added. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember that I once said to you I knew you would come back to + Constantinople?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment his face was distorted. When she saw that she looked away + gravely, at the glittering shops and at the Perotes who were passing by + with the slow and lounging walk which they affect in the Grande Rue. + Presently she heard him say: + </p> + <p> + “You were right. It was all arranged. It was all planned out. Even then I + believe I knew it would be so, that I should come back here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why have you come?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know,” he answered, and his voice, which had been hard and + fierce, became suddenly dull. + </p> + <p> + “He really believes that,” she thought. + </p> + <p> + “Here is the hotel,” she said. “I’m all alone. Jimmy has been out, but has + had to go back to Eton. I wish you had seen him.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” said Dion, almost passionately. + </p> + <p> + They went up in a lift, worked by a Montenegrin boy with a big round + forehead, to her sitting-room on the second floor. It was large, bare and + clean, with white walls and awnings at the windows. She rang the bell. A + Corsican waiter came and she ordered tea. The roar of the street noises + penetrated into the shadowy room through the open windows, and came to + Dion like heat. He remembered the silence of Claridge’s. Suddenly his head + began to swim. It seemed to him that his life, all of it that he had lived + till that moment, was spinning round him, and that, as it spun, it gave + out a deafening noise and glittered. He sat down on a chair which was + close to a small table, laid his arms on the table, and hid his face + against them. Still the deafening noise continued. The sum of it was + surely made up of the uproar of the Grand Rue with the uproar of his + spinning life added to it. He saw yellow balls ringed with pale blue + rapidly receding from his shut eyes. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke looked at him for a moment; then she went into the adjoining + bedroom and shut the door behind her. She did not come back till the + waiter knocked and told her that tea was ready. Then she opened the door. + She had taken off her hat and gloves, and looked very white and cool, and + very composed. + </p> + <p> + Dion was standing near the windows. The waiter, who had enormously thick + mustaches, and who evidently shaved in the evening instead of in the + morning, was going out at the farther door. He shut it rather loudly. + </p> + <p> + “Every one makes a noise in Pera. It’s <i>de rigueur</i>,” said Mrs. + Clarke, coming to the tea-table. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” said Dion, “I used to think <i>you</i> looked punished?” + </p> + <p> + “Punished—I!” + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden defiance in her voice which he had never heard in it + before. He came up to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. In London I used to think you had a punished look and even a haunted + look. Wasn’t that ridiculous? I didn’t know then what it meant to be + punished, or to be haunted. I hadn’t enough imagination to know, not + nearly enough. But some one or something’s seen to it that I shall know + all about punishment and haunting. So I shall never be absurd about you + again.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause she said: + </p> + <p> + “I wonder why you thought that about me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. It just came into my head.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, sit down and let us have our tea.” + </p> + <p> + Dion sat down mechanically, and Mrs. Clarke poured out the tea. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it was Buyukderer,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I like the uproar.” + </p> + <p> + “No, you don’t—you don’t. Pera is spurious, and all its voices are + spurious voices. To-morrow morning, before I go back, you and I will go to + Eyub.” + </p> + <p> + “To the dust and the silence and the cypresses—O God!” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + He got up from his chair. He was beginning to tremble. Was it coming upon + him at last then, the utter breakdown which through all these months he + had—somehow—kept at a distance? Determined not to shake, he + exerted his will violently, till he felt as if he were with dreadful + difficulty holding, keeping together, a multitude of living, struggling + things, which were trying to get away out of his grasp. And these living + things were the multitudinous parts of the whole which was himself. + </p> + <p> + All that now was had been foreshadowed. There had been writing on the + wall. + </p> + <p> + “I am grateful to you for several things. I’m not going to give you the + list now. Some day, perhaps, I shall tell you what they are . . . among + the cypresses of Eyub.” + </p> + <p> + She had said that to him in London, and her voice had been fatalistic as + she spoke; and in the street that same day, on his way home, the voice of + the boy crying the last horror had sounded to him like a voice from the + sea, a strange and sad cry lifted up between Europe and Asia. And now—— + </p> + <p> + “How did you know?” he said. “How did you know that we should be here + together some day?” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down. You must sit down.” + </p> + <p> + She put her languid and imperative hand on his wrist, and he sat down. He + took her hand and put it against his forehead for a moment. But that was + no use. For her hand seemed to add fever to his fever. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen you standing amongst graves in the shadow of cypress trees,” + he said. “In England I saw you like that. But—how did you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Drink your tea. Don’t hurry. We’ve got such a long time.” + </p> + <p> + “I have. I have all the days and nights—every hour of them—at + my own disposal. I’m the freest man on earth, I suppose. No work, no + ties.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve given up everything?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, of course. That is, the things that were still left to me to give up. + They didn’t mean much.” + </p> + <p> + “Eat something,” she said, in a casual voice, pushing a plate of delicious + little cakes towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + He took one and ate. He regained self-control, but he knew that at any + moment, if anything unusual happened, or if he dared to think, or to talk, + seriously about the horror of his life, he would probably go down with a + crash into an abyss in which all of his manhood, every scrap of his + personal dignity, would be utterly lost. And still almost blindly he held + on to certain things in the blackness which encompassed him. He still + wished to play the man, and though in bitterness he had tried sometimes to + sink down in degradation, his body—or so it had seemed to him—had + resisted the will of the injured soul, which had said to it, “Go down into + the dirt; seek satisfaction there. Your sanity and your purity of life + have availed you nothing. From them you have had no reward. Then seek the + rewards of the other life. Thousands of men enjoy them. Join that crowd, + and put all the anemic absurdities of so-called goodness behind you.” + </p> + <p> + He had almost come to hate the state he conceived of as goodness; yet the + other thing, its opposite, evil, he instinctively rebelled against and + even almost feared. The habit of a life-time was not to be broken in a + day, or even in many days. Often he had thought of himself as walking in + nothingness, because he rejected evil. + </p> + <p> + Goodness had ruthlessly cast him out; and so far he had made no other + friend, had taken no other comrade to his bruised and bleeding heart. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke began to talk to him quietly. She talked abut herself, and he + knew that she did this not because of egoism, but because delicately she + wished to give him a full opportunity for recovery. She had seen just + where he was, and she had understood his recoil from the abyss. Now she + wished, perhaps, to help him to draw back farther from it, to draw back so + far that he would no longer see it or be aware of it. + </p> + <p> + So she talked of herself, of her life at Buyukderer in the summer, and in + Pera in the autumn and spring. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go out to Buyukderer till the middle of May,” she said, “and I + come back into town at the end of September.” + </p> + <p> + “You manage to stand Pera for some months every year?” said Dion, + listening at first with difficulty, and because he was making a determined + effort. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. An Englishwoman—even a woman like me—can’t live in + Stamboul. And Pera, odious as it is, is in Constantinople, in the city + which has a spell, though you mayn’t feel it yet.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent for a moment, and they heard the roar from the Grande Rue, + that street which is surely the noisiest in all Europe. Hearing it, Dion + thought of the silence of the Precincts at Welsley. That sweet silence had + cast him out. Hell must be full of roaring noises and of intense + activities. Then Mrs. Clarke went on talking. There was something very + feminine and gently enticing in her voice, which resembled no other voice + ever heard by Dion. He felt kindness at the back of her talk, the wish to + alleviate his misery if only for a moment, to do what she could for him. + She could do nothing, of course. Nevertheless he began to feel grateful to + her. She was surely unlike other women, incapable of bearing a grudge. For + he had not been very “nice” to her in the days when he was happy and she + was in difficulties. At this moment he vaguely exaggerated his lack of + “niceness,” and perhaps also her pardoning temperament. In truth, he was + desperately in need of a touch from the magic wand of sympathy. Believing, + or even perhaps knowing, that to the incurably wounded man palliatives are + of no lasting avail, he had deliberately fled from them, and gone among + those who had no reason to bother about him. But now he was grateful. + </p> + <p> + “Go on talking,” he said once, when she stopped speaking. And she + continued talking about her life. She said nothing more about Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + The Corsican waiter came and took away the tea things noisily. Her spell + was broken. For a moment Dion felt dazed. + </p> + <p> + He got up. + </p> + <p> + “I ought to go,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Must you?” + </p> + <p> + “Must!—Oh no! My time is my own, and always will be, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “You have thrown up everything?” + </p> + <p> + “What else could I do? The man who killed his own son! How could I stay in + London, go among business men who knew me, talk about investments to + clients? Suppose you had killed Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve given up my name. I call myself Mervyn Denton. I saw the name in a + novel I opened on a railway bookstall.” + </p> + <p> + She got up and came near to him quietly. + </p> + <p> + “This is all wrong,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What is?” + </p> + <p> + “All you are doing, the way you are taking it all.” + </p> + <p> + “What other way is there of taking such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Will you come with me to Eyub to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “It was written long ago that I am to go there with you. I’m quite sure of + that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you what I mean there to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + She looked towards the window. + </p> + <p> + “It’s like the roar of hell,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he went away. + </p> + <p> + That night Mrs. Clarke dined alone downstairs in the restaurant. The + cooking at the Hotel de Paris was famous, and attracted many men from the + Embassies. Presently Cyril Vane, one of the secretaries at the British + Embassy, came in to dine. He had with him a young Turkish gentleman, who + was called away by an agent from the Palace in the middle of dinner. Vane, + thus left alone, presently got up and came to Mrs. Clarke’s table. + </p> + <p> + “May I sit down and talk to you for a little?” he said, with a manner that + testified to their intimacy. “My guest has deserted me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, do. Tell the waiter to bring the rest of your dinner here.” + </p> + <p> + “But I have finished.” + </p> + <p> + “Light your cigar then.” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + They talked for a few minutes about the things of every day and the little + world they both lived in on the Bosporus; then Mrs. Clarke said: + </p> + <p> + “I met a friend from England unexpectedly to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” + </p> + <p> + “A man called Dion Leith.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion Leith?” repeated Vane. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “Now wait a moment!” + </p> + <p> + His large, cool blue eyes became meditative. + </p> + <p> + “It’s on the edge of my mind who that is, and yet I can’t remember. I + don’t know him, but I’m sure I know of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He fought in the South African War.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Vane leaned forward. He was frowning. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got it! He fought, came back with the D.C.M., and only a few days + afterwards killed his only child, a son, out shooting. I remember the + whole thing now, the inquest at which he was entirely exonerated and the + rumors about his wife. She’s a beautiful woman, they say.” + </p> + <p> + “Very beautiful.” + </p> + <p> + “She took it very badly, didn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by very badly?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t she bear very hard on him?” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t endure to see him, or to have him near her. Is that very + wonderful?” + </p> + <p> + “You stand up for her then?” + </p> + <p> + “She was first and foremost a mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know,” Vane said rather dryly, “you are the only woman I never + hear speak against other women. But when the whole thing was an accident?” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t always be quite fair, or quite reasonable, when a terrible shock + comes to us.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a problem, a terrible problem of the affections,” Vane said. “Had + she loved her husband? Do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “I know that he loved her very much,” said Mrs. Clarke. “He is here under + an assumed name.” + </p> + <p> + Vane looked openly surprised and even, for a moment, rather disdainful. + </p> + <p> + “But then——” He paused. + </p> + <p> + “Why did I give him away?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Because I wish to force him to face things fully and squarely. It’s his + only chance.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t he be angry?” + </p> + <p> + “But I don’t mind that.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ve had a reason in telling me,” said Vane quietly. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Come up to my sitting-room. We’ll have coffee there.” + </p> + <p> + “Willingly. I feel your spell even when you’re weaving it for another + man’s sake.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke did not reject the compliment. She only looked at Vane, and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Come.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II + </h2> + <p> + In the morning Mrs. Clarke sent a messenger to Hughes’s Hotel asking Dion + to meet her at the landing-place on the right of the Galata Bridge at a + quarter to eleven. + </p> + <p> + “We will go to Eyub by caique,” she wrote, “and lunch at a Turkish café I + know close to the mosque.” + </p> + <p> + She drove to the bridge. When she came in sight of it she saw Dion + standing on it alone, looking down on the crowded water-way. He was + leaning on the railing, and his right cheek rested on the palm of his + brown hand. Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly as she realized that this man who + was waiting for her had evidently forgotten all about her. + </p> + <p> + She dismissed the carriage, paid the toll and walked on to the bridge. As + usual there was a crowd of pedestrians passing to and fro from Galata to + Stamboul and from Stamboul to Galata. She mingled with it, went up to Dion + and stood near him without uttering a word. For perhaps two minutes she + stood thus before he noticed her. Then he turned and sent her a hard, + almost defiant glance before he recognized who his companion was. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I didn’t know it was——Why didn’t you speak? Is it time to + go? I meant to be at the landing.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke like a man who had been a long way off, and who returned weary + and almost dazed from that distance. He looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “Please forgive me for putting you to the trouble of coming to find me.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t ever ask me to forgive you for anything. Don’t let us bother + each other with all the silly little things that worry the fools. We’ve + got beyond all that long ago. There’s my caique.” + </p> + <p> + She made a signal with her hand. Two Albanians below saluted her. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go at once? Or would you rather stay here a little longer?” + </p> + <p> + “Let us go. I was only looking at the water.” + </p> + <p> + He turned and sent a long glance to Stamboul. + </p> + <p> + “Your city!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I shall take you.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time that day he looked at her intimately, and his look + said: + </p> + <p> + “Why do you trouble about me?” + </p> + <p> + They went down, got into the caique, and were taken by the turmoil of the + Golden Horn. Among the innumerable caiques, the steamboats, the craft of + all kinds, they went out into the strong sunshine, guarded on the one hand + by the crowding, discolored houses of Galata rising to Pera, on the other + hand by the wooden dwellings and the enormous mosques of Stamboul. The + voices of life pursued them over the water and they sat in silence side by + side. Dion made no social attempt to entertain his companion. Had she not + just said to him that long ago they had gone beyond all the silly little + things that worry the fools? In the midst of the fierce activity and the + riot of noise which marks out the Golden Horn from all other water-ways, + they traveled towards emptiness, silence, the desolation on the hill near + the sacred place of the Turks, where each new Sultan is girded with the + sword of Osman, and where the standard-bearer of the Prophet sleeps in the + tomb that was seen in a vision. + </p> + <p> + In the strong heat of noon they left the caique and walked slowly towards + the hill which rises to the north-east, where the dark towers of the + cypresses watch over the innumerable graves. Mrs. Clarke had put up a sun + umbrella. Her face was protected by a thin white veil. She wore a linen + dress, pale gray in color, with white lines on it, and long loose gloves + of suede. She looked extraordinarily thin. Her unshining, curiously + colorless hair was partly covered by a small hat of burnt straw, turned + sharply and decisively up on the left side and trimmed with a broad riband + of old gold. Dion remembered that he had thought of her once as a vision + seen in water. Now he was with her in the staring definite clearness of a + land dried by the heats of summer and giving to them its dust. And she was + at home in this aridity. In the dust he was aware of the definiteness of + her. Since the blackness had overtaken him people had meant to him less + than shadows gliding on a wall mean to a joyous man. Often he had observed + them, even sharply and with a sort of obstinate persistence; he had been + trying to force them to become real to him. Invariably he had failed in + his effort. Mrs. Clarke was real to him as she walked in silence beside + him, between the handsome railed-in mausoleums which line the empty roads + from the water’s edge almost to the mosque of the Conqueror. A banal + phrase came to his lips, “You are in your element here.” But he held it + back, remembering that they walked in the midst of dust. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the mosque they ascended the hill and passed the Tekkeh of the + dancing dervishes. All around them were the Turkish graves with their + leaning headstones, or their headstones fallen and lying prone in the + light flaky earth above the smoldering corpses of the dead. Here and there + tight bunches of flowers were placed upon the graves. Gaunt shadows from + old cypresses fell over some of them, defining the sunlight. Below was the + narrowing sea, the shallow north-west arm of the Golden Horn, which + stretches to Kiathareh, where are the sweet waters of Europe, and to + Kiahat Haneh. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll sit here,” said Mrs. Clarke presently. + </p> + <p> + And she sat down, with the folding ease almost of an Oriental, on the warm + earth, and leaned against the fissured trunk of a cypress. + </p> + <p> + Casually she had seemed to choose the resting-place, but she had chosen it + well. More times than she could count she had come to that exact place, + had leaned against that cypress and looked down the Golden Horn to the + divided city, one-half of which she loved as she loved few things, + one-half of which she endured for the sake of the other. + </p> + <p> + “From here,” she said to Dion, “I can feel Stamboul.” + </p> + <p> + He had lain down near to her sideways and rested his cheek on his hand. + The lower half of his body was in sunshine, but the cypress threw its + shadow over his head and shoulders. As Mrs. Clarke spoke he looked down + the Golden Horn to the Turkish city, and his eyes were held by the + minarets of its mosques. Seldom had he looked at a minaret without + thinking of prayer. He thought of prayer now, and then of his dead child, + of the woman he had called wife, and of the end of his happiness. The + thought came to him: + </p> + <p> + “I was kept safe in the midst of the dangers of war for a reason; and that + reason was that I might go back to England and kill my son.” + </p> + <p> + And yet every day men went up into these minarets and called upon other + men to bow themselves and pray. + </p> + <p> + God is great. . . . + </p> + <p> + In the sunlit silence of the vast cemetery the wheels of Dion’s life + seemed for a moment to cease from revolving. + </p> + <p> + God is great—great in His power to inflict misery upon men. And so + pray to Him! Mount upon the minarets, go up high, till you are taken by + the blue, till, at evening, you are nearer to the stars than other men, + and pray to Him and proclaim His glory. For He is the repository of the + power to cover you with misery as with a garment, and to lay you even with + the dust. Pray then—pray! Unless the garment is upon you, unless the + dust is already about you! + </p> + <p> + Dion lay on the warm earth and looked at the distant minarets, and smiled + at the self-seeking slave-instinct in men, which men sought to glorify, to + elevate into a virtue. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you smiling?” said a husky voice above. + </p> + <p> + He did not look up, but he answered: + </p> + <p> + “Because I was looking at those towers of prayer.” + </p> + <p> + “The minarets.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent for a few minutes; after a while she said: + </p> + <p> + “You remember the first time you met me?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “I was in difficulties then. They culminated in the scandal of my divorce + case. Tell me, how did you think I faced all that trouble?” + </p> + <p> + “With marvelous courage.” + </p> + <p> + “In what other way can thoroughbred people face an enemy? Suppose I had + lost instead of won, suppose Jimmy had been taken from me, do you think it + would have broken me?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t imagine anything breaking you,” said Dion. “But I don’t believe + you ever pray.” + </p> + <p> + “What has that to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe the people who pray are the potential cowards.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you pray?” + </p> + <p> + “Not now. That’s why I was smiling when I looked at the minarets. But I + don’t make a virtue of it. I have nothing to pray for.” + </p> + <p> + “Well then, if you have put away prayer, that means you are going to rely + on yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + “For all the sustaining you will need in the future. The people commonly + called good think of God as something outside themselves to which they can + apply in moments of fear, necessity and sorrow. If you have really got + beyond that conception you must rely on yourself, find in yourself all you + need.” + </p> + <p> + “But I need nothing—you don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “You nearly told me yesterday.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps if you hadn’t gone out of the room I should have been obliged to + tell you, but not because I wished to.” + </p> + <p> + “I understood that. That is why I went out of the room and left you + alone.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time Dion looked up at her. She had lifted her veil, and her + haggard, refined face was turned towards him. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + At that moment he liked her as he had never liked her in the past. + </p> + <p> + “Can you tell me now because you wish to?” + </p> + <p> + “Here among the graves?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Again he looked at the distant minarets lifted towards the blue near the + way of the sea. But he said nothing. She shut her sun umbrella, laid it on + the ground beside her, pulled off her gloves and spread them out on her + knees slowly. She seemed to be hesitating; for she looked down and for a + moment she knitted her brows. Then she said; + </p> + <p> + “Tell me why you came to Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “If I hadn’t met you in the street by chance, would you have come to see + me?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I should.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet it was I who willed you to come here.” + </p> + <p> + Dion did not seem surprised. There was something remote in him which + perhaps could not draw near to such a simple commonplace feeling in that + moment. He had gone out a long way, a very long way, from the simple + ordinary emotions which come upon, or beset, normal men living normal + lives. + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” he asked. “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I could do something for you. I began last night.” + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “Doing something for you. I told an acquaintance of mine called Vane, who + is attached to the British Embassy, that you were here.” + </p> + <p> + A fierce flush came into Dion’s face. + </p> + <p> + “I said you would probably come out to Buyukderer,” she continued, “and + that I wanted to bring you to the summer Embassy and to introduce you to + the Ambassador and Lady Ingleton.” + </p> + <p> + Dion sat up and pressed his hands palm downwards on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go. How could you say that I was here? You know I had dropped + my own name.” + </p> + <p> + “I gave it back to you deliberately.” + </p> + <p> + “I think that was very brutal of you,” he said, in a low voice, tense with + anger. + </p> + <p> + “You wanted to be very kind to me when I was in great difficulties. + Circumstances got rather in the way. That doesn’t matter. The intention + was there, though you were too chivalrous to go very far in action.” + </p> + <p> + “Chivalrous to whom?” + </p> + <p> + “To her.” + </p> + <p> + His face went pale under its sunburn. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing?” he said, in a low voice that was almost terrible. + “Where are you taking me?” + </p> + <p> + “Into the way you must walk in. Dion—“—even in calling him by + his Christian name for the first time her voice sounded quite impersonal—“you’ve + done nothing wrong. You have nothing, absolutely nothing, to be ashamed + of. Kismet! We have to yield to fate. If you slink through the rest of + your years on earth, if you get rid of your name and hide yourself away, + you will be just a coward. But you aren’t a coward, and you are not going + to act like one. You must accept your fate. You must take it right into + your heart bravely and proudly, or, if you can’t do that, stoically. I + should.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had killed Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. + </p> + <p> + “If you had killed Jimmy?” he repeated, in a hard voice. + </p> + <p> + “I should never hide myself. I should always face things.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t had the blow I have had. I know I am not in fault. I know I + have nothing to blame myself for. I wasn’t even careless with my gun. If I + had been I could never have forgiven myself. But I wasn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the pony. I know. I read the account of the inquest. You were + absolutely exonerated.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The coroner and the jury expressed their deep sympathy with me,” he + said, with intense bitterness. “They realized how—how I loved my + little boy. But the woman I loved more even than my boy, whom I had loved + for ever since I first saw her—well, she didn’t feel at all as the + coroner and the jury did.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is she? I hear now and then from Beatrice Daventry, but she never + mentions her sister.” + </p> + <p> + “She is in Liverpool doing religious work, I believe. She has given + herself to religion.” + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean exactly?” + </p> + <p> + “People give themselves to God, don’t they, sometimes?” + </p> + <p> + “Do they?” said Mrs. Clarke, with her curious grave directness, which + seemed untouched by irony. + </p> + <p> + “It seems a way out of—things. But she always had a tendency that + way.” + </p> + <p> + “Towards the religious life?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She always cared for God a great deal more than she cared for me. + She cared for God and for Robin, and she seemed to be just beginning to + care for me when I deprived her of Robin. Since then she has hated me.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke quietly, sternly. All the emotion of which she had been conscious + on the previous afternoon had left him. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t succeed in making her love me!” he continued. “I thought I had + gained a good deal in South Africa. When I came back I felt I was starting + again, and that I should carry things through. Robin felt the difference + in me directly. He would have got to care for me very much, and I could + have done a great deal for him when he had got older. But God didn’t see + things that way. He had planned it all out differently. When I was with + her in Greece, one day I tore down a branch of wild olive and stripped the + leaves from it. She saw me do it, and it distressed her very much. She had + been dreaming over a child, and my action shattered her dream, I suppose. + Women have dreams men can’t quite understand—about children. She + forgave me for that almost directly. She knew I would never have done + anything to make her unhappy even for a moment, if I had thought. Now I + have broken her life to pieces, and there’s no question of forgiveness. If + there were, I should not speak of her to you. We are absolutely parted + forever. She would take the hand of the most dreadful criminal rather than + my hand. She has a horror of me. I’m the thing that’s killed her child.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down at the dilapidated graves, and then at the lonely water + which seemed trying to hide itself away in the recesses of the bare land. + </p> + <p> + “That’s how it is. Robin forgave me. He was alive for a moment—after, + and I saw by his eyes he understood. Yes, he understood—he + understood!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his body began to shake and his arms jerked convulsively. + Instinctively, but quite quietly, Mrs. Clarke put out her hand as if she + were going to lay hold of his right arm. + </p> + <p> + “No—don’t!” he said. “Yesterday your hand made me worse.” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew her hand. Her face did not change. She seemed wholly + unconscious of any rudeness on his part. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s move—let’s walk!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He sprang up. When he was on his feet he regained control of his body. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what’s the matter with me,” he said. “I’m not ill.” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, it will have to come,” she said, getting up too. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + But she did not reply. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve never been like this till now,” he added vaguely. + </p> + <p> + She knew why, but she did not tell him. She was a woman who knew how to + wait. + </p> + <p> + They wandered away through that cemetery above the Golden Horn, among the + cypresses and the leaning and fallen tombstones. Now and then they saw + veiled women pausing beside the graves with flowers in their hands, or + fading among the cypress trunks into sunlit spaces beyond. Now and then + they saw a man praying. Once they came to a tomb where children were + sitting in a circle chanting the Koran with a sound like the sound of + bees. + </p> + <p> + Before they went down to the Turkish cafe, which is close to the holy + mosque, they stood for a long while together on the hillside, looking at + distant Stamboul. The cupolas of the many mosques and the tall and speary + minarets gave their Eastern message—that message which, even to + Protestant men from the lands of the West, is as the thrilling sound of a + still, small voice. And the voice will not be gainsaid; it whispers, “In + the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me in the West.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you care for Stamboul so much?” Dion asked his companion. “I think + you are utterly without religion. I may be wrong, but I think you are. And + Stamboul is full of calls to prayer and of places for men to worship in.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, there is something,” she answered. “There is the Unknown God.” + </p> + <p> + “The Unknown God?” he repeated, with a sort of still bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “And His city is Stamboul—for me. When the <i>muezzin</i> calls I + bow myself in ignorance. What <i>He</i> is, I don’t know. All I know is + that men cannot explain Him to me, or teach me anything about Him. But + Stamboul has lures for me. It is not only the city of many prayers, it is + also the city of many forgetfulnesses. The old sages said, ‘Eat not thy + heart nor mourn the buried Past.’ Stay here for a time, and learn to obey + that command. Perhaps, eventually, Stamboul will help you.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing can help me,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + They went down the hill by the Tekkeh of the Dancing Dervishes. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke did not go back to her villa at Buyukderer that day. It was + already late in the afternoon when her caique touched the wharf at the + foot of the Galata bridge. + </p> + <p> + “I shall stay another night at the hotel,” she said to Dion. “Will you + drive up with me?” + </p> + <p> + He assented. When they reached the hotel he said: + </p> + <p> + “May I come in for a few minutes?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course.” + </p> + <p> + When they were in the dim, rather bare room with the white walls, between + which the fierce noises from the Grande Rue found a home, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I feel before I leave I must speak about what you did last night, the + message you gave to Vane of our Embassy. I dare say you are right and that + I ought to face things. But no one can judge for a man in my situation, a + man who’s had everything cut from under him. I haven’t ended it. That + proves I’ve got a remnant of something—you needn’t call it strength—left + in me. Since you’ve told my name, I’ll take it back. Perhaps it was + cowardly to give it up. I believe it was. Robin might think so, if he + knew. And he may know things. But I can’t meet casual people.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m afraid I did what I did partly for myself,” she said, taking off her + little hat and laying it, with her gloves, on a table. + </p> + <p> + “For yourself? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll explain to-morrow. I shall see you before I go. Come for me at ten, + will you, and we’ll drive to Stamboul. I’ll tell you there.” + </p> + <p> + “Please tell me now, if you’re not tired after being out all day.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m never tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Once Mrs. Chetwinde told me that you were made of iron.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke sent him a curious keen glance of intense and almost lambent + inquiry, but he did not notice it. The strong interest that notices things + was absent from him. Would it ever be in him again? + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I have a great deal of stamina,” she said casually. “Well, sit + down, and I’ll try to explain.” + </p> + <p> + She lit a cigarette and sat on a divan in the far corner of the large + room, between one of the windows and the door which led into the bedroom. + Dion sat down, facing her and the noise from the Grande Rue. He wondered + for a moment why she had chosen a place so close to the window. + </p> + <p> + “I had a double reason for doing what I did,” she said. “One part + unselfish, the other not. I’ll be very frank. I willed that you should + come here.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to see you. I wanted to help you. You don’t think I, or any one, + can do that. You think everything is over for you—” + </p> + <p> + “I know it is,” he interrupted, in a voice which sounded cold and dull and + final. + </p> + <p> + “You think that. Any man like you, in your situation, would think that. + Let us leave it for the moment. I wished you to come here, and willed you + to come here. For some reason you have come. You didn’t let me know you + were here, but, by chance as it seems, we met. I don’t mean to lose sight + of you. I intend that you shall come either to Buyukderer, or to some + place on the Bosporus not far off that’s endurable in the summer, and that + you shall stay there for a time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to find out if I can be of any good to you.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t. I don’t even know why you wish to. But you can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll leave that,” she said, with inflexible composure. “I don’t much + care what you think about it. I shan’t be governed, or affected even, by + that. The point is, I mean you to come. How are you to come, + surreptitiously or openly, sneaking in by-ways, your real name concealed, + or treading the highway, your real name known? For your own sake it must + be openly and with your own name, and for my sake too. You need to face + your great tragedy, to stand right up to it. It’s your only chance. A man + is always pursued by what he runs away from; he can always make a friend + of what he stands up to.” + </p> + <p> + “A friend?” + </p> + <p> + His voice broke in with the most piercing and bitter irony through the + many noises in the room—sounds of cries, of carriage wheels, of + horses’ hoofs ringing on an uneven pavement, of iron shutters being pulled + violently down over shop fronts, of soldiers marching, of distant bugles + calling, of guitars and mandolins accompanying a Neapolitan song. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, a friend,” said the husky and inflexible, but very feminine voice, + which resembled no other voice of woman that he had ever heard. “So much + for my thought of you. And now for my thought of myself. I am a woman who + has faced a great scandal and come out of it the winner. I was horribly + attacked, and I succeeded in what the papers call reestablishing my + reputation. You and I know very well what that means. I know by personal + experience, you by the behavior of your own wife.” + </p> + <p> + Dion moved abruptly like a man in physical pain, but Mrs. Clarke + continued: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ask you to forgive me for hurting you. You and I must be frank + with each other, or we can be of no use to each other. After what has + happened many women might be inclined to avoid me as your wife did. + Fortunately I have so many friends who believe in me that I am in a fairly + strong position. I don’t want to weaken that position on account of Jimmy. + Now, if you came to Buyukderer under an assumed name, I couldn’t introduce + you to any one, or explain you without telling lies. Gossip runs along the + shores of the Bosporus like fire along a hayrick. How can I be seen + perpetually with a man whom I never introduce to any of my friends, who + isn’t known at his own Embassy? Both for your own sake and for mine we + must be frank about the whole thing.” + </p> + <p> + “But I never said I should come to Buyukderer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And there was a sort of dull, lifeless obstinacy in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “You have come to Constantinople and you will come to Buyukderer,” she + replied quietly. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her across the room. The light was beginning to fade, but + still the awnings were drawn down beyond the windows, darkening the large + bare room. He saw her as a study in gray and white, with colorless, + unshining hair, a body so thin and flexible that it was difficult to + believe it contained nerves like a network of steel and muscles capable of + prolonged endurance, a face that was haggard in its white beauty, eyes + that looked enormous and fixed in the twilight. The whole aspect of her + was melancholy and determined, beautiful and yet almost tragic. He felt + upon him the listless yet imperative grasp which he had first known in + Mrs. Chetwinde’s drawing-room, the grasp which resembled Stamboul’s. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I shall go to Buyukderer,” he said slowly. “But I don’t know + why you wish it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have always liked you.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I think you have.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care to see a man such as you are destroyed by a good woman.” + </p> + <p> + He got up. + </p> + <p> + “No one is destroying me,” he said, with a dull and hopeless defiance. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, don’t misunderstand me. It wouldn’t be strange if you thought I + bore your wife a grudge because she didn’t care about knowing me. But, + honestly, I am indifferent to a great many things that most women fuss + about. I quite understood her reluctance. Directly I saw her I knew that + she had ideals, and that she expected all those who were intimately in her + life to live up to them. Instead of accepting the world as it has been + created, such women must go one better than the Creator (if there is one), + and invent an imaginary world. Now I shouldn’t be at home in an imaginary + world. I’m not good enough for that, and don’t want to be. Your wife is + very good, but she lives for herself, for her own virtues and the peace + and happiness she gets out of them.” + </p> + <p> + “She lived for Robin,” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “Robin was a part of herself,” Mrs. Clarke said dryly. “Women like that + don’t know how to love as lovers, because they care for the virtues in men + rather than for the men themselves. They are robed in ideals, and they are + in mortal fear of a speck of dust falling on the robe. The dust of my + scandal was upon me, so your wife avoided me. That I was innocent didn’t + matter. I had been mixed up with something ugly. Your chivalry was + instinctively on the side of justice. Her virtue inclined to the other + side. Her virtue is destructive.” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Now it has driven you out like a scapegoat into the wilderness!” + </p> + <p> + “No, no!” he muttered, without conviction. + </p> + <p> + “But don’t let it destroy you. I would rather deliberately destroy myself + than let any one destroy me. In the one case there’s strength of a kind, + in the other there’s no strength at all. I speak very plainly, but I’m not + a woman full of ideals. I accept the world just as it is, men just as they + are. If a speck of dust alights on me, I don’t think myself hopelessly + befouled; and if some one I loved made a slip, I should only think that it + is human to err and that it’s humanity I love.” + </p> + <p> + “Humanity!” he repeated, looking down. “Ah!” He sighed deeply. + </p> + <p> + He raised his head. + </p> + <p> + “And if some one you loved killed your Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “As you——?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I should love him all the more because of the misery added to him,” she + said firmly. “There’s only one thing a really great love can’t forgive.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The deliberate desire and intention to hurt it and degrade it.” + </p> + <p> + “I never had that.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then—then you think she never loved me at all?” + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Clarke did not answer that question. + </p> + <p> + The daylight was rapidly failing. She seemed almost to be fading away in + the dimness and in the noises of evening which rose from the Grande Rue. + Yet something of her remained and was very definite, so definite that even + Dion, broken on the wheel and indifferent to casual influences as few men + are ever indifferent, felt it almost powerfully—the concentration of + her will, the unyielding determination of her mind, active and intense + behind the pale mask of her physical body. + </p> + <p> + He turned away and went to the window farthest from her. He leaned out to + the Grande Rue. Above his head was the sloping awning. It seemed to him to + serve as a sounding-board to the fierce noises of the mongrel city. + </p> + <p> + “Start again!” + </p> + <p> + Surely among the voices of the city now filling his ears there was a husky + voice which had said that. + </p> + <p> + Had Mrs. Clarke spoken? + </p> + <p> + “Start again.” + </p> + <p> + But not on the familiar road! To do that would be impossible. If there + were indeed any new life for him it must be an utterly different life from + any he had known. + </p> + <p> + He had tried the straight life of unselfishness, purity, fidelity and + devotion—devotion to a woman and also to a manly ideal. That life + had convulsively rejected him. Had he still within him sufficient energy + of any kind to lay hold on a new life? + </p> + <p> + For a moment he saw before him under the awning Robin’s eyes as they had + been when his little son was dying in his arms. + </p> + <p> + He drew back from the street. The sitting-room was empty, but the door + between it and the bedroom was open. No doubt Mrs. Clarke had gone in + there to put away her hat. As he looked at the door the Russian maid, whom + he had seen at Park Side, Knightsbridge, came from the inner room. + </p> + <p> + “Madame hopes Monsieur will call to see her to-morrow before she starts to + Buyukderer,” she said, with her strong foreign accent. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + As he went out the maid shut the bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III + </h2> + <p> + Two days later Mrs. Clarke sat with the British Ambassadress in the + British Palace at Therapia, a building of wood with balconies looking over + the Bosporus. She was alone with Lady Ingleton in the latter’s + sitting-room, which was filled with curious Oriental things, with flowers, + and with little dogs of the Pekinese breed, who lay about in various + attitudes of contentment, looking serenely imbecile, and as if they were + in danger of water on the brain. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton was an old friend of Mrs. Clarke, and was a woman wholly + indifferent to the prejudices which govern ordinary persons. She had spent + the greater part of her life abroad, and looked like a weary Italian, + though she was half English, a quarter Irish, and a quarter French. She + was very dark, and had large, dreamy dark eyes which knew how to look + bored, a low voice which could say very sharp things at times, and a + languid manner which concealed more often than it betrayed an intelligence + always on the alert. + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Cynthia?” said Lady Ingleton. “But first tell me if you like + this Sine carpet. I found it in the bazaar last Thursday, and it cost the + eyes out of my head. Carey, of course, has said for the hundredth time + that I am ruining him, and bringing his red hair in sorrow to the tomb. + Even if I am, it seems to me the carpet is worth it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke studied the carpet for a moment with earnest attention. She + even knelt down to look closely at it, and passed her hands over it + gently, while Lady Ingleton watched her with a sort of dark and still + admiration. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a marvel,” she said, getting up. “If you had let it go I should + almost have despised you.” + </p> + <p> + “Please tell that to Carey when he comes to you to complain. And now, what + is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You remember several months ago the tragedy of a man called Dion Leith, + who fought in the South African War, came home and almost immediately + after his return killed his only son by mistake out shooting?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You knew him, I think you said. He was married to that beautiful + Rosamund Everard who used to sing. I heard her once at Tippie Chetwinde’s. + Esme Darlington was a great admirer or hers, of course <i>pour le bon + motif</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion Leith’s here.” + </p> + <p> + “In Therapia?” + </p> + <p> + “No, in a hideous little hotel in Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think he knows. His wife has given him up. She was a mother, not + a lover, so you can imagine her feelings about the man who killed her + child. It seems she was <i>une mere folle</i>. She has left him and, + according to him, has given herself to God. He’s in a most peculiar + condition. He was a model husband, absolutely devoted and entirely + irreproachable. Even before marriage, I should think he had kept out of + the way of—things. The athlete with ideals—he was that, one + supposes.” + </p> + <p> + “How extraordinarily attractive!” said Lady Ingleton, in a lazy and rather + drawling voice. + </p> + <p> + “So he had a great deal to fasten on the woman who has cast him out. Just + now, like the coffin of Mohammed, he’s suspended. That’s the impression I + get from him.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to bring him down to earth?” + </p> + <p> + “All he’s known and cared for in life has failed him. He was traveling + under an assumed name even, for fear people should point him out as the + man who killed his own son. All that sort of thing is no use. I gave his + secret away deliberately to young Vane, and asked him to speak to the + Ambassador. And now I’ve come to you. I want you to have him here once or + twice and be nice to him. Then I can see something of him, poor fellow, + and do something for him.” + </p> + <p> + A faint smile curved Lady Ingleton’s sensitive lips. + </p> + <p> + “Of course. Then he’s coming to the Bosporus?” + </p> + <p> + “He’ll probably spend some time at Buyukderer. He must face his fate and + take up life again.” + </p> + <p> + “He doesn’t intend to do what his wife has done?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton was still smiling faintly. + </p> + <p> + “I should say his experience rather inclines him to take an opposite + direction.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he good-looking?” + </p> + <p> + “What he has been through has ravaged his face.” + </p> + <p> + “That probably makes him much handsomer than he ever was before.” + </p> + <p> + “He hates the thought of meeting any one. But if you will have him here + once or twice, and people know it, it will make things all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Will he come?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You know I always do what you want.” + </p> + <p> + “I never want you to do dull things.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s true. The dogs don’t come into play against the people you bring + here.” + </p> + <p> + It was a legend in Constantinople in Embassy circles that Lady Ingleton + always “set the dogs” at bores. Even at official dinners, when she had as + much as she could stand of the heavy bigwigs whom she was obliged to + invite, she surreptitiously touched a bell. This was a signal to the + footman to bring in the dogs, who were trained to yap at and to + investigate closely visitors. The yapping and the investigations created a + feeling of general restlessness and an almost inevitable movement, which + invariably led to the speedy departure of the unwelcome guests; who went, + as Lady Ingleton said, “not knowing why.” Enough that they went! The dogs + were rewarded with lumps of sugar as are the canine performers in a + circus. Sir Carey complained that it was bad diplomacy, but he was devoted + to his wife, and even secretly loved her characteristic selfishness. + </p> + <p> + “Let Dion Leith come and I’ll cast my mantle over him—for your sake, + Cynthia. You are a remarkable woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + But Lady Ingleton did not say why. There were immense reticences between + her and Cynthia Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Dion left Hughes’s Hotel and went to Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + He had not consciously known why he did this. Until he met Mrs. Clarke + near the British Embassy he had scarcely been aware how sordid and ugly + and common under its small ostentations Hughes’s Hotel was. She made him + see the dreariness of his surroundings, although she had never seen them; + she made him again aware of things. That she was able to affect him + strongly, although he did not care for her, he knew by the sudden approach + to the brink of a complete emotional breakdown which she had brought about + in him at their first meeting. He remembered the hand he had taken and had + put against his forehead. There had been no cool solace in it for the + fever within him. Why, then, did he go to Buyukderer? Certainly he did not + go in hope. He was dwelling in a region far beyond where hope can live. + </p> + <p> + But here was some one who was far away from the land that had seen his + tragedy, and who meant something in connexion with him, who intended + something which had to do with him. In England his mother had been + powerless to help him; Beattie had been powerless to help him. Canon + Wilton had tried to use his almost stern power of manly sincerity on + behalf of the soul of Dion. He and Dion had had a long interview after the + inquest on the little body of Robin was over, and he had drawn nearer to + the inmost chamber than any one else had, though Bruce Evelin, even in his + almost fierce grief for Robin, had been wonderfully kind and + understanding. But even Canon Wilton had utterly failed to be of any real + use. Perhaps he had known Rosamund too well. + </p> + <p> + Till now Mrs. Clarke was the one human being who had succeeded in making a + definite impression on Dion since Robin’s death and Rosamund’s fearful + reception of the news of it. He felt her will, and perhaps he felt + something else in her without telling himself that he did so: her + knowledge of a life absolutely different from the life he had hitherto + known, absolutely different, too, from the life known to, and lived by, + those who had been nearest to him and with whom he had been most closely + intimate. The old life with all its associations had cast him out. That + was his feeling. Possibly, without being aware of it, and driven by the + necessity that is within man to lay hold of something, to seek after + refuge in the blackest moments of existence, he was feebly and + instinctively feeling after an unknown life which was represented to his + imagination by the pale beauty of Mrs. Clarke. She had described his + situation as one of suspension between the heaven and the earth. His + heaven had certainly rejected him. Possibly, without knowing it, and + without any hope of future happiness or even of future peace, he faintly + descried her earth; possibly, in going to Buyukderer, he was making an + unconscious effort to gain it. + </p> + <p> + He wondered about this afterwards, but not at all in the moment of his + going. Things were not clear to him then. He was still in the vague, but + he was not to walk in vagueness forever. Fate which, by its malign action, + had caused him to inflict a frightful injury upon the good woman he loved + still held in reserve for him new and tremendous experience. He thought + that in Welsley he had reached the ultimate depths which a man can sound. + It was not so. + </p> + <p> + Dion came to Buyukderer on a breezy blue day, a day which seemed full of + hope and elation, which was radiant with sunlight and dancing waters, and + buoyant with ardent life. Gone were those delicate dreamy influences which + sometimes float over the Bosporus even in the noontides of summer, when + the winds are still, and the long shores of Asia seem to lie wrapped in a + soft siesta, holding their secrets of the Orient closely hidden from the + eyes of Europe. Europe gazes at Asia, but Asia is gravely indifferent to + Europe; she listens only to the voices which come to her from her own + depths, and, like an Almeh reclining, is stirred only by music unknown to + the West. + </p> + <p> + As the steamer on which he traveled voyaged towards the Black Sea, Dion + paced up and down the deck and looked always at the shore of Asia. That + line of hills represented to him the unknown. If he could only lose + himself in Asia and forget! But there was nothing passionate in his + longing. It was only a gray desire born in a broken mind and a broken + nature. + </p> + <p> + Once during the voyage he thought of Robin. Did Robin know where he was, + whither he was going? Since Rosamund had utterly rejected him, strangely + his dead boy and he had at moments seemed to Dion to be near to each other + encompassed by the same thick darkness. Even once he had seemed to see + Robin groping, like one lost and vainly seeking after light. His vagueness + was broken upon sometimes by fantastic visions. But to-day he had no + consciousness at all of Robin. The veil of death which hung between him + and the child he had slain seemed to be of stone, absolutely impenetrable. + And all his visions had left him. + </p> + <p> + Palaces and villas came into sight and vanished; Yildiz upon its hill + scattered among the trees of its immense park; Dolmabaghcheh stretched out + along the water’s edges, with its rose-beds before it; and its gravely + staring sentinels; Beylerbey Serai on the Asian shore, with its marble + quay and its terraced gardens, not far from Kandili and the sweet waters + of Asia. Presently the Giant’s Mountain appeared staring across the water + at Buyukderer. The prow of the steamer was headed for the European shore. + Dion saw the bay opening to receive them under its wooded hills which are + pierced by the great valley. It stretched its arms as if in welcome, and + very calm was the water between them. Here the wind failed. Along the + shore were villas, and gardens rising in terraces, where roses, lemon + trees, laurels grew in almost rank abundance. Across the water came the + soft sound of music, a song of Greece lifted above the thrumming of + guitars. And something in the aspect of this Turkish haven, sheltered from + the winds of that Black Sea which had come into sight off Kirech Burnu, + something in the song which floated over the water, struck deep into + Dion’s heart. Abruptly he was released from his frozen detachment; tears + sprang into his eyes, memories surged up in his mind—memories of a + land not very far from this land; of the maidens of the Porch; of the hill + of Drouva kept by the stars and the sleeping winds; of Zante dreaming of + the sunset; of Hermes keeping watch over the child in the green recesses + of Elis. + </p> + <p> + “Why do I come here? What have I to do here, or in any place dedicated to + beauty and to peace?” + </p> + <p> + His brown face twitched, and the wrinkles which sprayed out from his + eyelids over his thin cheeks worked till the network of them seemed to + hold an independent and furious life. + </p> + <p> + “If I were a happy traveler as I once was!” + </p> + <p> + The thought pierced him, and was followed immediately by the remembrance + of some words spoken by Mrs. Clarke: + </p> + <p> + “My friend, it will have to come.” + </p> + <p> + That which had to come, would it come here, in this sheltered place, where + the song died away like a thing enticed by the long valley to be kept by + the amorous trees? Mrs. Clarke’s voice had sounded full of inflexible + knowledge when she had spoken these words, and she had looked at him with + eyes that were full of knowledge. It was as if those eyes had seen the + weeping of many men. + </p> + <p> + The steamer drew near to the shore. The bright bustle of the quay was + apparent. Dion made his effort and conquered himself. But he felt almost + afraid of Buyukderer. In the ugly roar of the Grande Rue he had surely + been safer than he would be here in this place which seemed planned for + intimate happiness. + </p> + <p> + The steamer came alongside the pier. + </p> + <p> + When Dion stepped on to the quay a tall young Englishman with broad + shoulders, rather a baby face, and large intelligent blue eyes immediately + walked up to him. + </p> + <p> + “Are you Mr. Dion Leith?” + </p> + <p> + Dion, startled, was about to say “No” with determined hostility when he + remembered Mrs. Clarke. He had come here; he was, he supposed, going to + stay here for some days at least; of course he must face things. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said gruffly. + </p> + <p> + In an easy, agreeable manner the stranger explained that he was Cyril + Vane, second secretary of the British Embassy, and a friend of Mrs. + Clarke’s, and that he had come down at her request to meet Dion, and to + tell him that there was a charming room reserved for him at the Belgrad + Hotel. