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diff --git a/old/53339-0.txt b/old/53339-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index f53882b..0000000 --- a/old/53339-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14099 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Rodmoor, by John Cowper Powys - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Rodmoor - A Romance - -Author: John Cowper Powys - -Release Date: October 21, 2016 [EBook #53339] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RODMOOR *** - - - - -Produced by Stephen Rowland and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - RODMOOR - - - - - BOOKS BY - - JOHN COWPER POWYS - - THE WAR AND CULTURE, 1914 $ .60 - VISIONS AND REVISIONS, ESSAYS, 1915 $2.00 - WOOD AND STONE, A ROMANCE, 1915 $1.50 - WOLF’S-BANE, RHYMES, 1916 $1.25 - ONE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS WITH COMMENTARY, 1916 $ .75 - SUSPENDED JUDGMENTS, ESSAYS, 1916 $2.00 - - BY THEODORE FRANCIS POWYS - - THE SOLILOQUY OF A HERMIT, 1916 $1.00 - - PUBLISHED BY G. ARNOLD SHAW - GRAND CENTRAL TERMINAL, NEW YORK - - - - - RODMOOR - - A ROMANCE - - JOHN COWPER POWYS - Author of “Wood and Stone,” etc. - - _O they rade on, and farther on,_ - _And they waded rivers abune the knee,_ - _And they saw neither sun nor moon_ - _But they heard the roaring of the sea._ - ANONYMOUS. - - [Illustration] - - 1916 - G. ARNOLD SHAW - NEW YORK - - COPYRIGHT, 1916 - BY G. ARNOLD SHAW - - COPYRIGHT, IN GREAT BRITAIN - AND THE COLONIES - - VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY - BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK - - - - - DEDICATED - TO THE SPIRIT OF - EMILY BRONTE - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAPTER PAGE - - I THE BOROUGH 1 - - II DYKE HOUSE 24 - - III SEA-DRIFT 40 - - IV OAKGUARD 49 - - V A SYMPOSIUM 58 - - VI BRIDGE-HEAD AND WITHY-BED 73 - - VII VESPERS 87 - - VIII SUN AND SEA 102 - - IX PRIEST AND DOCTOR 118 - - X LOW TIDE 129 - - XI THE SISTERS 139 - - XII HAMISH TRAHERNE 152 - - XIII DEPARTURE 160 - - XIV BRAND RENSHAW 175 - - XV BROKEN VOICES 194 - - XVI THE FENS 212 - - XVII THE DAWN 226 - - XVIII BANK-HOLIDAY 239 - - XIX LISTENERS 264 - - XX RAVELSTON GRANGE 282 - - XXI THE WINDMILL 311 - - XXII THE NORTHWEST WIND 337 - - XXIII WARDEN OF THE FISHES 352 - - XXIV THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF OCTOBER 375 - - XXV BALTAZAR STORK 409 - - XXVI NOVEMBER MIST 430 - - XXVII THRENOS 447 - - - - -RODMOOR - - - - -I - -THE BOROUGH - - -It was not that he concealed anything from her. He told her quite -frankly, in that first real conversation they had together--on the -little secluded bench in the South London park--about all the morbid -sufferings of his years in America and his final mental collapse. - -He even indicated to her--while the sound of grass-mowing came to them -over the rain-wet tulips--some of the most secret causes of this event; -his savage reaction, for instance, against the circle he was thrown -into there; his unhappy habit of deadly introspection; his aching -nostalgia for things less murderously new and raw. - -He explained how his mental illness had taken so dangerous, so unlooked -for a shape, that it was only by the merest chance he had escaped long -incarceration. - -No; it was not that he concealed anything. It was rather that she -experienced a remote uneasy feeling that, say what he might,--and in -a certain sense he said too much rather than too little--she did not -really understand him. - -Her feminine instinct led her to persuade him that she understood; led -her to say what was most reassuring to him, and most consolatory; but -in her heart of hearts she harboured a teasing doubt; a doubt which -only the rare sweetness of these first love-days of her life enabled -her to hide and cover over. Nor was this feeling about her lover’s -confessions the only little cloud on Nance Herrick’s horizon during -these memorable weeks--weeks that, after all, she was destined to look -back upon as so strangely happy. - -She found herself, in the few moments when her passionate emotion left -her free to think of such things, much more anxious than she cared to -admit about the ambiguous relations existing between the two persons -dependent upon her. Ever since the death of her father--that prodigal -sailor--three years ago, when she had taken it upon herself to support -both of them by her work in the dressmaker’s shop, she had known that -all was not well between the two. Rachel Doorm had never forgiven -Captain Herrick for marrying again; she felt that instinctively, but it -was only quite recently that she had grown to be really troubled by the -eccentric woman’s attitude to the little half-sister. - -Linda’s mother, she knew, had in her long nervous decline rather clung -than otherwise to this grim friend of the former wife; but Linda’s -mother had always been different from other women; and Nance could -remember how, in quite early days, she never interfered when Miss Doorm -took the child away to punish her. - -To Nance herself Rachel had always been something of an anxiety. Her -savage devotion had proved over and over again more of a burden than a -pleasure; and now that there was this increased tension between her and -Linda, the thing began to appear invidious, rapacious, sinister. - -She was torn, in fact, two ways over the situation. Her own mother had -long ago--and it was one of her few definite recollections of her--made -her swear solemnly never to desert this friend of former days; and the -vows she had registered then to obey this covenant had grown into a -kind of religious rite; the only rite, in fact, after all these years, -she was able to perform for her dead. - -And yet if loyalty to her mother kept her patiently tender with -Rachel’s eccentricities, the much warmer feeling she had for her other -parent was stirred indignantly by the thought of any unkindness dealt -out to Linda. - -And just at present, it was clear, Linda was not happy. - -The young girl seemed to be losing her vivacity and to be growing -silent and reserved. - -She was now nearly eighteen; and yet Nance had caught her once or twice -lately looking at Rachel Doorm with the same expression of frightened -entreaty as she used to wear when led away from her mother’s side for -some childish fault. Rachel’s father, a taciturn and loveless old man, -had recently died, leaving his daughter, whom he had practically cast -off, a small but secure annuity and a little house on the east coast. - -It was now to this home of her ancestors, in the village of Rodmoor, -that Rachel Doorm was anxious to transport both sisters; partly as a -return for what Nance’s mother, and more recently Nance herself, had -done for her support, and partly out of fanatical devotion to Nance. - -The girl could not help experiencing a feeling of infinite relief -at the thought of being freed from her uncongenial work in the -dressmaker’s establishment. Her pleasure, nevertheless, had been -considerably marred, in the last few days, by the attitude of her -sister towards the projected change. - -And now, with the realisation of this thrilling new passion possessing -her, her own feeling about leaving London was different from what it -had been at first. - -None of these questions interrupted, however, on that particular -afternoon, the girl’s dreamy and absorbed happiness. - -In the long delicious intervals that fell between her and her lover -with a perfume sweeter than that of the arrested rain, she let her mind -wander in languid retrospect, from that seat in Kensington Park, over -every one of the wonderful events that had led her to this. - -She recalled her first sight of Adrian and how it had come over her, -like an intimation from some higher sphere of being, that her fate was -henceforth to lie, for good and for evil, in that man’s hands. - -It was quite early in April when she saw him; and she remembered, -sitting now by his side, how, as each day grew milder, and the first -exquisite tokens of Spring penetrated one by one--here a basket of -daffodils, and there a spray of almond-blossom--into the street she -traversed to her work, she felt less and less inclined to struggle -against the deep delicious thrill that suffused itself, like a warm -indrawing wave, through every pulse of her body. That it should -never have come to her before--that she should have lived absolutely -fancy-free until so near her twenty-third birthday--only made her -abandonment to what she felt now the more sweet and entire. - -“It is love,--it is love,” she thought; “and I will give myself up to -it!” - -And she had given herself up to it. It had penetrated her with an -exultant inner spring of delight. She had immersed herself in it. -She had gone through her tedious drudgery as if she were floating, -languidly and at ease, on a softly rocking tide. She had lived entirely -in the present. She had not made the least movement even to learn the -name of the man whose wordless pursuit of her had stirred her senses to -this exultant response. - -She had felt an indescribable desire to prolong these hours of her -first love, these hours so unreturning, so new and so sweet; a -desire--she remembered it well now--that had a tinge of unformulated -fear about it; as though the very naming, even to herself, of what she -enjoyed, would draw down the jealousy of the invisible powers. - -So she had been careful never to stop or linger, in her hurried morning -walks to the historic bridge; careful--after she had once passed him, -and their eyes had met--never so much as to turn her head, to see if he -were following. - -And yet she knew--as well in those first days as she knew now--that -every morning and night he waited, wet or fine, to see her go by. - -And she had known, too--how could she not know?--that this mute -signalling of two human souls must change and end; must become -something nearer or something farther as time went on. But day by day -she put off this event; too thrilled by the sweet dream in which she -moved, to wish to destroy it, either for better or for worse. - -If she had doubted him; doubted that he cared for her; all would have -been different. - -Then she would have taken some desperate step--some step that would -have forced him to recognise her for what she was, his one of all, -ready as none else _could_ be ready, to cry with a great cry--“Lord, -behold thine hand-maid; do unto her according to Thy will!” But she had -known he did care. She had felt the magnetic current of his longing, as -if it had been a hand laid down upon her breast. - -And in answer she had given herself up to him; given herself, she -thought, with no less complete a yielding than that with which, as she -heard his voice by her side, reaching her through a delicate mist of -delicious dreaming, she gave herself up to him now. - -She recalled with a proud gladness the fact that she had never--never -for a moment--in all those days, bestowed a thought on the question -of any possible future with him. In the trance-like hours wherein -she had brooded so tenderly over the form and face of her nameless -lover, she always pictured him as standing waiting for her, a tall, -bowed, foreign-looking figure, clothed in the long weather-stained -Inverness--the very texture of which she seemed to know the touch -of--by that corner curb-stone where the flower-shop was. - -Just in that manner, with just that air of ardent expectation, he -might be found standing, she had felt, through unnumbered days of -enchantment, and she passing by, in silence, with the same expectant -thrill. - -Such a love draught, not drained, not feverishly drunk of, but sweet in -her mouth with the taste of a mystic consecration, seemed still, even -now that she had him there beside her, to hold the secret, amid this -warm breath of London’s first lilacs, of a triumphant Present, wherein -both Past and Future were abolished. - -It seemed to the happy girl on this unique April afternoon, while the -sliding hours, full of the city’s monotonous murmur, sank unnoticed -away, and the gardeners planted their pansies and raked lethargically -in the scented mould, as though nothing that could ever happen to -her afterwards, could outweigh what she felt then, or matter so very -greatly in the final reckoning. With every pulse of her young body -she uttered her litany of gratitude. “_Ite; missa est_” her heart -cried--“It is enough.” - -As they walked home afterwards, hand in hand through the dusk of the -friendly park, she made him tell her, detail by detail, every least -incident of those first days of their encountering. And Adrian Sorio, -catching the spirit of that exquisite entreaty, grew voluble even -beyond his wont. - -He told her how, in the confusion of his mind, when it was first -revealed to him that the devastation he was suffering from did not deny -him the sweet sting of “what men call love,” he found it impossible -to face with any definite resolution the problem of his doubtful -future. He had recognised that in a week or so every penny he possessed -would be gone; yet it was impossible--and his new emotion did not, -he confessed, alter this in the least--to make any move to secure -employment. - -A kind of misanthropic timidity, so he explained to her, made the -least thought of finding what is popularly known as “work” eminently -repellant to him; yet it was obvious that work must be found, unless he -wished, simply and quietly, to end the affair by starvation. - -This, as things went then, he told her, giving her hand a final -pressure as they emerged into the lighted streets, he did not at all -urgently want--though in the first days of his return from America he -had pondered more than once on the question of an easy and agreeable -exit. It was as they settled down side by side,--her hat no longer -held languidly in her gloveless hand,--to their long and discreet walk -home through the crowded thoroughfares, that she was first startled by -hearing the name “Rodmoor” from his lips. How amazing a coincidence! -What a miraculous gift of the gods! - -Fate was indeed sweeping her away on a full tide. - -It seemed like a thing in some old fantastic romance. Could it be -possible even before she had time to contemplate her separation from -him that she should learn that they were not to separate at all! - -Rachel Doorm was indeed a witch--was indeed working things out for her -favourite with the power of a sorceress. She kept back her natural -cry of delight, “But that is where we are going,” and let him, all -unconscious, as it seemed, of the effect of his words, unravel in his -own way the thread of his story. - -It was about a certain Baltazar Stork she found he was telling her when -her startled thoughts, like a flock of disturbed pigeons, alighted -once more on the field of his discourse. Baltazar, it appeared, was -an old friend of Sorio’s and had written to offer him a sort of -indefinite hospitality in his village on the North Sea. The name of -this place--had she ever heard of Rodmoor?--had repeated itself very -strangely in his mind ever since he first made it out in his friend’s -abominable hand. - -At that point in their walk, under the glare of a great provision -shop, she suddenly became conscious that he was watching her with -laughing excitement. “You know!” she cried, “you know!” And it was with -difficulty that he persuaded her to let him tell her how he knew, in -his own elaborate manner. - -This refuge--offered to him thus out of a clear sky, he told her--did -in a considerable sense lend him an excuse for taking no steps to find -work. And the name of the place--he confessed this with an excited -emphasis--had from the beginning strangely affected his imagination. - -He saw it sometimes, so he said, that particular word, in a queer -visualised manner, dark brown against a colourless and livid sky; and -in an odd sort of way it had related itself, dimly, obscurely, and with -the incoherence of a half-learnt language, to the wildest and most -pregnant symbols of his life. - -Rodmoor! The word at the same time allured and troubled him. What it -suggested to him--and he made her admit that his ideas of it were -far more definite than her own--was no doubt what it really implied: -leagues and leagues of sea-bleached forlornness, of sand-dunes and -glaucous marshes, of solitary willows and pallid-leaved poplars, of -dark pools and night-long-murmuring reeds. - -“We’ll have long walks together there!” he exclaimed, interrupting -himself suddenly with an almost savage gesture of ardent possession. -If it had been any one but Baltazar Stork, he went on, who had sent -him this timely invitation, he would have rejected it at once, but -from Baltazar he had no hesitation in accepting anything. They had -been friends too long to make any other attitude possible. No, it was -no scruple of pride that led him to hesitate--as he admitted to her -he had done. It was rather the strange and indefinable reaction set up -in his brain by those half-sinister half-romantic syllables--syllables -that kept repeating themselves in his inner consciousness. - -Nance remembered more than once in a later time the fierce sudden way -he turned upon her as they stood on the edge of the crowded square -waiting the opportunity to cross and asked, with a solemn intensity in -his voice, whether she had any presentiment as to how things would turn -out for them in this place. - -“It hangs over me,” he said, “it hangs over us both. I see it like a -heavy sunset weighted with purple bars.” And then, when the girl did -nothing but shake her head and smile tenderly, “I warn you,” he went -on, “you are risking much--I feel it--I know it. I have had this sort -of instinct before about things.” He shivered a little and laid his -hand on her arm as if he clung to her for reassurance. - -Nance remembered long afterwards the feelings in her that made her turn -her face full upon him and whisper proudly, as if in defiance of his -premonitions, “What can happen to us that can hurt us, my dear, as long -as we are together, and as long as we love one another?” - -He was silent after this and apparently satisfied, for he did not -scruple to return to the subject of Rodmoor. The word gave him in those -first days, he said, that curious sensation we receive when we suddenly -say to ourselves in some new locality, “I have been here; I have seen -all this before.” - -Had he at that time, he told her, been less distracted by the emotions -she aroused in him, he would have analysed to the bottom the dim mental -augury--or was it reminiscence?--called up by this name. As it was -he just kept the thing at the back of his mind as something which, -whatever its occult significance, at least spared him the necessity of -agitating himself about his future. - -Nance’s thoughts were brought back from their half-attention with a -shock of vivid interest when he came to the point, amid his vague -recollections, of his first entrance into her house. It was exactly -a week ago, he reminded her, that he found himself one sunny morning -securely established as a new lodger under her roof. In his impatient -longing to secure the desirable room--across the narrow floor of -which, he confessed to her, he paced to and fro that day like a hungry -tiger--he had even forgotten to make the obvious inquiry as to the -quarter of the London sky from which his particular portion of light -and air was to come. - -It was only, he told her, with a remote segment of his consciousness -that he became aware of the fine, full flood of sunshine which poured -in from the southern-opening window and lay, mellow and warm, upon his -littered books and travel-stained trunk. - -Casual and preoccupied were the glances he cast, each time his -mechanical perambulation brought him to that pleasant window, at the -sun-bathed traffic and the hurrying crowd. London Bridge Road melted -into his thought; or rather his thought took possession of London -Bridge Road and reduced it to a mere sounding-board for the emotion -that obsessed him. - -That emotion--and Nance got exquisite pleasure from hearing him say the -words, though she turned her face away from him as he said them--took, -as he paced his room, passionate and ardent shape. He did not -re-vivify the whole of her,--of the fair young being whose sweetness -had got into his blood. He confined himself to thinking of the -delicate tilt of her head and of the spaciousness between her breasts, -spaciousness that somehow reminded him of Pheidian sculpture. - -He hadn’t anticipated this particular kind of escape--though it was -certainly the escape he had been seeking--amid the roar of London’s -streets; but after all, if it did give him his cup of nepenthe, his -desired anodyne, how much the more did he gain when it gave him so -thrilling an experience in addition? Why, indeed, should he not dream -that the gods were for once helping him out and that the generous grace -of his girl’s form was symbolic of the restorative virtue of the great -Mother herself? - -Restoration was undoubtedly the thing he wanted--and in recalling his -thoughts of that earlier hour, to her now walking with him, he found -himself enlarging upon it all quite unscrupulously in terms of what he -now felt--restoration on any terms, at any cost, to the kindly normal -paths out of which he had been so roughly thrown. He thrust indignantly -back, he told her, that eventful morning the intrusive thought that -it was only the Spring that worked so prosperously upon him. He did -not want it to be the Spring; he wanted it to be the girl. The Spring -would pass; the girl, if his feeling for her--and he glanced at the -broad-rimmed hat and shadowy profile at his side--were not altogether -illusive, would remain. And it was the faculty for remaining that he -especially required in his raft of refuge. - -Up and down his room, at any rate, he walked that day with a heightened -consciousness such as he had not known for many clouded months. “The -Spring”--and in his imaginative reaction to his own memories he grew, -so Nance felt with what was perhaps her first serious pang, almost -feverishly eloquent--“the Spring, whether I cared to recognise it or -not, waved thrilling arms towards me. I felt it”--and he raised his -voice so loud that the girl looked uneasily round them--“in the warmth -of the sun, in the faces of the wistful shop girls, in the leaves -budding against the smoke of the Borough. It had come to me again, and -you--you had brought it! It had come to me again, the Eternal Return, -the antiphonal world-deep Renewal. It had come, Nance, and all the -slums of Rotherhithe and Wapping, and all the chimneys, workshops, -wharves and tenements of the banks of this river of yours could not -stop the rising of the sap. The air came to me that morning, my -girl!”--and he unconsciously quickened his steps as he spoke till, for -all her long youthful limbs she could hardly keep pace with him--“as -if it had passed over leagues of green meadows. And it had! It had, -Nance! And it throbbed for me, child, with the sweetness of your very -soul.” He paused for a moment and, as they debouched more directly -eastward through a poor and badly lit street, she caught him muttering -to himself what she knew was Latin. - -He answered her quick look--her look that had a dim uneasiness in -it--with a slow repetition of the famous line, and Nance was still -quite enough of a young girl to feel a thrill of pride that she had a -lover who, within a stone’s throw of the “Elephant and Castle,” could -quote for her on an April evening that “_cras amet qui nunquam amavit_” -of the youth of the centuries! - -The rich, antique flavour of the words blent well enough as far as she -was concerned with the homely houses and taverns of that dilapidated -quarter. The night was full of an indescribable balm, felt through -the most familiar sounds and sights, and, after all, there was always -something mellow and pagan and free about the streets of London. It was -the security, the friendly solidity, of the immense city which more -than anything just then seemed to harmonise with this classical mood -in her wonderful foreigner and she wished he would quote more Latin as -they went along, side by side, past the lighted fruit stalls. - -The overhanging shadow of Adrian’s premonitions, or whatever they were, -about Rodmoor, and her own anxieties about Rachel Doorm and Linda -withdrew themselves into the remotest background of the girl’s mind as -she gave herself to her happiness in this favoured hour. It was in a -quiet voice, after that, that he resumed his story. The sound, he said, -of one of the Borough clocks striking the hour of ten brought a pause -to his agitated pacing. - -He stretched himself, he told her, when he heard the clock, stretched -his arms out at full length, with that delicious shivering sensation -which accompanies the near fulfilment of deferred hope. Then he -chuckled to himself, from sheer childish ecstasy, and made goblinish -faces. - -Nance could not help noticing as he told her all this, how quaintly he -reproduced in his exaggerated way the precise gestures he had indulged -in. “Per Bacco! I had only three pounds left,” he said, and as he -shrugged his shoulders and glowered at her under a flickering lamp from -eyes sunken deep in his heavy face, she realised of what it was he had -been all this while vaguely reminding her--of nothing less, in fact, -than one of those saturnine portrait-busts of the Roman decadence, at -which as a child she used to stare, half-frightened and half-attracted, -in the great Museum. - -The first thing he did, he told her, when the sound of the clock -brought him to his senses, was to empty his pockets on the top of the -chest-of-drawers which was, except for the bed and a couple of rickety -chairs, the only article of furniture in the room. An errant penny, -rolling aside from the rest, tinkled against the edge of his washing -basin. “Not three pounds!” he muttered and leered at himself in his -wretched looking glass. - -It was precisely at that moment that the sound of voices struck his -ears, proceeding from the adjoining room. - -“I had spent half the night,” he whispered, drawing his companion -closer to his side as a couple of tipsy youths pushed roughly by them, -“lying awake listening. I felt a queer kind of shame, yes, shame, -as I realised how near I was to you. You know I knew nothing of you -then, absolutely nothing except that you went to work every day and -lived with some sort of elderly person and a younger sister. It was -this ignorance about you, child, that made my situation so exciting. I -waited breathlessly, literally petrified, in the middle of the room.” - -Nance at this point felt herself compelled to utter a little cry of -protest. - -“You ought to have made some kind of noise,” she said, “to let us know -you were listening.” - -But he waved aside her objection, and continued: “I remained petrified -in the centre of the room, feeling as though the persons I listened to -might at any moment stop their conversation and listen, in their turn, -to the frantic beating of my heart. I heard your voice. I knew it in -a moment to be yours--it had the round, full sweetness”--his arm was -about her now--“of your darling figure. ‘Good-bye!’ you called out and -there came the sound of a door opening upon the passage, ‘Good-bye! I’m -off. Meet me to-night if you like. Yes, soon after six. Good-bye! Look -after each other.’ - -“The door shut and I heard you running down the stairs. I felt as -though that ‘Meet me to-night’ had been addressed to myself. I crossed -over to the window and watched you thread your way through the crowd in -the direction of the Bridge. I knew you were late. I hoped you would -not be scolded for it by some shrewish or brutal employer. I wished I -had had the courage to go out on the landing and see you off. Why is -one always so paralysed when these chances offer themselves? I might -easily have taken a fellow-lodger’s privilege and bidden you good -morning. Then I found myself wondering whether you had any inkling that -I had been sleeping so near you that night. Had you, you darling, had -you any such instinct?” - -Nance shook her head, nor could he see the expression of her eyes in -the quiet darkened square, across which they were then moving. They -came upon a wooden bench, under some iron railings, and he made her sit -down while he completed his tale. The spot was unfrequented at that -hour, and above their heads--as they leaned back, sighing tranquilly, -and he took possession of her hand--the branch of a stunted beech-tree -stretched itself out, hushed and still, enjoying some secret dream of -its own amid the balmy perfumes of the amorous night. - -“May I go on?” he enquired, looking tenderly at her. - -In her heart Nance longed to cry, “No! No! No more of these tiresome -memories! Make love to me! Make love to me!” but she only pressed his -fingers gently and remained silent. - -“I took up a book,” he went on, “from the heap on the floor and drawing -one of those miserable chairs to the window, I opened it at random. -It happened to be that mad lovely thing of Remy de Gourmont. I forgot -whether you said you had got as far as French poetry in that collection -of yours that Miss Doorm is so suspicious of. It was, in fact, ‘Le -livre des Litanies,’ and shall I tell you the passage I read? I was -too excited to gather its meaning all at once, and then such a curious -thing happened to me! But I will say the lines to you, child, and you -will understand better.” - -Nance could only press his hand again, but her heart sank with an -unaccountable foreboding. - -“It was the Litany of the Rose,” he said, and his voice floated out -into the embalmed stillness with the same ominous treachery in its -tone, so the poor girl fancied, as the ambiguous words he chanted. - -“_Rose au regard saphique, plus pâle que les lys, rose au regard -saphique, offre-nous le parfum de ton illusoire virginité, fleur -hypocrite, fleur de silence._” - -The strange invocation died away on the air, and a singular oppression, -heavy as if with some undesired spiritual presence, weighed upon them -both. Sorio did not speak for some minutes, and when he did so there -was an uneasy vibration in his voice. - -“As soon as I had read those lines, there came over me one of the -most curious experiences I have ever had. I seemed to see, yes, you -may smile,”--Nance was far from smiling--“but it is actually true--I -seemed to see a living human figure outline itself against the wall of -my room. To the end of my days I shall never forget it! It was a human -form, Nance, but it was unlike all human forms I’ve ever beheld--unless -it be one of those weird drawings, you know? of Aubrey Beardsley. -It was neither the form of a boy nor of a girl, and yet it had the -nature of both. It gazed at me with a fixed sorrowful stare, and I -felt--was not that a strange experience--that I had known it before, -somewhere, far off, and long ago. It was the very embodiment of tragic -supplication, and yet, in the look it fixed on me, there was a cold, -merciless mockery. - -“It was the kind of form, Nance, that one can imagine wandering in -vain helplessness down all the years of human history, seeking amid -the dreams of all the great, perverse artists of the world for the -incarnation it has been denied by the will of God.” He paused again, -and an imperceptible breath of hot balmy air stirred the young leaves -of the beech branch above them. - -“Ah!” he whispered, “I know what I thought of then. I thought of that -‘Secret Rose Garden’ where the timid boy-girl thing--you know the -picture I mean, Nance?--is led forth by some wanton lamp bearer between -rose branches that are less soft than her defenceless sides.” - -Once more he was silent and the hot wind, rising a little, uttered a -perceptible murmur in the leaves above their heads. - -“But what was more startling to me, Nance,” he went on, “even than the -figure I saw (and it only stayed a moment before disappearing) was -the fact that at the very second it vanished, I heard, spoken quite -distinctly, in the room next to mine, the word ‘Rodmoor.’ - -“I threw down the ‘Book of Litanies’ and once more stood breathlessly -listening. I caught the word again, uttered in a tone that struck -me as having something curiously threatening about it. It was your -Miss Doorm, Nance. No wonder she and I instinctively hated each other -when we met. She must have known that I had heard this interesting -conversation. Your sister’s voice--and you must think about that, -Nance, you must think about that--sounded like the voice of a -little girl that has been punished--yes, punished into frightened -submissiveness. - -“Miss Doorm was evidently talking to her about this Rodmoor scheme. -‘It’s what I’ve waited for, for years and years,’ I heard her say. -‘Every Spring that came round I hoped he would die, and he didn’t. It -seemed that he wouldn’t--just to spite me, just to keep me out of my -own. But now he’s gone--the old man--gone with all his wickedness upon -him, and my place returns to me--my own place. It’s mine, I tell you, -mine! mine! mine!’ It was extraordinary, Nance, the tone in which she -said these things. Then she went on to speak of you. ‘I can free her -now,’ she said, ‘I can free her at last. Aren’t you glad I can free -her? Aren’t you glad?’ - -“I confess it made me at that moment almost indignant with your sister -that she should need such pressing on such a subject. Her voice, -however, when she murmured some kind of an answer, appeared, as I have -said, quite obsequious in its humility. - -“‘O my precious, my precious!’ the woman cried again, evidently -apostrophising you, ‘you’ve worked for me, and saved for me, and now I -can return it--I can return it!’ There was a few minutes’ silence then, -and I moved,” Sorio continued, “quite close to the wall so as to catch -if I could your sister’s whispers. - -“Miss Doorm soon began once more and I liked her tone still less. ‘Why -don’t you speak? Why do you sit silent and sulky like that? Aren’t you -glad she’ll be free of all this burden--of all this miserable drudgery? -Aren’t you glad for her? She kept you here like a Duchess, you with -your music lessons! A lot of money you’ll ever earn with your music! -And now it’s my turn. She shall be a lady in my house, a lady!’” - -Nance’s head hung low down over her knees as she listened to all this -and the hand that her lover still retained grew colder and colder. - -“I remember her next words,” Sorio went on, “particularly well because -a lovely fragrance of lilacs came suddenly into the window from a cart -in the street and I thought how to my dying day I should associate that -scent with this first morning under your roof. - -“‘You say you don’t like the sea?’ Miss Doorm went on, ‘and you -actually suppose that your not liking the sea will stop my freeing her! -No! No! You’ll have the sea, my beauty, at Rodmoor--the sea and the -wind. No more dilly-dallying among the pretty shop windows and the nice -young music students. The Wind and the Sea! Those are the things that -are waiting for you at Rodmoor--at Rodmoor, in my house, where she will -be a lady at last!’ - -“You see, Nance,” Adrian observed, letting her hand go and preparing -to light a cigarette, “Miss Doorm’s idea seems to be that you will -receive quite a social lift from your move to her precious Rodmoor. She -evidently holds the view that no lady has ever earned her living with -her own hands. Does she propose to keep a horde of servants in this -small house, I wonder, and stalk about among them, grim and majestic, -in a black silk gown? - -“I must confess I feel at this moment a certain understanding of your -sister’s reluctance to plunge into this ‘milieu.’ I can see that -house--oh, so clearly!--surrounded by a dark back-water and swept -by horribly cold winds. I’m sure I don’t know, Nance, what kind of -neighbours you’re going to have on the Doorm estate. Probably half the -old hags of East Anglia will troop in upon you, like descendants of the -Valkyries. And the North Sea! You realise, my dear, I suppose, what the -North Sea is? I don’t blame little Linda for shivering at the thought -of it.” - -For the first time since she had known him Nance’s voice betrayed -irritation. “Don’t tease me, Adrian. I can’t stand it to-night. You -don’t know what all this means to Rachel.” - -Adrian smiled. “Your dear Rachel,” he said, “seems to have got you both -fairly well under her thumb.” - -“She was my mother’s best friend!” the girl burst out. “I should never -forgive myself if I made her unhappy!” - -“There seems more chance, as I see it now,” observed Sorio, “that Miss -Doorm will make Linda unhappy. I think I may take it that Linda’s -mother wasn’t much of a favourite of hers? Isn’t that so, my dear?” - -“We must be getting home now,” the girl remarked, rising from the -bench. But Sorio remained seated, coolly puffing wreaths of cigarette -smoke into the aromatic night. - -“There’s not the slightest need to get cross with me,” he said gently, -giving the sleeve of her coat a little deprecatory caress. - -“As a matter of fact, when I heard that woman scold Linda for not -wanting to set you free I felt, in a most odd and subtle manner, -curiously anxious to scold her, too; I quite longed to overcome and -override her absurd reluctance. I even felt a strange excitement in -the thought of walking with her along the edge of this water, and in -the face of this wind. O! I became Miss Doorm’s accomplice, Nance! -You may be perfectly happy. I made up my mind that very moment that I -would write at once to Baltazar and accept his invitation. Indeed I -did write to him, the minute I could hear no more talking. I was too -excited to write much. I just wrote: ‘Amico mio:--I will come to you -very soon,’ and when I’d finished the letter I went straight out and -posted it. I believe I heard Linda crying as I went downstairs, but, as -I tell you, Nance, I had become quite an accomplice of Miss Doorm! It -seemed to me outrageous that the selfish silliness of a child like that -should interfere with your emancipation. Besides I liked the thought of -walking with her by the shore of this sea and calming her curious fear.” - -He threw away his cigarette and, rising to his feet, drew the girl’s -arm within his own and led her homewards. - -The beech-tree, as if relieved by their departure, gave itself up with -more delicious abandonment than ever to the embraces of the warm Spring -night. They had not far to go now, and Nance only spoke once before -they arrived at their door in the London Bridge Road. - -“Had that figure you saw,” she asked in a low constrained voice, “the -same look Linda has--now that you know what she is like?” - -“Linda?” he answered, “Oh, no, my dear, no, no! That one had nothing -to do with Linda. But I think,” he added, after a pause, “it had -something to do with Rodmoor.” - - - - -II - -DYKE HOUSE - - -Nance Herrick stood at her window in the Doorm dwelling the morning -after their arrival thinking desperately of what she had done. The -window, open at the top, let in a breath of chilly, salt-tasting wind -which stirred the fair loose hair upon her forehead and cooled her -throat and shoulders. At the sound of her sister’s voice she closed -the window, cast one swift, troubled look at the river flowing so -formidably near, and moved across to Linda’s side. Drowsy and warm -after her deep sleep, the younger girl stretched out her long, youthful -arms from the bed and clasped them round Nance’s neck. - -“Are you glad,” she whispered, “are you glad, after all, that I made -you come? I couldn’t have borne to be selfish, dear. I should have had -no peace. No!--,” she interrupted an ejaculation from Nance, “--it -wasn’t anything to do with Rachel. It wasn’t, Nancy darling, it really -and truly wasn’t! I’m going to be perfectly good now. I’m going to be -so good that you’ll hardly know me. Shall I tell you what I’m going -to do? I’m going to learn the organ. Rachel says there’s a beautiful -one in the church here, and Mr. Traherne--he’s the clergyman, you -know--plays upon it himself. I’m going to persuade him to teach me. O! -I shall be perfectly happy!” - -Nance extricated herself from the young girl’s arms and, stepping -back into the middle of the room, stood contemplating her in silence. -The two sisters, thus contrasted, in the hard white light of that -fen-land morning, would have charmed the super-subtle sense of some -late Venetian painter. Nance herself, without being able precisely to -define her feeling, felt that the mere physical difference between -them was symbolic of something dangerously fatal in their conjunction. -Her sister was not an opposite type. She too was fair--she too was -tall and flexible--she too was emphatically feminine in her build--she -even had eyes of the same vague grey colour. And yet, as Nance looked -at her now, at her flushed excited cheeks, her light brown curls, her -passionate neurotic attitude, and became at the same time conscious of -her own cold pure limbs, white marble-like skin and heavily-hanging -shining hair, she felt that they were so essentially different, even in -their likeness, that the souls in their two bodies could never easily -comprehend one another nor arrive at any point of real instinctive -understanding. - -Something of the same thought must have troubled Linda too at that -moment, for as they fixed their eyes on each other’s faces there fell -between them that sort of devastating silence which indicates the -struggle of two human spirits, seeking in vain to break the eternal -barrier in whose isolating power lies all the tragedy and all the -interest of life. - -Suddenly Nance moved to the window and threw it wide open. - -“Listen!” she said. - -The younger sister made a quick apprehensive movement and clasped her -hands tightly together. Her eyes grew wide and her breast rose and -fell. - -“Listen!” Nance repeated. - -A low, deep-drawn murmur, reiterated, and again reiterated, in menacing -monotony, filled the room. - -“The sea!” cried both sisters together. - -Nance shivered, closed the window and sank down on a chair. With -lowered eyes she remained for some seconds absorbed and abstracted. -When she lifted her head she saw that her sister was watching her and -that there was a look on her face such as she had never seen there -before. It was a look she was destined to be unable to thrust from -her memory, but no effort of hers could have described it then or -afterwards. Making an effort of will which required all the strength of -her soul, Nance rose to her feet and spoke solemnly and deliberately. - -“Swear to me, Linda, that nothing I could have said or done would have -made you agree to stay in London. I told you I was ready to stay, -didn’t I, that night I came back with Adrian and found you awake? -I begged and begged you to tell me the truth, to tell me whether -Rachel was forcing you into going. I offered to leave her for good -and all--didn’t I?--if she was unkind to you. It’s only the truth I -want--only the truth! We’ll go back--now--to-morrow--the moment you say -you wish it. But if you don’t wish it, make me know you don’t! Make me -know it--here--in my heart!” - -In her emotion, pressing her hand to her side, she swayed with a -pathetic, unconscious movement. Linda continued to watch her, the same -indescribable look upon her face. - -“Will you swear that nothing I could have done would have made you -stay? Will you swear that, Linda?” - -The younger girl in answer to this appeal, leapt from her bed and -rushing up to her sister hugged her tightly in her arms. - -“You darling thing!” she cried, “of course I’ll swear it. -Nothing--nothing--_nothing_! would have made me stay. Oh, you’ll soon -see how happy I can be in Rodmoor--in dear lovely Rodmoor!” - -A simultaneous outburst of weeping relieved at that moment the feelings -of both of them, and they kissed one another passionately through their -falling tears. - -In the hush that followed--whether by reason of a change in the wind or -simply because their senses had grown more receptive--they both clearly -heard through the window that remained closed, the husky, long-drawn -beat, reiterative, incessant, menacing, of the waves of the North Sea. - -During breakfast and the hours which succeeded that meal, Nance was -at once surprised and delighted by the excellent spirits of both Miss -Doorm and Linda. They even left her to herself before half the morning -was over and went off together, apparently in complete harmony along -the banks of the tidal stream. - -She herself, loitering in the deserted garden, felt a curious sensation -of loneliness and a wonder, not amounting to a sense of discomfort but -still remotely disturbing, as to why it was that Adrian had not, as -he had promised, appeared to take her out. Acting at last on a sudden -impulse, she ran into the house, put on her hat and cloak, and started -rapidly down the road leading to the village. - -The Spring was certainly not so far advanced in Rodmoor as it was -in London. Nance felt as though some alien influence were at work -here, reducing to enforced sterility the natural movements of living -and growing things. The trees were stunted, the marigolds in the wet -ditches pallid and tarnished. The leaves of the poplars, as they shook -in the gusty wind, seemed to her like hundreds and hundreds of tiny -dead hands--the hands of ghostly babies beseeching whatever power -called them forth to give them more life or to return them to the -shadows. - -Yes, some alien influence was at work, and the Spring was ravished and -tarnished even while yet in bud. It was as if by an eternal mandate, -registered when this portion of the coast first assumed its form, the -seasons had been somehow thwarted and perverted in the processes of -their natural order, and the land left, a neutral, sterile, derelict -thing, neither quite living nor quite dead, doomed to changeless -monotony. - -Nance was still some little distance from the village, but she -slackened her pace and lingered now, in the hope that at any moment -she might see Adrian approaching. She knew from Rachel’s description -only very vaguely where Mr. Stork’s cottage was and she was afraid of -missing her lover if she went too far. - -The road she was following was divided from the river by some level -water meadows and she did not feel certain whether the village itself -lay on the right or the left of the river mouth. Miss Doorm had spoken -of a bridge, but among the roofs and trees which she made out in front -of her, she was unable at present to see anything of this. - -What she did see was a vast expanse of interminable fen-land -stretching away for miles and miles on every side of her, broken -against the sky line, towards which she was advancing, by grey houses -and grey poplars but otherwise losing itself in misty horizons which -seemed infinite in their remoteness. On both sides of the little massed -group of roofs and trees and what the girl made out as the masts of -boats in the harbour, a long low bank of irregular sand-dunes kept the -sea from her view, though the sound of the waves--and Nance fancied it -came to her in a more friendly manner now she was closer to it--was -insistent and clear. - -Across the fens to her left she discerned what was evidently the -village church but the building looked so desolate and isolated--alone -there in the midst of the marshes--that she found it difficult to -conceive the easily-daunted Linda as practising organ music in such -a place. She wondered if the grey building she could just obscurely -distinguish, leaning against the wall of the church, were the abode of -Mr. Traherne. If so, she thought, he must indeed be a man of God to -endure that solitude. - -She had wandered into the wet grass by the road’s edge and was amusing -herself by picking a bunch of dandelions, the only flower at that -moment in sight, when she saw a man’s figure approaching her from the -Rodmoor direction. At first she assumed it was Adrian, and made several -quick steps to meet him, but when she recognised her mistake the -disappointment made her so irritable that she threw her flowers away. -Her irritation vanished, however, after a long survey of him, when the -stranger actually drew near. - -He was a middle-sized man wearing at the back of his head a dark soft -hat and buttoned up, from throat to ankles, in a light-coloured heavy -overcoat. His face, plump, smooth, and delicately oval, possessed a -winning freshness of tint and outline which was further enhanced by -the challenging friendliness of his whimsical smile and the softness -of his hazel eyes. What could be seen of his mouth--for he wore a -heavy moustache--was sensitive and sensuous, but something about the -way he walked--a kind of humorous roll, Nance mentally defined it, of -his sturdy figure--gave an impression that this body, so carefully -over-coated against the cold, was one whose heart was large, mellow -and warm. It was not till after a minute or two, not in fact till -he had wavered and hovered at her side like an entomologist over a -newly discovered butterfly, that the girl got upon the track of other -interesting peculiarities. - -His nose, she found, for instance, was the most striking feature of his -face, being extremely long and pointed like the nose of a rodent, and -with large quivering nostrils slightly reddened, it happened just then, -by the impact of the wind, and tilted forward as the man veered about -as though to snuff up the very perfume and essence of the fortunate -occasion. - -From the extreme tip of this interesting feature hung a pearly drop of -rheum. - -What--next to the man’s nose--struck the girl’s fancy and indeed -so disarmed her dignity that even his entomological hoverings were -forgiven, was the straight lock of black-brown hair which falling -across his forehead gave him a deliciously ruffled and tumbled look, as -if he had recently been engaged in a rural game of “blind man’s buff.” -The forehead itself, or what could be seen of it, was weighty and -thoughtful; the forehead of a scholar or a philosopher. - -Nance had never in all her life been treated by a stranger quite in the -way this worthy man treated her, for not only did he return upon his -steps immediately after he had passed her, but he permitted his eyes, -both in passing and repassing, to search her smilingly up and down from -her boots to the top of her head, precisely as if he were a connoisseur -in a gallery observing the “values” of a famous picture. - -And yet, for she was not by any means oblivious to such distinctions, -the girl was unable to feel even for one second that this surprising -admirer was anything but a gentleman--a gentleman, however, with very -singular manners. That she certainly did feel. And yet, she liked -him, liked him before he uttered a word, liked him with that swift, -irrational, magnetic attraction which, with women even more than with -men, is the important thing. - -Passing her for the third time he suddenly darted into the grass, and -with a movement so comically impetuous that though she gave a start -she could not feel angry, picked up her discarded flowers and gravely -presented them to her, saying as he did so, “Perhaps you’ll be annoyed -at leaving these behind--or do you wish them at the devil?” - -Nance took them from him and smiled frankly into his face. - -“I suppose I oughtn’t to have picked them,” she said. “People don’t -like dandelions brought into houses.” - -“What an Attic chin you have!” was the stranger’s next remark. There -was such an absence in his tone of all rakish or conventional gallantry -that the girl still felt she could not repulse him. - -“You are staying here--in Rodmoor?” he went on. - -Nance explained that she had come to live with Miss Doorm. - -“Ah!” The stranger looked at her curiously, smiling with exquisite -sweetness. “You have been here before,” he said. “You came in a coach, -pulled by six black horses. You know every sort of reed and every kind -of moss in all the fens. You know all the shells on the shore and all -the seaweed in the sea.” - -Nance was less puzzled than might be supposed by this fantastic -address, as she had the advantage of interpreting it in the light of -the humorous and reassuring smile which accompanied its utterance. - -She brought him back to reality by a direct question. “Can you tell me -where Mr. Stork lives, please? I’ve a friend staying with him and I -want to know which way a person would naturally take coming from there -to us. I had rather hoped,” she hesitated a little, “to have met my -friend already. But perhaps Mr. Stork is a late riser.” - -The stranger, who had been looking very intently at the opposite hedge -while she asked her question, suddenly darted towards it. The queer way -in which he ran with his arms swinging loosely from his shoulders, and -his body bent a little forward, struck Nance as peculiarly fascinating. -When he reached the hedge he hovered momentarily in front of it and -then pounced at something. “Missed!” he cried in a peevish voice. “Damn -the little scoundrel! A shrew-mouse! That’s what it was! A shrew-mouse!” - -He came hurrying back as fast as he went, almost as if Nance herself -had been some kind of furred or feathered animal that might disappear -if it were not held fast. - -“I beg your pardon, Madam,” he said, breathlessly, “but you don’t often -see those so near the town. Hullo!” This last exclamation was caused -by the appearance, not many paces from them, of Adrian Sorio himself -who emerged from a gap in the hedge, hatless and excited. - -“I was on the tow-path,” he gasped, “and I caught sight of you. I was -afraid you’d have started. Baltazar made me go with him to the station.” -He paused and stared at Nance’s companion. - -The latter looked so extremely uncomfortable that the girl hastened to -come to his rescue. - -“This gentleman was just going to show me the way,” she said, “to your -friend’s house. Look, Adrian! Aren’t these lovely?” - -She held out the dandelions towards him, but he disregarded them. - -“Well,” he remarked rather brusquely, “now I’ve found you, I fancy we’d -better go back the way we came. I’m longing to see how Linda feels. I -want to take her down to the sea this afternoon. Shall we do that? Or -perhaps you can’t both leave Miss Doorm at the same time?” - -He stared at the stranger as if bidding him clear off. But the admirer -of shrew-mice had recovered his equanimity. “I know Mr. Stork well,” he -remarked to Sorio. “He and I are quite old friends. I was just asking -this lady if she had ever been in the fens before, but I gather this is -her first visit.” - -Adrian had by this time begun to look so morose that Nance broke in -hurriedly. - -“We must introduce ourselves,” she said. “My name is Miss Herrick. -This is Mr. Adrian Sorio.” She paused and waited. A long shrill cry -followed by a most melancholy wail which gradually died away in the -distance, came to them over the marshes. - -“A curlew,” remarked the intruder. “Beautiful and curious--and with -very interesting mating habits. They are rare, too.” - -“Come along, Nance,” Sorio burst out. But the girl turned to her new -acquaintance and extended her hand. - -“You haven’t told us _your_ name yet,” she said. “I hope we shall meet -again.” - -The stranger gave her a look which, for caressing softness, could only -be compared to a virtuoso’s finger laid upon an incomparable piece of -Egyptian pottery. - -“Certainly we shall meet,” he murmured. “Of course, most certainly. I -know every one here. My name is Raughty--Doctor Fingal Raughty. I was -with old Doorm when he died. A noble head, though rather malformed -behind the ears. He had a peculiar smell too--not unpleasant--rather -musky in fact. They called him Badger in the village. He could drink -more gin at a sitting than any man I have ever seen. He resembled the -portraits of Descartes. Good-bye, Miss--Nance!” - -As soon as the lovers were alone Sorio’s rage broke forth. - -“What a man!” he cried. “Who gave him leave to talk like that of Mr. -Doorm? How did he know you weren’t related to him? And what surpassing -coolness to call you by your Christian name! Confound him--he’s gone -the way we wanted to go. I believe he knew that. Look! He’s fooling -about in the ditch, waiting for us to overtake him!” - -Nance could not help laughing a little at this. “Not at all, my dear. -He’s looking for shrew-mice.” - -“What?” rejoined the other crossly. “On the public road? He’s mad. -Come, we must get round him somehow. Let’s go through here and hit the -tow path.” - -They had no more interruptions as they strolled slowly back along the -river’s bank. Nance was perplexed, however, by Adrian’s temper. He -seemed irritable and brusque. She had never known him in such a mood, -and a dim, obscure apprehension to which she could assign no adequate -cause, began to invade her heart. - -They had both become so silent, and the girl’s nerves had been so set -on edge by his unusual attitude towards her, that she gave a quite -perceptible start when he suddenly pointed across the stream to a -clump of oak trees, the only ones, he told her, to be found in the -neighbourhood. - -“There’s something behind them,” she remarked, “a house of some kind. I -shouldn’t like to live out in that place. How they must hear the wind! -It must howl and moan sometimes--mustn’t it?” She smiled at him and -shivered. - -“I think I miss London Bridge Road a little, and--Kensington Park. -Don’t you, too, Adrian?” - -“Yes, there’s a house behind them,” Sorio repeated, disregarding her -last words and staring fixedly at the oak trees. “There’s a house -behind them.” - -His manner was so queer that the girl looked at him with serious alarm. - -“What’s the matter with you, Adrian?” she said. “I’ve never known you -like this--” - -“It’s where the Renshaws live,” her lover continued. “They have a kind -of park. Its wall runs close to the village. Some of the trees are very -old. I walked there this morning before breakfast. Baltazar advised me -to.” - -Nance looked at him still more nervously. Then she gave a little forced -laugh. “That is why you were so late in coming to see me, I suppose! -Well, you say the Renshaws live there. May one ask who the Renshaws -are?” - -He took the girl’s arm in his own and dragged her forward at a rapid -pace. She remarked that it was not until some wide-spreading willows -on the further side of the river concealed the clump of oaks that he -replied to her question. - -“Baltazar told me everything about them. He ought to know, for he’s one -of them himself. Yes, he’s one of them. He’s the son of old Herman, -Brand’s father; not legitimate, of course, and Brand isn’t always kind -to him. But he’s one of them.” - -He stopped abruptly on this last word and Nance caught him throwing a -furtive glance across the stream. - -“Who are they, Adrian? Who are they?” repeated the girl. - -“I’ll tell you,” he cried, with strange irritation. “I’ll tell you -everything! When _haven’t_ I told you everything? They are brewers. -That isn’t very romantic, is it? And I suppose you might call them -landowners, too. They’ve lived here forever, it seems, and in the same -house.” - -He burst into an uneasy laugh. - -“In the same house for centuries and centuries! The churchyard is full -of them. It’s only lately they’ve taken to be brewers--I suppose the -land don’t pay for their vices.” - -And again he laughed in the same jarring and ungenial way. - -“Brand employs Baltazar--just as if he wasn’t his brother at all--in -the office at Mundham. You remember Mundham? We came through it in the -train. It’s over there,” he waved his hand in front of him, “about -seven miles off. It’s a horrid place--all slums and canals. That’s -where they make their beer. Their beer!” He laughed again. - -“You haven’t yet told me who they are--I mean who else there is,” -observed Nance while, for some reason or other, her heart began to beat -tumultuously. - -“Haven’t I said I’d tell you everything?” Sorio flung out. “I’ll tell -you more than you bargain for, if you tease me. Oh, confound it! -There’s Rachel and Linda! Look now, do they appear as if they were -happy?” - -Favoured by the wind which blew sea-wards, the lovers had been -permitted to approach quite close to their friends without any betrayal -of their presence. - -Linda was seated on the river bank, her head in her hands, while Miss -Doorm, like a black-robed priestess of some ancient ritual, leant -against the trunk of a leafless pollard. - -“They were perfectly happy when I left them,” whispered Nance, but she -was conscious as she spoke of a cold, miserable misgiving in her inmost -spirit. Like a flash her mind reverted to the lilac bushes of the -London garden, and a sick loneliness seized her. - -“Linda!” she cried, with a quiver of remorse in her voice. The young -girl leapt hurriedly to her feet, and Miss Doorm removed her hand from -the tree. A quick look passed between the sisters, but Nance understood -nothing of what Linda’s expression conveyed. They moved on together, -Adrian with Linda and Nance with Rachel. - -“What do they call this river?” Nance enquired of her companion, as -soon as she felt reassured by the sound of the girl’s laugh. - -“The Loon, my dear,” replied Miss Doorm. “They call it the Loon. It -runs through Mundham and then through the fens. It forms the harbour at -Rodmoor.” - -Nance sat silent. In the depths of her heart she made a resolution. She -would find some work to do here in Rodmoor. It was intolerable to be -dependent on any one. Yes, she would find work, and, if need be, take -Linda to live with her. - -She felt now, though she would have found it hard to explain the -obscure reason for it, more reluctant than ever to return to London. -Every pulse of her body vibrated with a strange excitement. A reckless -fighting spirit surged up within her. Not easily, not quickly, should -her hold on the man she loved be loosed! But she felt danger on the -horizon--nearer than the horizon. She felt it in her bones. - -They had now reached the foot of Rachel’s garden and there was a -general pause in order that Adrian might do justice to the heavy -architecture of Dyke House, as it was called--that house which the -Badger--to follow Doctor Raughty’s tale--had taken into his “noble” but -“malformed” head to leave to his solitary descendant. - -As they passed in one by one through the little dilapidated gate, -Nance had a sudden inspiration. She seized her lover by the wrist. -“Adrian,” she whispered, “has there been anything--any one--to remind -you--of what--you saw--that morning?” - -She could not but believe that he had heard her and caught her meaning, -yet it was hard to assume it, for his tone was calm and natural as he -answered her, apparently quite misunderstanding her words: - -“The sea, you mean? Yes, I’ve heard it all night and all day. We’ll go -down there this afternoon, and Linda with us.” He raised his voice. -“You’ll come to the sea, Linda; eh, child? To the Rodmoor sea?” - -The words died away over the river and across the fens. The others had -already entered the house, but a laughing white face at one of the -windows and the tapping of girlish hands on the closed pane seemed to -indicate acquiescence in what he suggested. - - - - -III - -SEA-DRIFT - - -The wind had dropped but no gleam of sunshine interrupted the -monotonous stretch of grey sky, grey dunes and grey sea, as the sisters -with their two companions strolled slowly in the late afternoon along -the Rodmoor sands. - -Linda was a little pale and silent, and Nance fancied she discerned -now and again, in the glances Miss Doorm threw upon her, a certain -sinister exultation, but she was prevented from watching either of -them very closely by reason of the extraordinary excitement which the -occasion seemed to arouse in Sorio. He kept shouting bits of poetry, -some of which Nance caught the drift of, while others--they might have -been Latin or Greek, for all she knew--conveyed nothing to her but a -vague feeling of insecurity. He was like an excited magician uttering -incantations and invoking strange gods. - -The sea was neither rough nor calm. Wisps of tossed-up foam appeared -and disappeared at far distant points in its vast expanse, and every -now and then the sombre horizon was broken in its level line by the -emergence of a wave larger and darker than the rest. - -Flocks of gulls disturbed by their approach rose, wheeling and -screaming, from their feeding-grounds on the stranded seaweed and -flapped away over the water. - -The four friends advanced along the hard sand, close to the changing -line of the tide’s retreat, and from the blackened windrow there, -of broken shells and anonymous sea refuse they stopped, each one of -them, at different moments, to pick up some particular object which -attracted or surprised them. It was Nance who was the first to become -aware that they were not the only frequenters of that solitude. She -called Adrian’s attention to two figures moving along the edge of the -sand-dunes and apparently, from the speed with which they advanced, -anxious to reach a protruding headland and disappear from observation. - -Adrian stopped and surveyed the figures long and intently. Then -to her immense surprise, and it must be confessed a little to her -consternation, he started off at a run in pursuit of them. His long, -lean, hatless figure assumed so emphatic and strange an appearance -as he crossed the intervening sands that Linda burst into peals of -laughter. - -“I wish they’d run away from him,” she cried. “We should see a race! -Who are they? Does he know them?” - -Nance made no reply, but Miss Doorm, who had been watching the incident -with sardonic interest, muttered under her breath, “It’s begun, has it? -Soon enough, in all conscience!” - -Nance turned sharply upon her. “What do you mean, Rachel? Does Adrian -know them? Do _you_ know who they are?” - -No answer was vouchsafed to this, nor indeed was one necessary, for -the mystery, whatever it was, was on the point of resolving itself. -Adrian had overtaken the objects of his pursuit and was bringing them -back with him, one on either hand. Nance was not long in making out the -general characteristics of the strangers. They were both women, one -elderly, the other quite young, and from what she could see of their -appearance and dress, they were clearly ladies. It was not, however, -till they came within speaking distance that the girl’s heart began to -beat an unmistakable danger-signal. This happened directly she obtained -a definite view of the younger of Adrian’s companions. Before any -greeting could be given Rachel had whispered abruptly into her ear, -“They’re the Renshaws--I haven’t seen them since Philippa was a child, -but they’re the Renshaws. He must have met them this morning. Look out -for yourself, dearie.” - -Nance only vaguely heard her. Every fibre of attention in her body and -soul was fixed upon that slender equivocal figure by Adrian’s side. - -The introduction which followed was of a sufficiently curious -character. Between Nance and the young woman designated by Rachel as -Philippa there was an exchange of glances when their fingers touched -like the crossing of two naked blades. Mrs. Renshaw retained Linda’s -hand in her own longer than convention required, and Linda herself -seemed to cling to the brown-eyed, grey-haired lady with a movement of -childish confidence. Nance was calm enough, for all the beating of her -heart, to remark as an interesting fact that her rival’s mother, though -oppressively timid and retiring in her manner towards them all, seemed -to exercise a quelling and restraining influence upon Rachel Doorm, -who began at once speaking to her with unusual deference and respect. -The whole party, after some desultory conversation, began to drift -away from the sea towards the town and Nance found herself in spite -of some furtive efforts to the contrary, wedged closely in between -Mrs. Renshaw and Rachel--with Linda walking in front of them--as they -followed the narrow uneven path between the sand-dunes and the heavy -sand of the upper shore. - -Every now and then Mrs. Renshaw would bend down and call their -attention to some little sea plant, telling them its name in slow -sweet tones, as if repeating some liturgical formula, and indicating -into what precise colour its pale glaucous buds would unsheathe as the -weather grew warm. - -On these occasions Nance quickly turned her head; but do what she -could, she could only grow helplessly conscious that Adrian and his -companion were slipping further and further behind. - -Once, as the tender-voiced lady touched lightly, with the tips of her -ungloved fingers, a cluster of insignificant leaves and asked Nance if -she knew the lesser rock-rose the agitated girl found herself on the -point of uttering a strangely irrelevant cry. - -“_Rose au regard saphique_,” her confused heart murmured, “_plus pâle -que les lys, rose au regard saphique, offre-nous le parfum de ton -illusoire virginité, fleur hypocrite, fleur de silence_.” - -They approached at last the entrance of the little harbour, and to -Nance’s ineffable relief Mrs. Renshaw paused and made them sit down on -a fish-smelling bench, among coils of rope, and wait the appearance of -the missing ones. - -The tide was low and between great banks of mud the water rushed -sea-ward in a narrow, swirling current. A heavy fishing smack with -high tarred sides and red, unfurled sails, was being steered down -this channel by two men armed with enormous poles. Through the masts -of several other boats, moored to iron rings in the wooden wharf, -and between the slate roofs of some ramshackle houses on the other -side, they got a glimpse, looking westward across the fens, of a low, -rusty-red streak of sombrely illuminated sky. This apparently was -all the sunset Rodmoor was destined to know that evening and Nance, -as she listened vaguely to Mrs. Renshaw’s gentle voice describing to -Linda the various “queer characters” among the harbour people, had a -strange, bewildered sense of being carried far and far and far down -a remorseless tide, with a heavy sky above her and interminable grey -sands around her, and all the while something withheld, withdrawn, -inexplicable in the power that bore her forward. - -They came at last--Adrian and Philippa Renshaw, and Nance had, in one -heart-rending moment, the pitiless suspicion that the battle was lost -already and that this fragile thing with the great ambiguous eyes and -the reserved manner, this thing whose slender form and tight-braided, -dusky hair might have belonged to a masquerading boy, had snatched from -her already what could never for all the years of her life be won again! - -As they left the harbour and entered the main village street, Adrian -made one or two deliberate efforts to detach Nance from the rest. He -pointed out little things to her in the homely shop-windows and seemed -surprised and disappointed when she made no response to his overtures. -She _could_ not make any response. She could not bring herself so much -as to look into his face. It was not from any capricious pride or -mere feminine pique that she thus turned away but from a profound and -lamentable numbness of every emotion. The wound seemed to have gone -further even than she herself had known. Her heart felt like a dead -cold weight--like a murdered, unborn child--beneath her breast, and out -of her lethargy and inertness, as in certain tragic dreams, she could -not move. Her limbs seemed formed of lead, and her lips--at least as -far as he was concerned--became those of a dumb animal. - -A man, viewing the situation from outside, the slightness and apparent -triviality of the incident, would have been astounded at the effect -upon her of so insubstantial a blow, but women move in a different -world, a world where the drifting of the tiniest straw is indicative of -crushing catastrophes, and to the instinct of the least sensitive among -women Nance’s premonitions would have been quite explicable. - -It was at that moment that it was sharply borne in upon her how slight -her actual knowledge of her lover was. Her absorption in him was -devoted and complete but in regard to the intricacies and complications -of his character she was as much in the dark to-day as when they first -met in London Bridge Road. - -Strangely enough, in the paralysis of her feelings, Nance was -unconscious of any definite antagonism to the cause of her distress. -She found she could talk quite naturally and spontaneously to Miss -Renshaw when chance threw them together as they emerged upon the -village green. - -“Oh, I like those trees!” she cried, as the row of ancient sycamores -which gave the forlorn little square its chief appeal first struck her -attention. - -The cottage of Baltazar Stork, it turned out, was just behind these -sycamores and next door to the building which, with its immense -and faded sign-board, offered the natives of Rodmoor their unique -dissipation. “The Admiral’s Head!” Nance repeated, surveying the sign -and thinking to herself that it must have been under that somewhat -sordid roof that Miss Doorm’s parent had drunk himself to death. - -“Don’t look at it,” she heard Mrs. Renshaw say. “I feel ashamed every -time I pass it.” - -Philippa gave Nance a quick and rather bitter smile. - -“Mother is telling them that it is our beer which they sell there. You -know we are brewers, don’t you? Mother thinks it her duty to remind -every one of that fact. She gets a curious pleasure out of talking -about it. It’s her morbid conscience. You’ll find we’re all rather -morbid here,” she added, looking searchingly into Nance’s face. - -“It’s the sea. Our sea is not the same as other seas. It eats into us.” - -“Why do you say just that--and in that tone--to me?” Nance gravely -enquired, answering the other’s gaze. “My father was a sailor. I love -the salt-water.” - -Philippa Renshaw shrugged her shoulders. “You may love being _on_ it. -That’s a different thing. It remains to be seen how you like being -_near_ it.” - -“I like it always, everywhere,” repeated Nance obstinately, “and I’m -afraid of nothing it can do to me!” - -They overtook the others at this point and Mrs. Renshaw turned rather -querulously to her daughter. - -“Don’t talk to her about the sea, Philippa--I know that’s what you’re -doing.” - -The girl with the figure of a boy let her eyes meet Adrian’s and Nance -felt the dead weight in her heart grow more ice-cold than before, as -she watched the effect of that look upon her lover. - -It was Rachel who broke the tension. “It wasn’t so very long ago,” she -said, “that Rodmoor was quite an inland place. There are houses now, -they say, and churches under the water. And it swallows up the land all -the time, inch by inch. The sand-dunes are much nearer the town, I am -sure of that, and the mouth of the river, too, than when I lived here -in old days.” - -Mrs. Renshaw looked by no means pleased at this speech. - -“Well,” she said, “we must be getting home for dinner. Shall we walk -through the park, Philippa? It’s the nicest way--if the grass isn’t too -wet.” - -In the general chorus of adieus that followed, Nance was not surprised -when Sorio bade good-night to her as well as to the others. He -professed to be going to the station to meet the Mundham train. - -“Baltazar will have a lot of things to carry,” he said, “and I must be -at hand to help.” - -Mrs. Renshaw pressed Linda’s hand very tenderly as they parted and a -cynical observer might have been pardoned for suspecting that under the -suppressed sigh with which she took Philippa’s arm there lurked a wish -that it had been the more docile and less difficult child that fate had -given her for a daughter. - -Linda, at any rate, proved to be full of enthusiastic and excited -praise for the sad-voiced lady, as the sisters went off with Rachel. -She chattered, indeed, so incessantly about her that Nance, whose -nerves were in no tolerant state, broke out at last into a quite savage -protest. - -“She’s the sort of person,” she threw in, “who’s always sentimental -about young girls. Wait till you find her with some one younger than -you are, and you’ll soon see! Am I not right, Rachel?” - -“She’s not right at all, is she?” interposed the other. Miss Doorm -looked at them gravely. - -“I don’t think either of you understand Mrs. Renshaw. Indeed there -aren’t many who do. She’s had troubles such as you may both pray to -God you’ll never know. That wisp of a girl will be the cause of others -before long.” - -She glanced at Nance significantly. - -“Hold tight to your Adrian, my love. Hold tight to him, my dearie!” - -Thus, as they emerged upon the tow path spoke Rachel Doorm. - -Meanwhile, from his watch above the Inn, the nameless Admiral saw the -shadows of night settle down upon his sycamores. His faded countenance, -with its defiant bravado, stared insolently at what he could catch -between trees and houses, of the darkening harbour and if Rodmoor -had been a ship instead of a village, and he a figurehead instead -of a sign-board, he could not have confronted the unknown and all -that the unknown might bring more indifferently, more casually, more -contemptuously. - - - - -IV - -OAKGUARD - - -The night of her first meeting with Adrian Sorio, found the daughter -of the house of Renshaw restless and wakeful. She listened to the hall -clock striking the hour of twelve with an intentness that would have -suggested to any one observing her that she had only been waiting for -that precise moment to plunge into some nocturnal enterprise fraught -with both sweetness and peril. - -The night was chilly, the sky starless and overcast. The heavy curtains -were drawn but the window, wide-open behind them, let in a breath of -rain-scented air which stirred the flames of the two silver candles -on the dressing table and fluttered the thin skirt of the girl’s -night-dress as she sat, tense and expectant, over the red coals of a -dying fire. - -A tall gilt-framed mirror of antique design stood on the left of the -fireplace. - -As the last stroke of midnight sounded, the girl leapt to her feet -and swiftly divesting herself of her only garment, stood straight and -erect, her hands clasped behind her head, before this mirror. The -firelight cast a red glow over her long bare limbs and the flickering -candle flames threw wavering shadows across her lifted arms and slender -neck. Her hair remained tightly braided round her head and this, -added to the boyish outlines of her body, gave her the appearance of -one of those androgynous forms of later Greek art whose ambiguous -loveliness wins us still, even in the cold marble, with so touching an -appeal. Her smooth forehead and small delicately moulded face showed -phantom-like in the mirror. Her scarlet lips quivered as she gazed at -herself, quivered into that enigmatic smile challenging and inscrutable -which seems, more than any other human expression, to have haunted the -imagination of certain great artists of the past. - -Permitted for a brief moment to catch a glimpse of that white figure, -an intruder, if possessed of the smallest degree of poetic fancy, would -have been tempted to dream that the dust of the centuries had indeed -been quickened and some delicate evocation of perverse pagan desire -restored to breath and consciousness. - -Such a dream would not, perhaps, have survived a glance at the girl’s -face. With distended pupils and irises so large that they might have -been under the influence of some exciting drug, her eyes had that -particular look, sorrowful and heavy with mystery, which one feels -_could not have been in the world_ before the death of Christ. - -With her epicene figure, she resembled some girl-priestess of Artemis -invoking a mocking image of her own defiant sexlessness. With her -sorrowful inhuman eyes she suggested some strange elf-creature, born of -mediæval magic. - -Turning away from the mirror, Philippa Renshaw blew out the candles and -flung open the curtains. Standing thus for a moment in the presence of -the vague starless night full of chilly earth odours, she drew several -long deep breaths and seemed to inhale the very essence of the darkness -as if it had been the kiss of some elemental lover. Then she shivered a -little, closed the window and began hurriedly to dress herself by the -firelight. Bare-headed, but with a dark cloak reaching to her feet, she -softly left her room and crept silently down the staircase. One by one -she drew the heavy bolts of the hall door and turned the ponderous key. - -Letting herself out into the night air with the movements of one not -unaccustomed to such escapades, she hurried down the stone pathway, -passed through the iron entrance gates, and emerged into the park. -Catching up the skirt of her cloak, and drawing it tightly round her -so that it should not impede her steps, she plunged into the wet grass -and directed her course towards the thickest group of oak trees. -Between the immense trunks and mossy roots of these sea-deformed and -wind-stunted children of the centuries she groped her way, her feet -stumbling over fallen branches and her face whipped by the young wet -leaves. - -A mad desire seemed to possess her, to throw off every vestige and -token of her human imprisonment and to pass forth free and unfettered -into the embrace of the primeval powers. One would have thought, to -have watched her as she flung herself, at last, on her face under -one of the oldest of the trees and liberating her arms from her -cloak, stretched them round its trunk, that she was some worshipper -of a banished divinity invoking her god while her persecutors slept, -and passionately calling upon him to return to his forsaken shrine. -Releasing her fierce clasp upon the rough bark of the tree, not however -before it had bruised her flesh, the girl dug her nails into the soft -damp leaf-mould and rubbed her forehead against the wet moss. She -shuddered as she lay like this, and as she shuddered she clutched yet -more tightly, as if in a kind of ecstasy, the roots of grass and the -rubble of earth into which her fingers dug. - -Meanwhile, within the house, another little drama unrolled itself. In -the old-fashioned library collected by many generations of Renshaws, -where the noble Rabelaisian taste of the eighteenth century jostled -unceremoniously with the attenuated banalities of a later epoch, there -sat, at the very moment when the girl descended the stairs, a tall -powerfully built man in evening dress. - -Brand Renshaw was a figure of striking and formidable appearance. -Immensely muscular and very tall, he carried upon his massive shoulders -a head of so strange a shape that had he been a mediæval chieftain he -would doubtless have gone down to posterity as Brand Hatchet-pate, or -Brand Hammer-skull. His head receded from a forehead narrow and high, -and rose at the back into a dome-like protrusion which, in spite of the -closely-clipt, reddish hair that covered it, suggested, in a manner -that was almost sinister, the actual bony substructure of the cranium -beneath. - -The fire was out. The candles on the table were guttering and -flickering with little spitting noises as their wicks sank and the -cold hearth in front of him was littered with the ashes of innumerable -cigarettes. He was neither reading nor smoking them. He sat with his -hands on the arms of his chair, staring into vacancy. - -Brand Renshaw’s eyes were like the eyes of a morose animal, an animal -endowed perhaps with intellectual powers denied to the human race, but -still an animal, and when he fixed his gaze in his concentrated manner -upon the unknown objects of his thought there was a weight of heavily -focussed intensity in his stare that was unpleasantly threatening. - -He was staring in this way at the empty grate when, in the dead silence -of the house, he caught the sound of a furtive step in the hall -without, and immediately afterwards the slight rasping noise of bolts -carefully shot back. - -In a flash he leapt to his feet and extinguished the guttering candles. -Quietly and on tip-toe he moved to the door and soundlessly turning the -handle peered into the hall. He was just in time to see the heavy front -door closed. Without the least token of haste or surprise he slipped on -an overcoat, took his hat and stick and went forth in pursuit of the -escaped one. - -At first he saw only the darkness and heard no sound but the angry -flutterings of some bird in the high trees, and--a long way off, -perhaps even beyond the park--the frightened squeal of a hunted -rabbit. But by the time he got to the gate, taking care to walk on -the flower-beds rather than on the stone pathway, he could make out -the figure of the girl no great way in front of him. She ran on, -so straight and so blindly, towards the oak trees that he was able -without difficulty to follow her even though, every now and then, her -retreating figure was absorbed and swallowed up by the darkness. - -When at last he came up to her side as she lay stretched out at the -foot of the tree, he made no immediate attempt to betray his presence. -With his arms folded he stood regarding her, a figure as silent and -inhuman as herself, and over them both the vague immensities and -shadowy obscurities of the huge earth-scented night hung lowering and -tremendous, like powers that held their breath, waiting, watching. - -At intervals an attenuated gust of wind, coming from far away across -the marshes, moved the dead leaves upon the ground and made them dance -a little death dance. This it did without even stirring the young -living shoots on the boughs above them. - -The darkness seemed to rise and fall about the two figures, to advance, -to recede, to dilate, to diminish, in waves of alternate opacity and -tenuity. In its indrawings and outbreathings, in the ebb and flow of -its fluctuating presence, it seemed to beat--at least that is how -Brand Renshaw felt it--like the pulse of an immense heart charged with -unutterable mysteries. - -This illusion, if it were an illusion, may have been due to nothing -more recondite than the fact that, in the silence of the heavy night, -the sound of the tide on the Rodmoor sands was the background of -everything. - -It was not till the girl rose from the ground that she saw him standing -there, a shadow among the shadows. She uttered a low cry and made a -movement as if to rush away, but he stepped quickly forward and caught -her in his arms. Tightly and almost savagely he held her, pressing her -lithe body against his own and caressing it with little, deep-voiced -mutterings as if he were soothing a desperate child. She submitted -passively to his endearments and then, with a sound that was something -between a moan and a laugh, she whispered brokenly into his ear, “Let -me go, Brand, I was silly to come out. I couldn’t help it. I won’t do -it again. I won’t, I swear.” - -“No, I think you won’t!” the man muttered, keeping his arm securely -round her waist and striding swiftly towards the house. “No, I think -you won’t!” - -He paused when they reached the entrance into the garden and, taking -her by the wrists, pressed her fiercely against one of the stone -pillars upon which the gate hung. - -“I know what it is,” he whispered. “You can’t deceive me. You’ve -been with those people from London. You’ve been with that friend of -Baltazar’s. That’s the cause of all this, isn’t it? You’ve been with -that damned fool--that idiotic, good-for-nothing down at the village. -Haven’t you been with him? Haven’t you?” - -The arms with which he pressed her hands against her breast trembled -with anger as he said these words. - -“Baltazar told me,” he went on, “only this morning--down at -Mundham--everything about these people. They’re of no interest, -none, not the least. They’re just like every one else. That fellow’s -half-foreign, that’s all. An American half-breed, of some mongrel -sort or other, that’s all there is to be said of him! So if you’ve -been letting any mad fancies get into your head about Mr. Sorio, the -sooner you get rid of them the better. He’s not for you. Do you hear? -He’s--not--for--you!” These last words were accompanied by so savage a -tightening of the hands that held her that the girl was compelled to -bite her lip to stop herself from crying. - -“You hurt me,” she said calmly. “Let me go, Brand.” The self-contained -tone of her voice seemed to quiet him and he released her. She raised -one of her wrists to her mouth and softly caressed it with her lips. - -“You’ll be interested, yourself, in these people before very long,” -she murmured, flashing a mocking look at him over her bare arm. “The -second girl is very young and very pretty. She confided in me that she -was extremely afraid of the sea. She appealed to mother’s protective -instincts at once. I’ve no doubt she’ll appeal to your--protective -instincts! So don’t be too quick in your condemnation.” - -“Damn you!” muttered her brother, pushing the gate open. “Come! Get -in with you! You talk to me as if I were a professional rake. I take -no interest--not the slightest--in your young innocents with their -engaging terrors. To bed! To bed! To bed!” - -He pushed her before him along the path, but Philippa knew well that -the hand on her shoulder was lighter and less angry than the one -that had held her a moment ago, and as she ascended the steps of -Oakguard--the name borne by the Renshaw house since the days of the -Conqueror--there flickered over her shadowy face the same equivocal -smile of dubious meaning that had looked out at its owner, not so long -since, from the mirror in her room. - -When the dawn finally crept up, pallid and cold out of the North Sea -and lifted, with a sort of mechanical weariness, the weight of the -shadows, it was neither Brand nor Philippa who was awake. - -Roused, as always, by the slightest approach of an unusual sound, the -mother of that strange pair had lain in her bed listening ever since -her daughter’s first emerging from the house. - -Once she had risen, and had stood for a moment at the window, her -loose grey hair mixed with the folds of an old, faded, dusky-coloured -shawl. That, however, was when both of her children were away in the -middle of the park and absolute silence prevailed. With this single -exception she had remained listening, always silently listening, lying -on her back and with an expression of tragic and harassed expectation -in her great, hollow, brown eyes. She might have been taken, lying -there alone in the big four-posted bed, surrounded by an immense litter -of stored-up curios and mementoes, for a symbolic image of all that -is condemned, as this mortal world goes round, to watch and wait and -invoke the gods and cling fast to such pathetic relics and memorials as -time consents to leave of the days that it has annihilated. - -Slowly the dawn came up upon the trees and roofs of Oakguard. With a -wan grey light it filled the pallid squares of the windows. With a -livid grey light it made definite and ghastly every hollow and every -wrinkle in that patient watcher’s face. - -Travelling far up in the sky, a long line of marsh-fowl with -outstretched necks sought the remoter solitudes of the fens. In the -river marshes the sedge-birds uttered their harsh twitterings while, -gathered in flocks above the sand-dunes, the sea-gulls screamed to the -inflowing tide their hunger for its drifted refuse. - -Wearily, at last, Helen Renshaw closed her eyes and it was the first -streak of sunshine that Rodmoor had known for many days which, several -hours later, kissed her white forehead--and the grey hairs that lay -disordered across it--softly, gently, tenderly, as it might have kissed -the forehead of the dead. - - - - -V - -A SYMPOSIUM - - -Adrian Sorio sat opposite his friend over a warm brightly burning fire. - -Baltazar Stork was a slight frail man of so delicate and dainty an -appearance that many people were betrayed into behaving towards him -as gently and considerately as if he had been a girl. This, though a -compliment to his fragility, was bad policy in those who practised it, -for Baltazar was an egoist of inflexible temper and under his velvet -glove carried a hand of steel. - -The room in which the two friends conversed was furnished in exquisite -and characteristic taste. Old prints, few in number and rare in -quality, adorned its walls. Precious pieces of china, invaluable -statuettes in pottery and metal, stood charmingly arranged, with due -space round each, in every corner. On either side of the mantelpiece -was a Meissen-ware figure of engaging aspect and Watteau-like design, -while in the centre, in the place where a clock is usually to be found, -was a piece of statuary of ravishing delicacy and grace representing -the escape of Syrinx from the hands of Pan. - -The most remarkable picture in the room, attracting the attention at -once of all who entered, was a dark, richly coloured, oval-shaped -portrait--a portrait of a young man in a Venetian cloak, with a broad, -smooth forehead, heavy-lidded penetrating eyes, and pouting disdainful -mouth. This picture, said to have been painted under the influence of -Giorgione by that incomparable artist’s best loved friend, passed for a -portrait of Eugenio Flambard, the favourite secretary of the Republic’s -most famous ambassador during his residence at the Papal Court. - -The majority of these treasures had been picked up by Baltazar during -certain prolonged holidays in various parts of the Continent. This, -however, was several years ago before the collapse of the investment, -or whatever it was, which he inherited from Herman Renshaw. - -Since that time he had been more or less dependent upon Brand, a -dependence which nothing but his happy relations with Brand’s mother -and sister and his unfailing urbanity could have made tolerable. - -“Adrian, you old villain, why didn’t you tell me you’d seen Philippa. -Brand informed me yesterday that you’ve seen her twice. This isn’t -the kind of thing that pleases me at all. I don’t approve of these -clandestine meetings. Do you hear me, you old reprobate? You don’t -think it’s very nice, do you, for me to learn by accident--by a sort -of wretched accident--of an event like this? If you _must_ be at these -little games you might at least be open about them. Besides, I have -a brotherly interest in Philippa. I don’t want to have her innocence -corrupted by an old satyr like you.” - -Sorio contented himself by murmuring the word “Rats.” - -“It’s all very well for you to cry ‘Rats!’ in that tone,” went on the -other. “The truth is, this affair is going to become serious. You -don’t suppose for a moment, do you, that your Nance is going to lie -down, as they say, and let my extraordinary sister walk over her?” - -Adrian got up from his seat and began pacing up and down the little -room. - -“It’s absurd,” he muttered, “it’s all absurd. I feel as if the whole -thing were a kind of devilish dream. Yes, the whole thing! It’s all -because I’ve got nothing to do but walk up and down these damned sands!” - -Baltazar watched him with a serene smile, his soft chin supported by -his feminine fingers and his fair, curly head tilted a little on one -side. - -“But you know, mon enfant,” he threw in with a teasing caress in his -voice, “you know very well you’re the last person to talk of work. It -was work that did for you in America. You don’t want to start _that_ -over again, do you?” - -Adrian stood still and glared at him. - -“Do you think I’m going to let _that_--as you call it--finish me -forever? My life’s only begun. In London it was different. By God! I -wish I’d stayed in London! Nance feels just the same. I know she does. -She’ll have to get something, too, or we shall both go mad. It’s this -cursed sea of yours! I’ve a good mind to marry her, out of hand, and -clear off. We’d find something--somewhere--anywhere--to keep body and -soul together.” - -“Why did you come to us at all, my dear, if you find us so dreadful?” -laughed Baltazar, bending down to tie his shoe-string and pull up more -tightly one of his silk socks. - -Adrian made no answer but continued his ferocious pacing of the room. - -“You’ll knock something over if you’re not careful,” protested his -friend, shrugging his shoulders. “You’re the most troublesome fellow. -You accept a person’s offer and make no end of a fuss over it, and then -a couple of weeks later you roar like a bull and send us all to the -devil. What’s the matter with us? What’s the matter with the place? Why -can’t you and your precious Nance behave like ordinary people and make -love to one another and be happy? She’s got all her time to herself and -you’ve got all your time to yourself. Why can’t you enjoy yourselves -and collect seaweed or starfish or something?” - -Adrian paused in his savage prowl for the second time. - -“It’s your confounded sea that’s at the bottom of it,” he shouted. “It -gets on her nerves and it gets on mine. Little Linda was perfectly -right to be scared of it.” - -“I fancied,” drawled the other, selecting a cigarette from an enamelled -box and turning up the lamp, “you found little Linda’s fears rather -engaging than otherwise.” - -“It works upon us,” Sorio went on, heedless of the interruption, “it -works upon us in some damnable kind of way! Nance says she hears it in -her sleep. I’m sure _I_ do. I hear it without a moment’s cessation. -Listen to the thing now--_shish, shish, shish, shish!