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll walk up with you if you like,” he added, in a casual voice. “It’s no + distance. That your luggage?” + </p> + <p> + He put it in the charge of a porter from the hotel. + </p> + <p> + “I’m over at Therapia just now. The Ambassador hopes to see you. He’s a + delightful fellow.” + </p> + <p> + He talked pleasantly, and looked remarkably unobservant till they reached + the hotel, where he parted from Dion. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say I shall see you soon. Very glad to do anything I can for you. + Mrs. Clarke lies at the Villa Hafiz. Any one can tell you where it is.” + </p> + <p> + He walked coolly away in the sun, looking like an immense fair baby in his + thin, light-colored clothes. + </p> + <p> + “Does he know?” thought Dion, looking after him. + </p> + <p> + Then he went up into his bedroom which looked out upon the sea. When the + luggage had been brought in and the door was shut, he sat down on the edge + of the bed and stared at the polished uncarpeted floor. + </p> + <p> + “Why have I come here? What have I to do here?” he thought. + </p> + <p> + He missed the uproar of Pera. It had exercised a species of pressure upon + his soul, a deadening influence. + </p> + <p> + Ever since Robin’s death he had lived in towns, and had walked about + streets. He had been for a time in Paris, then in Marseilles, where he had + stayed for more than two months haunted by an idea of crossing over to + Africa and losing himself in the vastness of the lands of the sun. But + something had held him back, perhaps a dread of the immense loneliness + which would surely beset him on the other side of the sea; and he had gone + to Geneva, then to Zurich, to Milan, Genoa, Naples, Berlin and Budapest. + From Budapest he had come to Constantinople. He had known the loneliness + of cities, but an instinct had led him to avoid the loneliness of the + silent and solitary places. There had been an atmosphere of peace in quiet + Welsley. He was afraid of such an atmosphere and had sought always its + opposite. + </p> + <p> + “Why have I come here?” he thought again. + </p> + <p> + In this small place he felt exposed, almost as if he were naked and could + be seen by strangers. In Pera at least he was covered. + </p> + <p> + “I shall have to go away from here,” he thought. + </p> + <p> + He got up from the bed and began to unpack. As he did this, the + uselessness of what he was doing, the arid futility of every bit of the + web of small details which, in their sum, were his life, flowed upon his + soul like stagnant water forced into movement by some horrible machinery. + He was like something agitating in a vast void, something whose incessant + movements produced no effect, had no sort of relation to anything. In his + loneliness of the cities he had begun to lose that self-respect which + belongs to all happy Englishmen of his type. Mrs. Clarke had immediately + noticed that certain details in his dress showed a beginning of neglect. + Since he had met her he had rectified them, almost unconsciously. But now + suddenly the burden of detail seemed unbearable. + </p> + <p> + It was only by an almost fierce exercise of the will that he forced + himself to finish unpacking, and to lay his things out neatly in drawers + and on the dressing-table. Then he took off his boots and his jacket, + stretched himself out on the bed with his arms behind him and his hands + grasping the bedstead, and shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + There was something shameful in his flaccid idleness, in the aimlessness + of his whole life now, devoid of all work, undirected towards any effort. + But that was not his fault. He had worked with energy in business, with + equal energy in play, worked for self’s sake, for love’s sake, and for + country’s sake. And for all he had done, for his effort of purity as a boy + and a youth, for his effort of love as a husband and a father, for his + effort of valor as a soldier, he had been rewarded with the most horrible + punishment which can fall upon a man. Effort, therefore, on his part was + useless; it was worse than useless, it was grotesque. Let others make + their efforts, his were done. + </p> + <p> + He wished that he could sleep. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The dreadful inertia of Dion did not seem to be dreadful to Mrs. Clarke. + Perhaps she was more intelligent than most women, and generated within + herself so much energy of some kind that she was not driven to seek for it + in others; or perhaps she was more sympathetic, more imaginative, than + most women, and pardoned because she understood. At any rate, she accepted + Dion as he was, and neither criticized him, attempted to bully him, nor + seemed to wish to change him. + </p> + <p> + She had indeed insisted that he must face his fate and had ruthlessly + given him back his name; she had also deliberately set about to entangle + him in the silken cords of a social relation. But he knew within a couple + of days of his arrival at Buyukderer that he did not fear her. No woman + perhaps ever lived who worried a man less in friendship, or who gave, + without any insistence upon it, a stronger impression of loyalty, of + tenacity in affection to those for whom she cared. Although often almost + delicately blunt in words, in action she was full of tact. She was one of + those rare women who absolutely understand men, and who know how to convey + to men instantly the fact of their understanding. Such women are always + attractive to men. Even if they are plain, and not otherwise specially + clever, they possess for men a lure. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke had told Dion in Constantinople that she meant him to come to + Buyukderer. This was an almost insolent assertion of will-power. But when + he was there she let him alone. On the day of his arrival there had come + no message from the Villa Hafiz to his hotel. He had, perhaps, expected + one; he knew that he was relieved not to receive it. Late in the afternoon + he went for a solitary walk up the valley, avoiding the many people who + poured forth from the villas and hotels to take their air, as the sun sank + low behind Therapia, and the light upon the water lost in glory and gained + in magic. Gay parties embarked in caiques. Some people drove in small + victorias drawn by spirited, quick-trotting horses; others rode; others + strolled up and down slowly by the edge of the sea. A gay brightness of + sociable life made Buyukderer intimately merry as evening drew on. + Instinctively Dion left the laughter and the voices behind him. + </p> + <p> + His wandering led him to the valley of roses, where he sat down by the + stream, and for the first time tasted something of the simplicity and + charm of Turkish country life. It did not charm him, but in a dim way he + felt it, was faintly aware of a soothing influence which touched him like + a cool hand. For a long time he stayed there, and he thought, “If I remain + at Buyukderer I shall often visit this place beside the stream.” Once he + was disturbed by the noise of a cantering horse in the lane close by, but + otherwise he was fortunate that day; few people came to his retreat, and + none of them were foreigners. Two or three Turks strolled by, holding + their beads; and once some veiled women came, escorted by a eunuch, threw + some petals of flowers upon the surface of the tinkling water, and walked + on up the narrow valley, chattering in childish voices, and laughing with + a twitter that was like the twitter of birds. + </p> + <p> + In the soft darkness he walked slowly back to his hotel. And that night he + slept better than he had ever slept in Pera. + </p> + <p> + On the following day there was still no message from the Villa Hafiz, and + he did not see Mrs. Clarke. He took a row boat, with a big Albanian + boatman for company, and rowed out on the Bosporus till they came in sight + of the Black Sea. The wind got up; Dion stripped to his shirt and + trousers, rolled his shirt sleeves up to the shoulders, and had a long + pull at the oars. He rowed till the perspiration ran down his lean body. + The boatman admired his muscles and his strength. + </p> + <p> + “Inglese?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Dion nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Les Inglesi tres forts, molto forte!” he observed, mixing French with + Italian to show his linguistic accomplishments, “Moi tres fort aussi.” + </p> + <p> + Dion talked to the man. When he left the boat at the quay he said he would + take it again on the morrow. The intention to go away from Buyukderer, to + drown himself again in the uproar of Pera, was already fading out of his + mind. Mrs. Clarke’s silence had, perhaps, reassured him. The Villa Hafiz + did not summon him. He could seek it if he would. Evidently it was not + going to seek him. + </p> + <p> + Again he felt grateful to Mrs. Clarke. Her silence, her neglect of him, + increased his faith in her friendship for him. + </p> + <p> + His second day in Buyukderer dawned; in the late afternoon of it, now sure + of his freedom, he went to the Villa Hafiz. + </p> + <p> + He did not know that Mrs. Clarke was rich. Indeed he had heard in London + that she only had a small income, but that she “did wonders” with it. In + London he had seen her at Claridge’s and at the marvelous flat in + Knightsbridge. Now, at Buyukderer, he found her in a small, but + beautifully arranged and furnished, villa with a lovely climbing garden + behind it. Evidently she could not live in ugly surroundings or among + cheap and unbeautiful things. He saw at a glance that the rugs and carpets + on the polished floors of the villa were exquisite, that the furniture was + not merely graceful and in place but really choice and valuable, and that + the few ornaments and pieces of china scattered about, with the most deft + decision as to the exactly right place for each mirror, bowl, vase and + incense holder, were rarely fine. Yet in the airy rooms there was no + dreary look of the museum. On the contrary, they had an intimate, almost a + homely air, in spite of their beauty. Books and magazines were allowed + their place, and on a grand piano, almost in the middle of the largest + room, which opened by long windows into an adroitly tangled rose garden + where a small fountain purred amongst blue lilies, there was a quantity of + music. The whole house was strongly scented with flowers. Dion was greeted + at its threshold by a wave of delicious perfume. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke received him in her most casual, most impersonal manner, and + made no allusion to the fact that she knew he had already been for two + days in Buyukderer without coming near her. She asked him if his room at + the hotel was all right, and when he thanked her for bothering about him + said that Cyril Vane had seen to it. + </p> + <p> + “He’s a kind, useful sort of boy,” she added, “and often helps me with + little things.” + </p> + <p> + That day she said nothing about the Ambassador and Lady Ingleton, and + showed no disposition to assume any proprietorship over Dion. She took him + over the house, and also into the garden. + </p> + <p> + Upon the highest terrace of the latter, far above the house, between two + magnificent cypresses, there stood a pavilion. It was made of the wood of + the plane tree, was painted dull green, had trees growing thickly at its + back, and was partially concealed by a luxuriant creeper with deep + orange-colored flowers, not unlike orange-colored jasmine, which Mrs. + Clarke had seen first in Egypt and had acclimatized in Turkey. The center + of the front of this pavilion was open to the terrace, but could be closed + by sliding doors which, when pushed back, fitted into the hollow walls on + either side. The interior was furnished with bookcases, divans covered + with cushions and embroideries, coffee tables, and Eastern rugs. Antique + bronze lamps hung by chains from the painted ceiling, which was divided + into lozenges alternately dull green and dull gold. The view from this + detached library was very beautiful. Over the roof of the villa, beyond + the broad white road and the quay, the long bay stretched out into the + Bosporus. Across its tranquil waters, and the waters beaten up into waves + by the winds from the Black Sea, rose the shores of Asia, Beikos, Anadoli + Kavak, Anadoli Fanar, with lines of hills and the Giant’s Mountain. + Immediately below, and stretching away to right and left, were the curving + shores of Europe, with the villas and palaces of Buyukderer held between + the blue sea and the tree-covered heights of Kabatash; the park of the + Russian Palace, the summer home of Russia’s representative at the Sublime + Porte, gardens of many rich merchants of Constantinople and of Turkish, + Greek and Armenian magnates, and the fertile and well-watered country + extending to Therapia, Stania and Bebek on the one hand, and to Rumili + Kavak, with the great Belgrad forest behind it, and to Rumili Fanar, where + the Bosporus flows into the Black Sea, on the other. + </p> + <p> + “Come up here whenever you like,” Mrs. Clarke said to Dion. “You can ring + at the side gate of the garden, and come up without entering the house or + letting me know you are here. I have my own sitting-room on the first + floor of the villa next to my bedroom, the little blue-and-green room I + showed you just now. The books I’m reading at present are there. No one + will bother you, and you won’t bother any one.” + </p> + <p> + He thanked her, not very warmly, perhaps, but with a genuine attempt at + real gratitude, and said he would come. They walked up and down the + terrace for a little while, in silence for the most part. Before they went + down he mentioned that he had been out rowing. + </p> + <p> + “I ride for exercise,” said Mrs. Clarke. “You can easily hire a good horse + here, but I have one of my own, Selim. Nearly every afternoon I ride.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you riding the day before yesterday?” Dion asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, in the Kesstane Dereh, or Valley of Roses, as many people call it.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you alone?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Dion had thought of the cantering horse which he had heard in the lane as + he sat beside the stream. He felt sure it was Selim he had heard. Mrs. + Clarke did not ask the reason for his questions. She seemed to him a + totally incurious woman. Presently they descended to the house, and he + wished her good-by. She did not ask him to stay any longer, did not + propose any expedition, or any day or hour for another meeting. She just + let him go with a grave, and almost abstracted good-by. + </p> + <p> + When he was alone he realized something; she had assumed that he was going + to make a long stay in Buyukderer. Once, in speaking of the foliage, she + had said, “You will notice in September——” Why was she so + certain he would stay on? There was nothing to prevent him from going away + by the steamer on the morrow. She did nothing to curb his freedom; she + seemed almost indifferent to the fact of his presence there; yet she had + told him he would come, and was evidently certain that he would stay. + </p> + <p> + He wondered a little, but only a little, about her will. Then his mind + returned to an old haunt in which continually it wandered, obsessed by a + horror that seemed already ancient, the walled garden at Welsley in which + he had searched in the dark for a fleeing woman. Perpetually he heard the + movement of that woman’s dress as she disappeared into the darkness, and + the sound of a door, the door of his own home, being locked against him to + give her time to escape from him. That sound had cut his life in two. He + saw, as he had seen many times in the past, the falling downwards of edges + that bled, the edges of his severed life. + </p> + <p> + And he forgot the garden of the Villa Hafiz, the pavilion which stood on + the hill looking over the sea to Asia, the grave woman who had told him, + indifferently, that he could go to it when he would. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless on the following day he found himself at the garden gate; he + rang the bell; he was admitted by Osman, the placidly smiling gardener, + and he ascended to the pavilion. No one was there. He stayed for three + hours, and nobody came to interrupt him. Down below the wooden villa held + closely the secret of its life. Once, as he gazed down on it, he wondered + for a moment about Mrs. Clarke, how she passed her hours without a + companion, which she was doing just then. The siren of a steamer sounded + in the bay. He went into the pavilion. On one of the coffee-tables he + found lying a small thin book bound in white vellum. He took it up and + read the name in gold letters: “The Kasidah of Haji Abdu El-Yezdi.” It was + the book he had found Beattie reading on the night when Robin was born, on + the night when Bruce Evelin and Guy had discussed Mrs. Clarke’s divorce + case and Mrs. Clarke. He shuddered in the warmth of the pavilion. Then + resolutely he picked the book up. At the beginning, after some blank + pages, there was a portrait of Sir Richard Burton. Dion looked at the + strong, tragic face, with its burning expression, for a long time. Then he + stretched himself on one of the divans and began to read the book. + </p> + <p> + Down below, in the villa, Mrs. Clarke was sitting in the green-and-blue + room in the first floor with Lady Ingleton, and they were talking about + Dion. + </p> + <p> + “He’s here now,” said Mrs. Clarke to her friend. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + “In the garden. I haven’t seen him, but Osman tells me he has gone up to + the pavilion.” + </p> + <p> + “We can stroll up there later on, and then you can introduce him if you + want to.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton did not look surprised on receiving this brusk negative. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I get Carey to see him first?” she asked, in her lazy voice. “Cyril + Vane has prepared the way before him, and Carey is all sympathy and + readiness to do what he can. The Greek tragedy of the situation appeals to + him tremendously, and of course he has a hundredfold more tact than I + have.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith must go to the Embassy. But what he has been through has + developed in him a sort of wildness that is almost like that of an animal. + If he saw an outstretched hand he would probably bolt.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet he’s sitting in your pavilion.” + </p> + <p> + “Because he knows he won’t see any outstretched hand there. He was here + for two days without coming near me, and even then he only came because I + had taken no notice of him.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. You spread the food outside, go indoors and close the shutters, + and then, when no one is looking, it creeps up, takes the food, and + vanishes.” + </p> + <p> + “A very great grief eats away the conventions, and beneath the conventions + there is always something strongly animal.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Lady Ingleton looked at Mrs. Clarke and was silent. Then she + said, very quietly and simply: + </p> + <p> + “Does he realize yet how cruel you are?” + </p> + <p> + “He isn’t thinking about me.” + </p> + <p> + “But he will.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke stared at the wall for a minute. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Ask the Ambassador if he will ride with me to-morrow afternoon, will you, + unless he’s engaged?” + </p> + <p> + “At what time?” + </p> + <p> + “Half-past four. Perhaps he’ll dine afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. And now I’m going up to the pavilion.” + </p> + <p> + But she did not go, although she was genuinely curious about the man who + had killed his son and had been cast out by the woman he loved. Secretly + Lady Ingleton was much more softly romantic than Mrs. Clarke was. She was + hard on bores, and floated in an atmosphere of delicate selfishness, but + she could be very kind if her imagination was roused, and though almost + strangely devoid of prejudices she had instincts that were not unsound. + </p> + <p> + That evening she gave Mrs. Clarke’s message to her husband. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow—to-morrow?” he said, in his light tenor voice, + inquiringly. “Yes, I can go. As it happens, I’m breakfasting with Borinsky + at the Russian Palace, so I shall be on the spot. John can meet me with + Freddie.” + </p> + <p> + Freddie was the Ambassador’s favorite horse. + </p> + <p> + “But can Borinsky put up with you till half-past four?” + </p> + <p> + “Cynthia Clarke won’t mind if I turn up before my time.” + </p> + <p> + “No. She’s devoted to you, and you know it, and love it.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey smiled. He and his wife were happy people, and he never wished + to stray from his path of happiness, not even with Mrs. Clarke. But he had + been a beautiful youth, whom many women had loved, and was a remarkably + handsome man, although his red hair was turning gray. Honestly he liked to + be admired by women, and to feel that his fascination for them was still + intact. And he did not actively object to the fact of his wife’s being + aware of it. For he loved her very much, and he knew that a woman does not + love a man less because other women feel his power. + </p> + <p> + He appreciated Mrs. Clarke, and thought her full of intelligence, of + nuances, and <i>tres fine</i>. Her husband had been his right-hand man at + the Embassy, but he had taken Mrs. Clarke’s part when the divorce + proceedings were initiated, and had stood up for her ever since. Like Esme + Darlington he believed that she was a wild mind in an innocent body. + </p> + <p> + On the following day he rode with her towards Rumili Kavak, and presently, + returning, to the four cross-roads at the mouth of the Valley of Roses. A + Turkish youth was standing there. Mrs. Clarke spoke to him in Turkish and + he replied. She turned to the Ambassador. + </p> + <p> + “You do want a cup of coffee, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “If you tell me I do.” + </p> + <p> + “By the stream just beyond the lane. And I’ll ride home. I’ve ordered all + the things you like best for dinner. Ahmed Bey and Madame Davroulos will + make a four.” + </p> + <p> + “And Delia and Cyril Vane a two!” + </p> + <p> + “You must try to control your very natural jealousy.” + </p> + <p> + “I will.” + </p> + <p> + He dismounted and gave the reins to the Turkish youth. + </p> + <p> + Sitting very erect on her black Arab horse, Mrs. Clarke watched him + disappear down the lane in which Dion had heard the cantering feet of a + horse as he sat alone beside the stream. + </p> + <p> + Then she rode back to Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV + </h2> + <p> + Whether Mrs. Clarke had put “The Kasidah” in a conspicuous place in the + pavilion with a definite object, or whether she had been reading it and by + chance had laid it down, Dion could not tell. He believed, however, that + she had intended that this book should be read by him at this crisis in + his life. She had frankly acknowledged that she wished to rouse him out of + his inertia; she was a very mental woman; a book was a weapon that such a + woman would be likely to employ. + </p> + <p> + At any rate, Dion felt her influence in “The Kasidah.” + </p> + <p> + The book took possession of him; it burnt him like a flame; even it made + him for a short time forget. That was incredible, yet it was the fact. + </p> + <p> + It was an antichristian book. A woman’s love of God had made Dion in his + bitterness antichristian. It was an enormously vital book, and called to + the vitality which misery had not killed within him. There were passages + in it which seemed to have been written specially for him—passages + that went into him like a sword and drew blood from out of the very depths + of him. + </p> + <p> + “Better the worm of Izrail than Death that walks in form of life”—that + was for him. He had substituted for death, swift, easy, a mere nothing, + the long, slow terrific something. Death that walks in form of life. + Deliberately he had chosen that. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On thought itself feed not thy thought; nor turn + From Sun and Light to gaze + At darkling cloisters paved with tombs where rot + The bones of bygone days——” + </pre> + <p> + What else had he done since he had wandered in the wilderness? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There is no Good, there is no Bad, these be + The whims of mortal will: + What works me weal that call I ‘good,’ what harms + And hurts I hold as ‘ill.’” + </pre> + <p> + These words drove out the pale Fantasy he had fallen down and worshiped. + It had harmed and hurt him. Haji Abdu El-Yezdi bade him henceforth hold it + as “ill.” If he could only do that, would not gates open before him, would + not, perhaps, the power to live again in a new way arise within him? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Do what thy Manhood bids thee do, from + None but self expect applause; + He noblest lives and noblest dies who makes + And keeps his self-made laws. + + All other Life is living Death, a world where + None but Phantoms dwell, + A breath, a wind, a sound, a voice, a tinkling + Of the Camel bell.” + </pre> + <p> + He had lived the other life, for he had lived for another; he had lived to + earn the applause of affection from Rosamund; he had striven always to fit + his life into her pattern; now he was alone with the result. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pluck the old woman from thy breast: be + Stout in woe, be stark in weal— . . . . . . . spurn + Bribe of Heav’n and threat of Hell.” + </pre> + <p> + He had chosen the death that walks in the form of life; now something + powerful, stirred from sleep by the influence of one not dead, rose up in + him to reject that death. And it was the same thing that long ago had + enabled him to be pure before his marriage, the same thing which had + enabled him to put England before even Rosamund, the same thing which had + held him up in many difficult days in South Africa, and had kept him + cheerful and bravely gay through the long separation from all he cared + for, the same thing which had begun to dominate Rosamund during those few + short days at Welsley, the brief period of reunion in happiness which had + preceded the crash into the abyss; it was the fiery spark of Dion’s + strength which not all his weakness had succeeded in extinguishing, a + strength which had made for good in the past, a strength which might make + for evil in the future. + </p> + <p> + Did Mrs. Clarke know of this strength, and was she subtly appealing to it? + </p> + <p> + “Pluck the old woman from thy breast.” + </p> + <p> + Again and again Dion repeated those words to himself, and he saw himself, + an ineffably tragic, because a weak figure, feebly drifting with his black + misery through cities which knew him not, wandering alone, sitting alone, + peering at the lives of others, watching their vices without interest, + without either approval or condemnation, staring with dull eyes at their + fetes and their funerals, their affections, their cruelties, their + passions, their crimes. He saw himself in a garden at Pera staring at + painted women, neither desiring them nor turning from them with any + disgust. He saw himself—as an old woman. A smoldering defiance + within him sent out a spurt of scorching flame. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Sitting alone by the stream in the Valley of Roses Dion heard the sound of + steps, and presently saw a slight, very refined-looking man in + riding-breeches, with a hunting-crop in his hand, coming down to the bank. + He sat down on a rough wooden bench under a willow tree, lit a cigar and + gazed into the water. He had large, imaginative gray eyes. There was + something military and something poetic in his manner and bearing and in + his whole appearance. Almost directly from a little rustic cafe close by a + Greek lad came, carrying a wooden stool. On it he placed a steaming brass + coffee pot, a cup and saucer, sugar, a stick of burning incense in a tiny + vase, and a rose with a long stalk. Then he went swiftly away, looking + very intelligent. The stranger—obviously an Englishman—picked + up the rose, held it, smelt it, laid it down and began to sip his coffee. + Then in a very casual, easy-going way, like a man who was naturally + sociable, and who enjoyed having a word with any one whom he came across, + he began to speak to Dion. + </p> + <p> + When that day died Dion stood alone looking down into the stream. He + looked till he saw in it the face of night. Broken stars quivered in the + water; among them for a moment he perceived the eyes of a child, of a + child who had been able to love him as a woman had not been able to love + him, and to forgive him as a woman could not forgive him. + </p> + <p> + When Dion walked back to his hotel the candlelight glimmered over the + dining-table at the Villa Hafiz where Mrs. Clarke sat with her three + guests—the Ambassador, Madame Davroulos, the wife of a Greek + millionaire whose home was at Smyrna, and Ahmed Bey, one of the Sultan’s + adjutants. + </p> + <p> + Hadi Bey had long ago passed out of her life. + </p> + <p> + That evening the Ambassador got up to go rather early. His caique was + lying against the quay. + </p> + <p> + “Come out by the garden gate, won’t you?” said Mrs. Clarke to him, and she + led the way to the tangled rose garden, where sometimes she sat and read + the poems of Hafiz. + </p> + <p> + Madame Davroulos was smoking a large cigar in a corner of the drawing-room + and talking volubly to Ahmed Bey, who was listening as only a Turk can + listen, with a smiling and immense serenity, twisting a string of amber + beads in his padded fingers. + </p> + <p> + “He was there?” said Mrs. Clarke, in her quietest and most impersonal + manner. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—he was there.” + </p> + <p> + The Ambassador paused by the fountain, and stood with one foot on the + marble edge of the basin, gazing down on the blue lilies whose color + looked dull and almost black in the night. + </p> + <p> + “He was there. I talked with him for quite half an hour. He seemed glad to + talk; he talked almost fiercely.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke’s white face looked faintly surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Eventually I told him who I was, and he told his name to me, watching me + narrowly to see how I should take it. My air of complete serenity over the + revelation seemed to reassure him. I said I knew he was a friend of yours + and that my wife and I would be very glad to see him at Therapia, and at + the Embassy in Pera later on. He said he would come to Therapia + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + This time Mrs. Clarke looked almost strongly surprised. + </p> + <p> + “What did you talk about?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Chiefly about a book he seems to have been reading recently, Richard + Burton’s ‘Kasidah.’ You know it, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “I remember Omar Khayyam much better.” + </p> + <p> + “He spoke strangely, almost terribly about it. Perhaps you know how + converts to Roman Catholicism talk in the early days of their conversion, + as if they alone understood the true meaning of being safe in sunlight, + cradled and cherished in the blaze, as it were. Well, he spoke like one + just converted to a belief in the all-sufficiency of this life if it is + thoroughly lived; and, I confess, he gave me the impression of being + cradled and cherished in thick darkness.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey was silent for a moment. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “What was this man, Leith?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean——?” + </p> + <p> + “Before his married life came to an end?” + </p> + <p> + “The straight, athletic, orthodox young Englishman; very sane and simple, + healthily moral; not perhaps particularly religious, but full of sentiment + and trust in a boyish sort of way. I remember he read Christian morals + into Greek art.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey raised his eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “One could sum him up by saying that he absolutely believed in and + exclusively adored a strong religious, beautiful, healthy-minded and + healthy-bodied Englishwoman, who has now, I believe, entered a sisterhood, + or something of the kind. She colored his whole life. He saw life through + her eyes, and believed through her faith. At least, I should think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Then he’s an absolutely different man from what he was.” + </p> + <p> + “The strong religious, beautiful, healthy-minded and bodied Englishwoman + has condemned as a crime a mere terrible mistake. She has taken herself + away from her husband and given herself to God. She cared for the child.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke laid a curious cold emphasis on the last sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Horrible!” said Sir Carey slowly. “And so now he turns from the + Protestant’s God to Destiny playing with the pawns upon the great chessboard. + But if he’s a man of sentiment, and not an intellectual, he’ll never find + this life all-sufficient, however he lives it. The darkness will never be + enough for him.” + </p> + <p> + “It has to be enough for a great many of us,” said Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + There was a long pause, which she broke by saying, in a lighter voice: + </p> + <p> + “As he’s going to visit you, I can go on having him here. You’ll let + people know, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “That he’s a friend of ours? Of course.” + </p> + <p> + “That will make things all right.” + </p> + <p> + “You run your unconventionalities always on the public race-course, in + sight of the grand stand packed with the conventionalities.” + </p> + <p> + “What else can I do? Besides, secret things are always found out.” + </p> + <p> + “You never went in for them.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet my own husband misunderstood me.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Beadon! He was an excellent councilor.” + </p> + <p> + “And an excellent husband.” + </p> + <p> + “But he made a great fool of himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Mrs. Clarke, without any animus. “And so Mr. Leith made a sad + impression upon you?” + </p> + <p> + “A few men can be tormented. He is one of them. He has gone down into the + dark places. Perhaps the Furies are with him there, the attendants of the + Goddess of Death.” + </p> + <p> + He glanced at his companion. She was standing absolutely still, gazing + down into the water. Her white face looked beautiful, but strangely + haggard and implacable in the night. And for a moment his mind dwelt on + the image conjured up by his last words, and he thought of her as the + Goddess of Death. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “I must go, or Delia will be wondering. She knows your + power.” + </p> + <p> + “And knows I am too faithful to her not to resist yours.” + </p> + <p> + He pressed her hand, then said rather abruptly: + </p> + <p> + “Are you feverish to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Mrs. Clarke, almost with the hint of a sudden irritation. “I am + never feverish.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey went away to his caique. + </p> + <p> + When he had gone Mrs. Clarke stood alone by the fountain for a moment, + frowning, and with her thin lips closely compressed, almost, indeed, + pinched together. She gazed down at her hands. They were lovely hands, + small, sensitive, refined; they looked clever, too, not like tapering + fools. She knew very well how lovely they were, yet now she looked at them + with a certain distaste. Betraying hands! Abruptly she extended them + towards the fountain, and let the cool silver of the water spray over + them. And as she watched the spray she thought of the wrinkles about + Dion’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, ma chere, qu’est que vous faites la toute seule? Vous prenez un + bain?” + </p> + <p> + The powerful contralto of Madame Davroulos flowed out from the + drawing-room, and her alluring mustache appeared at the lighted French + windows. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke dried her hands with a minute handkerchief, and, without + troubling about an explanation, turned away from the rose garden. But when + her two guests were gone she told her Greek butler to bring out an + arm-chair and a foot-stool, and the Russian maid, whom Dion had seen, to + bring her a silk wrap. Then she sent them both to bed, lit a cigarette and + sat down by the fountain, smoking cigarette after cigarette quickly. Not + till the freshness of dawn was in the air, and a curious living grayness + made the tangled rose bushes look artificial and the fountain strangely + cold, did she get up to go to bed. + </p> + <p> + She looked very tired; but she always looked tired, although she scarcely + knew what physical fatigue was. The gray of dawn grew about her and + emphasized her peculiar pallor, the shadows beneath her large eyes, the + haunted look about her cheeks and her temples. + </p> + <p> + As she went into the house she pulled cruelly at a rose bush. A white rose + came away from its stalk in her hand. She crushed its petals and flung + them away on the sill of the window. + </p> + <p> + While Mrs. Clarke was sitting by the fountain in the garden of the Villa + Hafiz, Dion was sleepless in his bedroom at the Hotel Belgrad. He was + considering whether he should end his life or whether he should change the + way of his life. He was not conscious of struggle. He did not feel + excited. But he did feel determined. The strength he possessed was + asserting itself. It had slumbered within him; it had not died. + </p> + <p> + Either he would die now or he would genuinely live, would lay a grip on + life somehow. + </p> + <p> + If he chose to die how would Mrs. Clarke take the news of his death? He + imagined some one going to the Villa Hafiz from the Hotel Belgrad with a + message: “The English gentleman Mr. Vane took the room for has just killed + himself. What is to be done with the body?” What would Mrs. Clarke say? + What would she look like? What would she do? He remembered the sign of the + cross she had made in the flat in Knightsbridge. With that sign she had + dismissed the soul of Brayfield into the eternities. Would she dismiss the + soul of Dion Leith with the sign of the cross? + </p> + <p> + If she heard of his death, Rosamund would of course be unmoved, or would, + perhaps, feel a sense of relief. And doubtless she would offer up to God a + prayer in which his name would be mentioned. Women who loved God were + always ready with a prayer. If it came too late, never mind! It was a + prayer, and therefore an act acceptable to God. + </p> + <p> + But Mrs. Clarke? Certainly she would not pray about it. Dion had a feeling + that she would be angry. He had never seen her angry, but he felt sure she + could be enraged in a frozen, still, terrible way. If he died perhaps a + thread would snap, the thread of her design. For she had some purpose in + connexion with him. She had willed him to come to this place; she was + willing him to remain in it. Apparently she wished to raise him out of the + dust. He thought of Eyub, of Mrs. Clarke walking beside him on the dusty + road. She had seemed very much at home in the dust. But she was not like + Rosamund; she was not afraid of a speck of dust falling upon the robe of + her ideals. What was Mrs. Clarke’s purpose in connexion with him? He did + not pursue that question, but dismissed it, incurious still in his misery, + which had become more active since his strength had stirred out of sleep. + If he did not die how was he going to live? He had lived by the + affections. Could he live by the lusts? He had no personal ambitions; he + had no avarice to prompt him to energy; he was not in love with himself. + Suddenly he realized the value of egoism to the egoist, and that he was + very poor because he was really not an egoist by nature. If he had been, + if he were, perhaps things would have gone better for him in the past, + would be more endurable now. But he had lived not to himself but to + another. + </p> + <p> + He told himself that to do that was the rankest folly. At any rate he + would never do that again. But the unselfishness of love had become a + habit with him. Even in his extreme youth he had instinctively saved up, + moved, no doubt, by an inherent desire to have as large a gift as possible + ready when the moment for giving came. + </p> + <p> + If he lived on he must live for himself; he must reverse all his rules of + conduct; he must fling himself into the life of self-gratification. He had + come to believe that the men who trample are the men who succeed and who + have the happiest lives. Sensitiveness does not pay; loving consideration + of others brings no real reward; men do not get what they give. It is the + hard and the passionate man who is the victor in life, not the man who is + tender, thoughtful, even unselfish in the midst of his passion. + Self-control—what a reward Dion had received for the self-control of + his youth! + </p> + <p> + If he lived he would cast it away. + </p> + <p> + He sat at his window till dawn, till the sea woke and the hills of Asia + were visible under a clear and delicate sky. He leaned out and felt the + atmosphere of beginning that is peculiar to the first hour of daylight. + Could he begin again? It seemed impossible. Yet now he felt he could not + deprive himself of life. Suicide is a cowardly act, even though a certain + kind of courage must prompt the pulling of the trigger, the insertion of + the knife, or the pouring between the lips of the poison. Dion had not the + courage of that cowardice, or the cowardice of that courage. Perhaps, + without knowing it, in deciding to live he was only taking one more step + on the road whose beginning he had seen in Elis, as he waited alone + outside of the house where Hermes watched over the child; was saving the + distant Rosamund from a stroke which would pierce through her armor even + though she knelt before the throne of God. But he was conscious only of + the feeling that he could not kill himself, though he did not know why he + could not. The capacity for suicide evidently was not contained in his + nature. He rejected the worm of Izrail; he rejected, too, the other death. + He must, then, live. + </p> + <p> + He washed and lay down on his bed. And directly he lay down he wondered + why he had been sitting up and mentally debating a great question. For in + the Valley of Roses he had surely decided it before he spoke to Sir Carey + Ingleton. When he said he would visit Lady Ingleton he must have decided. + That visit would mean the return to what is called normal life, the exit + from the existence of a castaway, the entrance into relations with his + kind. He dreaded that visit, but he meant to pay it. In paying it he would + take his first step away from the death that walks in form of life. + </p> + <p> + He could not sleep, and soon he got up again and went to the window. A + gust of wind came to him from the sea. It seemed to hint at a land that + was cold, and he thought of Russia, and then again of the distant places + in which he might lose himself, places in which no one would know who he + was, or trouble about the past events of his life. There before him was + Asia rising out of the dawn. He had only to cross a narrow bit of sea and + a continent was ready to receive him and to hide him. So he had thought of + Africa on many a night as he sat in the Hotel des Colonies at Marseilles. + But he had not crossed to Africa. + </p> + <p> + The wind died away. It had only been a capricious gust, a wandering guest + of the morning. Down below in the Bay of Buyukderer the waters were quiet; + the row boats lay still at the edge of the quay; the small yachts, with + their sails furled, slept at their moorings. The wind had been like a + summons, a sudden tug at him as of a hand saying, with its bones, its + muscles, its nerves, its sinews, “Come with me!” + </p> + <p> + Once before he had felt something like that in a London Divorce Court, but + it had been fainter, subtler and perhaps warmer. The memory of his + curiosity about the unwise life returned to him, somehow linked with the + wandering wind. In his months of the living death he had often looked on + at it in the cities through which he had drifted, but he had never taken + part in it. He had been emptied of the force to do that by his misery. Now + he was conscious of force though his misery was not lessened, seemed to + him even to have increased. He had often been dulled by grief; now he felt + cruelly alive. + </p> + <p> + He went down to the sea, found the Albanian boatman with whom he had rowed + on his first day at Buyukderer, took his boat out and bathed from it. The + current beyond the bay was strong. He had a longing to let it take him + whither it would. If only he could find an influence to which he could + give himself, an influence which would sweep him away! + </p> + <p> + If only he could get rid of his long fidelity! + </p> + <p> + When he climbed dripping, and with his hair plastered down on his + forehead, into the boat, the Albanian stared at him as if in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter?” said Dion in French, when he was dry and getting into + his clothes. + </p> + <p> + But the man only replied: + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur tres fort molto forte, moi aussi tres fort. Monsieur venez + sempre con moi!” + </p> + <p> + And he smiled with the evident intention of being agreeable to a valuable + client. Dion did not badger him with any more questions. As the boat + touched the quay he told the man to be ready to start for Therapia that + day at any time after three o’clock. + </p> + <p> + When he reached the summer villa of the Ambassador he was informed by a + tall English footman that Lady Ingleton was at home. She received Dion in + the midst of the little dogs, but after he had been with her for a very + few minutes she rang for a servant and banished them. Secretly she was + deeply interested in this man who had killed his son, but she gave Dion no + reason to suppose that she was concentrating on him. Her lazy, indifferent + manner was perfectly natural, but perhaps now and then she was more + definitely kind than usual; and she managed somehow to show Dion that she + was ready to be his friend. + </p> + <p> + “If you stay long we must take you over one day on the yacht to Brusa,” + she said presently. “Cynthia loves Brusa, and so does my husband. We went + over there once with Pierre Loti. Cynthia and poor Beadon Clarke were of + the party, I remember. We had a delightful time.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you say poor Beadon Clarke?” asked Dion abruptly. + </p> + <p> + That day he was at a great parting of the ways. He was concentrated upon + himself and his own decision, so concentrated that the conventions meant + little to him. He was totally unaware of the bruskness of such a question + asked of a woman whom he had never seen before. + </p> + <p> + “One pities a thoroughly good fellow who does a thoroughly foolish thing. + It was a very, very foolish thing to do to attack Cynthia.” + </p> + <p> + “I was in court during part of the trial.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, then, you know how foolish it was. Some people can’t be attacked + with impunity.” + </p> + <p> + The inflexion of Lady Ingleton’s voice at that moment made Dion think of + Mrs. Chetwinde. Once or twice Mrs. Chetwinde’s voice had sounded almost + exactly like that when she had spoken of Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “Especially people who are innocent,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Naturally, as Cynthia was. Beadon Clarke made a terrible mistake, poor + fellow.” + </p> + <p> + When Dion got up to go she again alluded to his staying on at Buyukderer, + with an “if” attached to the allusion, and her dark eyes, which looked + like an Italian’s, rested upon him with a soft, but very intelligent, + scrutiny. He had an odd feeling that she had taken a liking to him, and + yet that she did not wish him to stay on in Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite know what I am going to do,” he said. + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the hideous freedom of his empty life seemed to gather itself + together, and to flow stealthily upon him like a filthy wave bearing + refuse upon its surface. + </p> + <p> + “I’m a free agent,” he added, looking hard at Lady Ingleton. “I have no + ties.” + </p> + <p> + He shook her hand and went away. + </p> + <p> + That evening she said to her husband: + </p> + <p> + “I have felt sorry for myself occasionally, and for other people in my + Christian moments, but I have never in the past felt so sorry for any one + as I feel now for Mr. Leith.” + </p> + <p> + “Because of the tragedy which has marred his life?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t only that. He’s on the edge of so much.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean——?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey paused. + </p> + <p> + “No, no,” Lady Ingleton said, almost impatiently. “Life hasn’t done with + that man yet. I could almost find it in my heart to wish it had. Shall we + take him to Brusa on the yacht? That would advertise our acquaintance with + him to all the gossips on the Bosporus. I promised Cynthia I would throw + my mantle over him.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m always ready for a visit to your only rival,” said Sir Carey. + </p> + <p> + “La Mosquee Verte! I’ll think about it. We might go for three or four + days.” + </p> + <p> + Her warm voice sounded rather reluctant; yet her husband knew that she + wished to go. + </p> + <p> + “It would be an excellent way of showing your mantle to the gossips,” he + remarked. “But you always think of excellent ways.” + </p> + <p> + Two days later the Embassy yacht, the “Leyla,” having on board Sir Carey + and Lady Ingleton, Mrs. Clarke, Cyril Vane, Dion, and Turkish Jane, the + doyenne of the Pekinese, sailed for Mudania on the sea of Marmora, which + is the Port of Brusa. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V + </h2> + <p> + On the day after the return of the “Leyla” from Mudania, Mrs. Clarke asked + Dion if he would dine with her at the Villa Hafiz. She asked him by word + of mouth. They had met on the quay. It was morning, and Dion was about to + embark in the Albanian’s boat for a row on the Bosporus when he saw Mrs. + Clarke’s thin figure approaching him under a white umbrella lined with + delicate green. She was wearing smoked spectacles, which made her white + face look strange and almost forbidding in the strong sunlight. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t come,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And there was a sound almost of desperation in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing, but she stood there beside him looking very inflexible. + Apparently she was waiting for an explanation of his refusal, though she + did not ask for it. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t be with people. It’s no use. I’ve tried it. You didn’t know—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I did,” she interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “You did know?” + </p> + <p> + He stood staring blankly at her. + </p> + <p> + “Surely I—I tried my best. I did my utmost to hide it.” + </p> + <p> + “You couldn’t hide it from me.” + </p> + <p> + “I must go away,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Come to-night. Nobody will be there.” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t a party?” + </p> + <p> + “We shall be alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You meant to ask people?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t. I’ll ask nobody. Half-past eight?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll come,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She turned away without another word. + </p> + <p> + Just after half-past eight he rang at the door of the villa. + </p> + <p> + As he went into the hall and smelt the strong perfume of flowers he + wondered that he had dared to come. But he had been with Mrs. Clarke when + she was in horrible circumstances; he had sat and watched her when she was + under the knife; he had helped her to pass through a crowd of people + fighting to stare at her and making hideous comments upon her. Then why, + even to-night, should he dread her eyes? His remembrance of her tragedy + made him feel that hers was the one house into which he could enter that + night. + </p> + <p> + As he walked into the drawing-room he recollected walking into Mrs. + Chetwinde’s drawing-room, full of interest in the woman who was in + sanctuary, but who was soon to be delivered up, stripped by a man of the + law’s horrible allegations, to the gaping crowd. Now she was living + peacefully among her friends, the custodian of her boy, a woman who had + won through; and he was a wanderer, a childless father, the slayer of his + son. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke kept him waiting for a few minutes. He stood at the French + window and listened to the fountain. In the fall of the water there was + surely an undertune. He seemed to know that it was there and yet he could + not hear it; and he felt baffled as if by a thin mystery. + </p> + <p> + Then Mrs. Clarke came in and they went at once to dinner. + </p> + <p> + During dinner they talked very little. She spoke when the Greek butler was + in the room, and Dion did his best in reply; nevertheless the conversation + languished. Although Dion had so few words to give to his hostess he felt + abnormally alive. The whole of him was like a quivering nerve. + </p> + <p> + When dinner was over Mrs. Clarke said to the butler: + </p> + <p> + “Osman will make the coffee for us. He knows about it. We shall have it in + the pavilion.” + </p> + <p> + The butler, who, although a Greek, looked at that moment almost incredibly + stolid, moved his rather pouting lips, no doubt in assent, and was gone. + They saw him no more that night. + </p> + <p> + They walked slowly from terrace to terrace of the climbing garden till + they came to the height on which the pavilion stood guarded by the two + mighty cypresses. There was no moon, and the night was a very dark purple + night, with stars that looked dim and remote, like lost stars in the + wilderness of infinity. From the terraces came the scent of flowers. In + the pavilion one hanging lamp gave a faint light which emphasized the + obscurity. It shone through colored panes and drew thick shadows on the + floor and on sections of the divans. The heaps of cushions were colorless, + and had a strange look of unyielding massiveness, as if they were blocks + of some hard material. Osman stood beside one of the coffee-tables. + </p> + <p> + As soon as his mistress appeared he began to make the coffee. Dion stayed + upon the terrace, and Mrs. Clarke went into the pavilion and sat down. + </p> + <p> + The cypresses were like dark towers in the night. Dion looked up at them. + Their summits were lost in the brooding purple darkness. Cypresses! Why + had he thought of cypresses in England in connexion with Mrs. Clarke? Why + had he seen her standing among cypresses, seen himself coming to her and + with her in the midst of the immense shadows they cast? No doubt simply + because he knew she lived much in Turkey, the land of the cypress. That + must have been the reason. Nevertheless now he was oppressed by a weight + of mystery somehow connected with those dark and gigantic trees; and he + remembered the theory that the past, the present and the future are + simultaneously in being, and that those who are said to read the future in + reality possess only the power of seeing what already is on another plane. + Had he in England, however vaguely, however dimly, seen as through a crack + some blurred vision of what was already in existence? He felt almost + afraid of the cypresses. Nevertheless, as he stood looking up at them, his + sense almost of fear tempted him to make an experiment. He remained + absolutely still, and strove to concentrate all his faculties. After a + long pause he shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If the far future is even now in being,” he said mentally, “let me look + upon it now.” + </p> + <p> + He saw nothing; but immediately he heard the sound of wind among pine + trees, as he had heard it with Rosamund in the green valley of Elis. It + rose in the silent night, that long murmur of eternity, and presently + faded away. + </p> + <p> + He shuddered and turned sharply towards the pavilion. + </p> + <p> + Osman had gone, and Mrs. Clarke was pouring the coffee into the tiny cups. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no wind, is there—is there?” he asked her. + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “But not a breath!” she said. + </p> + <p> + After a pause she added: + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask such a thing?” + </p> + <p> + “I heard wind in—in the tops of trees,” he almost stammered. + </p> + <p> + “That’s impossible.” + </p> + <p> + “But I say I did!” he exclaimed, with violence. “In pine trees.” + </p> + <p> + “There are no pine trees here,” she said, in her husky voice. “Sit down + and have your coffee.” + </p> + <p> + He obeyed her and sat down quickly, and quickly he took the coffee-cup + from her. + </p> + <p> + “Have a little <i>mastika</i> with it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And she pushed a tall liqueur-glass full of the colorless liquid towards + him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + As he drank he looked out sideways through the wide opening in the + pavilion. There was not a breath of wind. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t understand why I heard the noise of wind in pine trees,” he + forced himself to say. + </p> + <p> + “Seemed to hear it,” she corrected him. “Perhaps you were thinking of it.” + </p> + <p> + “But I wasn’t!” + </p> + <p> + A jeweled gleam from the lamp fell upon one side of her face. She moved, + and the light dropped away from her. + </p> + <p> + “What were you thinking of?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Of the future.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s why it is inexplicable.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us talk about it any more,” he said, in an almost terrible + voice. “I must have had an hallucination.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you ever before thought you were the victim of an hallucination?” + she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Several times I have seen the eyes of my little boy. I saw them a + few nights ago in the stream that flows through the Valley of Roses, just + after Sir Carey had left me.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t look into water again except in daylight. It is the night that + brings fancies with it. If you gaze very long at anything in a dim light + you are sure to see something strange or horrible.” + </p> + <p> + “But an hallucination of sound! I must go away from here! Perhaps in some + other place—” + </p> + <p> + But she interrupted him inflexibly. + </p> + <p> + “Going away would be absolutely useless. A man can’t travel away from + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “But I can’t lead a normal life. It’s impossible. Those horrible nights on + the ‘Leyla’——” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. The effort he had made during the trip to Brusa seemed to have + exhausted the last remnants of any moral force he had still possessed when + he started on that journey. + </p> + <p> + “I had made up my mind to begin again, to lay hold on some sort of real + life,” he continued, after a pause. “I was determined to face things. I + called at Therapia. I accepted Lady Ingleton’s invitation. I’ve done all I + can to make a new start. But it’s no use. I can’t keep it up. I haven’t + the force for it. It was hell—being with happy people.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean the Ingletons. Yes, they are very happy.” + </p> + <p> + “And Vane, who’s just engaged to be married. I saw her photograph in his + cabin. They were all—all very kind. Lady Ingleton did everything to + make me feel at ease. He’s a delightful fellow—the Ambassador, I + mean. But I simply can’t stand mingling my life with lives that are happy. + So I had better go away and be alone again.” + </p> + <p> + “And lives that are unhappy?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you mingle your life with them, or with one of them?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent, looking towards her. She was wearing a very dark blue + tea-gown of some thin material in which her thin body seemed lost. He saw + the dark folds of it flowing over the divan on which she was leaning, and + trailing to the rug at her feet. Her face was a faint whiteness under her + colorless hair. Her eyes were two darknesses in it. He could not see them + distinctly, but he knew they were looking intent and distressed. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you told me I look punished?” said the husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “Are you unhappy?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I have much reason to be happy?” + </p> + <p> + “You have your boy.” + </p> + <p> + “For a few weeks in the year. I have lost my husband in a horrible way, + worse than if he had died. I live entirely alone. I can’t marry again. And + yet I’m not at all old, and not at all finished. But perhaps you have + never really thought about my situation seriously. After all, why should + you? Why should any one? I won my case, and so of course it’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Are <i>you</i> unhappy, then?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose about me?” + </p> + <p> + “I know you’ve gone through a great deal. But you have your boy.