_ Why can’t it -make some other noise? Why can’t it stop altogether? It makes me long -for the whole damned farce to end. It annoys me, Tassar, it annoys me!” - -“Sorry you find the elements so trying, Adriano,” replied the other -languidly, “but I really don’t know what I can do to help you--I can -only advise you to keep out of Philippa’s way. She’s an element more -troublesome than any of them.” - -“Tassar!” shouted the enraged man in a burst of fury, “if you don’t -stop dragging Philippa in, I’ll murder you! What’s Philippa to me? I -_hate_ her--do you hear? I hate the very sound of her name!” - -“Her name?” murmured Stork, meditatively, “her name? Oh, I think you’re -quite wrong to hate that. Her name suggests all sorts of interesting -things. Her name has quite a historic sound. It’s mediæval in colour -and Greek in form. It makes me think of Euripides.” - -“This whole damned Rodmoor of yours,” moaned Adrian, “gets too much for -me. Where on earth else, could a man find it so hard to collect his -thoughts and look at things as they are? There’s something here which -works upon the mind, Tassar, something which works upon the mind.” - -“What’s working on _your_ mind, my friend,” laughed Baltazar Stork, “is -not anything so vague as dreams or anything so simple as the sea. It’s -just the quite definite but somewhat complicated business of managing -two love affairs at the same time! I’m sorry for you, little Adrian, -I’m extremely sorry for you. It’s a situation not unknown in the -history of the world, in fact, it might be called quite common. But I’m -afraid that doesn’t make it any pleasanter for you. However, it can be -dealt with, with a little skill, Adrian, with just a little skill!” - -The man accused in this teasing manner turned furiously round, an angry -outburst of blind protest trembling on his tongue. At that moment there -was a low knock at the outer door. Baltazar jumped to his feet. “That -must be Raughty,” he cried. “I begged him to come round to-night. I so -longed for you to meet him.” He hastened out and admitted the visitor -with a cordial welcome. After a momentary pause and a good deal of -shuffling--for Dr. Raughty was careful to wear not only an overcoat but -also goloshes and even gaiters when the weather was inclement--the two -men entered the room and Stork began an elaborate introduction. - -“Dr. Fingal Raughty,” he said, “Mr. Adrian--” but to his astonishment -Sorio intervened, “The Doctor and I have already become quite well -acquainted,” he remarked, shaking the visitor vigorously by the -hand. “I’m afraid I wasn’t as polite as I ought to have been on that -occasion,” he went on, speaking in an unnaturally loud voice and with a -forced laugh, “but the Doctor will forgive me. The Doctor I’m sure will -make allowances.” - -Dr. Raughty gave him a quick glance, at once friendly and ironical, -and then he turned to Stork. “Mother Lorman’s dead,” he remarked with -a little sigh, “dead at last. She was ninety-seven and had thirty -grandchildren. She gurgled in her throat at the last with a noise like -a nightingale when its voice breaks in June. I prefer deaths of this -kind to any other, but they’re all pitiful.” - -“Nance tells me you were present at old Doorm’s death, Doctor,” said -Adrian while their host moved off to the kitchen to secure glasses and -refreshment. - -The Doctor nodded. “I measured that fellow’s skull,” he remarked -gravely. “It was asymmetrical and very curiously so. The interesting -thing is that there exists in this part of the coast a definite -tradition of malformed skulls. They recur in nearly all the old -families. Brand Renshaw is a splendid example. _His_ skull ought to be -given to a museum. It is beautiful, quite beautiful, in the anterior -lobes.” - -Baltazar returned carrying a tray. The eyes of Dr. Raughty gleamed -with a mellow warmth. “Nutmeg,” he remarked, approaching the tray and -touching every object upon it lightly and reverently. “Nutmeg, lemon, -hot water, gin--_and_ brandy! It’s an admirable choice and profoundly -adapted to the occasion. May I put the hot water on the hob until we’re -ready for it?” - -While Baltazar once more withdrew from the scene, Dr. Raughty remarked, -gravely and irritably, to Sorio that it was a mistake to substitute -brandy for rum. “He does it because he can’t get the best rum, but it’s -a ridiculous thing to do. _Any_ rum is better than no rum when it’s a -question of punch-making. Are you with me in this, Mr. Sorio?” - -Adrian expressed such complete and emphatic agreement that for the -moment the Doctor seemed almost embarrassed. - -On Baltazar’s return to the room, however, he hazarded another -suggestion. “What about having the kettle itself brought in here?” - -Stork looked at him without speaking and placed on the table a small -plate of macaroons. The Doctor glanced whimsically at Sorio and, -helping himself from the little plate, muttered in a low voice after he -had nibbled the edge of a biscuit, “Yes, these seem perfectly up to par -to-day.” - -The three men had scarcely settled themselves down in their respective -chairs around the fire than Adrian began speaking hurriedly and -nervously. - -“I have an extraordinary feeling,” he said, “that this evening is full -of fatal significance. I suppose it’s nothing to either of you, but -it seems to me as though this damned _shish, shish, shish, shish_ of -the sea were nearer and louder than usual. Doctor, you don’t mind my -talking freely to you? I like you, though I was rude to you the other -day--but that’s nothing--” he waved his hand, “that’s what any fool -might fall into who didn’t know you. I feel I know you now. That word -about the rum--forgive me, Tassar!--and the kettle--yes, particularly -about the kettle--hit me to the heart. I love you, Doctor Raughty. I -announce to you that my feeling at this moment amounts to love--yes, -actually to love! - -“But that’s not what I wanted to say.” He thrust his hands deep into -his pockets, stretched his legs straight out, let his chin sink upon -his chest and glared at them with sombre excitement. “I feel to-night,” -he went on, “as though some great event were portending. No, no! What -am I saying? Not an event. Event isn’t the word. Event’s a silly -expression, isn’t it, Doctor,--isn’t it--dear, noble-looking man? For -you do look noble, you know, Doctor, as you drink that punch--though to -say the truth your nose isn’t quite straight as I see it from here, and -there are funny blotches on your face. No, not there. _There!_ Don’t -you see them, Tassar? Blotches--curious purply blotches.” - -While this outburst proceeded Mr. Stork fidgeted uneasily in his chair. -Though sufficiently accustomed to Sorio’s eccentricities and well -aware of his medical friend’s profound pathological interest in all -rare types, there was something so outrageous about this particular -tirade that it offended what was a very dominant instinct in him, his -sense, namely, of social decency and good breeding. Possibly in a -measure because of the “bar sinister” over his own origin, but much -more because of the nicety of his æsthetic taste, anything approaching -a social fiasco or _faux pas_ always annoyed him excessively. -Fortunately, however, on this occasion nothing could have surpassed the -sweetness with which Adrian’s wild phrases were received by the person -addressed. - -“One would think you’d drunk half the punch already, Sorio,” Baltazar -murmured at last. “What’s come over you to-night? I don’t think I’ve -ever known you quite like this.” - -“Remind me to tell you something, Mr. Sorio, when you’ve finished what -you have to say,” remarked Dr. Raughty. - -“Listen, you two!” Adrian began again, sitting erect, his hands on the -arms of his chair. “There’s a reason for this feeling of mine that -there’s something fatal on the wind to-night. There’s a reason for it.” - -“Tell us as near as you can,” said Dr. Raughty, “what exactly it is -that you’re talking about.” - -Adrian fixed upon him a gloomy, puzzled frown. - -“Do you suppose,” he said slowly, “that it’s for nothing that we three -are together here in hearing of that--” - -Baltazar interrupted him. “Don’t say ‘shish, shish, shish’ again, -my dear. Your particular way of imitating the Great Deep gives me no -pleasure.” - -“What I meant was,” Sorio raised his voice, “it’s a strange thing that -we three should be sitting together now like this when two months ago I -was in prison in New York.” - -Baltazar made a little deprecatory gesture, while the Doctor leaned -forward with grave interest. - -“But that’s nothing,” Sorio went on, “that’s a trifle. Baltazar -knows all about that. The thing I want you two to recognise is that -something’s on the wind,--that something’s on the point of happening. -Do you feel like that--or don’t you?” - -There was a long and rather oppressive silence, broken only by the -continuous murmur which in every house in Rodmoor was the background of -all conversation. - -“What I was going to say a moment ago,” remarked the Doctor at last, -“was that in this place it’s necessary to protect oneself from _that_.” -He jerked his thumb towards the window. “Our friend Tassar does it by -the help of Flambard over there.” He indicated the Venetian. “I do it -by the help of my medicine-chest. Hamish Traherne does it by saying -his prayers. What I should like to know is how _you_,” he stretched a -warning finger in the direction of Sorio, “propose to do it.” - -Baltazar at this point jumped up from his seat. - -“Oh, shut up, Fingal,” he cried peevishly. “You’ll make Adrian -unendurable. I’m perfectly sick of hearing references to this absurd -salt-water. Other people have to live in coast towns besides ourselves. -Why can’t you let the thing take its proper position? Why can’t you -take it for granted? The whole subject gets on my nerves. It bores -me, I tell you, it bores me to tears. For Heaven’s sake, let’s talk -of something else--of any damned thing. You both make me thoroughly -wretched with your sea whispers. It’s as bad as having to spend an -evening at Oakguard alone with Aunt Helen and Philippa.” - -His peevishness had an instantaneous effect upon Sorio who pushed him -affectionately back into his chair and handed him his glass. “So sorry, -Tassar,” he said. “I won’t do it again. I _was_ beginning to feel a -little odd to-night. One can’t go through the experience of cerebral -dementia--doesn’t that sound right, Doctor?--without some little -trifling after-effects. Come, let’s be sensible and talk of things that -are really important. It’s not an occasion to be missed, is it, Tassar, -having the Doctor here and punch made with brandy instead of rum, on -the table? What interests me so much just now,” he placed himself in -front of the fireplace and sighed heavily, “is what a person’s to do -who hasn’t got a penny and is unfit for every sort of occupation. What -do you advise, Doctor? And by the way, why have you eaten up all the -macaroons while I was talking?” - -This remark really did seem a little to embarrass the person indicated, -but Sorio continued without waiting for a reply. - -“Yes, I suppose you’re right, Tassar. It’s a mistake to be sensitive -to the attraction of young girls. But it’s difficult--isn’t it, -Doctor?--not to be. They’re so maddeningly delicious, aren’t they, -when you come to think of it? It’s something about the way their heads -turn--the line from the throat, you know--and about the way they -speak--something pathetic, something--what shall I call it?--helpless. -It quite disarms a person. It’s more than pathetic, it’s tragic.” - -The Doctor looked at him meditatively. “I think there’s a poem of -Goethe’s which would bear that out,” he remarked, “if I’m not mistaken -it was written after he visited Sicily--yes, after that storm at sea, -you remember, when the story of Christ’s walking on the waves came into -his mind.” - -Sorio wrinkled up his eyes and peered at the speaker with a sort of -humorous malignity. - -“Doctor,” he said, “pardon my telling you, but you’ve still got some -crumbs on your moustache.” - -“The one word,” put in their host, while Dr. Raughty moved very hastily -away from the table and surveyed himself with a whimsical puckering of -all the lines in his face, at one of Stork’s numerous mirrors, “the one -word that I shall henceforth refuse to have pronounced in my house is -the word ‘sea.’ I’m surprised to hear that Goethe--a man of classical -taste--ever refers to such Gothic abominations.” - -“Ah!” cried Sorio, “the great Goethe! The sly old curmudgeon Goethe! He -knew how to deal with these little velvet paws!” - -Dr. Raughty, reseating himself, drummed absent-mindedly with his -fingers upon the empty macaroon plate. Then with a soft and pensive -sigh he produced his tobacco pouch, and filling his pipe, struck a -match. - -“Doctor,” murmured Sorio, his rebellious lips curved into a sardonic -smile and his eyes screwed up till they looked as sinister as those -of his namesake, Hadrian, “why do you move your head backwards and -forwards like that, when you light your pipe?” - -“Don’t answer him, Fingal,” expostulated Baltazar, “he’s behaving -badly now. He’s ‘showing off’ as they say of children.” - -“I’m not showing off,” cried Sorio loudly, “I’m asking the Doctor a -perfectly polite question. It’s very interesting the way he lights his -pipe. There’s more in it than appears. There’s a great deal in it. It’s -a secret of the Doctor’s; probably a pantheistic one.” - -“What on earth do you mean by a ‘pantheistic’ one? How, under Heaven, -can the way Fingal holds a match be termed ‘pantheistic’?” protested -Stork irritably. “You’re really going a little too far, Adriano mio.” - -“Not at all, not at all,” argued Sorio, stretching out his long, lean -arms and grasping the back of a chair. “The Doctor can deny it or not, -as he pleases, but what I say is perfectly true. He gets a cosmic -ecstasy from moving his head up and down like that. He feels as if he -were the centre of the universe when he does it.” - -The Doctor looked sideways and then upon the ground. Sorio’s rudeness -evidently disconcerted him. - -“I think,” he said, rising from his chair and putting down his glass, -“I must be going now. I’ve an early call to make to-morrow morning.” - -Baltazar cast a reproachful look at Adrian and rose too. They went into -the hall together and the same shufflings and heavy breathings came -to the ears of the listener as on Raughty’s arrival. The Doctor was -putting on his goloshes and gaiters. - -Adrian went out to see him off and, as if to make up for his bad -behaviour, walked with him across the green, to his house in the main -street. They parted at last, the best of good friends, but Sorio found -Baltazar seriously provoked when he returned. - -“Why did you treat him like that?” the latter persisted. “You’ve got no -grudge against him, have you? It was just your silly fashion of getting -even with things in general, eh? Your nice little habit of venting your -bad temper on the most harmless person within reach?” - -Sorio stared blankly at his friend. It was unusual for Mr. Stork to -express himself so strongly. - -“I’m sorry, my dear, very sorry,” muttered the accused man, looking -remorsefully at the Doctor’s empty glass and plate. - -“You may well be,” rejoined the other. “The one thing I can’t stand is -this sort of social lapse. It’s unpardonable--unpardonable! Besides, -it’s childish. Hit out by all means when there’s reason for it or -you’re dealing with some scurvy dog who needs suppressing but to make -a sensitive person like Fingal uncomfortable, out of a pure spirit of -bullying--it’s damnable!” - -“I’m sorry, Tassar,” repeated the other meekly. “I can’t think why I -did it. He’s certainly a charming person. I’ll make up to him, my dear. -I’ll be gentle as a lamb when I see him next.” - -Baltazar smiled and made a humorous and hopeless gesture with his -hands. “We shall see,” he said, “we shall see.” - -He locked the door and lit a couple of candles with ritualistic -deliberation. “Turn out the lamp, amico mio, and let us sleep on -all this. The best way of choosing between two loves is to say one’s -prayers and go to bed. These things decide themselves in dreams.” - -“In dreams,” repeated the other, submissively following him upstairs, -“in dreams. But I wish I knew why the Doctor’s ankles look so thick -when he sits down. He must wear extraordinary under-clothes.” - - - - -VI - -BRIDGE-HEAD AND WITHY-BED - - -Philippa Renshaw’s light-spoken words about Linda recurred more than -once to the mind of the master of Oakguard as April gave place to May -and May itself began to slip by. The wet fields and stunted woods of -Rodmoor seemed at that time to be making a conscious and almost human -effort to throw off the repressive influence of the sea and to respond -to the kindlier weather. The grasses began to grow high and feathery -by the road-side, and in the water-meadows, buttercups superseded -marigolds. - -As he went to and fro between his house and his office in Mundham, -Brand--though he made as yet no attempt to see her--became more and -more preoccupied with the _idea_ of the young girl. That terror of the -sea in the little unknown touched, as his sister well knew it would, -something strangely deep-rooted in his nature. His ancestors had lived -so long in this place that there had come to exist between the man’s -inmost being and the voracious tides which year by year devoured the -land he owned, an obstinate reciprocity of mood and feeling. That a -young and fragile intruder should have this morbid fear of the very -element which half-consciously he assimilated to himself, gave him -a subtle and sullen exultation. The thing promised to become a sort -of perverted link between them, and he pleased himself by fancying, -even while, in fear of disillusionment, he kept putting off their -encounter, that the girl herself could not be quite free of some sort -of premonition of what awaited her. - -Thus it happened that Philippa Renshaw’s stroke in her own defence -worked precisely as she had anticipated. Brooding, in his slow -tenacious way, as the weeks went by, upon this singular projection of -his imagination, he let his sister do what she chose, feeling assured -that in her pride of race, she would not seriously commit herself with -a nameless foreigner, and promising himself to end the business with a -drastic hand as soon as it suited him to do so. - -It was about the middle of May when an event took place which gave the -affair a decisive and fatal impulse. This was a chance encounter, upon -the bridge crossing the Loon, between Brand and Rachel Doorm. He would -have passed her even then without recognition, but she stopped him and -held out her hand. - -“Don’t you remember me, Mr. Renshaw?” she said. - -He removed his hat, displaying his closely cropped reddish head with -its abnormal upward slope, and regarded her smilingly. - -“You’ve changed, Miss Rachel,” he remarked, “but your voice is the -same. They told me you were here. I knew we should meet sooner or -later.” - -“Put on your hat, Mr. Renshaw,” she said, seating herself on a little -stone bench below the parapet and making room for him at her side. “I -knew, too, that we should meet. It’s a long time from those days--isn’t -it?--a long time, and a dark one for some of us. Do you remember when -you were a child, how you asked me once why they called this place the -New Bridge, when it’s obviously so very old? Do you remember that, Mr. -Renshaw?” - -He looked at her curiously, screwing up his eyes and wrinkling his -forehead. “My mother told me you’d come back,” he muttered. “She was -always fond of you. She used to hope--well, you know what I mean.” - -“That I’d marry Captain Herrick?” Miss Doorm threw in. “Don’t be afraid -to say it. The dead can’t hear us and except the dead, there’s none who -cares. Yes, she hoped that, and schemed for it, too, dear soul. But -it was not to be, Mr. Renshaw. Ellie Story was prettier. Ellie Story -was cleverer. And so it happened. The bitter thing was that he swore -an oath to Mary before she died, swore it on the head of my darling -Nance, that if he did ever marry again, I should be the one. Mary died -thinking that certain. Anything else would have hurt her to the heart. -I know that well enough; for she and I, Mr. Renshaw, as your mother -could tell you, were more than sisters.” - -“I thought you and Linda’s mother were friends, too,” observed Brand, -looking with a certain dreamy absorption up the straight white road -that led to the Doorm house. The mental fantasies the man had woven -round the name he now uttered for the first time in his life had -so vivid a meaning for him that he let pass unnoticed the spasm of -vindictiveness that convulsed his companion’s face. - -Rachel Doorm folded her arms across her lean bosom and flung back her -head. - -“Ellie was _afraid_ of me, Mr. Renshaw,” she pronounced huskily, and -then, looking at him sharply: “Yes,” she said, “Mrs. Herrick and I -were excellent friends, and so are Linda and I. She’s a soft, nervous, -impressionable little thing--our dear Linda--and very pretty, too, in -her own way--don’t you think so, Mr. Renshaw?” - -It was the man’s turn now to suffer a change of countenance. “Pretty?” -he laughed. “I’m sure I don’t know. I’ve never seen her!” - -Rachel clasped her hands tightly on the lap of her black dress and -fixed her eyes upon him. “You’d like to see her, wouldn’t you?” she -murmured eagerly. He answered her look, and a long, indescribable -passage of unspoken thoughts flickered, wavered and took shape between -them. - -“I’ve seen Nance--in the distance--with my mother,” he remarked, -letting his glance wander to the opposite parapet and away beyond it -where the swallows were skimming, “but I’ve never yet spoken to either -of the girls. I keep to myself a good deal, as every one about here -knows, Miss Rachel.” - -Rachel Doorm rose abruptly to her feet with such unexpected suddenness -that the man started as if from a blow. - -“Your sister,” she jerked out with concentrated vehemence, “is doing my -Nance a deadly injury. She’s given her heart--sweet darling--absolutely -and without stint to that foreigner down there.” She waved her hand -towards the village. “And if Miss Renshaw doesn’t let him go, there’ll -be a tragedy.” - -Brand looked at her searchingly, his lips trembling with a smile of -complicated significance. - -“Do make her let him go!” the woman repeated, advancing as if she -were ready to clasp his hand; “you can if you like. You always -could. If she takes him away, my darling’s heart will be broken. Mr. -Renshaw--please--for the sake of old days, for the sake of old friends, -do this for me, and make her give him up!” - -He drew back a little, the same subtle and ambiguous smile on his lips. -“No promises, Miss Rachel,” he said, “no promises! I never promise any -one anything. But we shall see; we shall see. There’s plenty of time. -I’m keeping my eye on Philippa; you may be sure of that.” - -He held out his hand as he spoke to the agitated woman. She took it in -both of her own and quick as a flash raised it to her lips. - -“I knew I should meet you, Mr. Renshaw,” she said, turning away from -him, “and you see it has happened! I won’t ask why you didn’t come to -me before. I haven’t asked _that_ yet--have I?--and I won’t ever ask -it. We’ve met at last; that’s the great thing. That’s the only thing. -Now we’ll see what’ll come of it all.” - -They separated, and Brand proceeded to cross the Bridge. He had hardly -done so when he heard her voice calling upon him to stop. He turned -impatiently. - -“When you were a little boy, Mr. Renshaw,”--her words came in panting -gasps--“you said once, down by the sea, that Rachel was the only person -in the world who really loved you. Your mother heard you say it and -looked--you know how she looks! You used always to call me ‘Cousin’ -then. Far back, they say, the Renshaws and the Doorms _were_ cousins. -But you didn’t know that. It was just your childish fancy. ‘Cousin -Rachel,’ you said once--just like that--‘come and take me away from -them.’” - -Brand acquiesced in all this with an air of strained politeness. But -his face changed when he heard her final words. “Listen,” she said, -“I’ve talked to Linda about you. She’s got the idea of you in her mind.” - -At the very moment when this encounter at the New Bridge ended--which -was about six in the afternoon--Nance Herrick was walking with a -beating heart to a promised assignation with Sorio. This was to take -place at the southern corner of a little withy-bed situated about half -a mile from Dyke House in the direction of Mundham. It was Nance’s own -wish that her lover--if he could still be called so--should meet her -here rather than in the house. She had discovered the spot herself -and had grown fond of it. Sheltered from the wind by the clump of -low-growing willows, and cut off by the line of the banked-up tow-path -from the melancholy horizon of fens, the girl had got into the habit of -taking refuge here as if from the pursuit of vague inimical presences. -In the immediate neighbourhood of the withy-bed were several corn -fields, the beginning of a long strip of arable land which divided the -river from the marshes as far as Mundham. - -The particular spot where she hoped to find Sorio awaiting her was a -low grassy bank overshadowed by alders as well as willows, and bordered -by a field of well-grown barley, a field which, though still green, -showed already to an experienced eye the kind of grain which a month or -so of not too malicious weather would ripen and turn to gold. Already -amid the blades of the young corn could be seen the stalks and leaves -of newly grown poppies, and mingled with these, also at their early -stage of growth, small, indistinguishable plants that would later show -themselves as corn-flowers and succory. - -The neighbourhood of this barley field, with its friendly look and -homely weeds, promising a revel of reassuring colour as the summer -advanced, had come to be, to the agitated and troubled girl, a sort -of symbol of hope. It was the one place in Rodmoor--for the Doorm -garden shared the gloomy influences of the Doorm house--where she could -feel something like her old enjoyment in the natural growths of the -soil. Here, in the freshly sprouting corn and the friendly weeds that -it protected, was the strong, unconquerable pressure of earth-life, -refusing to be repressed, refusing to be thwarted, by the malign powers -of wind and water. - -Here, on the bank she had chosen as her retreat, little childish -plants she knew by name--such as pimpernel and milkwort--were already -in flower and from the alders and willows above her head sweet and -consolatory odours, free from the tang of marsh mist or brackish -stream, brought memories of old country excursions into places far -removed from fen or sea. - -She had never yet revealed this sanctuary of hers to Sorio and it -was with throbbing pulses and quickened step that she approached it -now, longing to associate its security with her master-feeling, and -yet fearful lest, by finding her lover unkind or estranged, the place -should lose its magic forever. She had dressed herself with care that -afternoon, putting on--though the weather was hardly warm enough to -make such airy attire quite suitable--a white print frock, covered with -tiny roses. Several times in front of the mirror she had smoothed down -her dress and unloosened and tied back again her shining masses of -hair. She held her hat in her hand now, as she approached the spot, for -he had told her once in London that he liked her better when she was -bareheaded. - -She had left her parasol behind, too, and as she hastened along the -narrow path from the river to the withy-bed, she nervously switched the -green stalks by her side with a dead stick she had unconsciously picked -up. - -Her print dress hung straight and tight over her softly moulded figure -and her limbs, as she walked, swayed with a free and girlish grace. - -Passionately, intently, she scanned the familiar outlines of the spot, -hoping and yet fearing to see him. Not yet--not yet! Nothing visible -yet, but the low-lying little copse and the stretch of arable land -around it. She drew near. She was already within a few paces of the -place. Nothing! He was not there--he had failed her! - -She drew a deep breath and stood motionless, the dead stick fallen from -her hand and her gloveless fingers clasping and unclasping one another -mechanically. - -“Oh, Adrian! Adrian!” she moaned. “You don’t care any more--not any -more.” - -Suddenly she heard a swish of leafy branches and a crackle of broken -twigs. He was there, after all. - -“Adrian!” she cried. “Is that you, Adrian?” - -There was more rustling and swishing, and then with a discordant laugh -he burst out from the undergrowth. - -“You frightened me,” she said, looking at him with quivering lips. “Why -did you hide away like that, Adrian?” - -He went straight up to her, seized her fiercely in his arms and covered -her mouth, her throat and neck with hot, furious kisses. This was -not what Nance’s heart craved. She longed to sob out her suppressed -feelings on his shoulder. She longed to be petted and caressed, -gently, quietly, and with soft endearing words. - -Instead of which, it seemed to her that he was seeking, as he embraced -her body and clung to her flesh with his lips, to escape from his own -thoughts, to suppress _her_ thoughts, to sweep them both away--away -from all rational consciousness--on the brutal impulse of mere animal -passion. - -Her tears which were on the point of flowing, in a tide of heart-easing -abandonment, were driven inwards by his violence, and in her grey -eyes, if he had cared to look, he would have seen a frightened -appeal--pitiful and troubled--like the wild glance of a deer harried by -dogs. - -His violence brought its own reaction at last and, letting her go, he -flung himself panting upon the ground. She stood above him for a while, -flushed and silent, smoothing down her hair with her hands and looking -into his face with a puzzled frown. - -“Sit down,” he gasped. “Why do you stare at me like that?” - -Obediently she placed herself by his side, tucked her skirt around her -ankles and let her hands fall on her lap. - -“Adrian,” she said, glancing shyly at him. “Why did you kiss me like -that, just now?” - -He propped himself up and gazed gloomily across the barley field. -“Why--did--I--kiss you?” he muttered, as if speaking in a dream. - -“Yes--why, like that, just then,” she went on. “It wasn’t like you and -me at all. You were rough, Adrian. You weren’t yourself. Oh, my dear, -my dear! I don’t believe you care for me half as you used to!” - -He beat his fists irritably on the ground and an almost vindictive look -came into his eyes. - -“That’s the way!” he flung out, “that’s the way I knew you’d take it. -You girls want to be loved but you must be loved just thus and so. A -touch too near, a word too far--and you’re all up in arms.” - -Nance felt as though an ice-cold wedge had been thrust between her -breasts. - -“Adrian,” she cried, “how can you treat me in this way? How can you say -these things to me? Have I ever stopped you kissing me? Have I ever -been unresponsive to you?” - -He looked away from her and began pulling up a patch of moss by its -roots. “What are you annoyed about, then?” he muttered. - -She sighed bitterly. Then with a strong effort to give her voice -a natural tone. “I didn’t feel as though you were kissing me at -all just now. I was simply a girl in your arms--any girl! It was a -shame, Adrian. It hurt me. Surely, dear,”--her voice grew gentle and -pleading--“you _must_ know what I mean.” - -“I don’t know in the least what you mean,” he cried. “It’s some silly, -absurd scruple some one’s been putting in your head. I can’t always -make love to you as if we were two children, can I--two babes in the -wood?” - -Nance’s mouth quivered at this and she stretched out her arm towards -him and then, letting it drop, fumbled with her fingers at a blade -of grass. A curious line, rarely visible on her face, wrinkled her -forehead and twitched a little as if it had been a nerve beneath the -skin. This line had a pathos in it beyond a mere frown. It would have -been well if the Italian had recalled, as he saw it, certain ancient -tragic masks of his native country, but it is one of life’s persistent -ironies that the tokens of monumental sorrow, which serve so nobly -the purposes of art, should only excite peevish irritation when seen -near at hand. Sorio did not miss that line of suffering but instead of -softening him it increased his bitterness. - -“You’re really not angry about my kissing you,” he said. “That’s what -all you women do--you pitch upon something quite different and revenge -yourself with it, when all the time you’re thinking about--God knows -what!--some mad grievance of your own that has no connection with what -you say!” - -She leapt up at this, as if bitten by an adder and looked at him with -flashing eyes. - -“Adrian! You’ve no right--I’ve never given you the right--to speak -to me so. Come! We’d better go back to the house. I wish--oh, how I -wish--I’d never asked you to meet me here.” - -She stooped to pick up her hat. “I liked it so here,” she added with a -wistful catch in her voice, “but it’s all spoilt now.” Sorio did not -move. He looked at her gravely. - -“You’re a little fool, Nance,” he said, “absolutely a little fool. But -you look extraordinarily lovely at this moment, now you’re in a fury. -Come here, child, come back and sit down and let’s talk sensibly. There -are other things and much more important things in the world than our -ridiculous quarrels.” - -The tone of his voice had its effect upon her but she did not yield at -once. - -“I think perhaps to-day,” she murmured, “it would be better to go -back.” She continued to stand in front of him, swaying a little--an -unconscious trick of hers--and smiling sadly. - -“Come and sit down,” he repeated in a low voice. She obeyed him, for -it was what her heart ached for, and clinging tightly to him she let -her suppressed emotions have full vent. With her head pressed awkwardly -against his coat she sobbed freely and without restraint. - -Sorio gently buttoned up the fastening of one of her long sleeves -which had come unloosed. He did this gravely and without a change of -expression. That peculiar and tragic pathos which emanates from a -girl’s forgetfulness of her personal appearance did not apparently -cross his consciousness. Nance, as she leant against him, had a -pitiable and even a grotesque air. One of her legs was thrust out from -beneath her skirt. Sorio noticed that her brown shoes were a little -worn and did not consort well with her white stockings. It momentarily -crossed his mind that he had fancied Nancy’s ankles to be slenderer -than it seemed they were. - -Her sobs died away at last in long shuddering gasps which shook her -whole frame. Sorio kept stroking her head, but his eyes were fixed -on the distant river bank along which a heavily labouring horse was -tugging at a rope. Every now and then his face contracted a little as -if he were in physical pain. This was due to the fact that from the -girl’s weight pressing against his knee he began to suffer from cramp. -Though her sobs had died down, Nance still seemed unwilling to stir. - -With one of her hands she made a tremulous movement in search of his, -and he answered it by tightly gripping her fingers. While he held her -thus his gaze wandered from the horse on the tow-path and fixed itself -upon a large and beautifully spotted fly that was moving slowly and -tentatively up a green stalk. With its long antennæ extended in front -of it the fly felt its way, every now and then opening and shutting its -gauzy wings. - -Sorio hated the horse, hated the fly and hated himself. As for the girl -who leant so heavily upon him, he felt nothing for her just then but -a dull, inert patience and a kind of objective pity such as one might -feel for a wounded animal. One deep, far-drawn channel of strength and -hope remained open in the remote depths of his mind--associated with -his inmost identity and with what in the fortress of his soul he loved -to call his “secret”--and far off, at the end of this vista, visualized -through clouds of complicated memories--was the image of his boy, his -boy left in America, from whom, unknown even to Nance, he received -letters week by week, letters that were the only thing, so it seemed to -him at this moment, which gave sweetness to his life. - -He had sought, in giving full scope to his attraction to Nance, to -cover up and smooth over certain jagged, bleeding edges in his outraged -mind, and in this, even now, as he returned the pressure of her soft -fingers, he recognized that he had been successful. - -It was, he knew well, only the appearance of this _other one_--this -insidious “rose au regard saphique”--this furtive child of marsh and -sea--who had spoilt his delight in Nance--Nance had not changed, nor -indeed had he, himself. It was only the discovery of Philippa, the -revelation of Philippa, which had altered everything. - -With his fingers entangled in the shining hair, beneath his hand, he -found himself cursing the day he had ever come to Rodmoor. And yet--as -far as his “secret” went--that “fleur hypocrite” of the salt-marshes -came nearer, nearer than mortal soul except Baptiste--to understanding -the heart of his mystery. The sun sinking behind them, had for some -while now thrown long dark shadows across the field at their feet. - -The flies which hovered over the girl’s prostrate form were no longer -radiantly illuminated and from the vague distances in every direction -came those fitful sounds of the closing day--murmurs and whispers and -subtle breathings, sweet and yet profoundly sad, which indicate the ebb -of the life-impulse and approach of twilight. - -The girl moved at last, and lifting up a tear-stained face, looked -timidly and shyly into his eyes. She appeared at that moment so -submissive, so pitiful, and so entirely dependent on him that Sorio -would have been hardly human if he had not thrown his arms reassuringly -round her neck and kissed her wet flushed cheek. - -They rose together from the ground and both laughed merrily to see how -stained and crumpled her newly starched frock had become. - -“I’ll meet you here again--to-morrow if you like,” he said gently. -She smiled but did not answer. Simple-hearted though she was, she was -enough of a woman to know well that her victory, if it could be called -victory, over his morose mood was a mere temporary matter. The future -of their love seemed to her more than ever dubious and uncertain, and -it was with a chilled heart, in spite of her gallant attempts to make -their return pleasant to them both, that she re-entered the forlorn -garden of Dyke House and waved good-bye to him from the door. - - - - -VII - -VESPERS - - -Nance continued to resort to her withy-bed, in spite of the spoiling of -its charm, but she did not again ask Sorio to meet her there. She met -him still, however,--sometimes in Rachel’s desolate garden which seemed -inspired by some occult influence antipathetic to every softening -touch, and sometimes--and these latter encounters were the happier -ones--in the little graveyard of Mr. Traherne’s church. She found him -affectionate enough in these ambiguous days and even tender, but she -was constantly aware of a barrier between them which nothing she could -say or do seemed able to surmount. - -Her anxiety with regard to the relations between Rachel and Linda did -not grow less as days went on. Sometimes the two seemed perfectly -happy and Nance accused herself of having a morbid imagination, but -then again something would occur--some quite slight and unimportant -thing--which threw her back upon all her old misgivings. - -Once she was certain she heard Linda crying in the night and uttering -Rachel’s name but the young girl, when roused from her sleep, only -laughed gaily and vowed she had no recollection of anything she had -dreamed. - -As things thus went on and there seemed no outlet from the difficulties -that surrounded her, Nance began making serious enquiries as to the -possibility of finding work in the neighbourhood. She read the -advertisements in the local papers and even answered some of them but -the weeks slipped by and nothing tangible seemed to emerge. - -Her greatest consolation at this time was a friendship she struck up -with Hamish Traherne, the curate-in-charge of Rodmoor upon whose organ -in the forlorn little Norman church, Linda was now daily practising. - -Dr. Raughty, too, when she chanced to meet him, proved a soothing -distraction. The man’s evident admiration for her gratified her vanity, -while her tender and playful way of expressing it put a healing -ointment upon her wounded pride. - -One late afternoon when the sun at last seemed to have got some degree -of hold upon that sea-blighted country, she found herself seated with -Mr. Traherne on a bench adjoining the churchyard, waiting there in part -for the service--for Hamish was a rigorous ritualist in these things -and rang his bell twice a day with devoted patience--and in part for -the purpose of meeting Mrs. Renshaw, who, as she knew, came regularly -to church, morning and evening. - -Linda was playing inside the little stone edifice and the sound of -her music came out to them as they talked, pleasantly softened by the -intervening walls. Mr. Traherne’s own dwelling, a battered, time-worn -fragment of monastic masonry, clumsily adapted to modern use, lay -behind them, its unpretentious garden passing by such imperceptible -degrees into the sacred enclosure that the blossoms raised, in defiance -of the winds that swept the marshes, in the priest’s flower-beds, shed -their petals upon the more recently dug of his parishioners’ graves. - -It may have been the extreme ugliness of Rodmoor’s curate-in-charge -that drew Nance so closely to him. Mr. Traherne was certainly in bodily -appearance the least prepossessing person she had ever beheld. He -resembled nothing so much as an over-driven and excessively patient -horse, his long, receding chin, knobbed bulbous nose, and corrugated -forehead not even being relieved by any particular quality in his -small, deeply-set colourless eyes--eyes which lacked everything such -as commonly redeems an otherwise insignificant face and which stared -out of his head upon the world with a fixed expression of mild and dumb -protest. - -Whether it was his ugliness, or something indefinable in him that found -no physical or even vocal expression--for his voice was harsh and -husky--the girl herself would have been puzzled to say, but whatever -it was, it drew her and held her and she experienced curious relief in -talking with him. - -This particular afternoon she had permitted herself to go further than -usual in these relieving confidences and had treated the poor man as if -he were actually and in very truth her father-confessor. - -“I’ve had no luck so far,” she said, speaking of her attempts to get -work, “but I think I shall have before long. I’m right, am I not, in -_that_ at any rate? Whatever happens, it’s better Linda and I should be -independent.” - -The priest nodded vigorously and clasped his bony hands over his knees. - -“I wish,” he said, “that I knew Mr. Sorio as I know you. When I know -people I like them, and as a rule--” he opened his large twisted mouth -and smiled humorously at her--“as a rule they like me.” - -“Oh, don’t misunderstand what I said just now,” cried Nance anxiously. -“I didn’t mean that Adrian doesn’t like you. I know he likes you very -much. It’s that he’s afraid of your influence, of your religion, of -your goodness. He’s afraid of you. That’s what it is.” - -“Of course we know,” said Hamish Traherne, prodding the ground with -his oak stick and tucking his long cassock round his legs, “of course -we know that it’s really Mr. Sorio who ought to find work. He ought to -find it soon, too, and as soon as he’s got it he ought to marry you! -That’s how I would see this affair settled.” He smiled at her with -humorous benignity. - -Nance frowned a little. “I don’t like it when you talk like that,” she -remarked, “it makes me feel as though I’d done wrong in saying anything -about it. It makes me feel as though I had been disloyal to Adrian.” - -For so ugly and clumsy a man, there was a pathetic gentleness in -the way he laid his hand, at that, upon his companion’s arm. “The -disloyalty,” he said in a low voice, “would have been _not_ to have -spoken to me. Who else can help our friend? Who else is anxious to help -him?” - -“I know, I know,” she cried, “you’re as sweet to me as you can be. -You’re my most faithful friend. It’s only that I feel--sometimes--as -though Adrian wouldn’t like it for me to talk about him at all--to -any one. But that’s silly, isn’t it? And besides I must, mustn’t I? -Otherwise there’d be no way of helping him.” - -“I’ll find a way,” muttered the priest. “You needn’t mention his name -again. We’ll take him for granted in future, little one, and we’ll both -work together in his interests.” - -“If he could only be made to understand,” the girl went on, looking -helplessly across the vast tract of fens, “what his real feelings are! -I believe he loves me at the bottom of his heart. I know I can help him -as no one else can. But how to make him understand that?” - -They were interrupted at this point by the appearance of Mrs. Renshaw -who, standing in the path leading to the church door, looked at them -hesitatingly as if wondering whether she ought to approach them or not. - -They rose at once and crossed the grass to meet her. At the same time -Linda, emerging from the building, greeted them with excited ardour. - -“I’ve done so well to-day, Mr. Traherne,” she cried, “you’d be -astonished. I can manage those pedals perfectly now, and the stops too. -Oh, it’s lovely! It’s lovely! I feel I’m going really to be a player.” - -They all shook hands with Mrs. Renshaw, and then, while the priest -went in to ring his bell, the three women strolled together to the low -stone parapet built as a protection against floods, which separated the -churchyard from the marshes. - -Tiny, delicate mosses grew on this wall, interspersed with small -pale-flowered weeds. On its further side was a wide tract of boggy -ground, full of deep amber-coloured pools and clumps of rushes and -terminated, some half mile away, by a raised dyke. There was a pleasant -humming of insects in the air, and although a procession of large white -clouds kept crossing the low, horizontal sun, and throwing their cold -shadows over the landscape, the general aspect of the place was more -friendly and less desolate than usual. - -They sat down upon the parapet and began to talk. “Brand promised to -come and fetch me to-night,” said Mrs. Renshaw. “I begged him to come -in time for the service but--” and she gave a sad, expressive little -laugh, “he said he wouldn’t be early enough for that. Why is it, do you -think, that men in these days are so unwilling to do these things? It -isn’t that they’re wiser than their ancestors. It isn’t that they’re -cleverer. It isn’t that they have less need of the Invisible. Something -has come over the world, I think--something that blots out the sky. -I’ve thought that often lately, particularly when I wake up in the -mornings. It seems to me that the dawns used to be fresher and clearer -than they are now. God has got tired of helping us, my dears,” and she -sighed wearily. - -Linda extended her warm little hand with a caressing movement, and -Nance said, gently, “I know well what you mean, but I feel sure--oh, -I feel quite sure--it’s only for a time. And I think, too, in some -odd way, that it’s our own fault--I mean the fault of women. I can’t -express clearly what’s in my mind but I feel as though we’d all -changed--changed, that is, from what we used to be in old days. Don’t -you think there’s something in that, Mrs. Renshaw? But of course that -only applies to Linda and me.” - -The elder woman’s countenance assumed a pinched and withered look -as the girl spoke, the lines in it deepening and the pallor of it -growing so noticeable that Nance found herself recalling the ghastly -whiteness of her father’s face as she saw him at the last, laid out -in his coffin. She shivered a little and let her fingers stray over -the crumbling masonry and tangled weeds at her side, seeking there, -in a fumbling, instinctive manner, to get into touch with something -natural, earthy, and reassuring. - -The procession of clouds suffered a brief interlude at that moment in -their steady transit and the sinking sun shone out warm and mellow, -full of odours of peat and moss and reedy mud. Swarms of tiny midges -danced in the long level light and several drowsy butterflies rose out -of nowhere and fluttered over the mounds. - -“Oh, there’s Brand coming!” cried Mrs. Renshaw, suddenly, with a -queer contraction of her pale forehead, “and the bell has stopped. -How strange we none of us noticed that! Listen! Yes--he’s begun the -service. Can’t you hear? Oh, what a pity! I can’t bear going in after -he’s begun.” - -Brand Renshaw, striding unceremoniously over the graves, approached the -group. They rose to greet him. Nance felt herself surveyed from head -to foot, weighed in the balances and found wanting. Linda hung back a -little, shamefaced and blushing deeply. It was upon her that Brand kept -his eyes fixed all the while he was being introduced. She--as Nance -recognized in a flash--was _not_ found wanting. - -They stood talking together, easily and freely enough, for several -minutes, but nothing that Nance heard or said prevented her mind from -envisaging the fact that there had leapt into being, magnetically, -mysteriously, irresistibly, one of those sudden attractions between a -man and a girl that so often imply--as the world is now arranged--the -emergence of tragedy upon the horizon. - -“I think--if you don’t mind, Brand,” said Mrs. Renshaw when a pause -arrived in their conversation, “we’ll slip into the church now for a -minute or two. He’s got to the Psalms. I can hear. And it hurts me, -somehow, for the poor man to have to go through them alone.” - -Nance moved at once, but Linda pouted and looked shyly at Brand. “I’m -tired of the church,” she murmured. “I’ll wait for you out here. Are -you going in with them, Mr. Renshaw?” - -Brand made no reply to this, but walked gravely with the two others as -far as the porch. - -“Don’t be surprised if your sister’s spirited away when you come out, -Miss Herrick,” he said smilingly as he left them at the door. - -Returning with a quick step to where Linda stood gazing across the -marshes, he made some casual remark about the quietness of the evening -and led her forth from the churchyard. Neither of them uttered any -definite reference to what they were doing. Indeed, a queer sort of -nervous dumbness seemed to have seized them both, but there was a -suppressed surge of excitement in the man’s resolute movements and -under the navy blue coat and skirt which hung so delicately and closely -round her slender figure. The girl’s pulses beat a wild excited tune. - -He led her straight along the narrow, reed-bordered path, with a ditch -on either side of it which ended in the bridge across the Loon. Before -they reached the bridge, however, he swerved to the left and helped her -over a low wooden railing. From this point, by following a rough track -along the edge of one of the water meadows it was possible to reach the -sand-dunes without entering the village. - -“Not to the sea,” pleaded Linda, holding back when she perceived the -direction of their steps. - -“Yes, to the sea!” he cried, pulling her forward with merciless -determination. She made no further resistance. She did not even protest -when, arrived at the end of their path, he lifted her bodily over the -gate that barred their way. She let him help her across the heavily -sinking sand, covered with pallid, coarse grass which yielded to every -step they took. She let him, when at last they reached the summit of -the dunes and saw the sea spread out before them, retain the hand she -had given him and lead her down, hardly holding back at all now, to the -very edge of the water. - -They were both at that moment like persons under the power of some sort -of drug. Their eyes were wild and bright and when they spoke their -voices had an unnatural solemnity. In the absoluteness of the magnetic -current which swept them together, they could do nothing, it seemed, -but take all that happened to them for granted--take all--all--as if it -could not be otherwise, as if it were _unthinkable_ otherwise. - -When they reached the place where the tide turned and the tremulous -line of spindrift glimmered in the dying sunlight, the girl stopped at -last. Her lips and cheeks were pale as the foam itself. She tried to -tear her fingers from his grasp. Her feet, sinking in the wet sand, -were splashed by the inflowing water. - -“They told me you were afraid,” he muttered, and his voice sounded to -them both as if it came from far away, “but I didn’t believe it. I -thought it was some little girl’s nonsense. But I see now they were -right. You _are_ afraid.” - -He rose to his full height, drawing into his lungs with a breath of -ecstasy the sharp salt wind that blew across the water’s surface. - -“But out of your fear we’ll make a bond between us,” he went on, -raising his voice, “a bond which none of them shall be able to break!” - -He suddenly bent down and, scooping with his fingers in the water, -lifted towards her a handful of sea-foam that gleamed ghostly white as -he held it. - -“There, child,” he cried, “you can’t escape from me now!” - -As he spoke he flung, with a wild laugh, straight across her face, the -foam-bubbles which he had caught. She started back with a little gasp, -but recovering herself instantly lifted the hand which held her own -and pressed it against her forehead. They stood for a moment, after -this, staring at one another, with a hushed, dazed, bewildered stare, -as though they felt the very wind of the wing of fate pass over their -heads. - -Brand broke the spell with a laugh. “I’ve christened you now,” he said, -“so I can call you what I like. Come up here, Linda, my little one, and -let’s talk of all this.” - -Hand in hand they moved away from the sea’s edge and crouched down in -the shadow of the sand-dunes. The rose-coloured light died out along -the line of foam and the mass of the waters in front of them darkened -steadily, as if obscured by the over-hovering of some colossal bird. -Far off, on the edge of the horizon, a single fragment of drifting -cloud took the shape of a bloody hand with outstretched forefinger but -even that soon faded as the sun, sinking into the fens behind them, -gave up the struggle with darkness. - -With the passing of the light from the sea’s surface, all that was left -of the wind sank also into absolute immobility. An immense liberating -silence intensified, rather than interrupted by the monotonous splash -of the waves, seemed to stream forth from some planetary reservoir and -overflow the world. - -Not a sea-gull screamed, not a sound came from the harbour, not a -plover cried from the marshes, not a step, not a voice, not a whisper, -approached their solitude or disturbed their strange communion. - -Linda sat with her head sunk low upon her breast and her hands clasped -upon her knees. Brand, beside her, caressed her whole figure with an -intense gaze of concentrated possession. - -Neither of them spoke a word, but one of the man’s heavy hands lay upon -hers like a leaden weight bruising a fragile plant. - -What he seemed attempting to achieve in that conspiring hour was some -kind of magnetizing of the girl’s senses so that the first movement of -overt passion should come from her rather than from himself. In this -it would seem he was not unsuccessful, for after two or three scarce -audible sighs her body trembled a little and leant towards his and -a low whisper uttered in a tone quite unlike her ordinary one, tore -itself from her lips, as if against her volition. - -“What are you doing to me?” she murmured. - -While the invisible destinies were thus inaugurating their projected -work upon Brand and Linda, Nance and Mrs. Renshaw issued forth from the -churchyard. - -“If only life were clearer,” the girl was thinking, “it would be -endurable. It’s this uncertainty in everything--this dreadful -uncertainty--which I can’t bear!” - -“That was a beautiful psalm we had just now,” said Mrs. Renshaw, in -her gentle penetrating voice as, after some minutes’ silent walking -they emerged upon the bridge across the Loon. Nance looked down over -the parapet and in her depressed fancy she saw the drowned figure of -herself, drifting, face upward, upon the flowing water. - -“Yes,” she replied mechanically, “the psalms are always beautiful.” - -“I don’t believe,” the lady went on, glancing at her with eyes so -hollow and sorrowful that it seemed as though the twilight of a world -even sadder than the one they looked upon emanated from them, “I don’t -believe I understand that little sister of yours. She’s very highly -strung--she’s very nervous. She requires a great deal of care. To tell -the truth, I don’t consider my son Brand at all a good companion for -her. I wish they’d waited and not gone off like that. He doesn’t always -remember what a sensitive thing the heart of a young girl is.” - -They had now reached the southern side of the Loon and were on the main -road between Rodmoor and Mundham. A few paces further brought them to -the first houses of the village. Something in the helpless, apologetic, -deprecatory way with which, just then, Mrs. Renshaw greeted an old -woman who passed them, had a strangely irritating effect upon Nance’s -nerves. - -“I don’t see why young people should be considered more than any one -else!” she burst out. “It’s a purely conventional idea. We all have our -troubles, and what I think is the older you get the more difficult life -becomes.” - -Mrs. Renshaw’s face assumed a mask of weary obstinacy and she walked -more slowly, her head bent forward a little and her feet dragging. - -“Women have to learn what duty means,” she said, “and the sooner they -learn it the better. Those among us who are privileged to make one good -man happy have the best that life can give. It’s natural to be restless -till you have this. But we must try to overcome our restlessness. We -must ask for help.” - -She was silent. Her white face drooped and bowed itself, while her -tired fingers relaxed their hold on her skirt which trailed in the dust -of the road. Her profile, as Nance glanced sideways at it, had a look -of hopeless and helpless passivity. - -The girl withdrew into herself, irritated and yet remorseful. She felt -an obscure longing to be of some service to this unhappy one; yet as -she watched her, thus bowed and impenetrable, she felt shut out and -excluded. - -Before they reached the centre of the village--for Nance felt unwilling -to leave Mrs. Renshaw until she had seen her safe within her park -gates--they suddenly came upon Baltazar Stork returning from his daily -excursion to Mundham. - -He was as elegantly dressed as usual and in one hand carried a little -black bag, in the other a bunch of peonies. Nance, to her surprise, -caught upon her companion’s face a look of extraordinary illumination -as the man advanced towards them. In recalling the look afterwards, she -found herself thinking of the word “vivacity” in regard to it. - -“Oh, I’m always the same,” Mr. Stork replied to the elder lady’s -greeting. “I grow more annoyingly the same every day. I say the same -things, think the same thoughts and meet the same people. It’s--lovely!” - -“I’m glad you ended like that,” observed Nance, laughing. It was -one of her peculiarities to laugh--a little foolishly--when she was -embarrassed and though she had encountered Sorio’s friend once or twice -before, she felt for some reason or other ill at ease with him. - -With exquisite deliberation Mr. Stork placed the black bag upon the -ground and selecting two of the freshest blooms from his gorgeous -bunch, handed one by the light of a little shop window to each of the -women. - -“How is your friend?” enquired Mrs. Renshaw with a touch of irony in -her tone. “This young lady has not seen him to-day.” - -At that moment Nance realized that she hated this melancholy being whom -a chance encounter with her husband’s son seemed to throw into such -malicious spirits. She felt that everything Mrs. Renshaw was destined -to say from now till they separated, would be designed to humiliate and -annoy her. This may have been a fantastic illusion, but she acted upon -it with resolute abruptness. - -“Good-bye,” she exclaimed, turning to her companion, “I’ll leave -you in Mr. Stork’s care. I promised Rachel not to be late to-night. -Good-bye--and thank you,” she bowed to the young man and held up the -peony, “for this.” - -“She’s jealous,” remarked Baltazar as he led Mrs. Renshaw across the -green under the darkening sycamores. “She is abominably jealous! -She was in a furious temper--I saw it myself--when Adrian took her -sister out the other day and now she’s wild because he’s friendly with -Philippa. Oh, these girls, these girls!” - -An amused smile flickered for a moment across the lady’s face but she -suppressed it instantly. She sighed heavily. “You are all too much -for me,” she said, “too much for me. I’m getting old, Tassar. God be -merciful! This world is not an easy place to live in.” - -She walked by his side after this in heavy silence till they reached -the entrance of the park. - - - - -VIII - -SUN AND SEA - - -As the days began to grow warmer and in the more sheltered gardens the -first roses appeared, Nance was not the only one who showed signs of -uneasiness over Adrian Sorio’s disturbed state of mind. - -Baltazar was frequently at a loss to know where, in the long twilights, -his friend wandered. Over and over again, after June commenced, -the poor epicure was doomed to take his supper in solitude and sit -companionless through the evening in the grassy enclosure at the back -of his house. - -As the longest day approached and the heavily scented hawthorn tree -which was the chief ornament of his small garden had scattered nearly -all its red blossoms, Stork’s uneasiness reached such a pitch that he -protested vigorously to the wanderer, using violent expressions and, -while not precisely accusing him of ingratitude, making it quite plain -that this was neither the mood nor the treatment he expected from so -old a friend. - -Sorio received this outburst meekly enough--indeed he professed himself -entirely penitent and ready to amend his ways--but as the days went on, -instead of any improvement in the matter, things became rapidly worse -and worse. - -Baltazar could learn nothing definitely of what he did when he -disappeared but the impression gradually emphasized itself that he -spent these lonely hours in immense, solitary walks along the edge of -the sea. He returned sometimes like a man absolutely exhausted and on -these occasions his friend could not help observing that his shoes were -full of sand and his face scorched. - -One especially hot afternoon, when Stork had returned from Mundham by -the midday train in the hope of finding Adrian ready to stroll with him -under the trees in the park, there occurred quite a bitter and violent -scene between them when the latter insisted, as soon as their meal was -over, on setting off alone. - -“Go to the devil!” Adrian finally flung back at his entertainer -when--his accustomed urbanity quite broken down--the aggrieved Baltazar -gave vent to the suppressed irritation of many days. “Go to the devil!” -the unconscionable man repeated, putting down his hat over his head and -striding across the green. - -Once clear of the little town, he let his speed subside into a more -ordinary pace and, crossing the bridge over the Loon, made his way -to the sea shore. The blazing sunshine, pouring down from a sky that -contained no trace of a cloud, seemed to have secured the power -that day of reducing even the ocean itself to a kind of magnetised -stupor. The waters rolled in, over the sparkling sands, with a long, -somnolent, oily ripple that spent itself and drew back without so much -as a flicker or flake of foam. The sea-gulls floated languidly on the -unruffled tide, or quarrelled with little, short, petulant screams -over the banks of bleached pungent-smelling seaweed where swarms of -scavenging flies shared with them their noonday fretfulness. - -On the wide expanse of the sea itself there lay a kind of glittering -haze, thin and metallic, as if hammered out of some marine substance -less resistant but not less dazzling than copper or gold. This was in -the mid-distance, so to speak, of the great plain of water. In the -remote distance the almost savage glitter diminished and a dull livid -glare took its place, streaked in certain parts of the horizon by heavy -bars of silvery mist where the sea touched the sky. The broad reaches -of hard sand smouldered and flickered under the sun’s blaze and little -vibrating heat waves danced like shapeless demons over the summit of -the higher dunes. - -Turning his face northward, Sorio began walking slowly now and with -occasional glances at the dunes, along the level sand by the sea’s -edge. He reached in this way a spot nearly two miles from Rodmoor where -for leagues and leagues in either direction no sign of human life was -visible. - -He was alone with the sun and the sea, the sun that was dominating the -water and the water that was dominating the land. - -He stood still and waited, his heart beating, his pulses feverish, his -deep-sunken eyes full of a passionate, expectant light. He had not -long to wait. Stepping down slowly from the grass-covered dunes, past -a deserted fisherman’s hut which had become their familiar rendezvous, -came the desired figure. She walked deliberately, slowly, with a -movement that, as Sorio hastened to meet her, had something almost -defiant in its dramatic reserve. - -They greeted one another with a certain awkwardness. Neither held out a -hand--neither smiled. It might have been a meeting of two conspirators -fearful of betrayal. It was only after they had walked in silence, -side by side and still northwards for several minutes, that Sorio -began speaking, but his words broke from him then with a tempestuous -vehemence. - -“None of these people here know me,” he cried, “not one of them. They -take me for a dawdler, an idler, an idiotic fool. Well! That’s nothing. -Nance doesn’t know me. She doesn’t care to know me. She--she _loves_! -As if love were what I wanted--as if love were enough!” - -He was silent and the girl looked at him curiously, waiting for him to -say more. - -“They’d be a bit surprised, wouldn’t they,” he burst out, “if they -knew about the manuscripts _he_”--he uttered this last word with -concentrated reverence,--“is guarding for me over there? _He_ -understands me, Phil, and not a living person except him. Listen, -Phil! Since I’ve known you I’ve been able to breathe--just able to -breathe--in this damned England. Before that--God! I shudder to -think of it--I was dumb, strangled, suffocated, paralyzed, dead. -Even now--even with you, Phil,--I’m still fumbling and groping after -it--after what I have to say to the world, after my secret, my idea! - -“It hurts me, my idea. You know that feeling, Phil. But I’m getting it -into order--into shape. Look here!” - -He pulled out of his pocket a small thick notebook closely written, -blurred with erasures and insertions, stained with salt-water. - -“That’s what I’ve done since I’ve known you--in this last month--and -it’s better than anything I’ve written before. It’s clearer. It hits -the mark more crushingly. Phil, listen to me! I _know_ I’ve got it in -me to give to the world something it’s never dreamed of--something with -a real madness of truth in it--something with a bite that gets to the -very bone of things. I know I’ve got that in me.” - -He stooped down and picked up a stranded jelly-fish that lay--a mass of -quivering, helpless iridescence--in the scorching sun. He stepped into -the water till it was over his shoes and flung the thing far out into -the oily sea. It sank at once to the bottom, leaving a small circle of -ripples. - -“Go on, go on!” cried the girl, looking at him with eyes that darkened -and grew more insatiable as she felt his soul stir and quiver and strip -itself before her. - -“Go on! Tell me more about Nance.” - -“I _have_ told you,” he muttered, “I’ve told you everything. -She’s good and faithful and kind. She gives me love--oh, endless -love!--but that’s not what I want. She no more understands me than _I_ -understand--eternity! Little Linda reads me better.” - -“Tell me about Linda,” murmured the girl. - -Sorio threw a wild glance around them. “It’s her fear that taught her -what she knew--what she guessed. Fear reads deep and far. Fear breaks -through many barriers. But she’s changed now since she’s been with -Brand. She’s become like the rest.” - -“Oh, Brand--!” Philippa shrugged her shoulders. “So _he’s_ come into -it? Well, let them go. Tell me more about Nance. Does she cling to you -and make a fuss? Does she try the game of tears?” - -Sorio looked at her sharply. A vague suspicion invaded the depths of -his heart. They walked along in silence for several minutes. The power -of the sun seemed to increase. A mass of seaweed, floating below -the water, caused in one place an amber-coloured shadow to break the -monotony of the glittering surface. - -“Does your son believe in you--as I do?” she asked gently. - -As soon as the words had crossed her lips she knew they were the very -last she ought to have uttered. The man withdrew into himself with -a rigid tightening of every nerve. No one--certainly not Nance--had -ever dared to touch this subject. Once to Nance, in London, and twice -recently to his present companion, had he referred to Baptiste but this -direct question about the boy was too much; it outraged something in -him which was beyond articulation. The shock given him was so intense -and the reaction upon his feelings so vivid that, hardly conscious of -what he did, he thrust his hand into his pocket and clutched tightly -with his fingers the book containing his work, as though to protect -it from aggression. As he thus stood there before her, stiff and -speechless, she could only console herself by the fact that he avoided -her eyes. - -Her mind moved rapidly. She must invent, at all costs, some relief to -this tension. She had trusted her magnetism too far. - -“Adriano,” she said, imitating with feminine instinct Baltazar’s -caressing intonation, “I want to bathe. We’re out of sight of every -one. We know each other well enough now. Shall we--together?” - -He met her eyes now. There was a subtile appeal in their depths which -drew him to her and troubled his senses. He nodded and uttered an -embarrassed laugh. “Why not?” he answered. - -“Very well,” she said quickly, clinching her suggestion before he had -time to revoke his assent, “I’ll just run behind these sand hills and -take off my things. You undress here and get into the water. And swim -out, too, Adrian, with your back to me! I’ll soon join you.” - -She left him and he obeyed her mechanically--only looking nervously -round for a moment as he folded his coat containing the precious -manuscript and laid a heavy stone upon it. - -He plunged out into the waveless sea with fierce, impetuous strokes. -The water yielded to his violent movements like a lake of quicksilver. -Dazzling threads and flakes and rainbows flashed up, wavered, trembled, -glittered and vanished as he swam forward. With his eyes fixed on the -immense dome of sky above him, where, like the rim of a burnished -shield, it cut down into the horizon, he struck out incessantly, -persistently, seeking, in thus embracing a universe of white light, to -find the escape he craved. - -Strange thoughts poured through his brain as he swam on. The most -novel, the most terrific of the points contained in those dithyrambic -notes left behind under the stone surged up before him and, mingling -with them in fierce exultant affection, the image of Baptiste beckoned -to him out of a molten furnace of white light. - -Far away behind him at last he heard the voice of his companion. -Whether she intended him to turn he did not know, for her words were -inaudible, but when he did he perceived that she was standing, a slim -white figure, at the water’s edge. He watched her with feelings that -were partly bitter and partly tender. - -“Why does she stand there so long?” he muttered to himself. “Why -doesn’t she get in and start swimming?” - -As if made aware of his thought by some telepathic instinct the girl at -that moment slipped into the water and began walking slowly forward, -her hands clasped behind her head. When the water reached above her -knees she swung up her hands and with a swift spring of her white body, -disappeared from view. She remained so long invisible that Sorio grew -anxious and took several vigorous strokes towards her. She reappeared -at last, however, and was soon swimming vigorously to meet him. - -When they met she insisted on advancing further and so, side by side, -with easy, leisurely movements, they swam out to sea, their eyes on the -far horizon and their breath coming and going in even reciprocity. - -“Far enough!” cried Sorio at last, treading water and looking closely -at her. - -There was a strange wild light in the girl’s face. “Why go back?” -her look seemed to say--“Why not swim on and on together--until the -waters cover us and all riddles are solved?” There was something in -her expression at that moment--as, between sky and sea, the two gazed -mutely at one another--which seemed to interpret some terrible and -uttermost mystery. It was, however, too rare a moment to endure long, -and they turned their heads landwards. - -The return took longer than they had anticipated and the girl was -swimming very slowly and displaying evident signs of exhaustion before -they got near shore. As soon as she could touch the bottom with her -feet she hurried out and staggered, with stiff limbs, across the sands -to where she had left her clothes. - -When she came back, dressed and in lively spirits, her unbound hair -shimmering in the sunshine like wet silk, she found him pacing the -sea’s edge with an expression of gloomy resolution. - -“I shall have to rewrite every word of these notes,” he said, striking -his hand against his pocket. “I had a new thought just now as I was in -the water and it changes everything.” - -She threw herself down on the hot sand and spread out her hair to let -it dry. - -“Don’t let’s go yet, Adrian,” she pleaded. “I feel so sleepy and happy.” - -He looked at her thoughtfully, hardly catching the drift of her words. -“It changes everything,” he repeated. - -“Lie down here,” she murmured softly, letting her gaze meet his with a -wistful entreaty. - -He placed himself beside her. “Don’t get hurt by the sun,” he said. She -smiled at that--a long, slow, dreamy smile--and drawing him towards -her with her eyes, “I believe you’re afraid of me to-day, Adrian,” she -whispered. - -Her boyish figure, outlined beneath the thin dress she wore, seemed to -breathe a sort of classic voluptuousness as she languidly stretched her -limbs. As she did this, she turned her head sideways, till her chin -rested on her shoulder and a tress of brown hair, wet and clinging, -fell across her slender neck. - -A sudden impulse of malice seemed to seize the man who bent over her. -“Your hair isn’t half as long as Nance’s,” he said, turning abruptly -away and hugging his knees with his arms. - -The girl drew herself together, at that, like a snake from under a -heavy foot and, propping herself up on her hands, threw a glance upon -him which, had he caught it, might have produced a yet further change -in the book of philosophic notes. Her eyes, for one passing second, -held in them something that was like livid fire reflected through blue -ice. - -For several minutes after this they both contemplated the level mass of -illuminated waters with absorbed concentration. At last Adrian broke -the silence. - -“What I’m aiming at in my book,” he said, “is a revelation of how -the essence of life is found in the instinct of destruction. I want -to show--what is simply the truth--that the pleasure of destruction, -destruction entered upon out of sheer joy and for its own sake, -lies behind every living impulse that pushes life forward. Out of -destruction alone--out of the rending and tearing of something--of -something in the way--does new life spring to birth. It isn’t -destruction for cruelty’s sake,” he went on, his fingers closing -and unclosing at his side over a handful of sand. “Cruelty is mere -inverted sentiment. Cruelty implies attraction, passion, even--in some -cases--love. Pure destruction--destruction for its own sake--such as -I see it--is no thick, heavy, muddy, perverted impulse such as the -cruel are obsessed by. It’s a burning and devouring flame. It’s a mad, -splendid revel of glaring whiteness like this which hurts our eyes -now. I’m going to show in my book how the ultimate essence of life, -as we find it, purest and most purged in the ecstasies of the saints, -is nothing but an insanity of destruction! That’s really what lies -at the bottom of all the asceticism and all the renunciation in the -world. It’s the instinct to destroy--to destroy what lies nearest to -one’s hand--in this case, of course, one’s own body and the passions -of the body. Ascetics fancy they do this for the sake of their souls. -That’s their illusion. They do it for its own sake--for the sake of the -ecstasy of destruction! Man is the highest of all animals because he -can destroy the most. The saints are the highest among men because they -can destroy humanity.” - -He rose to his feet and, picking up a flat stone from the sea’s edge, -sent it skimming across the water. - -“Five!” he cried, as the stone sank at last. - -The girl rose and stood beside him. “I can play at ‘Ducks and Drakes’ -too,” she said, imitating his action with another stone which, however, -sank heavily after only three cuttings of the shiny surface. - -“You can’t play ‘Ducks and Drakes’ with the universe,” retorted Sorio. -“No girl can--not even you, with your boy-arms and boy-legs! You can’t -even throw a stone out of pure innocence. You only threw that--just -now--because I did and because you wanted me to see you swing your -arm--and because you wanted to change the conversation.” - -He looked her up and down with an air of sullen mockery. “What the -saints and the mystics seek,” he went on, “is the destruction of -everything within reach--of everything that sticks out, that obtrudes, -that is simply _there_. That is why they throw their stones at every -form of natural life. But the life they attack is doing the same thing -itself in a cruder way. The sea is destroying the land; the grass -is destroying the flowers; the flowers one another; the woods, the -marshes, the fens, are all destroying something. The saints are only -the maddest and wisest of all destroyers--” - -“Sorio! There’s a starfish out there--being washed in. Oh, let me try -and reach it!” - -She snatched his stick from him and catching up her skirt stepped into -the water. - -“Let it be!” he muttered, “let it be!” - -She gave up her attempt with an impatient shrug but continued to watch -the steady pressure of the incoming tide with absorbed interest. - -“What the saints aim at,” Sorio continued, “and the great poets too, is -that absolute _white light_, which means the drowning, the blinding, -the annihilating, of all these paltry-coloured things which assert -themselves and try to make themselves immortal. The only godlike -happiness is the happiness of seeing world after world tumbled into -oblivion. That’s the mad, sweet secret thought at the back of all -the religions. God--as the great terrible minds of antiquity never -forgot--is the supreme name for that ultimate destruction of all -things which is the only goal. That’s why God is always visualised as -a blaze of blinding white light. That’s why the Sun-God, greatest of -destroyers, is pictured with burning arrows.” - -While Adrian continued in this wild strain, expounding his desperate -philosophy, it was a pity there was no one to watch the various -expressions which crossed in phantasmal sequence, like evil ghosts over -a lovely mirror, the face of Philippa Renshaw. - -The conflict between the man and woman was, indeed, at that moment, -of curious and elaborate interest. While he flung out, in this -passionate way, his metaphysical iconoclasm, her instinct--the shrewd -feminine instinct to reduce everything to the personal touch--remained -fretting, chafing, irritable, and unsatisfied. It was nothing to her -that the formula he used was the formula of her own instincts. She -loved destruction but in her subtle heart she despised, with infinite -contempt, all philosophical theories--despised them as being simply -irrelevant and off the track of actual life--off the track, in fact, of -those primitive personal impulses which alone possess colour, perfume, -salt and sweetness! - -Vaguely, at the bottom of his soul, even while he was speaking, Sorio -knew that the girl was irritated and piqued; but the consciousness of -this, so far from being unpleasant, gave an added zest to his words. -He revenged himself on her for the attraction he felt towards her by -showing her that in the metaphysical world at any rate, he could reduce -her to non-existence! Her annoyance at last gave her, in desperation, -a flash of diabolic cunning. She tossed out to him as a bait for his -ravening analysis, her own equivocal nature. - -“I know well what you mean,” she said, as they moved slowly back -towards Rodmoor. “Poor dear, you must have been torn and rent, -yourself, to have come to such a point of insight! I, too, in my way, -have experienced something of the sort. My brain--you know _that_, by -this time, don’t you, Adriano?--is the brain of a man while my body -is the body of a woman. Oh, I hate this woman’s body of mine, Adrian! -You can’t know how I hate it! All that annoys you in me, and all that -annoys myself too, comes from this,” and she pressed her little hands -savagely to her breast as she spoke, as though, there before him, she -would tear out the very soul of her femininity. - -“From earliest childhood,” she went on, “I’ve loathed being a girl. -Long nights, sometimes, I’ve lain awake, crying and crying and crying, -because I wasn’t born different. I’ve hated my mother for it. I hate -her still, I hate her because she has a morbid, sentimental mania for -what she calls the sensitiveness of young girls. The sensitiveness! -As if they weren’t the toughest, stupidest, sleepiest things in the -world! They’re not sensitive at all. They’ve neither sensitiveness nor -fastidiousness nor modesty nor decency! It’s all put on--every bit of -it. I _know_, for I’m like that myself--or half of me is. I betray -myself to myself and lacerate myself for being myself. It’s a curious -state of things--isn’t it, Adriano?” - -She had worked herself up into such a passion of emotional self-pity -that great swimming tears blurred the tragic supplication of her eyes. -The weary swing of her body as she walked by his side and the droop -of her neck as she let her head fall when his glance did not respond -were obviously not assumed. The revelation of herself, entered upon for -an exterior purpose, had gone further than she intended and this very -stripping of herself bare which was to have been her triumph became her -humiliation when witnessed so calmly, so indifferently. - -After this they walked for a long while in silence, he so possessed by -the thrilling sense of having a new vista of thought under his command -that he was hardly conscious of her presence, and she in obstinate -bitter resolution wrestling with the remorse of her mistake and -searching for some other means--any means--of sapping the strength of -his independence. - -As they moved on and the afternoon advanced, a large and striking -change took place in the appearance of the scene. A narrow, clear-cut -line of shadow made itself visible below the sand-dunes. The sky lost -its metallic glitter and became a deep hyacinthine blue, a blue which -after a while communicated itself, with hardly any change in its tint, -to the wide-spread volume of water beneath it. In those spots where -masses of seaweed floated beneath the surface, the omnipresent blue -deepened to a rich indescribable purple, that amazing purple more -frequent in southern than in northern seas, which we may suppose is -indicated in the Homeric epithet “wine dark.” - -As the friends approached the familiar environs of Rodmoor they -suddenly came upon a fisherman’s boat pulled up upon the sand, with -some heavy nets left lying beside it. - -“Sorio!” cried the girl, stooping down and lifting the meshes of one of -these, “Sorio! there’s something alive left here. Look!” - -He bent over the net beside her and began hastily disentangling several -little silvery fish which were struggling and flapping feebly and -opening their tiny gills in labouring gasps. - -“All right--all right!” cried the man, addressing in his excitement the -tiny prisoners, “I’ll soon set you free.” - -“What are you doing, Adrian?” expostulated the girl. “No--no! You -mustn’t throw them back--you mustn’t! The children always come round -when school’s over and search the nets. It’s a Rodmoor custom.” - -“It’s a custom I’m going to break, then!” he shouted, rushing towards -the sea with a handful of gasping little lives. His fingers when he -returned, were covered with glittering scales but they did not outshine -the gleam in his face. - -“You should have seen them dash away,” he cried. “I’m glad those -children won’t find them!” - -“They’ll find others,” remarked Philippa Renshaw. “There’ll always be -some nets that have fish left in them.” - - - - -IX - -PRIEST AND DOCTOR - - -There are hours in every man’s day when the main current of his -destiny, rising up from some hidden channel, becomes a recognizable -and palpable element in his consciousness. Such hours, if a man’s -profoundest life is--so to speak--in harmony with the greater gods, are -hours of indescribable and tremulous happiness. - -It was nothing less than an experience of this kind which flowed -deliciously, like a wave of divine ether, over the consciousness of -Hamish Traherne on the day following the one when Sorio and Philippa -walked so far. - -As he crossed his garden in the early morning and entered the church, -the warm sun and clear-cut shadows filled him with that sense of -indestructible joy to which one of the ancient thinkers has given the -beautiful name of μονοχρονος ἡδονὴ--the Pleasure of the Ideal Now. - -From the eastern window, flooding the floor of the little chancel, -there poured into the cool, sweet-smelling place a stream of quivering -light. He had opened wide the doors under the tower and left them open -and he heard, as he sank on his knees, the sharp clear twittering of -swallows outside and the chatter of a flock of starlings. Through every -pulse and fibre of his being, as he knelt, vibrated an unutterable -current of happiness, of happiness so great that the words of his -prayer melted and dissolved and all definite thought melted with them -into that rare mood where prayer becomes ecstasy and ecstasy becomes -eternal. - -Returning to his house without spilling one golden drop of what -was being allowed him of the wine of the Immortals, he brought his -breakfast out into the garden and ate it, lingeringly and dreamily, -by the side of his first roses. These were of the kind known as “the -seven sisters”--small and white-petaled with a faint rose-flush--and -the penetrating odour of them as he bent a spray down towards his face -was itself suggestive of old rich wine, “cooled a long age in the -deep-delved earth.” - -From the marshes below the parapet came exquisite scents of water-mint -and flowering-rush and, along with these, the subtle fragrance, pungent -and aromatic, of miles and miles of sun-heated fens. - -The grass of his own lawn and the leaves of the trees that overshadowed -it breathed the peculiar sweetness--a sweetness unlike anything else -in the world--of the first hot days of the year in certain old East -Anglian gardens. Whether it is the presence of the sea which endows -these places with so rare a quality or the mere existence of reserve -and austere withholding in the ways of the seasons there, it were hard -to say, but the fact remains that there are gardens in Norfolk and -Suffolk--and to Hamish Traherne’s flower-beds in spite of the modesty -of their appeal, may well be conceded something of this charm--which -surpass all others in the British Isles in the evocation of wistful and -penetrating beauty. - -The priest had just lit his cigarette and was sipping his tea when -he was startled by the sudden appearance of Nance Herrick, white and -desperate and panting for breath. - -“I had to come to you,” she gasped, refusing his proffered chair and -sinking down on the grass. “I had to! I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t -sleep. I couldn’t stop in that house. I saw him last night. He was -walking with _her_ near the harbour. I spoke to them. I was quiet--not -angry or bitter at all and he let her insult me. He let her whip -me with her tongue, wickedly, cruelly and yet so under cover, so -sideways--you know the kind of thing, Hamish?--that I couldn’t answer. -If I’d been alone with her I could have, but his being there made me -stupid, miserable, foolish! And she took advantage of it. She said--oh, -such mean, biting things! I can’t say them to you. I hate to think of -them. They went right through me like a steel lash. And he stood there -and did nothing. He was like a man in a trance. He stood there and let -her do it. Hamish--Hamish--I wish I were at the bottom of the sea!” - -She bowed her white, grief-distorted face until it was buried in -the grass. The sun, playing on her bright hair, made it look like -newly-minted gold. Mr. Traherne sank on his knees beside her. His -ugliness, intensified by the agitation of his pity, reached a pitch -that was almost sublime. He was like a gargoyle consoling a goddess. - -“Child, child, listen to me!” he cried, his husky grating voice -flinging itself upon the silence of her misery like a load of rubble -upon a marble pavement. - -“There are moments in our life when no words, however tender, however -wise, can do any good. The only way--child, it is so--it is so!--the -only way is to find in love itself the thing that can heal. For love -_can_ do this, I know it, I have proved it.” - -He raised one of his arms with a queer, spasmodic gesture and let it -drop as suddenly as he had raised it. - -“Love rejoices to bear everything,” he went on. “It forgives and -forgives again. It serves its beloved night and day, unseen and unfelt, -it draws strength from suffering. When the blows of fate strike it, -it sinks into its own heart and rises stronger than fate. When the -passing hour’s cruel to it, it sinks away within, below the passing of -every possible hour, beyond the hurt of every conceivable stroke. Love -does not ask anything. It does not ask to be recognized. It is its own -return, its own recognition. Listen to me, child! If what I’m saying to -you is not true, if love is not like this, then the whole world is dust -and ashes and ‘earth’s base built on stubble’!” - -His harsh voice died away on the air and for a little while there -was no sound in that garden except the twitter of birds, the hum of -insects, and the murmur of the sea. Then she moved, raised herself from -the ground and rubbed her face with her hands. - -“Thank you, Hamish,” she said. - -He got up from his knees and she rose too and they walked slowly -together up and down the little grass plot. His harsh voice, harsher -than ever when its pitch was modulated, rose and fell monotonously in -the sunny air. - -“I don’t say to you, Nance, that you shouldn’t expect the worst. I -think we always should expect that and prepare to meet it. What I say -is that in the very power of the love you feel there is a strength -capable of sustaining you through your whole life, whatever happens. -And it is out of this very strength--a strength stronger than all -the world, my dear--than all the world!--that you’ll be able to give -your Adrian what he needs. He needs your love, little one, not your -jealousy, nor your self-pity, nor your anger. God knows how much he -needs it! And if you sink down into your heart and draw upon that and -wait for him and pray for him and endure for him you will see how, in -the end, he’ll come back to you! No--I won’t even say that. For in this -world he may never realize whose devotion is sustaining him. I’ll say, -whether he comes back or not, you’ll have been his only true love and -he’ll know it, child, in this world or another, he’ll know you for what -you are!” - -The sweet, impossible doctrine, older than the centuries, older than -Plato, of the supremacy of spiritual passion had never--certainly -not in that monastic garden--found a more eloquent apologist. As she -listened to his words and her glance lingered upon a certain deeply -blue border of larkspurs, which, as they paced up and down mingled -with the impression he made upon her, Nance felt that a crisis had -indeed arrived in her life--had arrived and gone--the effect of which -could never, whatever happened, altogether disappear. She was still -unutterably sad. Her new mood brought no superficial comfort. But -her sadness had nothing in it now of bitterness or desperation. She -entered, at any rate for that hour, into the company of those who -resolutely put life’s sweetness away from them and find in the accepted -pressure of its sharp sword-point a pride which is its own reward. - -This mood of hers still lasted on, when, some hours later, she -found herself in the main street of the little town, staring with a -half-humorous smile at the reflection of herself in the bow-window of -the pastry-cook’s. She had just emerged from the shop adjoining this -one, a place where she had definitely committed herself to accept the -post of “forewoman” in the superintendence of half a dozen young girls -who worked in the leisurely establishment of Miss Pontifex, “the only -official dressmaker,” as the advertisement announced, “on that side of -Mundham.” - -She felt unspeakably relieved at having made this plunge. She had begun -to weary of idleness--idleness rendered more bitter by the misery -of her relations with Sorio--and the independence guaranteed by the -eighteen shillings a week which Miss Pontifex was to pay her seemed -like an oasis of solid assurance in a desert of ambiguities. She cared -nothing for social prestige. In that sense she was a true daughter of -her father, the most “democratic” officer in the British Navy. What -gave her a profound satisfaction in the midst of her unhappiness was -the thought that now, without leaving Rodmoor, she could, if Rachel’s -jealousy or whatever it was, became intolerable, secure some small, -separate lodging for herself and her sister. - -Linda even, now her organ-playing had advanced so far, might possibly -be able to earn something. There were perhaps churches in Mundham -willing to pay for such assistance if the difficulty of getting over -there on Sundays when the trains were few, could in some way be -surmounted. At any rate, she felt, she had made a move in the right -direction. For the present, living at Dyke House, she would be able to -save every penny Miss Pontifex gave her, and the sense of even this -relative independence would strengthen her hand and afford her a sort -of vantage-ground whatever happened in the future. - -She was still standing in front of the confectioner’s window when she -heard a well-known voice behind her and, turning quickly round, found -herself face to face with Fingal Raughty. The Doctor looked at her with -tender solicitude. - -“Feeling the heat?” he said, retaining her fingers in his own and -stroking them as one might stroke the petals of a rare orchid. - -She smiled affectionately into his eyes and thought how strange an -irony it was that every one, except the person she cared most for, -should treat her thus considerately. - -“Come,” the Doctor said, “now I’ve got you I’m not going to let you go. -You must see my rooms! You promised you would, you know.” - -She hadn’t the heart to refuse him and together they walked up the -street till they came to the tiny red-brick house which the Doctor -shared with the family of a Mundham bank-clerk. He opened the door and -led her upstairs. - -“All this floor is mine,” he explained. “There’s where I see my -patients, and here,” he led her into the room looking out on the -street, “here’s my study.” - -Nance was for the moment inclined to smile at the use of the word -“study” as applied to any room in Rodmoor High Street, but when she -looked round at walls literally lined with books and at tables and -chairs covered with books, some of them obviously rare and valuable, -she felt she had not quite done justice to the Doctor’s taste. He -fluttered round her now with a hundred delicate attentions, made her -remove her hat and gloves and finally placed her in a large comfortable -armchair close to the open window. He pulled one of the green blinds -down a little way to soften the stream of sunshine and, rushing to his -book-case, snatched at a large thin volume which stood with others of -the same kind on the lowest shelf. This he dusted carefully with his -sleeve and laid gently upon her lap. - -“I think you’ll like it,” he murmured. “It’s of no value as an edition, -but it’s in his best style. I suppose Miss Doorm has all the old -masters up at Dyke House bound in morocco and vellum? Or has she only -county histories and maps?” - -While his visitor turned over the pages of the work in question, her -golden head bent low and her lips smiling, the doctor began piling up -more books, one on the top of another, at her side. - -“Apuleius!--he’s a strange old fellow, not without interest, but you -know him, of course? Petronius Arbiter! you had better not read the -text but the illustrations may amuse you. William Blake! There are some -drawings here which have a certain resemblance to--to one or two people -we know! Bewick! Oh, you’ll enjoy this, if you don’t know it. I’ve got -the other volume, too. You mustn’t look at _all_ the vignettes but some -of them will please you.” - -“But--Fingal--” the girl protested, lifting her head from Pope’s Rape -of the Lock illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley--“what are _you_ going to -do? I feel as if you were preparing me for a voyage. I’d sooner talk to -you than look at any books.” - -“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, throwing at her a nervous and -rather harassed look, “I must wash my hands.” - -He hurried precipitously from the room and Nance, lifting her eyebrows -and shrugging her shoulders, returned to the “Rape of the Lock.” - -The doctor’s bathroom was situated, it appeared, in the immediate -vicinity of the study. Nance was conscious of the turning of what -sounded like innumerable taps and of a rush of mighty waters. - -“Is the dear man going to have a bath?” she said to herself, glancing -at the clock on the chimney-piece. If her conjecture was right, Dr. -Raughty took a long while getting ready for his singularly timed -ablution for she heard him running backwards and forwards in the -bathroom like a mouse in a cage. She uttered a little sigh and, laying -the “Rape of the Lock” on the top of “Bewick,” looked wearily out -of the window, her thoughts returning to Sorio and the event of the -preceding evening. - -Quite ten minutes elapsed before her host returned. He returned in -radiant spirits but all that was visible to the eye as the result of -his prolonged toilet was a certain smoothness in the lock of hair which -fell across his forehead and a certain heightening of the colour of his -cheeks. This latter change was obviously produced by vigorous rubbing, -not by the application of any cosmetic. - -He drew a chair close to her side and ignored with infinite kindness -the fact that his pile of books lay untouched where he had placed them. - -“Your neck is just like a column of white marble,” he said. “Are your -arms the same--I mean are they as white--under this?” - -Very gently and using his hands as if they belonged to someone else, he -began rolling up the sleeve of her summer frock. Nance was sufficiently -young to be pleased at his admiration and sufficiently experienced not -to be shocked at his audacity. She let him turn the sleeve quite far -back and smiled sadly to herself as she saw how admirably its freshly -starched material showed off the delicacy and softness of the arm thus -displayed. She was not even surprised or annoyed when she found that -the Doctor, having touched several times with the tips of his fingers -the curve of her elbow, possessed himself of her hand and tenderly -retained it. She continued to look wistfully and dreamily out of the -window, her lips smiling but her heart weary, thinking once more what -an ironic and bitter commentary it was on the little ways of the world -that amorousness of this sort--gentle and delicate though it might -be--was all that was offered her in place of what she was losing. - -“You ought to be running barefooted and full of excellent joy,” the -voice of Dr. Raughty murmured, “along the sands to-day. You ought to be -paddling in the sea with your skirts pinned round your waist! Why don’t -you let me take you down there?” - -She shook her head, turning her face towards him and releasing her -fingers. - -“I must get back now,” she remarked, looking him straight in the eyes, -“so please give me my things.” - -He meekly obeyed her and she put on her hat and gloves. As they were -going downstairs, she in front of him, Nance had a remote consciousness -that Dr. Raughty murmured something in which she caught Adrian’s name. -She let this pass, however, and gave him her hand gratefully as he -opened the door for her. - -“Mayn’t I even see you home?” he asked. - -Once more she shook her head. She felt that her nerves, just then, had -had enough of playful tenderness. - -“Good-bye!” she cried, leaving him on his threshold. - -She cast a wistful glance at Baltazar’s cottage as she crossed the -green. - -“Oh, Adrian, Adrian,” she moaned, “I’d sooner be beaten by you than -loved by all the rest of the world!” - -It was with a slow and heavy step that Dr. Raughty ascended his -little staircase after he had watched her disappear. Entering his -room he approached the pile of books left beside her chair and began -transporting them, one by one, to their places in the shelves. - -“A sweet creature,” he murmured to himself as he did this, “a sweet -creature! May ten thousand cartloads of hornified devils carry that -damned Sorio into the pit of Hell!” - - - - -X - -LOW TIDE - - -Nance was so absorbed, for several days after this, in making her -final arrangements with the dressmaker and getting into touch with -the work required of her that she was able to keep her nerves in -quite reasonable control. She met Sorio more than once during this -time and was more successful than she had dared to hope in the effort -of suppressing her jealous passion. Her feelings did not remain, she -admitted that to herself sadly enough, on the sublime platonic level -indicated by Mr. Traherne, but as long as she made no overt reference -to Philippa nor allowed her intercourse with her friend to be poisoned -by her wounded pride, she felt she had not departed far from the -priest’s high doctrine. - -It was from Sorio himself, however, that she learned at last of a new -and alarming turn of events, calculated to upset all her plans. This -was nothing less than that her fatal presentiment in the churchyard -had fulfilled itself and that Brand and Linda were secretly meeting. -Sorio seemed surprised at the tragic way she received this news and she -was equally indignant at his equanimity over it. The thing that made -it worse to her was her deep-rooted suspicion that Rachel Doorm was -implicated. Adrian laughed when she spoke of this. - -“What did you expect?” he said. “Your charming friend’s an old crony -of the Renshaws and nothing would please her better than to see Linda -in trouble. She probably arranges their meetings for them. She has the -look of a person who’d do that.” - -They were walking together along the Mundham road when this -conversation took place. It was then about three o’clock and Nance -remembered with a sudden sinking of her heart how cheerfully both of -her companions had encouraged her to make this particular excursion. -She was to walk with Sorio to Mundham and return late in the evening by -train. - -“I shall go back,” she cried, standing still and looking at him with -wild eyes. “This is too horrible! They must have plotted for me to be -out of the way. How could Linda do it? But she’s no more idea than a -little bird in the hedge what danger she’s in.” - -Sorio shrugged his shoulders. - -“You can’t go back now,” he protested. “We’re more than two miles away -from the bridge. Besides, what’s the use? You can’t do anything. You -can’t stop it.” - -Nance looked at him with flashing eyes. - -“I don’t understand what you mean, Adrian. She’s in danger. Linda’s in -danger. Of course I shall go. I’m not afraid of Brand.” - -She glanced across the wide expanse of fens. On the southern side of -the road, as she looked back, the park trees of Oakguard stood out -against the sky and nearer, on the northern side, the gables of Dyke -House itself rose above the bank of the river. - -“Oh, my dear, my dear,” she cried distractedly, “I must get back to -them! I must! I must! Look--there’s our house! You can see its roof! -There’s some way--surely--without going right back to the bridge? There -_must_ be some way.” - -She dragged him to the side of the road. A deep black ditch, bordered -by reeds, intersected the meadow and beyond this was the Loon. A small -wooden enclosure, isolated and forlorn, lay just inside the field and -from within its barrier an enormous drab-coloured sow surveyed them -disconsolately, uttering a lamentable squeal and resting its front feet -upon the lower bar of its prison, while its great, many-nippled belly -swung under it, plain to their view. Their presence as they stood in a -low gap of the hedge tantalized the sow and it uttered more and more -discordant sounds. It was like an angry impersonation of fecundity, -mocking Nance’s agitation. - -“Nothing short of wading up to your waist,” said Sorio, surveying the -scene, “would get you across that ditch, and nothing short of swimming -would get you over the river.” - -Angry tears came into Nance’s eyes. “I would do it,” she gasped, “I -would do it if I were a man.” - -Sorio made a humorous grimace and nodded in the direction of the sow. - -“What’s your opinion about it--eh, my beauty?” - -At that moment there came the sound of a trotting horse. - -“Here’s something,” he added, “that may help you if you’re bent on -going.” - -They returned to the road and the vehicle soon approached, showing -itself, as it came near, to be the little pony-cart of Dr. Raughty. -The Doctor proved, as may be imagined, more than willing to give Nance -a lift. She declared she was tired but wouldn’t ask him to take her -further than the village. - -“I’ll take you wherever you wish,” said Fingal Raughty, giving a -nervous little cough and scrambling down to help her in. - -“Ah! I forgot! Excuse me one minute. Hold the pony, please. I promised -to get some water-mint for Mrs. Sodderly.” - -He ran hurriedly into the field and Nance, sitting in the cart, looked -helplessly at Sorio who, making a gesture as if all the world had gone -mad, proceeded to stroke the pony’s forehead. They waited patiently -and the Doctor let them wait. They could see him through the gap in -the hedge running hither and thither and every now and then stooping -down and fumbling in the grass. He seemed entirely oblivious of their -discomfort. - -“This water-mint business,” muttered Sorio, “is worse than the -shrew-mouse hunt. I suppose he collects groundsel and feverfew for all -the old women in Rodmoor.” - -Nance soon reached the limit of her patience. “Dr. Raughty!” she cried, -and then in feminine desperation, “Fingal! Fingal!” she shouted. - -The Doctor came hurrying back at that and to Sorio’s astonishment it -appeared he had secured his desired plants. As he clambered up into the -little cart a delicious aromatic fragrance diffused itself around Nance. - -“I’ve found them all right,” he said. “They’re under my hat. Sorry I’ve -only got room for one of you. Get on, Elizabeth!” - -They drove off, Sorio making a final, Pilate-like gesture of complete -irresponsibility. - -“A noble creature--that sow,” the Doctor observed, glancing nervously -at his companion, “a noble, beautiful animal! I expect it likes to -feed on watermelons as well as any one. Did you observe its eye? Like -a small yellow daisy! A beautiful eye, but with something wicked in -it--didn’t you think so?--something menacing and malicious.” - -Nance compelled herself to smile at this sally but her hands itched to -snatch the whip and hasten the pony’s speed. They arrived at last at -the New Bridge and Nance wondered whether the Doctor would be really -amenable to her wishes or whether he would press her to visit his study -again. But he drove on without a word, over the Loon, and westward -again on the further side of it straight in the direction of Dyke House. - -As they drew near the place Nance’s heart began to beat furiously and -she cast about in her mind for some excuse to prevent her companion -taking her any further. He seemed to read her thoughts for, with almost -supernatural tact, he drew up when they were within a few hundred yards -of the garden gate. - -“I won’t come in if you don’t mind,” he said. “I have several patients -to see before supper and I want to take Mrs. Sodderly her water-mint.” - -Nance jumped quickly out of the cart and thanked him profusely. - -“You’re looking dreadfully white,” he remarked, as he bade her -good-bye. “Oh, wait a moment, I must give you a few of these.” - -He carefully removed his hat and once more the aromatic odour spread -itself on the air. - -“There!” he said, handing her two or three damp-rooted stems with -purplish-green leaves. She took them mechanically and was still holding -them in her hands when she arrived with pale lips and drawn, white -face, at the entrance to the Doorm dwelling. - -All was quiet in the garden and not a sound of any living thing issued -from the house. With miserable uncertainty she advanced to the door, -catching sight, as she did so, of her own garden tools left lying on -the weedy border and some newly planted and now sadly drooping verbenas -fading by their side. She blamed herself even at that moment for -having, in her excitement at going to meet Sorio, forgotten to water -these things. She resolved--at the back of her mind--that she would -pull up every weed in the place before she had done with it. - -Never before had she realized the peculiar desolation of Dyke House. -With its closed windows and smokeless chimneys it looked as if it might -have been deserted for a hundred years. She entered and standing in the -empty hall listened intently. Not a sound! Except for a remote ticking -and the buzzing of a blue bottle fly in the parlour windows, all was -hushed as the inside of a tomb. There came over her as she stood there -an indescribable sense of loneliness. She felt as though all the -inhabitants of the earth had been annihilated and she only left--she -and the brainless ticking of clocks in forsaken houses. - -She ran hurriedly up the staircase and entered the room she shared -with Linda. The child’s neatly made little bed with the embroidered -night-dress cover lying on the pillow, struck her with a passion of -maternal feeling. - -“My darling! My darling!” she cried aloud. “It’s all my fault! It’s all -my fault!” - -She moved to the window and looked out. In a moment her hands clasped -tightly the wooden sash and she leaned forward with motionless -intensity. The uninterrupted expanse of that level landscape lent -itself to her quick vision. She made out, clearly and instantaneously, -a situation that set her trembling from head to foot. In one rapid -moment she took it in and in another moment she was prepared for swift -action. - -Moored on the further side of the river was a small boat and in the -boat, sitting with his forehead bowed upon his hands, was Brand -Renshaw. His head was bare and the afternoon sun shining upon it made -it look red as blood. On the further side of the Mundham road--the very -road she had so recently traversed--she could see the figure of a girl, -unmistakably her sister--advancing quickly and furtively towards the -shelter of a thin line of pine trees, the most western extremity of the -Oakguard woods. The man in the boat could see nothing of this. Even if -he rose to his feet he could see nothing. The river bank was too high. -For the same reason the girl crossing the fields could see nothing of -the man in the boat. Nance alone, from her position at the window, was -in complete command of both of them. She drew back a little into the -room lest by chance Brand should look up and catch sight of her. What -a fortunate thing she had entered so quietly! They were taking every -precaution, these two! The man was evidently intending to remain where -he was till the girl was well concealed among the trees. Rachel Doorm, -it seemed, had taken herself off to leave them to their own devices -but it was clear that Brand preferred an assignation in his own park -to risking an entrance to Dyke House in the absence of its mistress. -For that, at any rate, Nance was devoutly thankful. Watching Linda’s -movements until she saw her disappear beneath the pines, Nance hurried -down the stairs and out into the garden. She realized clearly what she -had to do. She had to make her way to her sister before Brand got wind -she was there at all. - -She knew enough of the Renshaw family to know that if she were to call -out to him across the river he would simply laugh at her. On the other -hand if he got the least idea she were so near he would anticipate -events and hasten off at once to Linda. - -But how on earth could she herself reach the girl? The Loon flowed -mercilessly between them. One thing she had not failed to remark as she -looked at Brand in his little sea boat and that was that the tide was -now running very low. Sorio had been either mistaken or treacherous -when he assured her it was at its height. It must have been falling -even then. - -She let herself noiselessly out of the gate and stood for a moment -contemplating the river bank. No, Brand could not possibly see her. -Without further hesitation she left the path and moved cautiously, -ankle-deep in grass, to where the Loon made a sharp turn to the left. -She had a momentary panic as she crawled on hands and knees up the -embankment. No, even here, as long as she did not stand upright, she -was invisible from the boat. Descending on the further side she slipped -down to the brink of the river. The Loon was low indeed. Only a narrow -strip of rapidly moving water flowed in the centre of the channel. On -either side, glittering in the sun, sloped slimy banks of mud. - -Her face was flushed now and through her parted lips the breath came -heavily, in excited gasps. - -“Linda--little Linda!” she murmured, “it’s my fault--all my fault!” - -With one nervous look at the river she sank down on the sun-baked mud -and took off her shoes and stockings. Then, thrusting the stockings -inside the shoes and tying the laces of these latter together, she -pulled up her skirts and secured them round her waist. As she did this -she peered apprehensively round her. But she was quite alone and with -another shuddering glance at the tide she picked up her shoes and began -advancing into the slippery mud. She staggered a little at first and -her feet sank deep into the slime but as soon as she was actually in -the water she walked more easily, feeling a surer footing. The Loon -swirled by her, sending a chill of cold through her bare white limbs. -The water was soon high above her knees and she was hardly a quarter of -the way across! Her heart beat miserably now and the flush died from -her cheeks. It came across her mind like an ice-cold hand upon her -throat, how dreadful it would be to be swept off her feet and carried -down that tide--down to the Rodmoor harbour and out to sea--dead and -tangled in weeds--with wide-open staring eyes and the water pouring in -and out of her mouth. Nothing short of her desperate maternal instinct, -intensified to frenzy by the thought that she was responsible for -Linda’s danger, could have impelled her to press on. The tide was up to -her waist now and all her clothes were drenched but still she had not -reached the middle of the current. - -It was when, taking a step further, she sank as deep as her arm-pits, -that she wavered in earnest and a terrible temptation took her to turn -and give it up. - -“Perhaps, after all,” she thought, “Brand has no evil intentions. -Perhaps--who can tell?--he is genuinely in love with her.” - -But even as she hesitated, looking with white face up and down the -swirling stream, she knew that this reasoning was treacherous. She had -heard nothing but evil of Brand’s ways with women ever since she came -to Rodmoor. And why should he treat her sister better than the rest? - -Suddenly, without any effort of her own, she seemed to visualize with -extraordinary clearness a certain look with which, long ago, when she -was quite a child, Linda had appealed to her for protection. A passion -of maternal remorse made her heart suddenly strong and she plunged -recklessly forward. For one moment she lost her footing and in the -struggle to recover herself the tide swept over her shoulders. But that -was the worst. After that she waded steadily forward till she reached -the further side. - -Dripping from head to foot she pulled on her shoes, wrung as much of -the water as she could out of her drenched skirts and shook them down -over her knees. Then she scrambled up the bank, glanced round to make -certain she was still unseen and set off through the fields. She could -not help smiling to herself when she reached the Mundham high-road -and fled quickly across it to think how amazed Sorio would have been -had he seen her just then! But neither Sorio nor any one else was in -sight and leaving behind her the trail of wet shoes in the hot road -dust, she ran, more rapidly than ever, towards the group of ancient and -dark-stemmed pines, into the shadow of which she had seen her sister -vanish. - - - - -XI - -THE SISTERS - - -Linda was so astounded that she could hardly repress a scream when, -as she sat with her back against a tree on a carpet of pine-needles, -Nance suddenly appeared before her breathless with running. It was some -moments before the elder girl could recover her speech. She seized her -sister by the shoulders and held her at arms’ length, looking wildly -into her face and panting as she struggled to find words. “I waded,” -she gasped, “across the Loon--to get to you. Oh, Linda! Oh, Linda!” - -A deep flush appeared in the younger sister’s cheeks and spread itself -over her neck. She gazed at Nance with great terrified eyes. - -“Across the river--” she began, and let the words die away on her lips -as she realized what this meant. - -“But you’re wet through--wet through!” she cried. “Here! You must wear -something of mine.” - -With trembling fingers she loosened her own dress, hurriedly slipped -out of her skirt, flung it aside and began to fumble at Nance’s -garments. With little cries of horror as she found how completely -drenched her sister was, she pulled her into the deeper shadow of the -trees and forced her to take off everything. - -“How beautiful you look, my dear,” she cried, searching as a child -might have done for any excuse to delay the impending judgment. Nance, -even in the reaction from her anxiety, could not be quite indifferent -to the naïveté of this appeal and she found herself actually laughing -presently as with her arms stretched high above her head and her -fingers clinging to a resinous pine branch, she let her sister chafe -her body back to warmth. - -“Look! I’ll finish you off with ferns!” cried the younger girl, -and plucking a handful of new-grown bracken she began rubbing her -vigorously with its sweet-scented fronds. - -“Oh, you do look lovely!” she cried once more, surveying her from head -to foot. “_Do_ let me take down your hair! You’d look like--oh, I don’t -know what!” - -“I wish Adrian could see you,” she added. This last remark was a most -unlucky blunder on Linda’s part. It had two unfortunate effects. -It brought back to Nance’s mind her own deep-rooted trouble and it -restored all her recent dread as to her sister’s destiny. - -“Give me something to put on,” she said sharply. “We must be getting -away from here.” - -Linda promptly stripped herself of yet more garments and after a -friendly contest as to which of them should wear the dry skirt they -were ready to emerge from their hiding-place. Nance fancied that all -her difficulties for that day were over. She was never more mistaken. - -They had advanced about half a mile towards the park, keeping tacitly -within the shadow of the pines when suddenly Linda, who was carrying -her sister’s wet clothes, dropped the bundle with a quick cry and -stood, stone-still, gazing across the fields. Nance looked in the -direction of her gaze and understood in a moment what was the matter. -There, walking hastily towards the spot they had recently quitted--was -the figure of a man. - -Evidently this was the appointed hour and Brand was keeping his tryst. -Nance seized her sister’s hand and pulled her back into the shadow. -Linda’s eyes had grown large and bright. She struggled to release -herself. - -“What are you doing, Nance?” she cried. “Let me go! Don’t you see he -wants me?” - -The elder sister’s grasp tightened. - -“My dear, my dear,” she pleaded, “this is madness! Linda, Linda, my -darling, listen to me. I can’t let you go on with this. You’ve no idea -what it means. You’ve no idea what sort of a man that is.” - -The young girl only struggled the more violently to free herself. She -was like a thing possessed. Her eyes glittered and her lips trembled. A -deep red spot appeared on each of her cheeks. - -“Linda, child! My own Linda!” cried Nance, desperately snatching at the -girl’s other wrist and leaning back, panting against the trunk of a -pine. - -“What has come to you? I don’t know you like this. I can’t, I can’t let -you go.” - -“He wants me,” the girl repeated, still making frantic efforts to -release herself. “I tell you he wants me! He’ll hate me if I don’t go -to him.” - -Her fragile arms seemed endowed with supernatural strength. She -wrenched one wrist free and tore desperately at the hand that held the -other. - -“Linda! Linda!” her sister wailed, “are you out of your mind?” - -The unhappy child actually succeeded at last in freeing herself and -sprang away towards the open. Nance flung herself after her and, -seizing her in her arms, half-dragged her, half-carried her, back to -where the trees grew thick. But even there the struggle continued. The -girl kept gasping out, “He loves me, I tell you! He loves me!” and with -every repetition of this cry she fought fiercely to extricate herself -from the other’s embrace. While this went on the wind, which had been -gusty all the afternoon, began to increase in violence, blowing from -the north and making the branches of the pines creak and mutter over -their heads. A heavy bank of clouds covered the sun and the air grew -colder. Nance felt her strength weakening. Was fate indeed going to -compel her to give up, after all she had endured? - -She twined her arms round her sister’s body and the two girls swayed -back and forwards over the dry, sweet-scented pine-needles. Their -scantily-clothed limbs were locked tightly together and, as they -struggled, their breasts heaved and their hearts beat in desperate -reciprocity. - -“Let me go! I hate you! I hate you!” gasped Linda, and at that moment, -stumbling over a moss-covered root, they fell together on the ground. - -The shock of the fall and the strain of the struggle threw the younger -girl into something like a fit of hysteria. She began screaming and -Nance, fearful lest the sound should reach Brand’s ears, put her hand -over the child’s mouth. The precaution was unnecessary. The wind had -increased now to such a pitch that through the moaning branches and -rustling foliage nothing could be heard outside the limits of the wood. - -“I hate you! I hate you!” shrieked Linda, biting in her frenzy at the -hand which was pressed against her mouth. Nance’s nerves had reached -the breaking point. - -“Won’t you help me, God?” she cried out. - -Suddenly Linda’s violence subsided. Two or three shuddering spasms -passed through her body and her lips turned white. Nance released her -hold and rose to her feet. The child’s head fell back upon the ground -and her eyes closed. Nance watched her with fearful apprehension. Had -she hurt her heart in their struggle? Was she dying? But the girl did -not even lose consciousness. She remained perfectly still for several -minutes and then, opening her eyes, threw upon her sister a look of -tragic reproach. - -“You’ve won,” she whispered faintly. “You’re too strong for me. But -I’ll never forgive you for this--never--never--never!” - -Once more she closed her eyes and lay still. Nance, kneeling by her -side, tried to take one of her hands but the girl drew it away. - -“Yes, you’ve won,” she repeated, fixing upon her sister’s face a look -of helpless hatred. “And shall I tell you why you’ve done this? Shall -I tell you why you’ve stopped my going to him?” she went on, in a low -exhausted voice. “You’ve done it because you’re jealous of me, because -you can’t make Adrian love you as you want, because Adrian’s got so -fond of Philippa! You can’t bear the idea of Brand loving me as he -does--so much more than Adrian loves you!” - -Nance stared at her aghast. “Oh, Linda, my little Linda!” she -whispered, “how can you say these terrible things? My only thought, all -the time, is for you.” - -Linda struggled feebly to her feet, refusing her sister’s help. - -“I can walk,” she said, and then, with a bitterness that seemed to -poison the air between them, “you needn’t be afraid of my escaping from -you. He wouldn’t like me now, you’ve hurt me and made me ugly.” - -Nance picked up her bundle of mud-stained clothes. The smell of the -river which still clung to them gave her a sense of nausea. - -“Come,” she said, “we’ll follow the park wall.” - -They moved off slowly together without further speech and never did -any hour, in either of their lives, pass more miserably. As they -came within sight of Oakguard, Linda looked so white and exhausted -that Nance was on the point of taking her boldly in and begging Mrs. -Renshaw’s help, but somehow the thought of meeting Philippa just at -that moment was more than she was able to endure, and they dragged on -towards the village. - -Emerging from the park gates and coming upon the entrance to the green, -Nance became aware that it would be out of the question to make Linda -walk any further and, after a second’s hesitation, she led her across -the grass and under the sycamores to Baltazar’s cottage. - -The door was opened by Mr. Stork himself. He started back in -astonishment at the sight of their two figures pale and shivering in -the wind. He led them into his sitting-room and at once proceeded to -light the fire. He wrapped warm rugs round them both and made them -some tea. All this he did without asking them any questions, treating -the whole affair as if it were a thing of quite natural occurrence. -The warmth of the fire and the pleasant taste of the epicure’s tea -restored Nance, at any rate, to some degree of comfort. She explained -that they had walked too far and that she had tried to cross the river -to get help for her sister. Linda said hardly anything but gazed -despairingly at the picture of the Ambassador’s secretary. The young -Venetian seemed to answer her look and Baltazar, always avid of these -occult sympathies, watched this spiritual encounter with sly amusement. -He had wrapped an especially brilliant oriental rug round the younger -girl and the contrast between its rich colours and the fragile beauty -of the face above them struck him very pleasantly. - -In his heart he shrewdly guessed that some trouble connected with -Brand was at the bottom of this and the suspicion that she had been -interfering with her sister’s love affair did not diminish the -prejudice he had already begun to cherish against Nance. Stork was -constitutionally immune from susceptibility to feminine charm and the -natural little jests and gaieties with which the poor girl tried to -“carry off” a sufficiently embarrassing situation only irritated him -the more. - -“Why must they always play their tricks and be pretty and witty?” he -thought. “Except when one wants to make love to them they ought to sit -still.” And with a malicious desire to annoy Nance he began making -much of Linda, persuading her to lie down on the sofa and wrapping an -exquisite cashmere shawl round her feet. - -To test the truth of his surmise as to the cause of their predicament, -he unexpectedly brought in Brand’s name. - -“Our friend Adrian,” he remarked, “refuses to allow that Mr. Renshaw’s -a handsome man. What do you ladies think about that?” - -His device met with instant success. Linda turned crimson and Nance -made a gesture as if to stop him. - -“Ha! Ha!” he laughed to himself, “so that’s how the wind blows. Our -little sister must be allowed no kind of fun, though we ourselves may -flirt with the whole village.” - -He continued to pay innumerable attentions to Linda. Professing that -he wished to tell her fortune he drew his chair to her side and began -a long rigamarole about heart lines and life lines and dark men and -fair men. Nance simply moved closer to the fire while this went on and -warmed her hands at its blaze. - -“I must ask him to fetch us a trap from the Inn,” she thought. “I wish -Adrian would come. I wonder if he will, before we go.” - -Partly by reason of the fact that he had himself arranged her drapery -and partly because of a touch of something in the child’s face which -reminded him of certain pictures of Pintericchio, Baltazar began to -feel tenderer towards Linda than he had done for years towards any -feminine creature. This amused him immensely and he gave the tenuous -emotion full rein. But it irritated him that he couldn’t really vex his -little protégé’s sister. - -“I expect,” he said, replacing Linda’s white fingers upon the scarlet -rug, “I expect, Miss Herrick, you’re beginning to feel the effects of -our peculiar society. Yes, that’s my Venetian boy, Flambard”--this -was addressed to Linda--“isn’t he delicious? Wouldn’t you like to -have him for a lover?--for Rodmoor is a rather curious place. It’s a -disintegrating place, you know, a place where one loses one’s identity -and forgets the rules. Of course it suits _me_ admirably because I -never consider rules, but you--I should think--must find it somewhat -disturbing? Fingal maintains there’s a definite physiological cause for -the way people behave here. For we all behave very badly, you know, -Miss Herrick. He says it’s the effect of the North Sea. He says all -the old families that live by the North Sea get queer in time,--take -to drink, I mean, or something of that sort. It’s an interesting idea, -isn’t it? But I suppose that sort of thing doesn’t appeal to you? You -take--what do you call it?--a more serious view of life.” - -Nance turned round towards him wearily. - -“If Adrian doesn’t come in a minute or two,” she thought, “I shall ask -him to get a trap for us, or I shall go to Dr. Raughty.” - -“It’s an odd thing,” Baltazar continued, lighting a cigarette and -walking up and down the room, “how quickly I know whether people are -serious or not. It must be something in their faces. Linda, now”--he -looked caressingly at the figure on the sofa--“is obviously never -serious. She’s like me. I saw that in her hand. She’s destined to go -through life as I do, playing on the surface like a dragon-fly on a -pond.” - -The young girl answered his look with a soft but rather puzzled smile, -and once more he sat down by her side and renewed his fortune-telling. -His fingers, as he held her hand, looked almost as slender as her own -and his face, as Nance saw it in profile, had a subtle delicacy of -outline that made her think of Philippa. There was, to the mind of the -elder girl, a refined inhumanity about every gesture he made and every -word he spoke which filled her with aversion. The contours of his face -were exquisitely moulded and his round small head covered with tight -fair curls was supported on a neck as soft and white as a woman’s; but -his eyes, coloured like some glaucous sea plant, were to the girl’s -thinking extraordinarily sinister. She could not help a swift mental -comparison between Baltazar’s attitude as he leaned over Linda and that -of Dr. Raughty when, on various occasions, that honest man had made -playful love to herself. It was hard to define the difference but, as -she watched Baltazar she came to the conclusion that there was a soul -of genuine affectionateness in the doctor’s amorous advances which made -them harmless as compared with this other’s. - -Linda, however, was evidently very pleased and flattered. She lay with -her head thrown back and a smile of languid contentment. She did not -even make an attempt to draw away her hand when the fortune-telling -was over. Nance resolved that she would wait five minutes more by -their host’s elegant French time-piece and then, if Adrian had not -come, she would make Mr. Stork fetch them a conveyance. It came over -her that there was something morbid and subtly unnatural about the way -Baltazar was treating Linda and yet she could not put her finger upon -what was wrong. She felt, however, by a profound instinct, an instinct -which she could not analyse, that nothing that Brand Renshaw could -possibly do--even were he the unscrupulous seducer she suspected him -of being--could be as dangerous for the peace of her sister’s mind -as what she was now undergoing. With Brand there was quite simply a -strong magnetic attraction, formidable and overpowering, and that was -all, but she trembled to think what elements of complicated morbidity -Baltazar’s overtures were capable of arousing. - -“Look,” he said presently, “Flambard’s watching us! I believe he’s -jealous of me because of you, or of you because of me. I don’t believe -he’s ever seen any one so near being his rival as you are! I think -you must have something in you that he understands. Perhaps you’re a -re-incarnation of one of his Venetians! Don’t you think, Miss Herrick,” -and he turned urbanely to Nance, “she’s got something that suggests -Venice in her as she lies there--with that smile?” - -The languorous glance of secret triumph which Linda at that moment -threw upon her sister was more than Nance could endure. - -“Do you mind getting us a trap of some sort at the Admiral’s Head?” she -said brusquely, rising from her seat. - -Baltazar assented at once with courteous and even effusive politeness -and left the room. As soon as he was gone, Nance moved to Linda’s side. - -“Little one,” she said, with trembling lips, “I seem not to know you -to-day. You’re not my Linda at all.” - -The child’s face stiffened spasmodically and her whole expression -hardened. She fixed her gaze on the ambiguous Flambard and made no -answer. - -“Linda, darling--I’m only thinking all the time of you,” pleaded Nance, -putting out her hand. - -A gleam of positive hatred illuminated the child’s eyes. She suddenly -snatched at the proffered hand and surveyed it vindictively. - -“I can see where I bit you just now. I’m glad I did!” she cried, and -once more she set herself to stare at Flambard. - -Nance went over to the fireplace and sat down. But something seemed to -impel Linda to strike her again. - -“You thought you were going to have every one in Rodmoor to yourself, -didn’t you?” she said. “You thought you’d have Adrian and Dr. Raughty -and Mr. Traherne and everybody. You never thought any one would begin -liking me!” - -Nance looked at her in sheer terrified astonishment. Certainly the -influence of Baltazar was making itself felt. - -“You brought me here,” Linda went on. “I didn’t want to come and _you -knew I didn’t_. Now--as _he_ says, we must make the best of it.” - -The phrase “and you knew I didn’t” went through Nance’s heart like a -poisoned dagger. Yes, she had known! She had tried to put the thing far -from her--to throw the responsibility for it upon her reluctance to -hurt Rachel. But she had known. And now her punishment was beginning. -She bowed her head upon her hands and covered her face. - -“You came,” the girl’s voice went on, “because you hated leaving -Adrian. But Adrian doesn’t want you any more now. He wants Philippa. Do -you know, Nance, I believe he’d marry Philippa, if he could--if Brand -would let him!” - -The hands that hid Nance’s face trembled. She longed to run away -and sob her heart out. She had thought she was at the bottom of all -possible misery. She had never expected this. Linda, as if drawing -inspiration for the suffering she inflicted, continued to look Flambard -in the eyes. - -“Brand told me Philippa meets Adrian every night in the park. He said -he spied on them once and found them kissing each other. He said they -were leaning against one of the oak trees and Adrian bent her head back -against the trunk and kissed her like that. He showed me just how he -did it. And he made me laugh like anything afterwards by something else -he said. But I don’t think I’ll tell you that--unless you want to hear -very much--Do you want to hear?” - -Nance, at this moment, lifted up her head. She had a look in her eyes -that nothing except the inexhaustible pitilessness of a woman thwarted -in her passion could have endured without being melted. - -“Are you trying to kill me, Linda?” she murmured. - -Her sister gave her one quick glance and looked away again at Flambard. -She remained silent after that, while the French clock ticked out the -seconds with a jocular malignity. - -The wind, rising steadily, swept large drops of rain against the window -and the noise of the waves which it brought with it sounded louder and -clearer than before as if the sea itself had advanced several leagues -across the land since first they entered the house. - - - - -XII - -HAMISH TRAHERNE - - -Nance said nothing to Rachel Doorm on the night they returned, driven -home by the landlord of the Admiral’s Head. What Rachel feared, or -what she imagined, as the sisters entered the house in their thin -attire carrying the bundle of drenched clothes, it was impossible to -surmise. She occupied herself with lighting a fire in their room and -while they undressed she brought them up their supper with her own -hands. It was a wretched night for both of the sisters and few were the -words exchanged between them as they ate their meal. Once in bed and -the light extinguished, it was Nance, in spite of all, who fell asleep -first. “The pangs of despised love” have not the same corrosive poison -as the sting of passion embittered by rancour. - -Nance was up early and took her breakfast alone. She felt an -irresistible need to see Mr. Traherne. She arrived at the priest’s -house almost as early as she had done on a former occasion, only -this time, the day being overcast and the wind high, he received her -within-doors. She found him reading “Don Quixote” and, without giving -her time to speak, he made her listen to the gentle and magnanimous -story of the poor knight’s death. - -“There’s no book,” he said, when he had finished, “which so recovers -my spirits as this one. Cervantes is the noblest soul of them all and -the bravest. He’s the only author who never gives up his humility -before God or his pride before the Universe. He’s the author for me! -He’s the author for us poor priests!” - -Mr. Traherne lit a cigarette and looked at Nance through its smoke with -a grotesque scowl of infinite reassurance. - -“Cheer up, little one!” he said, “the spirit of the great Cervantes is -not dead in the world. God has not deserted us. Nothing can hurt us -while we hold to Christ and defy the Devil!” - -Nance smiled at him. The conviction with which he spoke was like a cup -of refreshing water to her in a dry desert. - -“Mr. Traherne,” she began, but he interrupted her with a wave of his -arm. - -“My name’s Hamish,” he said. - -“Hamish, then,” she went on, smiling at the ghoulish countenance before -her, round which the cigarette smoke ascended like incense about the -head of an idol, “I’ve more to tell you than I can say. So you must -listen and be very good to me!” - -He settled himself in his deep horse-hair chair with one leg over the -other and his ancient, deplorably-stained cassock over both. And she -poured forth the full history of her troubles, omitting nothing--except -one or two of Linda’s cruel speeches. When she had completed her tale -she surveyed him anxiously. One terrible fear made her heart beat--the -fear lest he should tell her she must carry Linda back to London. He -seemed to read her thoughts in her eyes. “One thing,” he began, “is -quite clear. You must both of you leave Dyke House. Don’t look so -scared, child. I don’t mean you must leave Rodmoor. You can’t kidnap -your sister by force and nothing short of force would get her, in her -present mood, to go away with you. But I think--I think,” he added, “we -could persuade her to leave Miss Doorm.” - -He straightened out his legs, puckered his forehead and pouted his -thick lips. - -“Have a strawberry,” he said suddenly, reaching with his hand for a -plate lying amid a litter of books and papers, and stretching it out -towards her. “Oh, there are ashes on it. I’m sorry! But the fruit’s -all right. There! keep it by you--on the floor--anywhere--and help -yourself!” - -He once more subsided into his chair and frowned thoughtfully. Nance, -with a smile of infinite relief--for had he not said that to leave -Rodmoor was impossible?--kept the plate on her lap and began eating -the fruit. She longed to blow the ashes away but fear of hurting his -feelings restrained her. She brushed each strawberry surreptitiously -with the tips of her fingers before lifting it to her mouth. - -“You’re not cold, are you?” he said suddenly, “because I _could_ light -a fire.” - -Nance looked at the tiny grate filled with a heap of bracken-leaves and -wondered how this would be achieved. - -“Oh, no!” she said, smiling again. “I’m perfectly warm.” - -“Then, if you don’t mind,” he added, making the most alarming grimace, -“pull your skirt down. I can see your ankles.” - -Nance hurriedly drew up her feet and tucked them under her. “All right -now?” she asked, with a faint flush. - -“Sorry, my dear,” said Hamish Traherne, “but you must remember I’m a -lonely monk and ankles as pretty as yours disturb my mind.” He glared -at her so humorously and benevolently that Nance could not be angry -with him. There was something so boyish in his candour that it would -have seemed inhuman to take offence. - -“I believe I could think better if I had Ricoletto,” he cried a moment -later, jumping up and leaving the room. Nance took the opportunity of -blowing every trace of cigarette-ash from her strawberry plate into the -fender. She had hardly done this and demurely tucked herself up again -in her chair when Mr. Traherne re-entered the room carrying in his -hands a large white rat. - -“Beautiful, isn’t he?” he remarked, offering the animal for the girl -to stroke. “I love him. He inspires me with all my sermons. He pities -the human race, don’t you, Ricoletto? And doesn’t hate a living thing -except cats. He has a seraphic temper and no wish to marry. Ankles are -nothing to him--are they, Ricoletto?--but he likes potatoes.” - -As he spoke the priest brushed aside a heap of papers and laid bare the -half-gnawed skin of one of these vegetables. - -“Come, darling!” he said, reseating himself in his chair and placing -rat and potato-skin together upon his shoulder, “enjoy yourself and -give me wisdom to defeat the wiles of all the devils. Devils are cats, -Ricoletto darling, great, fluffy, purring cats with eyes as big as -saucers.” - -Nance quietly went on eating strawberries and thinking to herself how -strange it was that with every conceivable anxiety tugging at her -heart she could feel such a sense of peace. - -“He’s a papistical rat,” remarked Mr. Traherne, “he likes incense.” - -Once more he relapsed into profound thought and Ricoletto’s movements -made the only sound in the room. - -“What you want, my child,” he began at last, while the girl put her -plate down on the table and hung upon his words, “is lodgings for -yourself and Linda in the village. I know an excellent woman who’d take -you in--quite close to Miss Pontifex and not far from our dear Raughty. -In fact, she’s the woman who cleans Fingal’s rooms. So that’s all in -her favour! Fingal has a genius for getting nice people about him. You -like Fingal, Nance, eh? But I know you do, and I know,” and the priest -made the most outrageous grimace, “I know he adores _you_. You’re -perfectly safe, let me tell you, with Fingal, my dear; however, he may -tease you. He’s a hopeless heathen but he has a heart of gold.” - -Nance nodded complete assent to the priest’s words. She smiled, -however, to herself to think what a little way this “safety” he spoke -of would go if by chance her heart were not so entirely preoccupied. -She couldn’t resist the thought of how pathetically like children -all these admirable men were, both in their frailties and in their -struggles against their frailties. Her sense of peace and security -grew upon her, and with this--for she was human--a delicate feeling of -feminine power. Mr. Traherne continued-- - -“Yes, you must take lodgings in the village. Eighteen shillings a -week--that was what that Pontifex woman promised you, wasn’t it?--won’t -be over much for two of you. But it’ll keep you alive. Wait, though, -wait! I don’t see why Linda shouldn’t play for us, up here, on Sundays. -I’m always having to go round begging for some one. Often I have to -be organist myself as well as priest. Yes--let her try--let her try! -It’ll help me to keep an eye on her. It’ll be a distraction for her. -Yes, let her try! I could give her a little for doing it--not what she -ought to have, of course, but a little, enough to make her feel she was -helping you in your housekeeping. Yes,” he clapped his hands together -so violently that Ricoletto scrambled up against his collar and clung -there with his paws. “Yes, that’s what we’ll do, my dear. We’ll turn -your sister into a regular organist. Music’s the best charm in the -world to drive away devils, isn’t it, Ricoletto? Better even than white -rats.” - -Nance looked at him with immense gratitude and, completely forgetting -his instructions, altered her position to what it had been before. Mr. -Traherne rose and, turning his back to her, drummed with his fingers -on the mantelpiece while Ricoletto struggled desperately to retain his -balance. - -A queer thought came suddenly into Nance’s head and she asked the -priest why it was that there were so many unmarried men in Rodmoor. He -swung round at that and gave her a most goblinish look, rubbing the -rat’s nose as he did so, against his cheek. - -“You go far, Nance, you go far with your questions. As a matter of -fact, I’ve sometimes asked myself that very thing. You’re quite right, -you know, perfectly right. It applies to the work-people here as much -as to the gentry. We must see what Fingal Raughty says. He’d laugh at -my explanation.” - -“What’s your explanation?” enquired the girl. - -“A very simple one,” returned the priest. “It’s the effect of the -sea. If you look at the plants which grow here you’ll understand -better what I mean. But you haven’t seen the plant yet which is most -of all characteristic of Rodmoor. It’ll be out soon and I’ll show it -to you. The yellow horned poppy! When you see that, Nance,--and it’s -the devil’s own flower, I can assure you!--you’ll realize that there’s -something in this place that tends to the abnormal and the perverse. -I don’t say that the devil isn’t active enough everywhere and I don’t -say that all married people are exempt from his attacks. But the fact -remains that the Rodmoor air has something about it, something that -makes it difficult for those who come under its influence to remain -quite simple and natural. We should grow insane ourselves--shouldn’t -we, old rat? shouldn’t we, my white beauty?--if it weren’t that we -had the church to pray in and ‘Don Quixote’ to read! I don’t want -to frighten you, Nance, and I pray earnestly that your Adrian will -shake off, like King Saul, the devil that troubles him. But Rodmoor -isn’t the place to come to unless you have a double share of sound -nerves, or a bottomless fund of natural goodness--like our friend -Fingal Raughty. It’s absurd not to recognize that human beings, like -plants and animals, are subject to all manner of physical influences. -Nature can be terribly malign in her tricks upon us. She can encourage -our tendencies to morbid evil just as she can produce the horned -yellow poppy. The only thing for us to do is to hold fast to a power -completely beyond Nature which can come in from outside, Nance--from -outside!--and change everything.” - -While Nance listened to Mr. Traherne’s discourse with a portion of her -mind, another part of it reverted to Linda and as soon as he paused she -broke in. - -“Can’t we do anything, anything at all, to stop Mr. Renshaw from seeing -my sister?” - -The priest sighed heavily and screwed his face into a hundred grotesque -wrinkles. - -“I’ll talk to him,” he said. “It’s what I dread doing more than -anything on earth, for, to tell you the honest truth, I’m a thorough -coward in these things. But I’ll talk to him. I knew you were going to -ask me to do that. I knew it directly you came here. I said to myself -as soon as I saw you, ‘Hamish, my friend, you’ve got to face that man -again,’ but I’ll do it, Nance. I’ll do it. Perhaps not to-day. Yes, -I’ll do it to-day. He’ll be up at Oakguard this evening. I’ll go after -supper. It’ll be precious little supper I’ll eat, Nance, but I’ll see -him, I’ll see him!” - -Nance showed her gratitude by giving him her hand and looking tenderly -into his eyes. It was Mr. Traherne who first broke the spell and -unclasped their fingers. - -“You’re a good girl, my dear,” he muttered, “a good girl,” and he led -her gently to the door. - - - - -XIII - -DEPARTURE - - -After her talk with Mr. Traherne, Nance went straight to the village -and visited the available lodging. She found the place quite reasonably -adapted to her wishes and met with a genial, though a somewhat -surprised reception from the woman of the house. It was arranged -that the sisters should come to her that very evening, their more -bulky possessions--and these were not, after all, very extensive--to -follow them on the ensuing day, as suited the convenience of the local -carrier. It remained for her to secure her sister’s agreement to this -sudden change and to announce their departure to Rachel Doorm. The -first of these undertakings proved easier than Nance had dared to hope. - -During these morning hours Miss Doorm gave Linda hardly a moment of -peace. She persecuted her with questions about the events of the -preceding day and betrayed such malignant curiosity as to the progress -of the love affair with Brand that she reduced the child to a condition -bordering upon hysterical prostration. Linda finally took refuge in her -own room under the excuse of changing her dress but even here she was -not left alone. Lying on her bed, with loosened hair and wide-open, -troubled eyes fixed upon the ceiling, she heard Rachel moving uneasily -from room to room below like a revengeful ghost disappointed of its -prey. The young girl put her fingers in her ears to keep this sound -away. As she did so, her glance wandered to the window through which -she could discern heavy dark clouds racing across the sky, pursued by -a pitiless wind. She watched these clouds from where she lay and her -agitated mind increased the strangeness of their ominous storm-blown -shapes. Unable at last to endure the sight of them any longer she leapt -to her feet and, with her long bare arms, pulled down the blind. To -any one seeing her from outside as she did this she must have appeared -like a hunted creature trying to shut out the world. Flinging herself -upon her bed again she pressed her fingers once more into her ears. In -crossing the room she had heard the heavy steps of her enemy ascending -the staircase. Conscious of the vibration of these steps, even while -she obliterated the sound they made, the young girl sat up and stared -at the door. She could see it shake as the woman, trying the handle, -found it locked against her. - -Nothing is harder than to keep human ears closed by force when the -faculty of human attention is strained to the uttermost. It was not -long before she dropped her hands and then in a moment her whole soul -concentrated itself upon listening. She heard Miss Doorm move away and -walk heavily to the end of the passage. Then there was a long pause of -deadly silence and then, tramp--tramp--tramp, she was back again. - -“I won’t unlock the door! I won’t! I won’t! I won’t!” muttered the -girl, and as if to make certain that her body obeyed her will she -stretched herself out stiffly and clutched the iron bars above her -head. She lay like this for some minutes, her lips parted, her eyes -wildly alert and her breast rising and falling under her bodice. - -Once more the door shook and she heard her name pronounced in a low -clear-toned voice. - -“Linda! Linda!” the voice repeated. “Linda! I must talk to you!” - -Unable to endure the tension any longer and finding the dimness of the -room more trying than the view of the sky, the girl ran to the window -and pulled up the blind as hastily as she had pulled it down. She gazed -out, pressing her face against the pane. The clouds, darker and more -threatening than ever, followed one another across the heavens like a -huge herd of monstrous beasts driven by invisible herdsmen. The Loon -swirled and eddied between its banks, its waters a pale brownish colour -and here and there, floating on its surface, pieces of seaweed drifted. -The vast horizon of fens, stretching away towards Mundham, looked -almost black under the sky and the tall pines of Oakguard seemed to bow -their heads as if at the approach of some unknown menace. - -The door continued to be shaken and the voice of Rachel Doorm never -ceased its appeal. Linda went back to her bed and sat down upon it, -propping her chin on her hands. There is something about the darkening -of a house by day, under the weight of a threatened storm, that has -more of what is ominous and evil in it than anything that can occur at -night. The “demon that walketh by noonday” draws close to us at these -times. - -“Linda! Linda! Let me in! I want to speak to you,” pleaded the woman. -The girl rose to her feet and, rushing to the door, unlocked it -quickly. Returning to her bed she threw herself down on her face and -remained motionless. Rachel Doorm entered and, seating herself close to -Linda’s side, laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder. - -“Why haven’t you got on your frock?” she murmured. “Your arms must be -cold as ice. Yes, so they are! Let me help you to dress as I used to in -the old days.” - -Linda drew herself away from her touch and with a convulsive jerk of -her body turned over towards the wall. - -“It’s a pity you didn’t think over everything,” Miss Doorm went on, -“before you began this game with Mr. Renshaw. It’s begun to hurt you -now, hasn’t it? Then why don’t you stop? Tell me that, Linda Herrick. -Why don’t you stop and refuse to see him any more? What? You won’t -answer me? I’ll answer for you then. You don’t stop now, you don’t -draw back now, because you can’t! He’s got hold of you. You feel him -even now--don’t you--tugging at your heart? Yes, you’re caught, my -pretty bird, you’re caught. No more tossing up of your little chin -and throwing back your head! No more teasing this one and that with -your dainty ways--while you whistle them all down the wind. It’s -you--you--that has to come now when some one else calls, and come -quickly, too, wherever you may have run! How do you know he doesn’t -want you now? How do you know he’s not waiting for you now over there -by the pines? Take care, my girl! Mr. Renshaw isn’t a man you can play -with, as you played with those boys in London. It’ll be you who’ll do -the whining and crying this time. The day’s near when you’ll be on your -knees to him begging and begging for what you’ll never get! Did you -think that a chit of a child like you, just because you’ve got soft -hair and white skin, could keep and hold a man like that? - -“Don’t say afterwards that Rachel Doorm hadn’t warned you. I say to -you now, give him up, let him go, hide yourself away from him! I say -that--but I know very well you won’t do what I say. And you won’t do -it because you can’t do it, because he’s got your little heart and -your little body and your little soul in the palm of his hand! I can -tell you what that means. I know why you press your hands against your -breast and turn to the wall. I’ve done that in my time and turned and -tossed, long nights, and got no comfort. And you’ll turn and toss, too, -and call and call to the darkness and get no answer--just as I got -none. Why don’t you leave him now, Linda, before it’s too late? Shall I -tell you why you don’t? Because it’s too late already! Because he’s got -you for good and all--got you forever and a day--just as some one, no -matter who, got Rachel once upon a time!” - -Her voice was interrupted by a sudden splashing of rain against the -window and the loud moaning gust of a tremendous wind making all the -casements of the house rattle. - -“Where’s Nance?” cried the young girl, starting up and leaping from the -bed. “I want Nance! I want to tell her something!” - -At that moment there were voices below and the sound of a vehicle -driven to the rear of the house. Miss Doorm left the room and ran down -the stairs. Linda flung on the first dress that offered itself and -going to the mirror began hastily tying up her hair. She had hardly -finished when her sister entered. Nance stood on the threshold for a -moment hesitating, and looking anxiously at the other. It was Linda who -made the first movement. - -“Take me away from here,” she gasped, flinging herself into her -sister’s arms and embracing her passionately, “take me away from here!” - -Nance returned the embrace with ardour but her thoughts whirled a mad -dance through her brain. She had a momentary temptation to reveal at -once her new plan and let her sister’s cry have no other answer. But -her nobler instinct conquered. - -“At once, at once! My darling,” she murmured. “Yes, oh, yes, let’s go -at once! I’ve got some money and Mr. Traherne will send me some more. -We’ll take the three o’clock train and be safe back in London before -night. Oh, my darling, my darling! I’m so glad! We’ll begin a new life -together--a new life.” - -At the mention of the word “London” Linda’s arms relaxed their hold and -her whole body stiffened. - -“No,” she gasped, pushing her sister away and pressing her hand to her -side, “no, Nance dear, I can’t do it. It would kill me. I should run -away from you and come back here if I had to walk the whole way. I -won’t see him. I won’t! I won’t! I won’t talk to him--I won’t let him -love me--but I can’t go away from here. I can’t go back to London. I -should get ill and die. I should want him so much that I should die. -No, no, Nance darling, if you dragged me by force to London I should -come back the next day somehow or another. I know I should--I feel it -_here_--as she said.” - -She kept her hand still pressed against her side and gazed into -Nance’s face with a look of helpless pleading. - -“We can find somewhere to live, you and I, without going far away, -somewhere where we shan’t see _her_ any more--can’t we, Nance?” - -It was then, and with a clear conscience now, that the elder girl, -speaking hurriedly and softly, communicated the preparations she had -made and the fact that they were free to leave Dyke House at any moment -they chose. - -“I’ve asked the man to put up the horse here for the afternoon,” she -said, “so that we shall have time to collect the things we want. -They’ll send for our trunks to-morrow.” - -Linda’s relief at hearing this news was pathetic to see. - -“Oh, you darling--you darling!” she cried, “I might have known you’d -save me. I might have known it! Oh, Nance dear, it was horrid of me to -say those things to you yesterday. I’ll be good now and do whatever you -tell me. As long as I’m not far away from _him_--not too far--I won’t -see him, or speak to him, or write to him! How sweet of Mr. Traherne to -let me play the organ! And he’ll pay me, too, you say? So that I shall -be helping you and not only be a burden? Oh, my dear, what happiness, -what happiness!” - -Nance left her and descended to the kitchen to help Miss Doorm prepare -their midday meal. The two women, as they busied themselves at their -task, avoided any reference to the issue between them, and Nance -wondered if the man from the Admiral’s Head, who now sat watching their -preparations and speculating whether they intended to give him beer -as well as meat, had intimated to Rachel the object of his delayed -departure. When the meal was ready, Linda was summoned to share it and -the thirsty ostler, sipping lemonade with a wry countenance, at a side -table, was given the privilege of hearing how three feminine persons, -their heads full of agitation and antipathy, could talk and laugh and -eat as if everything in the wide world was smooth, safe, harmless and -uninteresting. - -When the meal was over Nance and Linda once more retired to their room -and busied themselves with selecting from their modest possessions such -articles as they considered it advisable to take with them. The rest -they carefully packed away in their two leather trunks--trunks which -bore the initials “N. H.” and “L. H.” and still had glued to their -sides railway labels with the word “Swanage” upon them, reminiscent of -their last seaside excursion with their father. - -The afternoon slipped rapidly away and still the threatened storm -hung suspended, the rain coming and going in fitful gusts of wind -and the clouds racing along the sky. By six o’clock it became so -dark that Nance was compelled to light candles. Their packing had -been interrupted by eager low-voiced consultation as to how they -would arrange their days when these were, for the first time in their -lives, completely at their own disposal. No further reference had been -made between them, either to Adrian or to Mr. Renshaw. The candles, -flickering in the gusty wind, threw intermittent spots of light upon -the girls’ figures as they stooped over their work or bent forward, -on their knees, whispering and laughing. Not since either of them had -arrived in Rodmoor had they been quite so happy. The relief at escaping -from Dyke House lifted the atmosphere about them so materially that -while they spoke of their lodging in the High Street and of the virtues -of Mrs. Raps, Nance began to feel that Adrian would, after all, soon -grow weary of Philippa and Linda began to dream that, in spite of all -appearances, Brand’s attitude towards her was worthy of a man of honour. - -At six o’clock they were ready and Nance went down to announce their -departure to Rachel Doorm. She found their driver asleep by the kitchen -fire and, having roused him and told him to put his horse into the -trap, she went out to look for her mother’s friend. - -She found Rachel standing on the tow path gazing gloomily at the river. -She was bareheaded and the wind, wailing round her, fluttered a wisp of -her grey hair against her forehead. Beneath this her sunken eyes seemed -devoid of all light. She turned when she heard Nance’s step, her heavy -skirt flapping in the wind as she did so, like a funereal flag. - -“I see,” she said, pointing at the light in the sisters’ room where the -figure of Linda could be observed passing and repassing, “I see you’re -taking her away. I suppose it’s because of Mr. Renshaw. May I ask--if -it’s of any interest to you that I should care at all--what you’re -going to do with her? She’s been--she and her mother--the curse of _my_ -life, and I fancy she’s now going to be the curse of yours.” - -Nance wrapped herself more tightly in a cloak she had picked up as she -came out and looked unflinchingly into the woman’s haggard face. - -“Yes, we’re going away--both of us,” she said. “We’re going to the -village.” - -“To live on air and sea-water?” inquired the other bitterly. - -“No,” rejoined Nance gently, “to live in lodgings and to work for -our living. I’ve got a place already at the Pontifex shop and Mr. -Traherne’s going to pay Linda for playing the organ. It’ll be better -like that. I couldn’t let her go on here after what happened yesterday.” - -Her voice trembled but she continued to look Miss Doorm straight in the -face. - -“You were away on purpose yesterday, Rachel,” she said gravely, “so -that those two might be together. It was only some scruple, or fear, on -Mr. Renshaw’s part that stopped him meeting her in the house. How often -this has happened before--his seeing her like this--I don’t know, and I -don’t want to know--I only pray to God that no harm’s been done. If it -_has_ been done, the child’s ruin’s on _our_ head. I cannot understand -you, Rachel, I cannot understand you.” - -Miss Doorm’s haggard mouth opened as if to utter a cry but she breathed -deeply and restrained it. Her gaunt fingers twined and untwined -themselves and the wind, blowing at her skirt, displayed the tops of -her old-fashioned boots with their worn, elastic sides. - -“So she’s separated us, has she?” she hissed. “I thought she would. -She was born for that. And it’s nothing to you that I’ve nursed you -and cared for you and planned for you since you were a baby? Nothing! -Nothing at all! She comes between us now as her mother came before. -I knew it would happen so! I knew it would! She’s just like her -mother--soft and clinging--soft and white--and this is the end of it.” - -Her voice changed to a low, almost frightened tone. - -“Do you realize that her mother comes to me every night and sits -looking at me with her great eyes just as she used to do when Linda -had been rude to me in the old days? Do you realize that she walks -backwards and forwards outside my door when I’ve driven her away? Do -you realize that when I go to bed I find her there, waiting for me, -white and soft and clinging?” - -Her voice rose to a kind of moan and the wind carried it across the -empty road and tossed it over the fields. - -“And she speaks, too, Nance. She says things to me, soft, clinging, -crying things that drive me distracted. One day, she told me _that_ -only last night, one day she’s going to kiss me and never let me -go--going to kiss me with soft, pleading, terrified lips through all -eternity, kiss me just as she did once when Linda lost my beads. You -remember my beads, Nance? Real jade, they were, with funny red streaks. -I often see them round her neck. They’ll be round her neck when she -kisses me, jade, you know, my dear, with red streaks. I shall see -nothing else then, nothing else while we lie buried together!” - -She lowered her voice to a whisper. - -“It was the Captain who brought them. He brought them over far seas. He -brought them for me, do you hear--for me! But they’re always round her -neck now, after that day.” - -Nance listened to this wild outburst with a set stern face. She had -always suspected that there was something desperate and morbid about -Rachel’s attachment to her father but never, until this moment, had she -dreamed how far the thing went. She looked at the woman’s face now and -sighed and with that sigh she flung to the blowing wind the covenant -between herself and her own mother. All the girl’s natural sanity and -sense of proportion were awake now and she stiffened her nerves and -hardened her heart for what she had to do. - -“Between a vow to the dead,” she thought, “and the safety of the -living, there can be only one choice for me.” - -“So you’re going away,” began Miss Doorm again. “Well, go, my dear, go -and leave me! I shan’t trouble the earth much longer after you’re gone.” - -She turned her face to the river and remained motionless, watching the -flowing water. The heavy weight of the threatening storm, the storm -that seemed as though some powerful earth-god, with uplifted hand, -were holding back its descent, had destroyed all natural and normal -daylight without actually plunging the world into darkness. A strange -greenish-coloured shadow, like the shadow of water seen through water, -hung over the trees of the park and the opposite bank of the river. -The same greenish shadow, only touched there with something darker -and more mysterious, brooded over the far fens out of which, in the -remote distance, a sort of reddish exhalation indicated the locality -of the Mundham factories. The waters of the Loon--as Rachel and Nance -looked at them now--had a dull whitish gleam, like the gleam of a dead -fish’s eye. The sense of thunder in the air, though no sound of it had -yet been heard, seemed to evoke a kind of frightened expectancy. The -smaller birds had been reduced to absolute stillness, their twitterings -hushed as if under the weight of a pall. Only a solitary plover’s -scream, at rare intervals, went whirling by on the wind. - -“Come back, come in, will you?” said Nance at last, “and say good-bye -to us, Rachel. I shall come and see you, of course. We shall not be far -away.” - -She stretched out her hand to help her down the slope of the -embankment. Rachel made no response to this overture but followed her -in silence. No sooner, however, had they entered the garden and closed -the little gate behind them, than the woman fell on her knees on the -ground and caught the girl round the waist. - -“Nance, my treasure!” she cried pitifully, “Nance, my heart’s baby! -Nance, oh, Nance, you won’t leave me like this after all these years? -No, I won’t let you go! Nance, you can’t mean it? You can’t really mean -it?” - -The wind, blowing in gusts about them, made the gate behind them swing -open on its hinges. Rachel’s dishevelled tress of grey hair flapped -like a tattered piece of rag against the girl’s side. - -“Look,” the woman wailed, “I pray you on my knees not to desert me! You -don’t know what you’re doing to me. You don’t, Nance, you don’t! It’s -all my life you’re taking. Oh, my darling, won’t you have pity? You’re -the only thing I’ve got--the only thing I love. Nance, Nance, have pity -on me!” - -Nance, with tears in her eyes but her face still firm and hard-set, -tried to free herself from the hands that held her. She tried gently -and tenderly at first but Rachel’s despair made the attempt difficult. -Then she realized that this appalling tension must be brought at all -costs to an end. With a sudden, relentless jerk, she tore herself -away and rushed towards the house. Rachel fell forward on her face, -her hands clutching the damp mould. Then she staggered up and raised -her hand towards the lighted window above at which Linda’s figure was -clearly visible. - -“It’s you--it’s you,” she called aloud, “it’s you who’ve done -this--who’ve turned my heart’s darling against me, and may you be -cursed for it! May your love turn to poison and eat your white -flesh! May your soul pray and pray for comfort and find none! -Never--never--never--find any! Oh, you may well hide yourself! But _he_ -will find you. Brand will find you and make you pay for this! Brand and -the sea will find you. Listen! Do you hear me? Listen! It’s crying out -for you now!” - -Whether it was the sudden cessation of her voice, intensifying the -stillness, or a slight veering of the wind to the eastward, it is -certain that at that moment, above the noise of the creaking gate and -the rustling bushes, came the sound which, of all others, seemed the -expression of Rodmoor’s troubled soul. Linda herself may not have heard -it for at that moment she was feverishly helping Nance to pile up their -belongings in the cart. But the driver of their vehicle heard it. - -“The wind’s changing,” he remarked. “Can you hear that? That’s the -darned sea!” - -The trap carrying the two sisters was already some distance along the -road when Nance turned her head and looked back. They had blown out -their candles before leaving and the kitchen fire had died down so -that there was no reason to be surprised that no light shone from any -of the windows. Yet it was with a cold sinking of the heart that the -girl leaned forward once more by the driver’s side. She could not help -seeing in imagination a broken figure stumbling round the walls of that -dark house, or perhaps even now standing in their dismantled room alone -amid emptiness and silence, alone amid the ghosts of the past. - - - - -XIV - -BRAND RENSHAW - - -While the sisters were taking possession of their new abode and trying -to eat--though neither had much appetite--the supper provided for -them by Mrs. Raps, Hamish Traherne, his cassock protected from the -threatening storm by a heavy ulster, was making his promised effort -to “talk” with the master of Oakguard. Impelled by an instinct he -could not resist, perhaps with a vague notion that the creature’s -presence would sustain his courage, he carried, curled up in an inside -pocket of his cloak, his darling Ricoletto. The rat’s appetite had -been unusually good that evening and it now slept peacefully in its -warm nest, oblivious of the beating heart of its master. Carrying his -familiar oak stick in his hand and looking to all appearance quite as -formidable as any highwayman the priest made his way through the sombre -avenue of gnarled and weather-beaten trees that led to the Renshaw -mansion. He rang the bell with an impetuous violence, the violence of -a visitor whose internal trepidation mocks his exterior resolution. -To his annoyance and surprise he learnt that Mr. Renshaw was spending -the evening with Mr. Stork down in the village. He asked to be allowed -to see Mrs. Renshaw, feeling in some obscure way suspicious of the -servant’s statement and unwilling to give up his enterprise at the -first rebuff. The lady came out at once into the hall. - -“Come in, come in, Mr. Traherne,” she said, quite eagerly. “I suppose -you’ve already dined but you can have dessert with us. Philippa always -sits long over dessert. She likes eating fruit better than anything -else. She’s eating gooseberries to-night.” - -Mrs. Renshaw always had a way of detaching herself from her daughter -and speaking of her as if she were a strange and somewhat menacing -animal with whom destiny had compelled her to live. But the priest -refused to remove his ulster. The interest of seeing Philippa eat -gooseberries was not strong enough to interrupt his purpose. - -“Your son won’t be home till late, I’m afraid?” he said. “I -particularly--yes, particularly--wanted to see him to-night. I -understand he’s at the cottage.” - -“Wait a minute,” cried the lady in her hurried, low-voiced tone. “Sit -down here, won’t you? I’ll just--I’ll just see Philippa.” - -She returned to the dining-room and the priest sat down and waited. -Presently she came hurrying back carrying in her hands a plate upon -which was a bunch of grapes. - -“These are for you,” she said. “Philippa won’t touch them. There! Let -me choose you out some nice ones.” - -The servant had followed her and now stood like a pompous and -embarrassed policeman uncertain of his duty. It seemed to give -Mrs. Renshaw some kind of inscrutable satisfaction to cause this -embarrassment. She sat down beside the priest and handed him the -grapes, one by one, as if he were a child. - -“Brand orders these from London,” she remarked, “that’s why we get -them now. I call it extravagance, but he _will_ do it.” She sighed -heavily. “Philippa,” she repeated, “prefers garden fruit so you mustn’t -mind eating them. They’ll get bad if they’re not eaten.” - -The servant hastened on tip-toe to the dining-room door, peered in, -and returned to his post. He looked for all the world, thought Mr. -Traherne, like a ruffled and disconsolate heron. “He’ll stand on one -leg soon,” he said to himself. - -“When do you expect your son home?” he enquired again. “Perhaps I might -call at the cottage and walk back with him.” - -“Yes, do!” Mrs. Renshaw cried with unexpected eagerness. “Do call -at the cottage. It’ll be nice for you to join them. They’ll all be -there--Mr. Sorio and the Doctor and Brand. Yes, do go in! It’ll be -a relief to me to think of you with them. I’m sometimes afraid that -cousin Tassar encourages dear Brand to drink too much of that stuff he -likes to make. They will put spirits into it. I’m always telling them -that lime juice would be just as nice. Yes, do go, Mr. Traherne, and -insist on having lime juice!” - -The priest looked at the lady, looked at the servant and looked at -the hall door. He felt a faint scratching going on inside his cloak. -Ricoletto was beginning to wake up. - -“Well, I’ll go!