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sound almost of dull obstinacy in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Some women are not merely mothers, or potential mothers!” said an almost + fierce voice. “Some women are just women first and mothers second. There + are women who love men for themselves, not merely because men are possible + child-bringers. To a real and complete woman no child can ever be the + perfect substitute for a husband or a lover. Even nature has put the lover + first and the child second. I forbid you to say that I have my boy, as if + that settled the question of my happiness. I forbid you.” + </p> + <p> + He heard her breathing quickly. Then she added: + </p> + <p> + “But how could you be expected to understand women like me?” + </p> + <p> + The intensity of her sudden outburst startled him as the strength of the + current in the Bosporus had startled him when he plunged into the sea from + the Albanian’s boat. + </p> + <p> + “You have been brought up in another school,” she continued slowly, and + with a sort of icy bitterness. “I forgive you.” + </p> + <p> + She got up from the divan and went out upon the terrace, leaving him alone + in the pavilion, which seemed suddenly colder when she had left it. + </p> + <p> + He did not follow her. A breath from a human furnace had scorched him—had + scorched the nerve, and the nerve quivered. + </p> + <p> + “You have been brought up in a different school.” Welsley and Stamboul—Rosamund + and Mrs. Clarke. Once, somewhere, he had made that comparison. As he sat + in the pavilion it seemed to him that for a moment he heard the cool + chiming of bells in a gray cathedral tower, the faint sound of the Dresden + Amen. But he looked out through the opening in the pavilion, and far down + below he saw lights on the Bay of Buyukderer, the vague outlines of hills; + and the perfume that came to him out of the night was not the damp smell + of an English garden. + </p> + <p> + An English garden! In the darkness of a November night he stood within the + walls of an English garden; he heard a cry, saw the movement of a woman’s + body, and knew that his life was in ruins. The woman fled, but he followed + her blindly; he sought for her in the dark. He wanted to tell her that he + had been but the instrument of Fate, that he was not to blame, that he + needed compassion more than any other man living. But she eluded him in + the darkness, and presently he heard a key grind in a lock. A friend had + locked the door of his home against him in order that his wife might have + time to escape from him. + </p> + <p> + Then he heard a husky voice say, “My friend, it will have to come.” And, + suddenly it came. + </p> + <p> + He broke down absolutely, threw himself on his face on the divan with his + arms stretched out beyond his head, grasped the cushions and sobbed. His + body shook and twitched; his face was contorted; his soul writhed. A storm + that came from within him broke upon him. He crashed into the abyss. Down, + down he went, till the last faint ray from above was utterly blotted out. + She whom he had loved so much sent him down, she who far away had given + herself to God. He felt her ruthless hands—the hands of a good + woman, the hands of a loving mother—pressing him down. Let her have + her will. He would go into the last darkness. Then, perhaps, she would be + more at ease; then, perhaps, she would know the true peace of God. He + would pay to the uttermost farthing both for himself and for her. + </p> + <p> + Outside, just hidden from him by the pavilion wall, Mrs. Clarke stood in + the shadow of one of the cypresses, and listened. The trip on the “Leyla” + had served two purposes. It was better so. When a thing must be, the + sooner it is over the better. And she had waited for a very long time. She + drew her brows together as she thought of the long time she had waited. + Then she moved and walked away down the terrace. She had heard enough. + </p> + <p> + She went to the far end of the terrace. A wooden seat was placed there in + the shadow of a plane tree. She sat down on it, rested her pointed chin in + the palm of her right hand, with her elbow on her knee, and remained + motionless. She was giving him time; time to weep away the past and the + good woman who had ruined his life. Even now she knew how to be patient. + In a way she pitied him. If she had not had to be patient for such a long + time she would have pitied him much more. But he had often hurt her; and, + as Lady Ingleton had said, she was by nature a cruel woman. Nevertheless + she pitied him for being, or for having been, so exclusive in love. And + she wondered at him not a little. + </p> + <p> + Lit-up caiques glided out on the bay far beneath her. A band was playing + on the quay. She wished it would stop, and she glanced at a little watch + which Aristide Dumeny had given her, and which was pinned among the dark + blue folds of her gown. But she could not see its face clearly, and she + lit a match. A quarter-past ten. The band played till eleven. She lit a + cigarette and stared down the hill at the moving lights in the bay. + </p> + <p> + She had made many water excursions at night. Some of them—two or + three at least—had been mentioned in the Divorce Court. She had had + a narrow escape that summer in London. It had given her a lesson; but she + still had much to learn before she could be considered a past mistress in + the school of discretion. Almost ever since she could remember she had + been driven by the reckless spirit within her. But she had been given a + compensation for that in the force of her will. That force had done + wonders for her all through her life. It had even captured and retained + for her many women friends. Driven she had been, and no doubt would always + be, but she believed that she would always skirt the precipices of life, + and would never fall into the abysses. + </p> + <p> + The timorous and overscrupulous women were the women who missed their + footing, because, when they made a false step, they made it in fear and + trembling, with the shadow of regret always dogging their heels. And yet, + now Jimmy was getting a big boy, even she knew moments of fear. + </p> + <p> + She moved restlessly. The torch was luring her on, and yet now, for an + instant, she was conscious of holding back. August was not far off; Jimmy + was coming out to her for his holidays. Suppose, after all, she gave it + up? A word from her—or merely a silence—and that man in the + pavilion close by would go away from Buyukderer and would probably never + come back. If, for once in her life, she played for safety? + </p> + <p> + The sound of the band on the quay—there had been a short interval of + silence—came up to her again. Forty minutes more! She would give + that man in the pavilion and herself forty minutes. She could see the + lights which outlined the kiosk. When they went out she would come to a + decision. Till then, sitting alone, she could indulge in a mental debate. + The mere fact that, at this point, she debated the question which filled + her mind proved Jimmy’s power over her. As she thought that she began to + resent her boy’s power. And it would grow; inevitably it would grow. She + moved her thin shoulders. Then she sat very still. + </p> + <p> + If only she didn’t love Jimmy so much! Suppose she had lost her case in + the Divorce Case and Jimmy had been taken away from her? Even now she + shuddered when she thought of the risk she had run. She remembered again + the period of waiting when the jury could not come to an agreement. What + torture she had endured, though no one knew it, or, perhaps, ever would + know it! Had not that torture been a tremendous warning to her against the + unwise life? Why go into danger again? But perhaps there was no danger any + more. A man who has tried to divorce his wife once, and has failed, is + scarcely likely to try again. Nevertheless she was full of hesitation + to-night. + </p> + <p> + This fact puzzled and almost alarmed her, for she was not given to + hesitation. She was a woman who thought clearly, who knew what she wanted + and what she did not want, and who acted promptly and decisively. Perhaps + she hesitated now because she had been forced to remain inactive in this + particular case for such a long time; or perhaps she had received an + obscure warning from something within her which knew what she—the + whole of her that was Cynthia Clarke—did not consciously know. + </p> + <p> + The leaves of the plane tree rustled above her head, and she sighed. As + she sat there in the purple darkness she looked like a victim; and for a + moment she thought of herself as a victim. + </p> + <p> + Even that man in the pavilion who was agonizing had said to her that she + looked “punished.” She had been surprised, almost startled, by his flash + of discernment. But she was sure he thought that matter only a question of + coloring, of emaciation, of the shapes of features, and of the way eyes + were set in the head. + </p> + <p> + When would the lights far below go out? She hated her indecision. It was + new to her, and she felt it to be a weakness. Whatever she had been till + now, she had certainly never been a weak woman, except perhaps from the + absurd point of view of the Exeter Hall moralist. Scruples had been + strangers to her, a baggage she had not burdened herself with on her + journey. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy! That night Dion Leith had told her that he had seen the eyes of his + boy in the stream that flowed through the Kesstane Dereh. She looked out + into the purple night, and somewhere in the dim vastness full of mysteries + and of half revelations she saw the frank and merciless eyes of a young + Eton boy. + </p> + <p> + Should she be governed by them? Could she submit to the ignorant + domination of a child who knew nothing of the complications of human life, + nothing of the ways in which human beings are driven by imperious desires, + or needs, which have perhaps been sown in ground of flesh and blood by + dead parents, or by ancestors laid even with the dust? Could she immolate + herself before the altar of the curious love which grew within her as + Jimmy grew? + </p> + <p> + She was by nature perverse, and it was partly her love for Jimmy which + pushed her towards the man who killed his son. But she had not told that + even to herself. And she never told her secrets to other people, not even + when they were women friends! + </p> + <p> + The lights on the kiosk on the quay went out. Mrs. Clarke was startled by + the leaping up of the darkness which seemed to come from the sea. For her + ears had been closed against the band, and she had forgotten the limit she + had mentally put to her indecision. Eleven o’clock already! She got up + from her seat. But still she hesitated. She did not know what she was + going to do. She stood for a moment. Then she walked softly towards the + pavilion. When she was near to it she stopped and listened. She did not + hear any sound from within. There was nothing to prevent her from + descending to the villa, from writing a note to Dion Leith asking him to + leave Buyukderer on the morrow, and from going up to her bedroom. He would + find the note in the hall when he came down; he would go away; she need + never see him again. If she did that it would mean a new life for her, + free from complications, a life dedicated to Jimmy, a life deliberately + controlled. + </p> + <p> + It would mean, too, the futile close of a long pursuit; the crushing of an + old and hitherto frustrated desire; the return, when Jimmy went back to + England after the holidays, to an empty life which she hated, more than + hated, a life of horrible restlessness, a life in which the imagination + preyed, like a vulture, upon the body. It would mean the wise, instead of + the unwise, life. + </p> + <p> + She stood there. With one hand she felt the little watch which Dumeny had + given her. It was cold to the touch of her dry, hot hand. She felt the + rough emerald set in the back of it. She and Dumeny had found that in the + bazaars together, in those bazaars which Dumeny changed from Eastern shops + into the Arabian Nights. Dion Leith could never do such a thing for her. + But perhaps she could do it for him. The thought of that lured her. She + stood at the street corner; it was very dark and still; she knew that the + strange ways radiated from the place where she stood, but there was no one + to go with her down them. She waited—waited. And then she saw far + off the gleam of the torch from which spring colored fires. It flitted + through the darkness; it hovered. The gleam of it lit up, like a goblin + light, the beginnings of the strange ways. She saw shadowy forms slipping + away stealthily into their narrow and winding distances; she saw obscure + stairways, leaning balconies full of soft blackness. She divined the rooms + beyond. And whispering voices came to her ears. + </p> + <p> + All the time she was feeling the watch with its rough uncut emerald. + </p> + <p> + Government came upon her. She felt, as often before, a great hand catch + her in a grip of iron. She ceased to resist. + </p> + <p> + Still holding the watch, she went to the opening in the pavilion. + </p> + <p> + The hanging lamp had gone out. For a moment she could only see darkness in + the interior. It looked empty. There was no sound within. Could the man + she had been thinking about, debating about, have slipped away while she + was sitting under the plane tree? She had been thinking so deeply that she + had not heard the noise of the band on the quay; she might not have heard + his footsteps. While she had been considering whether she should leave him + perhaps he had fled from her. + </p> + <p> + This flashing thought brought her back at once to her true and irrevocable + self, and she was filled instantly with fierce determination and a cold + intense anger. Jimmy was forgotten. He was dead to her at that moment. She + leaned forward, peering into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she said. “Dion!” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer, but she saw something stir within, something low + down. He was there—or something was there, something alive. She went + into the pavilion, and knelt down by it. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He raised himself on the divan, and turned on his side. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you kneeling down?” he said. “Don’t kneel. I hate to see a woman + kneeling, and I know <i>you</i> never pray. Get up.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke in a voice that was new to her. It seemed to her hot and hard. + She obeyed him at once and got up from her knees. + </p> + <p> + “What did you mean just now when you asked me whether I couldn’t mingle my + life with an unhappy life? Sit here beside me.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down on the edge of the divan very near to him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you suppose I meant?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you like me in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “That you care about me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You said you willed me to come out to Constantinople. Was it for that + reason?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. She had an instinctive understanding of men, but she knew + that, in one way, Dion was not an ordinary man; and even if he had been, + the catastrophe in his life might well have put him for the time beyond + the limits of her experience, wide though they were. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said, at last. “I didn’t like you in that way till I met you in + the street, and saw what she had done to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then it was only pity?” + </p> + <p> + “Was it? I knew your value in England.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, then added, in an almost light and much more impersonal voice: + </p> + <p> + “I think I may say that I’m a connoisseur of values. And I hate to see a + good thing flung away.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not a good thing. Perhaps I might have become one. I believe I was on + the way to becoming worth something. But now I’m nothing, and I wish to be + nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish you to be anything but what you are.” + </p> + <p> + “Once you telegraphed to me—‘May Allah have you in His hand.’” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s turned out differently,” he said, almost with brutality. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t know that. You came back.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I was kept safe for a very good reason. I had to kill my child. I’ve + accomplished that mission, and now, perhaps, Allah will let me alone.” + </p> + <p> + She could not see his face or the expression in his eyes clearly, but now + she saw his body move sharply. It twisted to the right and back again. She + put out her hand and took his listlessly, almost as she had taken it in + Mrs. Chetwinde’s drawing-room when she had met him for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Your hand is like fire,” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I am ice?” she whispered back, huskily. + </p> + <p> + “Once I tried to take my hand away from yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Try to take it away now, if you wish.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke she closed her hand tenaciously upon his. Her little fingers + felt almost like steel on his hand, and he thought of the current of the + Bosporus which had pulled at his swimming body. + </p> + <p> + To be taken and swept away! That at least would be better than drifting, + better than death in the form of life, better than slinking in loneliness + to watch the doings of others. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to take it away,” he said. + </p> + <p> + And with the words mentally he bade an eternal farewell to Rosamund and to + all the aspirations of his youth. From her and from them he turned away to + follow the gleam of the torch. It flickered through the darkness; it + wavered; it waited—for him. He had tried the life of wisdom, and it + had cast him out; perhaps there was a place for him in the unwise life. He + felt spiritually exhausted; but there was within him a physical fever + which answered to the fever in the hand which had closed on his. + </p> + <p> + “Let the spirit die,” he thought, “that the body may live!” + </p> + <p> + He put one arm round his companion. + </p> + <p> + “If you want me——” he whispered, on a deep breath. + </p> + <p> + His voice died away in the darkness between the giant cypresses, those + trees which watch over the dead in the land of the Turk. + </p> + <p> + <i>She</i> had said once that the human being can hurt God. + </p> + <p> + Obscurely he wished to do that. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke looked up from a letter written in a large boyish hand which + had just been brought out on the terrace of the fountain by the butler. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy will be here on Thursday—that is, in Constantinople. The + train ought to be in early in the morning.” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes rested on Dion for a moment; then she looked down again at the + letter from Eton. + </p> + <p> + “He’s in a high state of spirits at the prospect of the journey. But + perhaps I oughtn’t to have had him out; perhaps I ought to have gone to + England for his holidays.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean because of me?” said Dion. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of cricket,” she replied impassively. + </p> + <p> + He was silent. After a moment she continued: + </p> + <p> + “There are no suitable companions for him out here. I wish the Ingletons + had a son. Of course there is riding, swimming, boating, and we can make + excursions. You’ll be good to him, won’t you?” + </p> + <p> + She folded the letter up and put it into the envelope. + </p> + <p> + “I always keep all Jimmy’s letters,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” Dion said in a hard voice. “I think I’d better go.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “You know why.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I asked you to go?” + </p> + <p> + “No, but I think I shall clear out. I don’t feel like acting a part to a + boy. I’ve never done such a thing, and it isn’t at all the sort of thing I + could do well.” + </p> + <p> + “There will be no need to act a part. Be with Jimmy as you were in + London.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at me!” he exclaimed with intense bitterness. “Am I the man I was in + London?” + </p> + <p> + “If you are careful and reasonable, Jimmy won’t notice any difference. + Hero worship doesn’t look at things through a microscope. Jimmy’s got his + idea of you. It will be your fault if he changes it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you tell him I should be here during the holidays?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help that,” he said, almost brutally. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that you answered for me before you knew where I should be.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from the straw chair on which he was sitting, almost as if he + meant to go away from her and from Buyukderer at once. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, you mustn’t go,” she said inflexibly. “I can’t let you. For if you + go, you will never come back.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “I do know it.” + </p> + <p> + They looked at each other across the fountain; his eyes fell at last + almost guiltily before her steady glance. + </p> + <p> + “And you know it too,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I may go, nevertheless. Who is to prevent me?” + </p> + <p> + She got up, went to the other side of the fountain, and put her hand + behind his arm, after a quick glance round to make sure that no eyes were + watching her. She pushed her hand down gently and held his wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Do you realize how badly you sometimes treat me?” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She pulled his soft cuff with her little fingers. + </p> + <p> + “I do realize it, but I can’t help it. I have to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “If I didn’t know that I should mind it much more,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought I had it in me to treat a woman as I sometimes treat you. + I used—to be so different.” + </p> + <p> + “You were too much the other way. But yours is a nature of extremes. + That’s partly why I——” + </p> + <p> + She did not finish the sentence. + </p> + <p> + “Then you don’t resent my beastliness to you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not permanently. Sometimes you are nice to me. But if you were ever to + treat me badly when Jimmy was with me, I don’t think I could ever forgive + you.” + </p> + <p> + “I dread his coming,” said Dion. “I had much better go. If you don’t let + me go, you may regret it.” + </p> + <p> + In saying that he acknowledged the power she had already obtained over + him, a power from which he did not feel sure that he could break away, + although he was acutely aware of it and sometimes almost bitterly resented + it. Mrs. Clarke knew very well that most men can only be held when they do + not know that they are held, but Dion, in his present condition, was not + like any other man she had known. More than once in the earliest stages of + their intimacy she had had really to fight to keep him near her, and so he + knew how arbitrary she could be when her nature was roused. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes he hated her with intensity, for she had set herself to destroy + the fabric of his spirit, which not even Rosamund had been able entirely + to destroy by her desertion of him. Sometimes he felt a sort of ugly love + of her, because she was the agent through whom he was learning to get rid + of all that Rosamund had most prized in him. It was as if he called out to + her, “Help me to pull down, to tear down, all that I built up in the long + years till not one stone is left upon another. What I built up was + despised and rejected. I won’t look upon it any more. I’ll raze it to the + ground. But I can’t do that alone. Come, you, and help me.” And she came + and she helped in the work of destruction, and in an ugly, horrible way he + loved her for it sometimes, as a criminal might love an assistant in his + crime. + </p> + <p> + But from such a type of love there are terrible reactions. During these + reactions Dion had treated Cynthia Clarke abominably sometimes, showing + the hatred which alternated with his ugly love, if love it could properly + be called. He hated her in such moments for the fierce lure she had for + the senses, a lure which he felt more and more strongly as he left farther + behind him the old life of sane enjoyments and of the wisdom which walks + with restraint; he hated her for the perversity which he was increasingly + conscious of as he came to know her more intimately; he hated her because + he had so much loved the woman who would not make a friend of her; he + hated her because he knew that she was drawing him into a path which led + into the center of a maze, the maze of hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + Hitherto Dion had been essentially honest and truthful, what men call + “open and above-board.” He had walked clear-eyed in the light; he had had + nothing dirty to hide; what his relations with others had seemed to be + that they had actually been. But since that first night in the pavilion + Cynthia Clarke had taught him very thoroughly the hypocrisy a man owes to + the woman with whom he has a secret liaison. + </p> + <p> + He still believed that till that night she had been what the world calls + “a straight woman.” She did not ape a rigid morality for once betrayed by + passion, or pretend to any religious scruples, or show any fears of an + eventual punishment held in reserve for all sinners by an implacable + Power; she did not, when Dion was brutal to her, ever reproach him with + having made of her a wicked or even a light woman. But she made him feel + by innumerable hints and subtleties that for him she had exchanged a safe + life for a life that was beset with danger, the smiled-on life of a not + too conventional virtue for something very different. She seemed sometimes + uneasy in her love, as if such a love were an error new to her experience. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was her chief weapon against Dion’s natural sincerity. Dion realized + that she was passionately attached to her boy, and that she would make + almost any sacrifice rather than lose his respect and affection. + Nevertheless, she was ready to take great risks. The risks she was not + prepared to take were the smaller risks. And in connexion with them her + call for hypocrisy was incessant. If Dion ever tried to resist her demands + for small lies and petty deceptions, she would look at him, and say + huskily: + </p> + <p> + “I have to do these things now because of Jimmy. No one must ever have the + least suspicion of what we are to each other, or some day Jimmy might get + to know of it. It isn’t my husband I’m afraid of, it’s Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + If Dion had been by nature a suspicious man, or if he had had a wider + experience with women, Mrs. Clarke’s remarkable ingenuity in hypocrisy + would almost certainly have suggested to him that she was no novice in the + life of deception. Her appearance of frankness, even of bluntness, was + admirable. To every one she presented herself as a woman of strong will + and unconventional temperament who took her own way openly, having nothing + to conceal, and therefore nothing to fear. She made a feature of her + friendship with the tragic Englishman; she even dwelt upon it and paraded + it for the pretense of blunt and Platonic friendship was the cloud with + which she concealed the fire of their illicit relation. The trip on the + “Leyla” to Brusa had tortured Dion. Since the episode in the pavilion a + more refined torment had been his. Mrs. Clarke had not allowed him to + escape from the social ties which were so hateful to him. She had made him + understand that he must go among her acquaintances now and then, that he + must take a certain part in the summer life of Therapia and Buyukderer, + that the trip to Brusa had been only a beginning. More than once he had + tried to break away, but he had not succeeded in his effort. Her will had + been too strong for his, not merely because she did not fear at moments to + be fierce and determined, but because behind her fierceness and + determination was an unuttered plea which his not dead chivalry heard; + “For you I have become what I was falsely accused of being in London.” He + remembered the wonderful fight she had made then; often her look and + manner, when they were alone together, implied, “I couldn’t make such a + fight now.” She never said that, but she made him float in an atmosphere + of that suggestion. + </p> + <p> + He believed that she loved him. Sometimes he compared her love with the + affection which Rosamund had given him, and then it seemed to his not very + experienced heart that perhaps intense love can only show itself by + something akin to degradation, by enticements which a genuinely pure + nature could never descend to, by perversities which the grand simplicity + and wholesomeness of goodness would certainly abhor. Then a distortion of + love presented itself to his tragic investigation as the only love that + was real, and good and evil lost for him their true significance. He had + said to himself, “Let the spirit die that the body may live.” He had + wished, he still wished, to pull down. He had a sort of demented desire + for ruins and dust. But he longed for action, on the grand scale. Small + secrecies, trickeries, tiptoeing through the maze—all these things + revolted that part of his nature which was, perhaps, unchangeable. They + seemed to him unmanly. In his present condition he could quite easily have + lain down in the sink of Pera’s iniquity, careless whether any one knew; + but it was horribly difficult to him to dine with the Ingletons and Vane + at the Villa Hafiz, to say “Good night” to Mrs. Clarke before them, to go + away, leaving them in the villa, and then, very late, to sneak back, with + a key, to the garden gate, when all the servants were in bed, and to creep + up, like a thief, to the pavilion. Some men would have enjoyed all the + small deceptions, would have thought them good fun, would have found that + they added a sharp zest to the pursuit of a woman. Dion loathed them. + </p> + <p> + And now he was confronted with something he was going to loathe far more, + something which would call for more sustained and elaborate deception than + any he had practised yet. He feared the eyes of an English boy more than + he feared the eyes of the diplomats and the cosmopolitans of varying types + who were gathered on the Bosporus during the months of heat. He detested + the idea of playing a part to a boy. How could a mother lay plots to + deceive her son? And yet Mrs. Clarke adored Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund and Robin started up in his mind. He saw them before him as he + had seen them one night in Westminster when Rosamund had been singing to + Robin. Ah, she had been a cruel, a terribly cruel, wife, but she had been + an ideal mother! He saw her head bent over her child, the curve of her arm + round his little body. A sensation of sickness came upon him, of + soul-nausea; and again he thought, “I must get away.” + </p> + <p> + The night before the day on which Jimmy was due to arrive, Mrs. Clarke was + in Constantinople. She had gone there to meet Jimmy, and had started early + in the morning, leaving Dion at Buyukderer. When she was gone he took the + Albanian’s boat and went out on the Bosporus for a row. The man and he + were both at the oars, and pulled out from the bay. When they had gone + some distance—they had been rowing for perhaps ten minutes—the + man asked: + </p> + <p> + “Ou allons-nous, Signore?” + </p> + <p> + “Vers Constantinople,” replied Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Bene!” replied the man. + </p> + <p> + That night Mrs. Clarke had just finished dinner when a waiter tapped at + her sitting-room door. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman asks if he can see you, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “A gentleman? Have you got his card?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame; he gave no card.” + </p> + <p> + “What is he like?” + </p> + <p> + “He is English, I think, very thin and very brown. He looks very strong.” + </p> + <p> + The waiter paused, then added: + </p> + <p> + “He has a hungry look.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke stared at the man with her very wide-open eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Go down and ask him to wait.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + The man went out. When he had shut the door Mrs. Clarke called: + </p> + <p> + “Sonia!” + </p> + <p> + Her raised voice was rather harsh. + </p> + <p> + The bedroom door was opened, and the Russian maid looked into the + sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Sonia,” said Mrs. Clarke rapidly in French, “some one—a man—has + called and asked for me. He’s waiting in the hall. Go down and see who it + is. If it’s Mr. Leith you can bring him up.” + </p> + <p> + “And if it is not Monsieur Leith?” + </p> + <p> + “Come back and tell me who it is.” + </p> + <p> + The maid came out of the bedroom, shut the door, crossed the sitting-room + rather heavily on flat feet, and went out on to the landing. + </p> + <p> + “Shut the door!” Mrs. Clarke called after her. + </p> + <p> + When the sitting-room door was shut she sat waiting with her forehead + drawn to a frown. She did not move till the sitting-room door was opened + by the maid and a man walked in. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Leith,” said the maid. + </p> + <p> + And she disappeared. + </p> + <p> + “Come and sit down,” said Mrs. Clarke. “Why have you come to Pera?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + “How tired you look! Have you had dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t want it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come by steamer?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I rowed down.” + </p> + <p> + “All the way?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you staying?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t decided yet where I shall stay. Not here, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Dion, sit down.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down heavily. + </p> + <p> + “If you haven’t decided about an hotel, where is your luggage?” + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t brought any.” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing, but her distressed eyes questioned him. + </p> + <p> + “I started out for a row. The current set towards Constantinople, so I + came here.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But she did not look glad. + </p> + <p> + “We can spend a quiet evening together,” she added nonchalantly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t come for that,” he said. + </p> + <p> + He began to get up, but she put one hand on him. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit still. What is it, then? Whatever it is, tell me quietly.” + </p> + <p> + He yielded to her soft but very imperative touch, and sat back in his + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Now, what is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you know. It’s Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + She lowered her eyelids, and her pale forehead puckered. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy! What about Jimmy?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to be at Buyukderer while he’s with you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have rowed all the way from Buyukderer to Constantinople, without + even a brush and comb, to tell me that!” + </p> + <p> + “I told you at Buyukderer.” + </p> + <p> + “And we decided that it would be much jollier for Jimmy to have you there + for his holidays. I depend upon you to make things tolerable for Jimmy. + You know how few people there are near us who would trouble themselves + about a boy. You will be my stand-by with Jimmy all through his holidays.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke serenely, even cheerfully, but there was a decisive sound in her + voice, and the eyes fixed upon him were full of determination. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t understand how you can be willing to act a lie to your own boy, + especially when you care for him so much,” said Dion, almost violently. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not act a lie.” + </p> + <p> + “But you will.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes you are horribly morbid,” she said coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Morbid! Because I want to keep a young schoolboy out of—” + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Dion!” she interrupted hastily. + </p> + <p> + “If you—you don’t really love Jimmy,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “I will say it. It’s true.” + </p> + <p> + And he repeated with a cruelly deliberate emphasis: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t really love Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + Her white face was suddenly flooded with red, which even covered her + forehead to the roots of her hair. She put up one hand with violence and + tried to strike Dion on the mouth. He caught her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Be quiet!” he said roughly. + </p> + <p> + Gripping her wrist with his hard, muscular brown fingers he repeated: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t love Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to hate you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care. I don’t care what happens to me.” + </p> + <p> + She sat looking down. The red began to fade out of her face. Presently she + curled her fingers inwards against his palm and smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to quarrel with you,” she said quietly. + </p> + <p> + He loosened his grip on her; but now she caught and held his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I do love Jimmy, and you know it when you aren’t mad. But I care for you, + too, and I am not going to lose you. If you went away while Jimmy was out + here I should never see you again. You would disappear. Perhaps you would + cross over to Asia.” + </p> + <p> + Her great eyes were fixed steadily upon him. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, you have thought of that!” she said, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Women would get hold of you. You would sink; you would be ruined, + destroyed. I know!” + </p> + <p> + “If I were it wouldn’t matter.” + </p> + <p> + “To me it would. I can’t risk it. I am not going to risk it.” + </p> + <p> + Dion leaned forward. His brown face was twitching. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you had to choose between Jimmy and me!” + </p> + <p> + He was thinking of Robin and Rosamund. A child had conquered him once. Now + once again a child—for Jimmy was no more than a child as yet, + although he thought himself important and almost a young man—intruded + into his life with a woman. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not have to choose. But I have told you that a child is not + enough for the happiness of a woman like me. You know what I am, and you + must know I am speaking the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you love your husband?” he asked, staring into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she replied, without even a second of hesitation. “I did till he + suspected me.” + </p> + <p> + “And then——” + </p> + <p> + “Not after that,” she said grimly. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder he let you do all you did.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + She let his hand go. + </p> + <p> + “I would never have let you go about with other men, however innocently. I + thought about that at your trial.” + </p> + <p> + “I should never let any one interfere with my freedom of action. If a man + loves me I expect him to trust me.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t trust me.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes you almost hate me. I know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I hate everybody, myself most of all. But I should miss you. + You are the only woman in all the world who wants me now.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly a thought of his mother intruded into his mind, and he added: + </p> + <p> + “Wants me as a lover.” + </p> + <p> + She got up quickly, almost impulsively, and went close to him. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I want you, I want you as a lover, and I can’t let you go. That is + why I ask you, I beg you, to stay with me while Jimmy’s here.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned against him, and put her small hands on his shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “How can a child understand the needs of a woman like me and of a man like + you? How can he look into our hearts or read the secrets of our natures—secrets + which we can’t help having? You hate what you call deceiving him. But he + will never think about it. A boy of Jimmy’s age never thinks about his + mother in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. That’s just it!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + But he did not explain. Perhaps instinctively he felt that her natural + subtlety could not be in accord with his natural sincerity, felt that in + discussing certain subjects they talked in different languages. She put + her arms round his neck. + </p> + <p> + “I need the two lives,” she said, in a very low voice. “I need Jimmy and I + need you. Is it so very wonderful? Often when a woman who isn’t old loses + her husband and is left with her child people say, ‘It’s all right for + her. She has got her child.’ And so she’s dismissed to her motherhood, as + if that must be quite enough for her. Dion, Dion, the world doesn’t know, + or doesn’t care, how women suffer. Women don’t speak about such things. + But I am telling you because I don’t want to have secrets from you. I have + suffered. Perhaps I have some pride in me. Anyhow, I don’t care to go + about complaining. You know that. You must have found that out in London. + I keep my secrets, but not from you.” + </p> + <p> + She put her white cheek against his brown one. + </p> + <p> + “It’s only the two lives joined together that make life complete for a + woman who is complete, who isn’t lopsided, lacking in something essential, + something that nature intends. I am a complete woman, and I’m not ashamed + of it. Do you think I ought to be?” + </p> + <p> + She sighed against his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “You are a courageous woman,” he said; “I do know that.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t <i>you</i> test my courage. Perhaps I’m getting tired of being + courageous.” + </p> + <p> + She put her thin lips against his. + </p> + <p> + “It’s acting—deception I hate,” he murmured. “With a boy especially + I like always to be quite open.” + </p> + <p> + Again he thought of Robin and of his old ideal of a father’s relation to + his son; he thought of his preparation to be worthy of fatherhood, worthy + to guide a boy’s steps in the path towards a noble manhood. And a terrible + sense of the irony of life almost overcame him. For a moment he seemed to + catch a glimpse of the Creator laughing in darkness at the aspiration of + men; for a moment he was beset by the awful conviction that the world is + ruled by a malign Deity. + </p> + <p> + “All the time Jimmy is at Buyukderer we’ll just be friends,” said the + husky voice against his cheek. + </p> + <p> + The sophistry of her remark struck home to him, but he made no comment + upon it. + </p> + <p> + “There are white deceptions,” she continued, “and black deceptions, as + there are white and black lies. Whom are we hurting, you and I?” + </p> + <p> + “Whom are we hurting?” he said, releasing himself from her. + </p> + <p> + And he thought of God in a different way—in Rosamund’s way. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her as if he were going to speak, but he said nothing. He + felt that if he answered she would not understand, and her face made him + doubtful. Which view of life was the right one, Rosamund’s or Cynthia + Clarke’s? Rosamund had been pitiless to him and Cynthia Clarke was + merciful. She put her arms round his neck when he was in misery, she + wanted him despite the tragedy that was his perpetual companion. Perhaps + her view of life was right. It was a good working view, anyhow, and was no + doubt held by many people. + </p> + <p> + “We can base our lives on truth,” she continued, as he said nothing. “On + being true to ourselves. That is the great truth. But we can’t always tell + it to all the casual people about us, or even to those who are closely in + our lives, as for instance Jimmy is in mine. They wouldn’t understand. But + some day Jimmy will be able to understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean——” + </p> + <p> + “I mean just this: if Jimmy were twenty-one I would tell him everything.” + </p> + <p> + He looked down into her eyes, which never fell before the eyes of another. + </p> + <p> + “I believe you would,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She continued looking at him, as if tranquilly waiting for something. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll—I’ll go back to Buyukderer,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII + </h2> + <p> + In his contrition for the attack which he had made upon the honor of his + wife at his mother’s instigation, Beadon Clarke had given up all claims on + his boy’s time. Actually, though not legally, Mrs. Clarke had complete + control over Jimmy. He spent all his holidays with her, and seldom saw his + father, who was still attached to the British Embassy in Madrid. He had + never been allowed to read any reports of the famous case which had been + fought out between his parents, and was understood to think that his + father and mother had, for some mysterious reason, found it impossible to + “hit it off together,” and had therefore decided to live apart. He was now + rather vaguely fond of his father, whom he considered to be “quite a good + sort,” but he was devoted to his mother. Mrs. Clarke’s peculiar + self-possession and remarkably strong will made a great impression on + Jimmy. “It’s jolly difficult to score my mater off, I can tell you,” he + occasionally remarked to his more intimate chums at school. He admired her + appearance, her elegance, and the charm of her way of living, which he + called “doing herself jolly well”; even her unsmiling face and + characteristic lack of what is generally called vivacity won his approval. + “My mater’s above all that silly gushing and giggling so many women go in + for, don’t you know,” was his verdict on Mrs. Clarke’s usually serious + demeanor. Into her gravity boyishly he read dignity of character, and in + his estimation of her he set her very high. Although something of a + pickle, and by nature rather reckless and inclined to be wild, he was + swiftly obedient to his mother, partly perhaps because, understanding + young males as well as she understood male beings of all ages, she very + seldom drew the reins tight. He knew very well that she loved him. + </p> + <p> + On the evening of his arrival at Buyukderer for the summer holidays Jimmy + had a confidential talk with his mother about “Mr. Leith,” whom he had not + yet seen, but about whom he had been making many anxious inquiries. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll tell you to-night,” his mother had replied. And after dinner she + fulfilled her promise. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll see Mr. Leith to-morrow,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Well, I should rather think so!” returned Jimmy, in an injured voice. + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s living in rooms in the house of a Greek not far from here.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought he was in the hotel. I say, mater, can’t I have a cigarette + just for once?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you may, just for once.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy approached the cigarette box with the air of a nonchalant conqueror. + As he opened it with an apparently practised forefinger he remarked: + </p> + <p> + “Well, mater?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s left the hotel. You know, Jimmy, Mr. Leith has had great + misfortunes.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy had heard of the gun accident and its terrible result, and he now + looked very grave. + </p> + <p> + “I know—poor chap!” he observed. “But it wasn’t his fault. It was + the little brute of a pony. Every one knows that. It was rotten bad luck, + but who would be down on a fellow for bad luck?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. But it’s changed Mr. Leith’s life. His wife has left him. He’s + given up his business, and is, consequently, less well off than he was. + But this isn’t all.” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy tenderly struck a match, lighted a cigarette, and, with half-closed + eyes, blew forth in a professional manner a delicate cloud of smoke. He + was feeling good all over. + </p> + <p> + “First-rate cigarettes!” he remarked. “The very best! Yes, mater?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s rather badly broken up.” + </p> + <p> + “No wonder!” said Jimmy, with discrimination. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find him a good deal changed. Sometimes he’s moody and even + bad-tempered, poor fellow, and he’s fearfully sensitive. I’m trying my + best to buck him up.” + </p> + <p> + “Good for you, mater! He’s our friend. We’re bound to stand by him.” + </p> + <p> + “And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do. When he’s a little difficult, + doesn’t take things quite as one means them—you know?” + </p> + <p> + “Rather! Do I?” + </p> + <p> + “I put it down to all the trouble he’s been through. I never resent it. + Now I ought really to have got out a holiday tutor for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I say, after I’ve swotted my head off all these months! A chap needs + some rest if he’s to do himself justice, hang it, mater, now!” + </p> + <p> + “I know all about that!” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him shrewdly, and he smiled on one side of his mouth. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, mater!” + </p> + <p> + “But having Mr. Leith here I thought I wouldn’t do that. Mr. Leith’s + awfully fond of boys, and it seemed to me you might do him more good than + any one else could.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m blowed! D’you really think so?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy came over and sat on the arm of her chair, blowing rings of smoke + cleverly over her lovely little head. + </p> + <p> + “Put me up to it, mater, there’s a good girl. I’m awfully keen on Mr. + Leith, as you know. He’s got the biggest biceps I ever saw, and I’m jolly + sorry for him. What can I do? Put me up to it.” + </p> + <p> + And Mrs. Clarke proceeded to put Jimmy up to it. She had told Dion that + Jimmy wouldn’t see the difference in him. Now she carefully prepared Jimmy + to face that difference, and gave him his cue for the part she wished him + to play. Jimmy felt very important as he listened to her explanations, + trifling seriously with his cigarette, and looking very worldly-wise. + </p> + <p> + “I twig!” he interrupted occasionally, nodding his round young head, which + was covered with densely thick, rather coarse hair. “I’ve got it.” + </p> + <p> + And he went off to bed very seriously, resolved to take Mr. Leith in hand + and to do his level best for him. + </p> + <p> + So it was that when Dion and he met next day he was not surprised at the + change in Dion’s appearance and manner. Nor were his young eyes merciless + in their scrutiny. Just at first, perhaps, they stared with the unthinking + observation of boyhood, but almost immediately Jimmy had taken the cue his + mother had given him, and had entered into his part of a driver-away of + trouble. + </p> + <p> + He played it well, with a tact that was almost remarkable in so young a + boy; and Dion, ignorant of what Mrs. Clarke had done on the night of + Jimmy’s arrival, was at first surprised at the ease with which they got on + together. He had dreaded Jimmy’s coming, partly because of the secrets he + must keep from the boy, but partly also because of Robin. A boy’s hands + would surely tear at the wound which was always open. Sometimes Dion felt + horribly sad when he was in contact with Jimmy’s light-hearted and + careless gaiety; sometimes he felt the gnawing discomfort of one not by + nature a hypocrite forced into a passive hypocrisy; nevertheless there + were moments when the burden of his life was made a little lighter on his + shoulders by the confidence his young companion had in him, by the + admiration for him showed plainly by Jimmy, by the leaping spirits which + ardently summoned a reply in kind. + </p> + <p> + The subtlety of Mrs. Clarke, too, helped Dion at first. + </p> + <p> + Since her son’s arrival, without ostentation she had lived for him. She + entered into all Jimmy’s plans, was ready to share his excitements and to + taste, with him, those pleasures which were possible to a woman as well as + to a boy. But she was quick to efface herself where she saw that she was + not needed or might even be in the way. As a mother she was devoid of + jealousy, was unselfish without seeming to be so. She did not parade her + virtue. Her reticence was that of a perfectly finished artist. When she + was wanted she was on the spot; when she was not wanted she disappeared. + She sped Dion and Jimmy on their way to boating, shooting, swimming + expeditions, with the happiest grace, and never assumed the look and + manner of the patient woman “left behind.” + </p> + <p> + Not once, since Jimmy’s arrival, had she shown to Dion even a trace of the + passionate and perverse woman he now knew her to be under her pale mask of + self-controlled and very mental composure. At the hotel in Constantinople + she had said to Dion, “All the time Jimmy’s at Buyukderer we’ll just be + friends.” Now she seemed utterly to have forgotten that they had ever been + what the world calls lovers, that they had been involved in scenes of + passion, and brutality, and exhaustion, that they had torn aside the veil + of reticence behind which women and men hide from each other normally the + naked truth of what they can be. She treated Dion casually, though very + kindly, as a friend, and never, even by the swift glance or a lingering + touch of her fingers, reminded him of the fires that burned within her. + Even when she was alone with him, when Jimmy ran off, perhaps, + unexpectedly in the wake of a passing caprice, she never departed from her + role of the friend who was before all things a mother. + </p> + <p> + So perfect was her hypocrisy, so absolutely natural in its manifestation, + that sometimes, looking at her, Dion could scarcely forbear from thinking + that she had forgotten all about their illicit connexion; that she had put + it behind her forever; that she was one of those happy people who possess + the power of slaying the past and blotting the murder out of their + memories. + </p> + <p> + That scene between them in Constantinople on the eve of Jimmy’s arrival—had + it ever taken place? Had she really ever tried to strike him on the mouth? + Had he caught her wrist in a grip of iron? It seemed incredible. + </p> + <p> + And if he was involved in a great hypocrisy since the boy’s arrival he was + released from innumerable lesser hypocrisies. His life at present was what + it seemed to be to the little world on the Bosporus. + </p> + <p> + Just at first he did not realize that though Mrs. Clarke genuinely loved + her son she was not too scrupulous to press his unconscious services in + aid of her hypocrisy. + </p> + <p> + The holiday tutor whom she ought to have got out from England to improve + the shining hour on Jimmy’s behalf was replaced by Dion in the eyes of + Mrs. Clarke’s world. + </p> + <p> + One day she said to Dion: + </p> + <p> + “Will you do me a good turn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if I can.” + </p> + <p> + “It may bore you.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Read a little bit with Jimmy sometimes, will you? He’s abominably + ignorant, and will never be a scholar, but I should like him just to keep + up his end at school.” + </p> + <p> + “But I haven’t got any school-books.” + </p> + <p> + “I have. He’s specially behindhand with his Greek. His report tells me + that. If you’ll do a little Greek grammar and construing with him in the + mornings now and them, I shall be tremendously grateful. You see, owing to + my miserable domestic circumstances, Jimmy is practically fatherless.” + </p> + <p> + “And you ask me to take his father’s place!” was in Dion’s mind. + </p> + <p> + But she met his eyes so earnestly and with such sincerity that he only + said: + </p> + <p> + “Of course I’ll read with him in the mornings.” + </p> + <p> + Despite the ardent protests to Jimmy Dion kept his promise. Soon Mrs. + Clarke’s numerous acquaintances knew of the morning hours of study. She + had happened to tell Sir Carey Ingleton about Jimmy’s backwardness in + book-learning and Mr. Leith’s kind efforts to “get him on during the + holidays.” Sir Carey had spoken of it to Cyril Vane. The thing “got + about.” The name of Dion Leith began to be connected rather with Jimmy + Clarke than with Mrs. Clarke. Continually Dion and Jimmy were seen about + together. Mrs. Clarke, meanwhile, often went among her friends alone, and + when they asked about Jimmy she would say: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, he’s gone off somewhere with Mr. Leith. I don’t know where. Mr. + Leith’s a regular boy’s man and was a great chum of Jimmy’s in London; + used to show him how to box and that sort of thing. It’s partly for Jimmy + that he came to Buyukderer. They read together in the mornings. Mr. + Leith’s getting Jimmy on in Greek.” + </p> + <p> + Sometimes she would add: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith loves boys, and since his own child died so sadly I think he’s + taken to Jimmy more than ever.” + </p> + <p> + Soon people began to talk of Dion Leith as “Jimmy Clarke’s holiday tutor.” + Once, when this was said in Lady Ingleton’s drawing-room at Therapia, she + murmured: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think it quite amounts to that. Mr. Leith has never been a + schoolmaster.” + </p> + <p> + And there she left it, with a faint smile in which there was just the hint + of an almost cynical sadness. + </p> + <p> + Since the trip to Brusa on the “Leyla” she had thought a great deal about + Dion Leith, and she was very sorry for him in a rather unusual way. Out of + her happiness with her husband she seemed to draw an instinctive knowledge + of what such a nature as Dion Leith’s wanted and of the extent of his + loss. Once she said to Sir Carey, with a sort of intensity such as she + seldom showed: + </p> + <p> + “Good women do terrible things sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “Such as——?” said Sir Carey, looking at her almost with + surprise in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I think Mrs. Leith has done a terrible thing to her husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she loved the child too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Even love can be almost abominable,” said Lady Ingleton. “If we had a + child, and you had done what poor Dion Leith has done, do you think I + should have cast you out of my life?” + </p> + <p> + “But—are you a good woman?” he asked her, smiling. + </p> + <p> + “No, or you should never have bothered about me.” + </p> + <p> + He touched her hand. + </p> + <p> + “When you do that,” Lady Ingleton said, “I could almost cry over poor Dion + Leith.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey bent down and kissed her with a very tender gallantry. + </p> + <p> + “You and I are secretly sentimentalists, Delia,” he said. “That is why we + are so happy together.” + </p> + <p> + “Why doesn’t Dion Leith go to England?” she exclaimed, almost angrily. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps England seems full of his misery. Besides, his wife is there.” + </p> + <p> + “He ought to go to her. He ought to force her to see the evil she is + doing.” + </p> + <p> + “Leith will never do that, I feel sure,” said Sir Carey gravely. “And in + his place I don’t know that I could.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton looked at him with an almost sharp impatience such as she + seldom showed him. + </p> + <p> + “When a man has right on his side he ought to browbeat a woman!” she + exclaimed. “And even if he is in the wrong it’s the best way to make a + woman see things through his eyes. Dion Leith is too delicate with women.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment she added: + </p> + <p> + “At any rate with some women, the first of whom is his own wife. A man + should always put up a big fight for a really big thing, and Dion Leith + hasn’t done that!” + </p> + <p> + “He fought in South Africa for England.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah,” she said, lifting her chin, “that sort of thing is so different.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell him what you think,” said the Ambassador. + </p> + <p> + “I know him so little. But perhaps—who knows—some day I + shall.” + </p> + <p> + She said no more on that subject. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Dion was teaching Jimmy, who was really full of the happiest + ignorance. Jimmy’s knowledge of Greek was a minus quantity, and he said + frankly that he considered all that kind of thing “more or less rot.” + Nevertheless, Dion persevered. One morning when they were going to get to + work as usual in the pavilion,—chose by Mrs. Clarke as the suitable + place for his studies,—taking up the Greek Grammar Dion opened it by + chance. He stood by the table from which he had picked the book up staring + down at the page. By one of those terrible rushes of which the mind is + capable he was swept back to the famous mound which fronts the plain of + Marathon; he saw the curving line of hills, the sea intensely blue and + sparkling, empty of ships, the river’s course through the tawny land + marked by the tall reeds and the sedges; he heard the distant lowing of + cattle coming from that old battlefield, celebrated by poets and + historians. And then he heard, as if just above him, the dry crackle of + brushwood—Rosamund moving in the habitation of Arcady. And he + remembered the cry, the intense human cry which had echoed in the recesses + of his soul on that day long—how long—ago in Greece, “Whither? + Whither am I and my great love going? To what end are we journeying?” + </p> + <p> + He heard again that cry of his soul in the pavilion at Buyukderer, and + beneath the sunburn his lean cheeks went lividly pale. + </p> + <p> + Reluctantly Jimmy was getting an exercise book and a pen and ink out of + the drawer of a table, which Mrs. Clarke had had specially made for the + lessons by a little Greek carpenter who sometimes did odd jobs for her. He + found the ink bottle almost empty. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” he began. + </p> + <p> + He looked up. + </p> + <p> + “I say, Mr. Leith——” + </p> + <p> + His voice died away and he stared. + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong?” he managed to bring out at last. + </p> + <p> + He thrust out a hand and laid hold of the grammar. Dion let it go. + </p> + <p> + His eyes searched the page. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up, Mr. Leith?” + </p> + <p> + He looked frankly puzzled and almost afraid. He had never seen any one + look just like that before. + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of silence. Then, with a sudden change of manner, Dion + exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “Come on, Jimmy! I don’t feel like doing lessons this morning. I vote we + go out. I’m going to ask your mother if we can ride to the Belgrad forest. + Perhaps she’ll come with us.” + </p> + <p> + He was suddenly afraid to remain alone with the boy, and he felt that he + could not stay in that pavilion full of the atmosphere of feverish + passion, of secrecy, of betrayal. Yes, of betrayal! For there he had + betrayed the obstinate love, which he had felt at Marathon as a sort of + ecstasy, and still felt, but now like a wound, within him in spite of + Rosamund’s rejection of him. Not yet had the current taken him and swept + him away from all the old landmarks. Perhaps it never would. And yet he + had given himself to it, he had not tried to resist. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy jumped up with alacrity, though he still looked rather grave and + astonished. They went down the terraced garden to the villa. + </p> + <p> + “Run up and ask your mother,” said Dion. “Probably she’s in her + sitting-room. I’ll wait here to know what she says.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are!” + </p> + <p> + He went off, looking rather relieved. + </p> + <p> + Robin at fifteen! Dion shut his eyes. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was away for more than ten minutes. Then he came back to say that + his mother would come with them to the forest and would be ready in an + hour’s time. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go back to my rooms, change my breeches, and order the horses,” said + Dion. + </p> + <p> + He was longing to get away from the scrutiny which at this moment Jimmy + could not forego. He knew that Jimmy had been talking about him to Mrs. + Clarke, had probably been saying how “jolly odd” he had been in the + pavilion. For once the boy’s tact had failed him, and Dion’s sensitiveness + tingled. + </p> + <p> + An hour later they were on horseback and rode into the midst of the + forest. At the village of Belgrad they dismounted, left the horses in the + care of a Turkish stableman, and went for a walk among the trees. It was + very hot and still, and presently Mrs. Clarke said she would sit down and + rest. + </p> + <p> + “You and Jimmy go on if you want to,” she said. + </p> + <p> + But Jimmy threw himself down on the ground. + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired. It’s so infernally hot.” + </p> + <p> + “Take a nap,” said his mother. + </p> + <p> + The boy laid his head on his curved arms sideways. Mrs. Clarke leaned down + and put his panama hat over his left cheek and eye. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, mater,” he murmured. + </p> + <p> + He lay still. + </p> + <p> + Dion had stood by with an air of hesitation during this little talk + between mother and son. Now he looked away to the forest. + </p> + <p> + “You go,” Mrs. Clarke said to him. “You’ll find us here when you come + back. The Armenians call the forest <i>Defetgamm</i>. Perhaps you will + come under its influence.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Defetgamm</i>! What does that mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Dispeller of care.” + </p> + <p> + He stood looking at her for a moment; then, without another word, he + turned quickly away and disappeared among the trees. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy slept with his face hidden, and Mrs. Clarke, with wide-open eyes, + sat motionless staring into the forest. + </p> + <p> + When they reached the Villa Hafiz late in the afternoon Dion helped Mrs. + Clarke to dismount. As she slid down lightly from the saddle she + whispered, scarcely moving her lips: + </p> + <p> + “The pavilion to-night eleven. You’ve got the key.” + </p> + <p> + She patted Selim’s glossy black neck. + </p> + <p> + “Come, Jimmy!” she said. “Say good night to Mr. Leith. I’m sure he’s tired + and has had more than enough of us for to-day. We’ll give him a rest from + us till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + And Jimmy bade Dion good-by without any protest. + </p> + <p> + As Dion rode off Mrs. Clarke did not turn to look after him. She had not + troubled even to question him with her eyes. She had assumed that he would + do what she wanted. Would he do that? + </p> + <p> + At first he believed that he would not go. He had been away in the forest + with his misery for nearly two hours, struggling among the shadows of the + trees. Jimmy had seen in the pavilion that morning that his “holiday + tutor” was strangely ill at ease, and had discussed the matter with his + mater, and asked her why on earth the sight of a page of Greek grammar + should make a fellow stand staring as if he were confronted by a ghost. + But Jimmy had no conception of what Dion had been through in the forest, + where happy Greeks and Armenians were lazily enjoying the empty hours of + summer, forgetting yesterday, and serenely careless of to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + In the forest Dion had fought with an old love of which he began to be + angrily ashamed, with a love which was now his greatest enemy, a thing + contemptible, inexplicable. In the pavilion that morning it had suddenly + risen up before him strong, intense, passionate. It seemed irresistible. + But he was almost furiously resolved not merely to resist it, but to crush + it down, to break it in pieces, or to drive it finally out of his life. + </p> + <p> + And he had fought with it alone in the forest which the Armenians call <i>Defetgamm</i>. + And in the forest something—some adherent, it seemed—had + whispered to him, “To kill your enemy you must fill your armory with + weapons. The woman who came to you when you were neither in one world nor + in the other is a weapon. Why have you ceased to use her?” + </p> + <p> + And now, as if she had heard the voice of that adherent, and had known of + the struggle in the forest, the woman herself had suddenly broken through + the reserve she had imposed upon them both since the coming of her son. + </p> + <p> + In a hideous way Dion wanted to see her, and yet he shrank from going back + to her secretly. The coming of Jimmy, his relations with the boy, the + boy’s hearty affection for him and admiration for him, had roused into + intense activity that part of his nature which had always loved, which he + supposed always must love, the straight life; the life with morning face + and clear, unfaltering eyes; the life which the Hermes suggested, immune + from the fret and fever of secret vices and passions, lifted by winged + sandals into a region where soul and body were in perfect accord, and + where, because of that, there was peace; not a peace of stagnation, but a + peace living and intense. But that part of his nature had led him even now + instinctively back to the feet of Rosamund. And he revolted against such a + pilgrimage. + </p> + <p> + “The pavilion to-night eleven; you’ve got the key.” + </p> + <p> + Her face had not changed as she whispered the words, and immediately + afterwards she had told a lie to her boy, or had implied a lie. She had + made Jimmy believe the thing that was not. Loving Jimmy, she did not + scruple to play a part to him. + </p> + <p> + Dion ate no dinner that night. After returning to his rooms and getting + out of his riding things into a loose serge suit he went out again and + walked along the quay by the water. He paced up and down, ignoring the + many passers-by, the boatmen and watermen who now knew him so well. + </p> + <p> + He was considering whether he should go to the pavilion at the appointed + hour or whether he should leave Buyukderer altogether and not return to + it. This evening he was in the mood to be drastic. He might go down to + Constantinople and finally cast his burden away there, never to take it up + again—the burden of an old love whose chains still hung about him; + he might plunge into the lowest depths, into depths where perhaps the + remembrance of Rosamund and the early morning would fade away from him, + where even Mrs. Clarke would not care to seek for him, although her will + was persistent. + </p> + <p> + He fully realized now her extraordinary persistence, the fierce firmness + of character that was concealed by her quiet and generally impersonal + manner. Certainly she had the temperament of a ruler. He remembered—it + seemed to him with a bizarre abruptness—the smile on Dumeny’s lips + in the Divorce Court when the great case had ended in Mrs. Clarke’s favor. + </p> + <p> + Did he really know Cynthia Clarke even now? + </p> + <p> + He walked faster. Now he saw Hadi Bey before him, self-possessed, firm, + with that curiously vivid look which had attracted the many women in + Court. + </p> + <p> + And Jimmy believed in his mother. Perhaps, until Dion’s arrival in + Buyukderer, the boy had had reason in his belief—perhaps not. Dion + was very uncertain to-night. + </p> + <p> + A sort of cold curiosity was born in him. Until now he had accepted Mrs. + Clarke’s presentment of herself to the world, which included himself, as a + genuine portrait; now he began to recall the long speech of Beadon + Clarke’s counsel. But the man had only been speaking according to his + brief, had been only putting forth all the ingenuity and talent which + enabled him to command immense fees for his services. And Mrs. Clarke had + beaten him. The jury had said that she was not what he had asserted her to + be. + </p> + <p> + Suppose they had made a mistake, had given the wrong verdict, why should + that make any difference to Dion? He had definitely done with the goodness + of good women. Why should he fear the evil of a woman who was bad? Perhaps + in the women who were called evil by the respectable, or by those who were + temperamentally inclined to purity, there was more warm humanity than the + women possessed who never made a slip, or stepped out of the beaten path + of virtue. Perhaps those to whom much must be forgiven were those who knew + how to forgive. + </p> + <p> + If Mrs. Clarke really were what Beadon Clarke’s counsel had suggested that + she was, how would it affect him? Dion pondered that question on the quay. + Mrs. Clarke’s pale and very efficient hypocrisy, which he had been able to + observe at close quarters since he had been at Buyukderer, might well have + been brought into play against himself, as it had been brought into play + against the little world on the Bosporus and against Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + Dion made up his mind that he would go to the pavilion that night. The + cold curiosity which had floated up to the surface of his mind enticed + him. He wanted to know whether he was among the victims, if they could + reasonably be called so, of Mrs. Clarke’s delicate hypocrisy. He was still + thinking of Mrs. Clarke as a weapon; he was also thinking that perhaps he + did not yet know exactly what type of weapon she was. He must find that + out to-night. Not even the thought of Jimmy should deter him. + </p> + <p> + At a few minutes before eleven he went back to his rooms, unlocked his + despatch box, and drew out the key of the gate of Mrs. Clarke’s garden. He + thrust it into his pocket and set out on the short walk to the Villa + Hafiz. The night was dark and cloudy and very still. Dion walked quickly + and surreptitiously, not looking at any of the people who went by him in + the darkness. All the windows of the villa which faced the sea were + shuttered and showed no lights. He turned to the right, stood before the + garden gate and listened. He heard no sound except a distant singing on + the oily waters of the Bay. Softly he put his key into the gate, gently + unlocked it, stepped into the garden. A few minutes later he was on the + highest terrace and approached the pavilion. As he did so Mrs. Clarke came + out of the drawing-room of the villa, passed by the fountain, and began to + ascend the garden. + </p> + <p> + She was dressed in black and in a material that did not rustle. Her thin + figure did not show up against the night, and her light slow footfall was + scarcely audible on the paths and steps as she went upward. Jimmy had gone + to bed long ago, tired out with the long ride in the heat. She had just + been into his bedroom, without a light, and had heard his regular + breathing. He was fast asleep, and once he was asleep he never woke till + the light of day shone in at the window. It was a comfort that one could + thoroughly rely on the sleeping powers of a healthy boy of fifteen. + </p> + <p> + She sighed as she thought of Jimmy. The boy was going to complicate her + life. She was by nature an unusually fearless woman, but she was beginning + to realize that there might come a time when she would know fear—unless + she could begin to live differently as Jimmy began to grow up. But how + could she do that? There are things which seem to be impossible even to + strong wills. Her will was very strong, but she had always used it not to + renounce but to attain, not to hold her desires in check but to bring them + to fruition. And it was late in the day to begin reversing the powerful + engine of her will. She was not even sure that she could reverse it. + Hitherto she had never genuinely tried to do that. She did not want to try + now, partly—but only partly—because she hated to fail in + anything she undertook. And she had a suspicion, which she was not anxious + to turn into a certainty, that she who had ruled many people was only a + slave herself. Perhaps some day Jimmy would force her to a knowledge of + her exact condition. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in her life she was half afraid of that mysterious + energy which men and women call love; she began to understand, with a sort + of ample fulness of comprehension, that of all loves the most determined + is the love of a mother for her only son. A mother may, perhaps, have a + son and not love him; but if once she loves him she holds within her a + thing that will not die while she lives. + </p> + <p> + And if the thing that was without lust stood up in battle against the + thing that was full of lust—what then? + </p> + <p> + The black and still night seemed a battlefield. + </p> + <p> + Softly she stepped upon the highest terrace and stood for a moment under + the great plane tree, where was the wooden seat on which she had waited + for Dion to weep away the past and the good woman who had ruined his life. + To-night she was invaded by an odd uncertainty. If she went to the + pavilion and Dion were not there? If he did not come? Would some part of + her, perhaps, be glad, the part that in a mysterious way was one with + Jimmy? She stared into the darkness, looking towards the pavilion. Dion + Leith had once said she looked punished. Perhaps when he had said that he + had shown that he had intuition. + </p> + <p> + Was he there? It was past eleven now. She had assumed that he would come, + and she was inclined to believe that he had come. If so she need not see + him even now. There was still time for her to go back to the villa, to + shut herself in, to go to bed, as Jimmy had gone to bed. But if she did + that she would not sleep. All night long she would lie wide awake, tossing + from side to side, the helpless prey of her past life. + </p> + <p> + She frowned and slipped through the darkness, almost like a fluid, to the + pavilion. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII + </h2> + <p> + She came so silently that Dion heard nothing till against the background + of the night he saw a shadow, her thin body, a faint whiteness, her face, + motionless at the opening of the pavilion; from this shadow and this + whiteness came a voice which said: + </p> + <p> + “Did you come under the influence of <i>Defetgamm</i>?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s impossible that you see me!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I see you plainly with some part of me, not my eyes.” + </p> + <p> + He got up from the divan where he had been sitting in the dark and went to + the opening of the pavilion. + </p> + <p> + “Did you come under the influence of <i>Defetgamm</i>?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “You know I didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, then added: + </p> + <p> + “I nearly didn’t come to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And I nearly went down, after I had come up here, without seeing you. And + yet—we are together again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to see me here? We agreed—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, we agreed; but after to-day in the forest that agreement had to be + broken. When you left me under the trees you looked like a man who was + thinking of starting on a very long journey.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke with a peculiar significance which at once conveyed her full + meaning to him. + </p> + <p> + “No, I shall never do that,” he said. “If I had been capable of it, I + should have done it long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? Let me in.” + </p> + <p> + He moved. She slipped into the pavilion and sat down. + </p> + <p> + “How can you move without making any sound?” he asked somberly. + </p> + <p> + There had been in her movement a sort of perfection of surreptitiousness + that was animal. He noticed it, and thought that she must surely be + accustomed to moving with precaution lest she should be seen or heard. + Rosamund could not move like that. A life story seemed to him to be + faintly traced in Mrs. Clarke’s manner of entering the pavilion and of + sitting down on the divan. + </p> + <p> + He stood beside her in the dark. She returned no answer to his question. + </p> + <p> + “You spoke of a journey,” he said. “The only journey I have thought of + making is short enough—to Constantinople. I nearly started on it + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to go to Constantinople?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. + </p> + <p> + “What would you do there?” + </p> + <p> + “Ugly things, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you go? What kept you?” + </p> + <p> + “I felt that I must ask you something.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down beside her and took both her hands roughly. They were dry and + burning as if with fever. + </p> + <p> + “You trick Jimmy,” he said. “You trick the Ingletons, Vane, all the people + here—” + </p> + <p> + “Trick!” she interrupted coldly, almost disdainfully. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “That you deceive them, take them in.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” + </p> + <p> + “You know quite well.” + </p> + <p> + After a pause, which was perhaps—he could not tell—a pause of + astonishment, she said: + </p> + <p> + “Do you really expect me to go about telling every one that I, a lonely + woman, separated from my husband, unable to marry again, have met a man + whom I care for, and that I’ve been weak enough—or wicked enough, if + you like—to let him know it?” + </p> + <p> + Dion felt his cheeks burn in the darkness. Nevertheless, something drove + him on, forced him to push his way hardily through a sort of quickset + hedge of reluctance and shame. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t expect absurdities. I am not such a fool. But—but you + do it so well!” + </p> + <p> + “Do what well?” + </p> + <p> + “Everything connected with deception. You are such a mistress of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t that rather strange?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect a woman like me, a woman who can’t pretend to stupidity, + and who has lived for years in the diplomatic world, to blunder in what + she undertakes?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t. But you are too competent.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with hard determination, but his cheeks were still burning. + </p> + <p> + “It’s impossible to be too competent. If I make up my mind that a thing + must be done I resolve to do it thoroughly and to do it well. I despise + blunderers and women who are afraid of what they do. I despise those who + give themselves and others away. I cared for you. I saw you needed me and + I gave myself to you. I am not sorry I did it, not a bit sorry. I had + counted the cost before I did it.” + </p> + <p> + “Counted the cost? But what cost is there? Neither of us loses anything.” + </p> + <p> + “I risk losing almost everything a woman cares for. I don’t want to dwell + upon it. I detest women who indulge in reproaches, or who try to make men + value them by pointing out how much they stand to lose by giving + themselves. But you are so strange to-night. You have attacked me. I don’t + know why.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been walking on the quay and thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “What about?” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been thinking that, as you take in Jimmy and all the people here so + easily, there is no reason why you shouldn’t be taking me in too.” + </p> + <p> + In the dark a feeling was steadily growing within him that his companion + was playing with him as he knew she had played with others. + </p> + <p> + “I’m forced to deceive the people here and my boy. My relation with you + obliges me to do that. But nothing forces me to deceive you. I have been + sincere with you. Ever since I met you in the street in Pera I’ve been + sincere, even blunt. I should think you must have noticed it.” + </p> + <p> + “I have. In some ways you are blunt, but in many you aren’t.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it exactly that you wish to know?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment Dion was silent. In the darkness of the pavilion he saw + Dumeny’s lips smiling faintly, Hadi Bey’s vivid, self-possessed eyes, the + weak mouth of Brayfield and his own double. Was he a member of an ugly + brotherhood, or did he stand alone? He wanted to know, yet he felt that he + could not put such a hideous question to his companion. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me exactly what it is,” she said. “Don’t be afraid. I wish to be + quite sincere with you, though you think I don’t. It is no pleasure to me + to deceive people. What I do in the way of deception I do in self-defense. + Circumstances often push us into doing what we don’t enjoy doing. But you + and I ought to be frank with one another.” + </p> + <p> + Her hands tightened on his. + </p> + <p> + “Go on. Tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been wondering whether your husband ought to have won his case,” + said Dion, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” she said, very simply and without any emotion. + </p> + <p> + “All?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Do you suppose, when I gave myself to you, I didn’t realize that my + doing it was certain to make you doubt my virtue? Dion, you don’t know how + boyish you still are. You will always be in some ways a boy. I knew you + would doubt me after all that had happened. But what is the good of asking + questions of a women whom you doubt? If I am what you suspect, of course I + shall tell lies. If I am not, what is the good of my telling you the + truth? What is to make you believe it?” + </p> + <p> + He was silent. She moved slightly and he felt her thin body against his + side. What sort of weapon was she? That was the great question for him. + Since his struggle in the forest of <i>Defetgamm</i> he had come to the + resolve to strike fierce and reiterated blows on that disabling and surely + contemptible love of his, that love which had confronted him like a + specter when he was in the pavilion with Jimmy. He was resolved at last + upon assassination, and he wanted a weapon that could slay, not a weapon + that would bend, or perhaps break, in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to believe I am only one among many,” he said at last. + </p> + <p> + The sound of his voice gave her the cue to his inmost feeling. She had + been puzzled in the forest, she had been half afraid, seeing that he had + arrived at an acute emotional crisis and not understanding what had + brought him to it. She did not understand that now, but she knew that he + was asking from her more than he had ever asked before. He had been cast + out and now he was knocking hard on her door. He was knocking, but + lingering remnants of the influence of the woman who had colored his + former life hung about him like torn rags, and his hands instinctively + felt for them, pulled at them, to cover his nakedness. Still, while he + knocked, he looked back to the other life. Nevertheless—she knew + this with all there was of woman in her—he wanted from her all that + the good woman had never given to him, was incapable of giving to him or + to any one. He wanted from her, perhaps, powers of the body which would + suffice finally for the killing of those powers of the soul by which he + was now tormented ceaselessly. The sound of his voice demanded from her + something no other man had ever demanded from her, the slaughter in him of + what he had lived by through all his years. Nevertheless he was still + looking back to all the old purities, was still trying to hear all the old + voices. He required of her, as it were, that she should be good in her + evil, gentle while she destroyed. Well, she would even be that. A rare + smile curved her thin lips, but he did not see it. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I told you that you were one of many?” she said. “Would you give + it all up?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Am I?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Do you think, if you were, I should have kept my women friends, + Tippie Chetwinde, Delia Ingleton and all the rest?” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose not,” he said. + </p> + <p> + But he remembered tones in Mrs. Chetwinde’s voice when she had spoken of + “Cynthia Clarke,” and even tones in Lady Ingleton’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “They stuck to me because they believed in me. What other reason could + they have?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless they were very devoted to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Women aren’t much given to that sort of thing,” she said dryly. + </p> + <p> + “I think you have an unusual power of making people do what you wish. It + is like an emanation,” he said slowly. “And it seems not to be interfered + with by distance.” + </p> + <p> + She leaned till her cheek touched his. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, I wish to make you forget. I know how it is with you. You suffer + abominably because you can’t forget. I haven’t succeeded with you yet. But + wait, only wait, till Jimmy goes, till the summer is over and we can leave + the Bosporus. It’s all too intimate—the life here. We are all too + near together. But in Constantinople I know ways. I’ll stay there all the + winter for you. Even the Christmas holidays—I’ll give them up for + once. I want to show you that I do care. For no one else on earth would I + give up being with Jimmy in his holidays. For no one else I’d risk what + I’m risking to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy was asleep when you came?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but he might wake. He never does, but he might wake just to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose he did! Suppose he looked for you in your room and didn’t find + you! Suppose he came up here!” + </p> + <p> + “He won’t!” + </p> + <p> + She spoke obstinately, almost as if her assertion of the thing’s + impossibility must make it impossible. + </p> + <p> + “And yet there’s the risk of it,” said Dion—“the great risk.” + </p> + <p> + “There are always risks in connection with the big things in life. We are + worth very little if we won’t take them.” + </p> + <p> + “If it wasn’t for Jimmy would you come and live with me? Would you drop + all this deception? Would you let your husband divorce you? Would you give + up your place in society for me? I am an outcast. Would you come and be an + outcast with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if it wasn’t for Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “And for Jimmy you’d give me up for ever in a moment, wouldn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask these questions?” she said, almost fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “I want something for myself, something that’s really mine. Then perhaps——” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps what?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I could forget—sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet when you knew Jimmy was coming here you wanted to go away. You + were afraid then. And even to-day—” + </p> + <p> + “I want one thing or the other!” he interrupted desperately. “I’m sick of + mixing up good and bad. I’m sick of prevarications and deceptions. They go + against my whole nature. I hate struggling in a net. It saps all my + strength.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I understand.” + </p> + <p> + She put her arm round his neck. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps I ought to give you up, let you go. I’ve thought that. But I + haven’t the courage. Dion, I’m lonely, I’m lonely.” + </p> + <p> + He felt moisture on his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “About you I’m absolutely selfish,” she said, in a low, swift voice. “Even + if all this hypocrisy hurts you I can’t give you up. I’ve told you a lie—even + you.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “I said to you on <i>that</i> night——” + </p> + <p> + She waited. + </p> + <p> + “I know,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I said that I hadn’t cared for you till I met you in Pera, and saw what + <i>she</i> had done to you. That was a lie. I cared for you in England. + Didn’t you know it?” + </p> + <p> + “Once or twice I wondered, but I was never at all sure.” + </p> + <p> + “It was because I cared that I wanted to make friends with your wife. I + had no evil reason. I knew you and she were perfectly happy together. But + I wanted just to see you sometimes. She guessed it. That was why she + avoided me—the real reason. It wasn’t only because I’d been involved + in a scandal, though I told you once it was. I’ve sometimes lied to you + because I didn’t want to feel myself humiliated in your eyes. But now I + don’t care. You can know all the truth if you want to. You pushed me away—oh, + very gently—because of her. Did you think I didn’t understand? You + were afraid of me. Perhaps you thought I was a nuisance. When I came back + from Paris on purpose for Tippie Chetwinde’s party you were startled, + almost horrified, when you saw me. I saw it all so plainly. In the end, as + you know, I gave it up. Only when you went to the war I had to send that + telegram. I thought you might be killed, and I wanted you to know I was + remembering you, and admiring you for what you had done. Then you came + with poor Brayfield’s letter——” + </p> + <p> + She broke off, then added, with a long, quivering sigh: + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made me suffer, Dion.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I?” + </p> + <p> + He turned till he was facing her in the darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Then at last you were overtaken by your tragedy, and she showed you her + cruelty and cast you out. From that moment I was resolved some day to let + you know how much I cared. I wanted you in your misery. But I waited. I + had a conviction that you would come to me, drawn, without suspecting it, + by what I felt for you. Well, you came at last. And now you ask me whether + you are one of many.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” he whispered. + </p> + <p> + “But of course I shall always forgive you for everything. Women who care + for men always do that. They can’t help themselves. And you—will you + forgive me for my lies?” + </p> + <p> + He took her in his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Life’s full of them. Only don’t tell me any more, and make me forget if + you can. You’ve got so much will. Try to have the power for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Then help me. Give yourself wholly to me. You have struggled against me + furtively. You thought I didn’t know it, but I did. You look back to the + old ways. And that is madness. Turn a new page, Dion. Have the courage to + hope.” + </p> + <p> + “To—hope!” + </p> + <p> + Her hot hands closed on him fiercely. + </p> + <p> + “You shall hope. I’ll make you. Cut out the cancer that is in you, and cut + away all that is round it. Then you’ll have health again. She never knew + how to feel in the great human way. She was too fond of God ever to care + for a man.” + </p> + <p> + Let that be the epitaph over the tomb in which all his happiness was + buried. + </p> + <p> + In silence he made his decision, and Cynthia Clarke knew it. + </p> + <p> + The darkness covered them. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Down below in the Villa Hafiz Jimmy was sleeping peacefully, tired by the + long ride to and from the forest in the heat. He had gone to bed very + early, almost directly after dinner. His mother had not advised this. + Perhaps indeed, if she had not been secretly concentrated on herself and + her own desires that evening, she would have made Jimmy stay up till at + least half-past ten, even though he was “jolly sleepy.” He had slept for + at least two hours in the forest. She ought to have remembered that, but + she had forgotten it, and when, at a quarter to nine, on an enormous yawn, + Jimmy had announced that he thought he would “turn in and get between the + sheets,” she had almost eagerly acquiesced. She wanted her boy asleep, + soundly asleep that night. When the clock had struck nine he had already + traveled beyond the land of dreams. + </p> + <p> + The night was intensely hot and airless. No breath of wind came from the + sea. Drops of perspiration stood on the boy’s forehead as he slept, with + nothing over him but a sheet. He lay on his side, with his face towards + the open window and one arm outside the sheet. + </p> + <p> + People easily fall into habits of sleeping. Jimmy was accustomed to sleep + for about eight hours “on end,” as he put it. When he had had his eight + hours he generally woke up. If he was not obliged to get up he often went + to sleep again after an interval of wakefulness, but he seldom slept for + as much as nine hours without waking. + </p> + <p> + On this night between two o’clock and three it seemed as if a layer of + sleep were gently lifted from him. He sighed, stirred, turned over and + began to dream. + </p> + <p> + He dreamed confusedly about Dion, and there were pain and apprehension in + his dream. In it Dion seemed to be himself and yet not himself, to be near + and at the same time remote, to be Jimmy’s friend and yet, in some strange + and horrible way, hostile to Jimmy. No doubt the boy was haunted in his + sleep by an obscure phantom bred of that painful impression of the + morning, when his friend had suddenly been changed in the pavilion, + changed into a tragic figure from which seemed to emanate impalpable + things very black and very cold. + </p> + <p> + In the dream Jimmy’s mother did not appear as an active figure; yet the + dreamer seemed somehow to be aware of her, to know faintly that she was + involved in unhappy circumstances, that she was the victim of distresses + he could not fathom. And these distresses weighed upon him like a burden, + as things weigh upon us in dreams, softly and heavily, and with a sort of + cloudy awfulness. He wanted to strive against them for his mother, but he + was held back from action, and Dion seemed to have something to do with + this. It was as if his friend and enemy, Dion Leith, did not wish his + mother to be released from unhappiness. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy moved, lay on his back and groaned. His eyelids fluttered. Something + from without, something from a distance, was pulling at him, and the hands + of sleep, too inert, perhaps, for any conflict, relaxed their hold upon + him. Thoughts from two minds in a dark pavilion were stealing upon him, + were touching him here and there, were whispering to him. + </p> + <p> + Another layer of sleep was softly removed from him. + </p> + <p> + He clenched his large hands—he had already the hands and feet almost + of the man he would some day grow into—and his eyes opened wide for + a moment. But they closed again. He was not awake yet. + </p> + <p> + At three o’clock he woke. He had slept for six hours in the villa and for + two hours in the forest. He lay still in the dark for a few minutes. A + faint memory of his dream hung about him like a tattered mist. He felt + anxious, almost apprehensive, and strained his ears expectant of some + sound. But the silence of the airless night was deep and large all about + him. He began to think of his mother. What had been the matter with her? + Who, or what, had persecuted her? He realized now that he had been + dreaming, said to himself, with a boy’s exaggeration, that he had had “a + beastly nightmare!” Nevertheless his mother still appeared to him as the + victim of distresses. He could not absolutely detach himself from the + impressions communicated to him in his dream. He was obliged to think of + his mother as unhappy and of Dion Leith as not wholly friendly either to + her or to himself. And it was all quite beastly. + </p> + <p> + Presently, more fully awake, he began to wonder about the time and to feel + tremendously thirsty, as if he could “drink the jug.” + </p> + <p> + He stretched out a hand, found the matches and struck a light. It went out + with a sort of feeble determination. + </p> + <p> + “Damn!” he muttered. + </p> + <p> + He struck another match and lit the candle. His silver watch lay beside + it, and marked five minutes past three. Jimmy was almost angrily + astonished. Only that! He now felt painfully wide awake, as if his sleep + were absolutely finished. What was to be done? He remembered that he had + slept in the forest. He had had his eight hours. Perhaps that was the + reason of his present wakefulness. Anyhow, he must have a drink. He thrust + away the sheet, rolled out of bed, and went to the washhand-stand. There + was plenty of water in his bottle, but when he poured it into the tumbler + he found that it was quite warm. He was certain warm water wouldn’t quench + his ardent thirst. Besides, he loathed it. Any chap would! How beastly + everything was! + </p> + <p> + He put down the tumbler without drinking, went to the window and looked + out. The still hot darkness which greeted him made him feel again the + obscure distress of his dream. He was aware of apprehension. Dawn could + not be so very far off; yet he felt sunk to the lips in the heavy night. + </p> + <p> + If only he could have a good drink of something very cold! This wish made + him think again of his mother. He knew she did not require much sleep, and + sometimes read during part of the night; he also knew that she kept some + iced lemonade on the table beside her bed. Now the thought of his mother’s + lemonade enticed him. + </p> + <p> + He hesitated for a moment, then stuck his feet into a pair of red Turkish + slippers without heels, buttoned the jacket of his pyjamas, which he had + thrown open because of the heat, took his candle in hand, and shuffled—he + always shuffled when he had on the ridiculous slippers—to the door. + </p> + <p> + There he paused. + </p> + <p> + The landing was fairly wide. It looked dreary and deserted in the darkness + defined by the light from his candle. He could see the head of the + staircase, the shallow wooden steps disappearing into the empty blackness + in which the ground floor of the house was shrouded; he could see the door + of his mother’s bedroom. As he stared at it, considering whether his + thirst justified him in waking her up—for, if she were asleep, he + felt pretty sure she would wake however softly he crept into her room—he + saw that the door was partly open. Perhaps his mother had found the heat + too great, and had tried to create a draught by opening her door. There + was darkness in the aperture. She wasn’t reading, then. Probably she was + asleep. He was infernally thirsty; the door was open; the lemonade was + almost within reach; he resolved to risk it. Carefully shading the candle + with one hand he crept across the landing, adroitly abandoned his slippers + outside the door, and on naked feet entered his mother’s room. + </p> + <p> + His eyes immediately rested on the tall jug of lemonade, which stood on a + small table, with a glass and some books, beside the big, low bed. He + stole towards it, always shielding the candle with his hand, and not + looking at the bed lest his glance might, perhaps, disturb the sleeper he + supposed to be in it. He reached the table, and was about to lay a + desirous hand upon the jug, when it occurred to him that, in doing this, + he would expose the candle ray. Better blow the candle out! He located the + jug, and was on the edge of action—his lips were pursed for the puff—when + the dead silence of the room struck him. Could any one, even his + remarkably quiet mother, sleep without making even the tiniest sound? He + shot a glance at the bed. There was no one in it. He bent down. It had not + been slept in that night. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy stood, with his mouth open, staring at the large, neat, unruffled + bed. What the dickens could the mater be up to? She must, of course, be + sitting up in her small sitting-room next door to the bedroom. Evidently + the heat had made her sleepless. + </p> + <p> + He took a pull at the lemonade, went to the sitting-room door and softly + opened it, at the same time exclaiming, “I say, mater——” + </p> + <p> + Darkness and emptiness confronted him. + </p> + <p> + He shut the door rather hurriedly, and again stood considering. Something + cracked. He started, and the candle rattled in his hand. A disagreeable + sensation was stealing upon him. He would not, of course, have + acknowledged that an unpleasant feeling of loneliness, almost of + desertion. The servants slept in a small wing of the villa, shut off from + the main part of the house by double doors. Mrs. Clarke detested hearing + the servants at night, and had taken good care to make such hearing + impossible. Jimmy began to feel isolated. + </p> + <p> + Where could the mater be? And what could she be doing? + </p> + <p> + For a moment he thought of returning to his room, shutting himself in and + waiting for the dawn, which would change everything—would make + everything seem quite usual and reasonable. But something in the depths of + him, speaking in a disagreeably distinct voice, remarked, “That’s right! + Be a funk stick!” And his young cheeks flushed red, although he was alone. + Immediately he went out on to the landing, thrust his feet again into the + red slippers, and boldly started down the stairs into the black depths + below. Holding the candle tightly, and trying to shuffle with manly + decision, he explored the sitting-rooms and the dining-room. All of them + were empty and dark. + </p> + <p> + Now Jimmy began to feel “rotten.” Horrid fears for his mother bristled up + in his mind. His young imagination got to work and summoned up ugly things + before him. He saw his mother ravished away from him by unspeakable men—Turks, + Armenians, Greeks, Albanians—God knows whom—and carried off to + some unknown and frightful fate; he saw her dead, murdered; he saw her + dead, stricken by some sudden and horrible illness. His heart thumped. He + could hear it. It seemed to be beating in his ears. And then he began to + feel brave, to feel an intrepidity of desperation. He must act. That was + certain. It was his obvious business to jolly well get to work and do + something. His first thought was to rush upstairs, to rouse the servants, + to call up Sonia, his mother’s confidential maid, to—the pavilion! + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he remembered the pavilion, and all the books on its shelves. His + mother might be there. She might have been sleepless, might have felt sure + she couldn’t sleep, and so have stayed up. She might be reading in the + darkness. She was afraid of nothing. Darkness and solitude wouldn’t hinder + her from wandering about if the fancy to wander took her. She wouldn’t, of + course, go outside the gates, but—he now felt sure she was somewhere + in the garden. + </p> + <p> + He looked round. He was standing by the grand piano in the drawing-room, + and he now noticed for the first time that the French window which gave on + to the rose garden was open. That settled it. He put the candle down, + hurried out into the garden and called, “Mater!” + </p> + <p> + No voice replied except the fountain’s voice. The purring water rose in + the darkness and fell among the lilies, rose and fell, active and + indifferent, like a living thing withdrawn from him, wrapped in its own + mystery. + </p> + <p> + “Mater!” he called again, in a louder, more resolute, voice. “Mater! + Mater!” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + In an absolutely still night a voice can travel very far. On the highest + terrace of the garden in the blackness of the pavilion Mrs. Clarke moved + sharply. She sat straight up on the divan, rigid, with her hands pressed + palm downwards on the cushions. Dion had heard nothing, and did not + understand the reason for her abrupt, almost violent, movement. + </p> + <p> + “Why . . . ?” he began. + </p> + <p> + She caught his wrist and held it tightly, compressing her fingers on it + with a fierce force that amazed him. + </p> + <p> + “Mater!” + </p> + <p> + Had he really heard the word, or had he imagined it? + </p> + <p> + “Mater!” + </p> + <p> + He had heard it. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + She had her thin lips close to his ear. She still held his wrist in a grip + of iron. + </p> + <p> + “He’s at the bottom of the garden. He’ll come up here. He won’t wait. Go + down and meet him.” + </p> + <p> + “But——” + </p> + <p> + “Go down! I’ll hide among the trees. Let him come up here, or bring him + up. He must come. Be sure he comes inside. While you go I’ll light the + lamp. I can do it in a moment. You couldn’t sleep. You came here to read. + Of course you know nothing about me. Keep him here for five or ten + minutes. You can come down then and help him to look for me. Go at once.” + </p> + <p> + She took away her hand. + </p> + <p> + “My whole future depends upon you!” + </p> + <p> + Dion got up and went out. As he went he heard her strike a match. + </p> + <p> + Scarcely knowing for a moment what he was doing, acting mechanically, in + obedience to instinct, but always feeling a sort of terrible driving force + behind him, he traversed the terrace on which the pavilion stood, passed + the great plane tree and the wooden seat, and began to descend. As he did + so he heard again Jimmy’s voice crying: + </p> + <p> + “Mater!” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy!” he called out, in a loud voice, hurrying on. + </p> + <p> + As the sound died away he knew it had been nonchalant. Surely she had made + it so! + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy!” he called again. “What’s up. What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + There was no immediate reply, but in the deep silence Dion heard hurrying + steps, and then: + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith!” + </p> + <p> + “Hallo!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith—it is you, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What on earth’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Stop a sec! I——” + </p> + <p> + The feet were pounding upward. Almost directly, in pyjamas and the + slippers, which somehow still remained with him, Jimmy stood by Dion in + the dark, breathing hard. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy, what’s the matter? What has happened?” + </p> + <p> + “I say, why are you here?” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t sleep. The night was so hot. I had nothing to read in my + rooms. Besides they’re stuck down right against the quay. You know your + mother’s kind enough to let me have a key of the garden gate. I thought I + might get more air on the top terrace. I was reading in the pavilion when + I thought I heard a call.” + </p> + <p> + “Then the mater isn’t there?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. Come on up!” + </p> + <p> + Dion took the boy by the arm with decision, and slowly led him upwards. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this about your mother? Do you mean she isn’t asleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Asleep? She isn’t in her bedroom! She hasn’t been there!” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t been there?” + </p> + <p> + “Hasn’t been to bed at all! I’ve been to her sitting-room—you know, + upstairs—she isn’t there. I’ve been in all the rooms. She isn’t + anywhere. She must be somewhere about here.” + </p> + <p> + They had arrived in front of the pavilion backed by trees. Looking in, + Dion saw a lighted lamp. The slide of jeweled glass had been removed from + it. A white ray fell on an open book laid on a table. + </p> + <p> + “I was reading here”—he looked—“a thing called ‘The Kasidah.’ + Sit down!” He pulled the boy down. “Now what is all this? Your mother must + be in the house.” + </p> + <p> + “But I tell you she isn’t!” + </p> + <p> + Dion had sat down between Jimmy and the opening on to the terrace. It + occurred to him that he ought to have induced the boy to sit with his back + to the terrace and his face turned towards the room. It was too late to do + that now. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you she isn’t!” Jimmy repeated, with a sort of almost fierce + defiance. + </p> + <p> + He was staring hard at Dion. His hair was almost wildly disordered, and + his face looked pale and angry in the ray of the lamp. Dion felt that + there was suspicion in his eyes. Surely those eyes were demanding of him + the woman who was hiding among the trees. + </p> + <p> + “Where have you looked?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I’ve looked everywhere,” said Jimmy, doggedly. + </p> + <p> + “Did you mother go to bed when you did?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I went very early. I was so infernally sleepy.” + </p> + <p> + “Where did you leave her?” + </p> + <p> + “In the drawing-room. She was playing the piano. But what’s the good of + that? What time did you come here?” + </p> + <p> + “I! Oh, not till very late indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “Were there any lights showing when you came?” + </p> + <p> + “Lights! No! But it was ever so much too late for that.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you go on to the terrace by the drawing-room?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I came straight up here. It never occurred to me that any one would + be up at such an hour. Besides, I didn’t want to disturb any one, + especially your mother.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, just now I found the drawing-room window wide open, and mater’s bed + hasn’t been touched. What do you make of that?” + </p> + <p> + Before Dion could reply the boy abruptly started up. + </p> + <p> + “I heard something. I know I did.” + </p> + <p> + As naturally as he could Dion got between Jimmy and the opening on to the + terrace, and, forestalling the boy, looked out. He saw nothing; he could + not have said with truth that any definite sound reached his ears; but he + felt that at that exact moment Mrs. Clarke escaped from the terrace, and + began to glide down towards the house below. + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing! Come and see for yourself,” he said casually. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy pushed by him, then stood perfectly still, staring at the darkness + and listening intently. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t hear it now!” he acknowledged gruffly. + </p> + <p> + “What did you think you heard?” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>did</i> hear something. I couldn’t tell you what it was.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you looked all through the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “You know I haven’t. You heard me calling down at the bottom. You must + have, because you answered me.” + </p> + <p> + “We’d better have a good look now. Just wait one minute while I put out + the lamp. I’ll put away the book I was reading, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Right you are!” said the boy, still gruffly. + </p> + <p> + He waited on the terrace while Dion went into the pavilion. As Dion took + up “The Kasidah” he glanced down at the page at which Mrs. Clarke had + chanced to set the book open, and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Do what thy manhood bids thee do, from + None but self expect applause——” + </pre> + <p> + With a feeling of cold and abject soul-nausea he shut the book, put it + away on a bookshelf in which he saw a gap, and went to turn out the lamp. + As the flame flickered and died out he heard Jimmy’s foot shift on the + terrace. + </p> + <p> + “Do what thy manhood bids thee do——” + </p> + <p> + Dion stood for a moment in the dark. He was in a darkness greater than any + which reigned in the pavilion. His soul seemed to him to be pressing + against it, to be hemmed in by it as by towering walls of iron. For an + instant he shut his eyes. And when he did that he saw, low down, a little + boy’s figure, two small outstretched hands groping. + </p> + <p> + Robin! + </p> + <p> + “Aren’t you coming, Mr. Leith? What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I was just seeing that the lamp was thoroughly out.” + </p> + <p> + “Well——” + </p> + <p> + Dion came out. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll look all over the garden. But if your mother had been in it she + must have heard you calling her. I did, although I was inside there + reading.” + </p> + <p> + “I know. I thought of that too,” returned Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + And Dion fancied that the boy’s voice was very cold; Dion fancied this but + he was not sure. His conscience might be tricking him. He hoped that it + was tricking him. + </p> + <p> + “We’d better look among the trees,” he said. “And then we’ll go to the + terrace below.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use looking among the trees,” Jimmy returned. “If she was up here + she must have heard us talking all this time.” + </p> + <p> + Abruptly he led the way to the steps near the plane tree. Dion followed + him slowly. Was it possible that Jimmy had guessed? Was it possible that + Jimmy had caught a glimpse of his mother escaping? The boy’s manner was + surely almost hostile. + </p> + <p> + They searched the garden in silence, and at length found themselves by the + fountain close to the French window of the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “You mother must be in the house,” said Dion firmly. + </p> + <p> + “But I know she isn’t!” Jimmy retorted, with a sort of dull fixed + obstinacy. + </p> + <p> + “Did you rouse the servants?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Where do they sleep?” + </p> + <p> + “Away from us, by themselves.” + </p> + <p> + “You’d better go and look again. If you can’t find your mother perhaps + you’d better wake the servants.” + </p> + <p> + “I know,” said Jimmy, in a voice that had suddenly changed, become + brighter, more eager—“I’ll go to Sonia.” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother’s maid? That’s it. She may know something. I’ll wait down + here at the window. Got a candle?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I left it in there by the piano.” + </p> + <p> + He felt his way in and, almost immediately, struck a light. The candle + flickered across his face and his disordered hair as he disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Dion waited by the fountain. + </p> + <p> + Where would Mrs. Clarke be? How would she explain matters? Would she have + had time to——? Oh yes! She would have had time to be ready + with some quite simple, yet quite satisfactory, piece of deception. Jimmy + would find her, and she would convince him of all that it was necessary he + should be convinced of. + </p> + <p> + Dion’s chin sank down and his head almost drooped. He felt mortally tired + as he waited here. Already a very faint grayness of the coming dawn was + beginning to filter in among the darknesses. + </p> + <p> + Another day to face! How could he face it? He had, he supposed, been what + is called “true” to the woman who had given herself to him, but how + damnably false he had been to himself that night! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Jimmy went upstairs, frowning and very pale. He went again to + his mother’s bedroom and found it empty. The big bed, turned down, had + held no sleeper. Nothing had been changed in the room since he had been + away in the garden. He did not trouble to look once more in the adjoining + sitting-room, but hurried towards the servants’ quarters. The double doors + were shut. Softly he opened them and passed through into a wooden + corridor. At the far end of it were two rooms sacred to Sonia, the Russian + maid. The first room she slept in; the second was a large airy chamber + lined with cupboards. In this she worked. She was a very clever + needlewoman, expert in the mysteries of dressmaking. + </p> + <p> + As Jimmy drew near to the door of Sonia’s workroom he heard a low murmur + of voices coming from within. Evidently Sonia was there, talking to some + one. He crept up and listened. + </p> + <p> + Very tranquil the voices sounded. They were talking in French. One was his + mother’s, and he heard her say: + </p> + <p> + “Another five minutes, Sonia, and perhaps I shall be ready for bed. At + last I’m beginning to feel as if I might be able to sleep. If only I were + like Jimmy! He doesn’t know anything about the torments of insomnia.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Madame!” returned Sonia, in her rather thick, but pleasantly soft, + voice. “Your head a little back. That’s better!” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy was aware of an odd, very faint, sound. He couldn’t make out what it + was. + </p> + <p> + “Mater!” he said. + </p> + <p> + And he tapped on the door. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that?” said Sonia’s voice. + </p> + <p> + “It’s Jimmy!” + </p> + <p> + The door was opened by the maid, and he saw his mother in a long, very + thin white dressing-gown, seated in an arm-chair before a mirror. Her + colorless hair flowed over the back of the chair, against which her little + head was leaning, supported by a silk cushion. Her face looked very white + and tired, and the lids drooped over her usually wide-open eyes, giving + her a strange expression of languor, almost of drowsiness. Sonia held a + silver-backed brush in each hand. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur Jimmy!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy!” said Mrs. Clarke. “What’s the matter?” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her head from the cushion, and sat straight up. But she still + looked languid. + </p> + <p> + “What is it? Are you ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No, mater! But I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” + </p> + <p> + There was a boyish reproach in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Looking for me in the middle of the night! Why?” + </p> + <p> + Jimmy began to explain matters. + </p> + <p> + “At last I thought I’d look in the garden. I shouted out for you, and who + should answer but Mr. Leith?” he presently said. + </p> + <p> + His mother—he noticed it—woke up fully at this point in the + narrative. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith!” she said, with strong surprise. “How could he answer you?” + </p> + <p> + “He was up in the pavilion reading a book.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke looked frankly astonished. Her eyes traveled to Sonia, whose + broad face was also full of amazement. + </p> + <p> + “At this hour!” said Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + “He couldn’t sleep either,” said Jimmy, quite simply. “He’s waiting out + there now to know whether I’ve found you.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “What a to do!” she said, with just a touch of gentle disdain. “And all + because I suffer from insomnia. Run down to him, Jimmy, and tell him that + as I felt it was useless to go to bed I sat by the fountain till I was + weary, then read in my sitting-room, and finally came to Sonia to be + brushed into sleep. Set his mind at rest about me if you can.” + </p> + <p> + She smiled again. + </p> + <p> + Somehow that smile made Jimmy feel very small. + </p> + <p> + “And go back to bed, dear boy.” + </p> + <p> + She put out one hand, drew him to her, and gave him a gentle kiss with + lips which felt very calm. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry you were worried about me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, that’s all right, mater!” said Jimmy, rather awkwardly. “I didn’t + know what to think. You see—” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you couldn’t guess that I was having my hair brushed. Now go + straight to bed, after you’ve told Mr. Leith. I’m coming too in a minute.” + </p> + <p> + As Jimmy left the room Sonia was again at work with the two hair-brushes. + </p> + <p> + A moment later Jimmy reappeared at the French window of the drawing-room. + Dion lifted his head, but did not move from the place where he was + standing close to the fountain. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, Mr. Leith,” said Jimmy. “I’ve found mater.” + </p> + <p> + “Where was she?” + </p> + <p> + “In Sonia’s room having her hair brushed.” + </p> + <p> + Dion stared towards him but said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “She told me I was to set your mind at rest.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I believe she thought us a couple of fools for kicking us such a + dust about her.” + </p> + <p> + Dion said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, but I’ve an idea girls and women often think they can laugh + at us,” added Jimmy. “Anyhow, it’ll be a jolly long time before I put + myself in a sweat about the mater again. I thought—I don’t know what + I thought, and all the time she was half asleep and having her hair + brushed. She made me feel ass number one. Good night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good night.” + </p> + <p> + The boy shut the window, bent down and bolted it on the inside. + </p> + <p> + Dion looked at the gray coming of the new day. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX + </h2> + <p> + Liverpool has a capacity for looking black which is perhaps, only + surpassed by Manchester’s, and it looked its blackest on a day at the end + of March in the following year, as the afternoon express from London + roared into the Lime Street Station. The rain was coming down; it was + small rain, and it descended with a sort of puny determination; it was sad + rain without any dash, any boldness; it had affinities with the mists + which sweep over stretches of moorland, but its power of saturation was + remarkable. It soaked Liverpool. It issued out of blackness and seemed to + carry a blackness with it which descended into the very soul of the city + and lay coiled there like a snake. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton was very sensitive to her surroundings, and as she lifted + the rug from her knees, and put away the book she had been reading, she + shivered. A deep melancholy floated over her and enveloped her. She + thought, “Why did I come upon this adventure? What is it all to do with + me?” But then the face of a man rose up before her, lean, brown, wrinkled, + ravaged, with an expression upon it that for a long time had haunted her, + throwing a shadow upon her happiness. And she felt that she had done right + to come. Impulse, perhaps, had driven her; sentiment rather than reason + had been her guide. Nevertheless, she did not regret her journey. Even if + nothing good came of it she would not regret it. She would have tried for + once at some small expense to herself to do a worthy action. She would for + once have put all selfishness behind her. + </p> + <p> + A white-faced porter, looking anxious and damp, appeared at the door of + the corridor. Lady Ingleton’s French maid arrived from the second class + with Turkish Jane on her arm. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Miladi, how black it is here!” she exclaimed, twisting her pointed + little nose. “The black it reaches the heart.” + </p> + <p> + That was exactly what Lady Ingleton was thinking, but she said, in a voice + less lazy than usual. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a capital hotel, Annette. We shall be very comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we stay here long, Miladi?” + </p> + <p> + “No; but I don’t know how long yet. Is Jane all right?” + </p> + <p> + “She has been looking out of the window, Miladi, the whole way. She is in + ecstasy. Dogs have no judgment, Miladi.” + </p> + <p> + When Lady Ingleton was in her sitting-room at the Adelphi Hotel, and had + had the fire lighted and tea brought up, she asked to see the manager for + a moment. He came almost immediately, a small man, very smart, very trim, + self-possessed as a attache. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you are quite comfortable, my lady,” he said, in a thin voice + which held no note of doubt. “Can I do anything for you?” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to ask you if you knew the address of some one I wish to send a + note to—Mr. Robertson. He’s a clergyman who—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Father Robertson, of Holy Cross, Manxby Street, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Of Holy Cross; yes, that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “He lives at—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment. I’ll take it down.” + </p> + <p> + She went to the writing-table and took up a pen. + </p> + <p> + “Now, please!” + </p> + <p> + “The Rev. George Robertson, Holy Cross Rectory, Manxby Street, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you very much.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I do anything more for you, my lady?” + </p> + <p> + “Please send me up a messenger in twenty minutes. Mr. Robertson is in + Liverpool, I understand?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe so, my lady. He is generally here. Holidays and pleasure are + not much in his way. The messenger will be up in twenty minutes.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and went softly out, holding + himself very erect. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton sat down by the tea-table. Annette was unpacking in the + adjoining bedroom, and Turkish Jane was reposing in an arm-chair near the + hearth. + </p> + <p> + “What would Carey think of me, if he knew?” was her thought, as she poured + out the tea. + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey was at his post in Constantinople. She had left him and come to + England to see her mother, who had been very ill, but who was now much + better. When she had left Constantinople she had not known she was coming + to Liverpool, but she had known that something was intruding upon her + happiness, was worrying at her mind. Only when she found herself once more + in England did she understand that she could not return to Turkey without + making an effort to do a good deed. She had very little hope that her + effort would be efficacious, but she knew that she had to make it. + </p> + <p> + It was quite a new role for her, the role of Good Samaritan. She smiled + faintly as she thought that. How would she play it? + </p> + <p> + After tea she wrote this note: + </p> + <p> + “ADELPHI HOTEL, Tuesday + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MR. ROBERTSON,—As you will not know who I am, I must explain + myself. My husband, Sir Carey Ingleton, is Ambassador at Constantinople. + Out there we have made acquaintance with Mr. Dion Leith, who had the + terrible misfortune to kill his little boy nearly a year and a half ago. I + want very much to speak to you about him. I will explain why when I see + you if you have the time to spare me an interview. I would gladly welcome + you here, or I could come to you. Which do you prefer? I am telling the + messenger to wait for an answer. To be frank, I have come to Liverpool on + purpose to see you.—Yours sincerely, + </p> + <p> + “DELIA INGLETON” + </p> + <p> + The messenger came back without an answer. Father Robertson was out, but + the note would be given to him as soon as he came home. + </p> + <p> + That evening, just after nine o’clock, he arrived at the hotel, and sent + up his name to Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + “Please ask him to come up,” she said to the German waiter who had + mispronounced his name. + </p> + <p> + As she waited for her visitor she was conscious of a faint creeping of + shyness through her. It made her feel oddly girlish. When had she last + felt shy? She could not remember. It must have been centuries ago. + </p> + <p> + The German waiter opened the door and a white-haired man walked in. + Directly she saw him Lady Ingleton lost her unusual feeling. As she + greeted him, and made her little apology for bothering him, and thanked + him for coming out at night to see a stranger, she felt glad that she had + obeyed her impulse and had been, for once, a victim to altruism. When she + looked at his eyes she knew that she would not mind saying to him all she + wanted to say about Dion Leith. They were eyes which shone with clarity; + and they were something else—they were totally incurious eyes. + Perhaps from perversity Lady Ingleton had always rebelled against giving + to curious people the exact food they were in search of. + </p> + <p> + “He won’t be greedy to know,” she thought. “And so I shan’t mind telling + him.” + </p> + <p> + Unlike a woman, she came at once to the point. Although she could be very + evasive she could also be very direct. + </p> + <p> + “You know Mrs. Dion Leith,” she said. “My friend Tippie Chetwinde, Mrs. + Willie Chetwinde, told me she was living here. She came here soon after + the death of her child, I believe.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, she did, and she has been here ever since.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Dion Leith, Mr. Robertson?” she asked, leaning forward in her + chair by the fire, and fixing her large eyes, that looked like an + Italian’s, upon him. + </p> + <p> + “No, I have never seen him. I hoped to, but the tragedy of the child + occurred so soon after his return from South Africa that I never had an + opportunity.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for correcting you,” she said, gently but very firmly. “But it + is not the tragedy of a child. It’s the tragedy of a man. I am going to + talk very frankly to you. I make no apology for doing so. I am what is + called”—she smiled faintly—“a woman of the world, and you, I + think, are an unworldly man. Because I am of the world, and you, in + spirit”—she looked at him almost deprecatingly—“are not of it, + I can say what I have come here to try to say. I couldn’t say it to a man + of the world, because I could never give a woman away to such a man. Tell + me though, first, if you don’t mind—do you care for Mrs. Dion + Leith?” + </p> + <p> + “Very much,” said Father Robertson, simply and warmly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you care for her enough to tell her the truth?” + </p> + <p> + “I never wish to tell her anything else.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Lady Ingleton’s face flushed, her dark eyes flashed and then + filled with tears, and she said in a voice that shook with emotion: + </p> + <p> + “Dion Leith killed a body by accident, the body of his little boy. She is + murdering a soul deliberately, the soul of her husband.” + </p> + <p> + She did not know at all why she was so suddenly and so violently moved. + She had not expected this abrupt access of feeling. It had rushed upon her + from she knew not where. She was startled by it. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know why I should care,” she commented, as if half ashamed of + herself. + </p> + <p> + Then she added, with a touch of almost shy defiance: + </p> + <p> + “But I do care, I do care. That’s why I’ve come here.” + </p> + <p> + “You are right to care if it is so,” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + “Such lots of women wouldn’t,” she continued, in a quite different, almost + cynical, voice. “But that man is an exceptional man—not in + intellect, but in heart. And I’m a very happy woman. Perhaps you wonder + what that has to do with it. Well sometimes I see things through my + happiness, just because of it; sometimes I see unhappiness through it.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice had changed again, had become much softer. She drew her chair a + little nearer to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “Do you ever receive confessions, Mr. Robertson—as a priest, I + mean?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, very often.” + </p> + <p> + “They are sacred, I know, even in your church.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, without emphasis. + </p> + <p> + His lack of emphasis decided her. Till this moment she had been undecided + about a certain thing, although she herself perhaps was not fully aware of + her hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “I want to do a thing that I have never yet done,” she said. “I want to be + treacherous to a friend, to give a friend away. Will you promise to keep + my treachery secret forever? Will you promise to treat what I am going to + tell you about her as if I told it to you in the confessional?” + </p> + <p> + “If you tell it to me I will. But why must you tell it to me? I don’t like + treachery. It’s an ugly thing.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help that. I really came here just for that—to be + treacherous.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into the fire and sighed. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve covered a great sin with my garment,” she murmured slowly, “and I + repent me!” + </p> + <p> + Then, with a look of resolve, she turned to her white-haired companion. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a friend,” she said—“a woman friend. Her name is Cynthia + Clarke. (I’m in the confessional now!) You may have heard of her. She was + a <i>cause celebre</i> some time ago. Her husband tried to divorce her, + poor man, and failed.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I never heard her name before,” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t read <i>causes celebres</i>. You have better things to do. + Well, she’s my friend. I don’t exactly know why. Her husband was + Councillor in my husband’s Embassy. But I knew her before that. We always + got on. She has peculiar fascination—a sort of strange beauty, a + very intelligent mind, and the strongest will I have ever known. She has + virtues of a kind. She never speaks against other women. If she knew a + secret of mine I am sure she would never tell it. She is thoroughbred. I + find her a very interesting woman. There is absolutely no one like her. + She’s a woman one would miss. That’s on one side. On the other—she’s + a cruel woman; she’s a consummate hypocrite; she’s absolutely corrupt. You + wonder why she’s my friend?” + </p> + <p> + “I did not say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor look it. But you do. Well, I suppose I haven’t many scruples except + about myself. And I have been trained in the let-other-people-alone + tradition. Besides, Cynthia Clarke never told me anything. No one has told + me. Being a not stupid woman, I just know what she is. I’ll put it + brutally, Mr. Robertson. She is a huntress of men. That is what she lives + for. But she deceives people into believing that she is a purely mental + woman. All the men whom she doesn’t hunt believe in her. Even women + believe in her. She has good friends among women. They stick to her. Why? + Because she intends them to. She has a conquering will. And she never + tells a secret—especially if it is her own. In her last sin—for + it is a sin—I have been a sort of accomplice. She meant me to be one + and”—Lady Ingleton slightly shrugged her shoulders—“I yielded + to her will. I don’t know why. I never know why I do what Cynthia Clarke + wishes. There are people like that; they just get what they want, because + they want it with force, I suppose. Most of us are rather weak, I think. + Cynthia Clarke hunted Dion Leith in his misery, and I helped her. Being an + ambassadress I have social influence on the Bosporus, and I used it for + Cynthia. I knew from the very first what she was about, what she meant to + do. Directly she mentioned Dion Leith to me and asked me to invite him to + the Embassy and be kind to him I understood. But I didn’t know Dion Leith + then. If I had thoroughly known him I should never have been a willing + cat’s-paw in a very ugly game. But once I had begun—I took them both + for a yachting trip—I did not know how to get out of it all. On that + yachting trip—I realized how that man was suffering and what he was. + I have never before known a man capable of suffering so intensely as Dion + Leith suffers. Does his wife know how he loves her? Can she know it? Can + she ever have known it?” + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson was silent. As she looked at his eyelids—his eyes + no longer met hers with their luminous glowing sincerity—Lady + Ingleton realized that he was the Confessor. + </p> + <p> + “Sometimes I have been on the verge of saying to him, ‘Go back to England, + go to your wife. Tell her, show her what she has done. Put up a big fight + for the life of your soul.’ But I have never been able to do it. A grief + like that is holy ground, isn’t it? One simply can’t set foot upon it. + Besides, I scarcely ever see Dion Leith now. He’s gone down, I think, gone + down very far.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “In Constantinople. I saw him by chance in Stamboul, near Santa Sophia, + just before I left for England. Oh, how he has changed! Cynthia Clarke is + destroying him. I know it. Once she told me he had been an athlete with + ideals. But now—now!” + </p> + <p> + Again the tears started into her eyes. Father Robertson looked up and saw + them. + </p> + <p> + “Poor, poor fellow!” she said. “I can’t bear to see him destroyed. Some + men—well, they seem almost entirely body. But he’s so different!” + </p> + <p> + She got up and stood by the fire. + </p> + <p> + “I have seen Mrs. Leith,” she said. “I once heard her sing in London. She + is extraordinarily beautiful. At that time she looked radiant. What did + you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Please go on,” Father Robertson said, very quietly. + </p> + <p> + “And she had a wonderful expression of joyous goodness which marked her + out from other women. You have a regard for her, and you are good. But you + care for truth, and so I’m going to tell you the truth. She may be a good + woman, but she has done a wicked action. Can’t you make her see it? Or + shall I try to?” + </p> + <p> + “You wish to see her?” + </p> + <p> + “I am ready to see her.” + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson again looked down. He seemed to be thinking deeply, to be + genuinely lost in thought. Lady Ingleton noticed this and did not disturb + him. For some minutes he sat without moving. At last he looked up and put + a question to Lady Ingleton which surprised her. He said: + </p> + <p> + “Are you absolutely certain that your friend Mrs. Clarke and Dion Leith + have been what people choose to call lovers?” + </p> + <p> + “Have been and are—absolutely certain. I could not prove it, but I + know it. He lives in Constantinople only for her.” + </p> + <p> + “And you think he has deteriorated?” + </p> + <p> + “Terribly. I know it. The other day he looked almost degraded; as men look + when they let physical things get absolute domination over them. It’s an + ugly subject, but—you and I know of these things.” + </p> + <p> + In her voice there was a sound of delicate apology. It was her tribute to + the serene purity of which she was aware in this man. + </p> + <p> + Again he seemed lost in thought. She trusted in his power of thought. He + was a man—she was certain of it—who would find the one path + which led out of the maze. His unself-conscious intentness was beautiful + in its unconventional simplicity, and was a tribute to her sincerity which + she was subtle enough to understand, and good woman enough to appreciate. + He was concentrated not upon her but upon the problem which was troubling + her. + </p> + <p> + “I am very glad you have come to Liverpool,” he said at length. “Very + glad.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled, and she, without exactly knowing why, smiled back at him. And + as she did so she felt extraordinarily simple, almost like a child. + </p> + <p> + “How long are you going to stay?” + </p> + <p> + “Till I know whether I can do any good,” she said, “till I have done it, + if that is possible.” + </p> + <p> + “Without mentioning any names, may I, if I think it wise, tell Mrs. Leith + of the change in her husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, but would it be wise to say exactly what the nature of the change is? + I’ve always heard that she is a woman with ideals, an exceptionally + pure-natured woman. She might be disgusted, even revolted, perhaps, if—” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” Father Robertson interrupted, rather abruptly. “What was + your intention then? What did you mean to tell Mrs. Leith if you saw her?” + </p> + <p> + “Of his great wretchedness, of his broken life—I suppose I—I + should have trusted to my instinct what to do when I saw her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + “But I can leave it to you,” she said, but still with a faint note of + hesitation, of doubt. “You know her.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know her.” + </p> + <p> + He paused. Then, with an almost obstinate firmness, a sort of pressure, he + added, “Have I your permission—I may not do it—to tell Mrs. + Leith that her husband has been unfaithful to her with some one in + Constantinople?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton slightly reddened; she looked down and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “It may be necessary if your purpose in coming here is to be achieved,” + said Father Robertson, still with pressure. + </p> + <p> + “You may do whatever you think best,” she said, with a sigh. + </p> + <p> + He got up to go. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind very much staying on here for two or three days, even for + a week, if necessary?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. + </p> + <p> + “A whole week of Liverpool!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “How many years have you been here?” + </p> + <p> + “A good many. I’m almost losing count.” + </p> + <p> + When he was gone Lady Ingleton sat for a long while before the fire. + </p> + <p> + The sad influence of the blackness of rainy Liverpool had lifted from her. + Her impulse had received a welcome which had warmed her. + </p> + <p> + “I love that man,” she thought. “Carey would love him too.” + </p> + <p> + He had said very little, and how loyal he had been in his silence, how + loyal to the woman she had attacked. In words he had not defended her, but + somehow he had conveyed to Lady Ingleton a sense of his protective love + and immense pity for the woman who had been bereft of her child. How he + had conveyed this she could not have said. But as she sat there before the + fire she was aware that, since Father Robertson’s visit, she felt + differently about Dion Leith’s wife. Mysteriously she began to feel the + sorrow of the woman as well as, and side by side with, the sorrow of the + man. + </p> + <p> + “If it had been my child?” she thought. “If my husband had done it?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X + </h2> + <h3> + [Page missing in original book.] + </h3> + <p> + Since the death of Robin and Rosamund’s arrival in Liverpool, Father + Robertson had made acquaintance with her sister and with the mother of + Dion. And both these women had condemned Rosamund for what she had done, + and had begged him to try to bring about a change in her heart. Both of + them, too, had dwelt upon the exceptional quality of Dion’s love for his + wife. Mrs. Leith had been unable to conceal the bitterness of her feeling + against Rosamund. The mother in her way, was outraged. Beatrice Daventry + had shown no bitterness. She loved and understood her sister too well to + rage against her for anything that she did or left undone. But this very + love of her sister, so clearly shown, had made her condemnation of + Rosamund’s action the more impressive. And her pity for Dion was supreme. + Through Beatrice Father Robertson had gained an insight into Dion’s love, + and into another love, too; but of that he scarcely allowed himself even + to think. There are purities so intense that, like fire, they burn those + who would handle them, however tenderly. About Beatrice Father Robertson + felt that he knew something he dared not know. Indeed, he was hardly + sincere about that matter with himself. Perhaps this was his only + insincerity. + </p> + <p> + With his friend, Canon Wilton, too, he had spoken of Rosamund, and had + found himself in the presence of a sort of noble anger. Now, in his little + room, as he knelt in meditation, he remembered a saying of the Canon’s, + spoken in the paneled library at Welsley: “Leith has a great heart. When + will his wife understand its greatness?” + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson pressed his thin hands upon his closed eyes. He longed + for guidance and he felt almost distressed. Rosamund had submitted herself + to him, had given herself into his hands, but tacitly she had kept + something back. She had never permitted him to direct her in regard to her + relation with her husband. It was in regard to her relation with God that + she had submitted herself to him. + </p> + <p> + How grotesque that was! + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson’s face burned. + </p> + <p> + Before Rosamund had come to him she had closed the book of her married + life with a frantic hand. And Father Robertson had left the book closed. + He saw his delicacy now as cowardice. In his religious relation with + Rosamund he had been too much of a gentleman! When Mrs. Leith, Beatrice, + Canon Wilton had appealed to him, he had said that he would do what he + could some day, but that he felt time must be given to Rosamund, a long + time, to recover from the tremendous shock she had undergone. He had + waited. Something imperative had kept him back from ever going fully with + Rosamund into the question of her separation from her husband. He had + certainly spoken of it, but he had never discussed it, had never got to + the bottom of it, although he had felt that some day he must be quite + frank with her about it. + </p> + <p> + Some day! No doubt he had been waiting for a propitious moment, that + moment which never comes. Or had his instinct told him that anything he + could say upon that subject to Rosamund would be utterly impotent, that + there was a threshold his influence could not cross? Perhaps really his + instinct had told him to wait, and he was not a moral coward. For to + strive against a woman’s deep feeling is surely to beat against the wind. + When men do certain things all women look upon them with an inevitable + disdain, as children being foolish in the dark. + </p> + <p> + Had he secretly feared to seem foolish in Rosamund’s eyes? + </p> + <p> + He wondered, genuinely wondered. + </p> + <p> + On the following morning he wrote to Rosamund and asked her to come to the + vicarage at any hour when she was free. He had something important to say + to her. She answered, fixing three-thirty. Exactly at that time she + arrived in Manxby Street and was shown into Father Robertson’s study. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had changed, greatly changed, but in a subtle rather than a + fiercely definite way. She had not aged as many women age when overtaken + by sorrow. Her pale yellow hair was still bright. There was no gray in it + and it grew vigorously upon her classical head as if intensely alive. She + still looked physically strong. She was still a young and beautiful woman. + But all the radiance had gone out from her. She had been full of it; now + she was empty of it. + </p> + <p> + In the walled garden at Welsley, as she paced the narrow walks and + listened to the distant murmur of the organ, and the faint sound of the + Dresden Amen, in her joy she had looked sometimes almost like a nun. She + had looked as if she had the “vocation” for religion. Now, in her + “sister’s” dress, she had not that inner look of calm, of the spirit lying + still in Almighty arms, which so often marks out those who have definitely + abandoned the ordinary life of the world for the dedicated life. Rosamund + had taken no perpetual vows; she was free at any moment to withdraw from + the Sisterhood in which she was living with many devoted women who labored + among the poor, and who prayed, as some people work, with an ardor which + physically tired them. But nevertheless she had definitely retired from + all that means life to the average woman of her type and class, with no + intention of ever going back to it. She had taken a step towards the + mystery which many people think of casually on appointed days, and which + many people ignore, or try to ignore. Yet now she did not look as if she + had the vocation. When she had lived in the world she had seemed, in spite + of all her <i>joie de vivre</i>, of all her animation and vitality, + somehow apart from it. Now she seemed, somehow, apart from the world of + religion, from the calm and laborious world in which she had chosen to + dwell. She looked indeed almost strangely pure, but there was in her face + an expression of acute restlessness, perpetually seen among those who are + grasping at passing pleasures, scarcely ever seen among those who have + deliberately resigned them. + </p> + <p> + This was surely a woman who had sought and who had not found, who was + uneasy in self-sacrifice, who had striven, who was striving still, to draw + near to the gates of heaven, but who had not come upon the path which led + up the mountain-side to them. Sorrow was stamped on the face, and + something else, too—the seal of that corrosive disease of the soul, + dissatisfaction with self. + </p> + <p> + This was not Rosamund; this was a woman with Rosamund’s figure, face, + hair, eyes, voice, gestures, movements—one who would be Rosamund but + for some terrible flaw. + </p> + <p> + She was alone in the little study for a few minutes before Father + Robertson came. She did not sit down, but moved about, looking now at this + thing, now at that. In her white forehead there were two vertical lines + which were never smoothed out. An irreligious person, looking at her just + then, might have felt moved to say, with a horrible irony, “And can God do + no more than that for the woman who dedicates her life to His service?” + </p> + <p> + The truth of the whole matter lay in this: that whereas once God had + seemed to stand between Rosamund and Dion, now Dion seemed to stand + between Rosamund and God. + </p> + <p> + But even Father Robertson did not know this. + </p> + <p> + Presently the door opened and the Father came in. + </p> + <p> + Instantly Rosamund noticed that he looked slightly ill at ease, almost, + indeed, embarrassed. He shook hands with her in his gentle way and made a + few ordinary remarks about little matters in which they were mutually + interested. Then he asked her to sit down, sat down near her and was + silent. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her, and there was something almost piercing in his eyes + which she had never noticed in them before. + </p> + <p> + “Last night,” he said, “when I came home I found here a note from a + stranger, asking me to visit her at the Adelphi Hotel where she was + staying. She wrote that she had come to Liverpool on purpose to see me. I + went to the hotel and had an interview with her. This interview concerned + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Concerned me?” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + Her voice did not sound as if she were actively surprised. There was a + lack of tone in it. It sounded, indeed, almost dry. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Did you ever hear of Lady Ingleton?” + </p> + <p> + After an instant of consideration Rosamund said: + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I believe I met her somewhere once. Isn’t she married to an + ambassador?” + </p> + <p> + “To our Ambassador at Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I sang once at some house where she was, in the days when I used + to sing.” + </p> + <p> + “She has heard you sing.” + </p> + <p> + “That was it then. But what can she want with me?” + </p> + <p> + “Your husband is in Constantinople. She knows him there.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund flushed to the roots of her yellow hair. When he saw that painful + wave of red go over her face Father Robertson looked away. All the + delicacy in him felt the agony of her outraged reserve. Her body had + stiffened. + </p> + <p> + “I must speak about this,” he said. “Forgive me if you can. But even if + you cannot, I must speak.” + </p> + <p> + She looked down. Her face was still burning. + </p> + <p> + “You have let me know a great deal about yourself,” he went on. “That fact + doesn’t give me any right to be curious. On the contrary! But I think, + perhaps, your confidence has given me a right to try to help you + spiritually even at the cost of giving you great mental pain. For a long + time I have felt that perhaps in my relation to you I have been morally a + coward.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked up. + </p> + <p> + “You could never be a coward,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know that. Nobody knows that, perhaps, except myself. However + that may be, I must not play the coward now. Lady Ingleton met your + husband in Turkey. She brings very painful news of him.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund clasped her hands together and let them lie on her knees. She was + looking steadily at Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + “His—his misery has made such an impression upon her that she felt + obliged to come here. She sent for me. But her real object in coming was + to see you, if possible. Will you see her?” + </p> + <p> + “No, no; I can’t do that. I don’t know her.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I ought to tell you what she said. She asked me if you had ever + understood how much your husband loves you. Her exact words were, ‘Does + his wife know how he loves her? Can she know it? Can she ever have known + it?’” + </p> + <p> + All the red had died away from Rosamund’s face. She had become very pale. + Her eyes were steady. She sat without moving, and seemed to be listening + with fixed, even with strained, attention. + </p> + <p> + “And then she went on to tell me something which might seem to a great + many people to be quite contradictory of what she had just said—and + she said it with the most profound conviction. She told me that your + husband has fallen very low.” + </p> + <p> + “Fallen——?” Rosamund said, in a dim voice. + </p> + <p> + “Just before she left Constantinople she saw him in Stamboul by chance. + She said that he had the dreadful appearance that men have when they are + entirely dominated by physical things.” + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she said. + </p> + <p> + And there was sheer amazement in her voice now. + </p> + <p> + After an instant she added: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it. It wasn’t Dion.” + </p> + <p> + “I must tell you something more,” said Father Robertson painfully. “Lady + Ingleton knows that your husband has been unfaithful to you; she knows the + woman with whom he has been unfaithful. That unfaithfulness continues. So + she affirms. And in spite of that, she asks me whether you can know how + much your husband loves you.” + </p> + <p> + While he had been speaking he had been looking down. Now he heard a + movement, a rustling. He looked up quickly. Rosamund was going towards the + door. + </p> + <p> + “Please—don’t—don’t!” she whispered, turning her face away. + </p> + <p> + And she went out. + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson did not follow her. + </p> + <p> + Early in the following morning he received this note: + </p> + <p> + “ST. MARY’S SISTERHOOD, LIVERPOOL, Thursday + </p> + <p> + “DEAR FATHER ROBERTSON,—I don’t think I can see Lady Ingleton. I am + almost sure I can’t. Perhaps she has gone already. If not, how long does + she intend to stay here? + </p> + <p> + “R. L.” + </p> + <p> + The Father communicated with Lady Ingleton, and that evening let Rosamund + know that Lady Ingleton would be in Liverpool for a few more days. + </p> + <p> + When Rosamund read his letter she wished, or believed that she wished, + that Lady Ingleton had gone. Then this matter which tormented her would be + settled, finished with. There would be nothing to be done, and she could + take up her monotonous life again and forget this strange intrusion from + the outside world, forget this voice from the near East which had told + such ugly tidings. Till now she had not even known where Dion was. She + knew he had given up his business in London and had left England; but that + was all. She had refused to have any news of him. She had made it plainly + understood long ago, when the wound was fresh in her soul, that Dion’s + name was never to be mentioned in letters to her. She had tried by every + means to blot his memory out of her mind as she had blotted his presence + out of her life. In this effort she had totally failed. Dion had never + left her since he had killed Robin. In the flesh he had pursued her in the + walled garden at Welsley on that dark night of November when for her the + whole world had changed. In another intangible, mysterious guise he had + attended her ever since. He had been about her path and about her bed. + Even when she knelt at the altar in the Supreme Service he had been there. + She had felt his presence as she touched the water, as she lifted the cup. + Through all these months she had learnt to know that there are those whom, + once we have taken them in, we cannot cast out of our lives. + </p> + <p> + Since the death of Robin, in absence Dion had assumed a place in her life + which he had never occupied in the days of their happiness. Sometimes she + had bitterly resented this; sometimes she had tried to ignore it; + sometimes, like a cross, she had taken it up and tried to bear it with + patience or with bravery. She had even prayed against it. + </p> + <p> + Never were prayers more vain than those which she put up against this + strange and terrible possession of herself by the man she had tried to + cast out of her life. Sometimes even it seemed to her that when she prayed + thus Dion’s power to affect her increased. It was as if mysteriously he + drew nearer to her, as if he enveloped her with an influence from which + she could not extricate herself. There were hours in the night when she + felt afraid of him. She knew that wherever he was, however far off, his + mind was concentrated upon her. She grew to realize, as she had never + realized before, what mental power is. She had separated her body from + Dion’s, but his mind would not leave her alone. Often she was conscious of + hostility. When she strove to give herself absolutely and entirely to the + life of religion and of charity she was aware of a force holding her back. + This force—so it seemed to her—would not permit her to enter + into the calm and the peace of the dedicated life. She was like some one + looking in at a doorway, desirous of entering a room. She saw the room + clearly; she saw others enjoying its warmth and its shelter and its serene + and guarded tranquillity; but she was unable to cross the threshold. + </p> + <p> + That warm and sheltered room was not for her. And it was Dion’s force + which held her back from entering it and from dwelling in it. + </p> + <p> + She could not give herself wholly to God because of Dion. + </p> + <p> + Of her struggle, of her frustration, of her mental torment in this + connexion she had never spoken to Father Robertson. Even in confession she + had been silent. He knew of her mother-agony; he did not know of the + stranger, more subtle agony beneath it. He did not know that whereas the + one agony with the lapse of time was not passing away—it would never + do that—but was becoming more tender, more full of tears and of + sweet recollections, the other agony grew harsher, more menacing. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had gradually come to feel that Robin had been taken out of her + arms for some great, though hidden, reason. And because of this feeling + she was learning to endure his loss with a sort of resignation. She often + thought that perhaps she had been allowed to have this consolation because + she had made an immense effort. When Robin died she had driven Dion, who + had killed her child, out of her life, but she had succeeded in saying to + God, “Thy will be done!” She had said it at first as a mere formula, had + repeated it obstinately again and again, without meaning it at all, but + trying to mean it, meaning to mean it. She had made a prodigious, a truly + heroic effort to conquer her powerfully rebellious nature, and, in this + effort, she had been helped by Father Robertson. He knew of the anger + which had overwhelmed her when her mother had died, of how she had wished + to hurt God. He knew that, with bloody sweat, she had destroyed that enemy + within her. She had wished to submit to the will of God when Robin had + been snatched from her, and at last she had actually submitted. It was a + great triumph of the spirit. But perhaps it had left her exhausted. At any + rate she had never been able to forgive God’s instrument, her husband. And + so she had never been able to know the peace of God which many of these + women by whom she was surrounded knew. In her misery she contemplated + their calm. To labor and to pray—that seemed enough to many of them, + to most of them. She had known calm in the garden at Welsley; in the + Sisterhood she knew it not. + </p> + <p> + The man who was always with her assassinated calm. She felt strangely from + a distance the turmoil of his spirit. She knew of his misery occultly. She + did not deduce it from her former knowledge of what he was. And his + suffering made her suffer in a terrible way. He was her victim and she was + his. + </p> + <p> + <i>Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.</i> + </p> + <p> + In the Sisterhood Rosamund had learnt, always against her will and despite + the utmost effort of her obstinacy, the uselessness of that command; she + had learnt that those whom God hath really joined together cannot be put + asunder by man—or by woman. Dion had killed her child, but she had + not been able to kill what she was to Dion and what Dion was to her. + Through the mingling of their two beings there had been born a mystery + which was, perhaps, eternal like the sound of the murmur in the pine trees + above the Valley of Olympia. + </p> + <p> + She could not trample it into nothingness. + </p> + <p> + At first, after the tragedy of which Robin had been the victim, Rosamund + had felt a horror of Dion which was partly animal. She had fled from him + because she had been physically afraid of him. He had been changed for her + from the man who loved her, and whom she loved in her different way, into + the slayer of her child. She knew, of course, quite well that Dion was not + a murderer, but nevertheless she thought of him as one thinks of a + murderer. The blood of her child was upon his hands. She trembled at the + thought of being near him. Nevertheless, because she was not mad, in time + reason asserted itself within her. Dion disappeared out of her life. He + did not put up the big fight for the big thing of which Lady Ingleton had + once spoken to her husband. His type of love was far too sensitive to + struggle and fight on its own behalf. When he had heard the key of his + house door turned against him, when, later, Mr. Darlington with infinite + precautions had very delicately explained to him why it had been done, + Rosamund had attained her freedom. He had waited on for a time in England, + but he had somehow never been able really to hope for any change in his + wife. His effort to make her see the tragedy in its true light had + exhausted itself in the garden at Welsley. Her frantic evasion of him had + brought it to an end. He could not renew it. Even if he had been ready to + renew it those about Rosamund would have dissuaded him from doing so. + Every one who was near her saw plainly that “for the present”—as + they put it—Dion must keep out of her life. + </p> + <p> + And gradually Rosamund had lost that half-animal fear of him, gradually + she had come to realize something of the tragedy of his situation. A + change had come about in her almost in despite of herself. And yet she had + never been able to forgive him for what he had done. Her reason knew that + she had nothing to forgive; her religious sense, her conception of God, + obliged her to believe that Dion had been God’s instrument when he had + killed his child; but something within her refused him pardon. Perhaps she + felt that pardon could only mean one thing—reconciliation. And now + had come Lady Ingleton’s revelation. Instinctively as Rosamund left Father + Robertson’s little room she had tried to hide her face. She had received a + blow, and the pain of it frightened her. She was startled by her own + suffering. What did it mean? What did it portend? She had no right to feel + as she did. Long ago she had abandoned the right to such a feeling. + </p> + <p> + The information Lady Ingleton had brought outraged Rosamund. Anger and a + sort of corrosive shame struggled for the mastery within her. + </p> + <p> + She felt humiliated to the dust. She felt dirty, soiled. + </p> + <p> + Dion had been unfaithful to her. + </p> + <p> + With whom? + </p> + <p> + The white face of Mrs. Clarke came before Rosamund in the murky street, + two wide-open distressed and intent eyes started into hers. + </p> + <p> + The woman was Mrs. Clarke. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke—and Dion. Mrs. Clarke had succeeded in doing what long + ago she had designed to do. She had succeeded in taking possession of + Dion. + </p> + <p> + “Because I threw him away! Because I threw him away!” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund found herself repeating those words again and again. + </p> + <p> + “I threw him away, I threw him away. Otherwise——” + </p> + <p> + She reached the Sisterhood and went to her little room. How she got + through the remaining duties of that day she never remembered afterwards. + The calmness of routine flagellated her nerves. She felt undressed and + feared the eyes of the sisters. After the evening service in the little + chapel attached to the Sisterhood she was unable either to meditate, to + praise, or to pray. During the long pause for silent prayer she felt like + one on a galloping horse. In the intense silence her ears seemed to hear + the beating of hoofs on an iron road. And the furious horse was bearing + her away into some region of darkness and terror. + </p> + <p> + There was a rustling movement. The sisters slowly rose from their knees. + Again Rosamund was conscious of feeling soiled, dirty, in the midst of + them. As they filed out, she with them, a burning hatred came to her. She + hated the woman who was the cause of her feeling dirty. She wanted to use + her hands, to tear something away from her body—the dirt, the + foulness. For she felt it actually on her body. Her physical purity was + desecrated by—she wouldn’t think of it. + </p> + <p> + When she was alone in her little sleeping-room, the door shut, one candle + burning, her eyes went to the wooden crucifix beneath which every night + before getting into her narrow bed she knelt in prayer, and she began to + cry. She sat down on the bed and cried and cried. All her flesh seemed + melting into tears. + </p> + <p> + “My poor life! My poor life!” + </p> + <p> + That was the interior cry of her being, again and again repeated—“My + poor life—stricken, soiled, crushed down in the ooze of a nameless + filth.” + </p> + <p> + Childless and now betrayed! How terrible had been her happiness on the + edge of the pit! The days in Greece—Robin—Dion’s return from + the war! And she had wished to live rightly; she had loved the noble + things; she had had ideals and she had tried to follow them. Purity before + all she had—— + </p> + <p> + She sickened; her crying became violent. Afraid lest some of the sisters + should hear her, she pressed her hands over her face and sank down on the + bed. + </p> + <p> + Presently she saw Mrs. Clarke before her, the woman whom she had thought + to keep out of her life—the fringe of her life—and who had + found the way into the sacred places. + </p> + <p> + She cried for a long while, lying there on the bed, with her face pressed + against her hands, and her hands pressed against the pillow; but at least + she ceased from crying. She had poured out all the tears of her body. + </p> + <p> + She sat up. It was long past midnight. The house was silent. Slowly she + began to undress, hating her body all the time. She bathed her face and + hands in cold water, and, when she felt the water, shivered at the thought + of the stain. When she was ready for bed she looked again at the crucifix. + She ought to pray, she must pray. She went to the crucifix and stood in + front of it, but her knees refused to bend. Her pride of woman had + received a terrific blow that day, and just because of that she felt she + could not humble herself. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot pray—I won’t pray,” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + And she turned away, put out the light and got into bed. + </p> + <p> + That Dion should have done that, should have been able to do that! + </p> + <p> + And she remembered what it was she had first loved in Dion, the thing + which had made him different from other men; she remembered the days and + the nights in Greece. She saw two lovers in a morning land descending the + path from the hill of Drouva, going down into the green recesses of quiet + Elis. She saw Hermes and the child. + </p> + <p> + All that night she lay awake. In the morning she sent the note to Father + Robertson. + </p> + <p> + She could not see Lady Ingleton and yet she dreaded her departure. She + wanted to know more, much more. A gnawing hunger of curiosity assailed + her. This woman had been with Dion—since. This woman knew of his + infidelity; yet she affirmed his love for his wife. But the one knowledge + surely gave the lie to the other. + </p> + <p> + Why did she care? Why did she care so much? Rosamund asked herself the + question almost with terror. + </p> + <p> + She found no answer. + </p> + <p> + But she could not pray. Whenever she tried to pray Mrs. Clarke came before + her, and a man—could it be Dion?—stamped with the hideous + imprint of physical lust. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Father Robertson was startled by the change in Rosamund’s appearance when + she visited him two days after she had sent him the note. She looked + physically ill. Her color had gone. Her eyes were feverish and sunken, and + the skin beneath them was stained with that darkness which betokens nights + without sleep. Her lips and hands twitched with a nervousness that was + painful. But that which distressed him more than any other thing was the + expression in her face—the look of shame and of self-consciousness + which altered her almost horribly. Even in her most frantic moments of + grief for Robin there had always been something of directness, of + fearlessness, in her beauty. Now something furtive literally disfigured + her, and she seemed trying to cover it with a dogged obstinacy which + suggested a will stretched to the uttermost, vibrating like a string in + danger of snapping. + </p> + <p> + “Has Lady Ingleton gone?” she asked, directly she was inside the room. + </p> + <p> + “No, not yet. You remember I wrote to you that she would stay on for a few + days.” + </p> + <p> + “But she might have gone unexpectedly.” + </p> + <p> + “She is still here.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I shall have to see her,” Rosamund said, with a sort of hard + abruptness and determination. + </p> + <p> + “Go to see her,” said Father Robertson firmly. “Perhaps she was sent + here.” + </p> + <p> + “Sent here?” said Rosamund, with a sharpness of sudden suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my child,”—he put his hand on her arm, and made her sit down,—“not + by a human being.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked down and was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Before you go, if you are going,” Father Robertson continued, sitting + down by the deal table on which he wrote his letters, “I must do what I + ought to have done long ago; I must speak to you about your husband.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund did not look up, but he saw her frown, and he saw a movement of + her lips; they trembled and then set together in a hard line. + </p> + <p> + “I know what he was, not from you but from others; from his mother, from + your sister, and from Canon Wilton. I’m going to tell you something Wilton + said to me about you and him after you had separated from him.” + </p> + <p> + Father Robertson stopped, and fidgeted for a moment with the papers lying + in disorder on his table. He hated the task he had set himself to do. All + the tenderness in him revolted against it. He knew what this woman whom he + cared for very much had suffered; he divined what she was suffering now. + And he was going to add to her accumulated misery by striking a tremendous + blow at the most sacred thing, her pride of woman. Would she be his enemy + after he had spoken? It was possible. Yet he must speak. + </p> + <p> + “He said to me—‘Leith has a great heart. When will his wife + understand its greatness?’” + </p> + <p> + There was a long silence. Then, without changing her position or lifting + her head, Rosamund said in a hard, level voice: + </p> + <p> + “Canon Wilton was right about my husband.” + </p> + <p> + “He loved you. That’s a great deal. But he loved you in a very beautiful + way. And that’s much more.” + </p> + <p> + “Who told you—about the way he loved me?” + </p> + <p> + “Your sister, Beatrice.” + </p> + <p> + “Beattie! Yes, she knew—she understood.” + </p> + <p> + She bent her head a little lower, then added: + </p> + <p> + “Beattie is worth more than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “You are worth a great deal, but—but I want to see you rise to the + heights of your nature. I want to see you accomplish the greatest task of + all.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Conquer the last citadel of your egoism. <i>Ego dormio et cor meum + vigilat</i>—Send the insistent I to sleep. I said it to you long ago + before I knew you. I say it to you now when I do know you, when I know the + deep waters you have passed through, and the darkness that has beset you. + Fetter your egoism. Release your heart and your spirit in one great + action. Don’t let him go down forever because of you. I believe your + misery has been as nothing in comparison with his. If he has fallen—such + a man—why is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I know why,” she almost whispered. + </p> + <p> + “You can never mount up while you are driving a soul downwards. Do you + remember those words in the Bible: ‘Where thou goest I will go’?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps they might be changed in respect of you and the man who loved you + so much and in such a beautiful way. You were linked; can the link ever be + broken? You have tried to break it, but have you succeeded? And if not, + wouldn’t it be true, drastically true, if you said—Where thou goest + I <i>must</i> go? If he goes down because of you I think you’ll go down + with him.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund sat absolutely still. When Father Robertson paused again there + was not a sound in the little room. + </p> + <p> + “And one thing more,” he said, not looking towards her. “There’s the + child, your child and his. Is it well with the child?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund moved and looked up. Then she got up from her chair. + </p> + <p> + “But—but—Robin’s——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Her eyes were fixed on Father Robertson. He looked up and met + her eyes, and she saw plainly the mystic in him. + </p> + <p> + “What do we know?” he said. “What do we know of the effects of our + actions? Can we be certain that they are limited to this earth? Is it well + with the child? I say we don’t know. We dare not affirm that we know. He + loved his father, didn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund looked stricken. He let her go. He could not say any more to her. + </p> + <p> + That evening Lady Ingleton called in Manxby Street and asked for Father + Robertson. He happened to be in and received her at once. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had a note from Mrs. Leith,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I am not surprised,” said Father Robertson. “Indeed I expected it.” + </p> + <p> + “She wishes to see me to-morrow. She writes that she will come to the + hotel. How have you persuaded her to come?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I have persuaded her though I wish her to see you. But I + have told her of her husband’s infidelity.” + </p> + <p> + “You have told her——!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton stopped short. She looked unusually discomposed, even + nervous and agitated. + </p> + <p> + “I said you might,” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + “It was essential.” + </p> + <p> + “If Cynthia knew!” said Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + “I mentioned no name.” + </p> + <p> + “She must have guessed. It’s odd, when I told you I didn’t feel + treacherous—not really! But now I feel a brute. I’ve never done + anything like this before. It’s against all my code. I’ve come here, done + all this, and now I dread meeting Mrs. Leith. I wish you could be there + when she comes.” + </p> + <p> + She sent him a soft glance out of her Italian eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You make me feel so safe,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “You and she must be alone. Remember this! Mrs. Leith must go out to + Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave the Sisterhood! Will she ever do that?” + </p> + <p> + “You came here with the hope of persuading her, didn’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “A hope was it? A forlorn hope, perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + “Bring it to fruition.” + </p> + <p> + “But Cynthia! If she ever knows!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Father Robertson looked stern. + </p> + <p> + “If what you told me is true——” + </p> + <p> + “It is true.” + </p> + <p> + “Then she is doing the devil’s work. Put away your fears. They aren’t + worthy of you.” + </p> + <p> + As she took his hand in the saying of good-by she said: + </p> + <p> + “Your code is so different from ours. We think the only possible thing to + do—where a friend is concerned—is to shut the eyes and the + lips, and to pretend, and to keep on always pretending. We call that being + honorable.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor things!” said Father Robertson. + </p> + <p> + But he pressed her hand as he said it, and there was an almost tender + smile on his lips. + </p> + <p> + “But your love of truth isn’t quite dead yet,” he added, on the threshold + of the door, as he let her out into the rain. “You haven’t been able to + kill it. It’s an indomitable thing, thank God.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish I—why do you live always in Liverpool?” she murmured. + </p> + <p> + She put up her little silk umbrella and was gone. + </p> + <p> + There was a fire in her sitting-room on the following-morning. The day was + windy and cold, for March was going out resentfully. Before the fire lay + Turkish Jane on a cushion, blinking placidly at the flames. Already she + had become reconciled to her new life in this unknown city. Her ecstasy of + the journey had not returned, but the surprise which had succeeded to it + was now merged in a stagnant calm, and she felt no objection to passing + the remainder of her life in the Adelphi Hotel. She supposed that she was + comfortably settled for the day when she heard her mistress call for + Annette and give the most objectionable order. + </p> + <p> + “Please take Jane away, Annette,” said Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + “Miladi!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want her here this morning. I’m expecting a visitor, and Jane + might bark. I don’t wish to have a noise in the room.” + </p> + <p> + Annette, who looked decidedly sulky, approached the cushion, bent down, + and rather abruptly snatched the amazed doyenne of the Pekinese from her + voluptuous reveries. + </p> + <p> + “We shall probably leave here to-morrow,” Lady Ingleton added. + </p> + <p> + Annette’s expression changed. + </p> + <p> + “We’re going back to London, Miladi?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so. I’ll tell you this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + She glanced at her watch. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t wish to be disturbed for an hour. Don’t leave Jane in my bedroom. + Take her away to yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Miladi.” + </p> + <p> + Annette went out looking inquisitive, with Turkish Jane on her arm. + </p> + <p> + When she was gone Lady Ingleton took up “The Liverpool Mercury” and tried + to read the news of the day. The March wind roared outside and made the + windows rattle. She listened to it and forgot the chronicle of the passing + hour. She was a women who cared to know the big things that were happening + in the big world. She had always lived among men who were helping to make + history, and she was intelligent enough to understand their efforts and to + join in their discussions. Her husband had often consulted her when he was + in a tight place, and sometimes he had told her she had the brain of a + man. But she had the nerves and the heart of a woman, and at this moment + public affairs and the news of the day did not interest her at all. She + was concentrated on woman’s business. Into her hands she had taken a + tangled love skein. And she was almost frightened at what she had ventured + to do. Could she hope to be of any use, of any help, in getting it into + order? Was there any chance for the man she had last seen in Stamboul near + Santa Sophia? She almost dreaded Rosamund Leith’s arrival. She felt + nervous, strung up. The roar of the wind added to her uneasiness. It + suggested turmoil, driven things, the angry passions of nature. Beyond the + Mersey the sea was raging. She had a stupid feeling that nature and man + were always in a ferment, that it was utterly useless to wish for peace, + or to try to bring about peace, that destinies could only be worked out to + their appointed ends in darkness and in fury. She even forgot her own + years of happiness for a little while and saw herself as a woman always + anxious, doubtful, and envisaging untoward things. When a knock came on + the door she started and got up quickly from her chair. Her heart was + beating fast. How ridiculous! + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” she said. + </p> + <p> + A waiter opened the door and showed in Rosamund + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI + </h2> + <p> + Lady Ingleton looked swiftly at the woman coming in at the doorway clad in + the severe, voluminous, black gown and cloak, and black and white + headgear, which marked out the members of the Sisterhood of St. Mary’s. + Her first thought was “What a cold face!” It was succeeded immediately by + the thought, “But beautiful even in its coldness.” She met Rosamund near + the door, took her hand, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I am glad you were able to come. I wanted very much to meet you. I came + here really with the faint hope of seeing you. Let me take your umbrella. + What a day it is! Did you walk?” + </p> + <p> + “I came most of the way by tram. Thank you,” said Rosamund, in a contralto + voice which sounded inflexible. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton went to “stand” the umbrella in a corner. In doing this she + turned away from her visitor for a moment. She felt more embarrassed, more + “at a loss” than she had ever felt before; she even felt guilty, though + she had done no wrong and was anxious only to do right. Her sense of + guilt, she believed, was caused by the fact that in her heart she + condemned her visitor, and by the additional, more unpleasant fact that + she knew Rosamund was aware of her condemnation. + </p> + <p> + “It’s hateful—so much knowledge between two women who are strangers + to each other!” she thought, as she turned round. + </p> + <p> + “Do sit down by the fire,” she said to Rosamund, who was standing near the + writing-table immediately under a large engraving of “Wedded.” + </p> + <p> + She wished ardently that Rosamund wore the ordinary clothes of a + well-dressed woman of the world. The religious panoply of the “sister’s” + attire, with its suggestion of a community apart, got on her nerves, and + seemed to make things more difficult. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund went to a chair and sat down. She still looked very cold, but she + succeeded in looking serene, and her eyes, unworldly and pure, did not + fall before Lady Ingleton’s. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton sat down near her and immediately realized that she had + placed herself exactly opposite to “Wedded.” She turned her eyes away from + the large nude arms of the bending man and met Rosamund’s gaze fixed + steadily upon her. That gaze told her not to delay, but to go straight to + the tragic business which had brought her to Liverpool. + </p> + <p> + “You know of course that my husband is Ambassador at Constantinople,” she + began. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “You and I met—at least we were in the same room once—at + Tippie Chetwinde’s,” said Lady Ingleton, almost pleading with her visitor. + “I heard you sing.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I remember. I told Father Robertson so.” + </p> + <p> + “I dare say you think it very strange my coming here in this way.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of the strong effort of her will Lady Ingleton was feeling with + every moment more painfully embarrassed. All her code was absolutely + against mixing in the private concerns of others uninvited. She had a sort + of delicate hatred of curiosity. She longed to prove to the woman by the + fire that she was wholly incurious now, wholly free from the taint of + sordid vulgarity that clings to the social busybody. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done it solely because I’m very sorry for some one,” she continued; + “because I’m very sorry for your husband.” + </p> + <p> + She looked away from Rosamund, and again her eyes rested on the engraving + of “Wedded.” The large bare arms of the man, his bending, amorous head, + almost hypnotized her. She disliked the picture of which this was a + reproduction. Far too many people had liked it; their affection seemed to + her to have been destructive, to have destroyed any value it had formerly + had. Yet now, as she looked almost in despite of herself, suddenly she saw + through the engraving, through the symbol, to something beyond; to the + prompting conception in the painter’s mind which had led to the picture, + to the great mystery of the pathetic attempt of human beings who love, or + who think they love, to unite themselves to each other, to mingle body + with body and soul with soul. She saw a woman in the dress of a “sister,” + the woman who was with her; she saw a man in an Eastern city; and abruptly + courage came to her on the wings of a genuine emotion. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how to tell you what I feel about him, Mrs. Leith,” she + said. “But I want to try to. Will you let me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Please tell me,” said Rosamund, in a level, expressionless voice. + </p> + <p> + “Remember this; I never saw him till I saw him in Turkey, nor did my + husband. We were not able to draw any comparison between the unhappy man + and the happy man. We were unprejudiced.” + </p> + <p> + “I quite understand that; thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “It was in the summer. We were living at Therapia on the Bosporus. He came + to stay in a hotel not far off. My husband met him in a valley which the + Turks call Kesstane Dereh. He—your husband—was sitting there + alone by a stream. They talked. My husband asked him to call at our summer + villa. He came the next day. Of course I—I knew something of his + story”—she hurried on—“and I was prepared to meet a man who + was unhappy. (Forgive me for saying all this.)” + </p> + <p> + “But, please, I have come to hear,” said Rosamund, coldly and steadily. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband—I was alone with him during his first visit—made + an extraordinary impression upon me. I scarcely know how to describe it.” + She paused for a moment. “There was something intensely bitter in his + personality. Bitterness is an active principle. And yet somehow he + conveyed to me an impression of emptiness too. I remember he said to me, + ‘I don’t quite know what I am going to do. I’m a free agent. I have no + ties.’ I shall never forget his look when he said those words. I never + knew anything about loneliness—anything really—till that + moment. And after that moment I knew everything. I asked him to come on + the yacht to Brusa, or rather to Mudania; from there one goes to Brusa. He + came. You may think, perhaps, that he was eager for society, for pleasure, + distraction. It wasn’t that. He was making a tremendous, a terrible effort + to lay hold on life again, to interest himself in things. He was pushed to + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Pushed to it!” said Rosamund, still in the hard level voice. “Who pushed + him?” + </p> + <p> + “I can only tell you it was as I say,” said Lady Ingleton, quickly and + with embarrassment. “We were very few on the yacht. Of course I saw a good + deal of your husband. He was absolutely reserved with me. He always has + been. You mustn’t think he has ever given me the least bit of confidence. + He never has. I am quite sure he never would. We are only acquaintances. + But I want to be a friend to him now. He hasn’t a friend, not one, out + there. My husband, I think, feels rather as I do about him, in so far as a + man can feel in our sort of way. He would gladly be more intimate with + your husband. But your husband doesn’t make friends. He’s beyond anything + of that kind. He tried, on the yacht and at Brusa. He did his utmost. But + he was held back by his misery. I must tell you (it’s very uninteresting)”—her + voice softened here, and her face slightly changed, became gentler, more + intensely feminine—“that my husband and I are very happy together. + We always have been; we always shall be; we can’t help it. Being with us + your husband had to—to contemplate our happiness. It—I suppose + it reminded him——” + </p> + <p> + She stopped; she could not bring herself to say it. Again her eyes rested + upon “Wedded,” and, in spite of her long conviction of its essential + banality—she classed it with “The Soul’s Awakening,” “Harmony,” and + all the things she was farthest away from—she felt what it stood for + painfully, almost mysteriously. + </p> + <p> + “One day,” she resumed, speaking more slowly, and trying to banish emotion + from her voice, “I went out from the hotel where we stayed at Brusa, quite + alone. There’s a mosque at Brusa called Jeshil Jami, the Green Mosque. It + stands above the valley. It is one of the most beautiful things I know, + and quite the most beautiful Osmanli building. I like to go there alone. + Very often there is no one in the mosque. Well, I went there that day. + When I went in—the guardian was on the terrace; he knows me and that + I’m the British Ambassadress, and never bothers me—I thought at + first the mosque was quite empty. I sat down close to the door. After I + had been there two or three minutes I felt there was some one else in the + mosque. I looked round. Before the Mihrab there was a man. It was your + husband. He was kneeling on the matting, but—but he wasn’t praying. + When I knew, when I heard what he was doing, I went away at once. I + couldn’t—I felt that——” + </p> + <p> + Again she paused. In the pause she heard the gale tearing at the windows. + She looked at the woman in the sister’s dress. Rosamund was sitting + motionless, and was now looking down. Lady Ingleton positively hated the + sister’s dress at that moment. She thought of it as a sort of armor in + which her visitor was encased, an armor which rendered her invulnerable. + What shaft could penetrate that smooth black and white, that flowing + panoply, and reach the heart Lady Ingleton desired to pierce? Suddenly + Lady Ingleton felt cruel. She longed to tear away from Rosamund all the + religion which seemed to be protecting her; she longed to see her naked as + Dion Leith was naked. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t care to look upon a man in hell,” she said, in a voice which had + become almost brutal, a voice which Sir Carey would scarcely have + recognized if he had heard it. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund said nothing, and, after a moment, Lady Ingleton continued: + </p> + <p> + “With us on the yacht was one of my husband’s secretaries of Embassy, + Cyril Vane, who had just become engaged to be married. He is married now. + In his cabin on the yacht he had a photograph of the girl. One night he + was walking up and down on deck with your husband, and your husband—I’d + just told him about Vane’s engagement—congratulated him. Vane + invited Mr. Leith into the cabin and showed him the photograph. Vane told + me afterwards that he should never forget the look on your husband’s face + as he took the photograph and gazed at it. When he put it down he said to + Vane, ‘I hope you may be happy. She looks very kind, and very good, too; + but there’s no cruelty on earth like the cruelty of a good woman.’” (Did + the sister’s dress rustle faintly?) “Vane—he’s only a boy—was + very angry for a moment, though he’s usually imperturbable. I don’t know + exactly what he said, but I believe he made a rather strong protest about + knowing his fiancee’s character <i>au fond</i>. Anyhow, your husband took + hold of his arm and said to him, ‘Don’t love very much and you may be + happy. That’s the only chance for a man—not to love the woman very + much.’ Vane came to me and told me. I remember it was late at night and my + husband was there. When Vane was leaving us Carey said to him, ‘Forget the + advice that poor fellow gave you. Love her as much as you can, my boy. + Dion Leith speaks out of the bitterness that is destroying him. But very + few men can love as he can, and very few men have been punished by their + love as he has been punished by his. His sorrow is altogether exceptional, + and has made him lose the power of moral vision. His soul has been + poisoned at the source.’ My husband was right.” + </p> + <p> + “You came here to tell me that?” said Rosamund, lifting her head and + speaking coldly and very clearly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know what I was going to tell you. At the time I am speaking of + I had no thought of ever trying to see you. That thought came to me long + afterwards.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m a happy woman. In my happiness I’ve learnt to respect love very much, + and I’ve learnt to recognize it at a glance. Your husband is the victim of + a great love, Mrs. Leith. I feel as if I couldn’t stand by and see him + utterly destroyed by it.” + </p> + <p> + “Father Robertson tells me——” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + And then she was silent. All this time she was struggling almost furiously + against pride and an intense reserve which seemed trying to suffocate + every good impulse within her. She held on to the thought of Father + Robertson (she was unable to hold on to the thought of God); she strove + not to hate the woman who was treading in her sanctuary, and whose steps + echoed harshly and discordantly to its farthest, its holiest recesses; but + she felt herself to be hardening against her will, to be congealing, + turning to ice. Nevertheless she was resolute not to leave the room in + which she was without learning all that this woman had to tell her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + And the thought went through her mind: + </p> + <p> + “Oh, how she is hating me!” + </p> + <p> + “Father Robertson told me there was someone else.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there is. Otherwise I might never have come here. I’m partly to + blame. But I—but I can’t possibly go into details. You mustn’t ask + me for any details, please. Try to accept the little I can say as truth, + though I’m not able to give you any proof. You must know that women who + are intelligent, and have lived long in the—well, in the sort of + world I’ve lived in, are never mistaken about certain things. They don’t + need what are called proofs. They know certain things are happening, or + not happening, without holding any proofs for or against. Your husband has + got into the wrong hands.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by that?” said Rosamund steadily, even obstinately. + </p> + <p> + “In his misery and absolute loneliness he has allowed himself to be taken + possession of by a woman. She is doing him a great deal of harm. In fact + she is ruining him.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. Perhaps she suspected that Rosamund, in defiance of her own + denial of proofs, would begin asking for them; but Rosamund said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “He is going down,” Lady Ingleton resumed. “He has already deteriorated + terribly. I saw him recently by chance in Stamboul (he never comes to us + now), and I was shocked at his appearance. When I first met him, in spite + of his bitterness and intense misery I knew at once that I was with a man + of fine nature. There was something unmistakable, the rare imprint; that’s + fading from him now. You know Father Robertson very well. I don’t. But the + very first time I was with him I knew he was a man who was seeking the + heights. Your husband now is <i>seeking</i> the depths, as if he wanted to + hide himself and his misery in them. Perhaps he hasn’t found the lowest + yet. I believe there is only one human being who can prevent him from + finding it. I’m quite sure there is only one human being. That’s why I + came here.” + </p> + <p> + She was silent. Then she added: + </p> + <p> + “I’ve told you now what I wished to tell you, all I can tell you.” + </p> + <p> + In thinking beforehand of what this interview would probably be like Lady + Ingleton had expected it to be more intense, charged with greater surface + emotion than was the case. Now she felt a strange coldness in the room. + The dry rattling of the window under the assault of the gale was an + interpolated sound that was in place. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband has never mentioned your name to me,” she said, influenced + by an afterthought. “And yet I’ve come here, because I know that the only + hope of salvation for him is here.” + </p> + <p> + Again her eyes went to “Wedded,” and then to the sister’s dress and + close-fitting headgear which disguised Rosamund. And suddenly the + impulsiveness which was her inheritance from her Celtic and Latin + ancestors took complete possession of her. She got up swiftly and went to + Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “You hate me for having come here, for having told you all this. You will + always hate me, I think. I’ve intruded upon your peaceful life in religion—your + peaceful, comfortable, sheltered life.” + </p> + <p> + Her great dark eyes fixed themselves upon the cross which lay on + Rosamund’s breast. She lifted her hand and pointed to it. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve nailed <i>him</i> on a cross,” she said, with almost fierce + intensity. “How can you be happy in that dress, worshiping God with a lot + of holy women?” + </p> + <p> + “Did I tell you I was happy?” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + She got up and stood facing Lady Ingleton. Her face still preserved + something of the coldness, but the color had deepened in the cheeks, and + the expression in the eyes had changed. They looked now much less like the + eyes of a “sister” than they had looked when she came into the room. + </p> + <p> + “Take off that dress and go to Constantinople!” said Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund flushed deeply, painfully; her mouth trembled, and tears came + into her eyes, but she spoke resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you for telling me,” she said. “You were right to come here and to + tell me. If I hate you, as you say, that’s my fault, not yours.” + </p> + <p> + She paused. It was evident that she was making a tremendous effort to + conquer something; she even shut her eyes for a brief instant. Then she + added in a very low voice; + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” + </p> + <p> + And she put out her hand. + </p> + <p> + Tears started into Lady Ingleton’s eyes as she took the hand. Rosamund + turned and went quickly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Some minutes after she had gone Lady Ingleton heard rain beating upon the + window. The sound reminded her of the umbrella she had “stood” in the + corner of the room when Rosamund came in. It was still there. Impulsively + she went to the corner and took it up; then, realizing that Rosamund must + already be on her way, she laid it down on the table. She stood for a + moment looking from “Wedded” to the damp umbrella. + </p> + <p> + Then she sat down on the sofa and cried impetuously. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII + </h2> + <p> + It was the month of May. Already there had been several unusually hot days + in Constantinople, and Mrs. Clarke was beginning to think about the villa + at Buyukderer. She was getting tired of Pera. She had fulfilled her + promise to Dion Leith. She had given up going to England for Jimmy’s + Christmas holidays and had spent the whole winter in Constantinople. But + now she had had enough of it for the present, indeed more than enough of + it. + </p> + <p> + She was feeling weary of the everlasting diplomatic society, of the <i>potins</i> + political and social, of the love affairs and intrigues of her + acquaintances which she knew of or divined, of the familiar voices and + faces. She wanted something new; she wanted to break away. The + restlessness that was always in her, concealed beneath her pale aspect of + calm, was persecuting her as the spring with its ferment drew near to the + torrid summer. + </p> + <p> + The spring had got into her veins and had made her long for novelty. + </p> + <p> + One morning when Sonia came into Mrs. Clarke’s bedroom with the coffee she + brought a piece of news. + </p> + <p> + “Miladi Ingleton arrived at the Embassy from England yesterday,” said + Sonia, in her thick, soft voice. + </p> + <p> + The apparent recovery of Lady Ingleton’s mother had been a deception. She + had had a relapse almost immediately after Lady Ingleton’s return from + Liverpool to London; an operation had been necessary, and Lady Ingleton + had been obliged to stay on in England several weeks. During this time + Mrs. Clarke had had no news from her. Till Sonia’s announcement she had + not known the date fixed for her friend’s return. She received the + information with her usual inflexibility, and merely said: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to see her this afternoon.” + </p> + <p> + Then she took up a newspaper which Sonia had brought in with her and began + to sip the coffee. + </p> + <p> + As soon as she was dressed she sent a note to the British Embassy to ask + if her friend would be in at tea-time. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton drew her brows together when she read it. She was delighted + to be again in Constantinople, for she had missed Carey quite terribly, + but she wished that Cynthia Clarke was anywhere else. Ever since her visit + to Liverpool she had been dreading the inevitable meeting with the friend + whose secret she had betrayed. Yet the meeting must take place. She would + be obliged some day to look once more into Cynthia Clarke’s earnest and + distressed eyes. When that happened would she hate herself very much for + what she had done? She had often wondered. She wondered now, as she read + the note written in her friend’s large upright hand, as she wrote a brief + answer to say she would be in after five o’clock that day. + </p> + <p> + She was troubled by the fact that her visit to Liverpool had not yielded + the result she had hoped for. Rosamund Leith had not sought her husband. + But she had taken off the sister’s dress and had given up living in the + north. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton knew this from Father Robertson, with whom she corresponded. + She had never seen Rosamund or heard from her since the interview in the + Adelphi Hotel. And she was troubled, although she had recently received + from Father Robertson a letter ending with these words: + </p> + <p> + “Pressure would be useless. I have found by experience that one cannot + hurry the human soul. It must move at its own pace. You have done your + part. Try to leave the rest with confidence in other hands. Through you + she knows the truth of her husband’s condition. She has given up the + Sisterhood. Surely that means that she has taken the first step on the + road that leads to Constantinople.” + </p> + <p> + But now May was here with its heat, and its sunshine, and its dust, and + Lady Ingleton must soon meet the eyes of Cynthia Clarke, and the man she + had striven to redeem was unredeemed. + </p> + <p> + She sighed as she got up from her writing-table. Perhaps perversely she + felt that she would mind meeting Cynthia Clarke less if her treachery had + been rewarded by the accomplishment of her purpose. A useless treachery + seemed to her peculiarly unpardonable. She hated having done a wrong + without securing a <i>quid pro quo</i>. Even if Father Robertson was + right, and Rosamund Leith’s departure from the Sisterhood were the first + step on the road to Constantinople, she might arrive too late. + </p> + <p> + Although she was once more with Carey, Lady Ingleton felt unusually + depressed. + </p> + <p> + Soon after five the door of her boudoir was opened by a footman, and Mrs. + Clarke walked slowly in, looking Lady Ingleton thought, even thinner, even + more haggard and grave than usual. She was perfectly dressed in a gown + that was a marvel of subtle simplicity, and wore a hat that drew just + enough attention to the lovely shape of her small head. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly she has the most delicious head I ever saw,” was Lady + Ingleton’s first (preposterous) thought. “And the strongest will I ever + encountered,” was the following thought, as she looked into her friend’s + large eyes. + </p> + <p> + After they had talked London and Paris for a few minutes Lady Ingleton + changed the subject, and with a sort of languid zest, which was intended + to conceal a purpose she desired to keep secret, began to speak of Pera + and of the happenings there while she had been away. Various acquaintances + were discussed, and presently Lady Ingleton arrived, strolling, at Dion + Leith. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith is still here, isn’t he?” she asked. “Carey hasn’t seen him + lately but thinks he is about.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, he is still here,” said Mrs. Clarke’s husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “What does he do? How does he pass his time?” + </p> + <p> + “I often wonder,” replied Mrs. Clarke, squeezing a lemon into her cup, + which was full of clear China tea. + </p> + <p> + She put the lemon, thoroughly squeezed, down on its plate, looking + steadily at her friend, and continued: + </p> + <p> + “You remember last summer when I asked you to be kind to him, and told you + why I was interested in him, poor fellow?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I really thought at that time it would be possible to assist him to get + back into life, what we understand by life. You helped me like a true + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I really did nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “You enabled me to continue my acquaintance with him here,” said Mrs. + Clarke inflexibly. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton was silent, and Mrs. Clarke continued: + </p> + <p> + “You know what I did, my efforts to interest him in all sorts of things. I + even got Jimmy out because I knew Mr. Leith was fond of him, threw them + together, even tried to turn Mr. Leith into a sort of holiday tutor. + Anything to take him out of himself. Later on, when Jimmy went back to + England, I though I would try hard to wake up Dion Leith’s mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you?” said Lady Ingleton, in her most languid voice. + </p> + <p> + “I took him about in Stamboul. I showed him all the interesting things + that travelers as a rule know nothing about. I tried to make him feel + Stamboul. I even spent the winter here chiefly because of him, though, of + course, nobody must know that but you.” + </p> + <p> + “Entendu, ma chere!” + </p> + <p> + “But I’ve made a complete failure of it all.” + </p> + <p> + “You meant that Mr. Leith can’t take up life again?” + </p> + <p> + “He simply doesn’t care for the things of the mind. He has very few mental + resources. I imagined that there was very much more in him to work upon + than there is. If his heart receives a hard blow, an intellectual man can + always turn for consolation to the innumerable things of art, philosophy, + literature, that are food for the mind. But Mr. Leith unfortunately isn’t + an intellectual man. And another thing——” + </p> + <p> + She had been speaking very quietly; now she paused. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” said Lady Ingleton. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy came out for the Easter holidays. It was absurd, because they’re so + short, but I had to see him, and I couldn’t very well go to England. Well, + Jimmy’s taken a violent dislike to Mr. Leith.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought Jimmy was very fond of him.” + </p> + <p> + “He was devoted to him, but now he can’t bear him. In fact, Jimmy won’t + have anything to do with Dion Leith. I suppose—boys of that age are + often very sharp—I suppose he sees the deterioration in Mr. Leith + and it disgusts him.” + </p> + <p> + “Deterioration!” said Lady Ingleton, leaning forward, and speaking more + impulsively than before. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It is heart-rending.” + </p> + <p> + “Really!” + </p> + <p> + “And it makes things difficult for me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry for that.” + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of silence; then, as Mrs. Clarke did not speak, but sat + still wrapped in a haggard immobility, Lady Ingleton said: + </p> + <p> + “When do you go to Buyukderer?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall probably go next week. I’ve very tired of Pera.” + </p> + <p> + “You look tired.” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean physically. I’m never physically tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Extraordinary woman!” said Lady Ingleton, with a faint, unhumorous smile. + “Come and see some Sevres I picked up at Christie’s. Carey is delighted + with it, although, of course, horrified at the price I paid for it.” + </p> + <p> + She got up and went with Mrs. Clarke into one of the drawing-rooms. Dion + Leith was not mentioned again. + </p> + <p> + That evening the Ingletons dined alone. Sir Carey said he must insist on a + short honeymoon even though they were obliged to spend it in an Embassy. + They had dinner in Bohemian fashion on a small round table in Lady + Ingleton’s boudoir, and were waited upon by Sir Carey’s valet, a + middle-aged Italian who had been for many years in his service and who had + succeeded, in the way of Italian servants, in becoming one of the family. + The Pekinese lay around solaced by the arrival of their mistress and of + their doyenne. + </p> + <p> + When dinner was over and Sir Carey had lit his cigar, he breathed a sigh + of contentment. + </p> + <p> + “At last I’m happy once more after all those months of solitude!” + </p> + <p> + He looked across at his wife, and added: + </p> + <p> + “But are you happy at being with me again?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “I know, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I’m a trained observer, like every competent diplomatist, and—there’s + something. I see in the lute of your happiness a tiny rift. It’s scarcely + visible, but—I see it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not quite happy to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “And you won’t tell me why, on our honeymoon?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you but I can’t. I have no right to tell you.” + </p> + <p> + “You only can judge of that.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done something that even you might think abominable, something + treacherous. I had a great reason—but still!” She sighed. “I shall + never be able to tell you what it is, because to do that would increase my + sin. To-night I’m realizing that I’m not at all sorry for what I have + done. And that not being sorry—as well as something else—makes + me unhappy in a new way. It’s all very complicated.” + </p> + <p> + “Like Balkan politics! Shall we”—he looked round the room + meditatively—“shall we set the dogs at it?” + </p> + <p> + She smiled. + </p> + <p> + “Even they couldn’t drive my <i>tristesse</i> quite away. You have more + power with me than many dogs. Read me something. Read me ‘Rabbi ben + Ezra.’” + </p> + <p> + Sir Carey went to fetch the exorcizer. + </p> + <p> + The truth was that Lady Ingleton’s interview with Cynthia Clarke had made + her realize two things: that since she had come to know Father Robertson, + and had betrayed to him the secret of her friend’s life, any genuine + feeling of liking she had had for Cynthia Clarke had died; and that + Cynthia Clarke was tired of Dion Leith. + </p> + <p> + That day Mrs. Clarke’s hypocrisy had, perhaps, for the first time, + absolutely disgusted, and even almost horrified, Lady Ingleton. For years + Lady Ingleton had known of it, but for years she had almost admired it. + The cleverness, the subtlety, the competence of it had entertained her + mind. She had respected, too, the courage which never failed Mrs. Clarke. + But she was beginning to see her with new eyes. Perhaps Father Robertson + had given his impulsive visitor a new moral vision. + </p> + <p> + During the conversation that afternoon at certain moments Lady Ingleton + had almost hated Cynthia Clarke—when Cynthia had spoken of trying to + wake up Dion Leith’s mind, of his not being an intellectual man, of Jimmy + Clarke’s shrinking from him because of his deterioration. And when Cynthia + had said that deterioration was “heart-rending” Lady Ingleton had quite + definitely detested her. This feeling of detestation had persisted while, + in the drawing-room, Cynthia was lovingly appreciating the new acquisition + of Sevres. Lady Ingleton sickened now when she thought of the lovely hands + sensitively touching, feeling, the thin china. There really was something + appalling in the delicate mentality, in the subtle taste, of a woman in + whom raged such devastating physical passions. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton shuddered as she remembered her conversation with her + “friend.” But it had brought about something. It had driven away any + lingering regret of hers for having spoken frankly to Father Robertson. + Cynthia was certainly tired of Dion Leith. Was she about to sacrifice him + as she had sacrificed others? Lady Ingleton dreaded the future. For during + the interview at the Adelphi Hotel she had realized Rosamund’s innate and + fastidious purity. To forgive even one infidelity would be a tremendous + moral triumph in such a woman as Rosamund. But if Cynthia Clarke threw + Dion Leith away, and he fell into promiscuous degradation, then surely + Rosamund’s nature would rise up in inevitable revolt. Even if she came to + Constantinople then it would surely be too late. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton had seen clearly enough into the mind of Cynthia Clarke, but + there was hidden from her the greater part of a human drama not yet + complete. + </p> + <p> + Combined with the ugly passion which governed her life, Mrs. Clarke had an + almost wild love of personal freedom. As much as she loved to fetter she + hated to be fettered. This hatred had led her into many difficulties + during the course of her varied life, difficulties which had always + occurred at moments when she wanted to get rid of people. Ever since she + had grown up there had been recurring epochs when she had been tormented + by the violent desire to rid herself of some one whom she had formerly + longed for, whom she had striven to bind to her. Until now she had always + eventually succeeded in breaking away from those who were beginning to + involve her in weariness or to disgust her. There had sometimes been + perilous moments, painful scenes, bitter recriminations. But by the + exercise of her indomitable power of will, helped by her exceptional lack + of scruple, she had always managed to accomplish her purpose. She had + always found hitherto that she was more pitiless, and therefore more + efficient, than anyone opposed to her in a severe struggle of wills. But + Dion Leith was beginning to cause her serious uneasiness. She had known + from the beginning of their acquaintance that he was an exceptional man; + since his tragedy she had realized that the exceptional circumstances of + his life had accentuated his individuality. In sorrow, in deterioration, + he had broken loose from restraint. She had helped to make him what he had + now become, the most difficult man she had ever had to deal with. When he + had crossed the river to her he had burnt all the boats behind him. If he + had sometimes been weak in goodness, in those former days long past, in + what he considered as evil—Mrs. Clarke did not see things in white + and black—he had developed a peculiar persistence and determination + which were very like strength. + </p> + <p> + Looking back, Mrs. Clarke realized that the definite change in Dion, which + marked the beginning of a new development, dated from the night in the + garden at Buyukderer when Jimmy had so nearly learnt the truth. On that + night she had forced Dion to save her reputation with her child by lying + and playing the hypocrite to a boy who looked up to him and trusted in + him. Dion had not forgotten his obedience. Perhaps he hated her because of + it in some secret place of his soul. She was sure that he intended to make + her pay for it. He had obeyed her in what she considered as a very + trifling matter. (For of course Jimmy had to be deceived.) But since then + he had often shown a bitter, even sometimes a brutal, disposition to make + her obey him. She could not fully understand the measure of his resentment + because she had none of his sense of honor and did not share his + instinctive love of truth. But she knew he had suffered acutely in + tricking and lying to Jimmy. + </p> + <p> + On that night, then, he had burnt his boats. She herself had told him to + do it when she had said to him, “Give yourself wholly to me.” She was + beginning to regret that she had ever said that. + </p> + <p> + At first, in her perversity, she had curiously enjoyed Dion’s misery. It + had wrapped him in a garment that was novel. It had thrown about him a + certain romance. But now she was becoming weary of it. She had had enough + of it and enough of him. That horrible process, which she knew so well, + had repeated itself once more: she had wanted a thing; she had striven for + it; she had obtained it; she had enjoyed it (for she knew well how to + enjoy and never thought that the game was not worth the candle). And then, + by slow, almost imperceptible degrees, her power of enjoyment had begun to + lessen. Day by day it had lost in strength. She had tried to stimulate it, + to deceive herself about its decay, but the time had come, as it had come + to her many times in the past, when she had been forced to acknowledge to + herself that it was no longer living but a corpse. Dion Leith had played + his part in her life. She wished now to put him outside of her door. She + had made sacrifices for him; for him she had run risks. All that was very + well so long as he had had the power to reward her. But now she was + beginning to brood over those risks, those sacrifices, with resentment, to + magnify them in her mind; she was beginning to be angry as she dwelt upon + that which distortedly she thought of as her unselfishness. + </p> + <p> + After Jimmy had left Turkey to go back to Eton, and the summer had died, + Mrs. Clarke had fulfilled her promise to Dion. She had settled at Pera for + the winter, and she had arranged his life for him. From the moment of + Jimmy’s departure Dion had given himself entirely to her. He had even + given himself with a sort of desperation. She had been aware of his fierce + concentration, and she had tasted it with a keenness of pleasure, she had + savored it deliberately and fully in the way of an epicure. The force of + his resolution towards evil—it was just that—had acted upon + her abominably sensitive temperament as a strong tonic. That period had + been the time when, to her, the game was worth the candle, was worth a + whole blaze of candles. + </p> + <p> + Already, then, Dion had begun to show the new difficult man whom she, + working hand in hand with sorrow, had helped to create within him; but she + had at first enjoyed his crudities of temper, his occasional outbursts of + brutality, his almost fierce roughness and the hardness which alternated + with his moments of passion. + </p> + <p> + She had understood that he was flinging away with furious hands all the + baggage of virtue he had clung to in the past, that he was readjusting his + life, was reversing all the habits which had been familiar and natural to + him in the existence with Rosamund. So much the better, she had thought. + The fact that he was doing this proved to her her power over him. She had + smiled, in her unsmiling way, upon his efforts to do what she had told him + to do, to cut away the cancer that was in him and to cut away all that was + round it. Away with the old moralities, the old hatred of lies and + deceptions, the old love of sanity and purity of life. + </p> + <p> + But away, too, with the old reverence for, and worship of, the woman + possessed. + </p> + <p> + Dion had taken to heart a maxim once uttered to him by Mrs. Clarke in the + garden at Buyukderer. Mention had been made of the very foolish and + undignified conduct of a certain woman in Pera society who had been badly + treated by a young diplomat. In discussing the matter Dion had chanced to + say: + </p> + <p> + “But if she does such things how can any man respect her?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke’s reply, spoken with withering sarcasm, had been: + </p> + <p> + “Women don’t want to be <i>respected</i> by men.” + </p> + <p> + Dion had not forgotten that saying. It had sunk deep into his heart. He + had come to believe it. Even when he thought of Rosamund still he believed + it. He had respected her, and had shown his respect in the most chivalrous + way at his command, and she had never really loved him. Evidently women + were not what he had thought they were. Mrs. Clarke knew what they were + and a thousand things that he did not know. He grasped at her cynicism, + and he often applied it, translated through his personality, to herself. + He even went farther in cynicism than she had ever gone, behaving like a + convert to a religion which had the charm of novelty. He praised her for + her capacities as a liar, a hypocrite, a subtle trickster, a thrower of + dust in the eyes of her world. One of his favorite names for her was + “dust-thrower.” Sometimes he abused her. She believed that at moments he + detested her. But he clung to her and he did not mean to give her up. And + she knew that. + </p> + <p> + After that horrible night when Jimmy had waked up she had succeeded in + making Dion believe that he was deeply loved by her. She had really had an + ugly passion for him, and she had contrived easily enough to dress it up + and present it as love. And he clung to that semblance of love, because it + was all that he had, because it was a weapon in his hand, and because he + had made for it a sacrifice. He had sacrificed the truth that was in him, + and he had received in part payment the mysterious dislike of the boy who + had formerly looked up to him. + </p> + <p> + Jimmy had never been friendly with Dion since the night of their search + for his mother in the garden. + </p> + <p> + His manner towards his mother had changed but little. He was slightly more + reserved with her than he had been. Her faint air of sarcasm when, in + Sonia’s room, he had shown her his boyish agitation, had made a + considerable impression upon him. He was unable to forget it. And he was a + little more formal with his mother; showed her, perhaps, more respect than + before. But the change was trifling. His respect for Dion, however, was + obviously dead. Indeed he had begun to show a scarcely veiled hostility + towards Dion in the summer holidays, and in the recent Easter holidays, + spent by him in Pera, he had avoided Dion as much as possible. + </p> + <p> + “That fellow still here!” he had said, with boyish gruffness, when his + mother had first mentioned Dion’s name immediately after his arrival. And + when he had seen Dion he had said straight out to his mother that he + couldn’t “stand Leith at any price now.” She had asked him why, fixing her + eyes upon him, but the only reply she had succeeded in getting had been + that he didn’t trust the fellow, that he hadn’t trusted Leith for a long + time. + </p> + <p> + “Since when?” she had said. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t remember,” had been the non-committal answer. + </p> + <p> + It seemed as if Jimmy had seen through Dion’s insincerity in the garden at + Buyukderer. Yet there was nothing to show that he had not accepted his + mother’s insincerity in Sonia’s room at its face value. Even Mrs. Clarke + had not been able to understand exactly what was in her boy’s mind. But + Jimmy’s hostility to Dion had troubled her obscurely, and had added to her + growing weariness of this intrigue something more vital. Her intelligence + divined, rather than actually perceived, the coming into her life of a + definite menace to her happiness, if happiness it could be called. She + felt as if Jimmy were on the track of her secret, and she was certain that + Dion was the cause of the boy’s unpleasant new alertness. In the past she + had taken risks for Dion. But she had had the great reason of what she + chose to call passion. That reason was gone now. She was resolved not to + take the greatest of all risks for a man whom she wanted to get rid of. + </p> + <p> + She was resolved; but she encountered now in Dion a resolve which she had + not suspected he was capable of, and which began to render her seriously + uneasy. + </p> + <p> + Lady Ingleton’s remark, “you look tired,” had struck unpleasantly on Mrs. + Clarke’s ears, and she came away from the Embassy that day with them in + her mind. She was on foot. As she came out through the great gateway of + the Embassy she remembered that she had been coming from it on that day in + June when she had seen Dion Leith for the first time in Pera. A sharp + thrill had gone through her that day. He had come. He had obeyed the + persistent call of her will. What she had desired for so long would be. + And she had been fiercely glad for two reasons; one an ordinary reason, + the other less ordinary. A mysterious reason of the mind. If her will had + played her false for once, had proved inadequate, she would have suffered + strangely. When she knew it had not she had triumphed. But now, as she + walked onward slowly, she wished she had never seen Dion Leith in Pera, + she wished that her will had played her false. It would have been better + so, for she was in a difficult situation, and she foresaw that it was + going to become more difficult. She was assailed by that recurring desire + which is the scourge of the sensualist, the desire to rid herself + violently, abruptly and forever of the possession she had schemed and made + long efforts to obtain. Her torch was burnt out. She wished to stamp out + the flame of another torch which still glowed with a baleful fire. + </p> + <p> + “And Delia has noticed something!” she thought. + </p> + <p> + The thought was scarcely out of her mind when she came face to face with + Dion Leith. He stopped before her. + </p> + <p> + “Have you been to the Embassy?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Delia Ingleton came back yesterday. You aren’t going to call there?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not. I happened to see you walking in that direction, so I + thought I would wait for you.” + </p> + <p> + With the manner of a man exercising a right he turned to walk back with + her. A flame of irritation scorched her, but she did not show any emotion. + She only said quietly: + </p> + <p> + “You know I am not particularly fond of being seen with men in the Grande + Rue.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. If you like, I’ll come to your flat by a round-about way. I’ll + be there five minutes after you are.” + </p> + <p> + Before she had time to say anything he was gone, striding through the + crowd. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke walked on and came into the Grande Rue. + </p> + <p> + She lived in a flat in a street which turned out of the Grande Rue on the + left not very far from the Taxim Garden. As she walked on slowly she was + trying to make up her mind to force a break with Dion. She had great + courage and was naturally ruthless, yet for once she was beset by + indecision. She did not any longer feel sure that she could dominate this + man. She had bent him to her will when she took him; but could she do so + when she wished to get rid of him? + </p> + <p> + When she reached the house, on the second floor of which was her flat, she + found him there waiting for her. + </p> + <p> + “You must have walked very quickly, Dion,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “No, I didn’t,” he replied bruskly. “You walked very slowly.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel tired to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you were never tired.” + </p> + <p> + “Every woman is tired sometimes.” + </p> + <p> + They began to ascend the staircase. There was no lift. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going out to-night?” she heard him say behind her. + </p> + <p> + “No. I shall go to bed early.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll stay till then.” + </p> + <p> + “You know you can’t stay very late here.” + </p> + <p> + She heard him laugh. + </p> + <p> + “When you’ve just said you are going to bed early!” + </p> + <p> + She said nothing more till they reached the flat. He followed her in and + put his hat down. + </p> + <p> + “Will you have tea?” + </p> + <p> + “No, thanks; nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Go into the drawing-room. I’ll come in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + She left him and went into her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + He waited for her in the drawing-room. At first he sat down. The room was + full of the scent of flowers, and he remembered the strong flowery scent + which had greeted him when he visited the villa at Buyukderer for the + first time. How long ago that seemed—aeons ago! A few minutes + passed, registered by the ticking of a little clock of exquisite bronze + work on the mantelpiece. She did not come. He felt restless. He always + felt restless in Constantinople. Now he got up and walked about the room, + turning sharply from time to time, pausing when he turned, then resuming + his walk. Once, as he turned, he found himself exactly opposite to a + mirror. He stared into it and saw a man still young, but lined, with + sunken eyes, a mouth drooping and bitter, a head on which the dark hair + was no longer thick and springy. His hair had retreated from the temples, + and this fact had changed his appearance, had lessened his good looks, and + at the same time had given to his face an odd suggestion of added + intellectuality which was at war with the plain stamp of dissipation + imprinted upon it. Even in repose his face was almost horribly expressive. + </p> + <p> + As he stared into the glass he thought: + </p> + <p> + “If I cut off my mustache I should look like a tragic actor who was a + thorough bad lot.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away, frowning, and resumed his walk. Presently he stood still + and looked about the room. He was getting impatient. Irritability crept + through him. He almost hated Mrs. Clarke for keeping him waiting so long. + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil doesn’t she come?” he thought. + </p> + <p> + He stood trying to control his nervous anger, clenching his muscular + hands, and looking from one piece of furniture to another, from one + ornament to another ornament, with quickly shifting eyes. + </p> + <p> + His attention was attracted by something unusual in the room which he had + not noticed till now. On a writing-table of ebony near one of the windows + he saw a large photograph in a curious frame of ruddy arbutus wood. He had + never before seen a photograph in any room lived in by Mrs. Clarke, and he + had heard her say that photographs killed a room, and might easily kill, + too, with their staring impotence, any affection one felt for the friends + they represented. Whose photograph could this be which triumphed over such + a dislike? He walked to the table, bent down and saw a standing boy in + flannels, bare-headed, with thick, disordered hair and bare arms, holding + in his large hands a cricket bat. It was Jimmy, and his eyes looked + straight into Dion’s. + </p> + <p> + A door clicked. There was a faint rustling. Mrs. Clarke walked into the + room. + </p> + <p> + Dion turned round. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this photograph doing here?” he asked roughly. + </p> + <p> + “Doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You hate photographs. I’ve heard you say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy gave it to me on my birthday just before he left for England. It’s + quite a good one.” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to keep it here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I am going to keep it here. Come and sit down.” + </p> + <p> + He did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy loathes me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Nonsense.” + </p> + <p> + “He does. Through you he has come to loathe me, and you keep his + photograph here——” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t allow any one to criticize what I do in my own drawing-room,” she + interrupted. “You are really childish to-day.” + </p> + <p> + His intense irritability had communicated itself to her. She felt an + almost reckless desire to get rid of him. His look of embittered + wretchedness tormented her nerves. She wondered how it had ever been able + to interest her, even to lure her. She was amazed at her own perversity. + </p> + <p> + “I cannot allow you to come here if you are going to try to interfere with + my arrangements,” she added, with a sort of fierce coldness. + </p> + <p> + “I have a right to come here.” + </p> + <p> + “You have not. You have no rights over me, none at all. I have made a + great many sacrifices for you, far too many, but I shall never sacrifice + my complete independence for you or for any one.” + </p> + <p> + “Sacrifices for me!” he exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + He snatched up the photograph, held it with both his hands, exerted his + strength, smashed the glass, broke the frame, tore the photograph in half, + and threw it, the fragments of red wood and the bits of glass on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve made your boy hate me, and you shan’t have him there,” he said + savagely. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you!” she exclaimed, in a low, hoarse voice. + </p> + <p> + She flung out her hands. In snatching at the ruined photograph she picked + up with it a fragment of glass. It cut her hand slightly, and a thin + thread of blood ran down over her white skin. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, your hand!” exclaimed Dion, in a changed voice. “It’s bleeding!” + </p> + <p> + He pulled out his handkerchief. + </p> + <p> + “Leave it alone! I forbid you to touch it!” + </p> + <p> + She put the fragments of the photograph inside her dress, gently, tenderly + even. Then she turned and faced him. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow I shall telegraph to England for another photograph to be sent + out, and it will stand here,” she said, pointing with her bleeding hand at + the writing-table. “It will always stand on my table here and in the Villa + Hafiz.” + </p> + <p> + Then she bound her own handkerchief about her hand and rang the bell. + Sonia came. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve stupidly cut my hand, Sonia. Come and tie it up. Mr. Leith is going + in a moment, and then you shall bathe it.” + </p> + <p> + Sonia looked at Dion, and, without a word, adjusted the handkerchief + deftly, and pinned it in place with a safety-pin which she drew out of her + dress. Then she left the room with her flat-footed walk. As she shut the + door Dion said doggedly: + </p> + <p> + “You’d better let her bathe it now, because I’m not going in a moment.” + </p> + <p> + “When I ask you to go you will go.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down. I must speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a large sofa. She went very deliberately to a chair and sat + down. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you sit on the sofa?” + </p> + <p> + “I prefer this.” + </p> + <p> + He sat on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I must speak to you about Jimmy.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter with him? What have you been up to with him?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why should he turn against me and not against you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand what you mean.” + </p> + <p> + “You do. It’s since that night in the garden when you made me lie to him. + Ever since that night he’s been absolutely different with me. You know + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t help it.” + </p> + <p> + “He believed your lies to him, apparently. Why doesn’t he believe mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course he believed what you told him.” + </p> + <p> + “He didn’t, or he wouldn’t have changed. He hates your having anything to + do with me. He’s told you so. I’m sure of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy would never dare to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Anyhow, you know he does.” + </p> + <p> + She did not deny it. + </p> + <p> + “Remember this,” Dion said, looking straight at her, “I’m not going to be + sacrificed a second time on account of a child.” + </p> + <p> + After a long pause, during which Mrs. Clarke sat without moving, her + lovely head leaning against a cushion which was fastened near the top of + the back of the chair, she said: + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean exactly by being sacrificed, Dion?” + </p> + <p> + Her manner had changed. The hostility had gone out of it. Her husky voice + sounded gentle almost, and she looked at him earnestly. + </p> + <p> + “I mean just this: my life with the woman I once cared for was smashed to + pieces by a child, my own dead child. I’m not going to allow my life with + you to be smashed to pieces by Jimmy. Isn’t a man more than a child? Can’t + he feel more than a child feels, give more than a child can give? Isn’t a + thing full grown as valuable, as worth having as a thing that’s immature?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with almost passionate resentment. + </p> + <p> + “D’you mean to tell me that a man’s love always means less to a woman than + a child’s love means?” + </p> + <p> + Silently, while he spoke, she compared the passion she had had for Dion + Leith with the love she would always have for Jimmy. The one was dead; the + other could not die. That was the difference between such things. + </p> + <p> + “The two are so different that it is useless to compare them,” she + replied. “Surely you could not be jealous of a child.” + </p> + <p> + “I could be jealous of anything that threatened me in my life with you. + It’s all I’ve got now, and I won’t have it interfered with.” + </p> + <p> + “But neither must you attempt to interfere with my life with my child,” + she said, very calmly. + </p> + <p> + “You dragged me into your life with Jimmy. You have always used Jimmy as a + means. It began long ago in London when you were at Claridge’s.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no need—” + </p> + <p> + “There is need to make you see clearly why I have every right to take a + stand now against—against——” + </p> + <p> + “Against what?” + </p> + <p> + “I feel you’re changing. I don’t trust you. You are not to be trusted. + Since Jimmy has been here again I feel that you are different.” + </p> + <p> + “I am obliged to be specially careful now the boy is beginning to grow up. + He notices things now he wouldn’t have noticed a year or two ago. And it + will get worse from year to year. That isn’t my fault.” + </p> + <p> + His sunken eyes looked fixedly at her from the midst of the network of + wrinkles which disfigured his face. + </p> + <p> + “Now what are you trying to lead up to?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s very foolish of you to be always suspicious. Only stupid people are + always suspecting others of sharp practise.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m stupid compared with you, but I’m not so stupid that I haven’t learnt + to know you better than other people know you, better, probably, than any + one else on earth knows you. It is entirely through you that Jimmy has got + to hate me. I’m not going to let you use his hatred of me as a weapon + against me. I’ve been wanting to tell you this, but I thought I’d wait + till he had gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I want to use a weapon against you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. It isn’t always easy to know why you want things. You’re + such an inveterate liar, and so tricky that you’d puzzle the devil + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you realize that all you are saying to-day implies something? It + implies that in your opinion I am not a free agent, that you consider you + have a right to govern my actions. But I deny that.” + </p> + <p> + She spoke firmly, but without any heat. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say that what we are to each other gives me no more rights + over you than mere acquaintances have?” + </p> + <p> + “It gives you no more rights over me than mere acquaintances have.” + </p> + <p> + He sat looking at her for a minute. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “Cynthia, come and sit here, please, beside me.” + </p> + <p> + “Why should I?” + </p> + <p> + “Please come.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + She got up, came to the sofa with a sort of listless decision, and sat + down beside him. He took her uninjured hand. His hand was burning with + heat. He closed and unclosed his fingers as he went on speaking. + </p> + <p> + “What is there in such a relation as ours if it carries no rights? You + have altered my whole life. Is that nothing? I live out here only because + of you. I have nothing out here but you. All these months, ever since we + left Buyukderer, I’ve lived just as you wished. I went into society at + Buyukderer because you wished me to. When you didn’t care any more about + my doing that I lived in the shade in Galata. I’ve fallen in with every + deception you thought necessary, I’ve told every lie you wished me to + tell. Ever since you made me lie to Jimmy I haven’t cared much. But you’ll + never know, because you can’t understand such things, what the loss of + Jimmy’s confidence and respect has meant to me. However, that’s all past. + I’m as much of a hypocrite as you are; I’m as false as you are; I’m as + rotten as you are—with other people. But don’t, for God’s sake, + let’s be rotten with each other. That would be too foul, like thieves + falling out.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve always been perfectly straight with you,” she said coldly. “I have + nothing to reproach myself with.” + </p> + <p> + The closing of his fingers on her hand, and their unclosing, irritated her + whole body. To-day she disliked his touch intensely, so intensely that she + could scarcely believe she had ever liked it, longed for it, schemed for + it. + </p> + <p> + “Please keep your hand still!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “What?” + </p> + <p> + “It makes me nervous your doing that. Either hold my hand or don’t hold + it.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand. What was I doing?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, never mind. I’ve always been straight with you. I don’t know why you + are attacking me.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel you are changing towards me. So I thought I’d tell you that I + don’t intend to be driven out a second time by a child. It’s better you + should know that. Then you won’t attempt the impossible.” + </p> + <p> + She looked into his sunken eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy has got to dislike you,” she said. “It’s unfortunate, but it can’t + be helped. I don’t know exactly why it is so. It may be because he’s + older, just at the age when boys begin to understand about men and women. + You’re not always quite so careful before him as you might be. I don’t + mean in what you say, but in your manner. I think Jimmy fancies you like + me in a certain way. I think he probably took it into his head that you + were hanging about the garden that night because perhaps you hoped to meet + me there. A very little more and he might begin to suspect me. You have + been frank with me to-day. I’ll be frank with you. I want you to + understand that if there ever was a question of my losing Jimmy’s love and + respect I should fight to keep them, sacrifice anything to keep them. + Jimmy comes first with me, and always will. It couldn’t be otherwise. I + prefer that you should know it.” + </p> + <p> + He shot a glance at her that was almost cunning. She had been prepared for + a perhaps violent outburst, but he only said: + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy won’t be here again for some time, so we needn’t bother about him.” + </p> + <p> + She was genuinely surprised, but she did not show it. + </p> + <p> + “It was you who brought up the question,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind. Don’t worry about it. If Jimmy comes out for the summer + holidays——” + </p> + <p> + “He will, of course.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I can go away from Buyukderer just for those few weeks.” + </p> + <p> + “I——” She paused; then went on: “I must tell you that you + mustn’t come to Buyukderer again this summer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you won’t go there?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I must go. I have the villa. I am going there next week.” + </p> + <p> + “If you go, then I shall go. But I’ll leave when Jimmy comes, as you are + so fussed about him.” + </p> + <p> + She could scarcely believe that it was Dion who was speaking to her. Often + she had heard him speak violently, irritably, even cruelly and rudely. But + there was a sort of ghastly softness in his voice. His hand still held + hers, but its grasp had relaxed. In his touch, as in his voice, there was + a softness which disquieted her. + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, but I can’t let you come to Buyukderer this summer,” she said. + “Once did not matter. But if you came again my reputation would suffer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll stay at some other place on the Bosporus and come over.” + </p> + <p> + “That would be just as bad.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you seriously mean that we are to be entirely separated during the + whole of this summer?” + </p> + <p> + “I must be careful of my reputation now Jimmy’s growing up. The Bosporus + is the home of malicious gossip.” + </p> + <p> + “Do answer my question. Do you mean that we are to be separated during the + summer?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t see how it can be helped.” + </p> + <p> + “It can be helped very easily. Don’t go to Buyukderer.” + </p> + <p> + “I must. I have the villa.” + </p> + <p> + “Let it.” + </p> + <p> + “I couldn’t possibly stand Constantinople in the summer.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no need to do that. There are other places besides Constantinople + and Buyukderer. You might go to one of them. Or you might travel.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down for a moment looking down. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that I might travel with you?” she said, at last. + </p> + <p> + “Not with me. But I could happen to be where you are.