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet. - -At that moment the figure of Philippa, exquisitely dressed in a dark -crimson gown, emerged from the dining-room. She advanced slowly towards -them with more than her usual air of dramatic reserve. Mr. Traherne -noticed that her lips were even redder than her dress. Her eyes looked -dark and tired but they shone with a mischievous menace. She held out -her hand sedately and as he took it, fumbling with his ulster, “I hope -you enjoyed your grapes,” she said. - -“You ought to apologize to Mr. Traherne for appearing before him at all -in that wild costume,” remarked Mrs. Renshaw. “You wouldn’t think she’d -been at the dentist’s all day, would you? She looks as if she were in a -grand London house, doesn’t she, just waiting to go to a ball?” - -“Yes, at the dentist’s,” Mrs. Renshaw went on, speaking quite loudly, -“at the dentist’s in Mundham. She’s got an abscess under one of her -teeth. It kept her awake in the night. I think your face is still a -little swollen, dear, isn’t it? She oughtn’t to stand in this cold -hall, ought she, Mr. Traherne? And with so much of her neck exposed. It -was quite a large abscess. Let me look, dear.” She moved towards her -daughter, who drew hastily back. - -“She won’t let me look at it,” she added plaintively. “She never would, -not even when she was a child.” - -Hamish, fumbling with his fingers inside his ulster, made a grotesque -grimace of sympathy and once more intimated his desire to say -good-night. He discerned in the look the girl had now fixed upon her -mother an expression which indicated how little sympathy there was -between them. It was nearly half past nine when he reached Rodmoor and -knocked at Baltazar’s door. There was some sort of village revel going -on inside the tavern and the sound of this blended, in intermittent -bursts of uproar, with the voices from Stork’s little sitting-room. -Both wind and rain had subsided and the thunder-feeling in the air had -grown less oppressive. - -Traherne found himself, as he had been warned, in the presence of -Raughty, Sorio and Brand. Ushered in by the urbane Baltazar he greeted -them all with a humorous and benignant smile and took, willingly -enough, a cup of the admirable wine which they were drinking. They all -seemed, except their host himself, a little excited by what they had -imbibed and the priest observed that several other bottles waited the -moment of uncorking. Dr. Raughty alone appeared seriously troubled at -the new-comer’s entrance. He coughed several times, as was his habit -when disconcerted, and glanced anxiously at the others. - -Sorio, it seemed, was in the midst of some sort of diatribe, and -as soon as they had resumed their seats he made no scruple about -continuing it. - -“It’s all an illusion,” he exclaimed, looking at Mr. Traherne as if he -defied him to contradict his words, “it’s all an absolute illusion that -women are more subtle than men. The idea of their being so is simply -due to the fact that they act on impulse instead of by reason. Any one -who acts on impulse appears subtle if his impulses vary sufficiently! -Women are extraordinarily simple. What gives them the appearance of -subtlety is that they never know what particular impulse they’re going -to have next. So they just lie back on themselves and wait till it -comes. They’re eminently _physiological_, too, in their reactions. -Am I not right there, Doctor? They’re more entirely material than we -are,” he went on, draining his glass with a vicious gulp, “they’re -simply soaked and drenched in matter. They’re not really completely or -humanly _conscious_. Matter still holds them, still clings to them, -still drowns them. That is why the poets represent Nature as a woman. -The sentimental writers always speak of women as so responsive, so -porous, to the power of Nature. They put it down to their superior -sensitiveness. It isn’t their sensitiveness at all! It’s their element. -Of course they’re porous to it. They’re part of it! They’ve never -emerged from it. It flows round them like waves round seaweed. Take -this question of drink--of this delicious wine we’re drinking! No woman -who ever lived could understand the pleasure we’re enjoying now--a -pleasure almost purely intellectual. They think, in their absurd little -heads, that all we get out of it is the mere sensation of putting -hot stuff or sweet stuff or intoxicating stuff into our mouths. They -haven’t the remotest idea that, as we sit in this way together, we -enter the company of all great and noble souls, philosophizing upon -the nature of the gods and sharing their quintessential happiness! -They think we’re simply sensual beasts--as they are themselves, the -greedy little devils!--when they eat pastry and suck sugar-candy at -the confectioner’s. No woman yet understood, or ever will, the sublime -detachment from life, the victory over life, which an honest company of -sensible and self-respecting friends enjoy when they drink, serenely -and quietly, a wine as rare, as well chosen, as harmless as this! Women -hate to think of the happiness we’re enjoying now. I know perfectly -well that every one of the women who are connected with us at this -moment--and that only applies,” he added with a smile, “to Mr. Renshaw -and myself--would suffer real misery to see us at this moment. It’s an -instinct and from _their_ point of view they’re justified fully enough. - -“Wine separates us from Nature. It frees us from sex. It sets us among -the gods. It destroys--yes!--that’s what it does, it destroys our -physiological fatality. With wine like this,” he raised his glass above -his head, “we are no longer the slaves of our senses and consequently -the slaves of matter. We have freed ourselves from matter. We have -_destroyed_ matter!” - -“I’m not quite sure,” said Doctor Raughty, going carefully to the -fireplace where, on the fender, he had deposited for later consumption, -a saucer of brandied cherries, “I am not sure whether you’re right -about wine obliterating sex. I’ve seen quite plain females, in my time, -appear like so many Ninons and Thaises when one’s a bit shaky. Of -course I know they may appear so,” he went on patiently and assiduously -letting every drop of juice evaporate from the skin of the cherry -he held between his fingers before placing it in his mouth, “appear -desirable wenches, I mean, without our having any inclination to meddle -with them but the impulse is the same. At least,” he added modestly, -“their being there does not detract from the pleasure.” - -He paused and, with his head bent down over his cherries, became -absolutely oblivious to everything else in the world. What he was -trying now was the delicate experiment of dipping the fruit, dried by -being waved to and fro in the air, in the wine-glass at his side. As he -achieved this end, his cheeks flushed and nervous spasmodic quiverings -twitched his expressive nostrils. - -“I am inclined to agree with the Doctor,” said Brand Renshaw. “It -seems mere monkish nonsense to me to separate things that were so -obviously meant to go together. I like drinking while girls dance for -me. I like them to dance on and on, and on and on till they’re tired -out and then--” He was interrupted by a sudden crash which made all the -glasses ring and ting. Mr. Traherne had brought down his fist heavily -upon the rosewood table. - -“What you people are forgetting,” shouted the priest, “is that God is -not dead. No! He’s not dead, even in Rodmoor. Nature, girls, wine, -rats,--are all shadows in flickering water. Only one thing’s eternal -and that is a pure and loving heart!” - -There was a general and embarrassed hush after this and the priest -looked round at the four men with a sort of wistful bewilderment. Then -an expression of indescribable sweetness came into his face. - -“Forgive me, children,” he muttered, pressing his hand to his forehead. -“I didn’t mean to be violent. Baltazar, you must have filled my glass -too quickly. No, no! I mustn’t touch a drop more.” - -Stork leaned forward towards him. - -“We understand,” he said. “We understand perfectly. You felt we -were going a little too far. And so we were! These discourses about -the mystery of wine and the secret of women always betray one into -absurdity. Adrian ought to have known better than to begin such a -thing.” - -“It was my fault,” repeated Mr. Traherne humbly. “If you’ll excuse me -I’ll get something out of my pocket.” - -He rose and went into the passage. Brand Renshaw shrugged his shoulders -and lifted his glass to his lips. - -“I believe it’s his rat,” whispered Dr. Raughty softly. “He lives too -much alone.” - -The priest returned with Ricoletto in his hand and resuming his seat -stroked the animal dreamily. Baltazar looked from one to another of -his guests and his delicate features assumed a curious expression, an -expression as though he isolated himself from them all and washed his -hands of them all. - -“Traherne refers to God,” he began in a flutelike tone, “and it’s -no more than what he has a right to do. But I should be in a sorry -position myself if my only escape from the nuisance of women was to -drag in Eternity. Our dear Adrian, whose head is always full of some -girl or another, fancies he can get out of it by drink. Brand here -doesn’t want to get out of it. He wants to play the Sultan. Raughty--we -know what an amorous fellow _you_ are, Doctor!--has his own fantastic -way of drifting in and out of the dangerous waters. I alone, of all of -you, have the true key to escape. For, between ourselves, my dears, -we know well enough that God and Eternity are just Hamish’s innocent -illusion.” - -The priest seemed quite deaf to this last remark but Brand turned his -hatchet-shaped head towards the speaker. - -“Shut up, Tassar,” he muttered harshly, “you’ll start him again.” - -“What do you mean?” cried Sorio. “Go on! Go on and tell us what you -mean.” - -“Wait one moment,” intervened Dr. Raughty, “talk of something else for -one moment. I must cool my head.” - -He put down his pipe by the side of his saucer of cherries, arranging -it with exquisite care so that its stem was higher than its bowl. -Lifting his chair, he placed it at a precise angle to the table, -returning twice to add further little touches to it before he was -half-way to the door. Finally, laying down his tobacco pouch, lightly -as a feather upon the seat of the chair, he rushed out of the room and -up the stairs. - -“When the Doctor gets into the bathroom,” remarked Brand, “we may -as well put him out of our minds. The last time he dined with me at -Oakguard he nearly flooded the house.” - -Mr. Traherne pressed his rat to his cheek and grinned like a satyr. - -“None of you people understand Fingal,” he burst out, “it’s his way -of praying. Yes, I mean it! It’s his way of saying his prayers. He -does it just as Ricoletto does. It’s ritual with him. I understand it -perfectly.” - -The conversation at this point seemed to have a peculiarly irritating -effect upon Sorio. He fidgeted and looked about him uneasily. Presently -he made an extraordinary gesture with one of his hands, opening it, -extending the fingers stiffly back and then closing it again. Baltazar, -watching him closely, remarked at last, “What’s on your mind now, -Adriano? Any new obsession?” - -They all looked at the Italian. His heavy “Roman-Emperor” face quivered -through all its muscles. - -“It’s not ritual,” he muttered gloomily, “you’d better not ask me what -it is, for I _know_!” - -Brand Renshaw smiled a cruel smile. - -“He means that it’s _madness_,” he remarked carelessly, “and I dare say -he’s quite right.” - -“Fingal Raughty’s not mad,” protested Mr. Traherne, “I tell you he -bathes himself just as my rat does--to praise God and purge his sins!” - -“I wasn’t thinking about the Doctor,” said Brand quietly, the same -cruel gleam in his eyes. “Mr. Sorio knows what I meant.” - -The Italian made a movement as if he were about to leap upon him and -strike him, but the reappearance of Fingal, his cheeks shining and his -face softly irradiated, distracted the general attention. - -“You’d begun to tell us, Stork,” said the Doctor, “what _your_ escape -is from the sting of sensuality. You wipe out, altogether, you say, God -and Eternity?” - -Baltazar’s feminine features hardened as if under a thin mask of -enamel. Brand shot a malignant glance at him. - -“I can answer that,” he said, with venomous bitterness. “Tassar thinks -himself an artist, you know. He despises the whole lot of us as -numbskulls and Philistines. He’ll tell you that art’s the great thing -and that critics of art know much more about it than the damned fools -who do it, all there is to be known, in fact.” - -Baltazar’s expression as he listened to his half-brother’s speech was -a palimpsest of conflicting emotions. The look that predominated, -however, was the look of a woman under the lash, waiting her hour. He -smiled lightly enough and gesticulated with his delicate hand. - -“We all have our secret,” he declared gaily. “Brand thinks he knows -mine but he’s as far from knowing it as that new moon over there is -from knowing the secret of the tide.” - -His words caused them to glance at the window. The clouds had vanished -and the thin ghostly crescent peered at them from between the curtains. - -“The tide obeys it,” he added significantly, “but it keeps its own -counsel.” - -“And it has,” put in Sorio fiercely, “depths below depths which it were -better for no corpse-world to interfere with!” - -Dr. Raughty, who had cleared his throat uneasily several times during -the last few moments, now called the attention of the company to a -scorched moth which, hurt by one of the candles, lay shuddering upon -the edge of the table. - -“Hasn’t it exquisite markings?” he said, touching the creature with -the tip of his forefinger, and bending forward over it like a lover. -“It’s a puss-moth! I wish I had my killing-bottle here. I’d keep it for -Horace Pod.” - -Sorio suddenly leapt from his seat and made a snatch at the moth. - -“Shame!” he cried, addressing indiscriminately the Doctor, Horace Pod -and the universe. “Poor little thing!” he added, seizing it in his fist -and carrying it to the window. When, with some difficulty and many -muttered imprecations he had flung it out, “it tickled me,” he remarked -gravely. “Moths flutter so in your hand.” - -“Most things flutter,” remarked Brand, “when you try to get rid of -them. Some of them,” he added in a significant tone, “don’t confine -themselves to fluttering.” - -The incident of the moth seemed to break up, more than any of the -preceding interruptions, the harmony of the evening. Dr. Raughty, -looking nervously at Sorio and replacing his pipe in his pocket, -announced that he intended to depart. Brand Renshaw rose too and with -him, Mr. Traherne. - -“May I walk with you a little way?” said the priest. - -The master of Oakguard stared at him blankly. - -“Of course, of course,” he replied, “but I’m afraid it’ll take you out -of your road.” - -It was some time before they got clear of the house as Baltazar with a -thousand delicate attentions to each of them and all manner of lively -speeches, did his best, in the stir of their separation, to smooth -over and obliterate from their minds the various little shocks that -had ruffled his entertainment. They got away, however, at last and -Brand and the priest, bidding the rest good night, took the road to the -park. The sky as they entered the park gates was clear and starry and -the dark trees of the avenue up which they walked, rose beside them in -immovable stillness. - -Mr. Traherne, putting his hand into the pocket of his ulster to derive -courage from contact with his pet, plunged without preamble into the -heart of the perilous subject. - -“You may not know, Renshaw,” he said, “that Miss Herrick and her -sister are leaving Dyke House and are going to live in the village. -Nance has got work at Miss Pontifex’ and Linda is going to play the -organ regularly for me. I believe there’s been something--lately”--he -hesitated and his voice shook a little but, recovering himself with -a tremendous effort, “something,” he went on, “between Linda and -yourself. Now, of course, in any other case I should be very reluctant -to say anything. Interference in these things is usually both -impertinent and useless. But this case is quite different. The girl is -a young girl. She has no parents. Her sister is herself quite young -and they are both, in a sense, dependent on me as the priest of this -place for all the protection I can give. I feel responsible for these -girls, Renshaw, responsible for them, and no feelings of a personal -kind with regard to any one,” here he squeezed Ricoletto so tightly -that the rat emitted a frightened little squeal, “shall interfere -with what I feel is my duty. No, hear me out, hear me out, Renshaw!” -he continued hurriedly, as his companion began to speak. “The matter -is one about which we need not mind being quite open. I want you, in -fact, to promise me--to promise me on your word of honour--that you’ll -leave this child alone. I don’t know how far things have gone between -you. I can’t imagine, it would be shameful to imagine, that it has gone -beyond a flirtation. But whatever it has been, it must stop now. It’s -only your word of honour I want, nothing but your word of honour, and I -can’t believe you’ll hesitate, as a gentleman, to give me that. You’ll -give me that, won’t you, Renshaw? Just say yes and the matter’s closed.” - -He removed his hand from his pocket and laid it on his companion’s -wrist. Brand was sufficiently cool at that moment to remark as an -interesting fact that the priest was trembling. Not only was he -trembling but as he removed his hat to give further solemnity to -his appeal, large drops of perspiration, known only to himself, for -darkness dimmed his face, trickled down into his eyes. Brand quietly -freed himself and moved back a step. - -“I’m not in the least surprised,” he said, “at your speaking to me -like this, and strange as it may seem it does not annoy me. In fact -it pleases me. I like it. It raises the value of the girl--of Linda, -I mean--and it makes me respect you. But if you imagine, my good Mr. -Traherne, that I’m going to make any such promise as you describe, you -can have no more notion of what I’m like than you have of what Linda’s -like. Talk to _her_, Hamish Traherne, talk to her, and see what she -says!” - -The priest clenched his fingers round the handle of his oak stick. He -felt rising in him a tide of natural human anger. Mentally he prayed -to his God that he might retain his self-control and not make matters -worse by violence. - -“If it interests you to know,” Brand continued, “I may tell you that -it’s quite possible I shall marry Linda. She attracts me, I confess -it freely, more than I could possibly explain to you or to any one. -I presume you wouldn’t carry your responsibility so far as to make -trouble about my marrying her, eh? But that’s nothing. That’s neither -here nor there. Married or unmarried, I do what I please. Do I convey -my meaning sufficiently clearly? I--do--what--I--please. Let that be -your clue henceforth, Mr. Hamish Traherne, and the clue of everybody -else in Rodmoor, in dealing with me. Listen to me, sir. I do you the -honour of talking more openly to you to-night than I’m ever likely to -talk again. Perhaps you have the idea that I’m a mere commonplace -sensualist, snatching at every animal pleasure that comes my way? -Perhaps you fancy I’ve a vicious--what do you call it?--‘penchant’--for -the seduction of young girls? Let me tell you this, Mr. Hamish, a thing -that may somewhat surprise you. I’ve walked these woods till I know -every scent in them by night and day--do you catch that fungus-smell -now? That’s one of the smells I love best of all!--and in these walks, -absolutely alone,--I love being alone!--I’ve faced possibilities of -evil--faced them and resisted them, mind you!--compared with which -these mere normal sexual lapses we’re talking about are silly child’s -play! Linda does me good. Do you hear? She does me good. She saves -me from things that never in your wildest dreams you’d suppose any -one capable of. Oh, you priests! You priests! You shut yourselves up -among your crucifixes and your little books, and meanwhile--beyond -your furthest imagination--the great tides of evil sweep backwards and -forwards! Listen! I needn’t tell you what that sound is? Yes--you can -hear it. In every part of this place you can hear it! I was born to -that tune, Traherne, and I shall die to that tune. It’s better than -rustling leaves, isn’t it? It’s deeper. It’s the kind of music a man -might have in his head when doing something compared with which such -little sins as you’re blaming me for are virtues! Did you see that bat? -I’ve watched them under these trees from midnight to morning. A bat -in the light of dawn is a curious thing to see. Do you like bats, Mr. -Traherne, or do you confine yourself to rats? - -“Bah! I’m talking like an idiot. But what I want you to understand is -this. When you’re dealing with me, you are dealing with some one who’s -lost the power of being frightened by words, some one who’s broken -the world’s crust and peeped behind it, some one who’s seen the black -pools--did you guess there were black pools in this world?--and has -seen the red stains in them and who knows what caused those stains! -Damn it all--Hamish Traherne--what did you take me for when you talked -to me like that? A common, sensual pig? A vulgar seducer of children? -A fellow to be frightened back into the fold by talk of honour and the -manners of gentlemen? I tell you _I’ve seen bats in the dawn_--and seen -them too, with images in my memory that only _that sound_--do you hear -it still?--could equal for horror. - -“It’s because Linda knows the horror of the sea that I love her. I love -to lead her to it, to feel her draw back and not to let her draw back! -And she loves me _for the same reason_! That’s a fact, Mr. Hamish, that -may be hard for you to realize. Linda and I understand each other. Do -you hear that, you lover of rats? We understand each other. She does me -good. She distracts me. She keeps those black pools out of my mind. She -keeps Philippa’s eyes from following me about. She takes the taste of -funguses out of my mouth. She suits me, I tell you! She’s what I need. -She’s what I need and must have! - -“Bah! I’m chattering like an idiot. I must be drunk. I _am_ drunk. -But that’s nothing. That’s one of the vices that are _my_ virtues. -I’ll tell you another thing, while I’m about it, Hamish Traherne. -You’ve wondered sometimes, I expect, why I’m so good to Baltazar. -Quite Christian of me, you’ve thought it, eh? Quite noble and -Christian--considering what he is and what I am? That just shows -how little you know us, how little you know either of us! Tassar can -no more get away from me than I can get away from him. We’re bound -together for life, my boy, bound together by what those black pools -mean and what _that sound_--you wouldn’t think you could hear it here, -would you?--never stops meaning. - -“Bah! I’m drunk as a pig to-night! I’ve not talked like this to any -one, not for years. Listen, Traherne! You have an ugly face but you’re -not a fool. Wasn’t it Saint Augustine who said once that evil was a -mere rent in the cloak of goodness? The simple innocent! I tell you, -evil goes down to the bottom of life and out beyond! I know that, for -I’ve gone with it. _I’ve seen the bats in the dawn._ - -“Yes, Tassar’s gone far, Hamish Traherne, farther than you guess. -Sometimes I think he’s gone farther than _I_ guess. _He_ never talks, -you know. You’ll never catch _him_ drunk. Tassar could look the devil -in the face, and worse, and keep his pretty head cool!--Oh, damn it -all, Traherne, it’s not easy for a person never to open his mouth! But -Tassar’s got the secret of that. He must get it from my father. There -was a man for you! You wouldn’t have dared to talk to him like this.” - -Several times during this long outburst, Mr. Traherne’s fingers had -caused pain to Ricoletto. But now he flung out his long arms and -clutched Brand fiercely by the shoulders. - -“Pray--you poor lost soul,” he shouted, “pray the great God above us to -have mercy upon you and have mercy upon us all!” - -His arms trembled as he uttered these words and, hardly conscious -of what he was doing, he shook the heavy frame of the man before him -backwards and forwards as if he had been a child in his hands. There -was dead silence for several seconds and, unheeded by either of them, a -weasel ran furtively across the path and disappeared among the trees. -The damp odours of moss and leaf-mould rose up around them and, between -the motionless branches above, the stars shone like pin-pricks through -black parchment. Suddenly Brand broke away with a harsh laugh. - -“Enough of this!” he cried. “We’ve had enough melodramatic nonsense -for one night. You’d better go back to bed, Traherne, or you’ll be -oversleeping yourself to-morrow and my mother will miss her matins.” - -He held out his hand. - -“Good night!--and sleep soundly!” he added, in his accustomed dull, -sarcastic tone. - -The priest sighed heavily and groped about on the ground for the hat -he had dropped. Just as he had secured it and was moving off, Brand -called out to him laughingly, - -“Don’t you believe a word of what I said just now. I’m not drunk at all. -I was only fooling. I’m just a common ruffian who knows a pretty face -when he sees it. Talk to Linda about me and see what she says!” He -strode off up the avenue and the priest turned heavily on his heel. - - - - -XV - -BROKEN VOICES - - -Nance and Linda were not long in growing accustomed to their new mode -of life. Nance, after her London experiences, found Miss Pontifex’ -little work-room, looking out on a pleasant garden, a place of refuge -rather than of irksome labour. The young girls under her charge were -good-tempered and docile; and Miss Pontifex herself--an excitable -little woman with extravagantly genteel manners, and a large Wedgewood -brooch under her chin--seemed to think that the girl’s presence in the -establishment would redound immensely to its reputation and distinction. - -“I’m a conservative born and bred,” she remarked to Nance, “and I can -tell a lady out of a thousand. I won’t say what I might say about the -people here. But we know--we know what we think.” - -Nance’s intimate knowledge of the more recondite aspects of the trade -took an immense load off the little dressmaker’s mind. She had more -time to devote to her garden, which was her deepest passion, and it -filled her with pride to be able to say to her friends, “Miss Herrick -from Dyke House works with me now. Her father was a Captain in the -Royal Navy.” - -The month of July went by without any further agitating incidents. -As far as Nance knew, Brand left Linda in peace, and the young girl, -though looking weary and spiritless, seemed to be reconciling herself -fairly well to the loss of him and to be deriving definite distraction -and satisfaction from her progress in organ-playing. Day by day in the -early afternoon, she would cross the bridge, under all changes of the -weather, and make her way to the church. Her mornings were spent in -household duties, so that her sister might be free to give her whole -time to the work in the shop, and in the evenings, when it was pleasant -to be out of doors, they both helped Miss Pontifex watering her phloxes -and delphiniums. - -Nance herself--as July drew to its close and the wheat fields turned -yellow--was at once happier and less happy in her relations with Sorio. -Her happiness came from the fact that he treated her now more gently -and considerately than he had ever done before; her unhappiness from -the fact that he had grown more reserved and a queer sort of nervous -depression seemed hanging over him. She knew he still saw Philippa, -but what the relations between the two were, or how far any lasting -friendship had arisen between them, it was impossible to discover. They -certainly never met now, under conditions open to the intrusion of -Rodmoor scandal. - -Nance went more than once, before July was over, to see Rachel Doorm, -and the days when these visits occurred were the darkest and saddest -of all she passed through during that time. The mistress of Dyke House -seemed to be rapidly degenerating. Nance was horrified to find how -inert and indifferent to everything she had come to be. The interior -of the house was now as dusty and untidy as the garden was desolate, -and judging from her manner on the last visit she paid, the girl began -to fear she had found the same solace in her loneliness as that which -consoled her father. - -Nance made one desperate attempt to improve matters. Without saying -anything to Miss Doorm, she carried with her to the house one of Mrs. -Raps’ own buxom daughters, who was quite prepared, for an infinitesimal -compensation, to go every day to help her. But this arrangement -collapsed hopelessly. On the third day after her first appearance, the -young woman returned to her home, and with indignant tears declared she -had been “thrown out of the nasty place.” - -One evening at the end of the month, just as the sisters were preparing -to go out for a stroll together, their landlady, with much effusion and -agitation, ushered in Mrs. Renshaw. Tired with walking, and looking -thinner and whiter than usual, she seemed extremely glad to sit down on -their little sofa and sip the raspberry vinegar which Nance hastened -to prepare. She ate some biscuits, too, as if she were faint for want -of food, but all the time she ate there was in her air an apologetic, -deprecatory manner, as though eating had been a gross vice or as though -never in her life before had she eaten in public. She kept imploring -Nance to share the refreshment, and it was not until the girl made at -least a pretence of doing so that she seemed to recover her peace of -mind. - -Her great, hollow, brown eyes kept surveying the little apartment with -nervous admiration. “I like it here,” she remarked at last. “I like -little rooms much better than large ones.” She picked up from the -table a well-worn copy of Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury” and Nance had -never seen her face light up so suddenly as when, turning the pages -at random, she chanced upon Keats’ “Ode to Autumn.” “I know that by -heart,” she said, “every word of it. I used to teach it to Philippa. -You’ve no idea how nicely she used to say it. But she doesn’t care for -poetry any more. She reads more learned books, more clever books now. -She’s got beyond me. Both my children have got beyond me.” She sighed -heavily and Nance, with a sense of horrible pity, seemed to visualize -her--happy in little rooms and with little anthologies of old-world -verse--condemned to the devastating isolation of Oakguard. - -“I see you’ve got ‘The Bride of Lammermoor’ up there,” she remarked -presently, and rising impetuously from her seat on the sofa, she took -the book in her hands. Nance never forgot the way she touched it, or -the infinite softness that came into her eyes as she murmured, “Poor -Lucy! Poor Lucy!” and began turning the pages. - -Suddenly another book caught her attention and she took down “Humphrey -Clinker” from the shelf. “Oh!” she cried, a faint flush coming into -her sunken cheeks, “I haven’t seen that book for years and years. I -used to read it before I was married. I think Smollett was a very great -writer, don’t you? But I suppose young people nowadays find him too -simple for their taste. That poor dear Mr. Bramble! And all that part -about Tabitha, too! I seem to remember it all. I believe Dickens used -to like Smollett. At least, I think I read somewhere that he did. I -expect he liked that wonderful mixture of humour and pathos, though of -course, when it comes to that, I suppose none of them can equal Dickens -himself.” - -As Mrs. Renshaw uttered these words and caressed the tattered volume -she held as if it had been made of pure gold, her face became -irradiated with a look of such innocent and guileless spirituality, -that Nance, in a hurried act of mental contrition, wiped out of her -memory every moment when she had not loved her. “What she must suffer!” -the girl said to herself as she watched her. “What she must _have_ -suffered--with those people in that great house.” - -Mrs. Renshaw sighed as she replaced the book in the shelf. “Writers -seem to have got so clever in these last years,” she said plaintively. -“They use so many long words. I wonder where they get them from--out of -dictionaries, do you think?--and they hurt me, they hurt me, by the way -they speak of our beloved religion. They can’t _all_ of them be great -philosophers like Spinoza and Schopenhauer, can they? They can’t all of -them be going to give the world new and comforting thoughts? I don’t -like their sharp, snappy, sarcastic tone. And oh, Nance dear!”--she -returned to her seat on the sofa--“I can’t bear their slang! Why is it -that they feel they must use so much slang, do you think? I suppose -they want to make their books seem real, but _I_ don’t hear real people -talking like that. But perhaps it comes from America. American writers -seem extraordinarily clever, and American dictionaries--for Dr. Raughty -showed me one--seem much bigger than ours.” - -She was silent for a while and then, looking gently at Linda, “I think -it’s wonderful, dear, how well you play now. I thought last Sunday -evening you played the hymns better than I’ve ever heard them! But they -were beautiful hymns, weren’t they? That last one was my favourite of -all.” - -Once more she was silent, and Nance seemed to catch her lips moving, -as she fixed her great sorrowful eyes upon the book-shelf, and began -slowly pulling on her gloves. - -“I must be going now,” she said, with a little sigh. “I thank you for -the raspberry vinegar and the biscuits. I think I was tired. I didn’t -sleep very well last night. Good-bye, dears. No, don’t, please, come -down. I can let myself out. It’s a lovely evening, isn’t it, and the -poppies in the cornfields are quite red now. I can see a big patch of -them from our terrace, just across the river. Poppies always make me -think of the days when I was a young girl. We used to think a lot of -them then. We used to make fairies out of them.” - -Nance insisted on seeing her into the street. When she entered the room -again, she was not altogether surprised to find Linda convulsed with -sobs. “I can’t--I can’t help it,” gasped the young girl. “She’s too -pitiful. She’s too sad. You feel you want to hug her and hug her, but -you’re afraid even to touch her hand!” She made an effort to recover -herself, and then, with the tears still on her cheeks, “Nance dear,” -she said solemnly, “I don’t believe she’ll live to the end of this -year. I believe, one of these days, when the Autumn comes, we shall -hear she’s been found dead in her bed. Nance, listen!”--and the young -girl’s voice became awe-struck and very solemn--“won’t it be dreadful -for _those two_, over there, when they find her like that, and feel how -little they’ve done to make her happy? Can’t you imagine it, Nance? -The wind wailing and wailing round that house, and she lying there all -white and dreadful--and Philippa with a candle standing over her--” - -“Why do you say ‘with a candle’?” said Nance brusquely. “You’re talking -wildly and exaggerating everything. If they found her in the morning, -like that, Philippa wouldn’t come with a candle.” - -Linda stared dreamily out of the window. “No, I suppose not,” she said, -“and yet I can’t see it without Philippa holding a candle. And there’s -something else I see, too,” she added in a lower voice. - -“I don’t want--” Nance began and then, more gently, “_What_ else, you -silly child?” - -“Philippa’s red lips,” she murmured softly, “red as if she’d put -rouge on them. Do you think she ever does put rouge on them? That’s, -I suppose, what made me think of the candle. I seemed to see it -flickering against her mouth. Oh, I’m silly--I’m silly, I know, but I -couldn’t help seeing it like that--her lips, I mean.” - -“You’re morbid to-day, Linda,” said Nance abruptly. “Well? Shall we -go to the garden? I feel as though carrying watering-pots and doing -weeding will be good for both of us.” - -While this conversation was going on between the sisters in their High -Street lodging, Sorio and Baltazar were seated together on a bench by -the harbour’s side. The tide was flowing in and cool sea-breaths, mixed -with the odour of tar and paint and fisherman’s tobacco, floated in -upon them as they talked. - -“It’s absurd to have any secrets between you and me,” Sorio was saying, -his face reflecting the light of the sunset as it poured down the -river’s surface to where they sat. “When I become quite impossible to -you as a companion, I suppose you’ll tell me so and turn me out. But -until then I’m going to assume that I interest you and don’t bore you.” - -“It isn’t a question of boring any one,” replied the other. “You -annoyed me just now because I thought you were making no effort -to control yourself. You seemed trying to rake up every repulsive -sensation you’ve ever had and thrust it down my throat. Bored? -Certainly I wasn’t bored! On the contrary, I was much more what you -might call _bitten_. You go so far, my dear, you go so far!” - -“I don’t call that going far at all,” said Sorio sulkily. “What’s the -use of living together if we can’t talk of everything? Besides, you -didn’t let me finish. What I wanted to say was that for some reason -or other, I’ve lately got to a point when every one I meet--every -mortal person, and especially every stranger--strikes me as odious and -disgusting. I’ve had the feeling before but never quite like this. It’s -not a pleasant feeling, my dear, I can assure you of that!” - -“But what do you mean--what do you mean by odious and disgusting?” -threw in the other. “I suppose they’re made in the same way we are. -Flesh and blood is flesh and blood, after all.” - -As Baltazar said this, what he thought in his mind was much as -follows: “Adriano is evidently going mad again. This kind of thing is -one of the symptoms. I like having him here with me. I like looking at -his face when he’s excited. He has a beautiful face--it’s more purely -antique in its moulding than half the ancient cameos. I especially like -looking at him when he’s harassed and outraged. He has a dilapidated -wistfulness at those times which exactly suits my taste. I should miss -Adriano frightfully if he went away. No one I’ve ever lived with suits -me better. I can annoy him when I like and I can appease him when I -like. He fills me with a delicious sense of power. If only Philippa -would leave him alone, and that Herrick girl would stop persecuting -him, he’d suit me perfectly. I like him when his nerves are quivering -and twitching. I like the ‘wounded-animal look’ he has then. But it’s -these accursed girls who spoil it all. Of course it’s their work, -this new mania. They carry everything so far! I like him to get wild -and desperate but I don’t want him mad. These girls stick at nothing. -They’d drive him into an asylum if they could, poor helpless devil!” - -While these thoughts slid gently through Stork’s head, his friend was -already answering his question about “flesh and blood.” “It’s just that -which gets on my nerves,” he said. “I can stand it when I’m talking to -you because I forget everything except your mind, and I can stand it -when I’m making love to a girl, because I forget everything but--” - -“Don’t say her body!” threw in Baltazar. - -“I wasn’t going to,” snarled the other. “I know it isn’t their bodies -one thinks of. It’s--it’s--what the devil is it? It’s something much -deeper than that. Well, never mind! What I want to say is this. With -you and Raughty, and a few others who really interest me, I forget the -whole thing. _You_ are individuals to me. I’m interested in you, and I -forget what you’re like, or that you have flesh at all. - -“It’s when I come upon people I’m neither in love with nor interested -in, that I have this sensation, and of course,” and he surveyed a group -of women who at that moment were raising angry voices from an archway -on the further side of the harbour, “and of course I have it every day.” - -Stork looked at him with absorbed attention, holding between his -fingers an unlit cigarette. “What exactly _is_ the feeling you have?” -he enquired gently. - -The light on Sorio’s face had faded with the fading of the glow on -the water. There began to fall upon the place where they sat, upon -the cobble-stones of the little quay, upon the wharf steps, slimy -with green seaweed, upon the harbour mud and the tarred gunwales -of the gently rocking barges, upon the pallid tide flowing inland -with gurglings and suckings and lappings and long-drawn sighs, that -indescribable sense of the coming on of night at a river’s mouth, which -is like nothing else in the world. It is, as it were, the meeting of -two infinite vistas of imaginative suggestion--the sense of the mystery -of the boundless horizons sea-ward, and the more human mystery of -the unknown distance inland, its vague fields and marshes and woods -and silent gardens--blending there together in a suspended breath of -ineffable possibility, sad and tender, and touching the margin of what -cannot be uttered. - -“What is it?” repeated Sorio dreamily, and in a low melancholy voice. -“How can I tell you what it is? It’s a knowledge of the inner truth, -I suppose. It’s the fact that I’ve come to know, at last, what human -beings are really like. I’ve come to see them stripped and naked--no! -worse than that--I’ve come to see them _flayed_. I’ve got to the point, -Tassar, my friend, when I see the world _as it is_, and I can tell you -it’s not a pleasant sight!” - -Baltazar Stork regarded him with a look of the most exquisite pity, -a pity which was not the less genuine because the emotion that -accompanied it was one of indescribable pleasure. In the presence of -his friend’s massive face and powerful figure he felt deliciously -delicate and frail, but with this sense of fragility came a feeling -of indescribable power--the power of a mind that is capable of -contemplating with equanimity a view of things at which another -staggers and shivers and grows insane. It was allotted to Baltazar by -the secret forces of the universe to know during that hour, one of the -most thrilling moments of his life. - -“To get to the point I’ve reached,” continued Sorio gently, watching -the colour die out from the water’s surface and a whitish glimmer, -silvery and phantom-like, take its place, “means to sharpen one’s -senses to a point of terrible receptivity. In fact, until you can hear -the hearts of people beating--until you can hear their contemptible -lusts hissing and writhing in their veins, like evil snakes--you -haven’t reached the point. You haven’t reached it until you can smell -the graveyard--yes! The graveyard of all mortality--in the cleanest -flesh you approach. You haven’t reached it till every movement people -make, every word they speak, betrays them for what they are, betrays -the vulture on the wing, and the hyena on the prowl. You haven’t -reached it till you feel ready to cry out, like a child in a nightmare, -and beat the air with your hands, so suffocating is the pressure of -loathsome living bodies--bodies marked and sealed and printed with the -signs of death and decomposition!” - -Baltazar Stork struck a match and lit his cigarette. - -“Well?” he remarked, stretching out his legs and leaning back on the -wooden bench. “Well? The world is like that, then. You’ve found it -out. You know it. You’ve made the wonderful discovery. Why can’t you -smoke cigarettes, then, and make love to your lovely friends, and let -the whole thing go? You’ll be dead yourself in a year or two in any -case. - -“Adriano dear,” he lowered his voice to an impressive whisper, “shall I -tell you something? You are making all this fuss and driving yourself -desperate about a thing which doesn’t really concern you in the least. -It’s not your business if the world does reek like a carcass. It’s -not your business if people’s brains are full of poisonous snakes and -their bellies of greedy lecheries. It’s not your business--do you -understand--if human flesh smells of the graveyard. Your affair, my -boy, is to get what amusement you can out of it and make yourself as -comfortable as you can in it. It might be worse, it might be better. It -doesn’t really make much difference either way. - -“Listen to me, Adriano! I say to you now, as we sit at this moment -watching this water, unless you get rid of this new mania of yours, -you’ll end as you did in America. You’ll simply go mad again, my dear, -and that would be uncomfortable for you and extremely inconvenient -for me. The world is not _meant_ to be taken seriously. It’s meant to -be handled as you’d handle a troublesome girl. Take what amuses you -and let the rest go to the devil! Anything else--and I know what I’m -talking about--tends to simple misery. - -“Heigh ho! But it’s a most delicious evening! What nonsense all this -talk of ours is! Look at that boy over there. He’s not worrying himself -about grave-yards. Here, Harry! Tommy! Whatever you call yourself--come -here! I want to speak to you.” - -The child addressed was a ragged barelegged urchin, of about eleven, -who had been for some while slowly gravitating around the two men. He -came at once, at Baltazar’s call, and looked at them both, wonderingly -and quizzically. - -“Got any pictures?” he asked. Stork nodded and, opening a new box of -cigarettes, handed the boy a little oblong card stamped with the arms -of some royal European dynasty. “I likes the Honey-Dew ones best,” -remarked the boy, “them as has the sport cards in ’em.” - -“We can’t always have sport cards, Tommy,” said Baltazar. “Little -boys, as the world moves round, must learn to put up with the arms of -European princes. Let me feel your muscle, Tommy. I’ve an idea that -you’re suffering from deficient nourishment.” The child extended his -arm, and then bent it, with an air of extreme and anxious gravity. -“Pretty good,” said Stork, smiling. “Yes, I may say you’re decidedly -powerful for your size. What’s your opinion, Tommy, about things in -general? This gentleman here thinks we’re all in a pretty miserable -way. He thinks life’s a hell of a bad job. What do you think about it?” - -The boy looked at him suspiciously. “Ben Porter, what cleans the -knives up at the Admiral’s, tried that game on with me. But I let him -know, soon enough, who he were talking to.” He moved off hastily after -this, but a moment later ran back, pointing excitedly at a couple of -sea-gulls which were circling near them. - -“A man shot one of them birds last night,” he said, “and it fell into -the water. Lordy! But it did splash! ’Tweren’t properly killed, I -reckon--just knocked over.” - -“What’s that?” said Sorio sharply. “What became of it then? Who picked -it up?” - -The boy looked at him with a puzzled stare. “_They_ ain’t no good to -eat,” he rejoined, “they be what you call cannibal-birds. They feeds on -muck. Cats’ll eat ’em, though,” he added. - -“What became of it?” shouted Sorio, in a threatening voice. - -“Went out with the tide, Mister, most like,” answered the child, moving -apprehensively away from him. “I saw some fellows in a boat knock at -it with their oars, but they couldn’t get it. It sort o’ flapped and -swimmed away.” - -Sorio rose from his seat and strode to the edge of the quay. He looked -eastward, past the long line of half-submerged wooden stakes which -marked the approach to the harbour. “When did that devil shoot it, do -you say?” he asked, turning to the boy. But the youngster had taken -to his heels. Angry-looking bronze-faced gentlemen who interested -themselves in wounded sea-gulls were something new in his experience. - -“Let’s get a boat and row out to those stakes,” said Adrian suddenly. -“I seem to see something white over there. Look! Don’t you think so?” - -Baltazar moved to his side. “Heavens! my dear,” he remarked languidly, -“you don’t suppose the thing would be there now, after all this time? -However,” he added, shrugging his shoulders, “if it’ll put you into a -better mood, by all means let’s do it.” - -It was, when it came to the point, Baltazar who untied an available -boat from its moorings, and Baltazar who appropriated a pair of -oars that were leaning against a fish shed. In details of this kind -the passionate Sorio was always seized with a paralysis of nervous -incompetence. Once in the boat, however, the younger man refused to do -anything but steer. “I’m not going to pull against this current, for -all the sea-gulls in the world,” he remarked. - -Sorio rowed with desperate impetuosity, but it was a slow and laborious -task. Several fishermen, loitering on the quay after their supper, -surveyed the scene with interest. “The gentleman wants to exercise -’isself afore dinner-time,” observed one. “’Tis a wonder if he moves -’er,” rejoined another, “but ’e’s rowin’ like ’twas a royal regatta.” - -With the sweat pouring down his face and the muscles of his whole body -taut and quivering, Sorio tugged and strained at the oars. At first it -seemed as though the boat hardly moved at all. Then, little by little, -it forged ahead, the tide’s pressure diminishing as the mouth of the -harbour widened. After several minutes’ exhausting effort, they reached -the place where the first of the wooden piles rose out of the water. -It was tangled with seaweed and bleached with sun and wind. The tide -gurgled and foamed round it. Baltazar yawned. - -“They’re all like this one,” he said. “You see what they’re like. -Nothing could possibly cling to them, unless it had hands to cling -with.” - -Sorio, resting on his oars, glared at the darkening waters. “Let’s get -to the last of them anyway,” he muttered. He pulled on, the effort -becoming easier and easier as they escaped from the in-flow of the -river-mouth and reached the open sea. When at last the boat rubbed its -side against the last of the stakes, they were nearly a quarter of a -mile from land. No, there was certainly no sea-gull here, alive or dead! - -A buoy, with a bell attached to it, sent at intervals, over the -water, a profoundly melancholy cry--a cry subdued and yet tragic, not -absolutely devoid of hope and yet full of heart-breaking wistfulness. -The air was hot and windless; the sky heavy with clouds; the horizon -concealed by the rapidly falling night. Sorio seized the stake with -his hand to keep the boat steady. There were already lights in the -town, and some of these twinkled out towards them, in long, radiating, -quivering lines. - -“Tassar!” whispered Sorio suddenly, in a tone strangely and tenderly -modulated. - -“Well, my child, what is it?” returned the other. - -“I only want to tell you,” Adrian went on, “that whatever I may say or -do in the future, I recognize that you’re the best friend I’ve got, -except one.” As he said the words “except one,” his voice had a vibrant -softness in it. - -“Thank you, my dear,” replied his friend calmly. “I should certainly be -extremely distressed if you made a fool of yourself in any way. But who -is my rival, tell me that! Who is this one who’s a better friend than -I? Not Philippa, I hope--or Nance Herrick?” - -Sorio sighed heavily. “I vowed to myself,” he muttered, “I would never -talk to any one again about him: but the sound of that bell--isn’t it -weird, Tassar? Isn’t it ghostly?--makes me long to talk about him.” - -“Ah! I understand,” and Baltazar Stork drew in his breath with a low -whistle, “I understand! You’re talking about your boy over there. -Well, my dear, I don’t blame you if you’re homesick for him. I have a -feeling that he’s an extraordinarily beautiful youth. I always picture -him to myself like my Venetian. Is he like Flambard, Adrian?” - -Sorio sighed again, the sigh of one who sins against his secret soul -and misses the reward of his sacrilege. “No--no,” he muttered, “it -isn’t that! It isn’t anything to do with his being beautiful. God -knows if Baptiste _is_ beautiful! It’s that I want him. It’s that he -understands what I’m trying to do in the darkness. It’s simply that I -want him, Tassar.” - -“What do you mean by that ‘trying in the darkness,’ Adriano? What -‘darkness’ are you talking about?” - -Sorio made no immediate answer. His hand, as he clung to the stake amid -the rocking of the boat, encountered a piece of seaweed of that kind -which possesses slippery, bubble-like excrescences, and he dug his -nails into one of these leathery globes, with a vague dreamy idea that -if he could burst it he would burst some swollen trouble in his brain. - -“Do you remember,” he said at last, “what I showed you the other night, -or have you forgotten?” - -Baltazar looked at his mistily outlined features and experienced, -what was extremely unusual with him, a faint sense of apprehensive -remorse. “Of course I remember,” he replied. “You mean those notes of -yours--that book you’re writing?” - -But Sorio did not hear him. All his attention was concentrated just -then upon the attempt to burst another seaweed bubble. The bell from -the unseen buoy rang out brokenly over the water; and between the side -of their boat and the stake to which the man was clinging there came -gurglings and lappings and whispers, as if below them, far down under -the humming tide, some sad sea-creature, without hope or memory or -rest, were tossing and moaning, turning a drowned inhuman face towards -the darkened sky. - - - - -XVI - -THE FENS - - -Nance was able, in a sort of lethargic obstinacy, to endure the -strain of her feelings for Sorio, now that she had the influence of -her familiar work to dull her nerves. She tried hard to make things -cheerful for her not less heart-weary sister, devising one little -scheme after another to divert and distract the child, and never -permitting her own trouble to interfere with her sympathy. - -But behind all this her soul ached miserably, and her whole nature -thirsted and throbbed for the satisfaction of her love. Her work played -its part as a kind of numbing opiate and the evenings spent among -Letitia Pontifex’ flower-beds were not devoid of moments of restorative -hope, but day and night the pain of her passion hurt her and the tooth -of jealousy bit into her flesh. - -It was worst of all in the nights. The sisters slept in two small -couches in the same room and Nance found herself dreading more and -more, as July drew to its close, that hour when they came in from their -neighbour’s garden and undressing in silence, lay down so near to one -another. They both tried hard, Linda no less than her sister, to put -the thoughts that vexed them out of their minds and behave as if they -were fancy-free and at peace, but the struggle was a difficult one. -If they only hadn’t known, so cruelly well, just what the other was -feeling, as they turned alternately from side to side, and like little -feverish animals gasped and fretted, it would have been easier to bear. -“Aren’t you asleep yet?” one of them would whisper plaintively, and -the submissive, “I’m so sorry, dear; but oh! I wish the morning would -come,” that she received in answer, met with only too deep a response. - -One unusually hot night--it happened to be the first Sunday in August -and the eve of the Bank Holiday--Nance felt as though she would scream -out aloud if her sister moved in her bed again. - -There was something that humiliated and degraded in this mutual misery. -It was hard to be patient, hard not to feel that her own aching heart -was in some subtle way mocked and insulted by the presence of the same -hurt in the heart of another. It reduced the private sorrow of each -to a sort of universal sex pain, to suffer from which was a kind of -outrage to what was sacred and secret in their individual souls. - -There were two windows in their room, one opening on the street and -one upon an enclosed yard at the back of the house. Nance, as she now -lay, with the bed-clothes tossed aside from her, and her hands clasped -behind her head, was horribly conscious not only of the fact that -her sister was just as wide awake as she herself, but that they were -listening _together_ to the same sounds. These sounds were two-fold, -and they came sometimes separately and sometimes simultaneously. They -consisted of the wailing of an infant in a room on the other side of -the street, and the whining of a dog in a yard adjoining their own. - -The girl felt as though every species of desolation known in the world -were concentrated in these two sounds. She kept her eyes tightly shut -so as not to see the darkness, but this proceeding only intensified the -acute receptivity of her other senses. She visualized the infant and -she visualized the dog. The one she imagined with a puckered, wrinkled -face--a face such as Mr. Traherne might have had in his babyhood--and -plague-spots of a loathsome colour; she saw the colour against her -burning eyeballs as if she were touching it with her fingers and it -was of a reddish brown. The dog had a long smooth body, without hair, -and as it whined she saw it feebly scratching itself, but while it -scratched, she knew, with evil certainty, that it was unable to reach -the place where the itching maddened it. - -There was hardly any air in the room, in spite of the open windows, -and Nance fancied that she discerned an odour proceeding from the -wainscoting that resembled the dust that had once greeted her from a -cupboard in one of the unused bedrooms in Dyke House, dust that seemed -to be composed of the moth-eaten garments of generations of dead -humanity. - -She felt that she could have borne these things--the whining dog, and -the wailing infant--if only Linda, lying with her face to the wall, -were not listening to them also, listening with feverish intentness. -Yes, she could have borne it if the whole night were not listening--if -the whole night were not listening to the turnings and tossings of -humanity, trying to ease the itch of its desire and never able to -reach, toss and turn as it might, the place where the plague-spot -troubled it. - -With a cry she leapt from her bed and, fumbling on the dressing-table, -struck a match and lit a candle. The flickering flame showed Linda -sitting bolt-upright with lamentable wide-open eyes. - -Nance went to the window which looked out on the yard. Here she turned -and threw back from her forehead her masses of heavy hair. “God help -us, Linda!” she whispered. “It’s no use. Nothing is any use.” - -The young girl slowly and wearily left her bed and, advancing across -the room, nestled up against her sister and caressed her in silence. - -“What shall we do?” Nance repeated, hardly knowing what she said. “What -shall we do? I can’t bear this. I can’t bear it, little one, I can’t -bear it!” - -As if in response to her appeal, the dog and the infant together sent -forth a pitiful wail upon the night. - -“What misery there is in the world--what horrible misery!” Nance -murmured. “I’m sure we’re all better off dead, than like this. Better -off dead, my darling.” - -Linda answered by slipping her arms round her waist and hugging her -tightly. Then suddenly, “Why don’t we dress ourselves and go out?” she -cried. “It’s too hot to sleep. Yes, do let’s do that, Nance! Let’s -dress and go out.” - -Nance looked at her with a faint smile. There was a childish ardour -about her tone that reminded her of the Linda of many years ago. “Very -well,” she said, “I don’t mind.” - -They dressed hurriedly. The very boldness of the idea helped them to -recover their spirits. Bare-headed and in their house-shoes they let -themselves out into the street. It was between two and three o’clock. -The little town was absolutely silent. The infant in the house -opposite made no sound. “Perhaps it’s dead now,” Nance thought. - -They walked across the green, and Nance gave a long wistful look at the -windows of Baltazar’s cottage. The heavy clouds had lifted a little, -and from various points in the sky the stars threw down a faint, -uncertain glimmer. It remained, however, still so dark that when they -reached the centre of the bridge, neither bank was visible, and the -waters of the Loon flowing beneath were hidden in profound obscurity. -They leant upon the parapet and inhaled the darkness. What wind there -was blew from the west so that the air was heavy with the scent of peat -and marsh mud, and the sound of the sea seemed to come from far away, -as if it belonged to a different world. - -They crossed the bridge and began following the footpath that led -to the church. Coming suddenly on an open gate, however, they were -tempted, by a curious instinct of unconscious self-cruelty, to deviate -from the path they knew and to pursue a strange and unfamiliar track -heading straight for the darkened fens. It was on the side of the -path removed from the sea that this track began, and it led them, -along the edge of a reedy ditch, into a great shadowy maze of silent -water-meadows. - -Fortunately for the two girls, the particular ditch they followed had -a high and clearly marked embankment, an embankment used by the owners -of cattle in that district as a convenient way of getting their herds -from one feeding-ground to another. No one who has never experienced -the sensation of following one of these raised banks, or dyke-tracks, -across the fens, can conceive the curious feelings it has the power -of evoking. Even by day these impressions are unique and strange. -By night they assume a quality which may easily pass into something -bordering upon panic-terror. The palpable and immediate cause of this -emotion is the sense of being isolated, separated, and cut-off, from -all communication with the ordinary world. - -On the sea-shore one is indeed in contact with the unknown mass of -waters, but there is always, close at hand, the familiar inland -landscape, friendly and reassuring. On the slope of a mountain one -may look with apprehension at the austere heights above, but there is -always behind one the rocks and woods, the terraces and ledges, past -which one has ascended, and to which at any moment one can return. - -In the midst of the fens there is no such reassurance. The path one has -followed becomes merged in the illimitable space around; merged, lost -and annihilated. No mark, no token, no sign indicates its difference -from other similar tracks. No mark nor token separates north from south -or east from west. On all sides the same reeds, the same meadows, the -same gates, the same stunted willow-trees, the same desolate marsh -pools, the same vast and receding horizons. The mind has nothing to -rest itself upon except the general expanse, and the general expanse -seems as boundless as infinity. - -Nance and her sister were not, of course, far enough away from their -familiar haunts to get the complete “fen-terror,” but, aided by the -darkness, the power of the thing was by no means unfelt. The instinct -to escape from the burden of their thoughts which drove the girls on, -became indeed more and more definitely mingled, as they advanced, -with a growing sense of alarm. But into this very alarm they plunged -forward with a species of exultant desperation. They both experienced, -as they went hand in hand, a morbid kind of delight in being cruel to -themselves, in forcing themselves to do the very thing--and to do it in -the dead of night--which, of all, they had most avoided, even in the -full light of day. - -Before they had gone much more than a mile from their starting-point -they were permitted to witness a curious trick of the elemental -powers. Without any warning, there suddenly arose from the west a much -more powerful current of wind. Every cloud was driven sea-ward and -with the clouds every trace of sea-mist. The vast dome of sky above -them showed itself clear and unstained; and across the innumerable -constellations--manifest to their eyes in its full length--stretched -the Milky Way. Not only did the stars thus make themselves visible. In -their visibility they threw a weird and phantom-like light over the -whole landscape. Objects that had been mere misty blurs became distinct -identities and things that had been absolutely out of sight were now -unmistakably recognizable. - -The girls stood still and looked around them. They could see the -church tower rising squat and square against the line of the distant -sand-dunes. They could see the roofs of the village, huddled greyly and -obscurely together, beyond the dark curve of the bridge. They could -make out the sombre shape of Dyke House itself, just distinguishable -against the high tow-path of the river. And Nance, turning westward, -could even discern her favourite withy-copse, surrounded by shadowy -cornfields. - -There was a pitiable pathos in the way each of the girls, now that the -scene of their present trouble was thus bared to their view, turned -instinctively to the object most associated with the thoughts they were -seeking to escape. Nance looked long and wistfully at the little wood -of willows and alders, now a mere misty exhalation of thicker shadow -above the long reaches of the fens. She thought of how mercilessly -her feelings had been outraged there; of how violent and strange and -untender Sorio had been. Yet even at that moment, her heart aching with -the recollection of what she had suffered, the old fierce passionate -cry went up from her soul--“better be beaten by Adrian than loved by -all the rest of the world!” - -It was perhaps because of her preoccupation with her own thoughts -and her long dreamy gaze at the spot which recalled them, that she -did not remark a certain sight which set her companion trembling -with intolerable excitement. This was nothing less than the sudden -appearance, between the trees that almost hid the house from view, -of a red light in a window of Oakguard. It was an unsteady light and -it seemed to waver and flicker. Sometimes it grew deeply red, like a -threatening star, and at other times it paled in colour and diminished -in size. All at once, after flickering and quivering for several -seconds, it died out altogether. - -Only when it had finally disappeared did Linda hastily glance round to -see if Nance had discerned it. But her sister had seen nothing. - -It was, as a matter of fact, small wonder that this particular light -observed in a window of Oakguard, thrilled the young girl with -uncontrollable agitation. It had been this very signal, arranged -between them during their few weeks of passionate love-making, which -had several times flickered across the river to Dyke House and had been -answered, unknown to Nance, from the sisters’ room. Linda shivered -through every nerve and fibre of her being, and in the darkness her -cheeks grew hot as fire. She suddenly felt convinced that by some -strange link between her heart and his, Brand knew that she was out in -the fens, and was telling her that he knew it, in the old exciting way. - -“He is calling me,” she said to herself, “he is calling me!” And as she -formed the words, there came over her, with a sick beating of her heart -and a dizzy pain in her breast, the certainty that Brand had left the -house and was waiting for her, somewhere in the long avenue of limes -and cedars, where they had met once before in the early evening. - -“He is waiting for me!” she repeated, and the dizziness grew so strong -upon her that she staggered and caught at her sister’s arm. “Nance,” -she whispered, “I feel sick. My head hurts me. Shall we go back now?” - -Nance, full of concern and anxiety, passed her fingers across her -sister’s forehead. “Oh, my dear, my dear,” she cried, “you’re in a -fever! How silly of me to let you come out on this mad prank!” - -Supporting her on her arm she led her slowly back, along the -embankment. As they walked, Nance felt more strongly than she had -done since she crossed the Loon, that deep maternal pity, infinite in -its emotion of protection, which was the basic quality in her nature. -For the very reason, perhaps, that Linda now clung to her like a -child, she felt happier than she had done for many days. A mysterious -detachment from her own fate, a sort of resigned indifference to what -happened, seemed to liberate her at that moment from the worst pang -of her loss. The immense shadowy spaces about her, the silence of the -fens, broken only by the rustling of the reeds and an occasional splash -in the stream by their side as a fish rose, the vast arch of starlit -sky above her, full of a strange and infinite reassurance--all these -things thrilled the girl’s heart, as they moved, with an emotion beyond -expression. - -At that hour there came to her, with a vividness unfelt until then, the -real meaning of Mr. Traherne’s high platonic mystery. She told herself -that whatever henceforth happened to her or did not happen, it was -not an illusion, it was not a dream--this strange spiritual secret. -It was something palpable and real. She had felt it--at least she had -touched the fringe of it--and even if the thing never quite returned -or the power of it revived as it thrilled her now, it remained that it -_had been_, that she had known it, that it was there, somewhere in the -depths, however darkly hidden. - -Very different were the thoughts that during that walk back agitated -the mind of the younger girl. Her whole nature was obsessed by one -fierce resolve, the resolve to escape at once to the arms of her lover. -He was waiting for her; he was expecting her; she felt absolutely -convinced of that. An indefinable pain in her breast and a throbbing -in her heart assured her that he was watching, waiting, drawing her -towards him. The same large influences of the night, the same silent -spaces, the same starlit dome, which brought to Nance her spiritual -reassurance, brought to the frailer figure she supported only a -desperate craving. - -She could feel through every nerve of her feverish body the touch of -her love’s fingers. She ached and shivered with pent-up longing, with -longing to yield herself to him, to surrender herself absolutely into -his power. She was no longer a thing of body, soul, and senses. The -normal complexity of our mortal frame was annihilated in her. She was -one trembling, quivering, vibrant chord, a chord of feverish desire, -only waiting to break into one wild burst of ecstatic music, when -struck by the hand she loved. - -Her desire at that moment was of the kind which tears at the root of -every sort of scruple. It did not only endow her with the courage of -madness, it inspired her with the cunning of the insane. All the way -along the embankment she was devising desperate plans of escape, and by -the time they reached the church path these plans had shaped themselves -into a definite resolution. - -They emerged upon the familiar way and turned southward towards the -bridge. Nance, thankful that she had got her sister so near home -without any serious mishap, could not resist, in the impulse of her -relief, the pleasure of stopping for a moment to pick a bunch of -flowers from the path’s reedy edge. The coolness of the earth as she -stooped, the waving grasses, the strongly blowing, marsh-scented wind, -the silence and the darkness, all blent harmoniously together to -strengthen her in her new-found comfort. - -She pulled up impetuously, almost by their roots, great heavy-flowered -stalks of loose-strife and willow-herb. She scrambled down into -the wet mud of a shallow ditch to add to her bunch a tall spray of -hemp-agrimony and some wild valerian. All these things, ghostly and -vague and colourless in the faint starlight, had a strange and mystic -beauty, and as she gathered them Nance promised herself that they -should be a covenant between her senses and her spirit; a sign and a -token, offered up in the stillness of that hour, to whatever great -invisible powers still made it possible on earth to renounce and be not -all unhappy. She returned with her flowers to her sister’s side and -together they reached the bridge. - -When they were at the very centre of this, Linda suddenly staggered -and swayed. She tore herself from her sister’s support and sank down -on the little stone seat beneath the parapet--the same stone seat upon -which, some months before, that passage of sinister complicity had -occurred between Rachel Doorm and Brand. Falling helplessly back now -in this place, the young girl pressed her hands to her head and moaned -pitifully. - -Nance dropped her flowers and flung herself on her knees beside her. -“What is it, darling?” she whispered in a low frightened voice. “Oh, -Linda, what is it?” But Linda’s only reply was to close her eyes and -let her head fall heavily back against the stone-work of the parapet. -Nance rose to her feet and stood looking at her in mute despair. -“Linda! Linda!” she cried. “Linda! What is it?” - -But the shadowy white form lay hushed and motionless, the soft hair -across her forehead stirring in the wind, but all else about her, -horribly, deadly still. - -Nance rushed across the bridge and down to the river’s brink. She came -back, her hands held cup-wise, and dashed the water over her sister’s -face. The child’s eyelids flickered a little, but that was all. She -remained as motionless and seemingly unconscious as before. With a -desperate effort, Nance tried to lift her up bodily in her arms, but -stiff and limp as the girl was, this seemed an attempt beyond her -strength. - -Once more she stood, helpless and silent, regarding the other as she -lay. Then it dawned upon her mind that the only possible thing to do -was to leave her where she was and run to the village for help. She -would arouse her own landlady. She would get the assistance of Dr. -Raughty. - -With one last glance at her sister’s motionless form and a quick look -up and down the river on the chance of there being some barge or boat -at hand with people--as sometimes happened--sleeping in it, she set off -running as fast as she could in the direction of the silent town. - -As soon as the sound of her retreating steps died away in the distance, -the hitherto helpless Linda leapt quickly and lightly to her feet. -Standing motionless for awhile till she had given her sister time to -reach the high-street, she set off herself with firm and rapid steps -in the same direction. She resolved that she would not risk crossing -the green, but would reach the park wall by a little side alley which -skirted the backs of the houses. She felt certain that when she -did reach this wall it would be easy enough to climb over it. She -remembered its loose uneven stones and its clinging ivy. And once in -the park--ah! she knew well enough what way to take then! - -Deserted by its human invaders, the old New Bridge relapsed into its -accustomed mood of silent expectancy. It had witnessed many passionate -loves and many passionate hatreds. It had felt the feet of generations -of Rodmoor’s children, light as gossamer seeds, upon its shoulders, -and it had felt the creaking of the death-wagon carrying the same -persons, heavy as lead then, to the oblong holes dug for them in the -churchyard. All this it had felt, but it still waited, still waited in -patient expectancy, while the tides went up and down beneath it, and -sea airs swept over it and night by night the stars looked down on it; -still waited, with the dreadful patience of the eternal gods and the -eternal elements, something that, after all, would perhaps never come. - -Nance’s flowers, meanwhile, lay where she had dropped them, upon the -ground by the stone seat. They were there when, some ten minutes after -her departure, the girl returned with Dr. Raughty and Mrs. Raps to find -Linda gone; and they were there through all the hours of the dawn, -until a farm boy, catching sight of them as he went to his work, threw -them into the river in order that he might observe the precise rapidity -with which they would be carried by the tide under the central arch. -They were carried very swiftly under the central arch; but linger as -the boy might, he did not see them reappear on the other side. - - - - -XVII - -THE DAWN - - -The dawn was just faintly making itself felt among the trees of -Oakguard when Philippa Renshaw, restless as she often was on these -summer nights, perceived, as she leaned from her open window, a figure -almost as slender as herself standing motionless at the edge of one -of the terraces and looking up at the house. There was no light in -Philippa’s room, so that she was able to watch this figure without risk -of being herself observed. She was certain at once in her own mind of -its identity, and she took it immediately for granted that Brand was -even now on his way to meet the young girl at the spot where she now -saw her standing. - -She experienced, therefore, a certain surprise and even annoyance--for -she would have liked to have witnessed this encounter--when, instead -of remaining where she stood, the girl suddenly slipped away like -a ghostly shadow and merged herself among the park-trees. Philippa -remained for some minutes longer at the window peering intently into -the grey obscurity and wondering whether after all she had been -mistaken and it was one of the servants of the house. There _was_ -one of the Oakguard maids addicted to walking in her sleep, and she -confessed to herself that it was quite possible she had been misled by -her own morbid fancy into supposing that the nocturnal wanderer was -Linda Herrick. - -She returned to her bed after a while and tried to sleep, but the idea -that it was really Linda she had seen and that the young girl was -even now roaming about the grounds like a disconsolate phantom, took -possession of her mind. She rose once more and cautiously pulling down -the blind and drawing the curtains began hurriedly to dress herself, -taking the precaution to place the solitary candle which she used -behind a screen so that no warning of her wakefulness should reach the -person she suspected. - -Opening the door and moving stealthily down the passage, she paused -for a moment at the threshold of her brother’s room. All was silent -within. Smiling faintly to herself, she turned the handle with -exquisite precaution and glided into the room. No! She was right -in her conjecture. The place was without an occupant, and the bed, -it appeared, had not been slept in. She went out, closing the door -silently behind her. - -Her mother’s room was opposite Brand’s and the fancy seized her to -enter that also. She entered it, and stepped, softly as a wandering -spirit, to her mother’s side. Mrs. Renshaw was lying in an uneasy -posture with one arm stretched across the counterpane and her head -close to the edge of the bed. She was breathing heavily but was not in -a deep sleep. Every now and then her fingers spasmodically closed and -unclosed, and from her lips came broken inarticulate words. The pallid -light of the early dawn made her face seem older than Philippa had ever -seen it. By her side on a little table lay an open book, but it was -still too dark for the intruder to discern what this book was. - -The daughter stood for some minutes in absolute rigidity, gazing upon -the sleeper. Her face as she gazed wore an expression so complicated, -so subtle, that the shrewdest observer seeking to interpret its meaning -would have been baffled. It was not malignant. It certainly was not -tender. It might have been compared to the look one could conceive some -heathen courtesan in the days of early Christianity casting upon a -converted slave. - -Uneasily conscious, as people in their sleep often are, without -actually waking, of the alien presence so near her, Mrs. Renshaw -suddenly moved round in her bed and with a low moaning utterance, -settled herself to sleep with her face to the window. It was a human -name she had uttered then. Philippa was sure of that, but it was a name -completely strange to the watcher of her mother’s unconsciousness. - -Passing from the room as silently as she had entered, the girl ran -lightly down the staircase, picked up a cloak in the hall, and let -herself out of the front door. - -Meanwhile, through the gradually lifting shadows, Linda with rapid and -resolute steps was hastening across the park to the portion of the -avenue where grew the great cedar-trees. This was the place to which -her first instinct had called her. It was only an after-thought, due to -cooler reason that had caused her to deviate from this and approach the -house itself. - -As she advanced through the dew-drenched grass, silvery now in the -faint light, she felt that vague indescribable sensation which all -living creatures, even those scourged by passion, are bound to feel, at -the first palpable touch of dawn. Perfumes and odours that could not -be expressed in words, and that seemed to have no natural origin, came -to the girl on the wind which went sighing past her. This--so at least -Linda vaguely felt--was not the west wind any more. It was not any -ordinary wind of day or night. It was the dawn wind, the breath of the -earth herself, indrawn with sweet sharp ecstasy at the delicate terror -of the coming of the sun-god. - -As she approached the avenue where the trunks of the cedars rose -dark against the misty white light, she was suddenly startled by the -flapping wings of an enormous heron which, mounting up in front of her -out of the shadow of the trees, went sailing away across the park, its -extended neck and outstretched legs outlined against the eastern sky. -She passed in among the shadows from which the heron had emerged, and -there, as though he had been waiting for her only a few moments, was -Brand Renshaw. - -With one swift cry she flung herself into his arms and they clung -together as if from an eternity of separation. In her flimsy dress wet -with mist she seemed like a creature evoked by some desperate prayer of -earth-passion. Her cheeks and breast were cold to his touch, but the -lips that answered his kisses were hot as if with burning fever. She -clung to him as though some abysmal gulf might any moment open beneath -their feet. She nestled against him, she twined herself around him. She -took his head between her hands and with her cold fingers she caressed -his face. So thinly was she clad that he could feel her heart beating -as if it were his own. - -“I knew you were calling me,” she gasped at last. “I felt it--I felt -it in my flesh. Oh, my only love, I’m all yours--all, all yours! Take -me, hold me, save me from every one! Hold me, hold me, my only love, -hold me tight from all of them!” - -They swayed together as she clung to him and, lifting her up from the -ground he carried her, still wildly kissing him, into the deeper shadow -of the great cedars. Exhausted at last by the extremity of her passion, -she hung limp in his arms, her face white as the white light which now -flooded the eastern horizon. He laid her down then at the foot of one -of the largest trees and bending over her pushed back the hair from her -forehead as if she had been a tired child. - -By some powerful law of his strange nature, the very intensity of -her passion for him and her absolute yielding to his will calmed and -quieted his own desire. She was his now, at a touch, at a movement; -but he would as soon have hurt an infant as have embraced her then. -His emotion at that moment was such as never again in his life he was -destined to experience. He felt as though, untouched as she was, she -belonged to him, body and soul. He felt as though they two together -were isolated, separated, divided, from the whole living world. Beneath -the trunks of those black-foliaged cedars they seemed to be floating in -a mystic ship over a great sea of filmy white waves. - -He bent down and kissed her forehead, and under his kiss, chaste as the -kiss a father might give to a little girl, she closed her eyes and lay -motionless and still, a faint flickering smile of infinite contentment -playing upon her lips. - -They were in this position--the girl’s hand resting passively in -his--and he bending over her, when through an eastward gap between -the trees the sun rose above the mist. It sent towards them a long -blood-coloured finger that stained the cedar trunks and caused the -strangely shaped head of the stooping man to look as if it had been -dipped in blood. It made the girl’s mouth scarlet-red and threw an -indescribable flush over her face, a flush delicate and diaphanous as -that which tinges the petals of wild hedge roses. - -Linda opened her eyes and Brand leapt to his feet with a cry. “The -sun!” he shouted, and then, in a lower voice, “what an omen for us, -little one--what an omen! Out of the sea, out of _our_ sea! Come, get -up, and let’s watch the morning in! There won’t be a trace of mist -left, or dew either, in an hour or so.” - -He gave her his hand and hurriedly pulled her to her feet. “Quick!” he -cried. “You can see it across the sea from over there. I’ve often seen -it, but never like this, never with you!” - -Hand in hand they left the shade of the trees and hastening up -the slope of a little grassy mound--perhaps the grave of some -viking-ancestor of his own--they stood side by side surveying the -wonder of the sunrise. - -As they stood there and the sun, mounting rapidly higher and higher, -dispersed the mists and flooded everything with golden light, Brand’s -mood began to change towards his companion. The situation was reversed -now and it was his arms that twined themselves round the girl’s -figure, while she, though only resisting gently and tenderly, seemed -to have recovered the normal instincts of her sex, the instincts of -self-protection and aloofness. - -The warmer the sun became and the more clearly the familiar landscape -defined itself before them, the more swiftly did the relations between -the two change and reverse. No longer did Brand feel as though some -mystic spiritual union had annihilated the difference between their -sex. The girl was once more an evasive object of pursuit. He desired -her and his desire irritated and angered him. - -“We shan’t have the place to ourselves much longer,” he said. -“Come--let’s say good-bye where we were before--where we weren’t so -much in sight.” - -He sought to lead her back to the shade of the cedars; but she--looking -timidly at his face--felt for the first time a vague reaction against -him and an indefinable shrinking. - -“I think I’ll say good-bye to you here,” she said, with a faint smile. -“Nance will be looking for me everywhere and I mustn’t frighten her any -further.” - -She was astonished and alarmed at the change in his face produced by -her words. - -“As you please,” he said harshly, “here, as well as anywhere else, if -that’s your line! You’d better go back the way you came, but the gates -aren’t locked if you prefer the avenue.” He actually left her when he -said this, and without touching her hand or giving her another look, -strode down the slope and away towards the house. - -This was more than Linda could bear. She ran after him and caught him -by the arm. “Brand,” she whispered, “Brand, my dearest one, you’re not -really angry with me, are you? Of course, I’ll say good-bye wherever -you wish! Only--only--” and she gave an agitated little sigh, “I don’t -want to frighten Nance more than I can help.” - -He led her back to the spot where, under the dark wide-spreading -branches, the red finger of the sun had first touched them. She loved -him too well to resist long, and she loved him too well not to taste, -in the passionate tears that followed her abandonment to his will, -a wild desperate sweetness, even in the midst of all her troubled -apprehensions as to the calamitous issues of their love. - -It was in the same place, finally, and under the same dark branches, -that they bade one another good-bye. Brand looked at his watch before -they parted and they both smiled when he announced that it was nearly -six, and that at any moment the milk-cart might pass them coming up -from the village. As he moved away, Linda saw him stoop and pick up -something from the ground. He turned with a laugh and flung the thing -towards her so that it rolled to her feet. It was a fir-cone and -she knew well why he threw it to her as their farewell signal. They -had wondered, only a little while ago, how it drifted beneath their -cedar-tree, and Brand had amused himself by twining it in her hair. - -She picked it up. The hair was twisted about it still--of a colour not -dissimilar from the cone, but of a lighter shade. She slipped the thing -into her dress and let it slide down between her breasts. It scratched -and pricked her as soon as she began to walk, but this discomfort gave -her a singular satisfaction. She felt like a nun, wearing for the first -time her symbol of separation from the world--of dedication to her -lord’s service. “I am certainly no nun now,” she thought, smiling sadly -to herself, “but I am dedicated--dedicated forever and a day. Oh, my -dear, dear Love, I would willingly die to give you pleasure!” - -She moved away, down the avenue towards the village. She had not gone -very far when she was startled by a rustle in the undergrowth and -the sound of a mocking laugh. She stopped in terror. The laugh was -repeated, and a moment later, from a well-chosen hiding-place in a -thicket of hazel-bushes, Philippa Renshaw, with malignant shining eyes, -rushed out upon her. - -“Ah!” she cried joyously, “I thought it was you. I thought it was one -or other of you! And where is our dear Brand? Has he deserted you so -quickly? Does he prefer to have his little pleasures before the sun is -_quite_ so high? Does he leave her to go back all alone and by herself? -Does he sneak off like a thief as soon as daylight begins?” - -Linda was too panic-stricken to make any reply to this torrent of -taunts. With drawn white face and wide-open terrified eyes, she stared -at Philippa as a bird might stare at a snake. Philippa seemed delighted -with the effect she produced and stepping in front of the young girl, -barred her way of escape. - -“You mustn’t leave us now,” she cried. “It’s impossible. It would never -do. What will they say in the village when they see you like that, -crossing the green, at this hour? What you have to do, Linda Herrick, -is to come back and have breakfast with us up at the house. My mother -will be delighted to see you. She always gets up early, and she’s very, -very fond of you, as you know. You _do_ know my mother’s fond of you, -don’t you? - -“Listen, you silly white-faced thing! Listen, you young innocent, who -must needs come wandering round people’s houses in the middle of the -night! Listen--you Linda Herrick! I don’t know whether you’re stupid -enough to imagine that Brand’s going to marry you? Are you stupid -enough for that? Are you, you dumb staring thing? Because, if you are, -I can tell you a little about Brand that may surprise you. Perhaps you -think you’re the first one he’s ever made love to in this precious park -of ours. No, no, my beauty, you’re not the first--and you won’t be the -last. We Renshaws are a curious family, as you’ll find out, you baby, -before you’ve done with us. And Brand’s the most curious of us all! - -“Well, are you coming back with me? Are you coming back to have a -nice pleasant breakfast with my mother? You’d better come, Linda -Herrick, you’d better come! In fact, you _are_ coming, so that ends -it. People who spend the night wandering about other people’s grounds -must at least have the decency to show themselves and acknowledge the -hospitality! Besides, how glad Brand will be to see you again! Can’t -you imagine how glad he’ll be? Can’t you see his look? - -“Oh, no, Linda Herrick, I can’t possibly let you go like this. You see, -I’m just like my dear mother. I love gentle, sensitive, pure-minded -young girls. I love their shyness and their bashfulness. I love the -unfortunate little accidents that lead them into parks and gardens. -Come, you dumb big-eyed thing! What’s the matter with you? Can’t -you speak? Come! Back with you to the house! We’ll find my mother -stirring--and Brand too, unless he’s sick of girls’ society and has -gone off to Mundham. Come, white-face; there’s nothing else for it. You -must do what I tell you.” - -She laid her hand on Linda’s shoulder, and, such was the terror she -excited, the unhappy girl might actually have been magnetized into -obeying her, if a timely and unexpected interruption had not changed -the entire situation. This was the appearance upon the scene of -Adrian Sorio. Sorio had recently acquired an almost daily habit of -strolling a little way up the Oakguard avenue before his breakfast -with Baltazar. On two or three of these occasions he had met Philippa, -and he had always sufficient hope of meeting her to give these walks a -tang of delicate excitement. He had evidently heard nothing of Linda’s -disappearance. Nance in her distress had, it seemed, resisted the -instinct to appeal to him. He was consequently considerably surprised -to see the two girls standing together in the middle of the sunlit path. - -Linda, flinging Philippa aside, rushed to meet him. “Adrian! Adrian!” -she cried piteously, “take me home to Nance.” She clung to his arm and -in the misery of her outraged feelings, began sobbing like a child who -has been lost in the dark. Sorio, soothing and petting her as well as -he could, looked enquiringly at Philippa as she came up. - -“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s nothing, Adrian. It’s only that I wanted her to -come up to the house. She seems to have misunderstood me and got silly -and frightened. She’s not a very sensible little girl.” - -Sorio looked at Philippa searchingly. In his heart he suspected her -of every possible perversity and maliciousness. He realized at that -moment how entirely his attraction to her was an attraction to what -is dangerous and furtive. He did not even respect her intelligence. -He had caught her more than once playing up to his ideas in a manner -that indicated a secret contempt for them. At those moments he had -hated her, and--with her--had hated, as he fancied, the whole feminine -tribe--that tribe which refuses to be impressed even by world-crushing -logic. But how attractive she was to him! How attractive, even at this -moment, as he looked into her defiant, inscrutable eyes, and at her -scornfully curved lips! - -“You needn’t pity her, Adrian,” she went on, casting a bitter smile at -Linda’s bowed head as the young girl hid her face against his shoulder. -“There’s no need to pity her. She’s just like all the rest of us, only -she doesn’t play the game frankly and honestly as I do. Send her home -to her sister, as she says, and come with me across the park. I’ll show -you that oak tree if you’ll come--the one I told you about, the one -that’s haunted.” - -She threw at him a long deep look, full of a subtle challenge, and -stretched out her hand as if to separate him from the clinging child. -Sorio returned her look and a mute struggle took place between them. -Then his face hardened. - -“I must go back with her,” he said. “I must take her to Nance.” - -“Nonsense!” she rejoined, her eyes darkening and changing in colour. -“Nonsense, my dear! She’ll find her way all right. Come! I really want -you. Yes, I mean what I say, Adrian. I really want you this time!” - -The expression with which she challenged him now would have delighted -the great antique painters of the feminine mystery. The gates of her -soul seemed to open inwards, on magical softly-moving hinges, and an -incalculable power of voluptuous witchcraft emanated from her whole -body. - -It is doubtful whether a spell so provocative could have been resisted -by any one of an origin different from Sorio’s. But he had in -him--capable of being roused at moments--the blood of that race in -which of all others women have met their match. To this witchcraft of -the north he opposed the marble-like disdain of the south--the disdain -which has subtlety and knowledge in it--the disdain which is like -petrified hatred. - -His face darkened and hardened until it resembled a mask of bronze. - -“Good-bye,” he said, “for the present. We shall meet again--perhaps -to-morrow. But anyway, good-bye! Come, Linda, my child.” - -“Perhaps to-morrow--and perhaps _not_!” returned Philippa bitterly. -“Good-bye, Linda. I’ll give your love to Brand!” - -Sorio said little to his companion as he escorted her back to her -lodging in the High Street. He asked her no questions and seemed to -take it as quite a natural thing that she should have been out at that -early hour. They discovered Dr. Raughty in the house when they arrived, -doing his best to dissuade Nance from any further desperate hunt after -the wanderer, and it was in accordance with the doctor’s advice, as -well as their own weariness that the two sisters spent the later -morning hours of their August Bank-holiday in a profound and exhausted -sleep. - - - - -XVIII - -BANK-HOLIDAY - - -It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Nance woke out of -a heavy dreamless sleep. She went to the window. The shops in the -little street were all closed and several languid fishermen and -young tradesmen’s apprentices were loitering about at the house -doors, chaffing lazily and with loud bursts of that peculiarly empty -laughter which seems the prerogative of rural idleness, the stray -groups of gaily dressed young women who, in the voluptuous contentment -of after-dinner repletion, were setting forth to take the train for -Mundham or to walk with their sweethearts along the sea-shore. She -turned and looked closely at her still sleeping sister. - -Linda lay breathing softly. On her lips was a childlike smile of -serene happiness. She had tossed the bed-clothes away and one of her -arms, bare to the elbow, hung over the edge of the bed. It seemed she -was holding fast, in the hand thus pathetically extended, some small -object round which her fingers were tightly closed. Nance moved to her -side and took this hand in her own. The girl turned her head uneasily -but continued to sleep. Nance opened the fingers which lay helplessly -in her own and found that what they held so passionately was a small -fir-cone. The bright August sunshine pouring down upon the room enabled -her to catch sight of several strands of light brown hair woven round -the thing’s rough scales. She let the unconscious fingers close once -more round the fir-cone and glanced anxiously at the sleeping girl. She -guessed in a moment the meaning of that red scratch across the girl’s -bosom. She must have been carrying this token pressed close against her -flesh and its rough prickly edges had drawn blood. - -Nance sighed heavily and remained for a moment buried in gloomy -thought. Then, stepping softly to the door, she ran downstairs to see -if Mrs. Raps were still in her kitchen or had left any preparations -for their belated dinner. Their habit was to make their own breakfast -and tea, but to have their midday meal brought up to them from their -landlady’s table. She found an admirable collation carefully prepared -for them on a tray and a little note on the dresser telling her that -the family had gone to Mundham for the afternoon. - -“Bless your poor, dear heart,” the note ended, “the old man and I -thought best not to disappoint the children.” - -Nance felt faint with hunger. She put the kettle on the fire and made -tea and with this and Mrs. Raps’ tray she returned to her sister’s side -and roused her from her sleep. - -Linda seemed dazed and confused when she first woke. For the moment it -was difficult not to feel as though all the events of the night and -morning were a troubled and evil dream. Nance noticed the nervous and -bewildered way in which she put her hand to the mark upon her breast -as if wondering why it hurt her and the hasty disconcerted movement -with which she concealed the fir-cone beneath her pillow. In spite of -everything, however, their meal was not by any means an unhappy one. -The sun shone warm and bright upon the floor. Pleasant scents, in which -garden-roses, salt-sea freshness and the vague smell of peat and tar -mingled together, came in through the window, blent with the lazy, -cheerful sounds of the people’s holiday. After all they were both young -and neither the unsatisfied ache in the soul of the one nor the vague -new dread, bitter-sweet and full of strange forebodings, in the mind of -the other could altogether prevent the natural life-impulse with which, -like two wind-shaken plants in an intermission of quiet, they raised -their heads to the sky and the sunshine. They were young. They were -alive. They knew--too well, perhaps!--but still they knew what it was -to love, and the immense future, with all its infinite possibilities, -lay before them. “Sursum Corda!” the August airs whispered to them. -“Sursum Corda!” “Lift up your hearts!” their own young flesh and blood -answered. - -Linda did not hesitate as she ate and drank to confess to Nance how she -had betrayed her and how she had seen Brand in the park. Of the cedar -trees and their more ominous story she said nothing, but she told how -Philippa had sprung upon her in the avenue and of wild, cruel taunts. - -“She frightened me,” the girl murmured. “She always frightens me. -Do you think she would really have made me go back with her to the -house--to meet Brand and Mrs. Renshaw and all? I couldn’t have done -it,” she put her hands to her cheeks and trembled as she spoke, “I -couldn’t--I couldn’t! It would have been too shameful! And yet I -believe she was really going to make me. Do you think she was, Nance? -Do you think she _could_ have done such a thing?” - -Nance gripped the arms of her chair savagely. - -“Why didn’t you leave her, dear?” she exclaimed. “Why didn’t you simply -leave her and run off? She isn’t a witch. She’s simply a girl like -ourselves.” - -Linda smiled. “How fierce you look, darling! I believe if it had been -you you’d have slapped her face or pushed her down or something.” - -Nance gazed out of the window, frowning. She wondered to herself -by what spiritual magic Mr. Traherne and his white rat proposed to -obliterate the poisonous rage of jealousy. She wondered what he would -say, the devoted priest, to this uncalled for and cruel attack upon her -sister. She had never heard him mention Philippa at any time in their -talks. Was he as much afraid of _her_ beauty as he pretended to be of -her own? Did he make Philippa hide her ankles in her skirt when she -visited him? But she supposed she never did visit him. It was somehow -very difficult to imagine the sister of Brand Renshaw in the priest’s -little study. - -From Traherne, Nance’s mind wandered to Dr. Raughty. How kind he had -been to her when she was in despair about Linda! She had never seen -him half so serious or troubled. She could hardly help smiling as she -remembered the peculiar expression he wore and the way he pulled on his -coat and laced up his boots. She had let him give her a little glass of -_crême de menthe_ and she could see now, with wonderful distinctness, -the gravity with which he had watched her drink it. She felt certain -his hand had shaken with nervousness when he took the glass from her. -She could hear him clearing his throat and muttering some fantastic -invocation to what sounded like an Egyptian divinity. Surely the -effect of extreme anxiety could produce upon no one else in the world -but Dr. Raughty a tendency to allude to the great god Ra! And what -extraordinary things he had put into his little black bag as he sallied -forth with her to the bridge! Linda might have been in need of several -kinds of surgical operations from the preparations he made. - -He had promised to spend that day on a fishing trip, out to sea, with -Adrian and Baltazar. She wondered whether their boat was still in sight -or whether they had got beyond the view of Rodmoor harbour. - -“Linda, dear,” she said presently, catching her sister’s hand feeling -about under her pillows for the fir-cone she had hidden, “Linda, dear, -if I’m to forgive you for what you did last night, for running away -from me, I mean, and pretending things, will you do something that -I want now? Will you come down to the shore and see if we can see -anything of Adrian’s boat? He’s fishing with Dr. Raughty and Mr. Stork, -and I’d love to get a sight of their sail. I know it’s a sailing boat -they’ve gone in because Dr. Raughty said he was going to take his -mackintosh so that when they went fast and the water splashed over -the side he might be protected. I think he was a little scared of the -expedition. Poor dear man, between us all, I’m afraid we give him a lot -of shocks!” - -Linda jumped up quite eagerly. She felt prepared at that moment to do -anything to please her sister. Besides, there were certain agitating -thoughts in her brain which cried aloud for any kind of distraction. -They dressed and went out, choosing, as suited the holiday occasion, -brighter frocks and gayer hats than they had worn for many weeks. -Nance’s position in the Pontifex shop was a favourable one as far as -their wardrobe was concerned. - -They made their way down to the harbour. They were surprised, and -in Linda’s case at any rate not very pleasantly surprised, to find -tied to a post where the wharf widened and the grass grew between the -cobble-stones the little grey pony and brown pony-cart which Mrs. -Renshaw was in the habit of using when the hot weather made it tiring -for her to walk. - -“Let’s go back! Oh, Nance, let’s go back!” whispered Linda in a -panic-stricken voice. “I don’t feel I _can_ face her to-day.” - -They stood still, hesitating. - -“There she is,” cried Nance suddenly, “look--who’s she got there with -her?” - -“Oh, Nance, it’s Rachel, yes, it’s Rachel!” - -“She must have gone to Dyke House to fetch her,” murmured the other. -“Quick! Let’s go back.” - -But it was already too late. Rising from the seat where they were -talking together at the harbour’s edge, the two women moved towards the -girls, calling them by name. There was no escape now and the sisters -advanced to meet them. - -They made a strange foreground to the holiday aspect of the little -harbour, those two black-gowned figures. Mrs. Renshaw was a little in -front and her less erect and less rigid form had a certain drooping -pathos in its advance as though she deprecated her appearance in the -midst of so cheerful a scene. Both the women wore old-fashioned bonnets -of a kind that had been discarded for several years; but the dress and -the bonnet of Rachel Doorm presented the appearance of having been -dragged out of some ancient chest and thrust upon her in disregard -of the neglected condition of her other clothes. Contrasted with the -brightly rocking waters of the river mouth and the gay attire of the -boat-load of noisy lads and girls that was drifting sea-ward on the -out-flowing tide, the look of the two women, as they crossed the little -quay, might have suggested the sort of scene that, raised to a poetic -height by the genius of the ancient poets, has so often in classical -drama symbolized the approach of messengers of ill-omen. - -Mrs. Renshaw greeted the two sisters very nervously. Nance caught her -glancing with an air of ascetic disapproval at their bright-coloured -frocks and hats. Rachel, avoiding their eyes, extended a cold limp hand -to each in turn. They exchanged a few conventional and embarrassed -sentences, Nance as usual under such circumstances, giving vent to -little uncalled for bursts of rather disconcerting laughter. She had a -trick of opening her mouth very wide when she laughed like this, and -her grey eyes even wider still, which gave her an air of rather foolish -childishness quite inexpressive of what might be going on in her mind. - -After a while they all moved off, as if by an instinctive impulse, -away from the harbour mouth and towards the sea-shore. To do this they -had to pass a piece of peculiarly desolate ground littered with dead -fish, discarded pieces of nets and dried heaps of sun-bleached seaweed. -Nance had a moment’s quaint and morbid intimation that the peculiar -forlornness of this particular spot gratified in some way the taste -of Mrs. Renshaw, for her expression brightened a little and she moved -more cheerfully than when under the eyes of the loiterers on the wharf. -There were some young women paddling in the sea just at that place and -some young men watching them so that Mrs. Renshaw, who with Nance kept -in advance of the other two, led the way along the path immediately -under the sand-dunes. This was the very spot where, on the day of their -first exploration of the Rodmoor coast, they had seen the flowerless -leaves of the little plant called the rock-rose. The flowers of this -plant, as Nance observed them now, were already faded and withered, but -other sea growths met her eye which were not unfamiliar. There were -several tufts of grey-leaved sea-pinks and still greyer sea-lavender. -There were also some flaccid-stalked, glaucous weeds which she had -never noticed before and which seemed in the moist sappy texture of -their foliage as though their natural place was rather beneath than -above the salt water whose propinquity shaped their form. But what made -her pause and stoop down with sudden startled attention, was her first -sight of that plant described to her by Mr. Traherne as peculiarly -characteristic of the Rodmoor coast. Yes, there it was--the yellow -horned poppy! As she bent over it Nance realized how completely right -the priest had been in what he said. The thing’s oozy, clammy leaves -were of a wonderful bluish tint, a tint that nothing in the world short -of the sea itself, could have possibly called into existence. They were -spiked and prickly, these leaves, and their shape was clear-edged and -threatening, as if modelled in sinister caprice, by some Da Vinci-like -Providence, willing enough to startle and shock humanity. But what -struck the girl more vividly than either the bluish tint or the -threatening spikes were the large, limply-drooping flowers of a pallid -sulphurous yellow which the plant displayed. They were flowers that -bore but small resemblance to the flowers of other poppies. They had a -peculiarly melancholy air, even before they began to fade, an air as -though the taste of their petals would produce a sleep of a deeper, -more obliterating kind than any “drowsy syrups” or “mandragora” which -the sick soul might crave, to “rase out” its troubles. - -Mrs. Renshaw smiled as Nance rose from her long scrutiny of this weird -plant, a plant that might be imagined “rooting itself at ease on -Lethe’s wharf” while the ghost-troops swept by, whimpering and wailing. - -“I always like the horned poppy,” she remarked, “it’s different from -other flowers. You can’t imagine it growing in a garden, can you? I -like that. I like things that are wild--things no one can imprison.” - -She sighed heavily when she had said this and, turning her head away as -they walked on, looked wearily across the water. - -“Bank-holidays are days for the young,” she went on, after a pause. -“The poor people look forward to them and I’m glad they do for they -have a hard life. But you must have a young heart, Nance, a young heart -to enjoy these things. I feel sometimes that we don’t live enough in -other people’s happiness but it’s hard to do it when one gets older.” - -She was silent again and then, as Nance glanced at her -sympathetically, “I like Rodmoor because there are no grand people -here and no motor-cars or noisy festivities. It’s a pleasure to see the -poor enjoying themselves but the others, they make my head ache! They -trouble me. I always think of Sodom and Gomorrah when I see them.” - -“I suppose,” murmured the girl, “that they’re human beings and have -their feelings, like the rest of us.” - -A shadow of almost malignant bitterness crossed Mrs. Renshaw’s face. - -“I can’t bear them! I can’t bear them!” she cried fiercely. “Those -that laugh shall weep,” she added, looking at her companion’s prettily -designed dress. - -“Yes, I’m afraid happy people are often hard-hearted,” remarked Nance, -anxious if possible to fall in with the other’s mood, but feeling -decidedly uneasy. Mrs. Renshaw suddenly changed the conversation. - -“I went over to see Rachel,” she said, “because I heard you had left -her and were working in the shop.” - -She took a deep breath and her voice trembled. - -“I think it was wrong of you to leave her,” she went on, “I think it -was cruel of you. I know what you will say. I know what all you young -people nowadays say about being independent and so forth. But it was -wrong all the same, wrong and cruel! Your duty was clearly to your -mother’s friend. I suppose,” she added bitterly, “you didn’t like her -sadness and loneliness. You wanted more cheerful companionship.” - -Nance wondered in her heart whether Mrs. Renshaw’s hostility to the -complacent and contented ones of the earth was directed, in this case, -against the hard-worked sewing girls or against poor Miss Pontifex and -her little garden. - -“I did it,” she replied, “for Linda’s sake. She and Miss Doorm didn’t -seem happy together.” - -As she spoke, she glanced apprehensively round to ascertain how -near the others were, but it seemed as though Rachel had resumed -her ascendency over the young girl. They appeared to be engaged in -absorbing conversation and had stopped side by side, looking at the -sea. Mrs. Renshaw turned upon her resentfully, a smouldering fire of -anger in her brown eyes. - -“Rachel has spoken to me about that,” she said. “She told me you were -displeased with her because she encouraged Linda to meet my son. I -don’t like this interference with the feelings of people! My son is -of an age to choose for himself and so is your sister. Why should you -set yourself to come between them? I don’t like such meddling. It’s -interfering with Nature!” - -Nance stared at her blankly, watching mechanically the feverish way her -fingers closed and unclosed, plucking at a stalk of sea-lavender which -she had picked. - -“But you said--you said--” she protested feebly, “that Mr. Renshaw was -not a suitable companion for young girls.” - -“I’ve changed my mind since then,” continued the other, “at any rate in -this case.” - -“Why?” asked Nance hurriedly. “Why have you?” - -“Because,” and the lady raised her voice quite loudly, “because he -told me himself the other day that it was possible that he would marry -before long.” - -She glanced triumphantly at Nance. “So you see what you’ve been doing! -You’ve been trying to interfere with the one thing I’ve been praying -for for years!” - -Nance positively gasped at this. Had Brand really said such a thing? Or -if he had, was it possible that it was anything but a blind to cover -the tracks of his selfishness? But whatever was the reason of the son’s -remark it was clear that Nance could not, especially in the woman’s -present mood, justify her dark suspicions of him to his mother. So she -did nothing but continue to stare, nervously and helplessly, at the -stalk which Mrs. Renshaw’s excited fingers were pulling to pieces. - -“I know why you’re so opposed to my son,” continued Mrs. Renshaw in -a lower and somewhat gentler tone. “It’s because he’s so much older -than your sister. But you’re wrong there, Nance. It’s always better -for the man to be older than the woman. Tennyson says that very thing, -in one of his poems, I think in ‘The Princess.’ He puts it poetically -of course, but he must have felt the truth of it very strongly or he -wouldn’t have brought it in. Nance, you’ve no idea how I have been -praying and longing for Brand to see some one he felt he could marry! I -know it’s what he needs to make him happy. That is to say, of course, -if the girl is good and gentle and obedient.” - -The use of the word “obedient” in this connection was too much -for Nance’s nerves. Her feelings towards Mrs. Renshaw were always -undergoing rapid and contradictory changes. When she had talked of -Smollett and Dickens in their little sitting room the girl felt she -could do anything for her, so exquisitely guileless her soul seemed, -so spiritual and, as it were, transparent. But at this moment, as she -observed her, there was an obstinate, pinched look about her face and a -rigid tightening of all its lines. It was an expression that harmonized -only too well with her next remark. - -“Your setting yourself against my son,” she said, “is only what I -expected. Philippa would be just like you if I said anything to her. -All you young people are too much for me. You are too much for me. But -I hear what you say and go on just the same.” - -The look of dogged and inflexible resolution with which she uttered -this last sentence contrasted strangely with her frail aspect and her -weary drooping frame. - -But that phrase about “obedience” still rankled in Nance’s mind, and -she could not help saying, “Why is it, Mrs. Renshaw, that you always -speak as though all the duty and burden of marriage rested upon the -woman? I don’t see why it’s more necessary for her to be good and -gentle than it is for the man!” - -Her companion’s pallid lips quivered at this into a smile of -complicated irony and a strange light came into her hollow eyes. - -“Ah, my dear, my dear!” she exclaimed, “you are indeed young yet. When -you’re a few years older and have come to know better what the world -is like, you will understand the truth of what I say. God has ordered, -in his inscrutable wisdom, that there should be a different right and -wrong for us women, from what there is for men. It may seem unjust. It -may _be_ unjust. We can no more alter it or change it than we can alter -or change the shape of our bodies. A woman is _made_ to obey. She finds -her happiness in obeying. You young people may say what you please, but -any deviation from this rule is contrary to Nature. Even the cleverest -people,” she added with a smile, “can’t interfere with Nature without -suffering for it.” - -Nance felt absolutely nonplussed. The woman’s words fell from her with -such force and were uttered with such a melancholy air of finality, -that her indignation died down within her like a flame beneath the -weight of a rain-soaked garment. Mrs. Renshaw looked sadly over the -brightly-rocking expanse of sunlit water, dotted with white sails. - -“It may appear to us unjust,” she went on. “It may _be_ unjust. God -does not seem in his infinite pleasure to have considered our ideas of -justice in making the world. Perhaps if he had there would be no women -in the world at all! Ah, Nance, my dear, it’s no use kicking against -the pricks. We were made to bear, to endure, to submit, to suffer. Any -attempt to escape this great law necessarily ends in misery. Suffering -is not the worst evil in the world. Yielding to brutal force is not the -worst, either. I sometimes think, from what I’ve observed in my life, -that there are depths of horror known to men, depths of horror through -which men are driven, compared with which all that _we_ suffer at their -hands is paradise!” - -Her eyes had so strange and illumined an expression as she uttered -these words that Nance could not help shuddering. - -“We, too,” she murmured, “fall into depths of horror sometimes and it -is men who drive us into them.” - -Mrs. Renshaw did not seem to hear her. She went on dreamily. - -“We can console ourselves. We have our duties. We have our little -things which must be done. God has given to these little things a -peculiar consecration. He has touched them with his breath so that they -are full of unexpected consolations. There are horizons and vistas in -them such as no one who hasn’t experienced what I mean can possibly -imagine. They are like tiny ferns or flowers--our ‘little things,’ -Nance, growing at the bottom of a precipice.” - -The girl could restrain herself no longer. - -“I don’t agree with you! I don’t, I don’t!” she cried. “Life is large -and infinite and splendid and there are possibilities in it for all of -us--for women just as much as men; just, just as much!” - -Mrs. Renshaw smiled at her with a look in her face that was half -pitiful and half ironical. “You don’t like my talk of ‘little things.’ -You want great things. You want Abana and Pharpar, rivers of Damascus! -Even your sacrifice--if you _do_ sacrifice yourself--must be striking, -stirring, wonderful! Ah, my dear, my dear, wait a little, wait a -little. A time will come when you’ll learn what the secret is of a -woman’s life on this earth.” - -Nance made a desperate gesture of protest. Something treacherous in her -own heart seemed to yield to her companion’s words but she struggled -vigorously against it. - -“What we women have to do,” Mrs. Renshaw continued pitilessly, “is to -make some one need us--need us with his whole nature. That is what is -meant by loving a man. Everything else is mere passion and tends to -misery. The more submissive we are, the more they need us. I tell you, -Nance, the deepest instinct in our blood is the instinct to be needed. -When a person needs us we love him. Everything else is mere animal -instinct and burns itself out.” - -Nance fumbled vaguely and helplessly in her mind, as she listened, -to get back something of the high, inspiring tone of Mr. Traherne’s -mystical doctrine. _That_ had thrilled her and strengthened her, while -_this_ flung her into the lowest depths of despondency. Yet, in a -certain sense, as she was compelled to admit to herself, there was very -little practical difference between the two points of view. It was only -that, with Mrs. Renshaw, the whole thing took on a certain desolate and -disastrous colour as if high spirits and gaiety and adventurousness -were wrong in themselves and as if nothing but what was pitched in a -low unhappy key could possibly be the truth of the universe. The girl -had a curious feeling, all the while she was speaking, that in some -subtle way the unfortunate woman was deriving a morbid pleasure from -putting thrilling and exalted things upon a ground that annihilated the -emotion of heroism. - -“Shall we go down to the sea now, dear?” said Mrs. Renshaw suddenly. -“The others will see us and follow.” - -They moved together across the clinging sand. When they approached -the water’s edge, now deserted of holiday-makers, Nance searched the -skyline for any sail that might be the one carrying Sorio and his -friends. She made out two or three against the blue distance but it was -quite impossible to tell which of these, if any, was the one that bore -the man who, according to her companion’s words, would only “need” her -if she served him like a slave. - -Mrs. Renshaw began picking up shells from the debris-scattered windrow -at the edge of the wet tide-mark. As she did this and showed them one -by one to Nance, her face once more assumed that clear, transparent -look, spiritual beyond description and touched with a childish -happiness, which the girl had noticed upon it when she spoke of the -books she loved. Could it be that only where religion or the opposite -sex were concerned this strange being was diseased and perverted? If -so, how dreadful, how cruel, that the two things which were to most -people the very mainspring of life were to this unhappy one the deepest -causes of wretchedness! Yet Nance was far from satisfied with her -reading of the mystery of Mrs. Renshaw. There was something in the -woman, in spite of her almost savage outbursts of self-revelation, so -aloof, so proud, so reserved that the girl felt only vaguely assured -she was on the right track with regard to her. Perhaps, after all, -below that tone of self-humiliating sentiment with which she habitually -spoke of both God and man, there was some deep and passionate current -of feeling, hidden from all the world? Or was she, essentially and in -secret truth, cold and hard and pagan and only forcing herself to drink -the cup of what she conceived to be Christianity out of a species of -half-insane pride? In all her utterances with regard to religion and -sex there was, Nance felt, a kind of heavy materiality, as if she got -an evil satisfaction in rendering what is usually called “goodness” -as colourless and contemptible as possible. But now as she picked up -a trumpet-shaped shell from the line of debris and held it up, her -eyes liquid with pleasure, to the girl’s view, Nance could not resist -the impression that she was in some strange way a creature forced and -driven out of her natural element into these obscure perversities. - -“I used to paint these shells when I was a girl,” Mrs. Renshaw remarked. - -“What colour?” Nance answered, still thinking more of the woman than -of her words. Her companion looked at her and burst into quite a merry -laugh. - -“I don’t mean paint the shell itself,” she said. “You’re not listening -to me, Nance. I mean copy it, of course, and paint the drawing. I used -to collect sea-weeds too, in those days, and dry them in a book. I have -that book somewhere still,” she added, wistfully, “but I don’t know -where.” - -She had won the girl’s attention completely now. Nance seemed to -visualize with a sudden sting of infinite pity the various little -relics so entirely dissociated from Rodmoor and its inhabitants which -this reserved woman must keep stored up in that gloomy house. - -“It’s a funny thing,” Mrs. Renshaw went on, “but I can smell at this -moment quite distinctly (I suppose it’s being down here by the sea that -makes it come to me) the very scent of that book! The pages used to -get stuck together and when I pulled them apart there was always the -imprint of the seaweed on the paper. I used to like to see that. It was -as though Nature had drawn it.” - -“It’s lovely, collecting things,” Nance remarked sympathetically. “I -used to collect butterflies when I was a child. Dad used to say I was -more like a boy than a girl.” - -Mrs. Renshaw glanced at her with a curious look. - -“Nance, dear,” she said in a low, trembling voice, “don’t ever get into -the habit of trying to be boyish and that sort of thing. Don’t ever do -that! The only good women are the women who accept God’s will and bow -to his pleasure. Anything else leads to untold wretchedness.” - -Nance made no reply to this and they both began searching for more -shells among the stranded sea-drift. - -Over their heads the sea-gulls whirled with wild disturbed screams. -There was only one sail on the horizon now and Nance fixed her thoughts -upon it and an immense longing for Adrian surged up in her heart. - -Meanwhile, between Linda and Miss Doorm a conversation much more -sinister was proceeding. Rachel seemed from their first encounter and -as soon as the girl came into contact with her to reassert all her old -mastery. She deliberately overcame the frightened child’s instinctive -movement to keep pace with the others and held her closely to her side -as if by the power of some ancient link between them, too strong to be -overcome. - -“Let me look at you,” she said as soon as their friends were out of -hearing. “Let me look into your eyes, my pretty one!” - -She laid one of her gaunt hands on the girl’s shoulder and with the -other held up her chin. - -“Yes,” she remarked after a long scrutiny during which Linda seemed -petrified into a sort of dumb submission, “yes, I can see you’ve -struggled against him. I can see you’ve not given up without an effort. -That means that you _have_ given up! If you hadn’t fought against him -he wouldn’t have followed you. He’s like that. He always _was_ like -that.” She removed her hands but kept her eyes fixed gloomily on the -girl’s face. “I expect you’re wishing now you’d never seen this place, -eh? Aren’t you wishing that? So this is the end of all your selfishness -and your vanity? Yes, it’s the end, Linda Herrick. It’s the end.” - -She dragged the girl slowly forward along the path. On their right -as they advanced, the sun flickered upon the rank grasses which grew -intermittently in the soft sand and on their left the glittering sea -lay calm and serene under the spacious sky. - -Linda felt her feet grow heavy beneath her and her heart sank with a -sick misgiving as she saw how far they had permitted the others to -outstrip them. Beyond anything else it was the power of cruel memories -which held the young girl now so docile, so helpless, in the other’s -hands. The old panic-stricken terror which Rachel had the power of -exciting in her when a child seemed ineluctable in its endurance. -Faintly and feebly in her heart Linda struggled against this spell. -She longed to shake herself free and rush desperately in pursuit of -the others but her limbs seemed turned to lead and her will seemed -paralyzed. - -Rachel’s face was white and haggard. She seemed animated by some -frenzied impulse--some inward, demoniac force which drove her on. Drops -of perspiration stood out upon her forehead and made the grey hair that -fell across it moist and clammy under the rim of her dusty black hat. -Her clothes, as she held the girl close to her side, threw upon the air -a musty, fetid odour. - -“Where are your soft ways now?” she went on, “your little clinging -ways, your touching little babyish ways? Where are your whims and your -fancies? Your caprices and your blushes? Where are your white-faced -pretences, and your sham terrors, only put on to make you look sweet?” - -She had her hand upon the girl’s arm as she spoke and she tightened her -grasp, almost shaking her in her mad malignity. - -“Before you were born your mother was afraid of me,” she went on. “Oh, -she gained little by cutting me out with her pretty looks! She gained -little, Linda Herrick! She dared scarcely look me in the face in those -days. She was afraid even to hate me. That is why _you_ are what you -are. You’re the child of her terror, Linda Herrick, the child of her -terror!” - -She paused for a moment while the girl’s breath came in gasps through -her white lips as if under the burden of an incubus. - -“Listen!” the woman hissed at last, staggering a little and actually -leaning against the girl as though the frenzy of her malignity deprived -her of her strength. “Listen, Linda. Do you remember what I used to -tell you about your father? How in his heart all the time he loved only -me? How he would sooner have got rid of your mother than have got rid -of me? Do you remember that? Listen, then! There’s something else I -must say to you--something that you’ve never guessed, something that -you couldn’t guess. When you were--” she stopped, panting heavily and -if Linda had not mechanically assisted her she would have fallen. “When -you were--when I was--” Her breath seemed to fail her then completely. -She put her hand to her side and in spite of the girl’s feeble effort -to support her she sank, moaning, to the ground. - -Linda looked helplessly round. Nance and Mrs. Renshaw had passed beyond -a little promontory of sand-hills and were concealed from view. She -knelt down by Rachel’s side. Even then--even when those vindictive -dark eyes looked at her without a sign of consciousness, they seemed -to hold her with their power. As they remained mute and motionless in -this manner, the prostrate woman and the kneeling girl, a faint gust -of wind, blowing the sand in a little cloud before it and rustling the -leaves of the horned poppies, brought to Linda’s senses an odour of -inland fields. She felt a dim return, under this air, of her normal -faculties and taking one of the woman’s hands in her own she began -gently chafing it. Rachel answered to the touch and a shiver passed -through her frame. Then, in a flash, intelligence came back into her -eyes and her lips moved. Linda bent lower so as to catch her words. -They came brokenly, and in feeble gasps. - -“I loved him so, I loved him more than my life. He took my life and -killed it. He killed my heart. He brought me those beads from far -across the sea. They were for me--not for her. He brought them for me, -I tell you. I gave him my heart for them and he killed it. He killed -it and buried it. This isn’t Rachel’s heart any more. No! No! It isn’t -Rachel’s. Rachel’s heart has gone with him--with the Captain--over -great wide seas. He got it--out of me--when--he--kissed my mouth.” - -Her voice died away in inarticulate mutterings. Then once more her -words grew human and clear. - -“My heart went with him long ago, after that, over the sea. It was in -all his ships. It was in every ship he sailed in--over far-off seas. -And in place of my heart--something else--something else--came and -lived in Rachel. It is this that--that--” The intelligence once more -faded out of her eyes and she lay stiff and motionless. Linda had a -sudden thought that she was dead and, with the thought, her fear of her -rolled away. Looking at her now, lying there, in her black dress and -crumpled bonnet, she seemed to see her as she was, a mad, wretched, -passion-scorched human being. It crossed the young girl’s mind how -inconceivable it was that this haggard image of desolation had once -been young and soft-limbed, had once danced out on summer mornings -to meet the sun as any other child! But even as this thought came to -her, Rachel stirred and moved again. Her eyes had a dazed expression -now--a clouded, sullen, hopeless expression. Slowly and with laborious -effort, refusing Linda’s assistance, she rose to her feet. - -“Go and call them,” she said in a low voice. “Go and call them. Tell -Mrs. Renshaw that I’m ill--that she must take me home. You won’t be -troubled with me much longer--not much longer! But you won’t forget me. -Brand will see to that! No, you won’t forget me, Linda Herrick.” - -The girl ran off without looking back. When the three of them returned, -Rachel Doorm seemed to have quite resumed her normal taciturnity. - -They walked back, all four together, to the harbour mouth. The sisters -helped the two women into the little cart and untied the pony. As they -clattered away over the cobble-stones, Nance received from Mrs. Renshaw -a smile of gratitude, a smile of such illumined and spiritual gaiety -that it rendered the pale face which it lit up beautiful with the -beauty of some ancient picture. - -When the pony-cart had disappeared, Nance and Linda sat down together -on the wooden bench watching the white sail upon the horizon and -talking of Rachel Doorm. - -Most of the holiday-makers had now retired to their tea and a fresh -breeze, coming in with the turn of the tide, blew pleasantly upon -the girls’ foreheads and ruffled the soft hair under their daintily -beribboned hats. Nance, holding in her fingers the trumpet-shaped -shell, found herself suddenly wondering--perhaps because the shape -of the shell reminded her of it--whether Linda had left that ominous -fir-cone behind her in her room or whether at the last moment she had -again slipped it into her dress. She glanced sideways at her sister’s -girlish bosom, scarcely stirring now as with her head turned she looked -at the full-brimmed tide, and she wondered if, under that white and -pink frock so coquettishly open at the throat, there were any newly -created blood-stains from the rasping impact of that rough-edged trophy -of the satyr-haunted woods of Oakguard. - -The afternoon light was so beautiful upon the water at that moment and -the cries of the circling sea-gulls so full of an elemental callousness -that the elder girl experienced a sort of fierce reaction against -the whole weight of this intolerable sex-passion that was spoiling -both their lives. Something hard, free and reckless seemed to rise up -within her, in defiance of every sort of feminine sentiment and, hardly -thinking what she did or of the effect of her words, “Quick, my dear,” -she cried suddenly, “give me that fir-cone you’ve got under your dress!” - -Linda’s hands rose at once and she clutched at her bosom, but her -sister was too quick for her and too strong. Nance’s feeling at that -moment was as if she were plucking a snake away. Rising to her feet -when she had secured the trophy, she lifted up her arm and, with a -fierce swing of her whole body, flung both it and the shell she had -herself been holding far into the centre-current of the inflowing tide. - -“So much for Love!” she cried fiercely. - -The shell sank at once to the bottom but the fir-cone floated. For a -moment, when she saw Linda’s dismay, she felt a pang of remorse. But -she crushed it fiercely down. Behind her whole mood at that moment was -a savage reaction from Mrs. Renshaw’s emotional perversity. - -“Come!” she cried, snatching at her sister’s hand as Linda wavered on -the wharf-brink and watched the fir-cone drift behind an anchored barge -and disappear. “Come! Let’s go back and help Miss Pontifex water her -garden. Then we’ll have tea and then we’ll go for a row if it isn’t too -dark! Perhaps Dr. Raughty will be home by then and we’ll make him take -us.” - -She was so resolute and so dominant that Linda could do nothing but -meekly submit to her. Strangely enough she, too, felt a certain rebound -of youthful vivacity now she was conscious no longer of the rough -wood-token pressing against her flesh. She also, after what she had -heard from the lips of Rachel, experienced a reaction against the -sorrow of “what men call love.” Their mood continued unaltered until -they reached the gate of the dressmaker’s garden. - -“Then it’s Dr. Raughty--not Adrian,” the younger girl remarked with a -smile, “that we’re to have to row us to-night?” - -Nance looked quickly back at her and made an effort to smile too. But -the sight of the flower-beds and the carefully tended box-hedges of -the little garden, had been associated too long and too deeply with -the pain at her heart. Her smile died away from her face and it was in -silence after all and still bowed, for all their brave revolt under -the burden of their humanity, that the two girls set themselves to -water, as the August sun went down into the fens, the heavily-scented -phloxes and sweet lavender of the admirable Miss Pontifex. That little -lady was herself at that moment staring demurely, under the escort of -a broad-shouldered nephew from London, at a stirring representation of -“East Lynne” in a picture show in Mundham! - - - - -XIX - -LISTENERS - - -August, now it had once come, proved hotter than was usual in that -windy East Anglian district. Before the month was half over the harvest -had begun and the wheat fields by the river bank stood bare and stubbly -round their shocks of corn. Twined with the wheat stalks and fading -now, since their support had been cut away, were all those bright and -brilliant field flowers which Nance had watched with so tender an -emotion in their yet unbudded state from her haunt by the willow bed. -Fumitory and persicaria, succory and corn cockles, blent together in -those fragrant holocausts with bindweed and hawkweed. At the edges of -the fields the second brood of scarlet poppies still lingered on like -thin streaks of spilt red blood round the scalps of closely cropped -heads. In the marshy places and by the dykes and ditches the newly -grown rush spears were now feathery and high, overtopping their own -dead of the year before and gradually hiding them from sight. The last -of all the season’s flowers, the lavender-coloured Michaelmas daisies -alone refused to anticipate their normal flowering. But even these, in -several portions of the salt marshes, were already high-grown and only -waiting the hot month’s departure to put forth their autumnal blossoms. -In the dusty corners of Rodmoor yards and in the littered outskirts -of Mundham, where there were several gravel-quarries, camomile and -feverfew--those pungent children of the late summer, lovers of rubbish -heaps and deserted cow sheds--trailed their delicate foliage and -friendly flowers. In the wayside hedges, wound-wort was giving place -to the yellow spikes of the flower called “archangel,” while those -“buds of marjoram,” appealed to in so wistful and so bitter a strain -by the poet of the _Sonnets_, were superseding the wild basil. The -hot white dust of the road between Rodmoor and Mundham rose in clouds -under the wheels of every kind of vehicle and, as it rose, it swept in -spiral columns across that grassy expanse which, in accordance with -the old liberal custom of East Anglian road-makers, separated the -highway on both sides from the enclosing hedges. With the sound of the -corn-cutting machine humming drowsily all day and, in the twilight, -with the shouts and cries of the children as their spirits rose with -the appearance of the moths and bats, there mingled steadily, day in -and day out, the monotonous splash of the waves on Rodmoor beach. - -To those in the vicinity, whom Nature or some ill-usage of destiny had -made morbidly sensitive to that particular sound, there was perhaps -something harder to bear in its placid reiterated rhythm under these -halcyon influences than when, in rougher weather, it broke into -fury. The sound grew in intensity as it diminished in volume and -with the _beat, beat, beat_, of its eternal refrain, sharpened and -brought nearer in the silence of the hot August noons there came to -such nervously sensitive ears as were on the alert to receive it, an -increasingly disturbing resemblance to the sistole and diastole, the -inbreathing and outbreathing of some huge, half-human heart. - -Among the various persons in Rodmoor from whom the greater and more -beneficent gods seemed turning away their faces and leaving them a prey -to the lesser and more vindictive powers, it is probable that not one -felt so conscious of this note of insane repetition, almost bestial -in its blind persistence, as did Philippa Renshaw. Philippa, in those -early August weeks, became more and more aloof from both her mother -and Brand. She met Sorio once or twice but that was rather by chance -than by design and the encounters were not happy for either of them. -Insomnia grew upon her and her practise of roaming at night beneath -the trees of the park grew with it. Brand often followed her on these -nocturnal wanderings but only once was he successful in persuading her -to return with him to the house. In proportion as she drew away from -him he seemed to crave her society. - -One night, after Mrs. Renshaw had retired to bed, the brother and -sister lingered on in the darkened library. It was a peculiarly -sultry evening and a heavy veil of mist obscured the young crescent -moon. Through the open windows came hot gusts of air, ruffling the -curtains and making the candle flames flicker. Brand rose and blew -out all the lights except one which he placed on a remote table below -the staring dark-visaged portrait, painted some fifty years before, -of Herman Renshaw, their father. The other pictures that hung in -the spaces between the book-shelves were now reduced to a shadowy -and ghostly obscurity, an obscurity well adapted to the faded and -melancholy lineaments of these older, but apparently no happier, -Renshaws of Oakguard. Round the candle he had left alight a little -group of agitated moths hovered and at intervals as one or other of -them got singed it would dash itself with wild blind flutterings, into -the remotest corners of the room. From the darkness outside came an -occasional rustle of leaves and sighing of branches as the gusts of hot -air rose and died away. The oppressive heat was like the burden of a -huge, palpable hand laid upon the roof of the house. Now and again some -startled creature pursued by owl or weasel uttered a panic-stricken -cry, but whether its enemy seized upon it, or whether it escaped, the -eyes of the darkness alone knew. Its cry came suddenly and stopped -suddenly and the steady beat of the rhythm of the night went on as -before. - -Brand flung himself down in a low chair and his sister balanced -herself on the arm of it, a lighted cigarette between her mocking -lips. Hovering thus in the shadow above him, her flexible form swaying -like a phantom created out of mist, she might have been taken for the -embodiment of some perverse vision, some dream avatar from the vices of -the dead past. - -“After all,” Brand murmured in a low voice, a voice that sounded as -though his thoughts were taking shape independently of his conscious -will, “after all, what do I want with Linda or any of them since I’ve -got you?” - -She made a mocking inclination of her head at this but kept silence, -only letting her eyes cling, with a strange light in them, to his -disturbed face. After a pause he spoke again. - -“And yet she suits me better than any one--better than I expected it -was possible for a girl like that to suit me. She’ll never get over her -fear of me and that means she’ll never get over her love. I ought to be -contented with that, oughtn’t I?” - -He paused again and still Philippa uttered no word. “I don’t think you -quite understand,” he went on, “all that there is between her and me. -We touch one another _in the depths_, there’s no doubt about that, and -our boat takes us where there are no soundings, none at least that I’ve -ever made! We touch one another where that noise--oh, damn the wind! I -don’t mean the wind!--is absolutely still. Have _you_ ever reached a -point when you’ve got that noise out of your ears? No--you know very -well you haven’t! You were born hearing it--just as I was--and you’ll -die hearing it. But with her, just because she’s so afraid, so madly -afraid--do you understand?--I _have_ reached that point. I reached it -the other night when we were together. Yes! You may smile--you little -devil--but it’s quite true. She put it clear out of my head just as if -she’d driven the tide back!” - -He stared at the cloud of faint blue smoke that floated up round his -sister’s white face and then he met her eyes again. - -“Bah!” he flung out angrily. “What absurd nonsense it all is! We’ve -been living too long in this place, we Renshaws, that’s what’s the -matter with us! We ought to sell the confounded house and clear out -altogether! I will too, when mother dies. Yes, I will--brewery or no -brewery--and go off with Tassar to one of his foreign places. I’ll sell -the whole thing, the land and the business! It’s begun to get on my -nerves. It _must_ have got on my nerves, mustn’t it, when that simple -_break, break, break_, as mother’s absurd poem says of this damned sea, -sounds to me like the beating heart of something, of something whose -heart ought to be _stopped_ from beating!” - -His voice which had risen to a loud pitch of excitement died away in a -sort of apologetic murmur. - -“Sorry,” he muttered, “only don’t look at me like that, you girl. -There, clear off and sit further away! It’s that look of yours that -makes me talk in this silly fashion. God help us! I don’t blame that -foreign fellow for getting queer in his head. You’ve got something in -those eyes of yours, Philippa, that no living girl ought to be allowed -to have! Bah! You’ve made me talk like an absolute fool.” - -Instead of moving away as she had been bidden, Philippa touched her -brother with a light caress. Never had she looked so entirely a -creature of the old perverse civilizations as she looked at that moment. - -“Mother thinks you’re going to marry that girl,” she whispered, “but I -know better than that, and I’m always right in these things, am I not, -Brand darling?” - -He fell back under her touch and the shadowy lines of his face -contracted. He presented the appearance of something withered and -crumpled. Her mocking smile still divided her curved lips, curved in -the subtle, archaic way as in the marbles of ancient Greece. Whatever -may have been the secret of her power over him, it manifested itself -now in the form of a spiritual cruelty which he found very difficult to -bear. He made a movement that was almost an appeal. - -“Say I’m right, say I’m always right in these things!” she persisted. - -But at that moment a diversion occurred, caused by the sudden entrance -of a large bat. The creature uttered a weird querulous cry, like the -cry of a newborn babe and went wheeling over their heads in desperate -rapid circles, beating against the book-case and the picture frames. -Presently, attracted by the light, it swooped down upon the flame of -the candle and in a moment had extinguished it, plunging the room into -complete darkness. - -Philippa, with a low taunting laugh, ran across the room and wrapped -herself in one of the window curtains. - -“Open the door and drive it out,” she cried. “Drive it out, I say! Are -you afraid of a thing like that?” - -But Brand seemed either to have sunk into a kind of trance or to be too -absorbed in his thoughts to make any movement. He remained reclining in -his chair, silent and motionless. - -The girl cautiously withdrew from her shelter and, fumbling about for -matches, at last found a box and struck a light. The bat flew past her -as she did so and whirled away into the night. She lit several candles -and held one of them close to her brother’s face. Thus illuminated, -Brand’s sinister countenance had the look of a mediæval wood-carving. -He might have been the protagonist of one of those old fantastic prints -representing Doctor Faustus after some hopeless struggle with his -master-slave. - -“Take it away, you! Let me alone. I’ve talked too much to you already. -This is a hot night, eh? A hot night and the kind that sets a person -thinking. Bah! I’ve thought too much. It’s thinking that causes all -the devilries in the world. Thinking, and hearing hearts beating, that -ought to be stopped!” - -He pushed her aside and rose, stretching himself and yawning. - -“What’s the time? What? Only ten o’clock? How early mother must have -gone to bed! This is the kind of night in which people kill their -mothers. Yes, they do, Philippa. You needn’t peer at me like that! And -they do it when their mothers have daughters that look like you--just -like you at this very moment.” - -He leaned against the back of a chair and watched her as she stood -negligently by the mantelpiece, her arm extended along its marble -surface. - -“Why does mother always say these things to you about my marrying?” he -continued in a broken thick voice. “You lead her on to think of these -things and then when she comes out with them you bring them to me, to -make me angry with her. Tell me this, Philippa, why do you hate mother -so? Why did you have that look in your face just now when I talked of -killing her? What--would--you--Hang it all, girl, stop staring and -smiling at me like that or it’ll be you I’ll kill! Oh, Heaven above, -help us! This hot night will send us all into Bedlam!” - -He suddenly stopped and began intently listening, his eyes on his -sister’s face. “Did you hear that?” he whispered huskily. “She’s -walking up and down the passage--walking in her slippers, that’s -why you can hardly hear her. Hush! Listen! She’ll go presently into -father’s room. She always does that in the end. What do you think she -does there, Philippa? Rummages about, I suppose, and opens and shuts -drawers and changes the pictures! What people we are! God--what people -we are! I suppose the sound of her doing all that irritates you till -your brain nearly bursts. It’s a strange thing, isn’t it, this family -life! Human beings like us weren’t meant to be stuck in a hole together -like wasps in a bottle. Listen! Do you hear that? She’s doing something -to his window now. A lot he cares, six feet under the clay! But it -shows how he holds her still, doesn’t it?” He made a gesture in the -direction of his father’s picture upon which the candle-light shone -clearly now, animating its heavy features. - -“Do you know,” he continued solemnly, looking closely at his sister -again, “I believe one of these nights, when she walks up and down -like that, in her soft slippers, you’ll go straight up and kill her -yourself. Yes, I believe you listen like this every night till you -could put your fingers in your ears and scream.” - -He moved across the room and, approaching his sister, shook her roughly -by the arm. Some psychic change in the atmosphere about them seemed to -have completely altered their relations. - -“Confess--confess--you girl!” he muttered harshly. “Confess now--when -you go rushing off like that into the park it isn’t to see that foreign -fellow at all? It isn’t even to lie, as I know you love to do, touching -the stalks of the poison funguses with the tip of your tongue under the -oak trunks? It’s to escape from hearing her, that’s what it is! Confess -now. It’s to escape from hearing her!” - -He suddenly relaxed his grasp and stood erect, listening intently. The -sweet heavy scent of magnolia petals floated in through the window and -somewhere--far off among the trees--a screech-owl uttered a broken -wail, followed by the flapping of wings. The clock in the hall outside -began striking the hour. Before each stroke a ponderous metallic -vibration trembled through the silent house. - -“It’s only ten now,” he said. “The clock in here is fast.” - -As he spoke there was a loud ring at the entrance door. The brother -and sister stared blankly at one another and then Philippa gave a -low unnatural laugh. “We might be criminals,” she whispered. They -instinctively assumed more easy and less dramatic positions and waited -in silence, while from the distant servants’ quarters some one came -to answer the summons. They heard the door opened and the sound of -suppressed voices in the hall. There was a moment’s pause, during which -Philippa looked mockingly and enquiringly at Brand. - -“It’s our dear priest,” she whispered, “and some one else, too.” - -“Surely the fool’s not going to try--” began Brand. - -“Mr. Traherne and Dr. Raughty!” announced the servant, opening the -library door and holding it open while the visitors entered. - -The clergyman advanced first. He shook hands with Brand and bowed with -old-fashioned courtesy to Philippa. Dr. Raughty, following him, shook -hands with Philippa and nodded nervously at her brother. The two men -sank into the seats offered them and accepted an invitation to smoke. -Brand moved to a side table and mixed for them, with an air of resigned -politeness, cool and appropriate drinks. He drank nothing himself, -however, but his sister, with a mocking apology to Mr. Traherne, lit -herself a cigarette. - -“How’s the rat?” she began, throwing a teasing and provocative smile -upon the priest’s perturbed countenance. - -“Out there,” he replied, emptying his glass at one gulp. - -“What? In your coat pocket on such a night as this?” - -Mr. Traherne put down his glass and inserted his huge workman’s fingers -into the bosom of his cassock. - -“Nothing under this but a shirt,” he said. “Cassocks have no pockets.” - -“Haven’t they?” laughed Brand. “They have something then where you can -put money. That is, unless you parsons are like kangaroos and have some -natural little orifice in which to hide the offerings of the faithful.” - -“Is he happy always in your pocket?” enquired Philippa. - -“Do you want me to see?” replied the priest, rising with a movement -that almost upset the table. “I’ll bring him in and I’ll make him go -scimble-scamble all about the room.” - -The tone in which he uttered these words said, as plainly as words -could say, “You’re a pretty, silly, flirtatious piece of femininity! -You only talk about my rat for the sake of fooling me. You don’t -really care whether he’s happy in my pocket or not. It’s only out of -consideration for your silly nerves that I don’t play with him now. -And if you tease me an inch more I will, and make him run up your -petticoats, too!” - -“Sit down again, Traherne,” said Brand, “and let me fill up your glass. -We’ll all visit the rat presently and find him some supper. Just at -present I’m anxious to know how things are in the village. I haven’t -been down that way for weeks.” - -This was a direct challenge to the priest to come, without further -delay, to the matter of his visit. Hamish Traherne accepted it. - -“We came really,” he said, “to see _you_, Renshaw. A little later, -perhaps before we go, we must have our conversation. We hardly expected -to have the pleasure of finding Miss Philippa sitting up so late.” - -Dr. Raughty, who all this while had been watching with the most intense -delight the beauty of the girl’s white skin and scarlet lips and the -indescribable charm of her sinuous figure, now broke in impetuously. - -“But it can wait! It can wait! Oh, please don’t go to bed yet, Miss -Renshaw. Look, your cigarette’s out! Throw it away and try one of -these. They’re French, they’re the yellow packets, I know you like -them. They’re what you smoked once when we were on the river--when you -caught that great perch.” - -Philippa, who had risen to her feet at Traherne’s somewhat brusque -remark, came at once to the Doctor’s side. - -“Oh, the perch,” she cried, “yes, I should think I do remember! You -insisted on killing it at once so that it shouldn’t jump back into -the water. You put your thumb into its mouth and bent back its head. -Oh, yes! That yellow packet brings it all back to me. I can smell the -sticky dough we tried to catch dace with afterwards and I can see the -look of your hands all smeared with blood and silver scales. Oh, that -was a lovely day, Doctor! Do you remember how you twisted those things, -bryony leaves they were, round my head when the others had gone? Do you -remember how you said you’d like to treat me as you treated the perch? -Do you remember how you ran after a dragon-fly or something?” - -She stopped breathlessly and, balancing herself on the arm of the -Doctor’s chair, blew a great cloud of smoke over his head, filling the -room in a moment with the pungent odour of French tobacco. - -Both Traherne and Brand regarded her with astonishment. She seemed to -have transformed herself and to have become a completely different -person. Her eyes shone with childish gaiety and when she laughed, as -she did a moment afterwards at some sally of the Doctor’s, there was -a ring of unforced, spontaneous merriment in the sound such as her -brother had not heard for many years. She continued to bend over Dr. -Raughty’s chair, covering them both in a thick cloud of cigarette -smoke, and the two of them soon became absorbed in some intricate -discussion concerning, as far as the others could make out, the -question of the best bait to be used for pike. - -The priest took the opportunity of delivering himself of what was on -his mind. - -“I’m afraid, Renshaw,” he said, “you’ve gone your own way in that -matter of Linda Herrick. No! Don’t deny it. You may not have seen her -as often as before our last conversation, but you’ve seen her. She’s -confessed as much to me herself. Now look here, Renshaw, you and I -have known one another for some good few years. How long is it, man? -Fifteen, twenty? It can’t be less. Long enough, anyway, for me to have -earned the right to speak quite plainly and I tell you this, you must -stop the whole business!” - -His voice sank as he spoke to a formidable whisper. Brand glanced round -at the others but apparently they were quite preoccupied. Mr. Traherne -continued. - -“The whole business, Renshaw! After this you must leave that child -absolutely alone. If you don’t--if you insist on going on seeing her--I -shall take strong measures with you. I shall--but I needn’t say any -more! I think you can make a pretty shrewd guess what I shall do.” - -Brand received this solemn ultimatum in a way calculated to cause the -agitated man who addressed it to him a shock of complete bewilderment. -He yawned carelessly and stretched out his long arms. - -“As you please, Hamish,” he said, “I’m perfectly ready not to see her. -In fact, I probably shouldn’t have seen her in any case. To tell you -the truth, I’ve got a bit sick of the whole thing. These young girls -are silly little feather-weights at best. It’s first one mood and then -another! You can’t be sure of them for two hours at a stretch. So it’s -all right, Hamish Traherne! I won’t interfere with her. You can make a -nun of her if you like--or whatever else you fancy. All I beg of you -is, don’t go round talking about me to your parishioners. Don’t talk -about me to Raughty! I don’t want my affairs discussed by any one--not -even by my friends. All right, my boy--you needn’t look at me like -that. You’ve known me, as you say, long enough to know what I am. So -there you are! You’ve had your answer and you’ve got my word. I don’t -mind even your calling it ‘the word of a gentleman’ as you did the -other night. You can call it what you like. I’m not going to see Linda -for a reason quite personal and private but if you like to make it a -favour to yourself that I don’t--well! throw that in, too!” - -Hamish Traherne thrust his hand into his cassock thinking, for the -moment, that it was his well-worn ulster and that he would feel the -familiar form of Ricoletto. - -It may be noted from this futile and unconscious gesture, how much -hangs in this world upon insignificant threads. Had the priest’s -fingers touched at that moment the silky coat of his little friend -he would have derived sufficient courage to ask his formidable host -point-blank whether, in leaving Linda in this way, he left her as -innocent and unharmed as when he crossed her path at the beginning. -Not having Ricoletto with him, however, and his fingers encountering -nothing but his own woolen shirt, he lacked the inspiration to carry -the matter to this conclusion. Thus, upon the trifling accident of a -tame rodent having been left outside a library or, if you will, upon an -eccentric parson having no pocket, depended the whole future of Linda -Herrick. For, had he put that question and had Brand confessed the -truth, the priest would undoubtedly, under every threat in his power, -have commanded him to marry her and it is possible, considering the -mood the man was in at that moment and considering also the nature of -the threat held over him, he would have bowed to the inevitable and -undertaken to do it. - -The intricate and baffling complications of human life found further -illustration in the very nature of this mysterious threat hinted at so -darkly by Mr. Traherne. It was in reality--and Brand knew well that it -was--nothing more or less than the making clear to Mrs. Renshaw beyond -all question or doubt, of the actual character of the son she tried -so conscientiously to idealize. For some basic and profound reason, -inherent in his inmost nature, it was horrible to Brand to think of his -mother knowing him. She might suspect and _she might know that he knew -she suspected_, but to have the thing laid quite bare between them -would be to send a rending and shattering crack through the unconscious -hypocrisy of twenty years. For certain natures any drastic cleavage -of slowly built-up moral relations is worse than death. Brand would -have felt less remorse in being the cause of his mother’s death than -of being the cause of her knowing him as he really was. The matter of -Linda being thus settled between the two men, if the understanding -so reached could be regarded as settling it, they both turned round, -anxious for some distraction, to the quarter of the room where their -friends had been conversing. But Philippa and the Doctor were no longer -with them. Brand looked whimsically at the priest who, shrugging his -shoulders, poured himself out a third glass from the decanter on the -table. They then moved to the window which reached almost to the -ground. Stepping over its low ledge, they passed out upon the terrace. -They were at once aware of a change in the atmospheric conditions. -The veil of mist had entirely been swept away from the sky. The vast -expanse twinkled with bright stars and, far down among the trees, they -could discern the crescent form of the new moon. - -Brand pulled towards him a spray of damask roses and inhaled their -sweetness. Then he turned to his companion and gave him an evil leer. - -“The Doctor and Philippa have taken advantage of our absorbing -conversation,” he remarked. - -“Nonsense, man, nonsense!” exclaimed the priest. “Raughty’s only -showing her some sort of moth or beetle. Can’t you stop your sneering -for once and look at things humanly and naturally?” - -His words found their immediate justification. Turning the corner -of the house they discovered the two escaped ones on their knees by -the edge of the dew-drenched lawn watching the movements of a toad. -The Doctor was gently directing its advance with the stalk of a dead -geranium and Philippa was laughing as merrily as a little girl. - -They now realized the cause of the disappearance of the sultriness and -the heat. From over the wide-stretching fens came, with strong steady -breath, the north-west wind. It came with a full deep coolness in it -which the plants and the trees seemed to drink from as out of some -immortal cistern. It brought with it the odour of immense marsh-lands -and fresh inland waters and as it bowed the trees and rustled over the -flower-beds, it seemed to obliterate and drive back all indications of -their nearness to the sea. - -Raughty and Philippa rose to their feet at the approach of their -friends. - -“Doctor,” said Brand, “what’s the name of that great star over -there--or planet--or whatever it is?” - -They all surveyed the portion of the sky he indicated and contemplated -the unknown luminary. - -“I wish they’d taught me astronomy instead of Greek verses when I was -at school,” sighed Mr. Traherne. - -“It’s Venus, I suppose,” remarked Dr. Raughty. “Isn’t it Venus, -Philippa?” - -The girl looked from the men to the sky, and from the sky to the men. - -“Well, you _are_ a set of wise fellows,” she cried, “not to know the -star which rules us all! And that’s _not_ Venus, Doctor! Don’t any of -you really know? Brand--you surely do? Well, I’ll tell you then, that’s -Jupiter, that’s the lord-star Jupiter!” - -And she burst into a peal of ringing boyish laughter. Brand turned to -the Doctor, who had moved away to cast a final glance at the toad. - -“What have you done to her, Fingal?” he called out. “She hasn’t laughed -like that for years.” - -The only answer he received to this was an embarrassed cough, but when -they returned to the library and began looking at some of the more -interesting of the volumes in its shelves it was noticed by both Brand -and Mr. Traherne that the Doctor treated the young girl with a frank, -direct, simple and humorous friendliness as if completely oblivious of -her sex. - - - - -XX - -RAVELSTON GRANGE - - -The hot weather continued with the intermission of only a few wet and -windy days all through the harvest. One Saturday afternoon Sorio, who -had arranged to take Nance by train to Mundham, loitered with Baltazar -at the head of the High Street waiting the girl’s appearance. She had -told him to meet her there rather than at her lodging because since the -occasion when they took refuge in the cottage it had been agitating to -her to see Linda and Baltazar together. She knew without any question -asked that for several weeks her sister had seen nothing of Brand and -she was extremely unwilling, now that the one danger seemed removed, -that the child should risk falling into another. - -Nance herself had lately been seeing more of her friend’s friend than -she liked. It was difficult to avoid this, however, now that they lived -so near, especially as Mr. Stork’s leisure times between his journeys -to Mundham, coincided so exactly with her own hours of freedom from -work at the dressmaker’s. But the more she saw of Baltazar, the more -difficult she found it to tolerate him. With Brand, whenever chance -threw him across her path, she was always able to preserve a dignified -and conventional reserve. She saw that he knew how deep her indignation -on behalf of her sister went and she could not help respecting him for -the tact and discretion with which he accepted her tacit antagonism -and made any embarrassing clash between them easy to avoid. At the -bottom of her heart she had never felt any personal dislike of Brand -Renshaw, nor did that peculiar fear which he seemed to inspire in the -majority of those who knew him affect her in the least. She would have -experienced not the slightest trepidation in confronting him on her -sister’s behalf if circumstances demanded it and meanwhile she only -asked that they should be left in peace. - -But with Baltazar it was different. She disliked him cordially and, -with her dislike, there mingled a considerable element of quite -definite fear. The precise nature of this fear she was unable to -gauge. In a measure it sprang from his unfailing urbanity and the -almost effusive manner in which he talked to her and rallied her -with little witticisms whenever they met. Nance’s own turn of mind -was singularly direct and simple and she could not avoid a perpetual -suspicion in dealing with Mr. Stork that the man was covertly mocking -at her and seeking to make her betray herself in some way. There was -something about his whole personality which baffled and perplexed her. -His languid and effeminate manner seemed to conceal some hard and -inflexible attitude towards life which, like a steel blade in a velvet -scabbard, was continually on the point of revealing its true nature and -yet never actually did. She completely distrusted his influence over -Sorio and indeed carried her suspicion of him to the extreme point of -even doubting his affection for his old-time friend. Nothing about him -seemed to her genuine or natural. When he spoke of art, as he often -did, or uttered vague, cynical commentaries upon life in general, -she felt towards him just as a girl feels towards another girl whose -devices to attract attention seem to be infringing the legitimate limit -of recognized rivalry. It was not only that she suspected him of every -sort of hypocritical diplomacy or that every attitude he adopted seemed -a deliberate pose; it was that in some indescribably subtle way he -seemed to make her feel as if her own gestures and speeches were false. -He troubled and agitated her to such an extent that she was driven -sometimes into a mood of such desperate self-consciousness that she -did actually become insincere or at any rate felt herself saying and -doing things which failed to express what she really had in her mind. -This was especially the case when he was present at her encounters -with Sorio. She found herself on such occasions uttering sometimes the -wildest speeches, speeches quite far from her natural character, and -even when she tried passionately to be herself she was half-conscious -all the while that Baltazar was watching her and, so to speak, clapping -his hands encouragingly and urging her on. It was just as if she heard -him whispering in her ear and saying, “That’s a pretty speech, that’s -an effective turn of the head, that’s a happily timed smile, that’s an -appealing little silence!” - -His presence seemed to perplex and bewilder the very basis and -foundation of her confidence in herself. What was natural he made -unnatural and what was spontaneous he made premeditated. He seemed to -dive down into the very depths of her soul and stir up and make muddy -and clouded what was clearest and simplest there. The little childish -impulses and all the impetuous girlish movements of her mind became -silly and forced when he was present, became something that might have -been different had she willed them to be different, something that she -was deliberately using to bewitch Adrian. - -The misery of it was that she _couldn’t_ be otherwise, that she -couldn’t look and talk and laugh and be silent, in any other manner. -And yet he made her feel as if this were not only possible but easy. -He was diabolically and mercilessly clever in his malign clairvoyance. -Nance was not so simple as not to recognize that there are a hundred -occasions when a girl quite legitimately and naturally “makes the best” -of her passing moods and feelings. She was not so stupid as not to know -that the very diffusion of a woman’s emotions, through every fibre and -nerve of her being, lends itself to innumerable little exaggerations -and impulsive underscorings, so to speak, of the precise truth. But it -was just these very basic or, if the phrase may be permitted, these -“organic” characteristics of her self-expression, that Baltazar’s -unnatural watchfulness was continually pouncing on. In some curious way -he succeeded, though himself a man, in betraying the very essence of -her sex-dignity. He threw her, in fact, into a position of embarrassed -self-defence over what were really the inevitable accompaniments of her -being a woman at all. - -The unfairness of the thing was constantly being accentuated and -made worse by the fact of her having so often to listen to bitter -and sarcastic diatribes from both Adrian and his friend, directed -towards her sex in general. A sort of motiveless jibing against women -seemed indeed one of the favourite pastimes of the two men and Nance’s -presence, when this topic came forward, appeared rather to enhance -than mitigate their hostility. - -On one or two occasions of this kind, Dr. Raughty had happened to be -present and Nance felt she would never forget her gratitude to this -excellent man for the genial and ironical way he reduced them to -silence. - -“I’m glad you have invented,” he would say to them, “so free and -inexpensive a way of getting born. You’ve only to give us a little more -independence and death will be equally satisfactory.” - -On this particular afternoon, however, Baltazar was not encouraging -Sorio in any misogynistic railings. On the contrary he was endeavouring -to soothe his friend who at that moment was in one of his worst moods. - -“Why doesn’t she come?” he kept jerking out. “She knows perfectly how I -hate waiting in the street.” - -“Come and sit down under the trees,” suggested Baltazar. “She’s sure to -come out on the green to look for you and we can see her from there.” - -They moved off accordingly and sat down, side by side, with a group of -village people under the ancient sycamores. Above them the nameless -Admiral looked steadily sea-wards and in the shadow thrown by the trees -several ragged little girls were playing sleepily on the burnt-up grass. - -“It’s extraordinary,” Sorio remarked, “what a lot of human beings -there are in the world who would be best out of it! They get on my -nerves, these people. I think I hear them more clearly and feel them -nearer me here than ever before in my life. Every person in a place -like this becomes more important and asserts himself more, and the same -is true of every sound. If you want really to escape from humanity -there are only two things to do, either go right away into the desert -where there’s not a living soul or go into some large city where you’re -absolutely lost in the crowd. This half-and-half existence is terrible.” - -“My dear, my dear,” protested his companion, “you keep complaining -and grumbling but for the life of me I can’t make out what it is that -actually annoys you. By the way, don’t utter your sentiments too -loudly! These honest people will not understand.” - -“What annoys me--you don’t understand what annoys me?” muttered the -other peevishly. “It annoys me to be stared at. It annoys me to be -called out after. It annoys me to be recognized. I can’t move from your -door without seeing some face I know and what’s still worse, seeing -that face put on a sort of silly, inquisitive, jeering look, as much -as to say, ‘Ho! Ho! here is that idiot again. Here is that fool who -sponges upon Mr. Stork! Here is that spying foreign devil!’” - -“Adrian--Adrian,” protested his companion, “you really are becoming -impossible. I assure you these people don’t say or think anything of -the kind! They just see you and greet you and wish you well and pass on -upon their own concerns.” - -“Oh, don’t they, don’t they,” cried the other, forgetting in his -agitation to modulate his voice and causing a sudden pause in the -conversation that was going on at their side. “Don’t they think these -things! I know humanity better. Every single person who meets another -person and knows anything at all about him wants to show that he’s a -match for his little tricks, that he’s not deceived by his little ways, -that he knows where he gets his money or doesn’t get it and what woman -he wants or doesn’t want and which of his parents he wishes dead and -buried! I tell you you’ve no idea what human beings are really like! -You haven’t any such idea, for the simple reason that you’re absolutely -hard and self-centred yourself. You go your own way. You think your own -thoughts. You create your own fancy-world. And the rest of humanity -are nothing--mere pawns and puppets and dream-figures--nothing--simply -nothing! I’m a completely different nature from you, Tassar. I’ve -got my idea--my secret--but I’d rather not talk about that and you’d -rather not hear. But apart from that, I’m simply helpless. I mean I’m -helplessly conscious of everything round me! I’m porous to things. -It’s really quite funny. It’s just as if I hadn’t any skin, as if my -soul hadn’t any skin. Everything that I see, or hear, Tassar--and the -hearing is worse, oh, ever so much worse--passes straight through me, -straight through the very nerves of my inmost being. I feel sometimes -as though my mind were like a piece of parchment, stretched out taut -and tight and every single thing that comes near me taps against it, -tip-tap, tip-tap, tip-tap, as if it were a drum! That wouldn’t be -so bad if it wasn’t that I know so horribly clearly what people are -thinking. For instance, when I go down that alley to the station, as -I shall soon with Nance, and pass the workmen at their doors, I know -perfectly well that they’ll look at me and say to themselves, ‘There -goes that fool again,’ or, ‘There goes that slouching idiot from the -cottage,’ but that’s not all, Tassar. They soon have the sense to see -that I’m the kind of person who shrinks from being noticed and that -pleases them. They nudge one another then and look more closely at me. -They do their best to make me understand that they know their power -over me and intend to use it, intend to nudge one another and look at -me every time I pass. I can read exactly what their thoughts are. They -say to themselves, ‘He may slink off now but he’ll have to come this -way again and then we’ll see! Then we’ll look at him more closely. Then -we’ll find out what he’s after in these parts and why that pretty girl -puts up with him so long!’” - -He was interrupted at that moment by a roar of laughter from the group -beside them and Baltazar rose and pulled him away. “Upon my soul, -Adrian,” he whispered, as he led him back across the green, “you must -behave better! You’ve given those honest fellows something to gossip -about for a week. They’ll think you really are up to something, you -can’t shout like that without being listened to and you can’t quarrel -with the whole of humanity.” - -Adrian turned fiercely round on him. “Can’t I?” he exclaimed. “Can’t -I quarrel with humanity? You wait, my friend, till