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not possible. Some one would get to know of it.” + </p> + <p> + “How absurdly <i>ingenue</i> you have become all of a sudden!” he said, + with soft, but scathing, irony. + </p> + <p> + And he laughed, let out a long, low, and apparently spontaneous laugh, as + if he were genuinely amused. + </p> + <p> + “Really one would hardly imagine that you were the heroine of the famous + divorce case which interested all London not so very long ago. When I + remember the life you acknowledged you had lived, the life you were quite + defiant about, I can’t help being amused by this sudden access of + conventional Puritanism. You declared then that you didn’t choose to live + a dull, orthodox life. One would suppose that the leopard could change his + spots after all.” + </p> + <p> + While he was speaking she lifted her head and looked fixedly at him. + </p> + <p> + “It’s just that very divorce case which has made me alter my way of + living,” she said. “Any one who knew anything of the world, any one but a + fool, could see that.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, but I am a fool,” he returned doggedly. “I was a fool when I ran + straight, and it seems I’m a fool when I run crooked. You’ve got to make + the best of me as I am. Take your choice. Go to Buyukderer if you like. If + you do I shall stay on the Bosporus. Or travel if you like, and I’ll + happen to be where you are. It’s quite easy. It’s done every day. But you + know that as well as I do. I can’t give you points in the game of throwing + dust in the eyes of the public.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s too late now to let the villa, even if I cared to. And I can’t + afford to shut it up and leave it standing empty while I wander about in + hotels. I shall go to Buyukderer next week.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’ll go back to the rooms I had last year, and we can live as + we did then. Give me the key of the garden gate and I can use the pavilion + as my sitting-room again. It’s all quite simple.” + </p> + <p> + A frown altered her white face. His mention of the pavilion had suddenly + recalled to her exactly what she had felt for him last year. She compared + it with what she felt for him now. With an impulsive movement she pulled + her hand away from his. + </p> + <p> + “I shall not give you the key. I can’t have you there. I will not. People + have begun to talk.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t believe it. They never see us together here. You have taken good + care of that in the last few months. Why, we’ve met like thieves in the + night.” + </p> + <p> + “Here, yes. In a great town one can manage, but not in a place like + Buyukderer.” + </p> + <p> + He leaned forward and said, with dogged resolution: + </p> + <p> + “One thing is certain—I will not be separated from you during the + summer. Do whatever you like, but remember that. Make your own plans. I + will fall in with them. But I shall pass the summer where you pass it.” + </p> + <p> + “I—really I didn’t know you cared so much about me,” she murmured, + with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + “Care for you!” + </p> + <p> + He stared into her face and the twinkles twitched about his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “How should I not care for you?” + </p> + <p> + He gripped her hand again. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you taught me how to live in the dust? Haven’t you shown me the + folly of being honorable and the fun of deceiving others? Haven’t you led + me into the dark and made me able to see in it? And there’s such a lot to + see in the dark! Why, good God, Cynthia, you’ve made a man in your own + image and then you’re surprised at his worshipping you. Where’s your + cleverness?” + </p> + <p> + “I often believe you detest me.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, as for that, a woman such as you are can be loved and hated almost at + the same time. But she can’t be given up. No!” + </p> + <p> + As she looked at him she saw the red gleam of the torch he carried. Hers + had long ago died out into blackness. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible that you really wish to ruin my reputation?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit of it! You’re so clever that you can always guard against + that.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I can when I’m dealing with gentlemen,” she said, with sudden, + vicious sharpness. “But you are behaving like a cad. Of all the men I—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped. A sort of nervous fury possessed her. It had nearly driven + her to make a false step. And yet—would it be a false step? As she + paused, looking at Dion, marking the hard obstinacy in his eyes, feeling + the hard, hot grip of his hand, it occurred to her that perhaps she had + blundered upon the one way out, the way of escape. Amid the wreckage of + his beliefs she knew that Dion still held to one belief, which had been + shaken once, but which her cool adroitness had saved and made firm in a + critical moment. If she destroyed it now would he let her go? Just how low + had he fallen through her? She wished she knew. But she did not know, and + she waited, looking at him. + </p> + <p> + “Go on!” he said. “Of all the men you—what?” + </p> + <p> + “How low down is he? How low down?” she asked herself. + </p> + <p> + “Can you go on?” he said harshly. + </p> + <p> + “Of all the men who have cared for me you are the only man who has ever + dared to interfere with my freedom,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Her voice had become almost raucous, and a faint dull red strangely + discolored and altered her face. + </p> + <p> + “I will not permit it. I shall go to Buyukderer, and I forbid you to + follow me there. Now it’s getting late and I’m tired. Please go away.” + </p> + <p> + “Men who have cared for you!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What d’you mean by that? D’you mean Brayfield?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have there been many others who have cared as Brayfield did?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Hadi Bey was one of them, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And Dumeny was another?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor fellows!” + </p> + <p> + His lips were smiling, but his eyes looked dreadfully intent and + searching. + </p> + <p> + “You made them suffer and gave them no reward. I can see you doing it and + enjoying it.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s untrue.” + </p> + <p> + “What is untrue?” + </p> + <p> + “To say that I gave them no reward.” + </p> + <p> + At this moment there was a tap on the door. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” said Mrs. Clarke, in her ordinary voice. + </p> + <p> + Sonia opened the door and came in. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse me, Madame,” she said, “but you told me I was to bathe your hand. + If it is not bathed it will look horrible to-morrow. I have the warm water + all ready.” + </p> + <p> + She stood in front of her mistress, broad, awkward and yet capable. Dion + felt certain this woman meant to get rid of him because she was aware that + her mistress wanted him to go. He had always realized that Sonia knew Mrs. + Clarke better than any other woman did. As for himself—she had never + shown any feeling towards him. He did not know whether she liked him or + disliked him. But now he knew that he disliked her. + </p> + <p> + He looked almost menacingly at her. + </p> + <p> + “Your mistress can’t go at present,” he said. “Her hand is all right. It + was only a scratch.” + </p> + <p> + Sonia looked at her mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Sonia is quite right,” said Mrs. Clarke, getting up. “And as the water is + warm I will go. Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + “I will stay here till you have finished,” he said, still looking at + Sonia. + </p> + <p> + “It’s getting very late. We might finish our talk to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I will stay.” + </p> + <p> + After a slight pause Mrs. Clarke, whose face was still discolored with + red, turned to the maid and said: + </p> + <p> + “Go away, Sonia.” + </p> + <p> + Sonia went away very slowly. At the door she stopped for a moment and + looked round. Then she disappeared, and the door closed slowly and as if + reluctantly behind her. + </p> + <p> + “Now what did you mean?” Dion said. + </p> + <p> + He got up. + </p> + <p> + “What did you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Simply this, that my husband ought to have won his case.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” + </p> + <p> + He stood with his hands hanging at his sides, looking impassive, with his + head bent and the lids drooping over his eyes. She waited—for her + freedom. She did not mind the disgust which she felt like an emanation in + the darkening room, if only it would carry him far enough in hatred of + her. Would it do that? + </p> + <p> + There was a very long silence between them. During it he remained + motionless. With his hanging hands and his drooping head he looked, she + thought, almost as much like a puppet as like a man. His whole body had a + strange aspect of listlessness, almost of feebleness. Yet she knew how + muscular and powerful he still was, although he had long ago ceased from + taking care of his body. The silence lasted so long, and he stood so + absolutely still, that she began to feel uneasy, even faintly afraid. The + nerves in her body were tingling. They could have braced themselves to + encounter violence, but this immobility and dumbness tormented them. She + wanted to speak, to move, but she felt obliged to wait for him. At last he + looked up. He came to her, lifted his hands and laid them heavily on her + emaciated shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “So that’s what you are!” + </p> + <p> + He stared into her haggard face. She met his eyes resolutely. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what you are!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Why have you told me this to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you knew it long ago.” + </p> + <p> + “Answer me. Why have you told me to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. You have told me to-day because you have had enough of me. You + meant to use Jimmy to get rid of me as you once used him to get to know me + more intimately. When you found that wouldn’t serve your turn, you made up + your mind to speak a word or two of truth. You thought you would disgust + me into leaving you.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you knew it long ago,” she repeated in a dull voice. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t know it. I might have suspected it. In fact, once I did, and I + told you so. But you drove out my suspicion. I don’t know exactly how. And + since then—after you got your verdict in London I saw Dumeny smile + at you as he went out of the Court. I have never been able to forget that + smile. Now I understand it. One by one you’ve managed to get rid of them + all. And now at last you’ve arrived at me, and you’ve said to yourself, + ‘It’s his turn to be kicked out now.’ Haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing can last forever,” she murmured huskily. + </p> + <p> + “No. But this time you’re not going to scrawl ‘finis’ exactly when you + want to.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s getting dark, and I’m tired. My hand is hurting me.” + </p> + <p> + He gripped her shoulders more firmly. + </p> + <p> + “If you meant some day to get rid of me, to kick me out as you’ve kicked + out the others,” he said grimly, “you shouldn’t have made me come to you + that night when Jimmy was at Buyukderer. That was a mistake on your part.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked, almost in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Because that night through you I lost something; I lost the last shred of + my self-respect. Till that night I was still clinging on to it. You struck + my hands away and made me let go. Now I don’t care. And that’s why I’m not + going to let you make the sign of the cross over me and dismiss me into + hell. Your list closes with me, Cynthia. I’m not going to give you up.” + </p> + <p> + She shook slightly under his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you trembling?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not trembling; but I’m tired; let me alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You can go to Sonia now if you like, and have your hand bathed.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hands from her shoulders, but she did not move. + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I shall wait for you here.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait for me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. We’ll dine together to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Where?” she said helplessly. + </p> + <p> + “Here, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s scarcely anything to eat. I didn’t intend——” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take you out somewhere. It’s going to be a dark night. We’ll manage + so that no one sees us. We’ll dine together and, after dinner——” + </p> + <p> + “I must come home early. I’m very tired.” + </p> + <p> + “After dinner we’ll go to those rooms you found so cleverly near the + Persian Khan.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. + </p> + <p> + “Now go and bathe your hand, and I’ll wait here. Only don’t be too long or + I shall come and fetch you. And don’t send Sonia to make excuses, for it + will be no use.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down on the sofa. + </p> + <p> + She stood for a moment without moving. She put her bandaged hand up to her + discolored face. Then she went slowly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + He sat waiting for her to come back, with his elbows on his knees and his + face hidden in his hands. + </p> + <p> + He felt like a man sunk in mire. He felt the mire creeping up to his + throat. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Almost at that same hour beside a platform at Victoria Station in London a + long train with “Dover” placarded on it was drawn up. Before the door of a + first-class carriage two women in plain traveling dresses were standing + with a white-haired clergyman. Presently the shorter of the two women said + to the other: + </p> + <p> + “I think I’ll get in now, and leave you to last words.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to the clergyman. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Father Robertson.” + </p> + <p> + He grasped her hand warmly, and looked at her with a great tenderness + shining in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Take good care of her. But you will, I know,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Beatrice Daventry got into the carriage, and stood for a moment at the + door. There were tears in her eyes as she looked at the two figures now + pacing slowly up and down on the platform; she wiped them away quickly, + and sat down. She was bound on a long journey. And what would be the end? + In her frail body Beatrice had a strong soul, but to-night she was + stricken with a painful anxiety. She said to herself that she cared about + something too much. If the object of this journey were not attained she + felt it would break her heart. She shut her eyes, and she conjured up a + child whom she had loved very much and who was dead. + </p> + <p> + “Come with us, Robin!” she whispered. “Come with us to your father.” + </p> + <p> + And the whisper was like a prayer. + </p> + <p> + “Beattie!” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund’s voice was speaking. + </p> + <p> + “We are just off.” + </p> + <p> + “Are we?” + </p> + <p> + “Take your seats, please!” shouted a loud bass voice. + </p> + <p> + There was a sound of the banging of doors. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund leaned out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Father!” + </p> + <p> + The train began to move. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by. <i>Cor meum vigilat</i>.” + </p> + <p> + Rosamund pulled down her veil quickly over her face. + </p> + <p> + She was weary of rebellion. Yet she knew that deep down within her dwelt + one who was still a rebel. She was starting on a great journey but she + could not foresee what would happen at its end. For she no longer knew + what she was capable of doing, and what would be too great a task for her + poor powers. She was trying; she would try; that was all she knew. + </p> + <p> + As the train pushed on through the fading light she said to herself again + and again: + </p> + <p> + “<i>La divina volontate! La divina volontate!</i>” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII + </h2> + <p> + A week had passed, and the Villa Hafiz had not yet opened its door to + receive its mistress. The servants, with the exception of Sonia, had + arrived. The Greek butler had everything in order downstairs. Above stairs + the big, low bed was made, and there were flowers in the vases dotted + about here and there in the blue-and-green sitting-room. Osman, the + gardener, had trimmed the rose-bushes, had carefully cleaned the garden + seats, and had swept straying leaves from the winding paths. The fountain + sang its under-song above the lilies. On the highest terrace, beyond the + climbing garden, the pavilion waited for the woman and man who had hidden + themselves in it to go down into the darkness. But no one slept in the + big, low bed, or sat in the blue-and-green room; the garden was deserted; + by night no feet trod softly to the pavilion. + </p> + <p> + For the first time in her life Cynthia Clarke was in the toils. She who + loved her personal freedom almost wildly no longer felt free. She dared + not go to Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + She looked back to that night when she had told Dion Leith the truth, and + it stood out among all the nights of her life, more black and fatal than + any of them, because on it she had been false to herself, had been weak. + She had not followed up her strength in words by strength in action! She + had allowed Dion Leith to dominate her that night, to make of her against + her will his creature. In doing that she had taken a step down—a + step away from the path in which hitherto she had always walked. And that + departure from inflexible selfishness seemed strangely to have weakened + her will. + </p> + <p> + She was afraid of Dion because she felt that he was ungovernable by her, + that her will no longer meant anything to him. He did not brace himself to + defy it; simply, he did not bother about it. He seemed to have passed into + a region where such a trifle as a woman’s will faded away from his + perception. + </p> + <p> + His serpent had swallowed up hers. + </p> + <p> + She ought to have defied him that night, to have risked a violent scene, + to have risked everything. Instead, she had come back to the drawing-room, + had gone out into the night with him, had even gone to the rooms near the + Persian Khan. She had put off, had said to herself “To-morrow”; she had + tried to believe that Dion’s desperate mood would pass, that he needed + gentle handling for the moment, and that, if treated with supreme tact, he + would eventually be “managed” into letting her have her will. + </p> + <p> + But now she had no illusions. Her distressed eyes saw quite clearly, and + she knew that she had made a fatal mistake in being obedient to Dion that + night. She felt like one at the beginning of an inclined plane that was + slippery as ice. She had stepped upon it, and she could not step back. She + could only go forward and downward. + </p> + <p> + Dion was reckless. Appeals to reason, to chivalry, to pity, had no effect + upon him. He only laughed at them, took them as part of her game of + hypocrisy. In her genuine and growing fear and distress she had become + almost horribly sincere, but he would not believe in, or heed, her + sincerity. She knew her increasing hatred of him was matched by his secret + detestation of her. Yes, he detested her with all that was most + characteristic in him, with all those inherent qualities of which, do what + he would he was unable to rid himself. And yet there was a link which + bound them together—the link of a common degradation of body. She + longed to smash that link which she had so carefully and sedulously + labored to forge. But he wished to make it stronger. By her violent will + she had turned him to perversity, and now he was actually more perverse + than she was. She saw herself outdistanced on the course towards the + ultimate blackness, saw herself forced to follow where he led. + </p> + <p> + She dared not got to Buyukderer. She could not, she knew, keep him away + from there. He would follow her from Constantinople, would resume his life + of last summer, would perhaps deliberately accentuate his intimacy with + her instead of being careful to throw over it a veil. In his hatred and + recklessness he might be capable even of that, the last outrage which a + man can inflict upon a woman, to whose safety and happiness his chivalrous + secrecy is essential. His clinging to her in hatred was terrible to her. + She began to think that perhaps he had in his mind abominable plans for + the destruction of her happiness. + </p> + <p> + One day he told her that if she went to Buyukderer he would not only + follow her there, but he would remain there when Jimmy came out for the + summer holidays. + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy must learn to like me again,” he said. “That is necessary.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered when she realized the tendency of Dion’s mind. Fear made her + clairvoyant. There were moments when she seemed to look into that mind as + into a room through an open window, to see the thoughts as living things + going about their business. There was something appalling in this man’s + brooding desire to strike her in the heart combined with his determination + to continue to be her lover. It affected her as she had never been + affected before. By torturing her imagination it made havoc of her + will-power. Her situation rendered her almost desperate, and she could not + find an outlet from it. + </p> + <p> + What was she to do? If she went to Buyukderer she felt certain there would + be a scandal. Even if there were not, she could not now dare to risk + having Jimmy out for his holidays. Jimmy and Dion must not meet again. She + might travel in the summer, as Dion had suggested, but if she did that she + would be forced to endure a solitude <i>a deux</i> with him untempered by + any social distractions. She could not endure that. To be alone with his + bitterness, his misery, and his monopolizing hatred of her would be + unbearable. And the problem of Jimmy’s holidays would not be solved by + travel. Unless she traveled to England! + </p> + <p> + A gleam of hope came to her as she thought of England. Dion had fled from + England. Would he dare to go back there, to the land which had seen his + tragedy, and where the woman lived who had cast him out? Mrs. Clarke + wondered, turning the thought of England over and over in her mind. + </p> + <p> + The longer she thought on the matter the more convinced she became that + she had hit upon a final test, by means of which it would be possible for + her to ascertain Dion’s exact mental condition. If he was ready to follow + her even to England, to show himself there as her intimate friend, if not + as her lover, than the man whom she had known in London was dead indeed + beyond hope of resurrection. + </p> + <p> + She resolved to find out what Dion’s feeling about England was. + </p> + <p> + Since the evening when she had told him the truth she had seen him—he + had obliged her to see him—every day, but he had not come again to + her flat. They had met in secret, as they had been meeting for many + months. For the days when they had wandered about Stamboul together, when + she had tried to play to him the part Dumeny had once played to her, were + long ago over. + </p> + <p> + On the day when the thought of England occurred to Mrs. Clarke as a + possible place of refuge she had promised to meet Dion late in the evening + at their rooms near the Persian Khan. She loathed going to those rooms. + They reminded her painfully of all she had felt for Dion and felt no + longer. They spoke to her of the secrecy of a passion that was dead. She + was afraid of them. But she was still more afraid of seeing Dion in her + flat. Nevertheless, now the gleam of hope which had come to her suddenly + woke up in her something of her old recklessness. Since the servants had + gone to the Villa Hafiz she had been living in the flat with Sonia, who + was an excellent cook as well as a capital maid. She resolved to ask Dion + to dinner that night, and to try her fortune once more with him. England + must be horrible to him. Then she would go to England. And if he followed + her there he would at least be punished for his persecution of her. + </p> + <p> + Already she called his determination not to break their intrigue + persecution. She had a short memory. + </p> + <p> + After a talk with Sonia she summoned a messenger and sent Dion a note, + asking him to dinner that night. He replied that he would come. His answer + ended with the words: “We can go to the rooms later.” + </p> + <p> + As Mrs. Clarke read them her fingers closed on the paper viciously, and + she said to herself: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll not go. I’ll never go to them again.” + </p> + <p> + She told Sonia about the dinner. Then she dressed and went out. + </p> + <p> + It was a warm and languid day. She took a carriage and told the coachman + to drive to Stamboul—to drive on till she gave him the direction + where to go in Stamboul. She had no special object in view. But she longed + to be out in the air, to drive, to see people about her, the waterway, the + forest of shipping, the domes and the minarets, the cypresses, the glades + stretching towards Seraglio Point, the long, low hills of Asia. She + longed, too, to hear voices, hurrying feet, the innumerable sounds of + life. She hoped by seeing and hearing to fortify her will. The spirit of + adventure was the spirit that held her, was the most vital part within + her, and such a spirit needed freedom to breathe in. She was fettered. She + had been a coward, or almost a coward, false, perhaps, to her fortunate + star. Hitherto she had always followed Nietzsche’s advice and had lived + perilously. Was she now to be governed by fear? Even to keep Jimmy’s + respect and affection could she endure such dominion? As the sun touched + her with his fingers of gold, and the air, full of a strangely languid + vitality, whispered about her, as she heard the cries from the sea, and + saw human beings, vividly egoistic, going by on their pilgrimage, she said + to herself, “Not even for Jimmy!” The clamorous city, with its fierce + openness and its sinister suggestions of hidden things, woke up in her the + huntress, and, for the moment, lulled the mother to sleep. + </p> + <p> + “Not even for Jimmy!” she thought. “I must be myself. I cannot be + otherwise. I must live perilously. To live in any other way for me would + be death.” + </p> + <p> + And the line in “The Kasidah” which Dion had pondered over came to her, + and she thought of the “death that walks in form of life.” + </p> + <p> + As the carriage went upon the bridge she looked across to Stamboul, and + was faced by the Mosque of the Valideh. So familiar to her was the sight + of its facade, of its cupolas and minarets, that she seldom now even + thought of it when she crossed the bridge; but to-day, perhaps because she + was unusually strung up, was restive and almost horribly alert, she gazed + at it and was intensely conscious of it. She had once said to Dion that + Stamboul was the City of the Unknown God, and now suddenly she felt that + she was nearing His altars. A strange, perverse desire to pray came to + her; to go up into one of the mosques of this mysterious city which she + loved, and to pray for her release from Dion Leith. + </p> + <p> + She smiled faintly as this idea came into her mind. The Unknown God had + surely made her as she was, had made her a huntress. Well, then, surely + she had the right to pray to Him to give her a free course for her + temperament. + </p> + <p> + “Santa Sophia!” she called to the coachman. + </p> + <p> + He cracked his whip and drove furiously on to Stamboul. In less than a + quarter of an hour he pulled up his horses before the vast Church of Santa + Sophia. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke sat still in the carriage for a moment looking up at the ugly + towering walls, covered with red and white stripes. Her face was haggard + in the sunshine, and her pale lips were set together in a hard line. A + beggar with twisted stumps instead of arms whined a petition to her, but + she neither saw him nor heard him. As she stared at the walls on which the + sun blazed she was wondering about her future. The love of life was + desperately strong within her that day. The longing for new experiences + tormented her physically. She felt as if she could not wait, could not be + patient any more. If Dion to-night refused again to give her her freedom + she must do something desperate. She must get away secretly and hide + herself from him, take a boat to Greece or Rumania, or slip into the + Orient express and vanish over the tracks of Europe. + </p> + <p> + But first she must go into the church and pray to the Unknown God. + </p> + <p> + She got out of the carriage. The beggar thrust one of his diseased stumps + in front of her face. She turned on him with a malignant look, and the + whining petition died on his lips. Then she made her way to the Porta + Basilica and passed into the church. But as its great spaces opened out + before her a thought, childishly superstitious, came to her, and she + turned abruptly, went out, made her way to the beggar who had worried her, + gave him a coin and said something kind to him. His almost soprano voice, + raised in clamorous benediction, followed her as she returned to the + church, moving slowly with horrible loose slippers protecting its floor + from her Christian feet. She always laughed in her mind when she wore + those slippers and thought of what she was. This sanctuary of the unknown + God must, it seemed, be protected from her because she was a Christian! + </p> + <p> + There were a good many people in the church, but it looked almost empty + because of its immense size. She knew it very well, better perhaps than + she knew any other sacred building, and she cared for it very much. She + was fond of mosques, delighting in their airy simplicity, in their casual + holiness which seemed to say to her, “Worship in me if you will. If you + will not, never mind; dream in me with open eyes, or, if you prefer it, go + to sleep in a corner of me. When you wake you can mutter a prayer, or not, + just as you please.” + </p> + <p> + Santa Sophia did not, perhaps, say that, though it had now for long years + been in use as a mosque, and always seemed to Mrs. Clarke more like a + mosque than like a church. It was richly adorned, and something of Christianity + still lingered within it. In it there seemed, even to Mrs. Clarke, to be + something impelling which asked of each one who entered it more than mere + dreams, more than those long meditations which are like prayers of the + mind separated from the prayers of the heart and soul. But it possessed + the air of freedom which is characteristic of mosques, did not seize those + who entered it in a clutch of tenacious sanctity; but seemed to let them + alone, and to influence them by just being wonderful, beautiful, + unself-consciously sacred. + </p> + <p> + At first Mrs. Clarke wandered slowly about the church, without any purpose + other than that of gathering to herself some of its atmosphere. During the + last few days she had been feeling really tormented. Dion had once said + she looked punished. Now he had made her feel punished. And she sought a + moment of peace. It could not come to her from mysticism, but it might + come to her from great art, which suggests to its votaries mystery, the + something beyond, untroubled and shiningly serene. + </p> + <p> + Presently Mrs. Clarke felt the peace of Santa Sophia, and she felt it in a + new way, because she had recently suffered, indeed was suffering still in + a new way; she felt it as something desirable, which might be of value to + her, if she were able to take it to herself and to fold it about her own + life. Had she made a mistake in living perilously through many years? Her + mind went to the woman who had abandoned Dion and entered a Sisterhood to + lead a religious life. She seldom thought about Rosamund except in + relation to Dion. She had scarcely known her, and since her first few + interviews with Dion in this land of the cypress he had seldom mentioned + his wife. She neither liked, nor actively disliked, Rosamund, whose tacit + rejection of her acquaintance had not stirred in her any womanly hatred; + for though she was a ruthless woman she was not venomous towards other + women. She did not bother about them enough for that. But now she + considered that other woman with whom she had shared Dion Leith, or rather + who, not knowing it doubtless, had shared Dion Leith with her. And she + wondered whether Rosamund, in her Sisterhood, was happier than she was in + the world. In the Sisterhood there must surely be peace—monotony, + drudgery, perhaps, but peace. + </p> + <p> + Santa Sophia, with its vast spaces, its airy dome, its great arches and + galleries, its walls of variegated marble, its glittering mosaics and + columns of porphyry, to-day made her realize that in her life of adventure + and passion she was driven, as if by a demon with a whip, and that her + horrible situation with Dion was but the culmination of a series of + horrible situations. She had escaped from them only after devastating + battles, in which she had had to use all her nervous energy and all her + force of will. Was it worth while? Was the game she was always playing + worth the candles she was always burning? Would it not be wiser to seek + peace and ensue it? As she drove to Santa Sophia she had longed fiercely + to be free so that she might begin again; might again have adventures, + might again explore the depths of human personalities, and satisfy her + abnormal curiosities and desires. Now she was full of unusual hesitation. + Suppose she did succeed in getting rid of Dion by going to England, + suppose her prayer—she had not offered it up yet, but she was going + to offer it up in a moment—to the Unknown God received a favorable + answer, might it not be well for her future happiness if she retired from + the passionate life, with its perpetual secrecies, and intrigues, and + lies, and violent efforts, into the life of the ideal mother, solely + devoted to her only child? + </p> + <p> + She felt that the struggle with Dion, the horrible scenes she had had with + him, the force of her hatred of him and his hatred of her, the necessity + of yielding to him in hatred that which should never be given save with + desire, had tried her as nothing else had ever tried her. She felt that + her vitality was low, and she supposed that out of that lowered vitality + had come her uncharacteristic desire for peace. She had almost envied for + a moment the woman whom she had replaced in the life of Dion. Even now—she + sighed; a great weariness possessed her. Was she going to be subject to a + weakness which she had always despised, the weakness of regret? + </p> + <p> + She paused beside a column not very far from the raised tribune on the + left of the dome which is set apart for the use of the Sultan, and is + called the Sultan’s seat. Her large eyes stared at it, but at first she + did not see it. She was looking onward upon herself. Then, in some distant + part of the mosque, a boy’s voice began to sing, loudly, almost fiercely. + It sounded fanatical and defiant, but tremendously believing, proud in the + faith which it proclaimed to faithful and unfaithful alike. It echoed + about the mosque, raising a clamor which nobody seemed to heed; for the + few ulemas who were visible continued reading the Koran aloud on the low + railed-in platforms which they frequent; a Dervish in a pointed hat slept + peacefully on, stretched out in a corner; before the prayer carpet of the + Prophet, not far from the Mihrab, a half-naked Bedouin, with a sheep-skin + slung over his bronzed shoulders, preserved his wild attitude of savage + adoration; and here and there, in the distance, under the low hanging + myriads of lamps, the figures of Turkish soldiers, of street children, of + travelers, moved noiselessly to and fro. + </p> + <p> + The voice of this boy, heedless and very powerful, indeed almost impudent, + stirred Mrs. Clarke. It brought her back to her worship of force. One must + worship something, and she chose force—force of will, of + temperament, of body, of brain. Now she saw the Sultan’s tribune, and it + made her think of an opera box and of the worldly life. The boy sang on, + catching at her mind, pulling her towards the East. The curious peace of + any religious life was certainly not for her, yet to-day she felt weary of + the life in her world. And she wished she could have in her existence + peace of some kind; she wished that she were not a perpetual wanderer. She + remembered some of those with whom from time to time, she had linked + herself—her husband, Hadi Bey, Dumeny, Brayfield, Dion Leith. Now + she was struggling, and so far in vain, to thrust Dion out of her life. If + she succeeded—what then? Where was stability in her existence? Her + love for Jimmy was the only thing that lasted, and that often made her + afraid now. She was seized by an almost sentimental desire to lose herself + in a love for a man that would last as her love for Jimmy had lasted, to + know the peace of an enduring and satisfied desire. + </p> + <p> + The voice of the boy died away. She turned in the direction of the Mihrab + to offer up her prayer to the Unknown God, as the pious Mussulman turns in + the direction of the Sacred City when he puts up his prayer to Allah. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes fell upon the Bedouin. + </p> + <p> + As she looked at him, this man of the desert come up into the City, with + the fires of the dunes in his veins, the vast spaces mirrored in his eyes, + the passion for wandering in his soul, she felt that in a mysterious and + remote way she was akin to him, despite all her culture, her subtle + mentality, the difference of her life from his. For she had her wildness + of nature, dominant and unceasing, as he had his. He was forever traveling + in body and she in mind. He sought fresh, and ever fresh, camping-places, + and so did she. The black ashes of burnt-out fires marked his progress and + hers. She looked at him as she uttered her prayer to the Unknown God. + </p> + <p> + And she prayed for a master, that she might meet a man who would be able + to dominate her, to hold her fast in the grip of his nature. At this + moment Dion dominated her in an ugly way, and she knew it too well. But + she needed some one whom she would willingly obey, whom she would lust to + obey, because of love. The restlessness in her life had been caused by a + lack; she had never yet found the man who could be not her tyrant for a + time, but her master while she lived. Now she prayed for that, the only + peace that she really wanted. + </p> + <p> + While she prayed she was conscious always of the attitude of the Bedouin, + which suggested the fierce yielding of one who could never be afraid of + the God he worshiped. Nor could she be afraid. For she was not ashamed of + what she was, though she hid what she was from motive of worldly prudence + and for the sake of her motherhood. She believed that she was born into + the world not in order to be severely educated, but in order that she + might live to the uttermost, according to the dictates of her temperament. + Now at last she knew what that temperament needed, what it had been + seeking, why it had never been able to cease from its journeying. Santa + Sophia had told her. + </p> + <p> + Her knowledge roused in her a sort of fury of longing for release from + Dion Leith. She saw the Bedouin riding across the sands in the freedom he + had captured, and she ached to be free that she might seek her master. + Somewhere there must be the one man who had the power to fasten the yoke + on her neck. + </p> + <p> + “Let me find him!” she prayed, almost angrily, and using her will. + </p> + <p> + She had forgotten Jimmy. Her whole nature was concentrated in the desire + for immediate release from Dion Leith in order that she might be free to + pursue consciously the search which till this moment she had pursued + unconsciously. + </p> + <p> + The Bedouin did not move. His black, bird-like eyes were wide open, but he + seemed plunged in a dream as he gazed at the Sacred Carpet. He was + absolutely unaware of his surroundings and of Mrs. Clarke’s consideration + of him. There was something animal and something royal in his appearance + and his supreme unconsciousness of others. He looked as if he were a law + unto himself, even while he was adoring. How different he was from Dion + Leith. + </p> + <p> + She shut her eyes as she prayed that Dion might be removed from her life, + somehow, anyhow, by death if need be. In the dark she created for herself + she saw the minarets pointing to the sky as she and Dion had seen them + together from the hill of Eyub as they sat under the giant cypress. Then + she had wanted Dion; now she prayed: + </p> + <p> + “Take him away! Let me be free from him! Let me never see him again!” + </p> + <p> + And she felt as if the Unknown God were listening to her somewhere far + off, knew all that was in her mind. + </p> + <p> + A stealthy movement quite near to her made her open her eyes. The Bedouin + had risen to his feet and was approaching her, moving with a little step + over the matting on his way out of the church. As he passed Mrs. Clarke he + enveloped her for a moment in an indifferent glance of fire. He burnt her + with his animal disdain of her observation of him, a disdain which seemed + to her impregnated with flame. She felt the sands as he passed. When he + was gone a sensation of loneliness, even of desolation, oppressed her. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated for a moment; then she turned and followed him slowly. He + went before her, wrapped in his supreme indifference, through the Porta + Basilica, and came out into the blaze of the sunshine. As she emerged, she + saw him standing quite still. He seemed—she was just behind him—to + be staring at a very fair woman who, accompanied by a guide, was coming + towards the church. Mrs. Clarke, intent on the Bedouin, was aware of this + woman’s approach, but felt no sort of interest in her until she was quite + close; then something, some dagger-thrust of the mind, coming from the + woman, pierced Mrs. Clarke’s indifference. + </p> + <p> + She looked up and met the sad, pure eyes of Rosamund Leith. + </p> + <p> + For a moment she stood perfectly still gazing into those eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had stopped, but she made no gesture of recognition and did not + open her lips. She only looked at Mrs. Clarke, and as she looked a deep + flush slowly spread over her face and down to her throat. + </p> + <p> + The Greek guide said something to her; she moved, lowered her eyes and + went on into the church without looking back. + </p> + <p> + The Bedouin strode slowly away into the blaze of the sunshine. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke remained where she was, motionless. For the first time perhaps + in her life she was utterly amazed by an event. Rosamund Leith here in + Constantinople! What did that mean? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke knew the arrival of Rosamund meant something that might be + tremendously important to herself. As she stood there before the church + she was groping to find this something; but her mental faculties seemed to + be paralyzed, and she could not find it. Rosamund Leith’s eyes had told + Mrs. Clarke something, that Rosamund knew of Dion’s unfaithfulness and who + the woman was. What did the fact of Rosamund’s coming to Constantinople in + possession of that knowledge mean? + </p> + <p> + From the minaret above her head the <i>muezzin</i> in a piercing and nasal + voice began the call to prayer. His cry seemed to tear its way through + Mrs. Clarke’s inertia. Abruptly she was in full possession of her + faculties. That Eastern man up there, nearer to the blue than she was, + cried, “Come to prayer!” But she had already uttered her prayer, and + surely Rosamund Leith was the answer. + </p> + <p> + As she drove away towards the Golden Horn she passed the Bedouin striding + along in the sun. + </p> + <p> + She looked at him, but he took no notice of her; the indifference of the + desert was about him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV + </h2> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke was in her bedroom with the door open that evening when she + heard a bell sound in the flat. She had fixed eight for the dinner hour. + It was now only half-past six. Nevertheless she felt sure that it was Dion + who had just rung. She went swiftly across the room and shut the bedroom + door. Two or three minutes later Sonia came in. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Leith has come already, Madame,” she said, looking straight at her + mistress. + </p> + <p> + “I expected him early, Sonia. You can tell him I will come almost + directly.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “Sonia, wait a minute! How am I looking this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “How?” said Sonia, with rather heavy emphasis. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I feel—feel as if I were looking unlike my usual self.” + </p> + <p> + Sonia stared hard at Mrs. Clarke. Then she said: + </p> + <p> + “So you are, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + “In what way?” + </p> + <p> + “You look almost excited and younger than usual.” + </p> + <p> + “Younger!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, as if you were expecting something, almost as a girl expects. I + never saw you just like this before.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke looked at herself in a mirror earnestly, and for a long time. + </p> + <p> + “That’s all, Sonia,” she said, turning round. “You can tell Mr. Leith.” + </p> + <p> + Sonia went out. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke followed her ten minutes later. When she came into the little + hall she saw lying on a table beside Dion’s hat several letters. She + stopped by the table and looked down at them. They lay there in a pile + held together by an elastic band, and she could only see the writing on + the envelope which was at the top. It was addressed to Dion and had been + through the post. She wondered whether among those letters there was one + from Rosamund. Had she written to the husband whom she had cast out to + tell him of the great change which had led her to give up the religious + life, to come out to the land of the cypress? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke glanced round; then she bent down noiselessly, picked up the + packet, slipped off the elastic band and examined the letters one by one. + She had never chanced to see Rosamund’s handwriting, but she felt sure she + would know at once if she held in her hand the letter which might mean her + own release. She did not find it; but on two envelopes she saw Beatrice’s + delicate handwriting, which she knew very well. She longed to know what + Beatrice had written. With a sigh she slipped the elastic band back into + its place, put the packet down and went into the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + Directly she saw Dion she was certain that he knew nothing of the change + in Rosamund’s life. There was no excitement in his thin and wrinkled brown + face; no expectation lit up his sunken eyes making them youthful. He + looked hard, wretched and strangely old, but ruthless and forceful in a + kind of shuttered and ravaged way. She thought of a ruined house with a + cold strong light in the window. He was sitting when she came in, leaning + forward, with his hands hanging down between his knees. When he saw her he + got up slowly. + </p> + <p> + “I was near here and had nothing to do, so I came early,” he said, not + apologetically, but carelessly. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her and added: + </p> + <p> + “What’s happened to you to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. What an extraordinary question!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it? You look different. There’s a change.” + </p> + <p> + A suspicious expression made his face ugly. + </p> + <p> + “Have you met any one?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course. How can one go out in Constantinople without meeting people?” + </p> + <p> + “Any one new, I meant.” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “You look as if you had.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I?” she said, with indifference. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. You look—I don’t know——” + </p> + <p> + He paused. + </p> + <p> + “I think it’s younger,” he added. “You never are tired or ill, but you + generally look both. To-day you don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t blame me for looking moderately well for once in my life.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did you ask me to dinner here?” + </p> + <p> + The sound of his voice was as suspicious as the expression on his face. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I don’t know. Once in a while it doesn’t matter. And all the servants + have gone away to Buyukderer.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you are going there?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not sure if I shall be able to stay there for more than a few days if + I do go.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he said slowly. + </p> + <p> + “It’s just possible I may have to go over to England on business. + Something’s gone wrong with my money matters, not the money my husband + allows me, but my own money. I had a letter from my lawyer.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “To-day.” + </p> + <p> + He stood before her in silence. + </p> + <p> + “By the way,” she added, “I saw all those letters for you on the hall + table. Why don’t you read them?” + </p> + <p> + “Going to England, are you?” he said, frowning. + </p> + <p> + “I may have to.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you must know from your lawyer’s letter whether it will be + necessary or not.” + </p> + <p> + “I expect it will be necessary.” + </p> + <p> + He turned slowly away from her and went to the window, where he stood for + a moment, apparently looking out. She sat down on the sofa and glanced at + the clock. How were they to get through a long evening together? She + wished she could bring about a crisis in their relations abruptly. Dion + turned round. He had his hands in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you’d let me look at that lawyer’s letter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “It wouldn’t interest you.” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s about money matters I might be able to help you. You know they + used to be my job. Even now anything to do with investments——” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, I won’t bother you,” she said coolly. “I always do business through + some one I can pay.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, you can pay me.” + </p> + <p> + “No, I can’t.” + </p> + <p> + “But I say you can.” + </p> + <p> + “How?” she said. + </p> + <p> + And instantly she regretted having asked the question. + </p> + <p> + He looked at her in silence for a minute, then he said: + </p> + <p> + “By sticking always to me, by proving yourself loyal.” + </p> + <p> + Her mouth twitched. The intense irony in the last word made her feel + inclined to laugh hysterically. + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t always behave in such a way as to make me feel loyal,” she + said, controlling herself. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to try to be more clever with you in the future.” + </p> + <p> + She got up abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t expect you quite so early, and I’ve got a letter to write to + Jimmy—” + </p> + <p> + “And a letter to your lawyer!” he interrupted. + </p> + <p> + “No, that can wait till to-morrow. I must think things over. But I must + write to Jimmy now.” + </p> + <p> + “Give him a kind message from me.” + </p> + <p> + “What will you do while I am writing?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll sit here.” + </p> + <p> + “But do something! Why not read your letters?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I may as well look at them. There was quite a collection waiting for + me at the British Post Office. I haven’t been there for months.” + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you go more regularly?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I’ve done with the past!” he exclaimed, with sudden savagery. + “And letters from home only rake it up.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at him narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “But have we ever done with the past?” she said, with her eyes upon him. + “If we think so isn’t that a stupidity on our part?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re talking like a parson!” + </p> + <p> + “Even a parson may hit upon a truth now and then.” + </p> + <p> + “It depends upon oneself. I say I have done with the past.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you’re afraid to read letters from England.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not.” + </p> + <p> + “And you never go to England.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing to prevent me from going to England.” + </p> + <p> + “Except your own feelings about things.” + </p> + <p> + “One gets over feelings with the help of Time. I’m not such a sensitive + fool as I used to be. Life has knocked all that sort of rot out of me.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down at the writing-table from which Jimmy’s photograph had + vanished. + </p> + <p> + “Read your letters, or read a book,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And she picked up a pen. + </p> + <p> + She did not look at him again, and she tried hard to detach her mind from + him. She took a sheet of writing-paper, and began to write to Jimmy, but + she was painfully aware of Dion’s presence in the room, of every slightest + movement that he made. She heard him sit down and move something on a + table, then sigh; complete silence followed. She felt as if her whole body + were flushing with irritation. Why didn’t he get his letters? She was + positive Beatrice had written to tell him that Rosamund had left the + Sisterhood, and she was longing to know what effect that news would have + upon him. + </p> + <p> + Presently he moved again and got up, and she heard him go over to the + window. She strove, with a bitter effort, to concentrate her thoughts on + Jimmy, but now the Bedouin came between her and the paper; she saw him + striding indifferently through the blaze of sunshine. + </p> + <p> + “About the summer holidays this year—I am not quite sure yet what my + plans will be——” she wrote slowly. + </p> + <p> + Dion was moving again. He came away from the window, crossed the room + behind her, and opened the door. He was going to fetch his letters. She + wrote hurriedly on. He went out into the little hall and returned. + </p> + <p> + “I’m going to have a look at my letters,” he said, behind her. + </p> + <p> + She glanced round. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say? Oh—your letters.” + </p> + <p> + “They look pretty old,” he said, turning them over. + </p> + <p> + She saw Beatrice’s handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s one from Beatrice Daventry,” he added, in a hard voice. + </p> + <p> + “Does she often write to you?” + </p> + <p> + “She hasn’t written for a long time.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust a finger under the envelope. Mrs. Clarke turned and again bent + over her letter to Jimmy. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Dinner is ready, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke looked up from the writing-table at Sonia standing squarely in + the doorway, then at the clock. + </p> + <p> + “Dinner! But it’s only a quarter-past seven.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you ordered it for a quarter-past seven, Madame,” replied + Sonia, with quiet firmness. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, did I? I’d forgotten.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed away the writing-paper and got up. + </p> + <p> + “D’you mind dining so early?” she asked Dion, looking at him for the first + time since he had read his letters. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied, in a voice which had no color at all. His face was set + like a mask. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want to wash your hands? If so, Sonia will bring you some hot + water to the spare room.” + </p> + <p> + “Thanks, I’ll go; but I prefer cold water.” + </p> + <p> + He went out of the room carrying the opened letters with him. After a + moment Sonia came back. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I didn’t do wrong about dinner, Madame,” she said. “I thought as + Monsieur Leith came so early Madame would wish dinner earlier.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke put her hand on her servant’s substantial arm. + </p> + <p> + “You always understand things, Sonia,” she said. “I’m tired. I mean to go + to bed very early to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “But will he——?” + </p> + <p> + She raised her heavy eyebrows. + </p> + <p> + “I must rest to-night,” said Mrs. Clarke. “I must, I must.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me tell him, then, if he—” + </p> + <p> + “No, no.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke put one hand to her lips. She heard Dion in the hall. When he + came in she saw at once that he had been dashing cold water on his face. + His eyes fell before hers. She could not divine what he had found in his + letters or what was passing in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Come to dinner,” she said. + </p> + <p> + And they went at once to the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + During the meal they talked because Mrs. Clarke exerted herself. She was + helped, perhaps, by her concealed excitement. She had never before felt so + excited, so almost feverishly alert in body and mind as she felt that + night, except at the climax of her divorce case. And she was waiting now + for condemnation or acquittal as she had waited then. It was horrible. She + was painfully conscious of a desperate strength in Dion. It was as if he + had grown abruptly, and she had as abruptly diminished. His savage + assertion about the past had impressed her disagreeably. It might be true. + He might really have succeeded in slaying his love for his wife. If so, + what chance had the woman who had taken him of regaining her freedom of + action. She was afraid to play her last card. + </p> + <p> + When dinner was over Dion said: + </p> + <p> + “Shall we be off?” + </p> + <p> + She did not ask where they were going; she had no need to ask. After a + moment’s hesitation she said: + </p> + <p> + “Not just yet. Come into the drawing-room. You can smoke, and if you like + I’ll play you something.” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + They went into the drawing-room. It was dimly lighted. Blinds and curtains + were drawn. Dion sank down heavily in a chair. + </p> + <p> + “The cigarettes are there!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I see. Thanks.” + </p> + <p> + A strange preoccupation seemed to be descending upon him and to be + covering him up. Sonia came in with coffee. Dion put his cup, full, down + beside him on a table. He did not sip the coffee, nor did he light a + cigarette. While Mrs. Clarke was drinking her coffee he sat without + uttering a word. + </p> + <p> + She went to the piano. She played really well. Otherwise she would not + have played to him, or to any one. She was specially at home in the music + of Chopin, and had studied minutely many of the “Etudes.” Now she began to + play the Etude in E flat. As she played she felt that the intense nervous + irritation which had possessed her was diminishing slightly, was becoming + more bearable. She played several of the Etudes, and presently began the + one in Thirds and Sixths which she had once found abominably difficult. + She remembered what a struggle she had had with it before she had + conquered it. She had been quite a girl then, but already she had been a + worshipper of will-power, and had resolved to cultivate and to increase + her own will. And she had used this Etude as a means of testing herself. + Over and over again, when she had almost despaired of ever overcoming its + difficulties, she had said to herself, “Vouloir c’est pouvoir;” and at + last she had succeeded in playing the excessively difficult music as if it + were quite easy to her. That had been the first stepping upwards towards + power. + </p> + <p> + She remembered that now and she set her teeth. “Vouloir c’est pouvoir.” + She had proved the saying true again and again; she must prove it true + to-night. She willed her release; she would somehow obtain it. + </p> + <p> + Directly she finished the Etude she got up from the piano. + </p> + <p> + “You play that wonderfully well,” Dion said, with a sort of hard + recognition of her merit, but with no enthusiasm. “Do you know that + there’s something damnably competent in you?” + </p> + <p> + She stood looking down on him. + </p> + <p> + “I’m very glad there is. I don’t care to bungle what I undertake.” + </p> + <p> + “I believe I knew that the first time I saw you, standing by Echo. You + held my hand that day. Do you remember?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed faintly. + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t remember.” + </p> + <p> + “The hand of Stamboul was upon me then. By God, we are under the yoke. It + was fated then that you should destroy me.” + </p> + <p> + “Destroy you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What’s the good of what lies between us? You’ve destroyed me. That’s + why you want to get rid of me. Your instinct tells you the work is done, + and you’re right. But you must stick to the wreckage. After all, it’s your + wreckage.” + </p> + <p> + “No. A man can only destroy himself,” she said, with cold defiance. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let’s argue about it. The thing’s done—done!” + </p> + <p> + In his voice there was a sound of almost wild despair, but his face + preserved its hard, mask-like look. + </p> + <p> + “And there’s no returning from destruction,” he added. “Those who try to + fancy there is are just fools.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up at her as she stood before him, and seemed suddenly struck by + the expression on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s to be the one to destroy you?” he said. “D’you think the Unknown + God has singled me out for the job? Or do you really expect to escape + scot-free after making the sign of the cross over so many lost souls.” + </p> + <p> + “The sign of the cross?