I’ve got my book -published. Then you’ll see! I tell you I’ll strike this cursed human -race of yours such a blow that they’ll wish they’d treated a poor -wanderer on the face of the earth a little better and spared him -something of their prying and peering!” - -“Your book!” laughed Baltazar. “A lot they’ll care for your book! -That’s always the way with you touchy philosophers. You stir up the -devil of a row with your bad temper and make the most harmless people -into enemies and then you think you can settle it all and prove -yourselves right and everybody else wrong by writing a book. Upon my -soul, Adrian, if I didn’t love you very much indeed I’d be inclined to -let you loose on life just to see whether you or it could strike the -hardest blows!” - -Sorio looked at him with a curiously bewildered look. He seemed -puzzled. His swarthy Roman face wore a clouded, weary, crushed -expression. His brow contracted into an anxious frown and his mouth -quivered. His air at that moment was the air of a very young child that -suddenly finds the world much harder to deal with than it expected. - -Baltazar watched him with secret pleasure. These were the occasions -when he always felt strangely drawn towards him. That look of -irresolute and bewildered weakness upon a countenance so powerfully -moulded filled him with a most delicate sense of protective pity. He -could have embraced the man as he watched him, blinking there in the -afternoon sunshine, and fumbling with the handle of his stick. - -But at that moment Nance appeared, walking rapidly with bent head, up -the narrow street. Baltazar looked at her with a gleam of hatred in his -sea-coloured eyes. She came to rob him of one of the most exquisite -pleasures of his life, the pleasure of reducing this strong creature -to humiliated submissiveness and then petting and cajoling him back -into self-respect. The knowledge that he left Sorio in her hands in -this particular mood of deprecatory helplessness, remorseful and gentle -and like a wild beast beaten into docility, caused him the most acute -pain. With poisonous antagonism under his urbane greeting he watched -furtively the quick glance she threw at Adrian and the way her eyes -lingered upon his, feeling her way into his mood. He cast about for -some element of discord that he could evoke and leave behind with them -to spoil the girl’s triumph for he knew well that Adrian was now, after -what had just occurred, in the frame of mind most adapted of all to the -influence of feminine sympathy. Nance, however, did not give him an -opportunity for this. - -“Come on,” she said, “we’ve only just time to catch the three o’clock -train. Come on! Good-bye for a while, Mr. Stork. I’ll bring him back -safe to you, sooner or later. Come on, Adrian, we really must be quick!” - -They went off together and Baltazar wandered slowly back across -the green. He felt for the moment so lonely that even his hatred -drifted away and sank to nothingness under the inflowing wave of -bitter universal isolation. As he approached his cottage he stopped -stone-still with his eyes on the ground and his hands behind his back. -Elegantly dressed in pleasant summer clothes, his slight graceful -figure, easy bearing, and delicate features, gave without doubt to -the casual bystanders who observed him, an impression of unmitigated -well-being. As a matter of fact, had that discerning historic personage -who is reported to have exclaimed after an interview with Jonathan -Swift, “there goes the unhappiest man who ever lived,” exercised -his insight now, he might have modified his conclusion in favour of -Baltazar Stork. - -It would certainly have required more than ordinary discernment to -touch the tip of the iron wedge that was being driven just then into -this graceful person’s brain. Looking casually into the man’s face one -would have seen nothing perhaps but a dreamy, pensive smile--a smile -a little bitter maybe, and self-mocking but with no particularly -sinister import. A deeper glance, however, would have disclosed -a curious compression of the lines about the mouth and a sort of -indrawing of the lips as if Mr. Stork were about to emit the sound of -whistling. Below the smiling surface of the eyes, too, there might -have been seen a sort of under-flicker of shuddering pain as if, -without any kind of anæsthetic, Mr. Stork were undergoing some serious -operation. The colour had deserted his cheeks as if whatever it was he -was enduring the endurance of it had already exhausted his physical -energies. Passing him by, as we have remarked, casually and hastily, -one might have said to oneself--“Ah! a handsome fellow chuckling there -over some pleasant matter!” but coming close up to him one would have -instinctively stretched out a hand, so definitely would it then have -appeared that, whatever his expression meant, he was on the point of -fainting. It was perhaps a fortunate accident that, at this particular -moment as he stood motionless, a small boy of his acquaintance, the son -of one of the Rodmoor fishermen, came up to him and asked whether he -had heard of the great catch there had been that day. - -“There’s a sight o’ fish still there, Mister,” the boy remarked, “some -of them monstrous great flounders and a heap of Satans such as squirts -ink out of their bellies!” - -Baltazar’s twisted lips gave a genuine smile now. A look of -extraordinary tenderness came into his face. - -“Ah, Tony, my boy,” he said, “so there are fish down there, are there? -Well, let’s go and see! You take me, will you? And I’ll make those -fellows give you some for supper.” - -They walked together across the green and down the street. Baltazar’s -hand remained upon the child’s shoulder and he listened as he walked, -to his chatter; but all the while his mind visualized an immense, -empty plain--a plain of steely-blue ice under a grey sky--and in the -center of this plain a bottomless crevasse, also of steely-blue ice, -and on the edge of this crevasse, gradually relinquishing their hold -from exhaustion, two human hands. This image kept blending itself as -they walked with all the little things which his eyes fell upon. It -blent with the cakes in the confectioner’s window. It blent with the -satiny blouses, far too expensive for any local purchaser, in Miss -Pontifex’s shop. It blent with the criss-cross lines of the brick-work -varied with flint of the house where Dr. Raughty lived. It blent -with their first glimpse of the waters of the harbour, seen between -two ramshackle houses with gable roofs. Nor when they finally found -themselves standing with a little crowd of men and boys round a circle -of fish-baskets upon the shore did it fail to associate itself both -with the blue expanse of waveless sea stretched before them and with -the tangled mass of sea shells, seaweed and sea creatures which lay -exposed to the sunlight, many-coloured and glistening as the deeper -folds of the nets which had drawn them from the deep were explored and -dragged forward. - -Meanwhile Adrian and Nance, having safely caught their train, were -being carried with the leisurely steadiness of a local line, from -Rodmoor to Mundham. Jammed tightly into a crowded compartment full -of Saturday marketers, they had little opportunity during the short -journey to do more than look helplessly across their perspiring -neighbours at the rising and falling of the telegraph wires against -a background of blue sky. The peculiar manner in which, as a train -carries one forward, these wires sink slowly downwards as if they -were going to touch the earth and then leap up with an unexpected -jerk as the next pole comes by, was a phenomenon that always had a -singular fascination for Sorio. He associated it with his most childish -recollections of railway travelling. Would the wires ever succeed in -sinking out of sight before the next pole jerked them high up across -the window again? That was the speculation that fascinated him even -at this moment as he watched them across the brim of his companion’s -brightly trimmed hat. There was something human in the attempts the -things made to sink down, down, down and escape their allotted burden -and there was certainly something very like the ways of Providence in -the manner in which they were pulled up with a remorseless jolt to -perform their duties once more. - -Emerging with their fellow-passengers upon the Mundham platform both -Sorio and Nance experienced a sense of happiness and relief. They had -both been so long confined to the immediate surroundings of Rodmoor -that this little excursion to the larger town assumed the proportions -of a release from imprisonment. It is true that it was a release that -Adrian might easily have procured for himself on any day; but more -and more recently, in the abnormal tension of his nerves, he had lost -initiative in these things. They wandered leisurely together into the -town and Sorio amused himself by watching the demure and practical way -in which his companion managed her various economic transactions in the -shops which she entered. He could not help feeling a sense of envy as -he observed the manner in which, without effort or strain, she achieved -the precise objects she had in mind and arranged for the transportation -of her purchases by the carrier’s cart that same evening. - -He wondered vaguely whether all women were like this and whether, with -their dearest and best-loved dead at home, or their own peace of mind -permanently shattered by some passage of fatal emotion only some few -hours before, they could always throw everything aside and bargain so -keenly and shrewdly with the alert tradesmen. He supposed it was the -working of some blind atavistic power in them, the mechanical result -of ages of mental concentration. He was amused, too, to observe how, -when in a time incredibly short she had done all she wanted, instead of -rushing off blindly for the walk they had promised themselves past the -old Abbey church and along the river’s bank, she shrewdly interpreted -their physical necessities and carried him off to a little dairy shop -to have tea and half-penny buns. Had _he_ been the cicerone of their -day’s outing he would have plunged off straight for the Abbey church -and the river fields, leaving their shopping to the end and dooming -them to bad temper and irritable nerves from sheer bodily exhaustion. -Never had Nance looked more desirable or attractive as, with heightened -colour and little girlish jests, she poured out his tea for him in the -small shop-parlour and swallowed half-penny buns with the avidity of a -child. - -Baltazar Stork was not wrong in his conjecture. Not since their early -encounters in the streets and parks of South London had Sorio been in a -gentler mood or one more amenable to the girl’s charm. As he looked at -her now and listened to her happy laughter, he felt that he had been a -fool as well as a scoundrel in his treatment of her. Why hadn’t he cut -loose long since from his philandering with Philippa which led nowhere -and _could_ lead nowhere? Why hadn’t he cast about for some definite -employment and risked, without further delay, persuading her to marry -him? With her to look after him and smooth his path for him, he might -have been quite free from this throbbing pain behind his eyeballs and -this nervous tension of his brain. He hurriedly made up his mind that -he _would_ ask her to marry him--not to-day, perhaps, or to-morrow--for -it would be absurd to commit himself till he could support her, but -very soon, as soon as he had found any mortal kind of an occupation! -What that occupation would be he did not know. It was difficult to -think of such things all in a moment. It required time. Besides, -whatever it was it must be something that left him free scope for his -book. After all, his book came first--his book and Baptiste. What -would Baptiste think if he were to marry again? Would he be indignant -and hurt? No! No! It was inconceivable that Baptiste should be hurt. -Besides, he would love Nance when he knew her! Of that he was quite -sure. Yes, Baptiste and Nance were made to understand one another. -It would be different were it Philippa he was thinking of marrying. -Somehow it distressed and troubled him to imagine Baptiste and Philippa -together. That, at all costs, must never come about. His boy must never -meet Philippa. All of this whirled at immense speed through Sorio’s -head as he smiled back at Nance across the little marble table and -stared at the large blue-china cow which, with udders coloured a yet -deeper ultramarine than its striped back, placidly, like an animal -sacred to Jupiter, contemplated the universe. There must have been a -wave of telepathic sympathy between them at that moment, for Nance -suddenly swallowing the last of her bun, hazarded a question she had -never dared to ask before. - -“Adrian, dear, tell me this. Why did you leave your boy behind you in -America when you came to England?” - -Sorio was himself surprised at the unruffled manner in which he -received this question. At any other moment it would have fatally -disturbed him. He smiled back at her, quite easily and naturally. - -“How could I bring him?” he said. “He’s got a good place in New York -and I have nothing. I _had_ to get away, somewhere. In fact, they sent -me away, ‘deported’ me, as they call it. But I couldn’t drag the boy -with me. How could I? Though he was ready enough to come. Oh, no! It’s -much better as it is--much, much better!” - -He became grave and silent and began fumbling in one of his inner -pockets. Nance watched him breathlessly. Was he really softening -towards her? Was Philippa losing her hold on him? He suddenly produced -a letter--a letter written on thin paper and bearing an American -stamp--and taking it with careful hands from its envelope, stretched -it across the table towards her. The action was suggestive of such -intimacy, suggestive of such a new and happy change in their relations, -that the girl looked at the thing with moist and dazed eyes. She -obtained a general sense of the firm clear handwriting. She caught the -opening sentence, written in caressing Italian and, for some reason or -other, the address--perhaps because of its strangeness to a European -eye--fifteen West Eleventh Street--remained engraved in her memory. -More than this she was unable to take in for the moment out of the -sheer rush of bewildering happiness which swept over her and made her -long to cry. - -A moment later two other Rodmoor people, known to them both by sight, -entered the shop, and Sorio hurriedly took the letter back and replaced -it in his pocket. He paid their bill, which came to exactly a shilling, -and together they walked out from the dairy. The ultramarine cow -contemplated the universe as the newcomers took their vacated table -with precisely the same placidity. Its own end--some fifty years after, -amid the debris of a local fire, with the consequent departure of its -shattered pieces to the Mundham dumping ground--did not enter into -its contemplation. Many lovers, happier and less happy than Sorio and -Nance, would sit at that marble table during that epoch and the blue -cow would listen in silence. Perhaps in its ultimate resting-place -its scorched fragments would become more voluble as the rains dripped -upon the tins and shards around them or perhaps, even in ruins--like -an animal sacred to Jupiter--it would hold its peace and let the rains -fall. - -The two friends, still in a mood of delicate and delicious harmony, -threaded the quieter streets of the town and emerged into the dreamy -cathedral-like square, spacious with lawns and trees, that surrounded -the abbey-church. A broad gravel-path, overtopped by wide-spreading -lime trees, separated the grey south wall of the ancient edifice from -the most secluded of these lawns. The grass was divided from the path -by a low hanging chain-rail of that easy and friendly kind that seems -to call upon the casual loiterer to step over its unreluctant barrier -and take his pleasure under the welcoming trees. They sat down on an -empty bench and looked up at the flying buttresses and weather-stained -gargoyles and richly traceried windows. The sun fell in long mellow -streams across the gravel beside them, broken into cool deep patches -of velvet shadow where the branches of the lime trees intercepted it. -From somewhere behind them came the sound of murmuring pigeons and -from further off still, from one of the high-walled, old-fashioned -gardens of the houses on the remote side of the square, came the -voices of children playing. Sorio sat with one arm stretched out along -the top of the bench behind Nance’s head and with the other resting -upon the handle of his stick. His face had a look of deep, withdrawn -contentment--a contentment so absolute that it merged into a sort of -animal apathy. Any one familiar with the expression so often seen upon -the faces both of street-beggars and prince-cardinals in the city -on the Tiber, would have recognized something indigenous and racial -in the lethargy which then possessed him. Nance, on the other hand, -gave herself up to a sweet and passionate happiness such as she had -not known since they left London. While they waited thus together, -reluctant by even a word to break the spell of that favoured hour, -there came from within the church the sound of an organ. Nance got up -at once. - -“Let’s go in for just a minute, Adrian! Do you mind--only just a -minute?” - -The slightest flicker of a frown crossed Sorio’s face but it vanished -before she could repeat her request. - -“Of course,” he said, rising in his turn, “of course! Let’s go round -and find the door.” - -They had no difficulty in doing this. The west entrance of the church -was wide open and they entered and sat down at the back of the nave. -Above them the spacious vaulted roof, rich with elaborate fan-tracery, -seemed to spread abroad and deepen the echoes of the music as if it -were an immense inverted chalice spilling the odour of immortal wine. -The coolness and dim shadowiness of the place fell gently upon them -both and the mysterious rising and sinking of the music, with no sight -of any human presence as its cause, thrilled Nance from head to foot -as she had never been thrilled in her life. Oh, it was worth it--this -moment--all she had suffered before--all she could possibly suffer! If -only it might never stop, that heavenly sound, but go on and on and on -until all the world came to know what the power of love was! She felt -at that moment as if she were on the verge of attaining some clue, some -signal, some sign, which should make all things clear to her--clear and -ineffably sweet! - -The deep crimsons and purples in the coloured windows, the damp chilly -smell of the centuries-old masonry, the large dark recesses of the -shadowy transepts, all blended together to transport her out of herself -into a world kindlier, calmer, quieter, than the world she knew. - -“And--he--shall--feed--” rang out, as they listened, the clear -flutelike voice of some boy-singer, practising for the morrow’s -services, “shall--feed--his--flock.” - -The words of the famous antiphony, “staled and rung upon” as they might -be, by the pathetic stammerings of so old a human repetition, were, -coming just at this particular moment, more than Nance could bear. She -flung herself on her knees and, pressing her hands to her face, burst -into convulsive sobs. Sorio stood up and laid his hand on her shoulder. -With the other hand--mindful of early associations--he crossed himself -two or three times and then remained motionless. Slowly, by the action -of that law which is perhaps the deepest in the universe, the law -of _ebb and flow_, there began in him a reaction. Had the words the -unseen boy singer was uttering been in Latin, had they possessed that -reserve, that passionate aloofness in emotion, which the instinct of -worship in the southern races protects from sentiment, such a reaction -might have been spared him; but the thing was too facile, too easy. It -might have been the climax of a common melodrama. It fell too pat upon -the occasion. And it was insidiously, treacherously, horribly human. -It was too human. It lacked the ring of style, the reserve of the -grand manner. It wailed and sobbed. It whimpered upon the Almighty’s -shoulder. It wanted the tragic abandonment of the “Dies Irae,” as it -missed the calmer dignity of the “Tantum ergo.” It appealed to what was -below the level of the highest in religious pathos. It humiliated while -it comforted. The boy’s voice died away and the organ stopped. There -was a sound of shuffling in the choir and the mutter of voices and even -a suppressed laugh. - -Sorio removed his hand from Nance’s shoulder and stooping down picked -up his hat and stick. He looked round him. A fashionably dressed -lady, carrying a bunch of carnations, moved past them up the aisle -and presently two younger women followed. Then a neatly attired -dapper young clergyman strolled in, adjusting his eye-glasses. It was -evidently approaching the hour of the afternoon service. The spell was -broken. - -But the kneeling girl knew nothing, felt nothing, of all this. She, -at all events, was in the church of her fathers--the church that her -most childish memories rendered sacred. Had she been able to understand -Sorio’s feeling, she would have swept it aside. The music was -beautiful, she would have said, and the words were true. From the heart -of the universe they came straight to her heart. Were they rendered -unbeautiful and untrue because so many simple souls had found comfort -in them? - -“Ah! Adrian,” she would have said had she argued it out with him. “Ah, -Adrian, it _is_ common. It is the common cry of humanity, set to the -music of the common heart of the world, and is not that more essential -than ‘Latin,’ more important than ‘style’?” - -As a matter of fact, the only controversy that arose between them when -they left the building was brief and final. - -“I fancy,” remarked Sorio, “from what you tell me of her, that that’s -the sort of thing that would please Mrs. Renshaw--I mean the music we -heard just now!” - -Nance flushed as she answered him. “Yes, it would! It would! And it -pleases _me_ too. It makes me more certain than ever that Jesus Christ -was really God.” Sorio bowed his head at this and held his peace and -together they made their way to the bank of the Loon. - -What they were particularly anxious to see was an old house by the -river-side about a mile east of the town which had been, some hundred -years before, the abode of one of the famous East Anglian painters of -the celebrated Norwich school--a painter whose humorous aplomb and -rich earth-steeped colouring rivalled some of the most notable of the -artists of Amsterdam and The Hague. - -Their train back to Rodmoor did not leave till half-past seven and -as it was now hardly five they had ample time to make this little -pilgrimage as deliberately as they pleased. They had no difficulty in -reaching the river, and once at its edge, it was only a question of -following its windings till they arrived at Ravelston Grange. Their -way was somewhat impeded at first by a line of warehouses, between -which and a long row of barges fastened to a series of littered dusty -wharves, lay all manner of bales and casks and bundles of hay and -vegetable. There were coal-yards there too, and timber-yards, and in -other places great piles of beer-barrels, all bearing the name “Keith -Radipole” which had been for half a century the business title of Brand -Renshaw’s brewery. These obstacles surmounted, there were no further -interruptions to their advance along the river path. - -The aspect of the day, however, had grown less promising. A somewhat -threatening bank of clouds with dark jagged edges, which the efforts of -the sun to scatter only rendered more lurid, had appeared in the west -and when, for a moment, they turned to look back at the town, they saw -its chimneys and houses massed gloomily together against a huge sombre -bastion whose topmost fringe was illuminated by fiery indentations. -Nance expressed some hesitation as to the wisdom of going further with -this phalanx of storm threatenings following them from behind, but -Sorio laughed at her fears and assured her that in a very short time -they would arrive at the great painter’s house. - -It appeared, however, that the “mile” referred to in the little local -history in which they had read about this place did not begin till the -limits of Mundham were reached and Mundham seemed to extend itself -interminably. They were passing through peculiarly dreary outskirts -now. Little half-finished rows of wretchedly built houses trailed -disconsolately towards the river’s edge and mingled with small deserted -factories whose walls, blackened with smoke, were now slowly crumbling -to pieces. Desolate patches of half-cultivated ground where the stalks -of potatoes, yellowing with damp, alternated with thickly growing -weeds, gave the place that peculiar expression of sordid melancholy -which seems the especial prerogative of such fringes of human -habitation. Old decaying barges, some of them half-drowned in water -and others with gaunt, protruding ribs and rotting planks, lay staring -at the sky while the river, swirling past them, gurgled and muttered -round their submerged keels. It was impossible for the two friends to -retain long, under these depressing surroundings, their former mood of -magical harmony. Little shreds and fragments of their happiness seemed -to fall from them at every step and remain, bleakly flapping among the -mouldering walls and weedy river-piles, like the bits of old paper -and torn rag which fluttered feebly or fell into immobility as the -wind rose or sank. The bank of clouds behind them had now completely -obscured every vestige of the sun and a sort of premature twilight lay -upon the surface of the river and on the fields on its further side. - -“What’s that?” asked Nance suddenly, putting her hand on his arm and -pointing to a large square building which suddenly appeared on their -left. They had been vaguely aware of this building for some while but -one little thing or another in their more immediate neighbourhood had -confined it to the remoter verge of their consciousness. As soon as she -had asked the question Nance felt an unaccountable unwillingness to -carry the investigation further. Sorio, too, seemed ready enough to let -her enquiry remain unanswered. He shrugged his shoulders as much as to -say “how can I tell?” and suggested that they should rest for a moment -on a littered pile of wood which lay close to the water’s edge. - -They stepped down the bank where they were, out of sight of the -building above, and seated themselves. With their arms around their -knees they contemplated the flowing tide and the dull-coloured mud of -the opposite bank. A coil of decaying rope, tossed aside from some -passing barge, lay at Sorio’s feet and, as he sat in gloomy silence, -he thought how like the thing was to something he had once seen at an -inquest in a house in New York. As for Nance, she found it difficult to -remove her eyes from a shapeless bundle of sacking which the tide was -carrying. Sometimes it would get completely submerged and then again it -would reappear. - -“Why is it,” she thought, “that there is always something horrible -about tidal rivers? Is it because of the way they have of carrying -things backward and forward, backward and forward, without ever -allowing them either to get far inland or clear out to sea? Is a tidal -river,” she said to herself, “the one thing in all the world in which -nothing can be lost or hidden or forgotten?” - -It was curious how difficult they both felt it just then either to -move from where they were or to address a single word to one another. -They seemed hypnotized by something--hypnotized by some thought which -remained unspoken at the back of their minds. They felt an extreme -reluctance to envisage again that large square building surrounded by -weather-stained wall, a wall from which the ivy had been carefully -scraped. - -Slowly, little by little, the bank of clouds mounted up to the -meridian, casting over everything as it did so a more and more ominous -twilight. The silence between them became after a while, a thing with a -palpable presence. It seemed to float upon the water to their feet and, -rising about them like a wraith, like a mist, like the ghost of a dead -child, it fumbled with clammy fingers upon their hearts. - -“I’m sure,” Sorio cried at last, with an obvious struggle to break the -mysterious sorcery which weighed on them, “I’m perfectly sure that -Ravelston Grange must be round that second bend of the river--do you -see?--where those trees are! I’m sure it must! At any rate we _must_ -come to it at last if we only go on.” - -He looked at his watch. - -“Heavens! We’ve taken an hour already getting here! It’s nearly six. -How on earth have we been so long?” - -“Do you know, Adrian,” Nance remarked--and she couldn’t help noticing -as she did so that though he spoke so resolutely of going forward he -made not the least movement to leave his seat--“do you know I feel as -if we were in a dream. I have the oddest feeling that any moment we -might wake up and find ourselves back in Rodmoor. Adrian, dear, let’s -go back! Let’s go back to the town. There’s something that depresses me -beyond words about all this.” - -“Nonsense!” cried Sorio in a loud and angry voice, leaping to his feet -and snatching up his stick. “Come on, my girl, come, child! We’ll see -that Ravelston place before the rain gets to us!” - -They clambered up the bank and walked swiftly forward. Nance noticed -that Sorio looked steadily at the river, looked at the river without -intermission and with hardly a word, till they were well beyond the -very last houses of Mundham. It was an unspeakable relief to her -when, at last, crossing a little footbridge over a weir, they found -themselves surrounded by the open fens. - -“Behind those trees, Nance,” Sorio kept repeating, “behind those trees! -I’m absolutely sure I’m right and that Ravelston Grange is there. By -the way, girl, which of your poets wrote the verses-- - - ‘She makes her immemorial moan, - She keeps her shadowy kine, - O, Keith of Ravelston, - The sorrows of thy line!’ - -They’ve been running in my head all the afternoon ever since I saw -‘Keith Radipole,’ on those beer-barrels.” - -Nance, however, was too eager to reach the real Ravelston to pay much -heed to his poetic allusion. - -“Oh, it sounds like--oh, I don’t know--Tennyson, perhaps!” and she -pulled him forward towards the trees. - -These proved to be a group of tall French poplars which, just then, -were muttering volubly in the rain-smelling wind. They hurried past -them and paused before a gate in a very high wall. - -“What’s this?” exclaimed Sorio. “_This_ can’t be Ravelston. It looks -more like a prison.” - -For a moment his eyes encountered Nance’s and the girl glanced quickly -away from what she read in his face. She called out to an old man who -was hoeing potatoes behind some iron railings where the wall ended. - -“Could you tell me where Ravelston Grange is?” she enquired. - -The old man removed his hat and regarded her with a whimsical smile. - -“’Tis across the river, lady, and there isn’t no bridge for some many -miles. Maybe with any luck ye may meet a cattle-boat to take ye over -but there’s little surety about them things.” - -“What’s this place, then?” asked Sorio abruptly, approaching the iron -railings. - -“This, mister? Why this be the doctor’s house of the County Asylum. -This be where they keep the superior cases, as you might say, them what -pays summat, ye understand, and be only what you might call half daft. -You must a’ seed the County Asylum as you came along. ’Tis a wonderful -large place, one of the grandest, so they say, on this side of the -kingdom.” - -“Thank you,” said Sorio curtly. “That’s just what we wanted to know. -Yes, we saw the house you speak of. It certainly looks big enough. Have -there been many new cases lately? Is this what you might call a good -year for mental collapses?” - -As he spoke he peered curiously between the iron bars as if anxious to -get some sight of the “half daft,” who could afford to pay for their -keep. - -“I don’t know what you mean by ‘a good year,’ mister,” answered the -man, watching him with little twinkling eyes, “but I reckon folk have -been as liable to go shaky this year as most other years. ’Tisn’t in -the season, I take it, ’tis in the man or for the matter of that,” and -he cast an apologetic leer in Nance’s direction, “in the woman.” - -“Come on, Adrian,” interposed his companion, “you see that guide-book -told us all wrong. We’d better get back to the station.” - -But Sorio held tightly to the railings with both his hands. - -“Don’t tease me, Nance,” he said irritably. “I want to talk to this -excellent man.” - -“You’d better do what your missus says, mister,” observed the gardener, -returning to his work. “The authorities don’t like no loitering in -these places.” - -But Sorio disregarded the hint. - -“I should think,” he remarked, “it wouldn’t be so very difficult to -escape out of here.” He received no reply to this and Nance pulled him -by the sleeve. - -“Please, Adrian, please come away,” she pleaded, with tears in her -voice. The old man lifted up his head. - -“You go back where you be come from,” he observed, “and thank the good -Lord you’ve got such a pretty lady to look after you. There be many -what envies you and many what ’ud like to stand in your shoes, and -that’s God’s truth.” - -Sorio sighed heavily, and letting go his hold upon the railings, turned -to his companion. - -“Let’s find another way to the town,” he said. “There must be some road -over there, or at worst, we can walk along the line.” - -They moved off hastily in the direction opposite from the river and -the old man, after making an enigmatic gesture behind their backs, -spat upon his hands and returned to his work. The sky was now entirely -overclouded but still no rain fell. - - - - -XXI - -THE WINDMILL - - -With the coming of September there was a noticeable change in the -weather. The air got perceptibly colder, the sea rougher and there -were dark days when the sun was hardly seen at all. Sometimes the -prevailing west wind brought showers, but so far, in spite of the -cooler atmosphere, there was little heavy rain. The rain seemed to be -gathering and massing on every horizon, but though its presence was -felt, its actual coming was delayed and the fields and gardens remained -scorched and dry. The ditches in the fens were low that season--lower -than they had been for many years. Some of them were actually empty -and in others there was so little water that the children could catch -eels and minnows with their naked hands. In many portions of the salt -marshes it was possible to walk dry-shod where, in the early Spring, -one would have sunk up to the waist, or even up to the neck. - -Driven by the hot weather from their usual feeding-grounds several rare -and curious birds visited the fens that year. The immediate environs -of Rodmoor were especially safe for these, as few among the fishermen -carried guns and none of the wealthier inhabitants cared greatly for -shooting. Brand Renshaw, for instance, like his father before him, -refused to preserve any sort of game and indeed it was one of the chief -causes of his unpopularity with the neighbouring gentry that he was so -little of a sportsman. - -One species of visitor brought by that unusually hot August was less -fortunate than the birds. This was a swallow-tail butterfly, one of -the rarer of the two kinds known to collectors in that part of the -country. Dr. Raughty was like a man out of his senses with delight when -he perceived this beautiful wanderer. He bribed a small boy who was -with him at the moment to follow it wherever it flew while he hurried -back to his rooms for his net. Unluckily for the swift-flying nomad, -instead of making for the open fens it persisted in hovering about the -sand-dunes where grew a certain little glaucous plant and it was upon -the sand dunes, finally, that the Doctor secured it, after a breathless -and exhausting chase. - -It seemed to cause Fingal Raughty real distress when he found that -neither Nance nor Linda was pleased at what he had done. He met, -indeed, with scanty congratulations from any of his friends. With Sorio -he almost quarreled over the incident, so vituperative did the Italian -become when reference was made to it in his presence. Mrs. Renshaw was -gently sympathetic, evidently regarding it as one of the privileges of -masculine vigour to catch and kill whatever was beautiful and endowed -with wings, but even she spoilt the savour of her congratulations with -a faint tinge of irony. - -Two weeks of September had already passed when Sorio, in obedience to -a little pencilled note he had received the night before, set off in -the early afternoon to meet Philippa at one of their more recently -discovered haunts. In spite of his resolution in the little dairy shop -in Mundham he had made no drastic change in his life, either in the -direction of finding work to do or of breaking off his relations with -the girl from Oakguard. That excursion with Nance in which they tried -so ineffectively to find the great painter’s house left, in its final -impression, a certain cruel embarrassment between them. It became -difficult for him not to feel that she was watching him apprehensively -now and with a ghastly anxiety at the back of her mind and this -consciousness poisoned his ease and freedom with her. He felt that her -tenderness was no longer a natural, unqualified affection but a sort of -terrified pity, and this impression set his nerves all the more on edge -when they were together. - -With Philippa, on the other hand, he felt absolutely free. The girl -lived herself so abnormal and isolated a life, for Mrs. Renshaw -disliked visitors and Brand discouraged any association with their -neighbours, that she displayed nothing of that practical and human -sense of proportion which was the basis of Nance’s character. For the -very reason, perhaps, that she cared less what happened to him, she -was able to humour him more completely. She piqued and stimulated -his intelligence too, in a way Nance never did. She had flashes -of diabolical insight which could always rouse and astonish him. -Something radically cold and aloof in her made it possible for her to -risk alienating him by savage and malicious blows at his pride. But -the more poisonous her taunts became, the more closely he clung to -her, deriving, it might almost seem, an actual pleasure from what he -suffered at her hands. Anxious for both their sakes to avoid as much -as possible the gossip of the village, he had continued his habit of -meeting her in all manner of out-of-the-way places, and the spot she -had designated as their rendezvous for this particular afternoon was -one of the remotest and least accessible of all these sanctuaries of -refuge. It was, in fact, an old disused windmill, standing by itself in -the fens about two miles north of that willow copse where he had on one -fatal occasion caused Nance Herrick such distress. - -Philippa was an abnormally good walker. From a child she had been -accustomed to roam long distances by herself, so that it did not strike -him as anything unusual that she should have chosen a place so far off -from Oakguard as the scene of their encounter. One of her most marked -peculiarities was a certain imaginative fastidiousness in regard to -the _milieu_ of her interviews with him. That was, indeed, one of the -ways by which she held him. It amounted to a genius for the elimination -of the commonplace or the “familiar” in the relations between them. -She kept a clear space, as it were, around her personality, only -approaching him when the dramatic accessories were harmonious, and -vanishing again before he had time to sound the bottom of her evasive -mood. - -On this occasion Sorio walked with a firm and even gay bearing towards -their rendezvous. He followed at first the same path as that taken by -Nance and her sister on the eve of their eventful bank-holiday but -when he reached Nance’s withy-bed he debouched to his left and plunged -straight across the fens. The track he now followed was one used -rarely, even by the owners of cattle upon the marshes and in front of -him, as far as his eye could reach, nothing except isolated poplars -and a few solitary gates, marking the bridges across the dykes, broke -the grey expanse of the horizon. The deserted windmill towards which -he made his way was larger than any of the others but while, in the -gently-blowing wind the sails of the rest kept their slow and rhythmic -revolution, this particular one stretched out its enormous arms in -motionless repose as if issuing some solemn command to the elements or, -like the biblical leader, threatening the overthrow of a hostile army. - -As he walked, Sorio noticed that at last the Michaelmas daisies were -really in bloom, their grey leaves and sad autumnal flowers blending -congruously enough with the dark water and blackened reed-stems of the -stagnant ditches. The sky above him was covered with a thin veil of -leaden-coloured clouds, against which, flying so high as to make it -difficult to distinguish their identity, an attenuated line of large -birds--Sorio wondered if they were wild swans--moved swiftly towards -the west. He arrived at last at the windmill and entered its cavernous -interior. She rose to meet him, shaking the dust from her clothes. -In the semi-darkness of the place, her eyes gleamed with a dangerous -lustre like the eyes of an animal. - -“Do you want to stay where we are?” he said when he had relinquished -the hand she gave him, after lifting it in an exaggerated foreign -manner, to his lips. She laughed a low mocking laugh. - -“What’s the alternative, Adriano mio? Even _I_ can’t walk indefinitely -and it isn’t nice sitting over a half-empty dyke.” - -“Well,” he remarked, “let’s stay here then! Where were you sitting -before I came?” - -She pointed to a heap of straw in the furthest corner of the place -beneath the shadow of the half-ruined flight of steps leading to the -floor above. Adrian surveyed this spot without animation. - -“It would be much more interesting,” he said, “if we could get up that -ladder. I believe we could. I tried it clumsily the other day when I -broke that step.” - -“But how do we know the floor above will bear us if we do get up there?” - -“Oh, it’ll bear us all right. Look! You can see. The middle boards -aren’t rotted at all and that hole there is a rat-hole. There aren’t -any dangerous cracks.” - -“It would be so horrid to tumble through, Adrian.” - -“Oh, we shan’t tumble through. I swear to you it’s all right, Phil. -We’re not going to dance up there, are we?” - -The girl put her hand on the dilapidated balustrade and shook it. -The whole ladder trembled from top to bottom and a cloud of ancient -flour-dust, grey and mouldy, descended on their heads. - -“You see, Adrian?” she remarked. “It really isn’t safe!” - -“I don’t care,” he said stubbornly. “What’s it matter? It’s dull and -stuffy down here. I’m going to try anyway.” - -He began cautiously ascending what remained intact of the forlorn -ladder. The thing creaked ominously under his weight. He managed, -however, to get sufficiently high to secure a hold upon the -threshold-beam of the floor above when, with the aid of a projecting -plank from the side-wall of the building, he managed to retain his -position and after a brief struggle, disappeared from his companion’s -view. - -His voice came down to her from above, muffled a little by the -intervening wood-work. - -“It’s lovely up here, Phil! There are two little windows and you can -see all over the fens. Wait a minute, we’ll soon have you up.” - -There was a pause and she heard him moving about over her head. - -“You’d much better come down,” she shouted. “I’m not going up there. -There’s no possible way.” - -He made no answer to this and there was dead silence for several -minutes. She went to the entrance and emerged into the open air. The -wide horizon around her seemed void and empty. Upon the surface of the -immense plain only a few visible objects broke the brooding monotony. -To the south and east she could discern just one or two familiar -landmarks but to the west there was nothing--nothing but an eternal -level of desolation losing itself in the sky. She gave an involuntary -shudder and moved away from the windmill to the edge of a reed-bordered -ditch. There was a pool of gloomy water in the middle of the reeds -and across this pool and round and round it whirled, at an incredible -speed, a score or so of tiny water-beetles, never leaving the surface -and never pausing for a moment in their mad dance. A wretched little -moth, its wings rendered useless by contact with the water, struggled -feebly in the centre of this pool, but the shiny-coated beetles whirled -on round it in their dizzy circles as if it had no more significance -than the shadow of a leaf. Philippa smiled and walked back to the -building. - -“Adrian,” she called out, entering its dusty gloom and looking up at -the square hole in the ceiling, from which still hung a remnant of -broken wood-work. - -“Well? What is it?” her friend’s voice answered. “It’s all right; we’ll -soon have you up here!” - -“I don’t want to go up there,” she shouted back. “I want you to come -down. Please come down, Adrian! You’re spoiling all our afternoon.” - -Once more there was dead silence. Then she called out again. - -“Adrian,” she said, “there’s a moth being drowned in the ditch out -here.” - -“What? Where? What do you say?” came the man’s reply, accompanied by -several violent movements. Presently a rope descended from the hole and -swung suspended in the air. - -“Look out, my dear,” Sorio’s voice ejaculated and a moment later he -came swinging down, hand over hand, and landed at her side. “What’s -that?” he gasped breathlessly, “what did you say? A moth in the water? -Show me, show me!” - -“Oh, it’s nothing, Adrian,” she answered petulantly. “I only wanted you -to come down.” - -But he had rushed out of the door and down to the stream’s edge. - -“I see it! I see it!” he called back at her. “Here, give me my stick!” -He came rushing back, pushed roughly past her, seized his stick from -the ground and returned to the ditch. It was easy enough to effect the -moth’s rescue. The same fluffy stickiness in the thing’s wet wings that -made it helpless in the water, made it adhere to the stick’s point. He -wiped it off upon the grass and pulled Philippa back into the building. - -“I’m glad I came down,” he remarked. “I know it’ll hold now. You won’t -mind my tying it round you, will you? I’ll have both the ends down here -presently. It’s round a strong hook. It’s all right. And then I’ll pull -you up.” - -Philippa looked at him with angry dismay. All this agitating fuss over -so childish an adventure irritated her beyond endurance. His proposal -had, as a matter of fact, a most subtle and curious effect upon her. -It changed the relations between them. It reduced her to the position -of a girl playing with an elder brother. It outraged, with an element -of the comic, her sense of dramatic fastidiousness. It humiliated her -pride and broke the twisted threads of all kinds of delicate spiritual -nets she had in her mind to cast over him. It placed her by his side as -a weak and timid woman by the side of a willful and strong-limbed man. -Her ascendency over him, as she well knew, depended upon the retaining, -on her part, of a certain psychic evasiveness--a certain mysterious -and tantalizing reserve. It depended--at any rate that is what she -imagined--upon the inscrutable look she could throw into her eyes and -upon the tragic glamour of her ambiguous red lips and white cheeks. How -could she possibly retain all these characteristics when swinging to -and fro at the end of a rope? - -Sorio’s suggestion outraged something in her that went down to the very -root of her personality. Walking with him, swimming with him, rowing -in a boat with him--all those things were harmonious to her mind and -congruous with her personal charm. None of these things interfered -with the play of her intelligence, with the poise, the reserve, the -aloofness of her spiritual challenge. She was exceptionally devoid of -fear in these boyish sports and could feel herself when she engaged in -them with him, free of the limitations of her sex. She could retain -completely, as she indulged herself in them, all the equilibrium of -her being--the rhythm of her identity. But this proposal of Sorio’s -not only introduced a discordant element that had a shrewd vein of the -ludicrous in it, it threw her into a physical panic. It pulled and -tugged at the inmost fibres of her self-restraint. It made her long -to sit down on the ground and cry like a child. She wondered vaguely -whether it was that Adrian was revenging himself upon her at that -moment for some accumulated series of half-physical outrages that he -had himself in his neurotic state been subjected to lately. As to his -actual sanity, it never occurred to her to question _that_. She herself -was too wayward and whimsical in the reactions of her nerves and the -processes of her mind to find anything startling, in _that_ sense, -in what he was now suggesting. It was simply that it changed their -relations--it destroyed her ascendency, it brought things down to brute -force, it turned her into a woman. - -Her mind, as she stood hesitating, reviewed the moth incident. That -sort of situation--Adrian’s fantastic mania for rescuing things--had -just the opposite effect on her. He might poke his stick into half the -ditches of Rodmoor and save innumerable drowning moths; the only effect -_that_ had on her was to make her feel superior to him, better adapted -than he to face the essential facts of life, its inherent and integral -cruelty for instance. But now--to see that horrible rope-end dangling -from that gaping hole and to see the eager, violent, masculine look -in her friend’s eyes--it was unendurable; it drove her, so to speak, -against the jagged edge of the world’s brute wall. - - “To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes, - Is delicate and rare--” - -she found herself quoting, with a horrible sense that the humour of the -parody only sharpened the sting of her dilemma. - -“I won’t do it,” she said resolutely at last, trying to brave it out -with a smile. “It’s a ridiculous idea. Besides, I’m much too heavy. You -couldn’t pull me up if you tried till nightfall! No, no, Adriano, don’t -be so absurd. Don’t spoil our time together with these mad ideas. Let’s -sit down here and talk. Or why not light a fire? That would be exciting -enough, wouldn’t it?” - -His face as he listened to her darkened to a kind of savage fury. Its -despotic and imperious lines emphasized themselves to a degree that was -really terrifying. - -“You won’t?” he cried, “you won’t, you won’t?” And seizing her roughly -by the shoulder he actually began twisting the rope round her body. - -She resisted desperately, pushing him away with all the strength of -her arms. In the struggle between them, which soon became a dangerous -one, her hand thrusting back his head unintentionally drew blood with -its delicate finger-nails from his upper lip. The blood trickled into -his mouth and, maddened by the taste of it, he let her go and seizing -the end of the rope, struck her with it across the breast. This blow -seemed to bewilder her. She ceased all resistance. She became docile -and passive in his hands. - -Mechanically he went on with the task he had set himself, of fastening -the rope round her beneath her arm-pits and tying it into a knot. But -her absolute submissiveness seemed presently to paralyze him as much -as his previous violence had disarmed and paralyzed her. He unloosed -the knot he was making and with a sudden jerk pulled the rope away from -her. The rope swung back to its former position and dangled in the air, -swaying gently from side to side. They stood looking at each other in -startled silence and then, quite suddenly, the girl moved forward and -flung her arms round his neck. - -“I love you!” she murmured in a voice unlike any he had heard her use -before. “I love you! I love you!” and her lips clung to his with a long -and passionate kiss. - -Sorio’s emotions at that moment would have caused her, had she been -conscious of them, a reaction even less endurable than that which she -had just been through. To confess the truth he had no emotion at all. -He mechanically returned her kisses; he mechanically embraced her. -But all the while he was thinking of those water-beetles with shiny -metallic coats that were gyrating even now so swiftly round that reedy -pool. - -“Water-beetles!” he thought, as the girl’s convulsive kisses, salt with -her passionate tears, hurt his wounded lip. “Water-beetles! We are all -like that. The world is like that! Water-beetles upon a dark stream.” - -She let him go at last and they moved out together hand in hand into -the open air. Above them the enormous windmill still upheld its -motionless arms while from somewhere in the fens behind it came a -strange whistling cry, the cry of one of those winged intruders from -foreign shores, which even now was perhaps bidding farewell to regions -of exile and calling out for some companion for its flight over the -North Sea. - -With his hand still held tightly in hers, Philippa walked silently by -his side all that long way across the meadows and dykes. Sorio took -advantage of her unusually gentle mood and began plaintively telling -her about the nervous sufferings he endured in Rodmoor and about his -hatred for the people there and his conviction that they took delight -in annoying him. Then little by little, as the girl’s sympathetic -silence led him on, he fell to flinging out--in short, jerky, broken -sentences--as if each word were torn up by the roots from the very soil -of his soul, stammered references to Baptiste. He spoke as if he were -talking to himself rather than to her. He kept repeating over and over -again some muttered phrase about the bond of abnormal affection which -existed between them. And then he suddenly burst out into a description -of Baptiste. He rambled on for a long while upon this topic, leaving -in the end only a very blurred impression upon his hearer’s mind. All, -in fact, the girl was able to definitely arrive at from what he said -was that Baptiste resembled his mother--a Frenchwoman of the coast of -Brittany--and that he was tall and had dark blue eyes. - -“With the longest lashes,” Sorio kept repeating, as if he were -describing to her some one it was important she should remember, “that -you, or any one else, has ever seen! They lie on his cheek when he’s -asleep like--like--” - -He fumbled with the feathery head of a reed he had picked as they were -walking but seemed unable to find any suitable comparison. It was -curious to see the shamefaced, embarrassed way he threw forth, one by -one, and as if each word caused him definite pain in the uttering, -these allusions to his boy. - -Philippa let him ramble on as he pleased, hardly interrupting him by -a gesture, listening to him, in fact, as if she were listening to a -person talking in his sleep. She learnt that it was only with the -greatest difficulty that he had persuaded Baptiste to keep his position -in New York and not fling everything up and follow him to London. -She learnt that Baptiste had copied out with his own hand the larger -portion of Sorio’s book and that now, as he completed each new chapter, -he sent it by registered mail straight to the boy in “Eleventh Street.” - -“It will explain my life, my whole life, that book,” Adrian muttered. -“You’ve only heard a few of its ideas, Phil, only a few. The secret of -things being found, not in the instinct of creation but in the instinct -of destruction, is only the beginning of it. I go further--much further -than that. Don’t laugh at me, Phil, if I just say this--only just -this: I show in my book how what every living thing really aims at is -to escape from itself, to escape from itself by the destruction of -itself. Do you get the idea in that, Phil? Everything in the world -is--how shall I put it?--these ideas are not easy, they tear at a -person’s brain before they become clear!--everything in the world is -on the edge, on the verge, of dissolving away into what people call -nothingness. That is what Shakespeare had in his mind when he said, -‘the great globe itself, yea! all which it inherits, shall dissolve -and--and--’ I forget exactly how it runs but it ends with ‘leave -not a rack behind.’ But the point I make in my book is this. This -‘nothingness,’ this ‘death,’ if you like, to which everything struggles -is only a name for _what lies beyond life_--for what lies, I mean, -beyond the extreme limit of the life of every individual thing. We -shrink back from it, everything shrinks back from it, because it is -the annihilation of all one’s familiar associations, the destruction -of the impulse to go on being oneself! But though we shrink back from -it, something in us, something that is deeper than ourselves pushes us -on to this destruction. This is why, when people have been outraged -in the very roots of their being, when they have been lacerated and -flayed more than they can bear, when they have been, so to speak, raked -through and combed out, they often fall back upon a soft delicious tide -of deep large happiness, indescribable, beyond words.” - -He was too absorbed in what he was saying to notice that as he made -this remark his companion murmured a passionate assent. - -“They do! They do! They do!” the girl repeated, with unrestrained -emotion. - -“That is why,” he continued without heeding her, “there is always a -fierce pleasure in what fools call ‘cynicism.’ Cynicism is really the -only philosophy worth calling a philosophy because it alone recognizes -‘that everything which exists ought to be destroyed.’ Those are the -very words used by the devil in Faust, do you remember? And Goethe -himself knew in his heart the truth of cynicism, only he loved life -so well,--the great child that he was!--that he _couldn’t_ endure the -thought of destruction. He understood it though, and confessed it, -too. Spinoza helped him to see it. Ah, Phil, my girl, _there_ was -a philosopher! The only one--the only one! And see how the rabble -are afraid of Spinoza! See how they turn to the contemptible Hegel, -the grocer of philosophy, with his precious ‘self-assertion’ and -‘self-realization’! And there are some idiots who fail to see that -Spinoza was a cynic, that he hated life and wished to destroy life. -They pretend that he worshipped Nature. Nature! He denied the existence -of it. He wished to annihilate it, and he did annihilate it, in his -terrible logic. He worshipped only one thing, that which is beyond -the limit, beyond the extremest verge, beyond the point where every -living thing ceases to exist and _becomes nothing_! That’s what Spinoza -worshipped and that’s what I worship, Phil. I worship the blinding -white light which puts out all the candles and all the shadows in the -world. It blinds you and ends you and so you call it darkness. But it -only begins where darkness is destroyed with everything else! Darkness -is like cruelty. It’s the opposite of love. But what I worship is as -far beyond love as it is beyond the sun and all the shadows thrown by -the sun!” - -He paused and contemplated a nervous water-rat that was running along -close to the water of the ditch they walked by, desperately searching -for its hole. - -“I call it white light,” he continued, “but really it’s not light -at all, any more than it’s darkness. It’s something you can’t name, -something unutterable, but it’s large and cool and deep and empty. -Yes, it’s empty of everything that lives or makes a sound! It stops -all aching in one’s head, Phil. It stops all the persecution of people -who stare at you! It stops all the sickening tiredness of having to -hate things. It’ll stop all my longing for Baptiste, for Baptiste is -_there_. Baptiste is the angel of that large, cool, quiet place. Let me -once destroy everything in the way and I get to Baptiste--and nothing -can ever separate us again!” - -He looked round at the grey monotony about them, streaked here -and there by patches of autumnal yellow where the stubble fields -intersected the fens. - -“I prove that I’m right about this principle of destruction, Phil,” -he went on, “by bringing up instances of the way all human beings -instinctively delight to overthrow one another’s illusions and to fling -doubt upon one another’s sincerity. We all do that. You do, Phil, more -than any one. You do it to me. And you’re right in doing it. We’re -all right in doing it! That accounts for the secret satisfaction we -all feel when something or other breaks up the complacency of another -person’s life. It accounts for the mad desire we have to destroy -the complacency of our own life. What we’re seeking is _the line of -escape_--that’s the phrase I use in my book. The line of escape from -ourselves. That’s why we turn and turn and turn, like fish gasping on -the land or like those beetles we saw just now, or like that water-rat!” - -They had now reached the outskirts of Nance’s withy-bed. The path Sorio -had come by deviated here sharply to the east, heading sea-wards, while -another path, wider and more frequented, led on across the meadows to -the bank of the Loon where the roof and chimneys of Dyke House were -vaguely visible. The September twilight had already begun to fall and -objects at any considerable distance showed dim and wraith-like. Damp -mists, smelling of stagnant water, rose in long clammy waves out of -the fens and moved in white ghostly procession along the bank of the -river. Sorio stood at this parting of the ways and surveyed the shadowy -outline of the distant tow-path and the yet more obscure form of Dyke -House. He looked at the stubble field and then at the little wood -where the alder trees differentiated themselves from the willows by -their darker and more melancholy foliage. - -“How frightening Dyke House looks from here,” remarked Philippa, “it -looks like a haunted house.” - -A sudden idea struck Sorio’s mind. - -“Phil,” he said, letting go his companion’s hand and pointing with -his stick to the house by the river, “you often tell me you’re afraid -of nothing weird or supernatural. You often tell me you’re more like -a boy in those things than a girl. Look here, now! You just run over -to Dyke House and see how Rachel Doorm is getting on. I often think -of her--alone in that place, now Nance and Linda have gone. I’ve been -thinking of her especially to-day as we’ve come so near here. It’s -impossible for me to go. It’s impossible for me to see any one. My -nerves won’t stand it. But I must say I should be rather glad to know -she hadn’t quite gone off her head. It isn’t very nice to think of her -in that large house by herself, the house where her father died. Nance -told me she feared she’d take to drink just as the old man did. Nance -says it’s in the Doorm family, that sort of thing, drink or insanity, I -mean--or both together, perhaps!” and he broke into a bitter laugh. - -Philippa drew in her breath and looked at the white mist covering the -river and at the ghostly outlines of the Doorm inheritance. - -“You always say you’re like a boy,” repeated Sorio, throwing himself -down where four months ago he had sat with Nance, “well, prove it -then! Run over to Dyke House and give Rachel Doorm my love. I’ll wait -for you here. I promise faithfully. You needn’t do more than just -greet the old thing and wish her well. She loves all you Renshaws. She -idealizes you.” And he laughed again. - -Philippa regarded him silently. For one moment the old wicked flicker -of subtle mockery seemed on the point of crossing her face. But it died -instantly away and her eyes grew childish and wistful. - -“I’m not a boy, I’m a woman,” she murmured in a low voice. - -Sorio frowned. “Well, go, whatever you are,” he cried roughly. “You’re -not tired, are you?” he added a little more gently. - -She smiled at this. “All right, Adrian,” she said, “I’ll go. Give me -one kiss first.” - -She knelt down hurriedly and put her arms round his neck. Lying with -his back against the trunk of an alder, he returned her caress in -a perfunctory, absent-minded manner, precisely as if she were an -importunate child. - -“I love you! I love you!” she whispered and then leaping to her feet, -“Good-bye!” she cried, “I’ll never forgive you if you desert me.” - -She ran off, her slender figure moving through the growing twilight -like a swaying birch tree half seen through mist. Sorio’s mind left her -altogether. An immense yearning for his son took possession of him and -he set himself to recall every precise incident of their separation. -He saw himself standing at the side of the crowded liner. He saw the -people waving and shouting from the wooden jetty of the great dock. He -saw Baptiste, standing a little apart from the rest, motionless, not -raising even a hand, paralyzed by the misery of his departure. He too -was sick with misery then. He remembered the exact sensation of it and -how he envied the sea-gulls who never knew these human sufferings and -the gay people on the ship who seemed to have all they loved with them -at their side. - -“Oh, God,” he muttered to himself, “give me back my son and you may -take everything--my book, my pride, my brain--everything! everything!” - -Meanwhile Philippa was rapidly approaching Dyke House. A cold damp air -met her as she drew near, rising with the white mists from off the -surface of the river. She walked round the house and pushed open the -little wooden gate. The face of desolation itself looked at her from -that neglected garden. A few forlorn dahlias raised their troubled -wine-dark heads from among strangling nettles and sickly plants of -pallid-leaved spurge. Tangled raspberry canes and over-grown patches -of garden-mint mingled with wild cranesbill and darnel. Grass was -growing thickly on the gravel path and clumps of green damp moss clung -to the stone-work of the entrance. The windows, as she approached -the house, stared at her like eyes--eyes that have lost the power to -close their lids. There were no blinds down and no curtains drawn but -all the windows were dark. No smoke issued from the chimney and not a -flicker of light came from any portion of the place. Silent and cold -and hushed, it might have been only waiting for her appearance to sink -like an apparition into the misty earth. With a beating heart the -girl ascended the steps and rang the bell. The sound clanged horribly -through the empty passages. There was a faint hardly perceptible -stir, such as one might imagine being made by the fall of disturbed -dust or the rustle of loose paper, but that was all. Dead unbroken -silence flowed back upon everything like the flow of water round a -submerged wreck. There was not even the ticking of a clock to break -the stillness. It was more than the mere absence of any sound, that -silence which held the Doorm house. It was silence such as possesses -an individuality of its own. It took on, as Philippa waited there, the -shadowy and wavering outlines of a palpable shape. The silence greeted -the girl and welcomed her and begged her to enter and let it embrace -her. In a kind of panic Philippa seized the handle of the door and -shook it violently. More to her terror than reassurance it opened and a -cold wave of air, colder even than the mist of the river, struck her in -the face. She advanced slowly, her hand pressed against her heart and a -sense as if something was drumming in her ears. - -The parlour door was wide open. She entered the room. A handful of -dead flowers--wild flowers of some kind but they were too withered -to be distinguishable--hung dry and sapless over the edge of a vase -of rank-smelling water. Otherwise the table was bare and the room -in order. She came out again and went into the kitchen. Here the -presence of more homely and unsentimental objects relieved a little the -tension of her nerves. But the place was absolutely empty--save for an -imprisoned tortoise-shell butterfly that was beating itself languidly, -as if it had done the same thing for days, against the pane. - -Mindful of Sorio’s habit and with even the faint ghost of a smile, she -opened the window and set the thing free. It was a relief to smell the -river-smell that came in as she did this. She moved out of the kitchen -and once more stood breathless, listening intently in the silent -hall-way. It was growing rapidly darker; she longed to rush from the -place and return to Sorio but some indescribable power, stronger than -her own will, retained her. Suddenly she uttered a little involuntary -cry. Struck by a light gust of wind, the front door which she had left -open, swung slowly towards her and closed with a vibrating shock. She -ran to the back and opened the door which led to the yard. Here she -was genuinely relieved to catch the sound of a sleepy rustling in the -little wood-shed and to see through its dusty window a white blur of -feathers. There were fowls alive anyway about Dyke House. That, at -least, was some satisfaction. Propping the door open by means of an -iron scraper she returned to the hall-way and looked apprehensively at -the staircase. Dared she ascend to the rooms above? Dared she enter -Rachel Doorm’s bedroom? She moved to the foot of the staircase and laid -her hand upon the balustrade. A dim flicker of waning light came in -through the door she had propped open and fell upon the heavy chairs -which stood in the hall and upon a fantastic picture representing the -eruption of Vesuvius. The old-fashioned colouring of this print was -now darkened, but she could see the outlines of the mountain and its -rolling smoke. Once again she listened. Not a sound! She took a few -steps up the stairs and paused. Then a few more and paused again. Then -with her hands tightly clenched and a cold shivering sensation making -her feel sick and dizzy, she ran up the remainder and stood weak and -exhausted, leaning against the pillar of the balustrade and gazing with -startled eyes at a half-open door. - -It is extraordinary the power of the dead over the living! Philippa -knew that in that room, behind that door, was the thing that had once -called itself a woman and had talked and laughed and eaten and drunk -with other women. When Rachel Doorm was about the age she herself had -now reached and she was a little child, she could remember how she -had built sand-castles for her by the sea-shore and sang to her old -Rodmoor songs about drowned sailors and sea-kings and lost children. -And now she knew--as surely as if her hand was laid upon her cold -forehead--that behind that door, probably in some ghastly attitude of -eternal listening, the corpse of all that, of all those memories and -many more that she knew nothing of, was waiting to be found, to be -found and have her eyes shut and her jaw bandaged--and be prepared for -her coffin. The girl gripped tight hold of the balustrade. The terror -that took possession of her then was not that Rachel Doorm should be -dead--dead and so close to her, but that she should _not_ be dead! - -At that moment, could she have brought herself to push that door -wide open and pass in, it would have been much more awful, much more -shocking, to find Rachel Doorm alive and see her rise to meet her and -hear her speak! After all, what did it matter if the body of the woman -was twisted and contorted in some frightful manner--or _standing_ -perhaps--Rachel Doorm was just the one to die standing!--or if her face -were staring up from the floor? What did it matter, supposing she _did_ -go straight in and feel about in the darkness and perhaps lay her hand -upon the dead woman’s mouth? What did it matter even if she _did_ see -her hanging, in the faint light of the window, from a hook above the -curtain with her head bent queerly to one side and a lock of her hair -falling loose? None of these things mattered. None of them prevented -her going straight into that room! What did prevent her and what -sent her fleeing down the stairs and out of the house with a sudden -scream of intolerable terror was the fact that at that moment, quite -definitely, there came the sound of _breathing_ from the room she was -looking at. A simple thing, a natural thing, for an old woman to retire -to her bedroom early and to lie, perhaps with all her clothes on, upon -her bed, to rest for a while before undressing. A simple and a natural -thing! But the fact remains as has just been stated, when the sound of -breathing came from that room Philippa screamed and ran panic-stricken -out into the night. She hardly stopped running, indeed, till she -reached the willow copse and found Sorio where she had left him. He did -not resist now when breathlessly she implored him to accompany her back -to the house. They walked hurriedly there together, Adrian in spite -of a certain apprehension smiling in the darkness at his companion’s -certainty that Rachel Doorm was dead and her equal certainty that she -had heard her breathing. - -“But I understand your feeling, Phil,” he said. “I understand it -perfectly. I used to have the same sensation at night in a certain -great garden in the Campagna--the fear of meeting the boy I used to -play with before I _expected_ to meet him! I used to call out to him -and beg him to answer me so as to make sure.” - -Philippa refused to enter the house again and waited for him outside -by the garden gate. He was long in coming, so long that she was seized -with the strangest thoughts. But he came at last, carrying a lantern in -his hand. - -“You’re right, Phil,” he said, “the gods have taken her. She’s -stone-dead. And what’s more, she’s been dead a long time, several -weeks, I should think.” - -“But the breathing, Adrian, the breathing? I heard it distinctly.” - -Sorio put down his lantern and leant against the gate. In spite of his -calm demeanor she could see that he also had experienced something over -and above the finding of Rachel’s body. - -“Yes,” he said, “and you were right about that, too. Guess, child, what -it was!” - -And as he spoke he put his hand against the front of his coat which was -tightly buttoned up. Philippa was immediately conscious of the same -stertorous noise that she had heard in the room of death. - -“An animal!” she cried. - -“An owl,” he answered, “a young owl. It must have fallen from a nest -in the roof. I won’t show it to you now, as it might escape and a cat -might get it. I’m going to try and rear it if Tassar will let me. -Baptiste will be so amused when he finds me with a pet owl! He has -quite a mania for things like that. He can make the birds in the park -come to him by whistling. Well! I suppose what we must do now is to -get back to Rodmoor as quick as we can and report this business to the -police. She must have been dead a week or more! I’m afraid this will be -a great shock to Nance.” - -“How did you find her?” enquired the girl as they walked along the road -towards the New Bridge. - -“Don’t ask me, Phil--don’t ask me,” he replied, “She’s out of her -troubles anyway and had an owl to look after her.” - -“Should I have been--” began his companion. - -“Don’t ask me, girl!” he reiterated. “I tell you it’s all past and -over. Rachel Doorm will be buried in the Rodmoor churchyard and I shall -have her owl. An old woman stops breathing and an owl begins breathing. -It’s all natural enough.” - - - - -XXII - -THE NORTHWEST WIND - - -The funeral of Rachel Doorm was a dark and troubled day for both Nance -and Linda. Even the sympathy of Mr. Traherne seemed unable to console -them or lift the settled gloom from their minds. Nance especially was -struck dumb with comfortless depression. She felt doubly guilty in the -matter. Guilty in her original acquiescence in the woman’s desire to -have them with her in Rodmoor and guilty in her neglect of her during -the last weeks of her life. For the immediate cause of her death, or -of the desperation that led to it, their leaving Dyke House for the -village, she did not feel any remorse. That was inevitable after what -had occurred. But this did not lessen her responsibility in the other -two cases. Had she resolutely refused to leave London the probability -was that Rachel would have been persuaded to go on living with them as -she had formerly done. She might even have sold Dyke House and with -the proceeds bought some cottage in the city suburbs for them all. It -was her own ill-fated passion for Sorio, she recognized that clearly -enough, that was the cause of all the disasters that had befallen them. - -Linda’s feeling with regard to Rachel’s death was quite different. She -had to confess in the depths of her heart that she was glad of it, -glad to be relieved of the constant presence of something menacing and -vindictive on the outskirts of her life. Her trouble was of a more -morbid and abnormal kind, was, indeed, the fact that in spite of the -woman’s death, she _hadn’t_ really got rid of Rachel Doorm. The night -before the funeral she dreamed of her almost continually, dreamed that -she herself was a child again and that Rachel had threatened her with -some unknown and mysterious punishment. The night after the funeral it -was still worse. She woke Nance by a fit of wild and desperate crying -and when the elder girl tried to discover the nature of her trouble she -grew taciturn and reserved and refused to say anything in explanation. -All the following week she went about her occupations with an air of -abstraction and remoteness as if her real life were being lived on -another plane. Nance learnt from Mr. Traherne, who was doing all he -could think of to keep her attention fixed on her organ-playing, that -as a matter of fact she frequently came out of the church after a few -minutes’ practise and went and stood, for long periods together, by -Rachel’s grave. The priest confessed that on one of the occasions when -he had surprised her in this posture, she had turned upon him quite -savagely and had addressed him in a tone completely different from her -ordinary one. - -It was especially dreadful to Nance to feel she was thrust out and -alienated in some mysterious way from her sister’s confidence. - -One morning towards the end of September, when they were dressing -together in the hazy autumnal light and listening to the cries of -sea-gulls coming up from the harbour, Nance caught upon her sister’s -face, as the girl’s eyes met one another in their common mirror, that -same inscrutable look that she had seen upon it five months before -when, in their room at Dyke House they had first become acquainted with -the eternal iteration of the North Sea’s waves. Nance tried in vain -all the remainder of that day to think out some clue to what that look -implied. It haunted her and tantalized her. Linda had always possessed -something a little pleading and sad in her eyes. It was no doubt the -presence of that clinging wistfulness in them which had from the first -attracted Brand. But this look contained in it something different. -It suggested to Nance, though she dismissed the comparison as quite -inadequate almost as soon as she had made it, the cry of a soul that -was being _pulled backwards_ into some interior darkness yet uttering -all the while a desperate prayer to be let alone as if the least -interference with what destiny was doing would be the cause of yet -greater peril. - -The following night as she lay awake watching a filmy trail of vaporous -clouds sail across a wasted haggard moon, a moon that seemed to betray -as that bright orb seldom does the fact that it was a corpse-world -hung there with almost sacrilegious and indecent exposure, under the -watchful stars, she noticed with dismay the white-robed figure of her -sister rise from her bed and step lightly across the room to the open -window. Nance watched her with breathless alarm. Was she awake or -asleep? She leant out of the window, her long hair falling heavily to -one side. Nance fancied she heard her muttering something but the noise -of the sea, for the tide was high then in the early morning hours, -prevented her catching the words. Nance threw off the bed-clothes and -stole noiselessly towards her. Yes, certainly she was speaking. The -words came in a low, plaintive murmur as if she were pleading with -some one out there in the misty night. Nance crept gently up to her and -listened, afraid to touch her lest she should cause her some dangerous -nervous shock but anxious to be as close to her as she could. - -“I am good now,” she heard her say, “I am good now, Rachel. You can let -me out now! I will say those words, I am good now. I won’t disobey you -again.” - -There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of the Sea and the -beating of Nance’s heart. Then once more, the voice rose. - -“It’s down too deep, Rachel, you can’t reach it with that. But I’ll -go in. I’m not afraid any more! If only you’ll let me out. I’ll go in -deep--deep--and get it for you. She can’t hold it tight. The water -is too strong. Oh, I’ll be good, Rachel. I’ll get it for you if only -you’ll let me out!” - -Nance, unable to endure any more of this, put her arms gently round her -sister’s body and drew her back into the room. The young girl did not -resist. With wide-open but utterly unconscious eyes she let herself be -led across the room. Only when she was close to her bed she held back -and her body became rigid. - -“Don’t put me in there again, Rachel. Anything but that!” - -“Darling!” cried Nance desperately, “don’t you know me? I’m with you, -dear. This is Nance with you. No one shall hurt you!” - -The young girl shuddered and looked at her with a bewildered and -troubled gaze as if everything were vague and obscure. At that moment -there came over Nance that appalling terror of the unconscious, of the -_sub-human_ which is one of the especial dangers of those who have to -look after the insane or follow the movements of somnambulists. But the -shudder passed and the bewildered look was superseded by one of gradual -obliviousness. The girl’s body relaxed and she swayed as she stood. -Nance, with a violent effort, lifted her in her arms and laid her down -on the bed. The girl muttered something and turned over on her side. -Nance watched her anxiously but she was soon relieved to catch the -sound of her quiet breathing. She was asleep peacefully now. She looked -so pathetically lovely, lying there in a childish position of absolute -abandonment that Nance could not resist bending over her and lightly -kissing her cheek. - -“Poor darling!” she said to herself, “how blind I’ve been! How wickedly -blind I’ve been!” She pulled the blanket from her own bed and threw it -over her sister so as not to disturb her by altering the bed-clothes. -Then, wrapping herself in her dressing-gown she lay back upon her -pillows resigned for the rest of the night to remaining wakeful. - -The next day she noticed no difference in Linda’s mood. There was the -same abstraction, the same listless lack of interest in anything about -her and worst of all that same inscrutable look which filled Nance with -every sort of wild imagination. She cast about in despair for some way -of breaking the evil spell under which the girl was pining. She went -again and again to see Mr. Traherne and the good man devoted hours of -his time to discussing the matter with her but nothing either of them -could think of seemed a possible solution. - -At last one morning, some days after that terrifying night, she met -Dr. Raughty in the street. She walked with him as far as the bridge -explaining to him as best she could her apprehensions about her sister -and asking him for his advice. Dr. Raughty was quite definite and -unhesitating. - -“What Linda wants is a mother,” he said laconically. Nance stared at -him. - -“Yes, I know,” she said. “I know well enough, poor darling! But that’s -the worst of it, Fingal. Her mother’s been dead years and years and -years.” - -“There are other mothers in Rodmoor, aren’t there?” he remarked. - -Nance frowned. “You think I don’t look after her properly,” she -murmured. “No, I suppose I haven’t. And yet I’ve tried to--I’ve tried -my very best.” - -“You’re as hopeless as your Adrian with his owl,” cried the Doctor. “He -was feeding it with cake the other day. Cake! He’d better not bring -his owl and our friend’s rat together. There won’t be much of the rat -left. Cake!” And the Doctor put back his head and uttered an immense -gargantuan laugh. Nance looked a little disturbed and even a little -indignant at his merriment. - -“What do you mean by _other_ mothers?” she asked. They had just reached -the bridge and Dr. Raughty bade her look over the parapet. - -“What exquisite bellies those dace have!” he remarked, snuffing the -air as he spoke. “There’ll be rain before night. Do you feel it? I -know from the way those fish rise. The sea too, it has a different -voice--has that ever caught your attention?