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Don’t you remember when I told you of Brayfield’s death? You’ve + never given him a thought since, I suppose. But I’ll make you keep on + thinking about me.” + </p> + <p> + “What has happened to-night?” she asked sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Happened?” + </p> + <p> + “To make you talk like this?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing has happened.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s not true. Since you came into the house you’ve quite changed.” + </p> + <p> + “Merely because I’ve been reckoning things up, taking stock of the amount + of damage that’s been done. It’ll have to be paid for, I suppose. + Everything’s paid for in the end, isn’t it? When are you going to + England?” + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say it was absolutely decided.” + </p> + <p> + “No; but it is. I want to know the date, so that I may pack up to + accompany you. It will be jolly to see Jimmy again. I shall run down to + Eton and take him out.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to allow you to do me any harm. Because lately I’ve given + in to you sometimes, you mustn’t think you can make a slave of me.” + </p> + <p> + “And you mustn’t think you’ll get rid of me in one way if you can’t in + another. This English project is nothing but an attempt to give me the + slip. You thought I couldn’t face England, so you chose England as the + place you would travel to. You’ve never had a letter from your lawyer, and + there’s no reason why you should go to England on business. But I can face + England. I’ve never done anything <i>there</i> that I’m ashamed of. My + record there is a clean one.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly he thrust his hand into his jacket and pulled out the letters he + had brought from the British Post Office. + </p> + <p> + “And apart from that, you made a mistake in reckoning on my + sensitiveness.” + </p> + <p> + “Honestly, I don’t know what you mean by that,” she said, with frigid + calm. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, you do. You thought I wouldn’t follow you to England because I + should shrink from facing my mother, perhaps, and my wife’s relatives, and + all the people who know what I’ve done. I don’t shrink from meeting any + one, and I’ll prove it to you.” + </p> + <p> + He pulled a letter out of its envelope. + </p> + <p> + “This is from Beatrice Daventry. In it she tells me a piece of news.” (He + glanced quickly over the sheets.) “My wife has got tired of leading a + religious life and has left the Sisterhood in which she was, and gone to + live in London. Here it is: ‘Rosamund is living once more in Great + Cumberland Place with my guardian. She never goes into society, but + otherwise she is leading an ordinary life. I am quite sure she will never + go back to Liverpool.’—So if I go to London I may run across my wife + any day. Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “You wife has left the Sisterhood!” said Mrs. Clarke slowly, forcing a + sound of surprise into her husky voice. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve just told you so. You and I may meet her in London. If we do, I + should think she’ll be hard put to it to recognize me. Now put on your + things and we’ll be off.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not go out to-night. I intend——” + </p> + <p> + She paused. + </p> + <p> + “What do you intend?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean ever to go to those rooms again.” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed. Why not?” he asked, with cold irony. + </p> + <p> + “I loathe them.” + </p> + <p> + “You found them. You chose the furniture for them. Your perfect taste made + them what they are.” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I loathe them!” she repeated violently. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll change them, then. We can easily find some others that will do just + as well.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you understand that I loathe them because I meet you in them?” + </p> + <p> + “I understood that a good while ago.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear!” he interrupted her. “Didn’t I tell you you had destroyed me? + The man I was might have bothered about trifles of that kind, the man I am + simply doesn’t recognize them. Jimmy hates me too, but I haven’t done with + Jimmy yet, nevertheless.” + </p> + <p> + “You shall never meet Jimmy again. I shall prevent it.” + </p> + <p> + “How can you?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not fit to be with him.” + </p> + <p> + “But you have molded me into what I am. He must get accustomed to his own + mother’s handiwork.” + </p> + <p> + “Jimmy can’t bear you. He told me so when he was last here. He detests + you.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah!” said Dion, with sudden savagery, springing up from his chair. “So + you and he have talked me over! I was sure of it. And no doubt you told + Jimmy he was right in hating me.” + </p> + <p> + “I never discussed the matter with him at all. I couldn’t prevent his + telling me what he felt about you.” + </p> + <p> + Dion had become very pale. He stood for a moment without speaking, + clenching his hands and looking at her with blazing eyes. For a moment she + thought that perhaps he was going to strike her. He seemed to be + struggling desperately with himself, to be striving to conquer something + within him. At last he turned away from her. She heard him twice mutter + the name of her boy, “Jimmy! Jimmy!” Then he went away from her to the far + end of the room, where the piano was, and stood by it. She saw his broad + shoulders heaving. He held on to the edge of the piano with both hands, + leaning forward. She stayed where she was, staring at him. She realized + that to-night he might be dangerous to her. She had set out to defy him. + But she was not sure now whether, perhaps, gentleness and an air of great + sincerity might not be the only effective weapons against him in his + present abnormal condition. Possibly even now it was not too late to use + them. She crossed the room and came to him swiftly. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she said. + </p> + <p> + He did not move. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” she repeated, putting her hand on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + He turned round. His pale face was distorted. She scarcely recognized him. + </p> + <p> + “Dion, let us look things in the face.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, God—that is what I’m doing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + His lips twisted, his face was convulsed. She looked at him in silence, + wondering what was going to happen. For a moment she was almost physically + afraid. Something in him to-night struck hard upon her imagination and she + felt as if it were trembling. + </p> + <p> + “Come and sit down,” he said, at last. + </p> + <p> + And she saw that for the moment he had succeeded in regaining + self-control. + </p> + <p> + “Very well.” + </p> + <p> + She went to sit down; he sat opposite her. + </p> + <p> + “You hate me, don’t you?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you?” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “We needn’t use ugly words,” she said at last. + </p> + <p> + “For ugly things? I believe it’s best. You hate me and I hate you. D’you + know why I hate you? Not because you deliberately made me care for you + with my body, in the beastly, wholly physical way, but because you + wouldn’t let the other thing alone.” + </p> + <p> + “The other thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t we got something else as well as the body? Look here—before + I ever knew you I was always trying to build. At first I tried to build + for a possible future which might never come. Well, it did come, and I was + glad I’d stuck to my building—sometimes when it was difficult. Then + I tried to build for—for my wife—and then my child came and I + tried to build for him, too. So it went on. I was always building, or + trying to. In South Africa I was doing it, and I came back feeling as if + I’d got something to show, not much, but something, for my work. Then the + crash came, and I thought I knew sorrow and horror down to the bones. But + I didn’t. I’ve only got to know them to the bones here. You’ve made me + know them. If you’d loved me I should never have complained, have attacked + you, been brutal to you; but when I think that you’ve never cared a rap + about me, never cared for anything but my body, and that—that——” + his voice broke for a moment; then he recovered himself and went on, more + harshly,—“and that merely from desire, or whatever you choose to + call it, you’ve sent the last stones of my building to dust, I sometimes + feel as if I could murder you. If you meant to kick me out and be free of + me when you had had enough of me, you should never have brought Jimmy into + the matter; for in a way you could never understand Jimmy was linked up + with my boy, with Robin. When you made me earn Jimmy’s hatred by being + utterly false to all I really was, you separated me from my boy. I killed + him, but till then I was sometimes near him. Ever since that night of + lying and dirty pretense he’s—he’s—I’ve lost him. You’ve taken + my boy from me. Why should I leave you yours?” + </p> + <p> + “But you’re mad—when my boy’s alive and—” + </p> + <p> + “And so’s mine!” + </p> + <p> + She stared at him in silence. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t give him back to me. Jimmy shrinks from me not because of what + I’ve done, but because of what I’ve become, and my boy feels as Jimmy + does. He—he——” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke pushed back her chair bruskly. She was now feeling really + afraid. She longed to call in Sonia. She wished the other servants were in + the flat instead of at Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + “You boy’s dead,” she said, dully, obstinately. “Jimmy has nothing to do + with him—never had anything to do with him. And as for me, I have + never interfered between you and your child.” + </p> + <p> + She got up. So did he. + </p> + <p> + “Never, never!” she repeated. “But your mind is warped and you don’t know + what you’re saying.” + </p> + <p> + “I do. But we won’t argue about it. You’re a materialist and you can’t + understand the real things.” + </p> + <p> + His own words seemed suddenly to strike upon him like a great blow. + </p> + <p> + “The real things!” he exclaimed. “I’ve lost them all for ever. But I’ll + keep what I’ve got. I’ll keep what I’ve got. You hate me and I hate you, + but we belong to each other and we’ll stick together, and Jimmy must make + up his mind to it. Once you said that if he was twenty-one you’d tell him + all about it. If you’re going to England I’ll go there too, and we can + enlighten Jimmy a little sooner. Now let us be off to the rooms. As you’ve + taken a dislike to them we’ll give them up. But we must pay a last visit + to them, a visit of good-bye.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered. The thought of being shut up alone with him horrified her + imagination. She waited a moment; then she said: + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I’ll go and put on my things.” + </p> + <p> + And she went out of the room. She wanted to gain time, to be alone for a + moment. + </p> + <p> + When she was in her bedroom she did not summon Sonia, who was in the + kitchen washing up. Slowly she went to get out a wrap and a hat. Standing + before the glass she adjusted the hat on her head carefully, adroitly; + then she drew the wrap around her shoulders and picked up a pair of long + gloves. After an instant of hesitation she began to pull them on. The + process took several minutes. She was careful to smooth out every wrinkle. + While she did so she was thinking of Rosamund Leith. + </p> + <p> + All through the evening she had been on the verge of telling Dion that his + wife was in Constantinople, but something had held her back. And even now + she could not make up her mind whether to tell him or not. She was afraid + to risk the revelation because she did not know at all how he would take + it. When he knew she might be free. There was the possibility of that. He + must realize, he would surely be obliged to realize, that his wife could + have but one purpose in deliberately traveling out to the place where he + was living. She must be seeking a reconciliation, in spite of the + knowledge which Mrs. Clarke had read in her eyes that day. But would Dion + face those eyes with the hard defiance of one irreparably aloof from his + former life? If he were really ready and determined to show himself in + London as the lover of another woman would he not be ready to do the same + thing here in Constantinople? + </p> + <p> + To tell him seemed to Mrs. Clarke the one chance of escape for her now, + but she was afraid to tell him because she was afraid to know that what + seemed the only possible avenue to freedom was barred against her. She had + said to herself at the piano “Vouloir c’est pouvoir,” and she had + determined to be free, but again Dion’s will of a desperate man had + towered up over hers. It was the fact that he was desperate which gave to + him this power. + </p> + <p> + At last the gloves lay absolutely smooth on her hands and arms, and she + went back to the drawing-room. Till she opened the door of it she did not + know what she was going to do. + </p> + <p> + “So you’re dressed!” Dion said as she came in. “That’s right. Let’s be + off.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the good of going? You have said we hate each other. How can this + sort of thing go on in hatred? Dion, let us give it all up.” + </p> + <p> + “Why have you put on your things?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know. Let us say good-by to-night, and not in anger. We were not + suited to be together for long. We are too different.” + </p> + <p> + “How many men have you said all this to already? Come along!” + </p> + <p> + He took her firmly by the wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Wait, Dion!” + </p> + <p> + “Why should we wait?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s something I must tell you before we go.” + </p> + <p> + He kept his hand on her wrist. + </p> + <p> + “Well? What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “I went to Santa Sophia to-day.” + </p> + <p> + As she spoke the Bedouin came before her again. She saw his bronze-colored + arms and his bird-like eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Santa Sophia! Did you go to pray?” + </p> + <p> + She stared at him. His lips were curled in a smile. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. “But I like to go there sometimes. As I was coming away I + met some one.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Some one you know—a woman.” + </p> + <p> + “A woman? Lady Ingleton?” + </p> + <p> + “No; your wife.” + </p> + <p> + The fingers which held her wrist became suddenly cold, but they still + pressed firmly upon her flesh. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a lie!” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t!” + </p> + <p> + “How dare you tell me such a lie?” + </p> + <p> + He bent and gazed into her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Liar! Liar!” + </p> + <p> + But though his lips made the assertion, his eyes, in agony, seemed to be + asking a question. He seized her other wrist. + </p> + <p> + “What’s your object in telling me such a lie? What are you trying to gain + by it? Do you think you’ll get rid of me for to-night, and that to-morrow, + by some trick, you’ll escape from me forever? D’you think that?” + </p> + <p> + “I met your wife to-day just outside Santa Sophia,” she said steadily. + “When she saw me she stopped. We looked at each other for a minute. + Neither of us spoke a word. But she told me something.” + </p> + <p> + “Told you . . . ?” + </p> + <p> + “With her eyes. She knows about you and me.” + </p> + <p> + His hands fell from her wrists. By the look in his eyes she saw that he + was beginning to believe her. + </p> + <p> + “She knows,” Mrs. Clarke repeated. “And yet she had come here. What does + that mean?” + </p> + <p> + “What does that mean?” he repeated, in a muttering voice. + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe what I say?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes; she is here.” + </p> + <p> + A fierce wave of red went over his face. For a moment his eyes shone. Then + a look of despair and horror made him frightful, and stirred even in her a + sensation of pity. + </p> + <p> + He began to tremble. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t! Don’t!” she said, putting out her hands and moving away. + </p> + <p> + “She can’t know!” he said, trembling more violently. + </p> + <p> + “She does know.” + </p> + <p> + “She wouldn’t have come. She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “She does know. Now I’m ready, if you want to go to the rooms.” + </p> + <p> + Dion went white to the lips. He came towards her. His eyes were so + menacing that she felt sure he was going to do her some dreadful injury; + but when he was close to her he controlled himself and stood still. For + what seemed to her a very long time he stood there, looking at her as a + man looks at the heap of his sins when the sword has cloven a way into the + depths of his spirit. Then he said: + </p> + <p> + “You’re free.” + </p> + <p> + He went out of the room, leaving the door open. A moment later Mrs. Clarke + heard the front door shut, and his footsteps on the stone stairs outside. + They died away. + </p> + <p> + Then she began to sob. She felt shaken and frightened almost like a child. + But presently her sobs ceased. She took off her hat and wrap and her + gloves, lay down on the sofa, put her hands behind her small head, and, + motionless, gazed at the pale gray wall of the room. It seemed to fade + away after she had gazed at it for two or three minutes; a world opened + out before her, and she saw a barrier, like a long deep trench, stretching + into a far distance. On one side of this trench stood a boy with densely + thick hair and large hands and frank, observant eyes; on the other stood a + Bedouin of the desert. + </p> + <p> + Then she shuddered. Dion had told her she was free. But was she free? + Could she ever be free now? + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she broke into a passion of tears. She was inundated with + self-pity. She had prayed to the Unknown God. He had answered her prayer, + but nevertheless, he had surely cursed her. For love and lust were at + merciless war within her. She was tormented. + </p> + <p> + That night she knew she had run up a debt which she would be forced to + pay; she knew that her punishment was beginning. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV + </h2> + <p> + When Dion came out into the street he stood still on the pavement. It was + between ten and eleven o’clock. Stamboul, the mysterious city, was plunged + in darkness, but Pera was lit and astir, was full of blatant and furtive + activities. He listened to its voices as he stood under the stars, and + presently from them the voice of a woman detached itself, and said clearly + and with a sort of beautifully wondering slowness, “I can see the + Pleiades.” + </p> + <p> + Tears started into his eyes. He was afraid of that voice and yet his whole + being longed desperately to hear it again. The knowledge that Rosamund was + here in Constantinople, very near to him—how it had changed the + whole city for him! Every light that gleamed, every sound that rose up, + seemed to hold for him a terrible vital meaning. And he knew that all the + time he had been living in Constantinople it had been to him a horrible + city of roaring emptiness, and he knew that now, in a moment, it had + become the true center of the world. He was amazed and he was horrified by + the power and intensity of the love within him. In this moment he knew it + for an undying thing. Nothing could kill it, no act of Rosamund’s, no act + of his. Even lust had not suffocated the purity of it, even satiety of the + flesh had not lessened the yearning of it, or availed to deprive it of its + ardent simplicity, of its ideal character. In it there was still the child + with his wonder, the boy with his stirring aspirations towards life, the + man with his full-grown passion. He had sought to kill it and he had not + even touched it. He knew that now and was shaken by the knowledge. Where + did it dwell then, this thing that governed him and that he could not + break? He longed to get at it, to seize it, hold it to some fierce light, + examine it. And then? Would he wish to cast it away? + </p> + <p> + “I can see the Pleiades.” + </p> + <p> + For a moment the peace of Olympia was about him, and he heard the voices + of Eternity whispering among the pine trees. Then the irreparable blotted + out that green beauty, that message from the beyond; reality rushed upon + him. He turned and looked at the building he had just left. It towered + above him, white, bare, with its rows of windows. He knew that he would + never go into it again, that he had done forever with the woman in there + who hated him. Yes, he had done with her insomuch as a man can finish with + any one who has been closely, intimately, for good or for evil, in his + life. As he watched her windows for a moment his mind reviewed swiftly his + connection with her, from the moment when she had held his hand + indifferently, yet with intention, in Mrs. Chetwinde’s drawing-room, till + the moment, just past, when he had said to her, “You are free.” And he + knew that from the first moment when she had seen him she had made up her + mind that some day he should be her lover. He hated her, and yet he knew + now that in some strange and obscure way he almost respected her, for her + determination, her unscrupulous courage, her will to live as she chose to + live. She at any rate possessed a kind of evil strength. And he——? + </p> + <p> + Slowly he turned away from that house. He did not know where Rosamund was + staying, but he thought she was probably at the Hotel de Byzance, and he + walked almost mechanically towards it. He was burning with excitement, and + yet there was within him something cold, capable and relentless, which + considered him almost as a judge considers a criminal, which seemed to be + probing into the rotten part of his nature, determined to know once and + for all just how rotten it was. Rosamund surely was strong in her goodness + as Mrs. Clarke was strong in her evil. He had known the cruelty of both + those strengths. And why? Surely because he himself had never been really + strong. Intensity of feeling had constantly betrayed him into weakness. + And even now was it not weakness in him, this inability to leave off + loving Rosamund after all that had happened? Perhaps the power of feeling + intensely was the great betrayer of a man. + </p> + <p> + He descended the Grande Rue, moving in the midst of a press of humanity, + but strongly conscious only of Rosamund’s nearness to him, until at last + he was in front of the Hotel de Byzance. He stood on the opposite side of + the way, looking at the lighted windows, at the doorway through which + people came and went. Was she in there, close to him? Why had she come to + Constantinople? + </p> + <p> + She must have come there because of him. There could not surely be any + other reason for her traveling so far to the city where she knew he was + living. But then she must have repented of her cruelty after the death of + Robin, have thought seriously of resuming her married life. It must be so. + Inexorably Dion’s reason led him to that conclusion. Having reached it he + looked at himself, and again his own weakness confronted him like a + specter which would not leave him, which dogged him relentlessly down all + the ways of his life. Prompted, governed by that weakness, which he had + actually mistaken madly for strength, for an assertion of his manhood, he + had raised up between Rosamund and himself perhaps the only barrier which + could never be broken down, the barrier of a great betrayal. What she had + most cared for in him he had trampled into the dirt; he had slain the + purity which had drawn her to him. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Clarke had said that Rosamund knew of their connexion. He believed + her. He could not help trusting her horrible capacity to read such a truth + in another woman’s eyes. It must be so. Rosamund surely could only have + learned in Constantinople the horrible truth which would forever divide + them. She must have traveled out with the intention of seeing him again, + of telling him that she repented of what she had done, and then in the + city which had seen his degradation she must have found out what he was. + </p> + <p> + He saw her outraged, bitterly ashamed of having made the long journey to + seek a man who had betrayed her; he saw her wounded in the soul. She had + wounded him in the soul, but at this moment he scarcely thought of that. + The knowledge that she was near to him seemed to have suddenly renewed the + pure springs of his youth. When Cynthia Clarke had said, “Now I’m ready if + you want to go to the rooms,” she had received her freedom from the Dion + who had won Rosamund, not from the withered and embittered man upon whom + she had perversely seized in his misery and desolation. + </p> + <p> + That Rosamund should travel to him and then know him for what he was! All + his intense bitterness against her was swept away by the flood of his + hatred of himself. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly the lights of the city seemed to fade before his eyes and the + voices of the city seemed to lose their chattering gaiety. Darkness and + horrible mutterings were about him. He heard the last door closing against + him. He accounted himself from henceforth among the damned. Lifting his + head he stared for a moment at the Hotel de Byzance. Now he felt sure that + she was there. He knew that she was there, and he bade her an eternal + farewell. Not she—as for so long he had thought—but he had + broken their marriage. She had sinned in the soul. But to-night he did not + see her sin. He saw only his black sin of the body, the irreparable sin he + had committed against her shining purity to which he had been united. + </p> + <p> + How could he have committed that sin? + </p> + <p> + He turned away from the hotel, and went down towards his lodgings in + Galata; he felt as he walked, like one treading a descent which led down + into eternal darkness. + </p> + <p> + How had he come to do what he had done? + </p> + <p> + Already he saw Cynthia Clarke as something far away, an almost meaningless + phantom. He wondered why he had felt power in her; he wondered what it was + that had led him to her, had kept him beside her, had bound him to her. + She was nothing. She had never really been anything to him. And yet she + had ruined his life. He saw her pale and haggard face, her haunted cheeks + and temples, the lovely shape of her head with its cloud of unshining + hair, her small tenacious hands. He saw her distinctly. But she was far + away, utterly remote from him. She had meant nothing to him, and yet she + had ruined him. Let her go. Her work was done. + </p> + <p> + It was near midnight when he went at last to his lodgings, which were in a + high house not far from the Tophane landing. From his windows he could see + the Golden Horn, and the minarets and domes of Stamboul. His two rooms, + though clean, were shabbily furnished and unattractive. He had a Greek + servant who came in every day to do what was necessary. He never received + any visitors in these rooms, which he had taken when he gave up going into + the society of the diplomats and others, to whom he had been introduced at + Buyukderer. + </p> + <p> + His feet echoed on the dirty staircase so he mounted slowly up till he + stood in front of his own door. Slowly, like one making an effort that was + almost painful to him he searched for his key and drew it out. His hand + shook as he inserted the key into the keyhole. He tried to steady his + hand, but he could not control its furtive and perpetual movement. When + the door was open he struck a match, and lit a candle that stood on a + chair in the dingy and narrow lobby. Then he turned round wearily to shut + the door. He was possessed by a great fatigue, and wondered whether, if he + fell on his bed in the blackness, he would be able to sleep. As he turned, + he saw, lying on the matting at his feet, a square white envelope. It was + lying upside down. Some one must have pushed it under the door while he + was out. + </p> + <p> + He stood looking at it for a minute. Then he shut the door, bent down, + picked up the envelope, turned it over and held it near the candle flame. + He read his name and the handwriting was Rosamund’s. + </p> + <p> + After a long pause he took the candle and carried the letter into his + sitting-room. He set the candle down on the table on which lay “The + Kasidah” and a few other books, laid the letter beside it, with trembling + hands drew up a chair and sat down. + </p> + <p> + Rosamund had written to him. When? Before she had learnt the truth or + afterwards? + </p> + <p> + For a long time he sat there, leaning over the table, staring at the + address which her hand had written. And he saw her hand, so different from + Mrs. Clarke’s, and he remembered its touch upon his, absolutely unlike the + touch of any other hand ever felt by him. Something quivered in his flesh. + The agony of the body rushed upon him and mingled with the agony of the + soul. He bent down, laid his hot forehead against the letter, and shut his + eyes. + </p> + <p> + A clock struck presently. He opened his eyes, lifted his head, took up the + envelope, quickly tore it, and unfolded the paper within. + </p> + <p> + “HOTEL DE BYZANCE, CONSTANTINOPLE, Wednesday evening + </p> + <p> + “I am here. I want to see you. Shall I come to you to-morrow? I can come + at any time, or I can meet you at any place you choose. Only tell me the + hour and how to go if it is difficult. + </p> + <p> + “ROSAMUND.” + </p> + <p> + Wednesday evening! It was now the night of Wednesday. Then Rosamund had + written to him after she had been to Santa Sophia and had met Mrs. Clarke. + She knew, and yet she wrote to him; she asked to see him; she even offered + to come to his rooms. The thing was incomprehensible. + </p> + <p> + He read the note again. He pored over every word in it almost like a + child. Then he held it in his hand, sat back in his chair and wondered. + </p> + <p> + What did Rosamund mean? Why did she wish to see him? What could she intend + to do? His intimate knowledge of what Rosamund was companioned him at this + moment—that knowledge which no separation, which no hatred even, + could ever destroy. She was fastidiously pure. She could never be anything + else. He could not conceive of her ever drawing near to, and associating + herself deliberately with, bodily degradation. He thought of her as he had + known her, with her relations, her friends, with himself, with Robin. + Always in every relation of life a radiant purity had been about her like + an atmosphere; always she had walked in rays of the sun. Until Robin had + died! And then she had withdrawn into the austere purity of the religious + life. He felt it to be absolutely impossible that she should seek him, + even seek but one interview with him, if she knew what his life had been + during the last few months. And, feeling that, he was now forced to the + conclusion that Mrs. Clarke’s intuition had gone for once astray. If + Rosamund knew she would never have written that note. Again he looked at + it, read it. It must have been written in complete ignorance. Mrs. Clarke + had made a mistake. Perhaps she had been betrayed into error by her own + knowledge of guilt. And yet such a lapse was very uncharacteristic of her. + He compared his knowledge of her with his knowledge of Rosamund. It was + absolutely impossible that Rosamund had written that letter to him with + full understanding of his situation in Constantinople. But she might have + heard rumors. She might have resolved to clear them up. Having traveled + out with the intention of seeking a reconciliation she might have thought + it due to him to accept evil tidings of him only from his own lips. + Always, he knew, she had absolutely trusted in his loyalty and + faithfulness to her. Perhaps then, even though she had put him out of her + life, she was unable to believe that he had tried to forget her in + unfaithfulness. Perhaps that was the true explanation of her conduct. + </p> + <p> + Could he then save himself from destruction by a great lie? + </p> + <p> + He sat pondering that problem, oblivious of time. Could he lie to + Rosamund? All his long bitterness against her for the moment was gone, + driven out by his self-condemnation. A great love must forgive. It cannot + help itself. It carries within it, as a child is carried in the womb, the + sweet burden of divinity, and shares in the attributes of God. So it was + with Dion on that night as he sat in his dingy room. And presently his + soul rejected the lie he had abominably thought of. He knew he could not + tell Rosamund a life. Then what was he to do? + </p> + <p> + He drew out of a drawer a piece of letter paper, dipped a pen in ink. He + had a mind to write the horrible truth which he could surely never speak. + </p> + <p> + “I have received your letter,” he wrote, in a blurred and unsteady + handwriting. Then he stopped. He stared at the paper, pushed it away from + him, and got up. He could not write the truth. He went to the window and + looked out into the dark night. Here and there he saw faint lights. But + Stamboul was almost hidden in the gloom, a city rather suggested by its + shadow than actually visible. The Golden Horn was a tangled mystery. There + were some withdrawn stars. + </p> + <p> + Should he not reply to Rosamund’s letter? If she had heard rumors about + his life would not his silence convey to her the fact that they were true? + He had perhaps only to do nothing and Rosamund would understand and—would + leave Constantinople. + </p> + <p> + The blackness which shrouded Stamboul suddenly seemed to him to become + more solid, impregnable. He felt that his own life would be drowned in + blackness if Rosamund went away. And abruptly he knew that he must see + her. Whatever the cost, whatever the shame and bitterness, he must see her + at once. He would tell her, or try to tell her, what he had been through, + what he had suffered, why he had done what he had done. Possibly she would + be able to understand. If only he could find the words that would give her + the inner truth perhaps they might reach her heart. Something intense told + him that he must try to make her understand how he had loved her, through + all his hideous attempts to slay his love of her. Could a woman understand + such a thing? Desperately he wondered. Might not his terrible sincerity + perhaps overwhelm her doubts? + </p> + <p> + He left the window, sat down again at the table, and wrote quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I have your letter. Will you meet me to-morrow at Eyub, in the cemetery + on the hill? I will be near the Tekkeh of the dancing Dervishes. I will be + there before noon, and will wait all day. + </p> + <p> + “DION” + </p> + <p> + When he began to write he knew that he could not make his confession to + Rosamund within the four walls of his sordid and dingy room. Her power to + understand would surely be taken from her there. Might it not be released + under the sky of morning, within sight of those minarets which he had + sometimes feared, but which he had always secretly, in some obscure way, + loved even in the most abominable moments of his abominable life, as he + had always secretly, beneath all the hard bitterness of his stricken + heart, loved Rosamund? From them came the voice which would not be + gainsaid, the voice which whispered, “In the East thou shalt find me if + thou hast not found me in the West.” Might not that voice help him when he + spoke to Rosamund, help her to understand him, help her perhaps even to—— + </p> + <p> + But there he stopped. He dared not contemplate the possibility of her + being able to accept the man he had become as her companion. And yet now + he felt himself somehow closely akin to the former Dion, flesh of that + man’s flesh, bone of his bone. It was as if his sin fell from him when he + so utterly repented of it. + </p> + <p> + Slowly he put the note he had written into an envelope, sealed it and + wrote the address—“Mrs. Dion Leith, Hotel de Byzance.” He blotted + it. Then he fetched his hat and stick. He meant to take the note himself + to the Hotel de Byzance. The night might be made for sleep, but he knew he + could not sleep till he had seen Rosamund. When he was out in the air, and + was walking uphill towards Pera, he realized that within him, in spite of + all, something of hope still lingered. Rosamund’s letter to him had + wrought already a wonderful change in his tortured life. The knowledge + that he would see her again, be with her alone, even if only for an hour, + even if only that he might tell her what would alienate her from him + forever, thrilled through him, seemed even to shed a fierce strength and + alertness through his body. Now that he was going to see her once more he + knew what the long separation from her had meant to him. He had known the + living death. Within a few hours he would have at least some moments of + life. They would be terrible moments, shameful—but they would take + him back into life. Fiercely, passionately, he looked forward to them. + </p> + <p> + He left his letter at the hotel, giving it into the hands of a weary + Albanian night porter. Then he returned to his rooms, undressed, washed in + cold water, and lay down on his bed. And presently he was praying in the + dark, instinctively almost as a child prays. He was praying for the + impossible. For he believed that it was absolutely impossible the Rosamund + could ever forgive him for what he had done, and yet he prayed that she + might forgive him. And he felt as if he were praying with all his body as + well as with all his soul. + </p> + <p> + In the dawn he was tired. But he did not sleep at all. + </p> + <p> + About ten o’clock he went out to take the boat to Eyub. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI + </h2> + <p> + At a few minutes past eleven Dion was in the vast cemetery on the hill. It + was a gray morning, still and hot. Languor was in the air. The grayness, + the silence, the oily waters, suggested a brooding resignation. The place + of the dead was almost deserted. He wandered through it, and met only two + or three Turks, who returned his glance impassively. After the sleepless + night he had come out feeling painfully excited and scarcely master of + himself. In Galata and on the boat he had not dared to look into the eyes + of those who thronged about him. He had felt transparent, as if all his + thoughts and his tumultuous feelings must be visible to any one who + regarded him with attention. But now he was encompassed by a sensation of + almost dull calmness. He looked at the grayness and at the innumerable + graves, he was conscious of the stagnant heat, he seemed to draw into + himself the wide silence, and the excitement faded out of him, was + replaced by a curious inertia. Both his mind and his body felt tired and + resigned. The gravestones suggested death, the end of the early hopes, + aspirations, yearnings and despairs of men. A few bones and a headstone—to + that he was traveling. And yet all through the night he had been on fire + with longing, and with a fear that had seemed almost red hot. Now he + thought he perhaps understood the fatalism of the Turk. Whatever must be + must be. All was written surely from the beginning. It was written that + to-day he should be alone in the cemetery of Eyub, and it was written that + Rosamund should come to him there, or not come to him. + </p> + <p> + If she did not come? + </p> + <p> + He remembered the exact wording of his letter to her, and he realized for + the first time that in her letter she had asked him to tell her how to go + to their meeting-place “if it is difficult,” and he had not told her what + she had to do in order to come to Eyub. + </p> + <p> + But of course she had a dragoman, and he would bring her. She could not + possibly come alone. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps, however, she would not come. + </p> + <p> + Long ago she had opened and read his letter and had taken her decision. If + she was coming, probably she was already on the way. He forced himself to + imagine the whole day passed by him alone in the cemetery, the light + failing as the evening drew on, the darkness of night swallowing up + Stamboul, the knowledge forced upon him that Rosamund had abandoned the + idea of seeing him again. He imagined himself returning to Constantinople + in the night, going to the Hotel de Byzance and learning that she had left + by the Orient express of that day for England. + </p> + <p> + What would he feel? + </p> + <p> + A handful of bones and a headstone! Whatever happened to-day, and in the + future, he was on his way to just that. Then, why agonize, why allow + himself to be riven and tormented by longings and fears that seemed born + out of something eternal? Perhaps, indeed, there was nothing at all after + this short life was ended, nothing but the blank grayness of eternal + unconsciousness. If so, how little even his love for Rosamund meant. It + must be some bodily attraction, some imperious call to his flesh which he + had mistaken for a far greater thing. Men, perhaps, are merely tricked by + those longings of theirs which seem defiant of time, by those passionate + tendernesses in which eternity seems breathing. All that they think they + live by may be illusion. + </p> + <p> + Mechanically, as the minutes drew on towards noon, he walked towards the + Tekkeh of the Dervishes. Once he had come here to meet Cynthia Clarke, and + now he had deliberately chosen the same place for the terrible interview + with his wife. It could only be terrible. He did not know what he was + going to do and say when she came (if she did come), but he did know that + somehow he would tell her the whole truth about himself, without, of + course, mentioning the name of a woman. He would lay bare his soul. It was + fitting that he should confess his sin in the place of its beginnings. He + had begun to sin against the woman whom he could never unlove here in this + wilderness of the dead, when he had spoken against her to the woman who + had long ago resolved some day to make him sin. (He told himself now that + he had definitely spoken against Rosamund.) In this sad place of + disordered peace, under the gray, and within sight of the minarets lifted + to the Unknown God, he had opened the book of evil things; in this place + he would close it forever—if Rosamund came. He felt now that there + was something within him which, despite all his perversity, all that he + had given himself to in the fury of the flesh, was irrevocably dedicated + to that which was sane, clean and healthy. By this he was resolved to live + henceforth, not because of any religious feeling, not because of any love + of that Unknown God who—so he supposed—had flung him into the + furnace of suffering as refuse may be flung into a fire, but because he + now began to understand that this dedicated something was really Him, was + of the core of his being, not to be rooted out. He had left Cynthia + Clarke. In a short time—before the gray faded over the minarets of + Stamboul—Rosamund would have done with him forever. He faced + complete solitude, the wilderness without any human soul, good or bad, to + keep him company; but he faced it with a sort of hard and final + resignation. By nightfall he would have done with it all. And then—the + living Death? Yes, no doubt that would be his portion. He smiled faintly + as he thought of his furious struggle against just that. + </p> + <p> + “It was written,” he thought. “Everything is written. But we are tricked + into a semblance of vigorous life and energy by our great delusion that we + possess free will.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down beneath a cypress and remained quite still, looking downward + towards the water, downward along the path by which, if Rosamund came, she + would ascend the hill towards him. + </p> + <p> + It was nearly noon when he saw below him on this path the figure of a + woman walking slowly. She was followed by a man. + </p> + <p> + Dion got up. He could not really see who this woman was, but he knew who + she was. Instantly he knew. And instantly all the calm, all the fatalism + of which for a moment he had believed himself possessed, all the brooding + resignation of the man who says to his soul, “It is written!” was swept + away. He stood there, bare of his pretenses, and he knew himself for what + he was, just a man who was the prisoner of a great love, a man shaken by + the tempest of his feeling, a man who would, who must, fight against the + living Death which, only a moment before, he had been contemplating even + with a smile. + </p> + <p> + She had come, and with her life. + </p> + <p> + He put one arm against the seamed trunk of the cypress. Mechanically, and + unaware what he was doing, he had taken off his hat. He held it in his + hand. All the change which sorrow and excess had wrought upon him was + exposed for Rosamund to see. She had last seen him plainly as he drove + away with little Robin from the Green Court of Welsley on that morning of + fate. Now at last she was to see him again as she had remade him. + </p> + <p> + She came on slowly. Presently she turned to her Greek dragoman. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the Tekkeh? Is it much farther?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed. As he did so Rosamund saw Dion’s figure standing against the + cypress. She stood still. Her face was white and drawn, but full of an + almost flaming resolution. The mysticism which at moments Dion had + detected in her expression, in her eyes, during the years passed with her, + a mysticism then almost evasive, subtly withdrawn, shone now, like a + dominating quality which scorned to hide itself, or perhaps could not hide + itself. She looked like a woman under the influence of a fixed purpose, + fascinated, drawn onward, almost in ecstasy, and yet somehow, somewhere, + tormented. + </p> + <p> + “Please go back to the foot of the hill,” she said to the Greek who was + with her. + </p> + <p> + “But, Madame, I dare not leave you alone here.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall not be alone.” + </p> + <p> + The Greek looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Some one is waiting for me, up there, by that cypress—a—a + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh—I see, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + With a look of intense comprehension he turned to go. + </p> + <p> + “At the foot of the hill, please!” said Rosamund. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, Madame.” + </p> + <p> + The dragoman was smiling as he walked away. Rosamund stood still watching + him till he was out of sight. Then she turned. The figure of a man was + still standing motionless under the old cypress tree among the graves. She + set her lips together and went towards it. Now that she saw Dion, even + though he was in the distance, she felt again intensely, as if in her + flesh, the bodily wrong he had done to her. She strove not to feel this. + She told herself that, after her sin against him, she had no right to feel + it. In her heart she knew that she was the greater sinner. She realized + now exactly the meaning of what she had done. She had no more illusions + about herself, about her conduct. She condemned herself utterly. She had + come to that place of the dead absolutely resolved to ask forgiveness of + Dion. And yet now that she saw his body the sense of personal outrage woke + in her, gripped her. She grew hot, she tingled. A fierce jealousy of the + flesh tormented her. And suddenly she was afraid of herself. Was her body + then more powerful than her soul? Was she, who had always cared for the + things of the soul hopelessly physical? It seemed to her that even now she + might succumb to what she supposed was an overwhelming personal pride, + that even now she might be unable to do what she had come all the long way + from England to do. But she forced herself to go onward up the path. She + looked down; she would not see that body of a man which had belonged to + her and to which she had belonged; but she made herself go towards it. + </p> + <p> + Presently she felt that she was drawing near to it; then that she was + close to it. Then she stopped. Standing still for a moment she prayed. She + prayed that she might be able in this supreme crisis of her life to govern + the baser part of herself, that she might be allowed, might be helped, to + rise to those heights of which Father Robertson had spoken to her, that + she might at last realize the finest possibilities of her nature, that she + might be able to do the most difficult thing, to be humble, to forget any + injury which had been inflicted upon herself, and to remember only the + tremendous injury she had inflicted upon another. When her prayer was + finished she did not know whether it had been heard, whether, if it had + been heard, it had been accepted and would be granted. She did not know at + all what she would be able to do. But she looked up and saw Dion. He was + close to her, was standing just in front of her, with one arm holding the + cypress trunk, trembling slightly and gazing at her, gazing at her with + eyes that were terrible because they revealed so much of agony, of love + and of terror. She looked into those eyes, she looked at the frightful + change written on the face that had once been so familiar to her, and + suddenly an immense pity inundated her. It seemed to her that she endured + in that moment all the suffering which Dion had endured since the tragedy + at Welsley added to her own suffering. She stood there for a moment + looking at him. Then she said only: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, oh, forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + Tears rushed into her eyes. She had been able to say it. It had not been + difficult to say. She could not have said anything else. And her soul had + said it as well as her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me! Forgive me!” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + She went up to Dion, took his poor tortured temples, from which the hair, + once so thick, had retreated, in her hands, and whispered again in the + midst of her tears: + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve been false to you,” he said huskily. “I’ve broken my vow to you. + I’ve lived with another woman—for months. I’ve been a beast. I’ve + wallowed. I’ve gone right down. Everything horrible—I’ve—I’ve + done it. Only last night I meant to—to—I only broke away from + it all last night. I heard you were here and then I—I——” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me!” + </p> + <p> + She felt as if God were speaking in her, through her. She felt as if in + that moment God had taken complete possession of her, as if for the first + time in her life she was just an instrument, formed for the carrying out + of His tremendous purposes, able to carry them out. Awe was upon her. But + she felt a strange joy, and even a wonderful sense of peace. + </p> + <p> + “But you don’t hear what I tell you. I have been false to you. I have + sinned against you for months and months.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! It was my sin.” + </p> + <p> + “Yours? Oh, Rosamund!” + </p> + <p> + She was still holding his temples. He put his hands on her shoulders. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, it was my sin. I understand now how you love me. I never understood + till to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I love you.” + </p> + <p> + “Then,” she said, very simply. “I know you will be able to forgive me. + Don’t tell me any more ever about what you have done. It’s blotted out. + Just forgive me—and let us begin again.” + </p> + <p> + She took away her hands from his temples. He did not kiss her, but he took + one of her hands, and they stood side by side looking towards Stamboul, + towards the City of the Unknown God. His eyes and hers were on the + minarets, those minarets which seem to say to those who have come to them + from afar, and whose souls are restless: + </p> + <p> + “In the East thou shalt find me if thou hast not found me in the West.” + </p> + <p> + After a long silence Rosamund pressed Dion’s hand, and it seemed to him + that never, in the former days of their union—not even in Greece—had + she pressed it with such tenderness, with such pulse-stirring intimacy and + trust in him. Then, still with her eyes upon the minarets, she said in a + low voice: + </p> + <p> + “I think Robin knows.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII + </h2> + <p> + Not many days later, when the green valley of Olympia was wrapped in the + peace of a sunlit afternoon, and a faint breeze drew from the pine trees + on the hills of Kronos a murmur as of distant voices whispering the + message of Eternity, the keeper of the house of the Hermes was disturbed + in a profound reverie by the sound of slow footfalls not far from his + dwelling. He stirred, lifted his head and stared vaguely about him. No + travelers had come of late to the shrine he guarded. Hermes had been alone + with the child upon his arm, dreaming of its unclouded future with the + serenity of one who had trodden the paths where the gods walk, and who + could rise at will above the shadowed ways along which men creep in + anxiety, dreading false steps and the luring dangers of their fates. + Hermes had been alone with his happy burden, forgotten surely by the world + which his delicate majesty ignored without disdain. But now pilgrims, + perhaps from a distant land, were drawing near to look upon him, to spend + a little while in the atmosphere of his shining calm, perhaps to learn + something of the message he had to give to those who were capable of + receiving it. + </p> + <p> + A man and a woman, moving slowly side by side, came into the patch of + strong sunshine which made a glory before the house, paused there and + stood still. + </p> + <p> + From the shadow in which he was sitting the guardian examined them with + the keen eyes of one who had looked upon travelers of many nations. He + knew at once that the woman was English. As for the man—yes, + probably he was English too, Dark, lean, wrinkled, he was no doubt an + Englishman who had been much away from his own country, which the guardian + conceived of as wrapped in perpetual fogs and washed by everlasting rains. + </p> + <p> + The guardian stared hard at this man, then turned his bright eyes again + upon the woman. As he looked at her some recollection began to stir in his + mind. + </p> + <p> + Not many travelers came twice to the green recesses of Elis. He was + accustomed to brief acquaintanceships, closed by small gifts of money, and + succeeded by farewells which troubled his spirit not at all. But this + woman seemed familiar to him; and even the man—— + </p> + <p> + He got up from his seat and went towards them. + </p> + <p> + As he came into the sunlight the woman saw him and smiled. And, when she + smiled, he knew he had seen her before. The deep gravity of her face as + she approached had nearly tricked his memory, but now he remembered all + about her. She was the beautiful fair Englishwoman who had camped on the + hill of Drouva not so many years ago, who had gone out shooting with that + young rascal, Dirmikis, and who had spent solitary hours wrapt in + contemplation of the statue whose fame doubtless had brought her to Elis. + </p> + <p> + Not so many years ago! But was this the man the husband who had been with + her then, and who had evidently been deeply in love with her? + </p> + <p> + It seemed to the guardian that there was some puzzling change in the + beautiful woman. As to the man——Still wondering, the guardian + took off his cap politely and uttered a smiling welcome in Greek. Then the + man smiled too, faintly, and still preserving the under-look of deep + gravity, and the guardian knew him. It was indeed the husband, but grown + to look very much older, and different in some almost mysterious way. + </p> + <p> + The woman made a gesture towards the museum. The guardian bowed, turned + and moved to lead the way through the vestibule into the great room of the + Victory. But the woman spoke behind him and he paused. He did not + understand what she said, but the sound of her voice seemed to plead with + him—or to command him. He looked at her and understood. + </p> + <p> + She was gazing at him steadily, and her eyes told him not to go before + her, told him to stay where he was. + </p> + <p> + He nodded his head, slightly pursing his small mouth. She knew the way of + course. How should she not know it? + </p> + <p> + Gently she came up to him and just touched his coat sleeve—to thank + him. Then she went on slowly with her companion, traversed the room of the + Victory, looking neither to right nor left, crossed the threshold of the + smaller chamber beyond it and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + For a moment the guardian stood at gaze. Then he went back to his seat, + sat down and sighed. A faint sense of awe had come upon him. He did not + understand it, and he sighed again. Then, pulling himself together, he + felt for a cigarette, lit it and began to smoke, staring at the patch of + sunlight outside, and at the olive tree which grew close to the doorway. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Within the chamber of the Hermes for a long time there was silence. + Rosamund was sitting before the statue. Dion stood near to her, but not + close to her. The eyes of both of them were fixed upon Hermes and the + child. Once again they were greeted by the strange and exquisite hush + which seems, like a divine sentinel, to wait at the threshold of that + shrine in Elis; once again the silence seemed to come out of the marble + and to press softly against their two hearts. But they were changed, and + so the great peace of the Hermes seemed to them subtly changed. They knew + now the full meaning of torment—torment of the body and of the soul. + They knew the blackness of rebellion. But they knew also, or at least were + beginning to know, the true essence of peace. And this beginning of + knowledge drew them nearer to the Hermes than they had been in the bygone + years, than they had ever been before the coming of little Robin into + their lives, and before Robin had left them, obedient to the call from + beyond. + </p> + <p> + The olive branch was gone from the doorway. Something beautiful was + missing from the picture of Elis which had reminded Rosamund of the + glimpse of distant country in Raphael’s “Marriage of the Virgin.” And they + longed to have it there, that little olive branch—ah, how they + longed! There was pain in their hearts. But there was no longer the cruel + fierceness of rebellion. They were able to gaze at the child on whom + Hermes was gazing, if not with his celestial serenity yet with a + resignation that was even subtly mingled with something akin to gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we reach that goal and take a child with us?” + </p> + <p> + Long ago that had been Dion’s thought in Elis. And long ago Rosamund had + broken the silence within that room by the words: + </p> + <p> + “I’m trying to learn something here, how to bring <i>him</i> up if he ever + comes.” + </p> + <p> + And now God had given them a child, and God had taken him from them. Robin + had gone from all that was not intended, but that, for some inscrutable + reason, had come to be. Robin was in the released world. + </p> + <p> + As the twilight began to fall another twilight came back flooding with its + green dimness the memories of them both. And at last Rosamund spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Dion!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Come a little nearer to me.” + </p> + <p> + He came close to her and stood beside her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember something you said to me here? It was in the twilight——” + </p> + <p> + She paused. Tears had come into her eyes and her voice had trembled. + </p> + <p> + “It was in the twilight. You said that it seemed to you as if Hermes were + taking the child away, partly because of us.” + </p> + <p> + Her voice broke. + </p> + <p> + “I—I disliked your saying that. I told you I couldn’t feel that.” + </p> + <p> + “I remember.” + </p> + <p> + “And then you explained exactly what you meant. And we spoke of the human + fear that comes to those who look at a child they love and think, ‘what is + life going to do to the child?’ This evening I want to tell you that in a + strange way I am able to be glad that Robin has gone, glad with some part + of me that is more mother than anything else in me, I think. Robin is—is + so safe now.” + </p> + <p> + The tears came thickly and fell upon her face. She put out a hand to Dion. + He clasped it closely. + </p> + <p> + “God took him away, and perhaps because of us. I think it may have been to + teach us, you and me. Perhaps we needed a great sorrow. Perhaps nothing + else could have taught us something we had to learn.” + </p> + <p> + “It may be so,” he almost whispered. + </p> + <p> + She got up and leaned against his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever happens to me in the future,” she said, “I don’t think I shall + ever distrust God again.” + </p> + <p> + He put his arm round her and, for the first time since their reunion, he + kissed her, and she returned his kiss. + </p> + <p> + Over Elis the twilight was falling, a green twilight, sylvan and very + ethereal, tremulous in its delicate beauty. It stole through the green + doors, and down through the murmuring pine trees. The sheep-bells were + ringing softly; the flocks were going homeward from pasture; and the chime + of their little bells mingled with the wide whispering of the eternities + among the summits of the pine trees. Music of earth mingled with the music + from a distance that knew what the twilight knew. + </p> + <p> + Presently the two marble figures in the chamber of the Hermes began to + fade away gradually, as if deliberately withdrawing themselves from the + gaze of men. At last only their outlines were visible to Rosamund and to + Dion. But even these told of the Golden Age, of the age of long peace. + </p> + <p> + “FAREWELL!” + </p> + <p> + Some one had said it within that chamber, and a second voice had echoed + it. + </p> + <p> + As the guardian of the Hermes watched the two pilgrims walking slowly away + down the valley he noticed that the man’s right arm clasped the woman’s + waist. And, so, they passed from his sight and were taken by the green + twilight of Elis. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of In the Wilderness, by Robert Hichens + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN THE WILDERNESS *** + +***** This file should be named 4603-h.htm or 4603-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/6/0/4603/ + +Produced by Dagny; John Bickers; David Widger + +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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