--when there’s rain on the -wind. Those dace are shrewd fellows. They’re after the bits of garbage -the sea-gulls drop on their way up the river. You might think they -were after flies, but they’re not. I suppose George Crabbe or George -Borrow would switch ’em out with some bait such as was never dreamed -of--the droppings of rabbits perhaps or ladybird grubs. I suppose old -Doctor Johnson would wade in up to his knees and try and scoop ’em up -in his hands. There’s a big one! Do you see? The one waving his tail -and turning sideways. I expect he weighs half a pound or more. Fish are -beautiful things, especially dace. Isn’t it wonderful to think that if -you pulled any of those things backwards through the water they would -be drowned, simply by the rush of water through their gills? Look, -Nance, at that one! What a silver belly! What a delicate, exquisite -tail! A plague on these fellows who philander with owls and rats! Give -me fish--if you want to make a cult of something.” He lowered his voice -to a whisper, “I should think Lubric de Lauziere must have kept a pet -fish in his round pond!” - -“Good-bye, Fingal,” said Nance, holding out her hand. - -“What! Well! Where! God help us! What’s wrong, Nance? You’re not -annoyed with me, are you? Do you think I’m talking through my hat? -Not at all! I’m leading up to it. A mother--that’s what she wants. -She wants it just as those dace want the water to flow in their -faces and not backwards through their gills. She’s being dragged -backwards--that’s what’s the matter with her. She wants her natural -element and it must flow in the right direction. _You_ won’t do. -Traherne won’t do. A mother is the thing! A woman, Nance, who has borne -children has certain instincts in dealing with young girls which make -the wisest physicians in the world look small!” - -Nance smiled helplessly at him. - -“But, Fingal, dear,” she said, “what can I do? I can’t appeal to Mrs. -Raps, can I--or your friend Mrs. Sodderley? When you come to think, -there are very few mothers in Rodmoor!” - -The Doctor sighed. “I know it,” he observed mournfully, “I know it. -The place will die out altogether in fifty years. It’s as bad as the -sand-dunes with their sterile flora. Women who bear children are the -only really sane people in the world.” - -He ran his thumb, as he spoke, backwards and forwards over a little -patch of vividly green moss that grew between the stones of the -parapet. The air, crisp and autumnal with that vague scent of burning -weeds in it which more than anything else suggests the outskirts of a -small town at the end of the summer, flowed round them both with a mute -appeal to her, so it seemed to Nance, to let all things drift as they -might and submit to destiny. She looked at the Doctor dreamily in one -of those queer intermissions of human consciousness in which we stand -apart, as it were, from our own fate and listen to the flowing of the -eternal tide. - -A small poplar tree growing at the village end of the bridge had -already lost some of its leaves and a few of these came drifting, one -by one, along the raised stone pathway to the girl’s feet. Over the -misty marsh lands in the other direction, she could see the low tower -of the church. The gilded weather-vane on the top of it shimmered and -glittered in a vaporous stream of sunlight that seemed to touch nothing -else. - -Dreamily she looked at the Doctor, too weary of the struggle of life to -make an effort to leave him and yet quite hopeless as to his power to -help her. Fingal Raughty continued to discourse upon the instinctive -wisdom of maternity. - -“Women who’ve had children,” he went on, “are the only people in the -world who possess the open secret. They know what it is to find the -ultimate virtue in exquisite resignation. They do not only submit to -fate--they joyfully embrace it. I suppose we might maintain that they -even ‘love it’--though I confess that that idea of ‘loving’ fate has -always seemed to me weird and fantastic. But I laugh, and so do you, -I expect, when our friends Sorio and Tassar talk in their absurd way -about women. What do they know of women? They’ve only met, in all their -lives (forgive me, Nance!) a parcel of silly young girls. They’ve no -right to speak of life at all, the depraved children that they are! -They are outside life, they’re ignorant of the essential mystery. -Goethe was the fellow to understand these things, and you know the name -_he_ gives to the unutterable secret? _The Mothers._ That’s a good -name, isn’t it? The Mothers! Listen, Nance! All the people in this -place suffer from astigmatism and asymmetry. Those are the outward -signs of their mental departure from the normal. And the clever ones -among them are proud of it. You know the way they talk! They think -abnormality is the only kind of beauty. Nance, my dear, to tell you -the truth, I’m sick of them all. _My_ idea of beauty is the perfect -masculine type, such as you see it in that figure they call ‘the -Theseus’--in the Elgin marbles--or the perfect feminine type as you -see it in the great Demeter. Do you suppose they can, any of them, get -round that? Do you suppose they can fight against the rhythm of Nature?” - -He pulled out his tobacco pouch and gravely lit his pipe, swinging his -head backwards and forwards as he did so. Nance could not help noticing -the shrewd, humorous _animalism_ of his look as he performed this -function. - -“But what can be done? Oh, Fingal, what _can_ be done about Linda?” she -asked with a heavy sigh. - -He settled his pipe in his mouth and blew violently down its stem, -causing a cloud of smoke to go up into the September air. - -“Take her to Mrs. Renshaw,” he said solemnly. “That’s what I’ve been -thinking all this time. That’s my conclusion. Take her to Mrs. Renshaw.” - -Nance stared at him. “Really?” she murmured, “you really think _she_ -could help?” - -“Try it--try it--try it!” cried Dr. Raughty, flinging a bit of moss at -the fish in the water below them. - -“It’s extraordinary,” he added, “that these dace should come down so -far as this! The water here must be almost entirely salt.” - -That afternoon Nance went to Mr. Traherne’s vesper service. She found -Mrs. Renshaw in the church and invited both her and the priest to come -back with them to their lodgings. She did this under the pretense of -showing them some new designs of a startling and fascinating kind -that she had received from Paris. The circean witcheries of French -costumery were not perhaps precisely the right attraction either for -Mrs. Renshaw or Hamish Traherne, but the thing served well enough as an -excuse and they both took it as such. She was careful to hurry on in -advance with Mr. Traherne so as to make it inevitable that Linda should -walk with Mrs. Renshaw. The mistress of Oakguard seemed unusually -pale and tired that afternoon. She held Linda back in the churchyard -until the others had got quite far and then she led her straight to -Rachel Doorm’s grave. They had buried the unhappy woman quite close to -the outermost border of the priest’s garden. Nothing but a few paces -of level grass separated her from a row of tall crimson hollyhocks. -The grave at present lacked any headstone. Only a bunch of Michaelmas -daisies, placed there by Linda herself, stood at its foot in a glass -jar. Several wasps were buzzing round this jar, probably conscious of -some faint odour clinging still about it from what it had formerly -contained. Mrs. Renshaw stood with her hand leaning heavily on Linda’s -shoulder. She seemed to know, from the depths of her own fathomless -morbidity, precisely what the young girl was feeling. - -“Shall we kneel down?” she said. Linda began trembling a little but -with simple and girlish docility, free from any kind of embarrassment, -she knelt at the other’s side. - -“We mustn’t pray for the dead,” whispered Mrs. Renshaw. “_He_,” she -meant Mr. Traherne, “tells us to in his sermons, but it hurts me -when he does for we’ve been taught that all that is wrong--wrong and -contrary to our simple faith! We mustn’t forget the Martyrs--must we, -Linda?” - -But Linda’s mind was far from the martyrs. It was occupied entirely -with the thing that lay buried before them, under that newly disturbed -earth. - -“But we can pray to God that His will be done, on earth, even as it is -in Heaven,” murmured Mrs. Renshaw. - -She was silent after that and the younger and the elder woman knelt -side by side with bowed heads. Then in a low whisper Mrs. Renshaw spoke -again. - -“There are some lines I should like to say to you, dear, if you’ll let -me. I copied them out last week. They were at the end of a book of -poetry that I found in Philippa’s room. She must have just bought it or -had it given to her. I didn’t think she cared any more for poetry. The -pages weren’t cut and I didn’t like to cut them without her leave but I -copied this out from the end. It was the last in the book.” - -She hesitated a moment while Linda remained motionless at her side, -trembling still a little and watching the movements of a Peacock -butterfly which was then sharing with the wasps their interest in the -ancient honey-jar. - -Mrs. Renshaw then repeated the following lines in a clear exquisitely -modulated voice which went drifting away over the surrounding marshes. - - “For even the purest delight may pall, - And power must fail and the pride must fall. - And the love of the dearest friends grow small, - But the glory of the Lord is all in all.” - -Her voice sank. A slight gust of wind made the trees above them sigh -softly as though the words of the kneeling woman were in harmony with -the inarticulate heart of the earth. - -Linda stopped trembling. A sweet indescribable calm began slowly to -pervade her. Gently, like a child, she slipped her hand into her -companion’s. - -“Do you remember the Forty-third Psalm, Linda?” Mrs. Renshaw continued -and her clear dramatic voice, with a power of feeling equal to that of -any great actress, once more rose upon the air. - - “Our heart is not turned back, neither have our steps declined from - thy way. - Though thou hast sore broken us, in the place of dragons, and covered - us with the shadow of death.” - -Once more she was silent but with a slight veering of the wind, -the sound of the waves beyond the sand-dunes came to them with -pitiless distinctness. It seemed to mock--this voice of the earth’s -antagonist--mock, in triumphant derision, the forlorn hope which that -solemn invocation had roused in the girl’s heart. But in contending -against Mrs. Renshaw’s knowledge of the Psalms even the North Sea had -met its match. With her pale face uplifted and a wild light in her -eyes, she continued to utter the old melodious incantations with their -constant references to a Power more formidable than “all thy waves and -storms.” She might have been one of the early converts to the faith -that came from the sacred Desert, wrestling in spiritual ecstasy with -the gods and powers of those heathen waters. - -Either by one of the fortunate coincidences which sometimes interrupt -even the irony of nature or, as Mrs. Renshaw would herself have -maintained, by a direct answer to her prayer, the weathercock on -the church tower swung round again. North-east it swung, then -north-north-east, then due north. And finally, even while she was -uttering her last antiphony, it pointed to north-west, the quarter most -alien and antagonistic to the Rodmoor sea, the portion of the horizon -from which blew the wind of the great fens. - -In a country like East Anglia so peculiarly at the mercy of the -elements, every one of the winds has its own peculiar burden and brings -with it something healing and restorative or baleful and malefic. The -east wind here is, in a paramount sense, the evil wind, the accomplice -and confederate of the salt deep, the blighter of hopes, the herald -of disaster. The north-west wind, on the contrary, is the wind that -brings the sense of inland spaces, the smell of warm, wet earth and the -fragrance of leaf mould in sweet breathing woods. It is the wind that -fills the rivers and the wells and brings the fresh purifying rain. -It is a wind full of memories and its heart is strong with the power -of ancient love, revived even out of graves and sepulchres. To those -sensitive to finer and rarer earth influences among the dwellers by -the east coast there may be caught sometimes upon the north-west wind -the feeling of pine woods and moorland heather. For it comes from the -opposite side of the great plain, from Brandon Heath and even beyond -and it finds nothing in the wide fen country to intercept it or break -the rush of its sea-ward passage. - -Thus, when the two women rose finally to their feet it was to be met by -a cool, healing breath which, as it bowed the ranks of the hollyhocks -and rustled through the trees, had in it a delicious odour of inland -brooks and the coming of pure rain. - -“Listen to me, child,” said Mrs. Renshaw as they passed out of the -churchyard, “I want to say this to you. You mustn’t think that God -allows any intercourse between the living and the dead. That is -a wicked invention of our own sinful hearts. It is a temptation, -darling--a temptation of the devil--and we must struggle against -it. Whenever we feel it we must struggle against it and pray. It is -perfectly right for you to think gently and forgivingly of poor Miss -Doorm. It were wrong to think otherwise. But you mustn’t think of her -as anywhere near us or about us now. She’s in the hands of God and in -the mercy of God and we must leave her there. Do you hear what I’m -saying, Linda? Do you understand me? Anything else is wrong and evil. -We are all sinners together and we are all in the same merciful hands.” - -Never was the exorcising of powers hurtful to humanity more effective. -Linda bowed her head at her words and then raising it freely, walked -with a lighter step than for seven long days. She wished in her heart -that she had the courage to talk to Mrs. Renshaw about an anxiety -much more earthly, much less easy to be healed, than the influence of -Rachel Doorm, alive or dead, but so immense was her relief at that -moment to be free from the haunting phantom that had been pulling her -towards that mound in the churchyard that she found it in her heart to -be hopeful and reckless even though she knew that, whatever happened, -there was bound to be pain and trouble in store for her in the not far -distant future. - - - - -XXIII - -WARDEN OF THE FISHES - - -It will be found not altogether devoid of a strange substratum of -truth, though fantastic enough in the superficial utterance, the -statement that there are certain climacteric seasons in the history of -places when, if events of importance are looming upon the horizon, they -are especially liable to fall. Such a season with regard to Rodmoor, or -at least with regard to the persons we are most concerned with there, -may be said to have arrived with the beginning of Autumn and with the -month of October. - -The first weeks of this month were at any rate full of exciting and -fatal interest to Nance. Something in the change of the weather, for -the rains had come in earnest now, affected Sorio in a marked degree. -His whole being seemed to undergo some curious disintegrating process -as difficult to analyze as the actual force in Nature which was at that -very time causing the fall of the leaves. We may be allowed to draw at -least this much from Sorio’s own theory of the universal impulse to -self-destruction--the possible presence, that is to say, of something -positive and active, if not personal and conscious, in the processes -of natural decadence. Life, when it corrupts and disintegrates; life -when it finally falls away and becomes what we call death, does so -sometimes, or seems to do so, with a vehemence and impetuosity which -makes it difficult not to feel the pressure of some half-conscious -“will to perish” in the thing thus plunging towards dissolution. -The brilliant colour which many flowers assume when they approach -decease bears out this theory. It is what the poet calls a “lightning -before death” and the rich tints of the autumn foliage as well as the -phosphorescent glories--only repulsive to our human senses in fatal -association--of physical mortality itself, are symbols, if not more -than symbols, of the same splendid rushing upon nothingness. - -This change in Sorio was not at all to Nance’s disadvantage in the -external aspect of the relations between them; indeed, she was carried -forward by it to the point of coming to anticipate with trembling -excitement what had begun to seem an almost impossible happiness. For -Sorio definitely and in an outburst of impatient pleading, implored her -to marry him. In the deeper, more spiritual association between them, -however, the change which took place in him now was less satisfactory. -Nance could not help feeling that there was something blind, childish, -selfish, unchivalrous,--something even reckless and sinister--about -this proposal and the passionate eagerness with which he pressed it -upon her, considering that he made no more attempt than before to -secure any employment and seemed to take it for granted that either she -or Baltazar Stork or his own son in America, or some vague providential -windfall would provide the money for this startling adventure. Side -by side with her surprise at his careless disregard for all practical -considerations, Nance could not help feeling a profound apprehension -which she herself was unwilling to bring to the surface of her mind -with regard to his mood and manner during these days. He seemed to -throw himself passively and helplessly upon her hands. He clung to her -as a sick child might cling to its parent. His old savage outbursts -of cynical humour seemed to have vanished and in their place was a -constant querulousness and peevishness which rendered their hours -together much less peaceful and happy than they ought to have been. -All sorts of little things irritated him--irritated him even in her. -He clung to her, she could not help fancying, more out of a strange -instinct of self-preservation than out of natural love. She couldn’t -help wondering sometimes how it would be when they were actually -married. He seemed to find it at once difficult to endure her society -and impossible to do without it. The bitter saying of the old Latin -poet might have been his motto at that time. “_Nec sine te nec tecum -vivere possum._” - -And yet, in spite of all this, these early October days were days of -exquisite happiness for Nance. The long probation through which her -love had passed had purged and winnowed it. The maternal instinct in -her, always the dominant note in her emotions, was satisfied now as it -had never been satisfied before, as perhaps unless she had children of -her own it would never be satisfied again. - -In these days of new hope and new life her youth seemed to revive and -put forth exquisite blossoms of gaiety and tenderness. In a physical -sense she actually did revive, though this may have been partly due -to the cool crisp air that now blew constantly across the fens, and -Linda, watching the change with affectionate sympathy, declared she was -growing twice as beautiful. - -She offered no objection when Sorio insisted upon having their “bans” -read out in church, a duty that was most willingly performed without -further delay by Hamish Traherne. She did not even protest when he -announced that they would be married before October was over, announced -it without any indication of how or where they would live, upon whose -money or under whose roof! - -She felt a natural reluctance to press these practical details upon his -notice. The bond that united them was too delicate, too tenuous and -precarious, for her to dare to lean heavily upon it, nor did the few -hesitating and tentative hints she threw out meet with any response -from him. He waved them aside. He threw them from him with a jest or -a childish groan of disgust or a vague “Oh, _that_ will work itself -out. _That_ will be all right. Don’t worry about _that_! I’m writing to -Baptiste.” - -But, as we have said, in spite of all these difficulties and in spite -of the deep-hidden dismay which his nervous, querulous mood excited in -her, Nance was full of a thrilling and inexpressible happiness during -these Autumn days. She loved the roar of the great wind--the north-west -wind--in chimneys and house-tops at night. She loved the drifting of -the dead leaves along the muddy roads. She loved the long swishing -murmur of the rushes growing by the dyke paths as they bent their -feathery heads over the wet banks or bowed in melancholy rhythm across -the rain-filled ditches. - -Autumn was assuredly and without doubt the climacteric season of the -Rodmoor fens. They reluctantly yielded to the Spring; they endured the -Summer, and the Winter froze them into dead and stoical inertness. But -something in the Autumn called out the essential and native qualities -of the place’s soul. The fens rose to meet the Autumn in happy and -stormy nuptials. The brown, full-brimmed streams mounted up joyously -to the highest level of their muddy banks. The faded mallow-plants by -the river’s side and the tarnished St. John’s wort in the drenched -hedges assumed a pathetic and noble beauty--a beauty full of vague, -far-drawn associations for sensitive humanity. The sea-gulls and -marsh-birds, the fish, the eels, the water-rats of the replenished -streams seemed to share in the general expansion of life with the black -and white hornless cattle, the cattle of the fens, who now began to -yield their richest milk. Long, chilly, rainy days ended in magnificent -and sumptuous sunsets--sunsets in which the whole sky from zenith to -nadir became one immense rose of celestial fire. Out of a hundred -Rodmoor chimneys rose the smell of burning peat, that smell of all -others characteristic of the country whose very soil was formed of the -vegetation of forgotten centuries. - -In the large dark barns the yellow grain lay piled roof-high, while -in every little shed and outhouse in the country, damsons, pears and -potatoes lay spread out as if for the enjoyment of some Dionysian -gathering of the propitiated earth-gods. - -The fishermen, above all, shared in the season’s fortune, going out -early and late to their buoy-marked spots on the horizon, where the -presence of certain year-old wrecks lying on the sand at the bottom -drew the migratory fish and held them for weeks as if by a marine spell. - -But if the days had their especial quality, the nights during that -October were more significant still. The sky seemed to draw back, -back and away, to some purer, clearer, more ethereal level while with -a radiance tender and solemn the greater and lesser stars shed down -their magical influence. The planets, especially Venus and Jupiter, -grew so luminous and large that they seemed to rival the moon; while -the Moon, herself, the mystic red moon of the finished harvest, the -moon of the equinox, drew the tides after her, higher and fuller and -with a deeper note in their ebb and flow than at any other season of -the year. - -Everywhere swallows were gathering for their long flight, everywhere -the wild geese and the herons were rising to incredible heights in the -sky and moving northward and westward; and all this while Nance was -able, at last really able, to give herself up to her passion for the -man she loved. - -It was a passion winnowed by waiting and suffering, purged to a -pure flame by all she had gone through, but it was a passion none -the less--a long exclusive passion--the love of a lifetime. It made -her sometimes, this great love of hers, dizzy and faint with fear -lest something even now should at the last moment come between them. -Sometimes it made her strangely shy of him too, shy and withdrawn as if -it were not easy, though so triumphantly sweet, to give herself up body -and soul into hands that after all were the hands of a stranger! - -Sorio did not understand all this. Sometimes when she thrust him away -as if the emotion produced by his caresses were more than she could -bear or as if some incalculable pride in her, some inalienable chastity -beyond the power of her senses, relucted to yield further, he grew -angry and morose and accused her of jealousy or of coldness. This would -have been harder to endure from him if there had not existed all the -while at the bottom of her heart a strange, maternal pity, a pity not -untouched with a sort of humorous irony--the eternal irony of the woman -as she submits to the eternal misunderstanding of the man, embracing -her without knowing what he does. He seemed to her sometimes in the -mere physical stress of his love-making almost like an amorous and -vicious boy. She could not resist the consciousness that her knowledge -of the mystery of sex--its depth and subtlety not less than its flame -and intensity--was something that went much further and was much -more complicated and involved with her whole being than anything he -experienced. Especially did she smile in her heart at the queer way he -had of taking it for granted that he was “seducing” her, of deriving, -it seemed, sometimes a satyrish pleasure from that idea, and sometimes -a fit of violent remorse. When he was in either of these moods she felt -towards him precisely as a mother might feel towards a son whose egoism -and ignorance gave him a disproportioned view of the whole world. And -yet, in actual age, Sorio was some twenty years her senior. - -In her own mind, as the weeks slipped by and their names had already -been coupled twice in the Sunday services, Nance was taking thought -as to what, in solid reality, she intended to do with this child-man -of hers when the great moment came. She must move from their present -lodging. _That_ seemed certain. It also seemed certain that Linda would -have still to go on living with her. Any other arrangement than that -was obviously unthinkable. But where should they live? And could she, -with the money at present at her disposal, support three people? - -A solution was found to both these problems by Mr. Traherne. There -happened to exist in Rodmoor, as in many other old decaying boroughs -on the east coast, certain official positions the practical service -of which was almost extinct but whose local prestige and financial -emoluments, such as they were, lingered on unaffected by the change of -conditions. The relentless encroachments of the sea upon the land were -mainly responsible for this. In certain almost uninhabited villages -there existed official persons whose real raison d’être lay with the -submerged foundations of former human habitations, deep at the bottom -of the waters. - -It was, indeed, one of the essential peculiarities of life upon those -strange sea-banks this sense of living on the edge, as it were, -of the wave-drowned graves of one’s fathers. It may have been the -half-conscious knowledge of this, bred in their flesh and blood from -infancy, that gave to the natives of those places so many unusual and -unattractive qualities. Other abodes of men rest securely upon the -immemorial roots of the past, roots that lie, layer beneath layer, in -rich historic continuity endowing present usages and customs with the -consecration of unbroken tradition. But in the villages of that coast -all this is different. Tradition remains, handed down from generation -to generation, but the physical continuity is broken. The east-coast -dwellers resemble certain of the stellar bodies in the celestial -spaces, they retain their identity and their names but they are driven, -in slow perpetual movement, to change their physical position. In -scriptural phrase, they have no “abiding-place” nor can they continue -“in one stay.” - -The fishing boats of the present generation set their brown sails -to cross the water where, some hundreds of years before, an earlier -generation walked their cobbled streets. The storm-buoys rock and ring -and the boat lanterns burn their wavering signals over the drowned -foundations that once supported Town-Hall and church tower, Market -place and Village Tavern. It is this slow, century-delayed flight -from the invading tide which so often produces in East Anglian coast -towns the phenomenal existence of two parish churches, both it may be -still in use, but the later and newer one following the heart of the -community in its enforced retreat. Thus it is brought about in these -singular localities that the very law of the gods, the law which utters -to the elements the solemn “thus far and no further” is as a matter of -fact, daily and momently, though with infinite slowness, broken and -defied. - -It is perhaps small wonder that among the counties of England these -particular districts should have won for themselves a sinister -reputation for impiety and perversity. Nothing so guards and -establishes the virtue of a community than its sense of the presence -in its midst of the ashes of its generations. Consciously and in -a thousand pious usages it “worships its dead.” But East-Anglian -coast-dwellers are not permitted this privilege. Their “Lares and -Penates” have been invaded and submerged. The fires upon their altars -have been drowned and over the graves of their fathers the godless -tides ebb and flow without reverence. Fishes swim where once children -were led to the font and where lovers were wedded the wild cormorant -mocks the sea-horses with its disconsolate cry. It is easy to be -believed that the remote descendants of human beings who actually -walked and bartered and loved and philosophized on spots of ground now -tangled with seaweed and sea-drift, and with fathoms of moaning and -whispering water above them, should come in their hour to depart in a -measure from the stable and kindly laws of human integrity! With the -ground thus literally _moving_--though in age-long process--_under -their feet_, how should they be as faithful as other tribes of men to -what is permanent in human institution? - -There was perhaps a certain congruity in the fact that now, after all -these ages of tidal malice, it was in the interests of so singular -an alien as Sorio--one whose very philosophy was the philosophy of -“destruction”--that this lingering on of offices, whose service had -been sea-drowned, remained as characteristic of the place. But this is -precisely what did occur. - -There was in Rodmoor a local official, appointed by the local town -council, whose title, “The Warden of the Fishes,” carried the mind back -to a time when the borough, much larger then, had been a considerable -centre of the fishing industry. This office, tenable for life, carried -with it very few actual duties now but it ensured a secure though small -emolument and, what was more important, the occupancy, free of rent, of -one of the most picturesque houses in the place, an old pre-Elizabethan -dwelling of incommodious size but of romantic appearance, standing at -the edge of the harbour. - -The last incumbent of this quaint and historic office, whose duties -were so little onerous that they could be performed by a very old and -very feeble man, was a notable character of the village called John -Peewit Swinebitter, whose chief glory was not attained until the close -of his mortal days, which ended under the table in the Admiral’s Head -after a surfeit of the very fish of which he was “warden” washed down -by too copious libations of Keith-Radipole ale. - -Since Mr. Swinebitter’s decease in June, there had gone on all through -July and August, a desperate rivalry between two town factions as to -the choosing of his successor and it was Mr. Traherne’s inspired notion -to take advantage of this division to secure the post for Nance’s -prospective husband. - -Sorio, though of foreign blood, was by birth and nationality English -and moreover he had picked up, during his stay in Rodmoor, quite as -much familiarity with the ways and habits of fish as were necessary -for that easy post. If, at any unforeseen crisis, more scientific and -intimate knowledge was required than was at his disposal, there was -always Dr. Raughty, a past master in all such matters, to whom he could -apply. It was Mr. Traherne’s business to wheedle the local rivals into -relinquishing their struggle in favour of one who was outside the -contention and when this was accomplished the remaining obstacles in -the way of the appointment were not hard to surmount. Luckily for the -conspirators, Brand Renshaw, though the largest local landowner and a -Justice of the Peace, was not on the Rodmoor council. - -So skillfully did Mr. Traherne handle the matter and so cautious and -reserved was Nance that it was not till after the final reading of -their bans in the church on the marshes and the completion of the -arrangements for their marriage at the end of the following week, that -even Baltazar Stork became aware of what was in the wind. - -Sorio himself had been extremely surprised at this unexpected favour -shown him by the local tradesmen. He had brooded so long upon his -morbid delusion of universal persecution that it seemed incredible -to him, in the few interviews which he had with these people, that -they should treat him in so courteous and kind a manner. As a matter -of fact, so fierce and obstinate were their private dissensions, it -was a genuine relief to them to deal with a person from outside; nor -must it be forgotten that in the appointment of Nance’s husband to -the coveted post they were doing honour to the memory of the bride’s -father, Captain Herrick having been by far the most popular of all -the visitors to Rodmoor in former times. Most of the older members of -the council could well remember the affable sailor. Many of them had -frequently gone out fishing with him in the days when there were more -fish and rarer fish to be caught than there were at present--those -“old days” in fact which, in most remote villages, are associated with -stuffed wonders in tavern parlours and with the quips and quirks of -half-legendary heroes of Sport and Drink. - -It was a reversion to such “old days” to have a gentleman “Warden of -the Fishes.” Besides it was a blow at the Renshaws between whom and -the town-council there was an old established feud. For it was not -hidden from the gossips of Rodmoor that the relations between Nance and -the family at Oakguard were more than a little strained, nor did the -shrewder ones among them hesitate to whisper dark and ominous hints as -to the nature of this estrangement. - -Baltazar Stork received the news of his friend’s approaching marriage -with something like mute fury. The morning when Sorio announced it to -him was one of concentrated gloom. The sea was high and rough. The -wind wailed through the now almost leafless sycamores and made the -sign which bore the Admiral’s head creak and groan in its iron frame. -It had rained steadily all through the night and though the rain had -now ceased there was no sun to dry the little pools of water which -lay in all the trodden places in the green or the puddles, choked up -with dead leaves, which stared desolately from the edges of the road -upon the sombre heaven. Sorio, having made his momentous announcement -in a negligent, off-hand way, as though it were a matter of small -importance, rushed off to meet Nance at the station and go with her to -Mundham. - -As it was Saturday the girl had no scruple about leaving her work. In -any case she would have been free, with the rest of Miss Pontifex’s -employees, in the early afternoon. She was anxious to spend as long a -time as was possible making her final purchases preparatory to their -taking possession of Ferry Lodge. The mere name of this relic of -Rodmoor’s faded glory was indicative of how times had changed. What was -once an inland crossing--several miles from the shore--had now become -the river’s mouth and where farmers formerly watered their cattle the -fishing boats spread their sails to meet the sea. - -Nance had made a clean sweep of the furniture of their predecessor, -something about the reputation of Mr. Peewit Swinebitter prejudicing -her, in perhaps an exaggerated manner, against the buying of any of -his things. This fastidiousness on her part did not, however, lessen -the material difficulties of the situation, Sorio being of singularly -little assistance in the rôle of a house-furnisher. - -Meanwhile, with hat pulled low down over his forehead and his cane -switching the rain-drenched grass, Baltazar Stork walked up and down -in front of his cottage. He walked thus until he was tired and then he -came and stood at the edge of the green and looked at his empty house -and at the puddles in the road. Into the largest of these puddles he -idly poked his stick, stirring the edge of a half-submerged leaf and -making it float across the muddy water. Children passed him unheeded, -carrying cans and bottles to be filled at the tavern. Little boys came -up to him, acquaintances of his, full of gaiety and mischief, but -something in his face made them draw back and leave him. Never, in -all his relations with his friend, had Baltazar derived more pleasure -from being with him than he had done during the recent weeks. That -condition of helpless and wistful incompetence which Nance found so -trying in Sorio was to Baltazar Stork the cause of the most delicate -and exquisite sensations. Never had he loved the man so well--never had -he found him so fascinating. And now, just at the moment when he, the -initiated adept in the art of friendship, was reaping the reward of his -long patience with his friend’s waywardness and really succeeding in -making him depend on him exactly in the way he loved best, there came -this accursed girl and carried him off! - -The hatred which he felt at that moment towards Nance was so extreme -that it overpowered and swamped every other emotion. Baltazar Stork was -of that peculiarly constituted disposition which is able to hate the -more savagely and vindictively because of the very fact that its normal -mood is one of urbane and tolerant indifference. The patient courtesy -of a lifetime, the propitiatory arts of a long suppression, had their -revenge just then for all they had made him endure. In a certain -sense it was well for him that he _could_ hate. It was, indeed in a -measure, an instinct of self-preservation that led him to indulge such -a feeling. For below his hatred, down in the deeper levels of his soul, -there yawned a gulf, the desolating emptiness of which was worse than -death. He did not visualize this gulf in the same concrete manner as he -had done on a previous occasion, but he was conscious of it none the -less. It was as a matter of fact a thing that had been for long years -hidden obscurely under the hard, gay surface of his days. He covered it -over by one distraction or the other. Its remote presence had given an -added intensity to his zest for the various little pleasures, æsthetic -or otherwise, which it was his habit to enjoy. It had done more. It -had reduced to comparative insignificance the morbid vexations and -imaginative reactions from which his friend suffered. He could afford -to appear hard and crystal-cold, capable of facing with equanimity -every kind of ultimate horror. And he _was_ capable of facing such. -Under the shadow of a thing like that--a thing beyond the worst of -insane obsessions, for his mind was cruelly clear as he turned his eyes -inward--he was able to look contemptuously into the Gorgon face of any -kind of terror. When he chose he could always see the thing as it was, -see it as the desolation of emptiness, as a deep, frozen space, void of -sound or movement or life or hope or end. There was not the least tinge -of insanity in the vision. - -What he was permitted to see, by reason of some malign clarity of -intellect denied to the majority of his fellows, was simply the -real truth of life, its frozen chemistry and deadly purposelessness. -Most men visualize existence through a blurring cloud of personal -passion, either erotic or imaginative. They suffer, but they suffer -from illusion. What separated Baltazar from the majority was his power -of seeing things in absolute colourlessness--unconfused by any sort -of distorting mirage. Thus what he saw with his soul was the ghastly -loneliness of his soul. He saw this frozen, empty, hollow space and he -saw it as the natural country in which his soul dwelt, its unutterable -reality, its appalling truth. That was why no thought of suicide -ever came to him. The thing was too deep. He might kill himself, but -in so doing he would only destroy the few superficial distractions -that afforded him a temporary freedom. For suicide would only fling -him--that at least is what, with horrible clarity, he had come to -feel about it--into the depths of his soul, into the very abyss, that -is to say, which he escaped by living on the surface. It was a kind -of death-in-life that he was conscious of, below his crystalline -amenities, but one does not fly to death to escape from death. - -It will be seen from this how laughable to him were all Sorio’s -neurotic reactions from people and things. People and things were -precisely what Baltazar clung to, to avoid that “frozen sea” lying -there at the back of everything. It will be easily imagined too, how -absurd to him--how fantastic and unreal--were the various hints and -glimpses which Sorio had permitted him into what his friend called his -“philosophy of destruction.” To make a “philosophy” out of a struggle -to reach the ultimate horror of that “frozen sea,” how lamentably -pathetic it was, and how childish! No sane person would contemplate -such a thing and the attempt proved that Sorio was not sane. As for -the Italian’s vague and prophetic suggestions with regard to the -possibility of something--philosophers always spoke of “something” when -they approached nothing!--beyond “what we call life” that seemed to -Baltazar’s mind mere poetic balderdash and moon-struck mysticism. But -he had always listened patiently to Sorio’s incoherences. The man would -not have been himself without his mad philosophy! It was part of that -charming weakness in him that appealed to Baltazar so. It was absurd, -of course--this whole business of writing philosophic books--but he was -ready to pardon it, ready to listen all night and day to his friend’s -dithyrambic diatribes, as long as they brought that particular look of -exultation which he found so touching into his classic face! - -This “look of exultation” in Sorio’s features had indeed been -accompanied during the last month by an expression of wistful and -bewildered helplessness and it was just the union of these two things -that Baltazar found so irresistibly appealing. He was drawn closer to -Adrian, in fact, during these Autumn days, than he had ever been drawn -to any one. And it was just at this moment, just when he was happiest -in their life together, that Nance Herrick must needs obtrude her -accursed feminine influence and with this result! So he gave himself up -without let or hindrance to his hatred of this girl. His hatred was a -cold, calculated, deliberate thing, clear of all volcanic disturbances -but, such as it was, it possessed him at that moment to the exclusion -of everything else. He imagined to himself now, as with the end of his -stick he guided that sycamore leaf across the puddle, how Nance would -buy those things in the Mundham shops and what pleasure there would be -in her grey eyes, that peculiar pleasure unlike anything else in the -world which a woman has when she is indulging, at the same moment, her -passion for domestic detail and her passion for her lover! - -He saw the serene _possessive_ look in her face, the look of one who at -last, after long waiting, arrives within sight of the desired end. He -saw the little outbursts of girlish humour--oh, he knew them so well, -those outbursts!--and he saw the fits of half-assumed, half-natural -shyness that would come over her and the soft, dreamy tenderness -in her eyes, as together with Adrian, she bought this thing or the -other, full of delicate association, for their new dwelling-place. His -imagination went even further. He seemed to hear her voice as she spoke -sympathetically, pityingly, of himself. She would be sure to do that! -It would come so prettily from her just then and would appeal so much -to Adrian! She would whisper to him over their lunch in some little -shop--he saw all that too--of how sad she felt to be taking him away -from his old friend and leaving that friend alone. And he could see -the odd bewildered smile, half-remorseful and half-joyful with which -Sorio would note that disinterested sympathy and think to himself what -a noble affectionate creature she was and how lucky he was to win her. -He saw how careful she would be not to tire him or tease him with her -purchases, how she would probably vary the tedium of the day with some -pleasant little strolls together round the Abbey grounds or perhaps -down by the wharves and the barges. - -Yes, she had won her victory. She was gathering up her spoils. She was -storing up her possessions! Could any human feeling, he asked himself -with a deadly smile upon his lips, be more sickeningly, more achingly, -intense than the hatred he felt for this normal, natural, loving woman? - -He swept his stick through the muddy water, splashing it vindictively -on all sides and then, moving into the middle of the road, looked at -his empty cottage. Here, then, he would have to live again alone! Alone -with himself, alone with his soul, alone with the truth of life! - -No, it was too much. He never would submit to it. Better swallow at -once and without more nonsense the little carefully concocted draught -which he had long kept under lock and key! After all he would have to -come to that, sooner or later. He had long since made up his mind that -if things and persons--the “things and persons” he used as his daily -drug, failed him or lost their savour he would take the irrevocable -step and close the whole farce. Everything was the same. Everything was -equal. He would only move one degree nearer the central horror--the -great ice field of eternity--the plain without end or beginning, frozen -and empty, empty and frozen! He stared at his cottage windows. No, it -was unthinkable, beginning life over again without Adrian. A hundred -little things plucked at random from the sweet monotony of their days -together came drifting through his mind. The peculiar look Adrian had -when he first woke in the morning--the savage greediness with which -he would devour honey and brown bread--the pleading, broken, childlike -tones in his voice when, after some quarrel between them he begged his -friend to forgive him--all these things and many others, came pouring -in upon him in a great wave of miserable self-pity. No--she should not -win. She should not triumph. She should not enjoy the fruits of her -victory--the strong feminine animal! He would sooner kill her and then -kill himself to avoid the gallows. But killing was a silly futile kind -of revenge. Infants in the art of hatred _killed_ their enemies! But -at any rate, if he killed her she would never settle down in her nice -new house with her dear husband! But then, on the other hand, she would -be the winner to the end. She would never feel as he was feeling now; -she would never look into his eyes and know that he knew he had beaten -her; he would never _see_ her disappointment. No--killing was a stupid, -melodramatic, blundering way out of it. Artists ought to have a subtler -imagination! Well, something must be done, and done soon. He felt he -did not care what suffering he caused Sorio, the more _he_ suffered the -better, if only he could see the look in those grey eyes of Nance that -confessed she was defeated! - -Quite quietly, quite calmly, he gathered together all the forces of -his nature to accomplish this one end. His hatred rose to the level of -a passion. He vowed that nothing should make him pause, no scruple, -no obstacle, until he saw that beaten look in Nance’s face. Like all -dominant obsessions, like all great lusts, his purpose associated -itself with a clear concrete image, the image of the girl’s expression -when at last, face to face with him, she knew herself broken, helpless -and at his mercy. - -He walked swiftly down the High Street, crossed the open space by -the harbour and made his way to the edge of the waves. Surely that -malignant tide would put some triumphant idea into his brain. The -sea--the sterile, unharvested sea--had from the beginning of the world, -been the enemy of woman! Warden of the Fishes! He laughed as he thought -of Sorio’s assuming such a title. - -“Not yet, my friend--not quite yet!” he murmured, gazing across the -stormy expanse of water. Warden of the Fishes! With a strong, sweet, -affectionate wife to look after him? “No, no, Adriano!” he cried -hoarsely, “we haven’t come to that yet--we haven’t come to that quite -yet!” - -By some complicated, psychological process he seemed to be aware, as -he stared at the foaming sea-horses, of the head of his mute friend -Flambard floating, amid the mist of his own woman-like hair, in the -green hollows of the surf. He found himself vaguely wondering what -he--the super-subtle Venetian--would have done had he been “fooled -to the top of his bent” by a girl like Nance--had he been betrayed -in his soul’s deepest passion. And all at once it came over him, not -distinctly and vividly but obscurely and remotely as if through a -cloudy vapour from a long way off, from far down the vistas of time -itself, what Flambard would have done. - -He stooped and picked up a long leather-like thong of wet, slippery -seaweed and caressed it with his hands. At that moment there passed -through him a most curious sensation--the sensation that he had -himself--he and not Flambard--stood just in this way but by a -different sea, ages, centuries ago--and had arrived at the same -conclusion. The sensation vanished quickly enough and with it the image -of Flambard, but the idea of what remained for him to do still hovered -like a cloud at the back of his mind. He did not drag it forth from its -hiding place. He never definitely accepted it. The thing was so dark -and hideous, belonging so entirely to an age when “passional crimes” -were more common and more remorseless than at the present, that even -Baltazar with all the frozen malice of his hate scrupled to visualize -it in the daylight. But he did not drive it away. He permitted it to -work upon him and dominate him. It was as though some “other Baltazar” -from a past as remote as Flambard’s own and perhaps far remoter--had -risen up within him in answer to that cry to the inhuman waters. The -actual working of his mind was very complicated and involved at that -moment. There were moments of wavering--moments of drawing back into -the margin of uncertainty. But these moments grew constantly less and -less effective. Beyond everything else that definite image of Nance’s -grey eyes, full of infinite misery, confessing her defeat, and even -pleading with him for mercy, drove these wavering moments away. It -was worth it, any horror was worth it, to satiate his revenge by the -sight of what her expression would be as he looked into her face then. -And, after all, the thing he projected would in any case, come about -sooner or later. It was on its way. The destinies called for it. The -nature of life demanded it. The elements conspired to bring it about. -The man’s own fatality was already with a kind of vehemence, rushing -headlong--under the fall of these Autumn rains and the drifting of -these Autumn leaves--to meet it and embrace it! All he would have to do -himself would be just to give the wheel of fate the least little push, -the least vibration of an impulse forward, with his lightest finger! - -Perhaps, as far as his friend was concerned, he would really, in -this way, be saving him in the larger issue. Were Adrian’s mind, for -instance, to break down now at once, rendering it necessary that he -should be put, as they say in that appalling phrase, “under restraint,” -it might as a matter of fact, save his brain from ultimate and final -disaster. It is true that this aspect of what he projected was too -fantastic, too ironically distorted, to be dwelt upon clearly or -logically but it came and went like a shadowy bird hovering about a -floating carcass, round the outskirts of his unspeakable intention. -What he reverted to more articulately, as he made his way back across -the littered sand-heaps to the entrance of the harbour, was the idea -that, after all, he would only be precipitating an inevitable crisis. -His friend was already on the verge of an attack of monomania, if not -of actual insanity. Sooner or later the thing must come to a definite -climax. Why not anticipate events, then, and let the climax occur when -it would save him from this intolerable folly--worse than madness--of -giving himself up to his feminine pursuer? As he made his way once more -through the crowded little street, the fixed and final impression all -these thoughts left upon his mind was the impression of Nance Herrick’s -face, pale, vanquished and helpless, staring up at him from the ground -beneath his feet. - - - - -XXIV - -THE TWENTY-EIGHTH OF OCTOBER - - -Baltazar was not long in carrying out what, in bitter self-colloquy, he -called his Flambardian campaign. He deliberately absented himself from -his work in the Mundham office and gave up all his time to Sorio. He -now encouraged this latter in all his most dangerous manias, constantly -leading the conversation round to what he knew were exciting and -agitating topics and bringing him back again and again to especial -points of irritation and annoyance. - -The days quickly passed, however, and Adrian, though in a strange -and restless mood, had still, in no public manner, given evidence of -insanity, and short, of course, of some such public manifestation, his -treacherous friend’s plan of having him put under restraint, fell to -the ground. - -Meanwhile, Nance’s preparations for her marriage and for their entrance -into their new home advanced towards completion. It was within three -days of the date decided upon for their wedding when Nance, who had -had less time recently at her disposal for watching her sister’s -moods, came suddenly to the conclusion, as, on a wild and stormy -afternoon, she led her home from the church, that something was -seriously wrong. At first, as they left the churchyard and began making -their way towards the bridge, she thought the gloom of the evening -was a sufficient reason for Linda’s despairing silence, but as they -advanced, with the wind beating in their faces and the roar of the sea -coming to them over the dunes, she came to the conclusion that the -cause lay deeper. - -But that night--it was the twenty-eighth of October--was certainly -desolate enough to be the cause of any human being’s depression. The -sun was sinking as the sisters started for their walk home. A blood-red -streak, jagged and livid, like the mutilated back of some bleeding -monster, lay low down over the fens. The wind wailed in the poplars, -whistled through the reeds, and sighed in long melancholy gasps like -the sobbing of some unhappy earth-spirit across the dykes and the -ditches. One by one a few flickering lamps appeared among the houses of -the town as the girls drew near the river, but the long wavering lines -of light thrown by these across the meadows only increased the general -gloom. - -“Don’t let’s cross at once,” said Linda suddenly, when they reached the -bridge. “Let’s walk along the bank--just a little way! I feel excited -and queer to-night. I’ve been in the church so long. Please let’s stay -out a little.” - -Nance thought it better to agree to the child’s caprice; though the -river-bank at that particular hour was dark with a strange melancholy. -They left the road and walked slowly along the tow-path in the -direction away from the town. A group of cattle standing huddled -together near the path, rushed off into the middle of the field. - -The waters of the Loon were high--the tide flowing sea-ward--and here -and there from the windows of some scattered houses on the opposite -bank, faint lights were reflected upon the river’s surface. A strong -smell of seaweed and brackish mud came up to them from the dark stream. - -“What secrets,” said Linda suddenly, “this old Loon could tell, if it -could speak! I call it a haunted river.” - -Nance’s only reply to this was to pull her sister’s cloak more tightly -round her shoulders. - -“I don’t mean in the sense of having drowned so many people,” Linda -went on, “I mean in the sense of being half-human itself.” - -The words were hardly out of her mouth when a slender dusky figure that -had been leaning against the edge of one of the numerous weirs that -connect the river-tides with the streams of the water-meadows, came -suddenly towards them and revealed herself as Philippa Renshaw. - -Both the girls drew back in instinctive alarm. Nance was the first to -recover. - -“So you too are out to-night,” she said. “Linda got so tired of -practising, so we--” - -Philippa interrupted her: “Since we _have_ met, Nance Herrick, there’s -no reason why we shouldn’t talk a little. Or do you think the people -about here would find that an absurd thing for us to do, as we’re both -in love with the same man, and you’re going to marry him?” - -She uttered these words so calmly and in so strange a voice that -Nance for the moment was too startled to reply. She recovered herself -quickly, however, and taking Linda by the arm, made as if she would -pass her by, without further speech. But Philippa refused to permit -this. With the slow dramatic movement always characteristic of her, -she stepped into the middle of the path and stopped them. Linda, at -this, hung back, trying to draw her sister away. - -The two women faced one another in breathless silence. It was too dark -for them to discern more than the vaguest outlines of each other’s -features, but they were each conscious of the extreme tension, which, -like a wave of magnetic force, at once united and divided them. Nance -was the first to break the spell. - -“I’m surprised,” she said, “to hear you speak of love. I thought you -considered all that sort of thing sentimental and idiotic.” - -Philippa’s hand went up in a quick and desperate gesture, almost an -imploring one. - -“Miss Herrick,” she whispered in a very low and very clear tone, “you -needn’t do that. You needn’t say those things. You needn’t hurt me more -than is necessary.” - -“Come away, Nance. Oh, please come away and leave her!” interjected -Linda. - -“Miss Herrick, listen to me one moment!” Philippa continued, speaking -so low as almost to be inaudible. “I have something to ask of you, -something that you can do for me. It isn’t very much. It isn’t anything -that you need suspect. It is a little thing. It’s nothing you could -possibly mind.” - -“Don’t listen to her, Nance,” cried Linda again. “Don’t listen to her.” - -Philippa’s voice trembled as she went on, “I beg you, I beg you on -my knees to hear me. We two may never meet again after this. Nance -Herrick, will you, will you let me speak?” - -Linda leapt forward. She was shaking from head to foot with fear and -anger. “No,” she cried, “she shall not listen to you. She shall not, -she shall not.” - -Nance hesitated, weary and sick at heart. She had so hoped and prayed -that all these lacerating contests were over and done with. - -Finally she said, “I think you must see, you must feel, that between -you and me there can be nothing--nothing more--nothing further. I think -you’ll be wise, I think you’ll recognize it afterwards, to let me go -now, to let me go and leave us alone.” As she spoke she drew away from -her and put her arm round Linda’s waist. “In any case,” she added, “I -can’t possibly hear you before this child. Perhaps, but I can’t promise -anything, but perhaps, some other day, when I’m by myself.” - -She gave one sad, half-sympathetic, half-reproachful glance, at the -frail shadowy figure standing mute and silent; and then turning -quickly, let herself be led away. - -Linda swung round when they were some few paces away. “She’ll never -listen to you!” She called out, in a shrill vibrating voice, “I won’t -ever let her listen to you.” - -The growing darkness, made thicker by the river-mists, closed in -between them, and in a brief while their very footsteps ceased to be -heard. Philippa was left alone. She looked round her. On the fen side -of the pathway there was nothing but a thick fluctuating shadow, out -of which the forms of a few pollard-willows rose like panic-stricken -ghosts. On the river itself there shimmered at intervals a faint -whitish gleam as if some lingering relics of the vanished day, slow in -their drowning, struggled to rise to the surface. - -She moved back again to the place where she had been standing at the -edge of the weir. Leaning upon the time-worn plank rotten with autumn -rains, she gazed down into the dense blackness beneath. Nothing could -be seen but darkness. She might have been looking down into some -unfathomable pit, leading to the caverns of the mid-earth. - -A deathly cold wave of damp air met her face as she leaned over the -plank, and a hollow gurgling roar, from the heavy volume of water -swirling in the darkness, rose to her ears. She could smell the unseen -water; and the smell of it was like the smell of dead black leaves -plucked forth from a rain pool in the heart of a forest. - -As she leaned forward with her soft breast pressing against the wooden -bar and her long slender fingers clutching its edge, a sinister line -of poetry, picked up somewhere--she could not recall where--came into -her mind, and she found her lips mechanically echoing it. “Like a -wolf, sucked under a weir,” the line ran, and over and over again she -repeated those words. - -Meanwhile Nance, as they returned across the bridge, did her best to -soothe and quiet her sister. The sudden appearance of Philippa seemed -to have thrown the girl into a paroxysm of frenzy. “Oh, how I hate -her!” she kept crying out, “oh, how I loathe and hate her!” - -Nance was perplexed and bewildered by Linda’s mood. Never had she known -the girl to give way to feelings of this sort. When at last she got -her into their house, and had seen her take off her things and begin -tidying herself up for their evening meal quite in her accustomed way, -she asked her point-blank what was the matter, and why to-day, on this -twenty-eighth of October, she had suddenly grown different from her -ordinary self. - -Linda, standing with bare arms by the mirror and passing a comb through -her heavy hair, turned almost fiercely round. - -“Do you want to know? Do you really want to know?” she cried, throwing -back her head and holding the hair back with her hands. “It’s because -of Philippa that _he_ has deserted me! It’s because of Philippa that -he hasn’t seen me nor spoken to me for a whole month! It’s because of -Philippa that he won’t answer my letters and won’t meet me anywhere! -It’s because of Philippa that now--now when I most want him”--and she -threw the comb down and flung herself on her bed--“he refuses to come -to me or to speak a word.” - -“How do you know it’s because of Philippa?” Nance asked, distressed -beyond words to find that in spite of all her efforts Linda was still -as obsessed by Brand as ever before. - -“I know _from him_,” the girl replied. “You needn’t ask me any more. -She’s got power over him, and she uses it against me. If it wasn’t for -her he’d have married me before now.” She sat up on the edge of her -bed and looked woefully at her sister with large sunken eyes. “Yes,” -she went on, “if it wasn’t for her he’d marry me now--to-day--and, oh, -Nance, I want him so! I want him so!” - -Nance felt an oppressive weight of miserable helplessness in the -presence of this heart-stricken cry. As she looked round the room -and saw her various preparations for leaving it and for securing the -happiness of her own love, she felt as though in some subtle way she -had once more betrayed the unhappy child. She knew herself, only too -well, what that famished and starving longing is--that cry of the flesh -and blood, and the heart and the spirit, for what the eternal destinies -have put out of our reach! - -And she could do nothing to help her. What _could_ she do? Now for -the first time in her life, as she looked at that lamentable youthful -figure, dumbly pleading with her for some kind of miracle, Nance was -conscious of a vague unformulated indignation against the whole system -of things that rendered this sort of suffering possible. If only _she_ -were a powerful and a tender deity, how she would hasten to end this -whole business of sex-life which made existence so intolerable! Why -could not people be born into the world like trees or plants? And being -born, why could not love instinctively create the answering passion -it craved, and not be left to beat itself against cruel walls, after -scorching itself in the irresistible flame? - -“Nance!” said the young girl suddenly. “Nance! Come here. Come over to -me. I want to tell you something.” - -The elder sister obeyed. It was not long--for hard though it may be to -break silence, these things are quickly spoken--before she knew the -worst. Linda, with her arms clutched tightly round her, and her face -hidden, confessed that she was with child. - -Nance leapt to her feet. “I’ll go to him,” she cried, “I’ll go to him -at once! Of course he must marry you now. He must! He must! I’ll go to -him. I’ll go to Hamish. I’ll go to Adrian--to Fingal! He _must_ marry -you, Linda. Don’t cry, little one. I’ll make it all right. It _shall_ -be all right! I’ll go to him this very evening.” - -A faint flush appeared in Linda’s pale cheeks and a glimmer of hope in -her eyes. “Do you think, possibly, that there’s any chance? _Can_ there -be any chance? But no, no, darling, I know there’s none--I know there’s -none.” - -“What makes you so sure, Linda?” asked Nance, rapidly changing her -dress, and as she did so pouring herself out a glass of milk. - -“It’s Philippa,” murmured the other in a low voice. “Oh, how I hate -her! How I hate her!” she continued, in a sort of moaning refrain, -twisting her long hair between her fingers and tying the ends of it -into a little knot. - -“Well, I’m off, my dear,” cried Nance at length, finishing her glass of -milk and adjusting her hat-pins. “I’m going straight to find him. I may -pick up Adrian on the way, or I may not. It rather depends. And I _may_ -have a word or two with Philippa. The chances are that I shall overtake -her if I go now. She can’t have waited much longer down by the river.” - -Linda rushed up to her and clasped her in her arms. “My own darling!” -she murmured, “how good you are to me--how good you are! Do you know, I -was _afraid_ to tell you this--afraid that you’d be angry and ashamed -and not speak to me for days. But, oh, Nance, I do love him so much! I -love him more than my life--more than my life _even now_!” - -Nance kissed her tenderly. “Make yourself some tea, my darling, -won’t you? We’ll have supper whenever I come back, and that’ll be--I -hope--with good news for you! Good-bye, my sweetheart! Say your prayers -for me, and don’t be frightened however late I am. And have a good tea!” - -She kissed her again, and with a final wave of the hand and an -encouraging smile, she left the room and ran down the stairs. She -walked slowly to the top of the street, her head bent, wondering in her -mind whether she should ask Adrian to go with her to the Renshaws’ or -whether she should go alone. - -The question was decided for her. As she emerged on the green she -suddenly came upon Sorio himself, standing side by side with Philippa. -They both turned quickly as, in the flare of a wind-blown lamp, they -perceived her approach. They turned and awaited her without a word. - -Without a word, too--and in that slow dreamlike manner which human -beings assume at certain crises in their lives, when fate like a -palpable presence among them takes their movements into its own -hand--they moved off, all three together, in the direction of the park -gates. Not a word did any of them utter, till, having passed the gates, -they were quite far advanced along that dark and lonely avenue. - -Then Philippa broke the silence. “I can say to her, Adrian, what I’ve -just said to you--mayn’t I?” - -In the thick darkness, full of the heavy smell of rain-soaked leaves, -Sorio walked between them. Nance’s hand was already resting upon his -arm, and now, as she spoke, Philippa’s fingers searched for his, and -took them in her own and held them feverishly. - -“You can say what you please, Phil,” he muttered, “but you’ll see what -she answers--just what I told you just now.” - -Their tone of intimate association stabbed like a knife at the heart -of Nance. A moment ago--in fact, ever since she had left her by the -weir--she had been feeling less antagonistic and more pitiful towards -her vanquished rival. But this pronoun “she” applied mutually by them -to herself, seemed to push her back--back and away--outside the circle -of some mysterious understanding between the two. Her heart hardened -fiercely. Was this girl still possessed of some unknown menacing power? - -“What I asked Adrian,” said Philippa quietly, while the pressure of -her burning fingers within the man’s hand indicated the strain of this -quietness, “was whether you would be generous and noble enough to give -him up to me for his last free day--the last day before you’re married. -Would you be large-hearted enough for that?” - -“What do you mean--‘give him up’ to you?” murmured Nance. - -Philippa burst in a shrill unearthly laugh. “Oh, you needn’t be -frightened!” she exclaimed. “You needn’t be jealous. I only mean let -me go with him, for the whole day, a long walk--you know--or something -like that--perhaps a row up the river. It doesn’t matter what, as long -as I feel that that day is _my_ day, my day _with him_--the last, and -the longest!” - -She was silent, feverish, her fingers twining and twisting themselves -round her companion’s, and her breath coming in quick gasps. Nance -was silent also, and they all three moved forward through the heavy -fragrant darkness. - -“You two seem to have settled it between yourselves definitely enough,” -Nance remarked at last. “I don’t really see why you need bring me into -it at all. Adrian is, of course, entirely free to do what he likes. I -don’t see what I have to do with it!” - -Philippa’s hot fingers closed tightly upon Sorio’s as she received -this rebuff. “You see!” she murmured in a tone that bit into Nance’s -flesh like the tooth of an adder. “You see, Adriano!” She shrugged her -shoulders and gave a low vindictive laugh. “She’s a thorough woman,” -she added with stinging emphasis. “She’s what my mother would call a -sweet, tender, sensitive girl. But we mustn’t expect too much from her, -Adrian, must we? I mean in the way of generosity.” - -Nance withdrew her hand from the arm of her betrothed and they all -three walked on in silence. - -“You see what you’re in for, my friend,” Philippa began again. “Once -married it’ll be always like this. That is what you seem unable to -realize. It’s a mistake, as I’ve often said, this mixing of classes.” - -Nance could no longer restrain herself. “May I ask what you mean by -that last remark?” she whispered in a low voice. - -Philippa laughed lightly. “It doesn’t need much explanation,” she -replied. “Adrian is, of course, of very ancient blood, and you--well, -you betray yourself naturally by this lack of nobility, this common -middle-class jealousy!” - -Nance turned fiercely upon them, and clutching Sorio’s arm spoke loudly -and passionately. “And _you_--what are _you_, who, like a girl of -the streets, are ready to pick up what you can of a man’s attentions -and attract him with mere morbid physical attraction? _You_--what are -_you_, who, as you say yourself, are ready to _share_ a man with some -one else? Do you call _that_ a sign of good-breeding?” - -Philippa laughed again. “It’s a sign at any rate of being free from -that stupid, stuffy, bourgeois respectability, which Adrian is going -to get a taste of now! That very sneer of yours--‘a girl of the -streets’--shows the class to which you belong, Nance Herrick! We don’t -say those things. It’s what one hears among tradespeople.” - -Nance’s fingers almost hurt Sorio’s arms as she tightened her hold upon -him. “It’s better than being what _you_ are, Philippa Renshaw,” she -burst out. “It’s better than deliberately helping your brother to ruin -innocent young girls--yes, and taking pleasure in seeing him ruining -them--and then taunting them cruelly in their shame, and holding him -back from doing them justice! It’s better than that, Philippa Renshaw, -though it _may_ be what most simple-minded decent-hearted women feel. -It’s better than being reduced by blind passion to have to come to -another woman and beg her on your knees for a ‘last day’ as you -call it! It’s better than _that_--though it _may_ be what ordinary -unintellectual people feel!” - -Philippa’s fingers grew suddenly numb and stiff in Sorio’s grasp. -“Do you know,” she murmured, “you ‘decent-feeling’ woman--if that’s -what you call yourself--that a couple of hours ago, when you left me -on the river bank, I was within an ace of drowning myself? I suppose -‘decent-feeling’ women never run such a risk! They leave that to -‘street-girls’ and--and--and to us others!” - -Nance turned to Sorio. “So she’s been telling you that she was -thinking of drowning herself? I thought it was something of that kind! -And I suppose you believed her. I suppose you always believe her!” - -“And he always believes _you_!” Philippa cried. “Yes, he’s always -deceived--the easy fool--by your womanly sensitive ways and your -touching refinement! It’s women like you, without intelligence and -without imagination, who are the ruin of men of genius. A lot _you_ -care for his work! A lot _you_ understand of his thoughts! Oh, yes, -you may get him, and cuddle him, and spoil him, but, when it comes to -the point, what _you_ are to him is a mere domestic drudge! And not -only a drudge, you’re a drag, a burden, a dead-weight! A mere mass of -‘decent-feeling’ womanliness--weighing him down. He’ll never be able to -write another line when once you’ve really got hold of him!” - -Nance had her answer to this. “I’d sooner he never _did_ write another -line,” she cried, “and remain in his sober senses, than be left to -_your_ influence, and be driven mad by you--you and your diseased, -morbid, wicked imagination!” - -Their two voices, rising and falling in a lamentable litany of -elemental antagonism--antagonism cruel as life and deeper than -death--floated about Sorio’s head, in that perfumed darkness, like -opposing streams of poison. It was only that he himself, harassed by -long irritating debates with Baltazar, was too troubled, too obsessed -by a thousand agitating doubts, to have the energy or the spirit to -bring the thing to an end, or he could not have endured it up to this -point. With his nerves shaken by Baltazar’s corrosive arts, and the -weight of those rain-heavy trees and thick darkness all around him, -he felt as if he were in some kind of trance, and were withheld by a -paralysing interdict from lifting a finger. There came to him a sort -of half-savage, half-humorous remembrance of a conversation he had once -had with some one or other--his mind was too confused to recall the -occasion--in which he had upheld the idealistic theory of the arrival -of a day when sex jealousy would disappear from the earth. - -But as the girls continued to outrage each other’s most secret -feelings, each unconsciously quickening her pace as she poured forth -her taunts, and both dragging Sorio forward with them, the feeling grew -upon him that he was watching some deep cosmic struggle, that was, in -its way, as inhuman and elemental as a conflict between wind and water. -With this idea lodged in his brain, he began to derive a certain wild -and fantastic pleasure from the way they lacerated one another. There -was no coxcombry in this. He was far too wrought-upon and shaken in his -mind. But there was a certain grim exultant enjoyment, as if he were, -at that moment, permitted a passing glimpse into some dark forbidden -“cellarage” of Nature, where the primordial elements clash together in -eternal conflict. - -Inspired by this strange mood, he returned the pressure of Philippa’s -fingers, and entwined his arm round the trembling form of his -betrothed, drawing both the girls closer towards him, and, in -consequence, closer towards one another. - -They continued their merciless encounter, almost unconscious, it -seemed, of the presence of the man who was the cause of it, and without -strength left to resist the force with which he was gradually drawing -them together. - -Suddenly the wind, which had dropped a little during the previous hour, -rose again in a violent and furious gust. It tore at the dark branches -above their heads and went moaning and wailing through the thickets on -either side of them. Drops of rain, held in suspension by the thicker -leaves, splashed suddenly upon their faces, and from the far distance, -with a long-drawn ominous muttering, that seemed to come from some -unknown region of flight and disaster, the sound of thunder came to -their ears. - -Sorio dropped Philippa’s hand and embracing her tightly, drew her, too, -closely towards him. Thus interlocked by the man’s arms, all three of -them staggered forward together, lashed by the wind and surrounded by -vague wood-noises that rose and fell mysteriously in the impenetrable -darkness. - -The powers of the earth seemed let loose, and strange magnetic currents -in fierce antipodal conflict, surged about them, and tugged and pulled -at their hearts. The sound of the thunder, the wild noises of the -night, the strange dark evocations of elemental hatred which at once -divided and united his companions, surged through Sorio’s brain and -filled him with a sort of intoxication. - -The three of them together might have been taken, had the clock of time -been put back two thousand years, for some mad Dionysian worshippers -following their god in a wild inhuman revel. - -Inspired at last by a sort of storm-frenzy, while the wind came wailing -and shrieking down the avenue into their faces, Sorio suddenly stopped. - -“Come, you two little fools,” he cried, “let’s end this nonsense! -Here--kiss one another! Kiss one another, and thank God that we’re -alive and free and conscious, and not mere inert matter, like these -dead drifting leaves!” - -As he spoke he stepped back a little, and with a swing of his powerful -arms, brought both the girls face to face with one another. Nance -struggled fiercely, and resisted with all her strength. Philippa, with -a strange whispering laugh, remained passive in his hands. - -“Kiss one another!” he cried again. “Are you kissing or are you holding -back? It’s too dark for me to see!” - -Philippa suddenly lost her passivity, slipped like a snake from under -his encircling arms, and rushed away among the trees. “I leave her to -you!” she called back to them out of the darkness. “I leave her to you! -You won’t endure her long. _And what will Baptiste do_, Adriano?” - -This last word of hers calmed Sorio’s mood and threw him back upon his -essential self. He sighed heavily. - -“Well, Nance,” he said, “shall we go back? It’s no use waiting for her. -She’ll find her way to Oakguard. She knows every inch of these woods.” -He sighed again, as if bidding farewell, in one fate-burdened moment, -both to the woods and the girl who knew them. - -“_You_ can go back if you like,” Nance answered curtly. “I’m going to -speak to Brand”; and she told him in a brief sentence what she had -learned from Linda. - -Sorio seized her hand and clutched it savagely. “Yes, yes,” he cried, -“yes, yes, let’s go together. He must be taught a lesson--this Brand! -Come, let’s go together!” - -They moved on rapidly and soon approached the end of the avenue and the -entrance to the garden. As Sorio pushed open the iron gates, a sharp -crack of thunder, followed by reverberating detonations, broke over -their heads. The sudden flash that succeeded the sound brought into -vivid relief the dark form of the house, while a long row of fading -dahlias, drooping on their rain-soaked stems, stood forth in ghastly -illumination. - -Nance had time to catch on Adrian’s face a look that gave her a -premonition of danger. Had she not herself been wrought-up to an -unnatural pitch of excitement by her contest with Philippa, she would -probably have been warned in time and have drawn back, postponing her -interview with Brand till she could have seen him alone. As it was, she -felt herself driven forward by a force she could not resist. “Now--very -now,” she must face her sister’s seducer. - -A light, burning behind heavy curtains, in one of the lower mullioned -windows, enabled them to mount the steps. As she rang the bell, a -second peal of thunder, but this time farther off, was followed by a -vivid flash of lightning, throwing into relief the wide spaces of the -park and the scattered groups of monumental oak trees. For some queer -psychic reason, inexplicable to any material analysis, Nance at that -moment saw clearly before her mind’s eye, a little church almanac, -which Linda had pinned up above their dressing-table, and on this -almanac she saw the date--the twenty-eighth of October--printed in -Roman figures. - -To the servant who opened the door Nance gave their names, and asked -whether they could see Mr. Renshaw. “_Mr._ Renshaw,” she added -emphatically, “and please tell him it’s an urgent and important matter.” - -The man admitted them courteously and asked them to seat themselves in -the entrance hall while he went to look for his master. He returned -after a short time and ushered them into the library, where a moment -later Brand joined them. - -During their moment of waiting, both in the hall and in the room, Sorio -had remained taciturn and inert, sunk in a fit of melancholy brooding, -his chin propped on the handle of his stick. He had refused to allow -the servant to take out of his hands either his stick or his hat, and -he still held them both, doggedly and gloomily, as he sat by Nance’s -side opposite the carved fireplace. - -When Brand entered they both rose, but he motioned them to remain -seated, and drawing up a chair for himself close by the side of the -hearth, looked gravely and intently into their faces. - -At that moment another rolling vibration of thunder reached them, but -this time it seemed to come from very far away, perhaps from several -miles out to sea. - -Brand’s opening words were accompanied by a fierce lashing of rain -against the window, and a spluttering, hissing noise, as several heavy -drops fell through the old-fashioned chimney upon the burning logs. - -“I think I can guess,” he said, “why you two have come to me. I am -glad you have come, especially you, Miss Herrick, as it simplifies -things a great deal. It has become necessary that you and I should -have an explanation. I owe it to myself as well as to you. Bah! What -nonsense I’m talking. It isn’t a case of ‘owing.’ It isn’t a case of -‘explaining.’ I can see that clearly enough”--he laughed a genial -boyish laugh--“in your two faces! It’s a case of our own deciding, with -all the issues of the future clearly in mind, what will be really best -for your sister’s happiness.” - -“She has not sent--” began Nance hurriedly. - -“What you’ve got to understand--you Renshaw--” muttered Adrian, in a -strange hoarse voice, clenching and unclenching his fingers. - -Brand interrupted them both. “Pardon me,” he cried, “you do not wish, -I suppose, either of you, to cause any serious shock to my mother? -It’s absurd of her, of course, and old-fashioned, and all that sort -of thing; but it would actually _kill_ her--” he rose as he spoke and -uttered the words clearly and firmly. “It would actually _kill_ her to -get any hint of what we’re discussing now. So, if you’ve no objection, -we’ll continue this discussion in the work-shop.” He moved towards the -door. - -Sorio followed him with a rapid stride. “You must understand, -Renshaw--” he began. - -“If it’ll hurt your mother so,” cried Nance hurriedly, “what must Linda -be suffering? You didn’t think of this, Mr. Renshaw, when you--” - -Brand swung round on his heel. “You shall say all this to me, all that -you wish to say--everything, do you hear, everything! Only it must and -_shall_ be where she cannot overhear us. Wait till we’re alone. We -shall be alone in the work-shop.” - -“If this ‘work-shop’ of yours,” muttered Sorio savagely, seizing him by -the arm, “turns out to be one of your English tricks, you’d better--” - -“Silence, you fool!” whispered the other. “Can’t you stop him, Miss -Herrick? It’ll be pure murder if my mother hears this!” - -Nance came quickly between them. “Lead on, Mr. Renshaw,” she said. -“We’ll follow you.” - -He led them across the hall and down a long dimly lit passage. At the -end of this there was a heavily panelled door. Brand took a key from -his pocket and after some ineffectual attempts turned the lock and -stood aside to let them enter. He closed the door behind them, leaving -the key on the outside. The “work-shop” Brand had spoken of turned out -to be nothing more or less than the old private chapel of Oakguard, -disassociated, however, for centuries from any religious use. - -Nance glanced up at the carved ceiling, supported on foliated corbels. -The windows, high up from the ground, were filled with Gothic tracery, -but in place of biblical scenes their diamonded panes showed the -armorial insignia of generations of ancient Renshaws. There was a -raised space at the east end, where, in former times, the altar stood, -but now, in place of an altar, a carpenter’s table occupied the central -position, covered with a litter of laths and wood-chippings. The middle -portion of the chapel was bare and empty, but several low cane chairs -stood round this space, like seats round a toy coliseum. - -Brand indicated these chairs to his visitors, but neither Nance nor -Sorio seemed inclined to avail themselves of the opportunity to rest. -They all three, therefore, stood together, on the dark polished oak -floor. - -On first entering the chapel, Brand had lit one of a long row of -tapers that stood in wooden candlesticks along the edge of what -resembled choir stalls. Now, leaving his companions, he proceeded very -deliberately to set light to the whole line of these. The place thus -illuminated had a look strangely weird and confused. - -Certain broken flower-pots on the ground, and one or two rusty -gardening implements, combined with the presence of the wicker-chairs -to produce the impression of some sort of “Petit Trianon,” or manorial -summer-house, into which all manner of nondescript rubbish had in -process of long years come to drift. - -The coats-of-arms in the windows above, as the tapers flung their light -upon them, had an air almost “collegiate,” as if the chamber were some -ancient dining-hall of a monastic order. The carpenter’s table upon the -raised dais, with some dimly coloured Italianated picture behind it, -inserted in the panelling, gave Nance a most odd sensation. Where had -she seen an effect of that kind before? In a picture--or in reality? - -But the girl had no heart to analyse her emotions. There was too much -at stake. The rain, pattering heavily on the roof of the building, -seemed to remind her of her task. She faced Brand resolutely as he -strolled back towards them across the polished floor. - -“Linda has told me everything,” she said. “She is going to have a -child, and you, Mr. Renshaw, are the father of it.” - -Sorio made an inarticulate exclamation and approached Brand -threateningly. But the latter, disregarding him, continued to look -Nance straight in the face. - -“Miss Herrick,” he said quietly, “you are a sensible woman and not -one, I think, liable to hysteric sentimentalism. I want to discuss this -thing quite freely and openly with you, but I would greatly prefer it -if your husband--I beg your pardon--if Mr. Sorio would let us talk -without interrupting. I haven’t got unlimited time. My mother and -sister will be both waiting dinner for me and sending people to find -me, perhaps even coming themselves. So it’s obviously in the interests -of all of us--particularly of Linda--that we should not waste time in -any mock heroics.” - -Nance turned quickly to her betrothed. “You’ll hear all we say, Adrian, -but if it makes things easier, perhaps--” - -Without a word, in mute obedience to her sad smile, Sorio left their -side, and drawing back, seated himself in one of the wicker chairs, -hugging his heavy stick between his knees. - -The rain continued falling without intermission upon the leaden roof, -and from a pipe above one of the windows they could hear a great jet of -water splashing down outside the wall. - -Brand spoke in a low hurried tone, without embarrassment and without -any sort of shame. “Yes, Miss Herrick, what she says is quite true. -But now come down to the facts, without any of this moral vituperation, -which only clouds the issues. You have, no doubt, come here with the -idea of asking me to marry Linda. No! Don’t interrupt me. Let me -finish. But I want to ask you this--how do you know that if I marry -Linda, she’ll be _really_ any happier than she is to-day? Suppose I -were to say to you that I would marry her--marry her to-morrow--would -_that_, when you come to think it over in cold blood, really make you -happy in your mind about her future? - -“Come, Miss Herrick! Put aside for a moment your natural anger against -me. Grant what you please as to my being a dangerous character and a -bad man, does that make me a suitable husband for your sister? Your -instinct is a common instinct--the natural first instinct of any -protector of an injured girl, but is it one that will stand the light -of quiet and reasonable second thoughts? - -“I am, let us say, a selfish and unscrupulous man who has seduced -a young girl. Very well! You want to punish me for my ill-conduct, -and how do you go about it? By giving up your sister into my hands! -By giving up to me--a cruel and unscrupulous wretch, at your own -showing--the one thing you love best in the world! Is that a punishment -such as I deserve? In one moment you take away all my remorse, for no -one remains remorseful _after_ he has been punished. And you give my -victim up--bound hand and foot--into my hands. - -“Linda may love me enough to be glad to marry me, quite apart from the -question of her good fame. But will you, who probably know me better -than Linda, feel happy at leaving her in my hands? Your idea may be -that I should marry her and then let her go. But suppose I wouldn’t -consent to let her go? And suppose she wouldn’t consent to leave me? - -“There we are--tied together for life--and she as the weaker of the -two the one to suffer for the ill-fated bargain! _That_ will not have -been a punishment for me, Nance Herrick, nor will it have been a -compensation for her. It will simply have worked out as a temporary -boredom to one of us, and as miserable wretchedness to the other! - -“Is that what you wish to bring about by this interference on her -behalf? It’s absurd to pretend that you think of me as a mere -hot-headed amorist, desperately in love with Linda, as she is with me, -and that, by marrying us, you are smoothing out her path and settling -her down happily for the rest of her life. You think of me as a -cold-blooded selfish sensualist, and to punish me for being what I am, -you propose to put Linda’s entire happiness absolutely in my hands! - -“Of course, I speak to you like this knowing that, whatever your -feelings are, you have the instincts of a lady. A different type -of woman from yourself would consider merely the worldly aspect of -the matter and the advantage to your sister of becoming mistress of -Oakguard. _That_, I know, does not enter, for one moment, into your -thoughts, any more than it enters into hers. I am not ironical in -saying this. I am not insulting you. I am speaking simply the truth. - -“Forgive me, Miss Herrick! Even to mention such a thing is unworthy -of either of us. I am, as you quite justly realize--and probably more -than you realize--what the world calls unscrupulous. But no one has -ever accused me of truckling to public opinion or social position. I -care nothing for those things, any more than you do or Linda does. As -far as those things go I would marry her to-morrow. My mother, as you -doubtless know, hopes that I _shall_ marry her--wishes and prays for -it. My mother has never given a thought, and never will give a thought, -to the opinion of the world. It isn’t in her nature, as no doubt you -quite realize. We Renshaws have always gone our own way, and done what -we pleased. My father did--Philippa does; and I do. - -“Come, Miss Herrick! Try for a moment to put your anger against me out -of the question. Suppose you did induce me to marry Linda, and Linda -to marry me, does that mean that you make me change my nature? We -Renshaws never change and _I_ never shall, you may be perfectly sure of -that! I _couldn’t_ even if I wanted to. My blood, my race, my father’s -instincts in me, go too deep. We’re an evil tribe, Nance Herrick, an -evil tribe, and especially are we evil in our relations with women. -Some families are like that, you know! It’s a sort of tradition with -them. And it is so with us. It may be some dark old strain of Viking -blood, the blood of the race that burnt the monasteries in the days of -Æthelred the Unready! On the other hand it may be some unaccountable -twist in our brains, due--as Fingal says--to--oh! to God knows what! - -“Let it go! It doesn’t matter what it is; and I daresay you think me a -grotesque hypocrite for bringing such a matter into it at all. Well! -Let it go! There’s really no need to drag in Æthelred the Unready! -What you and I have to do, Miss Herrick, is, seriously and quietly, -without passion or violence, to discuss what’s best for your sister’s -happiness. Put my punishment out of your mind for the present--that can -come later. Your friend Mr. Sorio will be only too pleased to deal with -that! The point for _us_ to consider, for us who both love your sister, -is, what will really be happiest for her in the long run--and I can -assure you that no woman who ever lived could be happy long tied hand -and foot to a Renshaw. - -“Look at my mother! Does she suggest a person who has had a happy life? -I tell you she would give all she has ever enjoyed here--every stick -and stone of Oakguard--never to have set eyes on my father--never to -have given birth to Philippa or to me! We Renshaws may have our good -qualities--God knows what they are--but we may have them. But one thing -is certain. We are worse than the very devil for any woman who tries to -live with us! It’s in our blood, I tell you. We can’t help it. We’re -made to drive women mad--to drive them into their graves!” - -He stopped abruptly with a bitter and hopeless shrug of his shoulders. -Nance had listened to him, all the way through his long speech, with -concentrated and frowning attention. When he had finished she stood -staring at him without a word, almost as if she wished him to continue; -almost as if something about his personality fascinated her in spite of -herself, and made her sympathetic. - -But Sorio, who had been fidgetting with his heavy stick, rose now, -slowly and deliberately, to his feet. Nance, looking at his face, saw -upon it an expression which from long association she had come to -regard with mingled tenderness and alarm. It was the look his features -wore when on the point of rushing to the assistance of some wounded -animal or ill-used child. - -He uttered no word, but flinging Nance aside with his left hand, with -the other he struck blindly with his stick, aiming a murderous blow -straight at Brand’s face. - -Brand had barely time to raise his hand. The blow fell upon his wrist, -and his arm sank under it limp and paralysed. - -Nance, with a loud cry for assistance, clung frantically to Sorio’s -neck, trying to hold him back. But apparently beyond all consciousness -now of what he was doing, Sorio flung her roughly back and drove his -enemy with savage repeated strokes into a corner of the room. It was -not long before Brand’s other arm was rendered as useless as the first, -and the blows falling now on his unprotected head, soon felled him to -the ground. - -Nance, who had flung open the door and uttered wild and panic-stricken -cries for help, now rushed across the room and pinioned the exhausted -flagellant in her strong young arms. Seeing his enemy motionless -and helpless with a stream of blood trickling down his face, Adrian -resigned himself passively to her controlling embrace. - -They were found in this position by the two men-servants, who came -rushing down the passage in answer to her screams. Mrs. Renshaw, -dressing in her room on the opposite side of the house, heard nothing. -The steady downpour of the rain dulled all other sounds. Philippa had -not yet returned. - -Under Nance’s directions, the two men carried their master out of the -“work-shop,” while she herself continued to cling desperately to Sorio. -There had been something hideous and awful to the girl’s imagination -about the repeated “thud--thud--thud” of the blows delivered by her -lover. This was especially so after the numbing of his bruised arms -reduced Adrian’s victim to helplessness. - -As she clung to him now she seemed to hear the sound of those -blows--each one striking, as it seemed, something resistless and -prostrate in her own being. And once more, with grotesque iteration, -the figures upon Linda’s almanac ticked like a clock in answer to -the echo of that sound. “October the twenty-eighth--October the -twenty-eighth,” repeated the church-almanac, from its red-lettered -frame. - -The extraordinary thing was that as her mind began to function more -naturally again, she became conscious that, all the while, during that -appalling scene, even at the very moment when she was crying out for -help, she had experienced a sort of wild exultation. She recalled that -emotion quite clearly now with a sense of curious shame. - -She was also aware that while glancing at Brand’s pallid and -unconscious face as they carried him from the room, she had felt a -sudden indescribable softening towards him and a feeling for him that -she would hardly have dared to put into words. She found herself, even -now, as she went over in her mind with lightning rapidity every one of -the frightful moments she had just gone through, changing the final -episode in her heart, to quite a different one; to one in which she -herself knelt down by their enemy’s side, and wiped the blood from his -forehead, and brought him back to consciousness. - -Left alone with Sorio, Nance relaxed her grasp and laid her hands -appealingly upon his shoulder. But it was into unseeing eyes that -she looked, and into a face barely recognizable as that of her -well-beloved. He began talking incoherently and yet with a kind of -terrible deliberation and assurance. - -“What’s that you say? Only the rain? They say it’s only the rain -when they want to fool me and quiet me. But I know better! They -can’t fool me like that. It’s blood, of course; it’s Nance’s blood. -_You_, Nance? Oh, no, no, no! I’m not so easily fooled as that. -Nance is at the bottom of that hole in the wood, where I struck -her--_one_--_two_--_three_! It took three hits to do it--and she didn’t -speak a word, not a word, nor utter one least little cry. It’s funny -that I had to hit her three times! She is so soft, so soft and easy -to hurt. No, no, no, no! I’m not to be fooled like that. My Nance had -great laughing grey eyes. Yours are horrible, horrible. I see terror in -them. _She_ was afraid of nothing.” - -His expression changed, and a wistful hunted look came into his -face. The girl tried to pull him towards one of the chairs, but he -resisted--clasping her hand appealingly. - -“Tell me, Phil,” he whispered, in a low awe-struck voice, “tell me why -you made me do it. Did you think it would be better, better for all of -us, to have her lying there cold and still? No, no, no! You needn’t -look at me with those dreadful eyes. Do you know, Phil, since you made -me kill her I think your eyes have grown to look like hers, and your -face, too--and all of you.” - -Nance, as he spoke, cried out woefully and helplessly. “I am! I am! I -am! Adrian--my own--my darling--don’t you know me? I am your Nance!” - -He staggered slowly now to one of the chairs, moving each foot as he -did so with horrible deliberation as if nothing he did could be done -naturally any more, or without a conscious effort of will. Seating -himself in the chair, he drew her down upon his knee and began passing -his fingers backwards and forwards over her face. - -“Why did you make me do it, Phil?” he moaned, rocking her to and fro as -if she were a child. “Why did you make me do it? She would have given -me sleep, if you’d only let her alone, cool, deep, delicious sleep! She -would have smoothed away all my troubles. She would have destroyed the -old Adrian and made a new one--a clear untroubled one, bathed in great -floods of glorious white light!” - -His voice sank to an awe-struck and troubled murmur. “Phil, my dear,” -he whispered, “Phil, listen to me. There’s something I can’t remember! -Something--O God! No! It’s _some one_--some one most precious to -me--and I’ve forgotten. Something’s happened to my brain, and I’ve -forgotten. It was after I struck those blows, those blows that made her -mouth look so twisted and funny--just like yours looks now, Phil! Why -is it, do you think, that dead people have that look on their mouths? -Phil, tell me; tell me what it is I’ve forgotten! Don’t be cruel now. I -can’t stand it now. I _must_ remember. I always seem just on the point -of remembering, and then something in my brain closes up, like an iron -door. Oh, Phil--my love, my love, tell me what it is!” - -As he spoke he clasped the girl convulsively, crushing her and hurting -her by the strength of his arms. To hear him address her thus by -the name of her rival was such misery to Nance that she was hardly -conscious of the physical distress caused by his violence. It was still -worse when, relaxing the force of his grasp, he began to fondle and -caress her, stroking her face with his fingers and kissing her cheeks. - -“Phil, my love, my darling!” he kept repeating, “please tell -me--please, please tell me, what it is I’ve forgotten!” - -Nance suffered at that moment the extreme limit of what she was capable -of enduring. She dreaded every moment that Philippa herself would come -in. She dreaded the reappearance of the servants, perhaps with more -assistance, ready to separate them and carry Adrian away from her. To -feel his caresses and to know that in his wild thoughts they were not -meant for her at all--that was more, surely more, than God could have -intended her to suffer! - -Suddenly she had an inspiration. “Is it Baptiste that you’ve forgotten?” - -The word had an electrical effect upon him. He threw her off his lap -and leapt to his feet. - -“Yes,” he cried savagely and wildly, the train of his thoughts -completely altered, “you’re all keeping him away from me! That’s what’s -at the bottom of it! You’ve hidden Nance from me and given me this -woman who looks like her but who can’t smile and laugh like my Nance, -to deceive me and betray me! I know you--you staring, white-faced, -frightened thing! _You_ don’t deceive me! _You_ don’t fool Adrian. I -know you. _You_ are not my Nance.” - -She had staggered away, a few paces from him, when he first threw her -off, and now, with a heart-rending effort, she tried to smooth the -misery out of her face and to smile at him in her normal, natural way. -But the effort was a ghastly mockery. It was little wonder, seeing her -there, so lamentably trying to smile into his eyes, that he cried out -savagely: “That’s not my Nance’s smile. That’s the smile of a cunning -mask! You’ve hidden her away from me. Curse you all--you’ve hidden her -away from me--and Baptiste, too! Where is my Baptiste--you staring -white thing? Where is my Baptiste, you woman with a twisted mouth?” - -He rushed fiercely towards her and seized her by the throat. “Tell -me what you’ve done with him,” he cried, shaking her to and fro, and -tightening his grasp upon her neck. “Tell me, you devil! Tell me, or -I’ll kill you.” - -Nance’s brain clouded and darkened. Her senses grew confused and misty. -“He’s going to strangle me,” she thought, “and I don’t care! This pain -won’t last long, and it will be death from _his_ hand.” - -All at once, however, in a sudden flash of blinding clearness, -she realized what this moment meant. If she let him murder her, -passively, unresistingly, what would become of him when she was dead? -Simultaneously with this thought something seemed to rise up, strong -and clear, from the depths of her being, something powerful and -fearless, ready to wrestle with fate to the very end. - -“He shan’t kill me!” she thought. “I’ll live to save us both.” Tearing -frantically at his hands, she struggled backwards towards the open -door, dragging him with her. In his mad blood-lust he was horribly, -murderously strong; but this new life-impulse, springing from some -supernatural level in the girl’s being, proved still stronger. With one -tremendous wrench at his wrists she flung him from her; flung him away -with such violence that he slipped and fell to the ground. - -In a moment she had rushed through the doorway and closed and locked -the heavy door behind her. Even at the very second she achieved this -and staggered faint and weak against the wall, what seemed to her -rapidly clouding senses a large concourse of noisy people carrying -flickering lights, swept about her. As they came upon her she sank to -the floor, her last impression being that of the great dark eyes of -Philippa Renshaw illuminated by an emotion which was beyond her power -of deciphering, an emotion in which her mind lost itself, as she tried -to understand it, in a deep impenetrable mist, that changed to absolute -darkness as she fainted away. - - - - -XXV - -BALTAZAR STORK - - -The morning of the twenty-ninth of October crept slowly and greyly -through the windows of the sisters’ room. Linda had done her best to -forget her own trouble and to offer what she could of consolation and -hope to Nance. It was nearly three o’clock before the unhappy girl -found forgetfulness in sleep, and now with the first gleam of light she -was awake again. - -The worst she could have anticipated was what had happened. Adrian -had been taken away--not recognizing any one--to that very Asylum -at Mundham which they had glanced at together with such ominous -forebodings. She herself--what else could she do?--had been forced to -sign her name to the official document which, before midnight fell upon -Oakguard, made legal his removal. - -She had signed it--she shuddered now to think of her feelings at that -moment--below the name of Brand, who as a magistrate was officially -compelled to take the initiative in the repulsive business. Dr. -Raughty and Mr. Traherne, who had both been summoned to the house, had -signed that dreadful paper, too. Nance’s first impression on regaining -consciousness was that of the Doctor’s form bending anxiously over her. -She remembered how queer his face looked in the shadowy candle-light -and how gently he had stroked the back of her hand when she unclosed -her eyes, and what relief his expression had shown when she whispered -his name. - -It was the Doctor who had driven her home at last, when the appalling -business was over and the people had come, with a motor car from -Mundham, and carried Adrian away. She had learnt from him that Brand’s -injuries were in no way serious and were likely to leave no lasting -hurt, beyond a deep scar on the forehead. His arms were bruised and -injured, Fingal told her, but neither of them was actually broken. - -Hamish Traherne had gone with the Mundham people to the Asylum and -would spend the night there. He had promised Nance to come and see her -before noon and tell her everything. - -She gathered also from Fingal that Philippa, showing unusual -promptitude and tact, had succeeded in keeping Mrs. Renshaw away, both -from the closed door of the chapel and from the bedside of Brand, until -the latter had recovered consciousness. - -Nance, as her mind went over and over every detail of that hideous -evening, could not help thanking God that Adrian had at least been -spared the tragic burden of blood-guiltiness. As far as the law of the -land was concerned, he had only to recover his sanity and regain his -normal senses, to make his liberation easy and natural. There had been -no suggestion in the paper she had signed--and she had been especially -on the look-out for that--with regard to _criminal_ lunacy. - -She sat up in bed and looked at her sister. Linda was sleeping as -peacefully as a child. The cold morning light gave her face a curious -pallor. Her long brown lashes lay motionless upon her cheeks, and from -her gently parted lips her breath came evenly and calmly. - -Nance recalled the strange interview she had had with Brand before -Adrian flung himself between them. It was strange! Do what she could, -she could not feel towards that man anything but a deep unspeakable -pity. Had he magnetized her--her too--she wondered--with that -mysterious force in him, that force at once terrible and tender, which -so many women had found fatal? No--no! That, of course, was ridiculous. -That was unthinkable. Her heart was Adrian’s and Adrian’s alone. But -why, then, was it that she found herself not only pardoning him what -he had done but actually--in some inexplicable way--condoning it and -understanding it? Was she, too, losing her wits? Was she, too,--under -the influence of this disastrous place--forfeiting all sense of moral -proportion? - -The man had seduced her sister, and had refused--_that_ remained -quite clearly as the prevailing impression of that wild interview -with him--definitely and obstinately to marry her, and yet, here was -she, her sister’s only protector in the world, softening in her heart -towards him and thinking of him with a sort of sentimental pity! Truly -the minds of mortal men and women contained mysteries past finding out! - -She lay back once more upon her pillows and let the hours of the -morning flow over her head like softly murmuring waves. There is often, -especially in a country town, something soothing and refreshing beyond -words in the opening of an autumn day. In winter the light does not -arrive till the stir and noise and traffic of the streets has already, -so to speak, established itself. In summer the earlier hours are so -long and bright, that by the time the first movements of humanity -begin, the day has already been ravished of its pristine freshness -and grown jaded and garish. Early mornings in spring have a magical -and thrilling charm, but the very exuberance of joyous life then, the -clamorous excitement of birds and animals, the feverish uneasiness -and restlessness of human children, make it difficult to lie awake in -perfect receptivity, drinking in every sound and letting oneself be -rocked and lulled upon a languid tide of half-conscious dreaming. - -Upon such a tide, however, Nance now lay, in spite of everything, and -let the vague murmurs and the familiar sounds flow over her, in soft -reiteration. That she should be able to lie like this, listening to the -rattle of the milkman’s cans and the crying of the sea-gulls and the -voices of newly-awakened bargemen higher up the river, and the lowing -of cattle from the marshes and the chirping of sparrows on the roof, -when all the while her lover was moaning, in horrible unconsciousness, -within those unspeakable walls, was itself, as she contemplated it in -cold blood, an atrocious trick of all-subverting Nature! - -She looked at the misty sunlight, soft and mellow, which now began to -invade the room, and she marvelled at herself in a sort of bewildered -shame that she should not, at this crisis in her life, _be able to feel -more_. Was it that her experiences of the day before had so harrowed -her soul that she had no power of reaction left? Or was it--and upon -this thought she tried to fix her mind as the true explanation--that -the great underlying restorative forces were already dimly but -powerfully exerting themselves on behalf of Adrian, and on behalf of -her sister and herself? - -She articulated the words “restorative forces” in the depths of her -mind, giving her thought this palpable definition; but as she did so -she was only too conscious of the presence of a mocking spirit there, -whose finger pointed derisively at the words as soon as she had imaged -them. Restorative forces? Were there such things in the world at all? -Was it not much more likely that what she felt at this moment was -nothing more than that sort of desperate calm which comes, with a kind -of numbing inertia, upon human beings, when they have been wrought upon -to the limit of their endurance? Was it not indeed rather a sign of -her helplessness, a sign that she had come now to the end of all her -powers, and could do no more than just stretch out her arms upon the -tide and lie back upon the dark waters, letting them bear her whither -they pleased--was it not rather a token of this, than of any inkling of -possible help at hand? - -It was at that moment that amid the various sounds which reached her -ear, there came the clear joyous whistling of some boy apprentice, -occupied in removing the shutters from one of the shop-windows in -the street. The boy was whistling, casually and clumsily enough, but -still with a beautiful intonation, certain familiar strophes from the -Marseillaise. The great revolutionary tune echoed clear and strong over -the drowsy cobble-stones, between the narrow patient walls, and down -away towards the quiet harbour. - -It was incredible the effect which this simple accident had upon the -mind of the girl. In one moment she had flung to the winds all thought -of submission to destiny--all idea of “lying back” upon fate. No -longer did she dream vaguely and helplessly of “restorative forces,” -somewhere, somehow, remotely active in her favour. The old, brave, -defiant, youthful spirit in her, the spirit of her father’s child, -leapt up, strong and vigorous in her heart and brain. No--no! Never -would she yield. Never would she submit. “_Allons, enfants!_” She would -fight to the end. - -And then, all in a moment, she remembered Baptiste. Of course! That -was the thing to be done. Fool that she was not to have thought of it -before! She must send a cabled message to Adrian’s son. It was towards -Baptiste that his spirit was continually turning. It must be Baptiste -who should restore him to health! - -It was not much after six o’clock when that boy’s whistling reached -her, but between then and the first moment of the opening of the post -office, her mind was in a whirl of hopeful thoughts. - -As she stood waiting at the little stuccoed entrance for the door -to open, and watched with an almost humorous interest the nervous -expectancy of the most drooping, pallid, unhealthy and unfortunately -complexioned youth she had ever set eyes upon, she felt full of -strength and courage. Adrian had been ill before and had recovered. He -would recover now! She herself would bring him the news of Baptiste’s -coming. The mere news of it would help him. - -There was a little garden just visible through some iron railings by -the side of the post office and above these railings and drooping -towards them so that it almost rested upon their spikes, was a fading -sunflower. The flower was so wilted and tattered that Nance had no -scruple about stretching her hand towards it and trying to pluck it -from its stem. She did this half-mechanically, full of her new hope, as -a child on its way to catch minnows in a freshly discovered brook might -pluck a handful of clover. - -The sickly-looking youth--Nance couldn’t help longing to cover his face -with zinc-ointment; why did one _always_ meet people with dreadful -complexions in country post offices?--observing her efforts, extended -_his_ hand also, and together they pulled at the radiant derelict, -until they broke it off. When she held it in her hands, Nance felt a -little ashamed and sorry, for the tall mutilated stem stood up so stark -and raw with drops of white frothy sap oozing from it. She could not -help remembering how it was one of Adrian’s innocent superstitions to -be reluctant to pick flowers. However, it was done now. But what should -she do with this great globular orb of brown seeds with the scanty -yellow petals, like weary taper-flames, surrounding its circumference? - -The lanky youth looked at her and smiled shyly. She met his eyes, -and observing his embarrassment, obviously tinged with unconcealed -admiration, she smiled back at him, a sweet friendly smile of humorous -camaraderie. - -Apparently this was the first time in his life that a really beautiful -girl had ever smiled at him, for he blushed a deep purple-red all over -his face. - -“I think, ma’am,” he stammered nervously, “I know who you are. I’ve -seen you with Mr. Stork.” - -Nance’s face clouded. She regarded it as a bad omen to hear this name -mentioned. Her old mysterious terror of her friend’s friend rose -powerfully upon her. In some vague obscure way, she felt conscious -of his intimate association with all the forces in the world most -inimical to her and to her future. - -Observing her look and a little bewildered by it, the youth rambled -helplessly on. “Mr. Stork has been a very good friend to me,” he -murmured. “He got me my job at Mr. Walpole’s--Walpole the saddler, -Miss. I should have had to have left mother if it hadn’t been for him.” - -With a sudden impulse of girlish mischief, Nance placed in the boy’s -hand the great faded flower she was holding. “Put it into your -button-hole,” she said. - -At that moment the door opened, and forgetting the boy, the sunflower, -and the ambiguous Mr. Stork, she hurried into the building, full of her -daring enterprise. - -Her action seemed to remove from the youth’s thoughts whatever motive -he may have had in waiting for the opening of the office. Perhaps this -goddess-like apparition rendered commonplace and absurd some quaint -pictorial communication, smudgy and blotched, which now remained -unstamped in his coat-pocket. At any rate he slunk away, with long, -furtive, slouching strides, carrying the flower she had given him as -reverently as a religious-minded acolyte might carry a sacred vessel. - -Meanwhile, Nance sent off her message, laying down on the counter -her half-sovereign with a docility that thrilled the young woman who -officiated there with awe and importance. - -“Baptiste Sorio, fifteen West Eleventh Street, New York City,” the -message ran, “come at once; your father in serious mental trouble”; and -she signed it with her own name and address, and paid five shillings -more to secure an immediate reply. - -Then, leaving the post office, she returned slowly and thoughtfully -to her lodging. The usual stir and movement of the beginning of the -day’s work filled the little street when she approached her room. Nance -could not help thinking how strange and curious it was that the stream -of life should thus go rolling forward with its eternal repetition of -little familiar usages, in spite of the desperation of this or the -other cruel personal drama. - -Adrian might be moaning for his son in that Mundham house. Linda might -be fearing and dreading the results of her obsession. Philippa might -be tossing forth her elfish laugh upon the wind among the oak-trees. -She herself might be “lying back upon fate” or struggling to wrestle -with fate. What mattered any of these things to the people who sold and -bought and laughed and quarrelled and laboured and made love, as the -powers set in motion a new day, and the brisk puppets of a human town -began their diurnal dance? - -It was not till late in the afternoon that Nance received an answer -to her message. She was alone when she opened it, Linda having gone -as usual, under her earnest persuasion, to practise in the church. -The message was brief and satisfactory: “Sailing to-morrow _Altrunia_ -Liverpool six days boat Baptiste.” - -So he would really be here--here in Rodmoor--in seven or eight days. -This was news for Adrian, if he had the power left to understand -anything! She folded the paper carefully and placed it in her purse. - -Mr. Traherne had come to her about noon, bringing news that, on the -whole, was entirely reassuring. It seemed that Sorio had done little -else than sleep since his first entrance into the place; and both the -doctors there regarded this as the best possible sign. - -Hamish explained to her that there were three degrees of -insanity--mania, melancholia, and dementia--and, from what he could -learn from his conversations with the doctors, this heavy access -of drowsiness ruled out of Adrian’s case the worst symptom of both -these latter possibilities. What they called “mania,” he explained to -her, was something quite curable and with nearly all the chances in -favour of recovery. It was really--he told her he had gathered from -them--“only a question of time.” - -The priest had been careful to inquire as to the possibility of Nance -being allowed to visit her betrothed; but neither of the doctors seemed -to regard this, at any rate for the present, as at all desirable. He -cordially congratulated her, however, on having sent for Sorio’s son. -“Whatever happens,” he said, “it’s right and natural that _he_ should -be here with you.” - -While Nance was thus engaged in “wrestling with fate,” a very different -mental drama was being enacted behind the closed windows of Baltazar’s -cottage. - -Mr. Stork had not been permitted even to fall asleep before rumours -reached him that some startling event had occurred at Oakguard. Long -before midnight, by the simple method of dropping in at the bar of -the Admiral’s Head, he had picked up sufficient information to make -him decide against seeing any one that night. They had taken Sorio -away, and Mr. Renshaw had escaped from a prolonged struggle with the -demented man with the penalty of only a few bruises. Thus, with various -imaginative interpolations which he discounted as soon as he heard -them, Baltazar got from the gossips of the tavern a fair account of -what had occurred. - -There was, indeed, so much excitement in Rodmoor over the event that, -for the first time in the memory of the oldest inhabitants, the -Admiral’s Head remained open two whole hours after legal closing time. -This was in part explained by the fact that the two representatives of -the law in the little town had been summoned to Oakguard to be ready -for any emergency. - -It was now about four o’clock in the afternoon. Baltazar had found -himself with little appetite for either breakfast or lunch, and at this -moment, as he sat staring at a fireplace full of nothing but burnt out -ashes, his eyes had such dark lines below them that one might have -assumed that sleep as well as food had lost its savour for him in the -last twelve hours. By his side on a little table stood an untasted -glass of brandy, and at his feet in the fender lay innumerable, but in -many cases only half-smoked, cigarettes. - -The impression which was now upon him was that of being one of -two human creatures left alive, those two alone, after some -world-destroying plague. He had the feeling that he had only to go -out into the street to come upon endless dead bodies strewn about, in -fantastic and horrible attitudes of death, and in various stages of -dissolution. It was his Adriano who alone was left alive. But he had -done something to him--so that he could only hear his voice without -being able to reach him. - -“I must end this,” he said aloud; and then again, as if addressing -another person, “We must put an end to this, mustn’t we, Tassar?” - -He rose to his feet and surveyed himself in one of his numerous -beautifully framed mirrors. He passed his slender fingers through his -fair curls and peered into his own eyes, opening the lids wide and -wrinkling his forehead. He smiled at himself then--a long strange -wanton smile--and turned away, shrugging his shoulders. - -Then he moved straight up to the picture of the Venetian Secretary and -snapped his fingers at it. “You wait, you smirking ‘imp of fame’; you -wait a little! We’ll show you that you’re not so deep or so subtle -after all. You wait, Flambard, my boy, you wait a while; and we’ll show -you plots and counter-plots!” - -Then without a word he went upstairs to his bathroom. “By Jove!” he -muttered to himself, “I begin to think Fingal’s right. The only place -in this Christian world where one can possess one’s soul in peace is -a tiled bathroom--only the tiles must be perfectly white,” he added, -after a pause. - -He made an elaborate and careful toilet, brushing his hair with -exhaustive assiduity, and perfuming his hands and face. He dressed -himself in spotlessly clean linen and put on a suit that had never been -worn before. Even the shoes which he chose were elegant and new. He -took several minutes deciding what tie to wear and finally selected one -of a pale mauve colour. Then, with one final long and wistful glance -at himself, he kissed the tips of his fingers at his own image, and -stepped lightly down the stairs. - -He paused for a moment in the little hall-way to select a cane from -the stick rack. He took an ebony one at last, with an engraved silver -knob bearing his own initials. There was something ghastly about the -deliberation with which he did all this, but it was ghastliness wasted -upon polished furniture and decrepit flies--unless every human house -conceals invisible watchers. He hesitated a little between a Panama hat -and one of some light-coloured cloth material, but finally selected the -former, toying carefully with its flexible rim before placing it upon -his head, and even when it was there giving it some final touches. - -The absolute loneliness of the little house, broken only by an -occasional voice from the tavern door, became, during his last moments -there, a sort of passive accomplice to some nameless ritual. At length -he opened the door and let himself out. - -He walked deliberately and thoughtfully towards the park gates, and, -passing in, made his way up the leaf-strewn avenue. Arrived at the -house, he nodded in a friendly manner at the servant who opened the -door, and asked to be taken to Mrs. Renshaw’s room. The man obeyed him -respectfully, and went before him up the staircase and down the long -echoing passage. - -He found Mrs. Renshaw sewing at the half-open window. She put down her -work when he entered and greeted him with one of those _illumined_ -smiles of hers, which Fingal Raughty was accustomed to say made him -believe in the supernatural. - -“Thank you for coming to see me,” she said, as he seated himself at her -side, spreading around him an atmosphere of delicate odours. “Thank -you, Baltazar, so much for coming.” - -“Why do you always say that, Aunt Helen?” he murmured, almost crossly. -It was one of the little long-established conventions between them that -he should address his father’s wife in this way. - -There came once more that indescribable spiritual light into her faded -eyes. “Well,” she said gaily, “_isn’t_ it kind of a young man, who has -so many interests, to give up his time to an old woman like me?” - -“Nonsense, nonsense, Aunt Helen!” he cried, with a rich caressing -intonation, laying one of his slender hands tenderly upon hers. “It -makes me absolutely angry with you when you talk like that!” - -“But isn’t it true, Tassar?” she answered. “Isn’t this world meant for -the young and happy?” - -“As if I cared what the world was _meant_ for!” he exclaimed. “It’s -meant for nothing at all, I fancy. And the sooner it reaches what it -was meant for and collapses altogether, the better for all of us!” - -A look of distress that was painful to witness came into Mrs. Renshaw’s -face. Her fingers tightened upon his hand and she leant forward towards -him. “Tassar, Tassar, dear!” she said very gravely, “when you talk like -that you make me feel as if I were absolutely alone in the world.” - -“What do you mean, Aunt Helen?” murmured the young man in a low voice. - -“You make me feel as if it were wrong of me to love you so much,” she -went on, bending her head and looking down at his feet. - -As he saw her now, with the fading afternoon light falling on her -parted hair, still wavy and beautiful even in its grey shadows, and on -her broad pale forehead, he realized once more what he alone perhaps, -of all who ever had known her realized, the unusual and almost -terrifying power of her personality. She forced him to think of some -of the profound portraits of the sixteenth century, revealing with an -insight and a passion, long since lost to art, the tragic possibilities -of human souls. - -He laughed gently. “Dear, dear Aunt Helen!” he cried, “forget my -foolishness. I was only jesting. I don’t give a fig for any of my -opinions on these things. To the deuce with them all, dear! To free -you from one single moment of annoyance, I’d believe every word in the -Church Catechism from ‘What is your name?’ down to ‘without doubt are -lost eternally’!” - -She looked up at this, and made a most heart-breaking effort not to -smile. Her abnormally sensitive mouth--the mouth, as Baltazar always -maintained, of a great tragic actress--quivered at the corners. - -“If _I_ had taught you your catechism,” she said, “you would remember -it better than that!” - -Baltazar’s eyes softened as he watched her, and a strange look, full of -a pity that was as impersonal as the sea itself, rose to their surface. -He lifted her hand to his lips. - -“Don’t do that! You mustn’t do that!” she murmured, and then with -another flicker of a smile, “you must keep those pretty manners, -Tassar, for all your admiring young women!” - -“Confound my young women!” cried the young man. “You’re far more -beautiful, Aunt Helen, than all of them put together!” - -“You make me think of that passage in ‘Hamlet,’” she rejoined, leaning -back in her chair and resuming her work. “How does it go? ‘Man -delights me not nor woman either--though by your smiling you seem to -say so!’” - -“Aunt Helen!” he cried earnestly, “I have something important to say -to you. I want you to understand this. It’s sweet of you not to speak -of Adriano’s illness. Any one but you would have condoled with me most -horribly already!” - -She raised her eyes from her sewing. “We must pray for him,” she said. -“I have been praying for him all day--and all last night, too,” she -added with a faint smile. “I let Philippa think I didn’t know what had -happened. But I knew.” She shuddered a little. “I knew. I heard him in -the ‘work-shop.’” - -“What I wanted to say, Aunt Helen,” he went on, “was this. I want you -to remember--whatever happens to either of us--that I love you more -than any one in the world. Yes--yes,” he continued, not allowing her to -interrupt, “better even than Adriano!” - -A look resembling the effect of some actual physical pain came into her -face. “You mustn’t say that, my dear,” she murmured. “You must keep -your love for your wife when you marry. I don’t like to hear you say -things like that--to an old woman.” She hesitated a moment. “It sounds -like flattery, Tassar,” she added. - -“But it’s true, Aunt Helen!” he repeated with almost passionate -emphasis. “You’re by far the most beautiful and by far the most -interesting woman I’ve ever met.” - -Mrs. Renshaw drew her hand across her face. Then she laughed gaily like -a young girl. “What would Philippa say,” she said, “if she heard you -say that?” - -Baltazar’s face clouded. He looked at her long and closely. - -“Philippa is interesting and deep,” he said with a grave emphasis, “but -she doesn’t understand me. _You_ understand me, though you think it -right to hide your knowledge even from yourself.” - -Mrs. Renshaw’s face changed in a moment. It became haggard and -obstinate. “We mustn’t talk any more about understanding and about -love,” she said. “God’s will is that we should all of us only -completely love and understand the person He leads us, in His wisdom, -to marry.” - -Baltazar burst into a fit of heathen laughter. “I thought you were -going to end quite differently, Aunt Helen,” he said. “I thought the -only person we were to love was going to be God. But it seems that it -is man--or woman,” he added bitterly. - -Mrs. Renshaw bent low over her work and the shadow grew still deeper -upon her face. Seeing that he had really hurt her, Baltazar changed his -tone. - -“Dear Aunt Helen!” he whispered gently, “how many happy hours, how -many, how many!--have we spent together reading in this room!” - -She looked up quickly at this, with the old bright look. “Yes, it’s -been a happy thing for me, Tassar, having you so near us. Do you -remember how, last winter, we got through the whole of Sir Walter -Scott? There’s no one nowadays like _him_--is there? Though Philippa -tells me that Mr. Hardy is a great writer.” - -“Mr. Hardy!” exclaimed her interlocutor whimsically. “I believe you -_would_ have come to him at last--perhaps you _will_, dear, some day. -Let’s hope so! But I’m afraid I shall not be here then.” - -“Don’t talk like that, Tassar,” she said without looking up from her -work. “It will not be _you_ who will leave _me_.” - -There was a pause between them then, and Baltazar’s eyes wandered out -into the hushed misty garden. - -“Mr. Hardy does not believe in God,” he remarked. - -“Tassar!” she cried reproachfully. “You know what you promised just -now. You mustn’t tease me. No one deep down in his heart disbelieves in -God. How can we? He makes His power felt among us every day.” - -There was another long silence, broken only by the melancholy cawing of -the rooks, beginning to gather in their autumnal roosting-places. - -Presently Mrs. Renshaw looked up. “Do you remember,” she said very -solemnly, “how you promised me one day never again to let Brand or -Philippa speak disrespectfully of our English hymn-book? You said you -thought the genius of some of our best-known poets was more expressed -in their hymns than in their poetry. I have often thought of that.” - -A very curious expression came into Baltazar’s face. He suddenly leaned -forward. “Aunt Helen,” he said, “this illness of Adrian’s makes me -feel, as you often say, how little security there is for any of our -lives. I wish you’d say to me those peculiarly sad lines--you know the -one I mean?--the one I used to make you smile over, when I was in a bad -mood, by saying it always made me think of old women in a work-house! -You know the one, don’t you?” - -The whole complicated subtlety of Mrs. Renshaw’s character showed -itself in her face now. She smiled almost playfully but at the same -moment a supernatural light came in her eyes. “I know,” she said, and -without a moment’s hesitation or the least touch of embarrassment, -she began to sing, in a low plaintive melodious voice, the following -well-known stanza. As she sang she beat time with her hand; and -there came over her hearer the obscure vision of some old, wild, -primordial religion, as different from paganism as it was different -from Christianity, of which his mysterious friend was the votary and -priestess. The words drifted away through the open window into the mist -and the falling leaves. - - “Rest comes at length, though life be long and weary, - The day must dawn and darksome night be past; - Faith’s journey ends in welcome to the weary, - And heaven, the heart’s true home, will come at last.” - -When it was finished there was a strange silence in the room, and -Baltazar rose to his feet. His face was pale. He moved to her side -and, for the first and last time in their curious relations, he kissed -her--a long kiss upon the forehead. - -With a heightened colour in her cheeks and a nervous deprecatory smile -on her lips, she went with him to the door. “Listen, dear,” she said, -as she took his hand, “I want you to think of that poem of Cowper’s -written when he was most despairing--the one that begins ‘God moves -in a mysterious way.’ I want you to remember that though what he lays -upon us seems _crushing_, there is always something behind it--infinite -mercy behind infinite mystery.” - -Baltazar looked her straight in the face. “I wonder,” he said, -“whether it is I or you who is the most unhappy person in Rodmoor!” - -She let his hand fall. “What we suffer,” she said, “seems to me like -the weight of some great iron engine with jagged raw edges--like a -battering-ram beating us against a dark mountain. It swings backwards -and forwards, and it drives us on and on and on.” - -“And yet you believe in God,” he whispered. - -She smiled faintly. “Am I not alive and speaking to you, dear? If -behind it all there wasn’t His will, who could endure to live another -moment?” - -They looked into one another’s face in silence. He made an attempt to -say something else to her but his tongue refused to utter what his -heart suggested. - -“Good-bye, Aunt Helen,” he said. - -“Good night, Tassar,” she answered, “and thank you for coming to see -me.” - -He left the house without meeting any one else and walked with a -deliberate and rapid step towards the river. The twilight had already -fallen, and a white mist coming up over the sand-dunes was slowly -invading the marshes. The tide had just turned and the full-brimmed -current of the river’s out-flowing poured swift and strong between the -high mud-banks. - -The Loon was at that moment emphasizing and asserting its identity with -an exultant joy. It seemed almost to _purr_, with a kind of feline -satisfaction, as its dark volume of brackish water rushed forward -towards the sea. Whatever object it touched in its swift passage, it -drew from it some sort of half-human sound--some whisper or murmur or -protest of querulous complaining. - -The reeds flapped; the pollard-roots creaked; the mud-promontories -moaned; and all the while, with gurglings and suckings and lappings and -deep-drawn, inward, self-complacent laughter, the sliding body of the -slippery waters swept forward under its veil of mist. - -On that night, of all nights, the Loon seemed to have reached that -kind of emphasis of personality which things are permitted to -attain--animate as well as inanimate--when their functional activity is -at its highest and fullest. - -And on that night, carefully divesting himself of his elegant clothes, -and laying his hat and stick on the ground beside them, Baltazar Stork, -without haste or violence, and with his brain supernaturally clear, -drowned himself in the Loon. - - - - -XXVI - -NOVEMBER MIST - - -Baltazar’s death, under circumstances which could leave no doubt as -to the unhappy man’s intention to destroy himself, coming, as it did, -immediately after his friend’s removal to the Asylum, stirred the -scandalous gossip of Rodmoor to its very dregs. - -The suicide’s body--and even the indurated hearts of the -weather-battered bargemen who discovered it, washed down by the tide as -far as the New Bridge, were touched by its beauty--was buried, after a -little private extemporary service, just at the debatable margin where -the consecrated churchyard lost itself in the priest’s flower-beds. -Himself the only person in the place exactly aware of the precise -limits of the sacred enclosure--the enclosure which had never been -enclosed--Mr. Traherne was able to follow the most rigid stipulations -of his ecclesiastical conscience without either hurting the feelings of -the living or offering any insult to the dead. When it actually came -to the point he was, as it turned out, able to remove from his own -over-scrupulous heart the least occasion for future remorse. - -The Rodmoor sexton--the usual digger of graves--happened to be at that -particular time in the throes, or rather in the after-effects, of one -of his periodic outbursts of inebriation. So it happened that the -curate-in-charge had with his own hands to dig the grave of the one -among all his parishioners who had remained most distant to him and had -permitted him the least familiarity. - -Mr. Traherne remained awake in his study half the night, turning over -the pages of ancient scholastic authorities and comparing one doctrinal -opinion with another on the question of the burial of suicides. - -In the end, what he did, with a whimsical prayer to Providence -to forgive him, was to _begin_ digging the hole just outside the -consecrated area, but by means of a slight northward _excavatio_, when -he got a few feet down, to arrange the completed orifice in such a way -that, while Baltazar’s body remained in common earth, his head was -lodged safe and secure, under soil blessed by Holy Church. - -One of the most pious and authoritative of the early divines, -Mr. Traherne found out, maintained, as no fantastic or heretical -speculation but as a reasonable and reverent conclusion, the idea that -the surviving portion of a man--his “psyche” or living soul--had, as -its mortal tabernacle, the posterior lobes of the human skull, and that -it was from the _head_ rather than from the _body_ that the shadowy -companion of our earthly days--that “animula blandula” of the heathen -emperor--melted by degrees into the surrounding air and passed to “its -own place.” - -The Renshaws themselves showed, none of them, the slightest wish to -interfere with his arrangements, nor did Hamish Traherne ever succeed -in learning whether the hollow-eyed lady of Oakguard knew or did not -know that the clay mound over which every evening without fail, after -the day of the unceremonious interment, she knelt in silent prayer, -was outside the circle of the _covenanted_ mercies of the Power to -which she prayed. - -The “last will and testament” of the deceased--written with the most -exquisite care--was of so strange a character, taking indeed the shape -of something like a defiant and shameless “confession,” that Brand and -Dr. Raughty, who were the appointed executors, hurriedly hid it out -of sight. Everything Mr. Stork possessed was left to Mrs. Renshaw, -except the picture of Eugenio Flambard. This, by a fantastic codicil, -which was so extraordinary that when Brand and Dr. Raughty read it they -could do nothing but stare at one another in silent amazement, was -bequeathed, at the end of an astonishing panegyric, “to our unknown -Hippolytus, Mr. Baptiste Sorio, of New York City.” - -Baltazar had been buried on the first of November, and as the following -days of this dark month dragged by, under unbroken mists and rain, -Nance lived from hour to hour in a state of trembling expectancy. Would -Baptiste’s ship bring him safely to England? Would he, when he came, -and discovered what her relations with his father were, be kind to her -and sympathetic, or angry and hurt? She could not tell. She could make -no guess. She did not even know whether Adrian had really done what he -promised and written to his son about her at all. - -The figure of the boy--on his way across the Atlantic--took a fantastic -hold upon her disturbed imagination. As day followed day and the -time of his arrival drew near, she found it hard to concentrate her -mind even sufficiently to fulfil her easy labours with the little -dressmaker. Miss Pontifex gently remonstrated with her. - -“I know you’re in trouble, Miss Herrick, and have a great deal on your -mind, but it does no good worrying, and the girls get restless--you see -how it is!--when you can’t give them your full attention.” - -Thus rebuked, Nance would smile submissively and turn her eyes away -from the misty window. - -But every night before she slept, she would see through her closed -eyelids that longed-for boy, standing--that was how she always -conceived him--at the bows of the ship, standing tall and fair like a -young god; borne forwards over the starlit ocean to bring help to them -all. - -In her dreams, night after night, the boy came to her, and she -found him then of an unearthly beauty and endowed with a mysterious -supernatural power. In her dreams, the wild impossible hope, that -somehow, somewhere, he would be the one to save Linda from the ruin of -her youthful life, took to itself sweet immediate fulfilment. - -Every little event that happened to her during those days of tension -assumed the shape of something pregnant and symbolic. Her mind made -auguries of the movements of the clouds, and found significant omens, -propitious or menacing, from every turn of the wind and every coming -and going of the rain. The smallest and simplest encounter took upon -itself at that time a curious and mystic value. - -In after days, she remembered with sad and woeful clearness how persons -and things impressed her then, as, in their chance-brought groupings -and gestures, they lent themselves to her strained expectant mood. - -For instance, she never could forget the way she waited, on the night -of the third of November, along with Linda and Dr. Raughty, for the -arrival of the last train from Mundham, bringing Mr. Traherne back from -a visit to the Asylum with news of Adrian. - -The news the priest brought was unexpectedly favourable. Adrian, it -seemed, had taken a rapid turn for the better, and the doctors declared -that any day now it might become possible for Nance to see him. - -As they stood talking on the almost deserted platform, Nance’s mind -visualized with passionate intensity the moment when she herself would -take Baptiste to see his father and perhaps together--why not?--bring -him back in triumph to Rodmoor. - -Her happy reverie on this particular occasion was interrupted by a -fantastic incident, which, trifling enough in itself, left a queer and -significant impression behind it. This was nothing less than the sudden -escape from Mr. Traherne’s pocket of his beloved Ricoletto. - -In the excitement of their pleasure over the news brought by the -priest, the rat took the opportunity of slipping from the recesses of -his master’s coat; and jumping down on the platform, he leapt, quick -as a flash, upon the railway track below. Mr. Traherne, with a cry -of consternation, scrambled down after him, and throwing aside his -ulster which impeded his progress, began desperately pursuing him. -The engine of the train by which the clergyman had arrived was now -resting motionless, separate from the line of carriages, deserted by -its drivers. Straight beneath the wheels of this inert monster darted -the escaped rat. The agitated priest, with husky perturbed cries, ran -backwards and forwards along the side of the engine, every now and -then stooping down and frantically endeavouring to peer beneath it. - -It was so queer a sight to see this ungainly figure, dressed as always -in his ecclesiastical cassock, rushing madly round the dark form of -the engine and at intervals falling on his knees beside it, that Linda -could not restrain an almost hysterical fit of laughter. - -Dr. Raughty looked whimsically at Nance. - -“He might be a priest of Science, worshipping the god of machines,” he -remarked, assuming as he spoke a sitting posture, the better to slide -down, himself, from the platform to the track. - -The station-master now approached, anxious to close his office for the -night and go home. The porter, a peculiarly unsympathetic figure, took -not the least notice of the event, but coolly proceeded to extinguish -the lights, one by one. - -The ostler from the Admiral’s Head, who had come to meet some expected -visitor who never arrived, leaned forward with drowsy interest from his -seat on his cab and surveyed the scene with grim detachment, promising -himself that on the following night at his familiar bar table, he would -be the center of public interest as he satisfied legitimate local -curiosity with regard to this unwonted occurrence. - -Nance could not help smiling as she saw the excellent Fingal, his long -overcoat flapping about his legs, bending forward between the buffers -of the engine and peering into its metallic belly. She noticed that -he was tapping with his knuckles on the polished breast-plate of the -monster and uttering a clucking noise with his tongue, as if calling -for a recalcitrant chicken. - -It was not long before Mr. Traherne, growing desperate as the oblivious -porter approached the last of the station lamps, fell flat on his face -and proceeded to shove himself clean under the engine. The vision of -his long retreating form, wrapped in his cassock, thus worming himself -slowly out of sight, drew from Nance a burst of laughter, and as for -Linda, she clapped her hands together like a child. - -He soon reappeared, to the relief of all of them, with his recaptured -pet in his hand, and scrambled back upon the platform, just as the last -of the lamps went out, leaving the place in utter darkness. - -Nance, her laughter gone then, had a queer sensation as they moved -away, that the ludicrous scene she had just witnessed was part of some -fantastic unreal dream, and that she herself, with the whole tragedy -of her life, was just such a dream, the dream perhaps of some dark -driverless cosmic engine--of some remote Great Eastern Railway of the -Universe! - -The morning of the fourth of November dawned far more auspiciously -than any day which Rodmoor had known for many weeks. It was one of -those patient, hushed, indescribable days--calm and tender and full of -whispered intimations of hidden reassurance--which rarely reach us in -any country but England or in any district but East Anglia. The great -powers of sea and air and sky seemed to draw close to one another -and close to humanity; as if with some large and gracious gesture of -benediction they would fain lay to rest, under a solemn and elemental -requiem, the body of the dead season’s life. - -Nance escaped before noon from Miss Pontifex’s work-room. She and -Linda had been invited by Dr. Raughty to lunch with him and Hamish at -the pastry-cook’s in the High Street. It was to be a sort of modest -celebration, this little feast, to do honour to the good news which Mr. -Traherne had brought them the night before and which was corroborated -by a letter to Nance herself from the head doctor, with regard to -Adrian’s astonishing improvement. - -Nance felt possessed by a deep and tumultuous excitement. Baptiste -surely must be near England now! Any day--almost any hour--she might -hear of his arrival. She strolled out across the Loon to meet Linda, -who had gone that morning to practise on the organ for the following -Sunday’s services. - -As she crossed the marsh-land between the bridge and the church, she -encountered Mrs. Renshaw returning from a visit to Baltazar’s grave. -The mistress of Oakguard stopped for a little while to speak to her, -and to express, in her own way, her sympathy over Adrian’s recovery. -She did this, however, in a manner so characteristic of her that it -depressed rather than encouraged the girl. Her attitude seemed to -imply that it was better, wiser, more reverent, not to cherish any -buoyant hopes, but to assume that the worst that could come to us from -the hands of God was what ought to be expected and awaited in humble -submissiveness. - -She seemed in some strange way to _resent_ any lifting of the heavy -folds of the pall of fate and with a kind of obstinate weariness, to -lean to the darker and more sombre aspect of every possibility. - -She carried in her hands a bunch of faded flowers brought from the -grave she had visited and which she seemed reluctant to throw away, -and Nance never forgot the appearance of her black-gowned drooping -figure and white face, as she stood there, by the edge of the misty, -sun-illumined fens, holding those dead stalks and withered leaves. - -As they parted, Nance whispered hesitatingly some little word about -Baltazar. She half expected her to answer with tears, but in place of -that, her eyes seemed to shine with a weird exultant joy. - -“When you’re as old as I am, dear,” she said, “and have seen life as -I have seen it, you will not be sad to lose what you love best. The -better we love them, the happier we must be when they are set free from -the evil of the world.” - -She looked down on the ground, and when she raised her head, her eyes -had an unearthly light in them. “I am closer to him now,” she said, -“closer than ever before. And it will not be long before I go to join -him.” - -She moved slowly away, dragging her limbs heavily. - -Nance, as she went on, kept seeing again and again before her that -weird unearthly look. It left the impression on her mind that Mrs. -Renshaw had actually secured some strange and unnatural link with the -dead which made her cold and detached in her attitude towards the -living. - -Perhaps it had been all the while like this, the girl thought. Perhaps -it was just this habitual intercourse with the Invisible which -rendered her so entirely a votary of moonlight and of shadows, and -so unsympathetic towards the sunshine and towards all genial normal -expressions of natural humanity. - -Nance had the sensation--when at last, with Linda at her side, she -returned dreamily to the village--of having encountered some creature -from a world different from ours, a world of grey vapours and shadowy -margins, a world where the wraiths of the unborn meet the ghosts of the -dead, a world where the “might-have-been” and the “never-to-be-again” -weep together by the shores of Lethe. - -The little party which assembled presently round a table in the -bow-window of the Rodmoor confectioner’s proved a cheerful and happy -one. The day was Saturday, so that the street was full of a quiet stir -of people preparing to leave their shops and begin the weekly holiday. -There was a vague feeling of delicate sadness, dreamy yet not unhappy, -in the air, as though the year itself were pausing for a moment in its -onward march towards the frosts of winter and gathering for the last -time all its children, all its fading leaves and piled-up fruits and -drooping flowers, into a hushed maternal embrace, an embrace of silent -and everlasting farewell. - -The sun shone gently and tenderly from a sky of a faint, sad, far-off -blue--the sort of blue which, in the earlier and more reserved of -Florentine painters, may be seen in the robes of Our Lady caught up to -heaven out of a grave of lilies. - -The sea was calm and motionless, its hardly stirring waves clearer -and more translucent in their green depths than when blown upon by -impatient winds or touched by shameless and glaring light. - -A soft opalescent haze lay upon the houses, turning their gables, their -chimneys, their porches, and their roofs, into a pearl-dim mystery of -vague illusive forms; forms that might have arisen out of the “perilous -sea” itself, on some “beachéd margent” woven of the stuff of dreams. - -The queer old-fashioned ornaments of the room where the friends ate -their meal took to themselves, as Nance in her dreamy emotion drew them -into the circle of her thoughts, a singular and symbolic power. They -seemed suggestive, these quaint things, of all that world of little -casually accumulated mementoes and memories with which our troubled -and turbulent humanity strews its path and fills the places of its -passionate sojourning. Mother-of-pearl shells, faded antimacassars, -china dogs, fruit under glass-cases, old faded photographs of -long-since dead people, illuminated texts embroidered in bright wool, -tarnished christening mugs of children that were now old women, -portraits of celebrities from days when Victoria herself was in her -cradle, all the sweet impossible bric-a-brac of a tea-parlour in a -village shop surrounded them as they sat there, and thrilled at least -two of their hearts--for Linda’s mood was as receptive and as sensitive -as Nance’s--with an indescribable sense of the pathos of human life. - -It was of “life”--in general terms--that Dr. Raughty was speaking, as -the two young girls gave themselves up to the influence of the hour and -played lightly with their food. - -“It’s all nonsense,” the doctor cried, “this confounded perpetual -pessimism! Why can’t these people read Rabelais and Montaigne, and -drink noble wine out of great casks? Why can’t they choose from among -the company of their friends gay and honest wenches and sport with them -under pleasant trees? Why can’t they get married to comfortable and -comely girls and regale themselves in cool and well-appointed kitchens?” - -He helped himself as he spoke to another slice of salmon and sprinkled -salt upon a plateful of tomatoes and lettuce. - -“Whose pessimism are you talking about, Fingal?” inquired Nance, -playing up to his humour. - -“Don’t get it only for me,” Mr. Traherne cried, addressing the demure -and freckled damsel who waited on them. “I’m asking for a glass of ale, -Doctor. They can send out for it. But I don’t want it unless--” - -The Doctor’s eyes shone across the table at him like soft lamps -of sound antique wisdom. “Burton’s,” he exclaimed emphatically. -“None of friend Renshaw’s stuff! Burton’s! And let it be that old -dark mahogany-coloured liquor we drank once under the elm-trees at -Ashbourne.” - -The waitress regarded him with a coquettish smile. She laboured under -the perpetual illusion that every word the Doctor uttered was some -elaborate and recondite gallantry directed towards herself. - -The conversation ran on in lively spasmodic waywardness. It was not -long before the ale appeared, of the very body and colour suggested by -the Doctor’s memories. Nance refused to touch it. - -“Have some ginger-pop, instead, then,” murmured Fingal, pouring the -brown ale into a china jug decorated with painted pansies. “Linda would -like some of that, I know.” - -The priest held out his glass in the direction of the jug. - -“A thousand deep-sea devils--pardon me, Nance, dear!--carry off these -pessimists,” went on the Doctor, filling up the clergyman’s glass and -his own with ritualistic solemnity while the little maid, the victim -of an irrepressible laughing-fit, retired to fetch ginger-beer. “Let -us remember how the great Voltaire served God and defended all honest -people. Here’s to Voltaire’s memory and a fig for these neurotic -scribblers who haven’t the gall to put out their tongues!” He raised -his glass to his lips, his eyes shining with humorous enjoyment. - -“What scribblers are you talking about?” inquired Nance, peeling a -golden apple and glancing at the misty roofs through the window at her -side. - -“All of these twopenny-halfpenny moderns,” cried the Doctor, “who -haven’t the gall in their stomachs to take the world by the scruff of -its neck and lash out. A fig for them! Our poor dear Adrian, when he -gets cured, will write something--you mark my words--that’ll make ’em -stir themselves and sit up!” - -“But Adrian is pessimistic too, isn’t he?” said Nance, looking -wistfully at the speaker. - -“Nonsense!” cried the Doctor. “Adrian has more Attic salt in him than -you women guess. I believe, myself, that this book of his will be -worthy to be put beside the ‘Thoughts’ of Pascal. Have you ever seen -Pascal’s face? He isn’t as good-looking as Adrian but he has the same -intellectual fury.” - -“What’s your opinion, Fingal,” remarked Mr. Traherne, peering anxiously -into the pansied jug, “about the art of making life endurable?” - -Dr. Raughty surveyed him with a placid and equable smile. “Courage and -gaiety,” he said, “are the only recipe, and I don’t mind sprinkling -these, in spite of our modern philosophers, with a little milk of human -kindness.” - -The priest nodded over what was left of his ale. “_De fructu operum -tuorum, Domine, satiabitur terra: ut educas panem de terra, et vinum -lætificet cor hominis; ut exhilaret faciem in oleo, et panis cor -hominis confirmet_,” he muttered, stretching out his long legs under -the table and tilting back his chair. - -“What the devil does all that mean?” asked the Doctor a little -peevishly. “Can’t you praise God in simple English? Nance and I -couldn’t catch a word except ‘wine’ and ‘bread’ and ‘oil.’” - -Mr. Traherne looked unspeakably ashamed. “I’m sorry, Nance,” he -murmured, sitting up very straight and pulling himself together. “It -was out of place. It was rude. I’m not sure that it wasn’t profane. I’m -sorry, Fingal!” - -“It’s a beautiful afternoon,” said Nance, keeping her eyes on the -little street, whose very pavements reflected the soft opalescent light -which was spreading itself over Rodmoor. - -“Ah!” cried Dr. Raughty, “we left _that_ out in our summary of the -compensations of life. _You_ left that out, too, Hamish, from your -‘fructu’ and ‘panem’ and ‘vinum’ and the rest. But, after all, that -is what we come back to in the end. The sky, the earth, the sea,--the -great cool spaces of night--the sun, like a huge splendid god; the -moon, like a sweet passionate nun; and the admirable stars, like gems -in some great world-peacock’s tail--yes, my darlings, we come back to -these in the end!” - -He rose from his seat and with shining eyes surveyed his guests. - -“By the body of Mistress Bacbuc,” he cried, in a loud voice, “we do -wrong to sit here any longer! Let’s go down to the sands and cool -our heads. Here, Maggie! Madge! Marjorie! Where the deuce has that -girl gone? There she is! Get me the bill, will you, and bring me a -finger-bowl.” - -Mr. Traherne laid his hand gently on the doctor’s arm. “I’m afraid -we’ve been behaving badly, Fingal,” he whispered. “We’ve been drinking -ale and forgetting our good manners. Do I look all right? I mean, do -I look as if I’d been drinking mahogany-coloured Burton? Do I look as -usual?” - -The doctor surveyed him with grave intentness. “You look,” he said at -last, “something between Friar John and Bishop Berkeley.” He gave him a -little push. “Go and talk to the girls while I buy them chocolates.” - -Having paid the bill, he occupied himself in selecting with delicate -nicety a little box of sweet-meats for each of his friends, choosing -one for Nance with a picture of Leda and the Swan upon it and one for -Linda with a portrait of the Empress Josephine. - -As he leant over the counter, his eyes gleamed with a soft benignant -ecstasy and he rallied the shop-woman about some heart-shaped -confectionary adorned with blue ribbons. - -Before Mr. Traherne rejoined them Nance had time to whisper to Linda, -“They’re both a little excited, dear, but we needn’t notice it. They’ll -be themselves in a moment. Men are all so babyish.” - -Linda smiled faintly at this and nodded her head. She looked a little -sad and a little pale. - -Dr. Raughty soon appeared. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go down to the -sea”; and in a low dreamy voice he murmured the following ditty: - - “A boat--a boat--to cross the ferry! - And let us all be wise and merry, - And laugh and quaff and drink brown sherry!” - -Linda caught at Nance’s sleeve. “I think I’ll let you go without me,” -she whispered. “I feel rather tired.” - -Nance looked anxiously into her eyes. “I’d come back with you,” she -murmured, “but it would hurt their feelings. You’d better lie down a -little. I’ll be back soon.” Then, in a lower whisper, “They did it -to cheer us up. They’re dear, absurd people. Take care of yourself, -darling.” - -Linda stood for a while after she had bidden them all good-bye and -watched them move down the street. In the misty sunshine there was -something very gentle and appealing about Nance’s girlish figure as she -walked between the two men. They both seemed talking to her at the same -time and, as they talked, they watched her face with affectionate and -tender admiration. - -“She treats them like children,” said Linda to herself. “That’s why -they’re all so fond of her.” - -She walked slowly back up the street; but instead of entering her -house, she drifted languidly across the green and made her way towards -the park gates. - -She felt very lonely, just then--lonely and full of a heart-aching -longing. If only she could catch one glimpse, just one, of the man who -was so dear to her--of the man who was the father of her child. - -She thought of Adrian’s recovery and she thought vaguely and wistfully -of the coming of Baptiste. “I hope he will like us,” she said to -herself. “I hope he will like us both.” - -Hardly knowing what she did, she passed in through the gates and began -moving up the avenue. All the tragic and passionate emotions associated -with this place came over her like a rushing wave. She stopped and -hesitated. Then with a pitiful effort to control her feelings, she -turned and began retracing her steps. - -Suddenly she stopped again, her heart beating wildly. Yes, there were -footsteps approaching her from the direction of Oakguard. She looked -around. Brand Renshaw himself was behind her, standing at a curve of -the avenue, bareheaded, under an enormous pine. The horizontal sunlight -piercing the foliage in front of him shone red on the trunk of the -great tree and red on the man’s blood-coloured head. - -She started towards him with a little gasping cry, like an animal that, -after long wandering, catches sight of its hiding-place. - -The man had stopped because he had seen her, and now when he saw her -approaching him a convulsive tremor ran through his powerful frame. For -one second he made a movement as if to meet her; but then, raising his -long arms with a gesture as if at once embracing her and taking leave -of her, he plunged into the shadows of the trees and was lost to view. - -The girl stood where he had left her--stood as if turned to stone--for -several long minutes, while over her head the misty sky looked down -through the branches, and from the open spaces of the park came the -harsh cry of sea-gulls flying towards the coast. - -Then, with drooping head and dazed expressionless eyes, she walked -slowly back, the way she had come. - - - - -XXVII - -THRENOS - - -After her encounter with Nance, Mrs. Renshaw, returning to Oakguard, -informed both Philippa and Brand of the improvement in the condition of -Adrian Sorio. - -Philippa received the news quietly enough, conscious that the eyes of -her brother were upon her; but as soon as she could get away, which was -not till the afternoon was well advanced, she slipped off hastily and -directed her steps, by a short cut through the park, to the Rodmoor -railway-station. She had one fixed idea now in her mind--the idea of -seeing Adrian and talking with him before any interview was allowed to -the others. - -She knew that her name and her prestige as the sister of the largest -local landowner, would win her at any rate respectful consideration for -anything she asked--and everything beyond that she left recklessly in -the hands of fate. - -Baltazar’s death had affected her more than she would herself have -supposed possible. She had felt during these last days a sort of -malignant envy of her mother, whose attitude towards her friend’s loss -was so strange and abnormal. - -Philippa, with her scarlet lips, her classic flesh, her Circean -feverishness, suffered from her close association with this exultant -mourner, as some heathen boy robbed of his companion might have -suffered from contact with a Christian visionary, for whom death was -“far better.” - -At this moment, however, as she hurried towards the station, it was not -of Baltazar, it was of Adrian, and Adrian only, that she thought. - -She dismissed the fact of Baptiste’s expected arrival with bitter -contempt. Let the boy go to Nance if he pleased! After all, it was to -herself--much more intimately than to Nance--that Adrian had confided -his passionate idealization of his son and his savage craving for him. - -Yes, it was to her he had confided this, and it was to her always, -and never to Nance, that he spoke of his book and of his secret -thoughts. Her _mind_ was what Adrian wanted--her mind, her spirit, her -imagination. These were things that Nance, with all her feminine ways, -was never able to give him. - -Why couldn’t she tear him from her now and from all these people? - -Let these others be afraid of his madness. He was not mad to her. If he -were, why then, she too, she who loved him and understood him, was mad! - -From the long sloping spaces of the park, as she hurried on, she could -see at intervals, through the misty sun-bathed trees, the mouth of the -harbour, with its masts and shipping, and, beyond that, the sea itself. - -Ah! the sea was the thing that had mingled their souls! The sea was the -accomplice of their love! - -Yes, he was hers--hers in the heights and the depths--and none of them -should tear him from her! - -All the whimpering human crowd of them, with their paltry pieties and -vulgar prudence--how she would love to strike them down and pass over -them--over their upturned staring faces--until he and she were together! - -Through the dreamy air, with its floating gossamer-seeds and faint -smell of dead leaves, came to her, as she ran on, over the uneven -ground, past rabbit-holes and bracken and clumps of furze, the far -distant murmur of the waves on the sands. Yes! The sea was what had -joined them; and, as long as that sound was in her ears, no power on -earth could hold them apart! - -She reached the station just in time. It was five minutes to five and -the train left at the hour. Philippa secured a first-class ticket for -herself and sank down exhausted in the empty compartment. - -How long that five minutes seemed! - -She was full of a fierce jealous dread lest any of Nance’s friends -might be going that very evening to visit the patient. - -She listened to the conversation of two lads on the platform near -her carriage window. They were speaking of a great bonfire which was -to be prepared that day, on the southern side of the harbour, to be -set alight the following evening, in honour of the historic Fifth of -November. In the tension of her nerves Philippa found herself repeating -the quaint lines of the old refrain, associated in her mind with many -childish memories. - - “Remember, remember - Fifth of November, - Gunpowder Treason and plot. - We know no reason - Why Gunpowder Treason - Should ever be forgot!” - -And the question flashed through her mind as to what would have -happened by the time that great spire of smoke and flame--she recalled -the look of it so well!--rose up and drifted across the water. Would it -be the welcoming signal to bring Baptiste to Rodmoor--to Rodmoor and to -Adrian? - -Two minutes more! She watched the hand upon the station-clock. It was -slowly crossing the diminishing strip of white which separated it from -the figure of the hour. Oh, these cruel signs, with their murderous -moving fingers! Why must Love and Hope and Despair depend upon little -patches of vanishing white, between black marks? - -Off at last! And she made a little gasping noise in her throat as if -she had swallowed that strip of white. - -An hour later, as the November darkness was closing in, she passed -through the iron gates into the Asylum garden. As she moved in, a small -group of inmates of the Asylum, accompanied by a nurse, emerged from -a secluded path. It was shadowy and obscure under those heavy trees, -but led by the childish curiosity of the demented, these unfortunate -persons, instead of obeying their attendant’s command, drifted -waveringly towards her. - -A movement took place among them like that described by Dante in his -Inferno as occurring when some single soul, out of a procession of lost -spirits, recognizes in the dubious twilight, a living figure from the -upper air. - -For the moment Philippa wondered if Adrian was among them, but if he -was he was given no opportunity to approach her, for the alert guardian -of these people, like some Virgilian watcher of ghostly shadows upon -the infernal stream, shepherded them away, across the darkened lawn, -towards the corner of the building. - -The Renshaw name acted like magic when she reached the house. Yes, Mr. -Sorio was much better; practically quite himself again, and there was -no reason at all why Miss Renshaw should not have an interview with -him. A letter had, indeed, only that very afternoon been posted to Miss -Herrick, asking her to come up to the place the following day. - -Philippa inquired whether her interview with the patient might take -the form of a little walk with him, before the hour of their evening -meal. This request produced a momentary hesitation on the part of -the official to whom she made it, but ultimately--for, after all, -Miss Renshaw was the sister of the magistrate who had procured the -unhappy man’s admission into the place--that too was granted her, on -condition that she returned in half-an-hour’s time, and did not take -her companion into the streets of the town. Having granted her request -the Asylum doctor left her in the waiting-room, while he went to fetch -her friend. - -Philippa sank down upon a plush-covered chair and looked around her. -What a horrible room it was! The shabby furniture, covered with gloomy -drapery, had an air of sombre complicity with all the tragedies that -darkened human life. It was like a room only entered when some one was -dead or dying. It was like the ante-room to a cemetery. Everything -in it drooped, and seemed anxious to efface itself, as if ashamed to -witness the indecent exposures of outraged human thoughts. - -They brought Sorio at last, and the man’s sunken eyes gleamed with -a light of indescribable pleasure when his hand met Philippa’s and -clutched it with trembling eagerness. - -They went out of the room together and moved down the long passage that -led to the entrance of the place. As she walked by his side, Philippa -experienced the queer sensation of having him as her partner in some -diabolic _danse-macabre_, performed to the mingled tune of all the wild -“songs of madness” created since the beginning of the world. - -She couldn’t help noticing that the groups of people they passed on -their way had an air quite different from persons in a hospital or -even in a prison. They made her think--these miserable ones--of some -horrible school for grown-up people; such a school as those who have -been ill-used in childhood see sometimes in their dreams. - -They seemed to loiter and gather and peer and mutter, as if, “with -bated breath and whispering humbleness,” they were listening to -something that was going on behind closed doors. Philippa got the -impression of a horrible atmosphere of _guilt_ hanging over the place, -as if some dark and awful retribution were being undergone there, for -crimes committed against the natural instincts of humanity. - -A lean, emaciated old woman came shuffling past them, with elongated -neck and outstretched arms. “I’m a camel! I’m a camel! I’m a camel!” -Philippa heard her mutter. - -Suddenly Adrian laid his hand on her arm. “They let me have my owl in -here, Phil,” he said. “We mustn’t go far to-night or it’ll get hungry. -It has its supper off my plate. I never told you how I found it, did -I? It was pecking at her eyes, you know. Yes, at her eyes! But that’s -nothing, is it? She had been dead for weeks, and owls are scavengers, -and corpses are carrion!” - -They crossed the garden with quick steps. - -“How good the air is to-night!” cried Philippa’s companion, throwing -back his head and snuffing the leaf-scented darkness. - -They were let out through the iron gates and turning instinctively -south-wards, they wandered slowly down to the river--the girl’s hand -resting on the man’s arm. - -They passed, on their way, the blackened wall of a disused factory. A -blurred and feeble street-lamp threw a flickering light upon this wall. -Pasted upon its surface was a staring and coloured advertisement of -some insurance company, representing a phoenix surrounded by flames. - -Philippa thought at once of the bonfire which was being prepared -for the ensuing evening. Would Adrian’s boy really arrive in so -short a time? And would Adrian himself, like that grotesque bird, so -imperturbable in the midst of its funeral pyre, rise to new life after -all this misery? Let it be her--oh, great heavenly powers!--let it be -her and not Nance, nor Baptiste, nor any other, who should save him and -heal him! - -Still looking at the picture on the wall, she repeated to her companion -a favourite verse of Mrs. Renshaw’s which she had learnt as a child. - - “Death is now the phoenix’ nest - And the turtle’s loyal breast - To eternity doth rest. - - “Leaving no posterity, - ’Twas not their infirmity, - It was married chastity.” - -The rich dirge-like music of these Shakespearian rhymes--placed so -quaintly under their strange title of “Threnos,” at the end of the -familiar volume--had a soothing influence upon them both at that moment. - -It seemed to Philippa as if, by her utterance of them, they both came -to share some sad sweet obsequies over the body of something that -was neither human nor inhuman, something remote, strange, ineffable, -that lay between them, and was of them and yet not of them, like the -spirit-corpse of an unborn child. - -They reached the bank of the river. The waters of the Loon were high -and, through the darkness, a murmur as if composed of a hundred vague -whispering voices blending together, rose to their ears from its dark -surface. - -They moved down close to the river’s edge. A small barge, with its -long guiding-pole lying across it, lay moored to the bank. Without a -moment’s delay--as if the thing had been prepared in advance to receive -him--Adrian jumped into the barge and seized the pole. - -“Come!” he said quietly. - -She was too reckless and indifferent to everything now, to care greatly -what they did; so without a word of protest, or any attempt to turn -his purpose, she leapt in after him and settling herself in the stern, -seized the heavy wooden rudder. - -The tide was running sea-ward, fast and strong, and the barge, pushed -vigorously by Adrian’s pole away from the bank, swept forward into the -darkness. - -Adrian, standing firmly on his feet, continued to hold the pole, his -figure looming out of obscurity, tall and commanding. - -The tide soon swept them beyond the last houses of the town and out -into the open fens. - -The night was very still and quite free from wind but a thin veil of -mist concealed the stars. - -Adrian, letting the pole sink down on the deck of the barge, moved -forward to where she sat holding the rudder, and stretched himself out -at her feet. - -“Will they follow us?” he whispered in a dreamy indifferent voice. - -“No, no!” the girl answered. “They’ll never think of this. They’ll wait -for us and when we don’t come back, they’ll search the town and the -roads. Let’s go on as we are, dearest. What does it matter? What does -anything matter?” - -She lay back and ran her fingers gently and dreamily over his forehead. - -Swiftly and silently the barge swept on, and willows, poplars, weirs, -dam-gates, tall reeds and ruined rush-thatched hovels, passed them by, -like figures woven out of unreal shadows. - -The water gurgled against the sides of the barge and whispered -mournfully against the banks, and, as they advanced, the mystery of the -night and the brooding silence of the fens received them in a mystic -embrace. - -A strange deep happiness gradually surged up in Philippa’s heart. -She was with the man she loved; she was with the darkness she loved, -and the river she loved. The Loon carried them forward, the pitiful -friendly Loon, the Loon which had flowed by the dwelling of her race -for so many ages; the Loon which had given Baltazar the peace he craved. - -Just the faintest tremor of doubt troubled her, the thought that it -was towards Nance--towards her rival--that the tide was bearing them; -but let come what might come, that hour at least was hers! Not all -the world could take that hour from her--and the future? What did the -future matter? - -As to the brain-sick man himself, who lay at the girl’s feet, it were -long and hard to tell all the strange dim visions that flowed through -his head. He took Philippa’s hand in his own and kissed it tenderly -but, had the girl known, his thoughts were not of her. They were not -even of his son; of the son for whom he had so passionately longed. -They were not of any human being. They circled constantly--these -thoughts--round a strange vague image, an image moulded of white mists -and white vapours and the reflection of white stars in dark waters. - -This image, of a shape dim and vast and elemental, seemed to flow -upwards from land and sea, and stretch forth towards infinite space. It -was an image of something beyond human expression, of something beyond -earth-loves and earth-hatreds, beyond life and also beyond death. It -was the image of Nothingness; and yet in this Nothingness there was a -relief, an escape, a refuge, a beyond-hope, which made all the ways of -humanity seem indifferent, all its gods childish, all its dreams vain, -and yet offered a large cool draught of “deep and liquid rest” the -taste of which set the soul completely free. - -Many hours passed thus over their heads, as the tide carried them down -towards Rodmoor, round the great sweeping curves made by the Loon, -through the stubble-fields and the marshes. - -It was, at last, the striking of the side of the barge against one of -the arches of the New Bridge, which roused the prostrate man from the -trance into which he had fallen. - -As soon as they had emerged on the further side of the arch, he leapt -to his feet. Bending forward towards Philippa, he pointed with an -outstretched arm towards the shadowy houses of Rodmoor which, with here -and there a faint light in some high window, could now be discerned -through the darkness. - -“I smell the sea!” he cried. “I smell the sea! Drift on, Phil, my -little one, drift on to the harbour! I must leave you now. We shall -meet by the sea, my girl--by the sea in the old way--but I can’t wait -now. I must be alone, alone, alone!” - -Waving his hand wildly with a gesture of farewell, he clutched at a -clump of reeds and sprang out upon the bank. Philippa, letting the -barge float on as it pleased, followed him with all the speed she could. - -He had secured a considerable start of her, however, and it was all she -could do to keep him in sight in the darkness. - -He ran first towards the church, but when he reached the path which -deviated towards the sand-dunes, he turned sharply eastward. He ran -wildly, desperately, with no thought in his whole being but the feeling -that he must reach the sea and be alone. - -He felt at that moment as though the whole of humanity--loathsome, -cancerous, suffocating humanity--were pursuing him with outstretched -hands. - -Once, as he was mid-way between the church path and the dunes, he -turned his head, and catching sight of Philippa’s figure following him, -he plunged forward in a fury of panic. - -As he crossed the dunes, at this savage pace, something seemed to break -in his brain or in his heart. He spat out a mouthful of sweet-tasting -blood, and, falling on his knees, fumbled in the loose sand, as if -searching for some lost object. - -Staggering once more to his feet, and seeing that his pursuer was near, -he stumbled wildly down the slope of the dunes and tottered across the -sand to the water’s edge. - -He was there at last--safe from everything--safe from love and hatred -and madness and pity--safe from unspeakable imaginations--safe from -himself! - -The long dark line of waves broke calmly and indifferently at his feet, -and away--away into the eternal night--stretched the vast expanse of -the sea, dim, vague, full of inexpressible, infinite reassurance. - -He raised both his arms into the air. For one brief miraculous -moment his brain became clear and an ecstatic feeling of triumph and -unconquerable joy swept through him. - -“Baptiste!” he shouted in a shrill vibrating voice, “Baptiste!” - -His cry went reverberating over the water. He turned and tried to -struggle back. A rush of blood once more filled his mouth. His head -grew dizzy. - -“Tell Nance that I--that I--” His words died into a choking murmur and -he fell heavily on his face on the sand. - -He was dead when she reached him. She lifted him gently till he lay on -his back and then pressing her hand to his heart, she knew that it was -the end. - -She sank beside him, bowing her forehead till it touched the ground, -and clinging to his neck. After a minute or two she rose, and taking -his hand in her own she sat staring into the darkness, with wide-open -tearless eyes. - -She was “alone with her dead” and nothing mattered any more now. - -She remained motionless for several long moments, while over her head -something that resembled eternity seemed to pass by, on beautiful, -terrible, beating wings. - -Then she rose up upon her feet. - -“She shall never have him!” she murmured. “She shall never have him!” - -She tore from her waist a strongly-woven embroidered cord, the long -tassels of which hung down at her side. She dragged the dead man to the -very edge of the water. With an incredible effort, she raised him up -till he leant, limp and heavy, against her own body. - -Then, supporting him with difficulty, and with difficulty keeping -herself from sinking under his weight, she twisted the cord round them -both, and tied it in a secure knot. Holding him thus before her, with -his chin resting on her shoulder, she staggered forward into the water. - -It was not easy to advance, and her heart seemed on the point of -breaking with the strain. But the savage thought that she was taking -him away from Nance--from Nance and from every one--to possess him -herself forever, gave her a supernatural strength. - -It seemed as though the demon of madness, which had passed from Adrian -at the last, and left him free, had entered into her. - -If that was indeed the case, it is more than likely that when she fell -at last--fell backwards under his weight beneath the waves--it was -rather with a mad ecstasy of abandonment that she drank the choking -water, than with any hopeless struggle to escape the end she had willed. - -Bound tightly together, both by the girl’s clinging arms and by the -cord she had fastened round them, the North Sea as it drew back in the -out-flowing of its tide, carried their bodies forth into the darkness. - -Far from land it carried them--under the misty unseeing sky--far from -misery and madness, and when the dawn came trembling at last over the -restless expanse of water, it found only the white sea-horses and the -white sea-birds. Those two had sunk together; out of reach of humanity, -out of reach of Rodmoor. - -THE END - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Rodmoor, by John Cowper Powys - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RODMOOR *** - -***** This file should be named 53339-0.txt or 53339-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/3/3/3/53339/ - -Produced by Stephen Rowland and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images generously made available by The -Internet Archive/American Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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